by Simon Gray
Blake Yes. They want me to write my autobiography. They think it’ll be a great propaganda coup.
There is a pause.
Bourke So, they’re your publishers too, are they? As well as being whatever it is they are.
Blake No, they’re not my publishers. What they are is officers of the KGB. Rather high-ranking ones. At least, they outrank me.
Bourke KGB?
Blake Yes, KGB.
Bourke I see. (After a pause, makes an effort.) But what about your own trip, George? How was that?
Blake (absently) The worst thing was my bladder. Nigel and Annie – no, it was Dick – only gave me the one bottle. I filled it before we got to Calais, so from then on – well, there were times when I thought of giving myself up, just so I could have a pee. I shouldn’t have asked you to come. (Little pause.) I shouldn’t have been so – so – damned selfish. (Little pause.) I shouldn’t have persuaded you to come.
Bourke (little laugh) Well, can you explain further?
Blake They don’t trust you. Stan and Viktor. And the committee of the KGB.
Bourke Committee? What committee?
Blake Their job is to analyse your every move, every word. Every aspect of your behaviour. As observed and reported by Stan and Viktor.
Bourke Like a parole board, you mean?
Blake Oh, they’re far more powerful than a parole board. Parole boards can only keep you where you don’t want to be. But Stan, Viktor, the committee, they can –
Bourke (after a little pause) What, George?
Blake points finger at Bourke. Makes soft shooting noise.
That’s twice in no time I’ve been shot with a finger and a hiss.
Blake Yes. But they don’t always use fingers for shooting. And never when they mean it. They use bullets in the back of the neck. If ever a chap owed a chap an apology –
Bourke In this case it’s a matter of a chap and a chump. I knew it was the wrong thing to do. Knew it in my blood and bones!
Blake I didn’t. Not for a second. If I had, I wouldn’t –
Bourke I know, George. Is there anything stronger –? (Indicating champagne.) You mentioned vodka, wasn’t it?
Blake goes to hatch, raps on it. Zinaida raises hatch.
Blake (in Russian) A bottle of vodka, please, Zinaida.
Zinaida passes out vodka, vodka glass.
Thank you.
Zinaida closes hatch. Blake opens bottle, pours vodka into glass, hands it to Bourke, puts bottle beside him. Bourke downs vodka, pours more, downs that.
Bourke What do they suspect me of? Why don’t they trust me, George? After what I’ve done for them?
Blake Well, to understand it, you have to look at it from their point of view. Supposing they had a top Western agent in one of their high security prisons. And somebody comes along – a Ukrainian – a single Ukrainian fella called Robert Adamovich Garvin, let’s say – and the top Western agent saws through a few bars, the single Ukrainian fella, Robert, throws a rope ladder over the wall, drives him around the corner to a flat in Moscow, and then hides him in the bunk of a Dormobile and gets him driven to London. To them the idea is preposterous. Because they can’t begin to understand what it means to have incompetent liberal Englishmen for your masters, half-witted and uneducated Englishmen for your jailers, and above all a single Irish fella for your friend –
Bourke But why? Why do they think the single Irish fella would do it?
Blake One possible explanation – you’re a British agent. Planted in Wormwood Scrubs to make friends with me, get me out. With the concealed connivance of the British government. Then you follow me to Moscow. Pick up names. See how the KGB really works – then off to Ireland, and in due course back to London for a debriefing. Unfortunately they have a very high regard for British Intelligence.
Bourke But you told them – Stan and Viktor and this KGB committee – you told them it was your idea I come here for this – this holiday?
Blake Of course.
Bourke They don’t believe you?
Blake They believe I think that’s what’s happened. They also believe it’s possible you manipulated me into thinking that’s what happened. That’s their world, you see, Robert. That’s how they’re paid to think. It’s how they earn their pensions.
Bourke And what is it I have to do, George? What exactly do I have to do, to survive?
Blake The most important thing is – to be natural. Then it’s mainly a question of don’ts. Don’t ask questions. Don’t snoop – not that you would. But don’t look as if you’re snooping. Avoid picking up any Russian. You’ll start using it. Then they’ll suspect you’re already fluent in it. Keep yourself innocently occupied.
Bourke What, sightseeing, holidaying, being a tourist? I can do that all right, I’m looking forward to it.
Blake You won’t be allowed out much, I’m afraid. When you are, you’ll be accompanied by Stan or Viktor or both. No – the solution is work.
Bourke Work! What sort of work?
Blake Editorial work.
Bourke Editorial work! (Laughs, in spite of himself.)
Blake (also laughs slightly) It was my idea. I pointed out that you edited the Wormwood Scrubs in-house magazine, so why didn’t you help turn some of their translations of political tracts into grammatical and idiomatic English? Stuff with titles like Tractors, Wheat and Bread: A History of the Economic Revolution in the Ukraine and Belorussia – stuff like that, making it readable. You can do that, Robert. Easy-peasy.
Bourke I can make it grammatical and idiomatic. I doubt I can make it readable. (Laughs.) It’s the vodka.
Blake What?
Bourke My thinking it’ll be all right. I’ll get out of this and through to Dublin.
Blake Of course you will, Sean – no, Robert – no, Sean, damn it! Tonight, at least, you’re Sean. And look, Sean, we’ve already got out of a worse pickle than this one! So to us, Sean! To Sean and George! (Raising glass.)
Bourke (also raising glass) To George and Sean! And anyway, what’s all the fuss? My being a good boy – see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing – for a week, that’s all it amounts to.
Blake Six months, Sean.
Bourke stares at him.
They want you to stay for six months.
Bourke Oh, Jesus.
Blake To give themselves time to watch you. Listen to you. Satisfy themselves that you are who and what you claim to be. And actually are. As I know. A single Irish fella –
Bourke Six months! Six months of – of acting natural? Every minute of the day? Here? In Moscow?
Blake Yes. That’s the – the sentence, so to speak, Sean. You’ll do it standing on your head. I know you will.
Bourke George – George – I believe I’ve got to lie down for a while. I’ve gone a bit dizzy –
Blake (getting up) Here. Let’s get you to your room. (Picks up Bourke’s bags.) You rest until dinner. Zinaida’s a terrific cook – her chicken casserole is scrumptious.
Bourke Good, George, good. I’ll – I’ll look forward to that then. Her chicken casserole.
Blake leads Bourke into Bourke’s room, puts down bags, turns suddenly, and emotionally.
Blake It’s going to be all right. I’ll look after you. What you’ve been to me, I’ll be to you. We’re in this together. As always. Trust me. Please, Robert.
Holds out his hand, takes Bourke’s.
Bourke (taking Blake’s hand) Of course I trust you. It’s Sean, though. Sean for tonight, George. Isn’t it?
Blake Yes. Sean, Robert.
Bourke Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus!
Looks at bag, fumbles to the bottom, pulls out tape recorder, presses ‘Rewind’ button, stops, presses ‘Play’ button.
Bourke (voice on recorder) I really believe this to be true- – that nobody in the whole bloody world could have done what I’ve done! I, Sean Bourke –
Bourke presses ‘Stop’ button, presses ‘Record’ button.
Bourke (into machine) This is pr
obably madness, absolute madness.
He stuffs recorder back into bag, crouches furtively over concealed machine.
Just the sort of thing George’s warned me against – see no, hear no, speak no – And I wasn’t going to anyway, not during the little week I was here, this was just going to be an exotic aside in my story, visiting George all safe and sound in Moscow, the two of us in our pomp – but I’ve already said this, before I left I said it, that first evening out of the Scrubs I said it, I knew in my blood and my bones it was a mistake. I had the chance, all I had to say before he ran out of the flat and down to Nigel’s and Annie’s Dormobile was, ‘Sorry, George, I’ve changed my mind, I won’t be coming to Moscow, home to Dublin for me – and see you – see you some time –’
Lights dim slightly as he goes on speaking, inaudibly. Blake, meanwhile, has gone back to the dining room, picked up the champagne bottle and glass, gone on into his study. Pours himself a glass of champagne, takes a sip, presses ‘Rewind’ button, then ‘Play’ – it is inaudible to audience – rewinds. Presses ‘Record’. As Bourke becomes inaudible:
Blake (into recorder) No, it’s not a question of whether you want an omelette. The egg always gets eaten in some form or other. Or it rots and is thrown away. The thing is to make sure that as many who live, are allowed to live, have an egg, cooked in some fashion, to eat. Sacrifices are inevitable for the greater good. Otherwise there’s no point to my having done what I’ve done. That doesn’t mean, it does not mean, that there is pleasure to be found in doing what has to be done to those for whom no eggs are available, no eggs allowable, or what is done, indeed, to the egg itself – it is a hateful business, a dreadful habit but I – I insist that I – and others like me – who saw the light, had no choice, no choice but to follow our –
Lights dim slightly on him as he speaks inaudibly and intensely towards machine.
During this Zinaida comes out. Begins to lay table for dinner. Lights fade slowly on Bourke crouched over machine in his bag; Blake roaming around room as he speaks into his machine; Zinaida laying table.
Curtain.
Act Two
SCENE ONE
Six months later. After dinner. Bourke and Blake are sitting slightly away from each other. There is an atmosphere of tension. Bourke has vodka in front of him. Zinaida is finishing the clearing up.
Bourke (clears his throat, looks at Blake’s chest) I see it’s a night for the medals, George.
Blake Yes, I promised Zinaida this morning.
Zinaida, catching her name, glances towards him. Blake smiles vaguely towards her.
As it gives her so much pleasure and costs me so little effort – (Gestures coldly.)
Bourke I’ve never worked out why they mean so much to her. As if she’d won them herself.
Blake Because she’s very proprietorial, Robert. Like most Russian servants. A legacy from the serf-owning days. The serfs owned the masters as completely as the masters owned the serfs.
Zinaida looks from Bourke to Blake anxiously, goes to kitchen.
The same was true of the slaves in the southern states of America, from all historical reports.
There is a tense and ghastly pause, during which Zinaida looks through hatch, draws it softly down.
Bourke (in a sudden panic) Excuse me, George, excuse me – (Getting up.) Won’t be a minute –
Hurries to his room.
Blake watches his exit coldly. Bourke pulls out bag from under bed, bends over, speaks into tape recorder.
What’s going on, that’s what I want to know. Something’s going on, as sure as hell’s hell. It’s never been like this before, he’s never been like this before – Look, look, here’s something I’m going to say that could be the death of me, but that’s what I’m talking about, fretting about, isn’t it? The death of me – because that’s what it’s like, like waiting for my own death – so if anything happens to me before Tuesday, or on Tuesday itself come to that – if any accident befalls me, so to speak – Oh, shut up, Robert – Sean – Sean, nothing’s going to happen, boyo, nothing’s going to ‘befall’ – and if it does there’s nothing you can say now will help you then, so calm down, calm down – go back and do what you’ve done this last six months, go back and act natural and don’t say another word, don’t think another thought about Tuesday. Tuesday’s Tuesday and will turn up in due course. Preferably on Tuesday, eh? So keep away from mentioning Tuesday as if your life depended on it.
Laughs, puts machine away, makes to go to door, stops, goes off. Sound of lavatory flushing. Bourke comes straight out into dining room.
Sorry about that, George, being taken short like that. A touch of trouble with the old stomach.
Blake Would you mind shutting the door properly, Robert? Your door.
Bourke Oh, right. Sorry, George.
Closes door, goes back to chair, sits. Picks up glass, drains contents. Pours himself more. Blake watches him.
Blake (as Bourke raises glass to his lips) That can’t be doing it any good. Your old stomach. You’re making it older by the glassful, Robert.
Bourke You’re right, George. Dead right.
Puts glass down, undrunk. Blake raises his glass of champagne, sips from it.
Look, George, what is it? Is it what I said about Tuesday? Going home on Tuesday. If I did, it was accidental, George, and not meant to be detrimental. Not to you, of all people. Did I say anything accidentally detrimental to you, George? If so, I apologise.
Blake What you said was that I’m lacking in normal, human feelings.
Bourke I couldn’t have said that, George! I couldn’t have!
Blake Not in those actual words, of course. You didn’t actually say, ‘George, you’re lacking in normal, human feelings.’ But it was the implication of what you did say.
Bourke Which was what? What did I say?
Blake takes a sip of champagne, is silent.
Oh, come on, George – (Cajolingly.) What did I say, tell me what I said and I’ll apologise for the implications. How’s that for a deal, George?
Blake (gets up, goes to his study door) I must get back to my work. (Stops.) What you said actually, Robert. What you actually said. After you’d congratulated yourself on your good fortune in escaping from my adopted country, my flat and my company on this coming Tuesday – what you actually and actually said was: ‘It’s a good thing for you, George, that you never suffer from homesickness. That you can brush your past aside without another thought.’ That’s verbatim, Robert.
Bourke (after a miserable pause) I don’t believe I said ‘brush’, George. I believe I said ‘push’. And I didn’t mean, the last thing I meant –
Blake (coming back) What you meant, Robert, was what I’ve already stated you implied. That I’m some sort of emotionless – (gestures) freak. But hasn’t it occurred to you, Robert, hasn’t it ever occurred to you that the reason I’m not homesick is because I’m finally at home? Morally and spiritually at home. Which is the only kind of home worth having. For me. (Little pause.) My past was always in the future. The country of the future. This is where my feelings have always been. Does that mean I have no feelings, Robert? Does it? But of course you’ve never understood –
Bourke Oh Jesus, George, I understand – I understand better than any man alive that you’re as human as they come. I mean we’ve been close, as close as two men could be. I’ll never forget you in your concussion back there in London, so helpless, dependent, vulnerable you were, George, but the one thing you fixed on – the only thing you fixed on was getting yourself here.
Blake With your help, of course.
Bourke However. You’d have done it however, George. With me or without.
Blake No, I wouldn’t have, Robert. Helpless, dependent, vulnerable. I needed you as a man needs his wife. Didn’t I?
Bourke (shocked) What, George?
Blake Well, isn’t that what you said at the time? Mumbled it into the fog and headache of my concussion – that you were looking after me as i
f you were my wife. Or as if I were your wife. Which way around was it, Robert, come to think of it?
Bourke I don’t remember, George.
Blake Don’t remember whether you’re my husband or my wife? (Little pause.) Oh come, Robert, it’s usually quite easy to distinguish between the one and the other – especially in a shortish marriage like ours, eh?
Bourke Whatever I said was just a way of speaking about our friendship, George. However I behaved, it was as your friend. (Little pause.) What’s the matter with you, what’s the matter? I’ve never seen you like this before!
Blake I loved my wife. I still do.
Bourke Oh, I see, I see. Yes – well, you know, you don’t talk about her, so people forget, I forget –
Blake Silence on certain personal matters doesn’t necessarily come from a lack, Robert. Of normal human feelings. My Madeleine still is, and ever will be, my Madeleine. If she’d had her way she would have stood by me for the whole of my sentence. For every one of my forty years. Or at least as many as she would have survived. Her health is so delicate – she’s always afflicted with some sort of rash, on one part of her body or another – and the heroic manner in which she endured her almost constant conjunctivitis. It was I, Robert, I who insisted on releasing her from her vows. For her sake. For the sake of our three children. About whom, you may have noticed, I also do not speak.
Bourke That’s why I forget you had them – have them.
Blake The knowledge that my Madeleine has embarked on a second, equally successful, marriage gives me joy. Not pain. She deserves to live under another name, legally acquired. With a man who isn’t, and is unlikely ever to become, a jailbird. (Pours himself champagne, raises his glass.) Madeleine, dear wife of my heart and my loins. Mother of my beloved children, I salute and honour you – the ladylike embodiment of all the womanly virtues, including the finest virtue – domestic loyalty.