The Dwarfs

by Harold Pinter

  In the dusk she sat still. Now Pete drew near to her.

  The same thing applied to the poets. They were guilty of a criminal defection. He must impress upon her that the act of writing was the act of committing yourself to yourself. Consequently it was a moral question. The poets about them were signing their own death warrant each time they signed their name. Their work was not self expression so much as self-creation. And all that issued forth was a lie. Each poem they wrote was nothing more than a posthumous fart. The labour of dead men, who could only give birth to a corpse, in their own image. It was a debasement and sellout of the purpose of writing, active only in that it delighted in its own smell. It was fatal for a work of art to be conceived and brought about in a vacuum. It had to be purposive in the same way as a piece of cooking. What did you make a plumpudding for if you weren’t going to eat it? For, besides being selfcommittal, writing was bound to inform, enlighten and perhaps transform. Man might be an error of judgement but as yet he remained a relevant factor. And these people were relevant only in that they were a constant reminder of the mental waxwork he was faced with. They committed a sin with every word they wrote.

  It was dark. Virginia rose and put the kettle on the gas. Later, they went for a walk across the Lea.

  Nine

  Pete sauntered into Threadneedle Street, blinked the grey bending stone, stopped. He looked up.

  Valparaiso Bank. Must be Valparaiso Bank. Building without bricks. Geometric, brickless. An act of faith. Straight as a dye. Up to the top and back. Geometric conversations with the sun. A slant on the holy rood. The sun’s angle angled, made into commerce. Taken down in shorthand. Don’t be deceived by deceptive reflections. Pneumonic irrelevances. There’s a glut on the market. Worse than a periphrastic conjugation. But the sun all shapes and sizes. Making mischief. Doubletalk on the roofs. Signlanguage. What’s that? A dihedron? Or who spat on the polygon? Throw me the mathematical ball. I’m inclined to believe it.

  He leaned against the wall.

  Light a cigarette and look normal.

  Down brickless Valparaiso Bank the sun strained, lanced, stuck on the flagpole. Drawing smoke, Pete viewed the traffic-press, the grate and bout of noonday vehicles; the sinking figures in the glare, passing, stepping; the needleshiver in the sunstreet. A quick black arm pushed swerving past.

  Look. Yes. Linseed and sealingwax. Stiffcollared puppy-dog. Lightweight. Bouncy on the balls of his feet. Rulers of a nation. The inside story. Masons and makers of the peace. Hot tips off the cuff. See you all right. Nothing but the best. Password and a nifty gin. What’s your name and number? Keep it.

  Leaning, he surveyed the pacing street. The fitted buildings poised backwards, out of their incline. They halted between sun and sun.

  Near siesta time. Flat out on the roofgarden. Lemontea and a canopy. In the shade of the old appletree. Out of the draught. Turn the globe and pick your teeth.

  Hundreds of windows and not a face at any of them. Day doesn’t exist. Underground work. Getting on with the job. An eighthour day with no day in it. The working world. Where I labour and trespass. At whose direction? Who spoke, saying. Don’t believe a word of it.

  Pete turned about, looked up. Valparaiso Bank windows winked anonymous glint.

  Glinting from big toe to earhole. All done by anon. Depends if you have the tools. Plenty of work for all. But no permit without God’s grace. Frame it. Dust it in all weathers, all days.

  Building wavering, and the next, and the next, along Thread-needle Street.

  What’s this? Proudly tripping. Would she say no? Look at those flanks. Wim warn. Strap me and buy one. Wam wim. She’d ride a cockhorse. All the way to Dalston. Don’t doubt it. Been there before. Left by the frontdoor. Without my roe, like a dried herring.

  - Peter Cox! Good lord!

  Retribution.

  - Well, well, well!

  - Derek! Pete greeted, handgripping. Well, well.

  - Ha-ha, beamed Derek, handpulling, well, well!

  - Well, Pete smiled. What are you doing around here?

  - I work here, laughed Derek, his face shining.

  - No? said Pete. I wouldn’t have believed it. So do I.

  - No? gleamed Derek, his face spreading. I would never have dreamt it. Well, well, well! Where?

  - Where? Pete said. Oh, Dobbin and Laver. Round the corner.

  - I’m your neighbour! rammed Derek, his face breaking, shoulderbanging.

  - Well! said Pete. Well, well, well.

  - You look in the pink, cheered Derek, his face folding. Haven’t changed a bit. Still got your curly locks, eh? How are you getting on? Good job?

  - Oh, Pete skidded, shrugging, it’s - you know - not - bad - Derek, old man.

  - Good grief! clamped Derek, his face shutting. It must be three years since we met! And before that, not since we left school.

  - Yes, Pete said, there’s something in that.

  - My God! snored Derek, his face foaming, it’s a century! What are you doing now? Lunch hour?

  - Well, yes, huffed Pete, it is. More or less.

  - What a bit of luck! hammed Derek, his face scalding. What about a drink?

  - Well, actually, creased Pete, I’m rushing off to meet a bloke. Mark Gilbert. You knew him, didn’t you?

  - Gilbert! Of course! mooed Derek, his face grinding. Went on the stage, didn’t he?

  - Well, yes, Pete said, but you see, he’s got something on his mind, I think. Wants to have a quiet chat with me about it. You know how it is, Derek. You know these actors, eh?

  - Women trouble, eh? parried Derek, his face flaking. I know what you mean all right. Actor, eh?

  - Yes, Pete said, they’re a funny lot. It’s a shame but there it is. But we’re sure to bump into each other. Both working around here, like.

  - I should hope so! slammed Derek, his face singing, elbow- gripping. We must have a drink after all these years.

  - Without a doubt.

  - Well, look here, Peter, vaulted Derek, his face chanting, back-slapping, why don’t you give me a ring? We can meet one night after work. Wait a minute, I’ll write it down. I still see Robin and Bill, you know? Ever see any of the old crowd? Oh yes, Gilbert. Here you are. Well, look, give me a ring, will you? And I’ll ring up Robin and Bill, and we can all have a jolly good yarn.

  - How’s Robin these days?

  - Blooming, old boy. Not married yet. You married yet? sharped Derek, his face sprouting.

  - Ha-ha, said Pete. Oh, that’s it, is it? Good. I’ll do that then. Must toddle now. You know these actors.

  - Grand luck meeting you! chucked Derek, his face ceasing. Don’t forget.

  Pete turned, waved, and crossed the road.

  Sweating all over. Someone arranged that. Must keep my eyes open. Wouldn’t have seen me on the other side. Shady. Oh yes he would. They all do. Should wear a hat. Grow a moustache. Get a wheelchair. False nose can work wonders. That was a close one. Where’s that piece of paper. Uh. Down the drain.

  Between hoots and carshins Pete crossed the road. Under planes of corrugated iron he saw bricks and pans arranged and raised by figures in heat. He turned into a sidestreet.

  Down here. River. Yes. Cooler the nearer you sniff. Hum still though. Hum and crackle. London burning. Look. Sandwich girls. Legshow for a city gent. Wall perchers. Waiting for a catch. Birds of prey. What’s it like to be a woman, Maisie? I wouldn’t know. Nothing to get in your way. No hang and. no jut. Smooth and wet. Fingers in the paper. Tissuepaper for all purposes. Lipstick and cucumber. Eyes. No I’m not coming your way. And never’s the word. Some of them like it sweaty. Animal labour. Putrefied mechanics. Barebacked with a squelch. In God’s image. Costs nothing. Not good enough. Sluttery to neat excellence opposed. Sweat and spit and nothing to show. The act of mercy. Eachway bet. Money or your life. Something for nothing. The general levelling. Not like that. Not like that.

  There’s a boat. One for me. That’s a good boat. Boats. Midgets. Take a butcher’s at that sun. Blo
odthirsty. Sails. Midgets. Drivelling midgets. Sun is steel too. Quite steel. If I were steel. All problems solved. Ready for action. Sleep.

  Pete walked into the office and closed the door behind him.

  - Ah, said the deskgirl, Mr Lynd wants to see you, Mr Cox.

  - Me?

  - Who else?

  Fair gurgling heads dipped.

  - Now?

  The girl nodded and tilted her head. Pete marched across to the far door and knocked.

  - Come in.

  Pete entered.

  - Ah.

  - I heard you wanted to see me, Mr Lynd.

  - Ah yes, I did, said Mr Lynd, palming the lid of a cigarbox. Do come in, will you? Close the door. That’s right. Now. Yes. Do sit down, Mr Cox.

  - Thank you.

  Pete sat down.

  - Well now, Mr Cox.

  Mr Lynd tapped the desktop.

  - Will you smoke? he advanced, his hand straying about the desk.

  - No thank you, Mr Lynd.

  - Well now, Mr Cox, said Mr Lynd, how are you getting on?

  - Oh, said Pete, not so bad you know, Mr Lynd.

  Clasping the fingers of both hands and sniffing discreetly, Mr Lynd, his mouth closed, smiled.

  - Good, he smiled. And how are you getting on with your work?

  - Well, said Pete, I don’t think I can supply an answer to that, Mr Lynd. The answer, I should say, would depend upon whether you were finding it satisfactory.

  Swivelling on his seat, Mr Lynd glanced at his reflection in the dark glass cabinet.

  - Not quite what I meant, he said. But I can tell you, Mr Cox, that your work is, yes, quite satisfactory.

  - Oh, said Pete, thank you.

  - I meant rather, said Mr Lynd, swivelling back on his seat and hitching his trousers, I meant rather, how do you, yourself, feel about it?

  - How do I feel about it?

  - To be quite frank, Mr Cox, said Mr Lynd, clasping his fist at his belly, some of my colleagues and myself differ.

  - Differ?

  - I mean in our attitudes towards the workpeople, I mean the staff. Personally, I regard their, er, mental welfare, if you like, as something affecting the efficiency of the firm as a whole.

  - Very true, Pete said.

  - I tell you this, of course, because I realize, you are not, ah, of course, unintelligent, Mr Cox.

  Pete scratched his nose and murmured.

  - But what I meant to say, Mr Cox, continued Mr Lynd, his trunk falling forward and his forehead denting, was that I had gathered, um, the impression, once or twice, that you were inclined to be, how shall I put it -

  He opened a black leather diary which lay to his right hand on the desk, and shut it firmly.

  - far away.

  - Really? Pete said, crossing his right leg over his left.

  - Yes, said Mr Lynd, propping his elbows and juggling his fingers, that you weren’t keen, shall I say, was my impression, on your work.

  - Keen on my work?

  - Ah yes, said Mr Lynd, nodding briskly, as it were.

  What do you mean, as it were? Don’t give me the needle.

  - But I assure you, Mr Lynd, said Pete, I find my work very interesting. I should say concentration has many misleading appearances.

  Watch yourself.

  - I beg your pardon? said Mr Lynd, his eyes flattening.

  - No, I mean . . .

  Mr Lynd grinned frankly, his palms upthrust.

  - I didn’t quite . . .

  - No - Pete began, I -

  His foot thumped the desk.

  - No, he said, smiling, I’m quite at home, Mr Lynd, if that’s what you mean. Probably doing a bit of thinking about the job in hand at those times.

  Mr Lynd’s forehead snapped up.

  - Ah, he said, I’m glad to hear it, Mr Cox. I believe, you see, that you have a great deal of capability.

  He sniffed strongly and felt for his pocketwatch.

  Who told you that? Your wet nurse? You don’t want to believe a word they say, mate. Come on. Dismiss me. Enough. We’re like the misses cheese and cream. Admit it. I’m a closed book.

  Mr Lynd clacked his pocketwatch shut.

  - Tell me, Mr Cox.

  - Yes?

  - What exactly, if you don’t, as it were, he laughed, mind my asking, is your ambition?

  Pete watched Mr Lynd open the cigarbox, close it and look up candidly.

  - I’m afraid, he replied, stroking his chin, I can’t say that I’ve ever really considered it, Mr Lynd.

  - Really? That surprises me.

  Mr Lynd blinked, and dug his chin, straightening, to release his neck.

  - Because I believe, he said, swallowing, and I am not alone in this, that you have some degree of potentiality where this firm is concerned, to be quite frank.

  The sun rubbed upon his arm, as he stretched to push a calendar to the deskedge. He prevented its fall, straddled it to stand, and jolted upright in his chair.

  - Yes. But you have, I take it, other interests?

  - Oh yes, said Pete, I have a considerable amount of other interests. Domestic mostly.

  - Oh? I don’t believe you’re married?

  Mr Lynd’s eyes twinkled. Their chuckles joined.

  - No, I’m not, Mr Lynd.

  - I see. Well, perhaps I’m being a little too inquisitive.

  - Not at all.

  Mr Lynd lifted his jacketcuff and inspected and flicked at, with his little finger, his shirtcuff.

  - Well, he concluded, any time you’d like to speak to me, please don’t hesitate to do so.

  - That’s very kind of you, Mr Lynd.

  - Good, said Mr Lynd, resting in his chair.

  Pete stood up. The sun splintered the paperweight.

  - Thank you, he said.

  - No, no.

  Little lamb, who made thee?

  The door, closing, furred on the carpet, behind him.

  Later in the afternoon, the sun lowering on the city, Pete leaned on the wall at the foot of the stone flight, smoking, watching through the window red buses move under trees by the river.

  No alarm on the river. No sweat on the river. Steel only. Odour of steel. Steel glint on the tide. Armies of light on the metal water. Voices.

  Above him, voices. They played light, elusive, descending; dissolved into laughter, high-circling, lower; dwindled to a stone murmur. Shoes scraped and stopped, whispering, above him. Trapped under the stairslope, he, frowning, whispers; they, girls, above the stairhead, urged softly on, laughing, murmuring. Edging, a clicked shoe, metaltipped, sounded down upon stone, clicking unseen on the downward stone, turned, halted. A sigh between voices, low, a juggled cackle. Back against the wallface, Pete heard quick warring whispers, rubbing murmurs wrapped in the stone. One voice now, slid down undeciphered, sliding into the crannied ear, trod on a filament in the grained wall, parcelled, down under echo; its own sound. One voice, leaning, shoes grating a step, stoneslapping, above him, in a husk and pace, heard, unheard; one ceasing, allowing, listening. Pete leaned on the murmured wall, turned his face to the lightglut, listened, allowed. Steps skidded down upon stone, rang the laughter, loud, open, wordless. A door banged.

  Gone. Sweetness. Light. Things rank. Things gross. The kingdom.

  He climbed the stairs and entered the office.

  - Oh Mr Cox, there’s someone on the phone for you.

  - What, now?

  - Yes. Just rung.

  All ears open. Eyes.

  - Hullo?

  - Mr Cox?

  - Yes. Who’s that?

  - I’ve phoned up to say that my client is not satisfied with your work on the ceiling.

  - What?

  - Don’t forget you gave my client a guarantee. He’s willing to take sixty percent for the castoffs but he can’t stand drips. You fulfil your obligations and he’ll do the same with his. My client’s willing to give you -

  - Len, not now, I’m busy. When shall I see you?

  - You don’t see
m to understand the gravity of this situation, Mr Pox, I mean Cox. The plumbing’s out of order and the meter’s clogging up. The grand piano’s probably beyond repair. If you make a bargain it’s up to you to keep it. My client -

  - Righty-o then. If you’re near here, meet me after work.

  - This is unheard of.

  - Cheerio.

  - Don’t forget to bring the sauerkraut.

  Ten

  - I’m here, Len said, wiping his feet on the hallmat. It’s not raining.

  He unhooked the hallmirror from the wall and carried it down the stairs.

  - Put it back, Mark said, following him into the room.

  - This is the best piece of furniture you’ve got in the house. Did you know that? It’s Spanish. No, Portuguese. You’re Portuguese, aren’t you?

  - Put it back.

  Len screwed his nose and stared.

  - I don’t understand you, he said.

  - Put it back.

  - Look in this mirror. Look at your face in this mirror. Look! It’s a farce. Your liver’s wrapped up in your kidneys. Where are your features? You haven’t got any features. You’ve got a nose here, an ear there. You’ve been deceiving yourself for years. What’s this supposed to be, a face? You look ready for Broadmoor. I don’t know why I associate with you.