The Revisionist

by Jesse Eisenberg

  MARIA (reaching for it) Still, you give me.

  DAVID (holding it away from her) This is absurd. This is really not necessary. (beat; he gives it to her) But thank you.

  Maria reads the ticket as she walks to the kitchen to place it under a magnet on the fridge.

  MARIA You leave Wednesday at nine thirty.

  DAVID Yeah, I guess so.

  MARIA So you maybe take taxi at six o’clock.

  DAVID Okay, sure. I don’t really know.

  MARIA Which mean you miss dinner on Wednesday night.

  DAVID I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll probably just eat on the plane.

  MARIA This is the only place you eat food. (pointed:) You miss dinner on Wednesday.

  She enters the bedroom and lifts a framed picture of David.

  MARIA (cont.) Do you know this person?

  DAVID Where did you get that?

  MARIA I look at it every day before you come here. I speak to you. I say “Good morning David.” I practice my English with you. You tell me knife. You learn Polish.

  DAVID How did you get it?

  MARIA Your grandfather send me. He call me every Sunday. My only cousin who call me. He is very special, your grandfather.

  DAVID Sure.

  MARIA You are different I think.

  David takes the picture from Maria.

  DAVID I think I look stupid.

  MARIA Sha, you are young. Bad teeth is normal for kids. And fat too, but you not.

  DAVID Thank you.

  MARIA And look at the eyes.

  DAVID What about them?

  MARIA Now look at my eyes.

  DAVID Where?

  MARIA In my head. Look at my eyes. Do you see?

  DAVID See what?

  MARIA We have same eyes.

  DAVID Do we?

  MARIA Yes, exact same. Is blue, but ugly kind.

  DAVID Really? I always thought my eyes were a nice color.

  MARIA No, they ugly like mine.

  The telephone rings. Maria rushes to the kitchen, picking it up. In Polish:

  MARIA (cont.) Hello? I am good, and how are you? Good good—Yes?

  David places the picture of himself back on the shelf and then turns it face down. He opens up his laptop, powering it on, as Maria continues on the telephone:

  MARIA (cont.) No, I did receive it but I can’t right now, thank you for calling. Goodbye.

  Maria hangs up as the microwave dings.

  MARIA (cont.) David, dinner is ready. You finish packing later.

  DAVID Actually, I think I’m okay, Maria.

  MARIA Good, you come in kitchen.

  DAVID No, I mean I’m actually not really that hungry.

  MARIA I make chicken for you.

  DAVID Really, I’m fine. Actually, I don’t eat meat.

  MARIA Is chicken.

  DAVID Yeah, I don’t eat chicken.

  MARIA Why, you sick?

  DAVID I’m a vegetarian. I don’t eat flesh that was once alive.

  MARIA This is silly. I tell your parents.

  DAVID They know. It’s not a bad thing.

  MARIA Is stupid thing. I not eat for two week when I was seven. Two week I not get nothing! You rich and say you don’t eat the chicken.

  DAVID I’m sorry, Maria.

  MARIA So what you want? I make you carrots. And broccoli. You like Philadelphia?

  DAVID Philadelphia?

  She pulls a tub of Philadelphia cream cheese out of the refrigerator.

  MARIA I spread Philadelphia on bread. This is no meat. Come, you eat, you do prayer.

  DAVID What prayer?

  MARIA Over the food. You do maybe a Jewish prayer.

  DAVID You gotta be kidding me.

  The telephone rings again. Maria picks it up:

  MARIA Hello? Yes? Fine thank you. And you? No, I’m sorry. Goodbye. (hangs up)

  DAVID Who keeps calling you?

  MARIA They ask for money. They say is for blind people but I don’t know about this.

  DAVID You have telemarketing in Poland?

  MARIA They call me always. But my friend say no money go to the blind people.

  DAVID Yeah, it’s probably a scam. Could you please just unplug your phone?

  MARIA No, your grandfather call me. My family call me. I am here!

  DAVID You said he calls you on Sunday.

  MARIA Every Sunday!

  DAVID So why don’t you unplug your phone until Sunday? Until he calls you.

  MARIA (stares at David, beat) Because maybe he call me Tuesday. Now what you want you should eat?

  DAVID Nothing, Maria. But thank you. I think I’m just going to go to sleep.

  MARIA But is good you eat first. We open my gift, my vodka.

  DAVID I’d really like to just go to sleep, if that’s okay.

  MARIA (pause, quietly) Is okay.

  DAVID I do appreciate you letting me stay here.

  MARIA Is okay.

  DAVID I’m glad.

  MARIA David?

  DAVID Yes, Maria?

  MARIA Tomorrow, we take a tour to see Szczecin. My friend is taxi driver, Zenon, and he pick us up. Nine o’clock will be in front.

  DAVID That sounds very nice, Maria but, like I mentioned, I don’t think I can do that.

  MARIA Nine is too soon. You right, I stupid. I think you want we leave early. But is okay. I call him right now, he come at ten. You sleep, you rest—

  DAVID No, I don’t think I can go out at all tomorrow. I need to work. This is the problem I was having in New York. I’m easily distracted. This is why I came here, Maria.

  MARIA You don’t want to see my city?

  DAVID I do, I do. But not tomorrow. I need to work. I came here. I came here to work.

  Pause. A slight challenge:

  MARIA I think you came here to visit me.

  DAVID We’ll go another time. Maybe the weekend.

  MARIA The weekend is better. I call Zenon.

  David enters his bedroom and jumps back on the windowsill, balancing precariously. He finally pries the little window open.

  In the kitchen, Maria takes David’s plate and glass off the table and begins to eat alone. She mumbles to herself:

  MARIA (cont.) Yes, yes. The weekend is better.

  David, on the sill, takes a long hit from his pipe and slowly exhales out the open window.

  BLACKOUT—

  SCENE 2

  The next day, early afternoon

  The radio plays an inane BBC daytime talk show as David tries to work in his bedroom.

  Maria dusts her room, listening to the radio.

  The telephone rings. Maria turns down the radio and answers the phone:

  MARIA Hello? Yes, it’s a good time. I know. I’m sorry, but thank you for calling. You too.

  She hangs up, returns to her room and continues dusting, raising the volume on the radio.

  DAVID Maria? (she doesn’t hear) Maria! The radio is—

  MARIA Yes, David?

  DAVID If you don’t mind, your radio is a little distracting!

  MARIA What you say David?

  DAVID I said the radio is very loud! It breaks my concentration! Can you please turn it down!?

  MARIA I will not turn it down! I will turn it off!

  DAVID Okay, thank you!

  MARIA How is that solution?!

  DAVID It’s fine, thank you!

  MARIA Is a good solution to our problem!

  She turns off the radio. He resumes typing as she enters his bedroom.

  MARIA (cont.) Do you know why all problems are the same? Because they have a solu
tion. That is how we know is a problem in the first place.

  DAVID All right.

  MARIA And after you solve the problem, you think it was not so bad as when you first see it.

  DAVID (patronizing) That’s very wise. Thank you.

  He resumes typing. She lingers—

  MARIA Did you make the book?

  DAVID What?

  MARIA Did you write the book?

  DAVID I’m revising the book, yes. It takes a long time.

  MARIA You not finish it?

  DAVID No, of course not.

  MARIA You in the room three hours. I clean my flat two times.

  DAVID Well, it takes a little more than three hours to finish a book.

  MARIA I know about this.

  DAVID Don’t you have like somewhere to—My grandfather told me you have a job.

  MARIA I do a volunteer at the library. But I take the week free for you.

  DAVID I wish you didn’t do that. I kind of assumed I would have the days free to work and we’d maybe just run into each other at night.

  MARIA Well now we know it is a different situation.

  He glances at her briefly, then resumes typing.

  MARIA (cont.) So. Why you not give your boss the book when he ask?

  DAVID He’s not my boss. He’s my publisher. It’s different.

  MARIA How is different?

  DAVID It’s a more equal relationship. If anything, I have the upper hand.

  MARIA He pay you?

  DAVID Yes, of course.

  MARIA You give him the book when you finish?

  DAVID Yes.

  MARIA Then he your boss.

  DAVID Okay. He’s not though.

  David resumes typing. Maria looks around, picks up an errant dust mite . . .

  MARIA So why you not give him the book six week ago?

  DAVID I did. I gave it to him. But he thinks it’s not funny enough. It’s not even supposed to be so funny. It’s irrelevant. He’s a middleman.

  MARIA Is for children?

  DAVID The book? Obviously not. It’s targeted to college students. Smart kids. Readers.

  MARIA Is not children’s book?

  DAVID No. Why would I write a children’s book?

  MARIA Your first book was children’s book.

  DAVID The Running of the Bulls was not a children’s book! It was a young adult novel.

  MARIA It seem more like for children.

  DAVID Well, you can read it, I’ll get someone to send you a copy, and you’ll see—

  MARIA I read it already. Two times I read it.

  DAVID Did you?

  MARIA Of course. My family write a book of course I read.

  DAVID The family didn’t write the book, I wrote the book.

  MARIA But I think was for children.

  DAVID Well, I wrote it, so I know who I wrote it for. I wrote it for young adults.

  MARIA That is what children are, young adults.

  DAVID It’s a completely different genre. It’s not relevant. Anyway, it was an antifascist allegory!

  MARIA What this means?

  DAVID It means the story’s not supposed to be taken literally. It’s a metaphor. You probably didn’t fully understand the story.

  MARIA Story was about talking animals.

  DAVID Talking bulls! And they were representative of the oppressed populace under General Franco.

  MARIA And they each must have a birthday party in the jail.

  DAVID The birthday party is a metaphor for stunted growth! And the jail is a metaphor for—for Spanish jail!

  MARIA And the animals who not talk too much must wear a silly hat.

  DAVID The hat is about mind control, which is why they can’t talk! It’s a thinly veiled allegory and an allusion to Hemingway and Orwell that literally any eighth grader would understand!

  MARIA Is a very strange story but many people buy, I think.

  DAVID It sold 64,000 copies worldwide. It was translated into Korean.

  MARIA Is good, no?

  DAVID Not when it’s selling to children. (as if interviewed:) You know, it’s interesting, it was a great accomplishment, publishing at that age, that kind of early success, it’s good, it’s not bad, it’s good . . . But in retrospect, I’m not really . . . I don’t really like it that much. You know? I can acknowledge the book’s strengths, but I don’t like it.

  MARIA Yes, I think me too.

  DAVID Excuse me?

  MARIA I read it again just before you come here.

  DAVID And you decided you don’t like it.

  MARIA You want the truth?

  DAVID No, not really.

  MARIA Okay.

  David resumes typing. Long pause—

  MARIA (cont.) And I think the New York Time no like it either.

  DAVID Jesus Christ!

  MARIA I read review.

  DAVID You read the Times’ review?

  MARIA I put it in frame.

  David pushes aside his laptop, marches into the kitchen.

  DAVID It was a bad review!

  MARIA My flesh and blood in New York Time, I put in frame. Is important newspaper.

  Maria pulls the framed review off the wall and holds it proudly.

  MARIA (cont.) I was thinking you maybe sign it for me.

  DAVID What? No. I’m not signing a bad review.

  MARIA Maybe you write it small. In the corner.

  DAVID Absolutely not.

  MARIA Maybe just with pencil.

  DAVID No. Maria, I’m not signing that. How did you even get it?

  MARIA Your grandfather send me.

  DAVID Why would he send a bad review overseas? He doesn’t even send me birthday cards.

  MARIA I like to read about my family.

  DAVID Then I’ll send you a good review! We had Newsweek, we had the AP!

  MARIA You not send me nothing. You not call me never!

  DAVID I will when I get back. I’ll send you a different review. I’ll send you ten reviews! Please throw that one out. It’s embarrassing to me! Please!

  MARIA Is on a wall in Poland! Why is embarrassing?

  DAVID It just is. I shouldn’t have to explain myself! I will send you a better review if you feel like you really need one—

  MARIA (an explosion) I don’t want better review! I want New York Time review!

  Maria aggressively slams a jar of pickles down on the table.

  MARIA (cont.) You eat pickle. Is no meat.

  DAVID (quieted by her outburst) Okay, sure. Okay.

  MARIA You not eat nothing today.

  DAVID Yeah, sorry. I’m not that hungry.

  MARIA Because you not eat nothing.

  DAVID I tend not to eat when I’m writing. It’s inhibiting.

  MARIA Your mother will yell at me if she know you eat nothing.

  DAVID My mother’s not going to yell at you. She doesn’t care.

  MARIA She’s your mother. (beat) When I come to your house, she make beautiful fruit salad. Look like art. Cut melon in different shapes. Like a picture.

  DAVID Did she?

  MARIA You no remember?

  DAVID No.

  MARIA Your mother, she is a good cook.

  DAVID I feel like I don’t remember her ever cooking anything.

  MARIA No, she cook all the time.

  DAVID Yeah, I don’t think she did.

  MARIA No, she cook always.

  DAVID Well I grew up with her, so.

  MARIA Your mother is a nice woman.

  DAVID She is.

  MARIA (sadly) And she is beautiful woman.

 
DAVID Okay.

  MARIA Is she still so beautiful?

  DAVID My mother? I don’t know, she looks the same. That’s weird. Don’t ask me that.

  MARIA I mean, the father is nice too. But the mother? This is something unusual.

  DAVID Great.

  MARIA You no remember me? I come to your house. 1993. March.

  DAVID Yeah, I’m sorry, I don’t remember.

  MARIA You put on a little play for Jerzy, for me. You and your sister pretend you on a boat. It was not such a good play—

  DAVID Well, with limited resources, it’s difficult to fully realize a vision—

  MARIA And your sister play like a pirate man. She look like a man anyway, so is good for the role. You no remember?

  DAVID (laughing) I definitely don’t remember that, no.

  MARIA Well, you were young boy.

  DAVID Not that young.

  MARIA I think you too young to remember me.

  DAVID No, I was probably ten or eleven.

  MARIA Yes, is young. Too young to remember an old woman at your house.

  DAVID Hmm. Well I think I would have probably—

  MARIA You were too young! Is it!

  They eat in silence.

  MARIA (cont.) In 1951 I go to America for eleven months. I stay with your grandfather and his family. In The Queens.

  DAVID Just Queens.

  MARIA His sister, Ruthie, she want to go out every night. At time she was married to famous artist. She want to take me out, show me to her friends. “Look at my cousin. From Poland. From war.”

  DAVID That’s nice.

  MARIA No, is not nice. (beat) She bring me to meet Elizabeth Bishop.

  DAVID Elizabeth Bishop, the poet?

  MARIA She tell me before we go to her apartment, “Lizzie is very close friend. Very good friend.” She call her name Lizzie but is not her name, you know. She tell me, “Maria, don’t talk about the war. Don’t make Lizzie sad.” Everyone else, she tell me “You talk about war, they want to know what happen to the European Jew.” But Lizzie, she tell me, “Keep it light.” Keep it light, I no understand. I think she mean, Don’t turn off the light at Elizabeth’s apartment. I think, I am guest, why would I do such a foolish thing? But when we get to the apartment, first thing Elizabeth say is, “Tell me about war.”

  DAVID (laughing) Of course.

  MARIA And I am perplex. I look at Ruthie and I see she is also perplex.

  DAVID So what did you do?

  MARIA I tell Lizzie, “No. I will not tell you about war.” (beat) Ruthie not introduce me to any more friends.