by David Hare
Saraffian Kid.
Arthur Please.
Laura Why does he have to come and see her again, it only screws her up.
Saraffian Please leave it, Laura, there are no answers and there is absolutely no point in the questions.
Laura I see. Can I say anything at all?
Saraffian No.
Laura Can anyone say anything?
Saraffian No.
A long pause.
I’m very grateful, Laura, for all the work you’ve done.
Laura Don’t crawl up my arse, Saraffian, what is Arthur doing here?
Saraffian He …
Arthur I wanted to come.
Laura What?
Saraffian He wanted to see her.
Laura Arthur?
Saraffian His own idea.
Arthur Yes. Just to see her for Chrissake. I wanted to see her. Is that … just to see her.
Arthur goes out. A pause.
Saraffian Everyone should love everyone. Take the global view, Laura, please. Champagne.
Inch back with beer mugs. Saraffian pours out. Laura as if about to cry.
Ease up will you, Laura, you’re doing Joan Crawford out of a job.
Laura Listen …
Saraffian Shit, Laura, a man can love two women at once. I’ve seen it done. The human heart. Shall we ever understand it, Tone?
Randolph I …
Saraffian The answer is no. The boy adored her. Now he feels responsible. So.
Laura gets up. Moves. Stops dead. The rest are sitting, staring into their mugs. Almost all comprehensively stoned now.
Wilson And …
Laura Well …
Inch There.
Pause.
Saraffian Look at it this way, Laura. I knew a Viennese teacher who said that desperate people who try to kill themselves but only succeed in shooting their eyes out, never, ever attempt suicide again. It’s the sense of challenge you see. Once you’ve lost your eyes, it gives you something to live for.
He laughs.
Peyote Dubbin. Brass. Bells.
Nash Wot’s up wi’ ’im?
Peyote Streakin’ through the sky. The ’ouse’old cavalry itself.
Wilson ’E’s on ’orses again.
Peyote Pomades. The royal ’orses.
Wilson Said in the paper seventy per cent of adult males dream regularly of fuckin’ Princess Anne.
Inch Quite right. I mean, what’s a royal family for if not to …
Wilson … dream.
They smile. Pause.
Peyote An’ a cry of ’allelujah.
Saraffian sits back. They all drowse.
Laura It’s just possible anywhere, any time to decide to be a tragic figure. It’s just an absolute determination to go down. The reasons are arbitrary, it may almost be pride, just not wanting to be like everyone else. I think you can die to avoid cliché. And you can let people die to avoid cliché.
Saraffian Quite.
Pause.
Wilson Shall we play the telephone game?
Saraffian I can’t tell you the beauty of this profession. Years ago when I was young. It was full of people called Nat and Harry and Dick in brown suits and two-tone shoes. With thick chunky jewellery as if someone had splattered hot melting gold over their bodies with a watering can, and it had set in great thick blobs. And golden discs on the walls. And heavy presentation ballpoint sets, on their desks. Would sell you their grandmother’s wooden leg. Nat did sell his grandmother’s wooden leg, after she died, admittedly. And they muttered the totem phrases of the trade like, ‘Tell him I’ll get back to him.’ There was no higher compliment an initiate could be paid than to be taken out for pickled brisket and beetroot borscht and be told in perfect confidence, ‘The real dough’s in sheet music. My son.’ And they snapped great white fingers round the piano and used words like ‘catchy’ and ‘wild’. And the artists … the artists bore no connection to the world I knew. When Nat travelled he carried them in the back of the van with a sliding glass compartment between him and them so he wouldn’t have to listen to their conversation. He talked about installing sprinklers, as in Buchenwald. It was organized crime. Really. Those days. That’s what interested me. The blatancy of it. The damnfool screaming stupidity of popular music. I loved it.
Pause. His eyes are closed.
You want me to sack her, you all want her to go.
Pause. He opens his eyes.
You are making the Mafia sign.
Pause. Nobody moves a muscle. Laura looks furious.
OK.
The band’s equipment comes down silently and Scene Two scatters.
SCENE THREE
The abandoned stage. Just Laura. She walks behind the bank of speakers. She gets out a packet of fags. Lights two. Hands one down behind the amplifiers where it disappears. She moves away.
Laura Where the people?
Maggie’s voice In the dinner tent.
Laura Ah.
Maggie’s voice They’re having dinner. In the dinner tent.
Laura goes behind the organ, picks up the clean dress and throws it behind the speakers.
Laura You ought to … put this on. The other’s got dirty.
Maggie’s voice Laura.
Laura Yeah.
Maggie’s voice The boy, the student …
Laura Yes, I can imagine.
Pause.
Maggie’s voice The journalist.
Laura Yes, yes, I know who you mean.
Maggie’s voice He was in a bit of a state, I couldn’t believe it. I think he must have juiced himself up.
Laura Yes.
Maggie sits up behind the amplifiers.
Maggie He said your thighs are so beautiful, your thighs are so beautiful, well, Laura, you seen my thighs …
Laura Yes.
Maggie I said please let’s not … I’d rather you just …
Pause.
Laura You better go on.
Maggie He said your body is like a book in which men may read strange things, a foreign country in which they may travel with delight. Your cheeks like damask, the soft white loveliness of your breasts, leading to the firm dark mountain peaks of your, Laura, now I am dreading which part of my body he will choose next on which to turn the great white beam of his fucking sincerity. Between your legs the silver comets spiral through the night, I lose myself, he says … he says … how beautiful you are Maggie and how beautiful life ought to be with you.
Pause. She cries.
Laura Don’t.
Maggie So. I don’t want to know.
Laura No.
Pause. She begins to recover.
Maggie Then eventually … I say please, faking. He says yes of course, he stops talking. We wait. For thirty minutes. For thirty minutes it is like trying to push a marshmallow into a coinbox.
Pause.
Then he manages. In his way. Afterwards he says it’s his fault. I say no mine, perhaps the choice of location … he says it can’t be your fault, you have made love to the most brilliant and beautiful men of your generation, you have slept with the great. I say, there are no great, there is no beautiful, there is only the thin filth of getting old, the thin layer of filth that gets to cover everything. So. Off he goes. Za za.
Pause. Then a complete change.
Maggie Where’s Arthur? God, how I used to love that man.
Laura Yeah.
Maggie He used to make me feel good, you know, he made me want to curl up foetal.
Laura Across the way they … talking about you.
Maggie I’m a Zeppelin. I’m fifty foot up.
Laura Saraffian’s here.
Maggie No kid.
Laura That’s right.
Maggie Why’d he come tonight?
Laura I don’t know.
Laura reaches down for a near-empty Johnny Walker from behind the speakers.
Maggie Bum set. Bum gig. Think he noticed?
They look at each other.
Gimme the bottle wi
ll you, Laura?
Laura Arthur has travelled quite a long way.
Maggie Yeah.
Laura Say seventy miles. I think he’s entitled to a little of your time. If you can fit him in between …
Maggie Do you know Arthur was a good man? When we first met? Really good man. He used to leave half-finished joints in telephone booths just so passers-by could have a good time.
Laura Listen …
Maggie But he’s become a little over-earnest for me, don’t you think? I mean, if there was going to be a revolution it would have happened by now. I don’t think 1970’ll be the big year. I mean the real revolution will have to be …
Laura Inside?
Maggie Gimme the bottle.
Laura Why do you talk like that, Maggie?
Maggie Gimme the bottle.
Laura Where does that stupid half-baked bullshit come from?
Laura holds on to the bottle.
Maggie Well …
Laura If you really wanted rid of him you wouldn’t sing his songs. And you wouldn’t be afraid to tell him to his face.
Pause.
Maggie All my life I’ve noticed people in telephone booths, in restaurants, heads down, saying things like, ‘I don’t want to see you again.’ Once you start looking, they’re everywhere. People rushing out of rooms, asking each other to lower their voices, while they say, ‘You’ve got to choose between her and me.’ Or, ‘Don’t write me, don’t phone me, I just don’t want to see you again.’ People bent over crawling into corners at parties, sweating away to have weasely tearful little chats about human relationships. God how I hate all that. It seems so clear. I’ve finished with Arthur. And I’m fed up with his songs. I’m resentful and jealous and I want to be left alone. And I don’t want to look in his lame doggy eyes.
Pause.
God, the singing is easy. It’s the bits in between I can’t do.
They look out from the stage into the void. At the back Inch comes on and starts preparing the equipment.
Laura They’re coming back.
Maggie Look at carrot-top over there.
Laura Must be almost time.
Maggie Look, he’s laughing.
Laura And his hand’s coming up. Look …
Maggie Yes.
Laura No, she’s wriggled out of it.
Maggie She’s saying something.
Laura I think his name’s Rodney.
Maggie What did she say?
Laura Dunno. Something like don’t touch me, Rodney.
Maggie Christ, look at him.
Laura He’s taking it badly.
Maggie They’re funny the rich …
Laura He’s standing there gasping.
Maggie They do it all so slowly.
Laura Like someone hit him with a cricket bat. He’s …
Pause. Appalled.
Jesus.
Pause. Relief.
Ah no, he’s seen a friend. Look, he’s all right. He’s trotting away into the paddock. Hallo, Roger, hallo, Rodney. He’s quite frisky now. Lifting his fetlocks. Ha, ha, ha. All well.
Inch You can’t ’elp wonderin’ … wot a bomb would do.
Saraffian Hallo, my dear.
Saraffian has crept in silently and is staring at Maggie. Towards the back of the stage a conga of Wilson, Nash, Peyote, Arthur and Randolph snakes down; then the band begin to set up.
Conga
’Ow do yer do what yer do to me
’Ow I wish I knew …
Maggie Saraffian. Come to check on your investment?
Saraffian That’s right.
Maggie Just merchandise to you.
Saraffian Sure are.
Maggie We could be anything. Soapflakes we could be. Well, that’s fine. Yes. That’s fine by all of us. Yes, Arthur?
She looks at him for the first time.
Arthur I don’t know. It’s not so easy of course. I believe the acid dream is over, it said in the Daily Express. But you and I, Maggie … we still want to say something. Yes?
Maggie smiles and leans over him.
Maggie Love you. Where my shoes?
She moves away. Laura goes to get her shoes.
Saraffian At the present rate if you lot go on working for another three years, you’ll just about cover the advance I gave you.
Arthur plays a few chords of ‘My Funny Valentine’. Maggie turns and stares.
Arthur Leonardo da Vinci drew submarines. Five hundred years ago. They looked pretty silly. Today we are drawing a new man. He may look pretty silly.
Maggie (to Arthur) You still want it to mean something, don’t you? You can’t get over that, can you? It’s all gotta mean something … that’s childish, Arthur. It don’t mean anything.
Laura Do you want the flowers?
Maggie Fuck the flowers.
Maggie disappears.
Arthur Haven’t I seen Randolph before?
Saraffian Used to be a drummer. Year or two ago. Used to lay down a beat for Eve Boswell.
Arthur Eve Boswell?
Saraffian (beaming) Well, he is nearly thirty-five you know. They all come round. It all comes round again.
Maggie goes to collect her Scotch. The band quiet and almost ready.
I first knew Randolph in the fifties. My generation. The golden days of British rock. Crêpe soles, a tonic solfa and a change of name. That was all you needed. He was …
Randolph Tony Torrent.
Saraffian Right. It never got better you know. It’ll never get better than 1956. Tat. Utter tat. But inspired. The obvious repeated many times. Simple things said well. Then along came those boys who could really play. They spoilt it of course. Ruined it. They were far too good. Before that … very fine my dears.
Maggie Saraffian.
Saraffian Yes.
Maggie Shut up.
Maggie walks to the back of the stage. Silence. Smegs comes in and picks up his guitar. She lifts her bottle, drinks. Turns. The band look one to another.
Saraffian Rock me baby till my back ain’t got no bone.
He gets up.
After that the rest was downhill.
He walks away. She comes down.
THE SECOND SET
Arthur, Randolph, Laura and Saraffian all wander out of sight during the first song. The band start an aggressive rock number; at the point Maggie should come in, they stop. Nothing. Then Maggie speaks.
Maggie Just try and forget, eh? Forget who you are. Don’t think about it. Pack your personality under your arm an’ have a good time. I really mean it.
Mama, take yer teeth out cos Daddy wanna suck yer gums.
Pause. Then the band begin again. At the moment of entry Maggie wanders away from the microphone and picks up her bottle. Pause.
It’s enough to make a haggis grow legs, man.
An abrupt drum solo from Nash and a couple of chords from Wilson. Then silence.
Now listen, kids, call you kids, so far you’re schlebs and secret assholes. What you say, sir?
She listens.
Yeah, well, what you do with it is your business. Just don’t ask me to hang it in my larder. Now this is meant to be a freak-out not a Jewish funeral. Let me make this plain. I don’t play to dead yids. What you say, what are you saying, madam?
She leans forward, her hand in front of her eyes.
Sure. If that’s what you want. Meet you in the library in half an hour. Bring your knickers in your handbag.
She leans forward again.
I am what? What is that word? I have not heard it before. What is stoned? (She holds up the whisky bottle.) This is a depressant, I take it to get depressed. Now I have some very interesting stuff to say. First we’re gonna talk about me. Then we’re gonna talk about me. Then we’ll change the subject. Give you a chance to talk … about what you think about me.
Right. So. It’s mother born in Hitchin, father born in Hatfield. So they met half way and lived all their life in …
Wilson Get on with it.
Lo
ng pause. The band look bored and regretful at her behaviour. She turns to Wilson.
Maggie Wilson here … this is Wilson … on keyboard. Wilson has always entertained the notion of taking his trousers down. On account of the pain. So let’s have them, Wilson.
Maggie lurches at the organ. Wilson’s seat crashes over. She climbs on top of him and tries to rip his jeans off. Inch pulls her off, the others stand on one leg, play the odd note.
Right, let’s have it, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, let’s have it, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it, that’s it.
Inch Come on, come on now.
Wilson stands well away. Inch has his arms round Maggie. Then Wilson slips nervously back to the organ. Inch slowly lets go of Maggie then stands behind her like a puppet master. Pause. Then superb coherence.
Maggie Ladies an’ genel’men …
Brief drum from Nash.
The acid dream is over lezzava good time.
The next number begins shatteringly loud. Where the words should be Maggie sings tuneful but emphatic.
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah …
The truck pulls back upstage. The music fades and falters as it goes.
SCENE FOUR
Saraffian and Arthur straight in at pace. The music stops.
Arthur Great stuff.
Saraffian Really terrific.
Arthur Where is she?
Laura comes in.
Saraffian Getting her head kicked in.
Laura Didn’t get us very far.
Wilson comes in.
Wilson My jeans.
Laura Where did she get to?
Wilson My beautiful jeans.
Saraffian Winner of the 1969 Judy Garland award for boring boring boring …
Inch comes in.
Inch Wot the fuck was that about?
Wilson Somethin’ to do with the pain.
Inch Wot pain?
Laura Go and get a shower ready.
Inch Wot fuckin’ pain?
Saraffian The pain, you know, the pain that makes her such a great artist.
Nash comes in carrying Maggie over his shoulder.
Inch I’m not washin’ ’er again.
Laura Put her down.
Nash (swivelling Maggie round) Anyone want ’er?
Inch (stands on the table) Will somebody tell me wot fuckin’ pain?
Wilson The pain.