The Dwarfs

by Harold Pinter

  - Ask.

  - What have you got against Jesus Christ?

  - That’s a fast yorker.

  - Can you play it?

  - Which firm does he work for?

  - He’s a freelance.

  - Oh yes, Mark said, he runs a book down at the dogs, doesn’t he?

  - He runs a book all right.

  - That’s the bloke, Mark said. Why? Has he put you on to any good things lately?

  - He’s given me a few hot tips, I can tell you that, Len said, and shrugged. Well, I suppose everyone’s got a blind spot.

  He began to stride the room, gripping and relaxing his fingers.

  - As a matter of fact, Mark said, I did hear a rumour that your fares were going up.

  Len stopped in his tracks and turned.

  - Going up? Who told you that?

  - I hope you’re not going to strain the budget.

  Len sat down, facing Mark at the fireplace, and smiled.

  - I was waiting for this, he said.

  - You might give me an idea of the fare stages. I could walk to save the extra penny.

  - Listen here. I admit my prices are tending to go up, but if you feel you’re unable to pay my costs I can always arrange to put you next to the driver or in the luggageboot. But, quite frankly, I’d much rather you give the correct fare. What do you want? But how did you know they were going up?

  - Pete told me.

  - Naturally.

  - Why? Has he got money in it?

  - In a way I suppose he has, but that’s beside my point. I can’t see me getting the correct fare out of you or anything like it. But you must understand that I’m subject to the rise and fall of the balancesheets. If the market drops, or goes up, what can I do? Look here, Mark, it’s quite true. My examiner is hiding behind a large book at the moment. I won’t deny it. It’s over there, by the wireless.

  Mark turned in his chair and looked over his shoulder.

  - A black book?

  - Yes.

  - A thick black book?

  - Yes.

  - Looks familiar.

  - Huh.

  - Lots of pages, in that book.

  - Yes. Well, he’s hiding there, but I mean to see him, I can tell you that. I mean to have a look at him, at least.

  - What’s wrong with that? Mark said.

  - Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ll let you know the result of my investigations.

  - All right.

  - But, Mark, you can do me a favour and don’t spit. You don’t have to spit. I know you’ve got Droit, but so have I. You must have manners, even if you’ve got nothing else. All I ask is, use restraint.

  - Hold on a minute. Who’s raising the fares, me or you?

  - Let me explain, Len said. You see, one of my troubles is that I tend to mistake the reflections of the palace and the moon for the real objects. My ancestors tell me which are the real objects and I respect age. But I must find out for certain myself. I must try to look through the reflections and find the object. What can I lose? Of course, you have your Droit, but let me have my Droit and you can have your Droit!

  - Howzat?

  - Not out.

  - What about Pete? Can he have his Droit too?

  - Pete’ll have his Droit, Len said, when we’re dead and buried. Pete has his Droit whether you like it or not.

  Mark lit a cigarette and blew the match.

  - Listen, Len, he said, all you’ve got to do is put up a notice: Spitting Prohibited. Who could argue with that? The fare’s high enough. I couldn’t afford to pay a fine on top of it.

  - Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll do that. But if you do happen to let out a spit and you can’t pay the fine, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.

  - The question won’t arise.

  - But you can see. Can’t you see that I must put up my own fares and travel in the front seat so that I won’t have to ride in my own luggageboot? I can’t see from there, and I must keep my eye on the driving. There’ll be plenty of room for me because hardly anyone else can afford the price. In that case I can keep to my own route and avoid traffic jams. I must do that.

  Five

  Pete looked over her body to the humped shadows of the room and then, gathering her hair, he smoothed it back upon the cushion. About the windowframe the moon edged. She inclined him towards her. He rested his head on her breasts. Above them, through the open window, a light breeze moved. She looked past his head to the walls. She could not distinguish their meetingplace. They seemed at once distant and close upon her. She stared up at the creased ceiling. The pale rim of the hanging shade, at first apparent, now in her sight faded, changing from form into shape into the bulge of the ceiling. Upon a wall, an oblong of barred reflection angled from light in the window. The darkness pointed upon their bodies, weighted, and as she stared it out, dispersed, withdrawing.

  - I have banished darkness from the face of the earth, she said.

  Pete stretched his arms around a chairleg, and clasped his hands.

  - How did you do that?

  - No, it is dark, she said. More so since you moved.

  - It’s the heat. If it weren’t so hot it wouldn’t be so dark.

  - But in summer, Virginia said, day doesn’t become night. The day is the day. In winter, the night’s in the day. In summer-

  - I’m not quite sure, Pete said, that I agree with you.

  He yawned and stretched, pressing the fender with his foot.

  - But it is dark now. Darker because we’re so white, she said.

  - Yes.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her, turning her on to the cushions, and stared down at her face.

  - You don’t close your eyes.

  - No, she said.

  - Why not?

  - I want to see you.

  - Why?

  - Because I love you.

  - Yes, said Pete, so do I.

  The moon had gained the body of the window. Between the bars of a chair, it shone down on them.

  - Listen. Don’t you believe I love you?

  - Do you?

  - Do you believe it?

  - No.

  - You’re wrong, Pete said. I love you.

  He reached up to the chairside and drew two cigarettes from his jacket, lit them and placed one in her mouth.

  - In some ways I’m very backward.

  He allowed the smoke to collect and divided it with a breath.

  - But I’m becoming less ignorant.

  - Ignorant?

  - I think I’m learning to love you.

  - How?

  - Perhaps you’re teaching me. Who else could?

  - Me?

  - Who else?

  She sat up and faced him.

  - The other day you told me I was like a boy to you.

  - I said in some ways.

  - But -

  - I’ve been thinking.

  - What?

  - I’ve been doing some thinking.

  He dropped his head to the cushion at her hip, stretching his legs to the hearth and she, swivelling with him, looked down. Bending, she kissed him, and then moved away to sit upright. He pulled her back and pressed his mouth to her shoulder. Her hair swung across his face. He kissed her breasts. She stared at the window. The light was glazed. She turned on her hip and fell against his body. His arms enfolding her, they kissed, rolling off the cushions. His thigh was closed between her own. They were still, the underside of the table black above them, her hands at his waist. She moved her hands along his body. He loosed himself from the embrace and sat up.

  - Yes, you’re very beautiful.

  They moved back to the cushions and faced each other sitting.

  - But what was I saying? he smiled.

  - You were thinking.

  - Yes.

  - You had been thinking.

  Pete picked up her cigarette from the hearth and passed it to her.

  - What happens sometimes, he said, is that you have, in fac
t, proceeded farther than your thought. You’re behind your own times and you don’t know it. All this, I see now, has been happening in me for some time and I haven’t been sufficiently aware of it. Or perhaps I was reluctant to trust it. I’ve been learning to love you for some time.

  Virginia was silent. He lay back and gazed into the dark corner of the room.

  - Are you sure?

  - No. But I want to be. I want you to help me prove it.

  - Yes.

  - We can do it. I’m sure of that.

  - I can’t hear a sound, said Virginia.

  - Hey.

  - Yes?

  - I’m going to stay here tonight.

  - You are?

  - Yes.

  - I can’t remember when you last did that.

  - Well, he said, there you are.

  - Here I am and here you are. Would you like to dance with me?

  - What do you mean? Now?

  - Yes.

  - Not at the moment, eh? Pete said.

  - All right.

  - Let’s have some wine.

  He stood up, walked to the table, poured two glasses of red wine.

  - You’re very slim, very tight.

  - Cheers.

  - The moon’s following you about.

  - No, I’m getting in its way.

  - That’s your privilege.

  - Yes, why not?

  He stood at the window, looking out.

  - There’s no wind.

  - Len once said that to me, she said.

  - What?

  - He just looked at me and he said, there’s no wind.

  - Ah, said Pete. Len. I’m going to see him tomorrow night. He bent his head and looked up at the sky.

  - All quiet up there, anyway.

  - Sounds very grave, she said.

  - What does?

  - Going to see Len tomorrow night.

  - No. Why?

  He sat down by her.

  - What are we, you and me? What we are not is items in a double lovemachine.

  - No. We’re certainly not that.

  - Quite. You represent for me something much more than that. For example, you don’t need to clutter yourself up with ornaments of provocation, that kind of stuff. They’re beside the point. Your provocation is of another sort, it’s of a purer sort. Your loveliness is of another sort.

  - Is it?

  - Yes. It exists in spite of yourself and everyone else. You don’t have to go in for titillation, like the rest of them. That’s not your vocation. Your vocation is to be a disciple of the Gods. Do you follow me?

  Pete emptied the bottle into their glasses. Virginia slipped into bed.

  - Did I ever tell you what my bugbear was when I used to knock about with Mark - in the days I was one of the boys? Pete said. Armourplated women. It’s one stage less difficult than making love to a crowbar. I remember once a suspender snapped. We were sitting on a tombstone in Hackney graveyard. I was caught between the buckle and the other machinery. I nearly had a penis stricture. She was a nurse, that one. Fully qualified. She used to pinch me on the epidermis to show how she would lay me out as a corpse. Very entertaining, but all in all a mug’s game.

  - Did you and Mark always go about together then?

  - Yes. Shift work. Work. Work tomorrow, he said, yawning. Do you know that in the firm’s cellar there’s enough venison to sink a ship?

  - Who’s it for?

  - The directors and the directors’ wives.

  He climbed into the bed and held her in his arms.

  - This is good for me, she said.

  - For me too.

  - It’s not right for a schoolteacher to sleep alone all the time.

  A churchbell struck two.

  - Your eyes are very bright, she said.

  - I’ve never seen yours so wide.

  - Mine grow at night.

  He traced her brows and the hollows of her eyes, and her cheeks.

  - I wonder if I’ll dream tonight.

  - No, she murmured, her eyes closed, we won’t dream.

  - Look, Pete said, at the moon.

  Leaning forward, they looked through the window.

  - Yes.

  Bordered by ribs and caves of cloud the bright moon stuck.

  Six

  - Whatever you do, don’t wake the cat up.

  - Do me a favour.

  - You don’t understand. Today I was playing Bach to that cat. I was trying a sonata for unaccompanied violin. Can’t you see? He deserves a rest, from his point of view. Not, I can tell you this, that I pretend to understand his point of view. Though I’m closer to that cat than you might think. We’ve a lot in common.

  - Dear oh dear, Pete said.

  Len turned the key in the door. They walked down to the living room. The cat, lying on the armchair, lifted its head.

  - He’s awake.

  - He’ll never sleep again, Pete said, sitting down. Bach may be the making of you, but he’s the ruination of that cat.

  - I can’t see that, Len said.

  He nudged the cat from the chair. It dropped with a thump and stared, switching its tail, at Pete.

  - You may not understand his point of view, but I think he understands mine well enough.

  - You mean in respect of him?

  - Yes.

  - What is it?

  - Scorn, Pete said, and defiance. Slight regard, contempt, and anything that may not misbecome the mighty sender, do I prize him at.

  - That’s sad. Good God.

  - Look here. Any sensible man would be cagey of a cat who was mathematical and musical and proclaimed himself, on those grounds, king of the roost.

  - Did you say cagey or leery?

  - I said cagey.

  - I thought you said leery.

  The cat sat down on the carpet and licked its paws.

  - That cat has ceased to be the animal he was, Pete said. Look at him. He’s become a semiquaver.

  - You can’t lay everything at Bach’s door.

  - Why not? He rules this house with a rod of iron.

  Len shook his head and drew the curtains. Shaking his head, he sat on the table, drawing breath between his clenched teeth. He lowered his glasses and stared up over the rim, about the room, eventually twitching them back to their level.

  - What? he exclaimed, whipping the glasses from his nose. What was that? What did you say? Eh? Bach? Bach? What about Bach?

  Pete lay back in the armchair.

  - Tell me something, he said. Who was Bach?

  - Who was he? You can’t ask me a question like that!

  - What can you tell me about him?

  - You’re mad.

  - Look, Pete said, leaning forward, have a bit of common. You must know something about him, after all this barney. What was he up to?

  - No, Len said. Ask someone else. I can’t tell you. It’s out of the question. I can’t speak about him.

  - No?

  Len shrugged and opened the cupboard door. From a shelf he took a bottle of wine, drew the cork and sniffed, placed the bottle on the table, with two glasses. He glared at the bottle, lifted it up and read the label. He then passed it to Pete. Pete sniffed and passed it back. Len raised his glasses and held his breath to sniff again. He poured the wine, lifted the glass to his nose, looked into it, and took a quick sip. Keeping the wine in his mouth he walked about the room, rolling his eyes and flicking his eyelids. He began to gargle.

  - Bach? he said, spitting the wine back into the glass, it’s simple. The point about Bach - the point about Bach -

  He lifted the bottle, frowned, and put it back in the cupboard, closing the door.

  - The point, Len said, about Bach, is that - give me a chance - is that -

  He sat on the table and stood hurriedly, picking up the glass and slapping the seat of his. trousers, on which the spilt wine clung.

  - Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!

  - Use a rag.

  - Ugh!

  - Turn round, Pete said. There’s nothing th
ere.

  - I’m wet through.

  - You were talking about Bach.

  Len undid his trousers and stepped out of them. He grasped them by the legs and shook them violently. He examined the stain, stepped into them and did them up.

  - Thirty-nine and six five years ago.

  - Why don’t you stand on your head next? Pete said. What about, for Christsake get on with it, bloody Bach?

  - Bach? It’s simple. The only point about Bach is that he saw his music as emanating through him and not from him. From A via Bach to C. There’s nothing else to say.

  He sat in an armchair and leaned back.

  - Look at Beethoven.

  - What do you mean?

  - What do you mean? Len said. Beethoven is always Beethoven. Bach is like cold or heat or water or flame. He is Bach but he’s not Bach. There’s no comparison.

  - Wait a minute -

  - Look, Len said, feeling the cloth under his buttocks, when I listen to Bach’s music I know what recognition is. Not recognition that I am listening to Bach - just recognition. There’s no skin, there’s no wood, there’s no flesh, there’s no bone, there’s no orgasm, there’s no recovery. There’s no life, but there’s no death. There’s no deed. Consciousness is left to the four breezes, or the forty, of course, it depends who you are.

  - Does it?

  - There is no question of saying - It is here, now. That doesn’t apply. It would apply if Bach were someone else. Then you could say - Yes, I am listening to this - I. But Bach doesn’t want to know you. It’s a pointless attitude. Pointless.

  - Yes.

  - Bach is the composer for the weak. But also for the strong, in that he is terrifying to many who are neither weak nor strong.

  - Whoah!

  - Bach, Len said, standing up and walking to the wall, is not concerned with murder, nature, massacre, earthquake, plague, rebellion, famine or the other one. He is not concerned with big things, as such. There is always room for him. You can, you can believe this or not, you can put him in your back pocket. You can put him in your back pocket. But if you put him in your back pocket, you’re not putting him in your back pocket, you must understand that.

  - Huh.

  - They tell me, Pete, Len said, sitting on the table, that a warm and generous woman makes all else pale into insignificance. No doubt at all. Even Shakespeare becomes a few well-chosen words. But Bach could never become, for me, a few well-chosen notes. I suppose that’s because I distrust everyone. I can understand, I think, where my property becomes a woman’s too and all is forgetfulness. But the last card of all, at the moment, is his.