Complete Works, Volume III

by Harold Pinter

  Silence.

  He lies face upwards. MISS PIFFS looks at him then walks to LAMB and bends over him.

  PIFFS: Thank you very much, Mr. Lamb. We'll let you know.

  INTERVIEW

  INTERVIEWER: Well, Mr. Jakes, how would you say things are in the pornographic book trade?

  JAKES: I make 200 a week.

  INTERVIEWER: 200?

  JAKES: Yes, I make round about 200 a week at it.

  INTERVIEWER: I see. So how would you say things were in the pornographic book trade?

  JAKES: Oh, only fair.

  INTERVIEWER: Only fair?

  JAKES: Fair to middling.

  INTERVIEWER: Why would you say that, Mr. Jakes?

  JAKES: Well, it's got a lot to do with Xmas, between you and me.

  INTERVIEWER: Xmas?

  JAKES: Yes, well what happens is, you see, is that the trade takes a bit of a bashing round about Xmas time. Takes a good few months to recover from Xmas time, the pornographic book trade does.

  INTERVIEWER: Oh, I see.

  JAKES: Yes, what's got something to do with it is, you see, that you don't get all that many people sending pornographic books for Xmas presents. I mean, you get a few, of course, but not all that many. No, we can't really say that people in our trade get much benefit from the Xmas spirit, if you know what I mean.

  INTERVIEWER: Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Jakes.

  JAKES: Well, there you are. We make the best of it. (Pause.) I mean I put a sprig of holly . . . here and there . . . I put holly up all over the shop, but it doesn't seem to make much difference. (Pause.)

  INTERVIEWER: What sort of people do you get in your shop, Mr. Jakes?

  JAKES: I beg your pardon?

  INTERVIEWER: What sort of people do you get in your shop?

  JAKES: I'd rather not answer that question, thanks.

  INTERVIEWER: Why not?

  JAKES: I should think the security police could tell you a thing or two about that.

  INTERVIEWER: Security police?

  JAKES: Yes. They've got their dossiers, don't you worry about that.

  INTERVIEWER: But we have no security police in this country.

  JAKES: Don't you? You'd be surprised. They know all about it, take it from me. I've seen their dossiers.

  INTERVIEWER: You've seen their dossiers?

  JAKES: Dossiers? I've looked at more of their dossiers than you've had nights off.

  INTERVIEWER: I see. Well, perhaps we'd better pass on to another question.

  JAKES: Dossiers? I've been there morning and afternoon checking over their dossiers, identifying my customers, identifying their photographs right into the middle of the night, right into the middle of their dossiers.

  INTERVIEWER: I had no idea—

  JAKES: We've got them all taped in the pornographic book trade, don't you worry about that.

  INTERVIEWER: Yes, well—

  JAKES: You've no need to become anxious about that.

  INTERVIEWER: Mr Jakes—

  JAKES: Every single individual that passes through my door goes out.

  INTERVIEWER: What?

  JAKES: Every single dirty-minded individual that passes through my door goes straight out again. As soon as he's chosen his fancy – out he goes.

  INTERVIEWER: You don't . . . keep them in?

  JAKES: Keep them in! Never! I wouldn't keep one of them in my own little pornographic bookshop, not me. Not that they haven't begged, mind you. Begged. They've gone down on their bended knees and begged me to allow them to stay the night in the backroom, in the punishment section. Not me. Not since I got the word.

  INTERVIEWER: I think perhaps—

  JAKES (confidentially): You don't think the security police are the only people who've got dossiers, do you?

  INTERVIEWER: No, I'm sure—

  JAKES: You don't think that, do you? Get out of it. I'm up half the night doing my dossiers! I've got one on every single member of my clientele. And the day's coming, my boy, I can tell you.

  INTERVIEWER: Coming?

  JAKES: We're going to hold a special exhibition, see? We'll have them all in there, white in the face, peeping, peering, sweating, showing me false credentials to get to the top shelf, and then at a given moment we lock the doors and turn the floodlights on. And then we'll have them all revealed for what they are.

  INTERVIEWER: What . . . are they?

  JAKES: They're all the same, every single one of them.

  COMMUNISTS.

  DIALOGUE FOR THREE

  1ST MAN: Did I ever tell you about the woman in the blue dress? I met her in Casablanca. She was a spy. A spy in a blue dress. That woman was an agent for another power. She was tattooed on her belly with a pelican. Her belly was covered with a pelican. She could make that pelican waddle across the room to you. On all fours, sideways, feet first, arseupwards, any way you like. Her control was super-human. Only a woman could possess it. Under her blue dress she wore a shimmy. And under her shimmy she wore a pelican.

  2ND MAN: The snow has turned to slush.

  1ST MAN: The temperature must have dropped.

  WOMAN: Sometimes I think I'm not feminine enough for you.

  1ST MAN: You are.

  WOMAN: Or do you think I should be more feminine?

  1ST MAN: No.

  WOMAN: Perhaps I should be more masculine.

  1ST MAN: Certainly not.

  WOMAN: You think I'm too feminine?

  1ST MAN: No.

  WOMAN: If I didn't love you so much it wouldn't matter. Do you remember the first time we met? On the beach? In the night? All those people? And the bonfire? And the waves? And the spray? And the mist? And the moon? Everyone dancing, somersaulting, laughing? And you – standing silent, staring at a sandcastle in your sheer white trunks. The moon was behind you, in front of you, all over you, suffusing you, consuming you, you were transparent, translucent, a beacon. I was struck dumb, dumbstruck. Water rose up my legs. I could not move. I was rigid. Immovable. Our eyes met. Love at first sight. I held your gaze. And in your eyes, bold and unashamed, was desire. Brutal, demanding desire. Bestial, ruthless, remorseless. I stood there magnetised, hypnotised. Transfixed. Motionless and still. A spider caught in a web.

  1ST MAN (to 2ND MAN): You know who you remind me of? You remind me of Whipper Wallace, back in the good old days. He used to knock about with a chap called House Peters. Boghouse Peters we used to call him. I remember one day Whipper and Boghouse – he had a scar on his left cheek, Boghouse, caught in some boghouse brawl, I suppose – well, anyway, there they were, the Whipper and Boghouse, rolling down by the banks of the Euphrates this night, when up came a policeman . . . . . . up came this policeman . . . . . . up came a policeman . . . . . . this policeman . . . . . . approached . . . . . . Boghouse . . . . . . and the Whipper . . . . . . were questioned . . . . . . this night . . . . . . the Euphrates . . . . . . a policeman . . . . . .

  Tea Party

  (Short Story)

  I wrote this short story in 1963, and in 1964 was commissioned by the B.B.C. to write a play for the European Broadcasting Union. I decided to treat the same subject in play form. In my view, the story is the more successful.

  H.P.

  My eyes are worse.

  My physician is an inch under six feet. There is a grey strip in his hair, one, no more. He has a brown stain on his left cheek. His lampshades are dark blue drums. Each has a golden rim. They are identical. There is a deep black burn in his Indian carpet. His staff is bespectacled, to a woman. Through the blinds I hear the birds of his garden. Sometimes his wife appears, in white.

  He is clearly sceptical on the subject of my eyes. According to him my eyes are normal, perhaps even better than normal. He finds no evidence that my sight is growing worse.

  My eyes are worse. It is not that I do not see. I do see.

  My job goes well. My family and I remain close friends. My two sons are my closest friends. My wife is closer. I am close friends with all my family, including my moth
er and my father. Often we sit and listen to Bach. When I go to Scotland I take them with me. My wife's brother came once, and was useful on the trip.

  I have my hobbies, one of which is using a hammer and nails, or a screwdriver and screws, or various saws, on wood, constructing things or making things useful, finding a use for an object which appears to have no value. But it is not so easy to do this when you see double, or when you are blinded by the object, or when you do not see at all, or when you are blinded by the object.

  My wife is happy. I use my imagination in bed. We love with the light on. I watch her closely, she watches me. In the morning her eyes shine. I can see them shining through her spectacles.

  All winter the skies were bright. Rain fell at night. In the morning the skies were bright. My backhand flip was my strongest weapon. Taking position to face my wife's brother, across the dear table, my bat lightly clasped, my wrist flexing, I waited to loosen my flip to his forehand, watch him (shocked) dart and be beaten, flounder and sulk. My forehand was not so powerful, so swift. Predictably, he attacked my forehand. There was a ringing sound in the room, a rubber sound in the walls. Predictably, he attacked my forehand. But once far to the right on my forehand, and my weight genuinely disposed, I could employ my backhand flip, unanswerable, watch him flounder, skid and be beaten. They were close games. But it is not now so easy when you see the pingpong ball double, or do not see it at all or when, hurtling towards you at speed, the ball blinds you.

  I am pleased with my secretary. She knows the business well and loves it. She is trustworthy. She makes calls to Newcastle and Birmingham on my behalf and is never fobbed off. She is respected on the telephone. Her voice is persuasive. My partner and I agree that she is of inestimable value to us. My partner and my wife often discuss her when the three of us meet for coffee or drinks. Neither of them, when discussing Wendy, can speak highly enough of her.

  On bright days, of which there are many, I pull the blinds in my office in order to dictate. Often I touch her swelling body. She reads back, flips the page. She makes a telephone call to Birmingham. Even were I, while she speaks (holding the receiver lightly, her other hand poised for notes), to touch her swelling body, her call would still be followed to its conclusion. It is she who bandages my eyes, while I touch her swelling body.

  I do not remember being like my sons in any way when I was a boy. Their reserve is remarkable. They seem stirred by no passion. They sit silent. An odd mutter passes between them. I can't hear you, what are you saying, speak up, I say. My wife says the same. I can't hear you, what are you saying, speak up. They are of an age. They work well at school, it appears. But at pingpong both are duds. As a boy I was wide awake, of passionate interests, voluble, responsive, and my eyesight was excellent. They resemble me in no way. Their eyes are glazed and evasive behind their spectacles.

  My brother-in-law was best man at our wedding. None of my friends were at that time in the country. My closest friend, who was the natural choice, was called away suddenly on business. To his great regret, he was therefore forced to opt out. He had prepared a superb speech in honour of the groom, to be delivered at the reception. My brother-in-law could not of course himself deliver it, since it referred to the longstanding friendship which existed between Atkins and myself, and my brother-in-law knew little of me. He was therefore confronted with a difficult problem. He solved it by making his sister his central point of reference. I still have the present he gave me, a carved pencil sharpener, from Bali.

  The day I first interviewed Wendy she wore a tight tweed skirt. Her left thigh never ceased to caress her right, and vice versa. All this took place under her skirt. She seemed to me the perfect secretary. She listened to my counsel wide-eyed and attentive, her hands calmly clasped, trim, bulgy, plump, rosy, swelling. She was clearly the possessor of an active and inquiring intelligence. Three times she cleaned her spectacles with a silken kerchief.

  After the wedding my brother-in-law asked my dear wife to remove her glasses. He peered deep into her eyes. You have married a good man, he said. He will make you happy. As he was doing nothing at the time I invited him to join me in the business. Before long he became my partner, so keen was his industry, so sharp his business acumen.

  Wendy's commonsense, her clarity, her discretion, are of inestimable value to our firm.

  With my eye at the keyhole I hear goosing, the squeak of them. The slit is black, only the sliding gussle on my drum, the hiss and flap of their bliss. The room sits on my head, my skull creased on the brass and loathsome handle I dare not twist, for fear of seeing black screech and scrape of my secretary writhing blind in my partner's paunch and jungle.

  My wife reached down to me. Do you love me, she asked. I do love you, I spat into her eyeball. I shall prove it yet, I shall prove it yet, what proof yet, what proof remaining, what proof not yet given. All proof. (For my part, I decided on a more cunning, more allusive strategem.) Do you love me, was my counter.

  The pingpong table streaked with slime. My hands pant to gain the ball. My sons watch. They cheer me on. They are loud in their loyalty. I am moved. I fall back on strokes, on gambits, long since gone, flip, cut, chop, shtip, bluff to my uttermost. I play the ball by nose. The twins hail my efforts gustily. But my brother-in-law is no chump. He slams again, he slams again, deep to my forehand. I skid, flounder, stare sightless into the crack of his bat.

  Where are my hammers, my screws, my saws?

  How are you? asked my partner. Bandage on straight? Knots tight?

  The door slammed. Where was I? In the office or at home? Had someone come in as my partner went out? Had he gone out? Was it silence I heard, this scuffle, creak, squeal, scrape, gurgle and muff? Tea was being poured. Heavy thighs (Wendy's? my wife's? both? apart? together?) trembled in stilletos. I sipped the liquid. It was welcome. My physician greeted me warmly. In a minute, old chap, we'll take off those bandages. Have a rock cake. I declined. The birds are at the bird bath, called his white wife. They all rushed to look. My sons sent something flying. Someone? Surely not. I had never heard my sons in such good form. They chattered, chuckled, discussed their work eagerly with their uncle. My parents were silent. The room seemed very small, smaller than I had remembered it. I knew where everything was, every particular. But its smell had altered. Perhaps because the room was overcrowded. My wife broke gasping out of a fit of laughter, as she was wont to do in the early days of our marriage. Why was she laughing? Had someone told her a joke? Who? Her sons? Unlikely. My sons were discussing their work with my physician and his wife. Be with you in a minute, old chap, my physician called to me. Meanwhile my partner had the two women half stripped on a convenient rostrum. Whose body swelled most? I had forgotten. I picked up a pingpong ball. It was hard. I wondered how far he had stripped the women. The top halves or the bottom halves? Or perhaps he was now raising his spectacles to view my wife's swelling buttocks, the swelling breasts of my secretary. How could I verify this? By movement, by touch. But that was out of the question. And could such a sight possibly take place under the eyes of my own children? Would they continue to chat and chuckle, as they still did, with my physician? Hardly. However, it was good to have the bandage on straight and the knots tight.