by David Hare
Elsa ‘In what?
Paul ‘In myself. In the future. I drank because I had no faith.
Elsa ‘And now?
Paul ‘Stick with Victor. Victor has faith. And I don’t.
Victor comes back in, carrying a Diet Coke. He is in even more cheerful spirits.
Victor ‘Diet Coke, so it is.
Paul addresses us directly.
Paul ‘(to us) Victor came back …
Paul continues the scene.
Well, that’s been worth waiting for.
Victor ‘Good.
Paul ‘I could murder a Coke.
Victor hands him the Coke. Paul speaks to us meanwhile.
(To us.) The sun went down over Regents Park and the three of us sat on the terrace just watching the lovers. The young lovers paraded before us in the sun …
Victor ‘Perhaps you’ll have dinner with us.
Elsa ‘Yes.
Paul ‘Thank you. I’m not sure I can.
Victor ‘There’s a restaurant round the corner. I was there the other evening. Their menu is delightfully Greek. It offers ‘steak cooked on your desire’.
Paul ‘Goodness.
Victor ‘I told them: I’d love my steak to be cooked on my desire. In fact when it comes to it, I’d like a whole Mongolian barbecue cooked on my desire. And everyone could feast. Know what I mean?
He beams triumphantly.
The whole world could feast on my desire.
Elsa ‘Are you drunk, Victor?
Victor ‘I am going to enjoy the benefits of another margarita, if that’s what you’re asking. My third.
He leers a little as he pours himself another.
I am free to drink, so I shall.
Victor lifts his glass, beaming, expansive.
Paul ‘(to us) We watched the young people moving round the park, lying on the grass, kissing, easy, the girls resting on the young men’s shoulders, the young men resting in the young women’s laps. How real their happiness seemed and how simple …
Victor has moved behind Elsa’s chair and put his hand again on her shoulder, the two of them making a picture of happiness. Paul smiles at them, at ease. Evening is coming down. We have jumped time.
(To us.) How simple it would be to be happy.
Victor ‘Did you know I was a tour guide for a while – on top of a double-decker? I never told you, did I? After I left the Party.
Paul ‘(to us) Victor began to talk.
Victor ‘I specialised in misleading information. I used to love pointing out the place where General Eisenhower, to thank the British people for their heroic war effort, had built a life-size statue of Micky Mouse. The whole bus craned their necks to see. I always said ‘life-size’. I loved saying ‘life-size’. ‘We are now passing the spot where Lord Nelson first made love to Lady Hamilton.’ I usually chose the Elephant and Castle.
Elsa ‘What are you saying?
Victor ‘They saw it, you see. They saw the statue.
Elsa ‘People are gullible?
Victor ‘No. They’re romantic. They see the statue when it isn’t there.
Paul turns again to us.
Paul ‘(to us) Victor talked. He talked, it seemed, to fill the air, to fill the space between us, so that none of us need be lonely, so that none of us need stop, none of us need ask ourselves what we were feeling …
Victor ‘I read in the paper: apparently they did a survey. Bus conductors, on average, live five years longer than bus drivers.
Elsa ‘What does that prove?
Victor ‘Up and down the stairs. Up and down, up and down. The activity may be meaningless but the very fact of it keeps you alive.
Victor mimics the movement on the stairs with his hand.
Paul ‘(to us) I had no idea what he knew, if he knew, but I knew the safest thing was to keep quiet, the safest thing was to let him talk …
Victor ‘The personal computer, I would have to admit, is the only significant human invention which is exactly half the size of the instruction manual you need to understand it.
Victor laughs, as if the idea satisfied him.
Paul ‘(to us) Nothing had passed between us save a kiss, one kiss grabbed one evening in an empty office …
Victor ‘I often say it’s like buying a book where the footnotes are ten times longer than the text.
Elsa ‘Yet people go on buying them.
Victor ‘People!
Paul ‘(to us) Why had she given it? What had it meant?
Elsa stretches in her chair, like a cat extending itself.
Victor ‘Another margarita?
Elsa ‘Thank you. I will.
Paul ‘(to us) The mystery of it seemed to deepen as the evening went on. And its promise.
There is a long silence. Time has jumped. It is nearly dark. The last of the sun’s rays gleams across the park. The torrent of talk has come to a halt. The evening turns purple. Elsa speaks very quietly.
Elsa ‘Victor always says we can’t know.
Paul ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. I was miles away.
Elsa ‘Victor says we shall know nothing until we are laid out on our zinc beds.
There is a long silence. The light is unearthly. Victor and Elsa are both looking at him as if he has been asleep. Paul is lost for a reaction.
Paul ‘Goodness. What a macabre thought.
Victor ‘Not really. I’m hoping that afterwards they’re planning to tell me what everything meant, because there seems very little chance of finding out at the time.
He looks a moment into his glass, then turns and speaks directly to Paul.
She won’t give me children.
Paul ‘What?
Victor ‘She refuses to give me children. On the grounds she has children already. It’s true. It’s the point of difference between us.
Paul ‘I see.
Elsa ‘I had my children accidentally when I was young and stupid. I’ve never felt quite ready to have any more.
There’s a pause.
There it is.
Paul nods slightly, acknowledging the gift of the confidence. Victor shifts, uneasy.
Victor ‘The boys, believe me, are wonderful.
Paul ‘How old are they?
Victor ‘Oh …
Elsa ‘Fourteen and twelve. By different fathers.
Elsa looks straight at Paul a moment.
Yes, I made a real mess. Thinking in that awful young way that I could do anything. I could cope with anything.
Victor ‘Well? And you have.
Victor ‘reaches down to kiss her. There is a moment of suspended gentleness. Paul watches, then he turns to us.
Paul ‘(to us) Something in the way he kissed her, and in the sadness between them. Something in the passion, in the passion between them which was everything and which was nothing. A feeling rose in me, so overwhelming, so strong, that I sat, powerless, handing my life over, no longer caring where it went …
Paul turns back. Victor is standing quite still, lost.
I’d like a drink.
Victor ‘I’m sorry?
Paul ‘I wonder, could I have a drink?
Victor ‘Are you sure? Do you think …
He looks a moment to Elsa.
I mean, I’m not saying …
Paul ‘I’ll just have the one.
Victor looks again to Elsa.
Elsa ‘He only wants one.
Victor takes one last, uncertain look to Elsa who is sitting quite still, watching from her chair.
Victor ‘Well …
He pours the last of the jug into a glass and hands it to Paul, who stands up to take it. Then Victor smiles. A small onset of energy.
I need to say goodnight to the children. Then we should eat.
Elsa ‘Yes.
Victor ‘Eat with us, Paul.
Paul smiles in assent. Victor picks up the tray and takes it out. The night is purple. Elsa has not moved. Nor has Paul. The feeling is extraordinarily intimate between them.
>
Elsa ‘I’m glad you’re here, Paul.
Paul ‘I’m glad, too.
Paul lifts the glass and begins to drink. The stage darkens.
SIX
The stage is void again. Paul stands before us. He is now dressed in a light mackintosh.
Paul There are always a thousand reasons to drink, and not many reasons not to. I told myself it was because I was being dicked around, and it wasn’t my fault. People were behaving in bewildering ways, and what was I meant to do? That’s one of things about being an alcoholic. It’s always easy to play the victim. But looking back on the summer you might well ask: which one of us was the victim? And which one was doing the dicking around?
SEVEN
An opening of light. Elsa has opened what appears to be a door and is standing inside. She is wearing a light dressing gown. She looks peaceful and warm. Paul is standing outside, soaked from light summer rain. He grins, a little foolishly. He carries an exhausted bunch of wet flowers, still in their paper. He speaks with elaborate care, never slopping or slurring, making a careful effort to be coherent.
Elsa ‘Oh God!
Paul ‘I know. Can I come in?
Elsa stands aside to let him by.
Elsa ‘You’re drunk.
Paul ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was drunk. I’d say I’d been drinking.
Elsa ‘I’m going to get you coffee. How long have you been drinking for?
Paul ‘Not much.
Elsa ‘No, that’s not the question. How long?
Paul ‘How long? Very short. Maybe two days.
Elsa ‘Paul, for fuck’s sake have some coffee and shut up because I don’t know what you’re doing here anyway.
Paul ‘Victor’s abroad. He’s gone for business.
Elsa ‘I know. I know. You don’t need to tell me.
Paul stands, not taking his coat off. Elsa goes to get cups and saucers.
Paul ‘Do I find you just little bit ratty?
Elsa ‘No. More a little bit guilty.
Paul ‘Why?
Elsa ‘Because we thought you could handle it. Victor and I thought you could handle it.
Paul ‘I’m in AA for Christ’s sake – of course I can’t handle it! Of course I can’t handle it! I have a physio-fucking-whatsit-chemical relationship to alcohol. I’m an alchie! What on earth made you think I could handle it?
Elsa ‘Coffee.
Paul ‘Look at your skin.
Elsa hands him coffee.
Elsa ‘Me, I’m going to have a drink. And you’re not allowed.
Paul is digging in his pocket, getting out pages from his notebook. Elsa pours whisky.
Paul ‘And apart from anything, I didn’t tell you, I’m writing again. It’s true. Poetry pouring out of me …
Elsa ‘So is that what this was about? You really can’t write when you’re dry? Is that what you’re frightened of?
Elsa is staring at him. Paul picks a couple of fallen pages off the floor, not wanting to admit it.
Paul ‘Poets are stubborn fuckers. Have to be. There’s no danger of dying of encouragement. I wrote a poem about you. It’s here somewhere.
Paul puts his notebook back and pats his pocket.
I mean, they don’t tell you, do they? That night with the margaritas, I took one sip and I thought, ‘Oh yes. I remember. Drink makes you happy.’
Elsa ‘Briefly.
Paul ‘Oh, what, and we look down on ‘briefly’, do we?
Elsa ‘We distrust ‘briefly’.
Elsa is pouring an immediate second scotch.
Paul ‘Are you having another one?
Elsa ‘Why, are you counting?
Elsa surprises Paul with her savagery. She softens.
Did someone give you flowers?
Paul ‘No. They’re for you.
Elsa ‘Poetry. Flowers.
Paul ‘I’d kiss you but I suspect I smell like a pet shop.
Elsa takes the flowers out to put them in a vase. She speaks from the next room.
Elsa ‘I was expecting you.
Paul ‘Really?
Elsa ‘As soon as Victor left the country. I thought you’d come dog-trotting across the park.
Paul ‘Where are the boys?
Elsa ‘With friends.
Elsa comes back with a vase.
It was clever of you to find flowers with only twenty-four hours to live. I can throw them out before Victor gets back. I won’t have to answer his questions.
Paul ‘Has he been asking questions? What did he say?
Elsa ‘When?
Paul ‘That evening. The evening we all had dinner. What’s that about? What does he want?
Elsa ‘‘What does he want?’ It’s a marriage. However wonderful. Finally, it’s a marriage, like any other. Don’t you write about these things?
Paul ‘Do I?
Elsa ‘Aren’t you a writer? Or does Peter Pan not get mixed up in this kind of stuff?
Paul is taken aback at this sudden aggression.
Paul ‘Don’t you think we have to discuss this?
Elsa ‘Why?
Paul ‘He said you had no friends …
Elsa ‘We have a few.
Paul ‘And he seemed to be – I don’t know – asking me to help.
Elsa ‘He was.
Paul ‘Well?
Elsa ‘Isn’t it clear? We’ve reached a deadlock, that’s all.
Paul ‘How?
Elsa ‘Isn’t it obvious? He’s restless. You can see. Victor is restless. He wants children. So that’s why, yes, Victor’s beginning to get desperate. We’ve reached a point where neither of us knows what happens next.
Paul waits. For the first time, Elsa lets go, the feeling pouring out of her.
Paul, I go to work every day, for God’s sake, I go to the Foundation, I spend the day in practical ways. A hard day’s practical work, raising money – being practical, giving people help. What do you call it? ‘Putting something back’. That’s what I do. I put something back. Then I walk home, I walk back through the Park …
Elsa looks him in the eye again, firm.
Elsa ‘I’ve done it for six years, Paul. I’ve put in six years.
Paul ‘So?
Elsa ‘I keep my eyes down. I work every day. I’m calm. I come home, I talk to the boys.
Paul ‘What are you saying?
Elsa ‘I’m saying, yes, it’s only because of Victor that the Foundation exists. But it’s only because of Victor that I exist.
Paul ‘I see.
Elsa ‘Yes. I feel real. Because of Victor.
There is a silence.
If you’d asked me ten years ago with my daffy head full of coke and my twat in the air, if you’d met me and asked me, ‘Will you make it to the age of thirty-three …?’
Paul ‘What were you?
Elsa ‘What was I?
Paul ‘Someone said you were an air hostess.
Elsa ‘I was. I was an air hostess, I was a model, I was a shop assistant. What was I really? An international junkie –
Paul ‘OK …
Elsa ‘– of epic proportions. And if you’d said to me … yes, one day, one day you’ll marry your father – it’s true, you’ll marry your very own father – or at least someone just like your father, except fifty times nicer, fifty times kinder – then I would not have believed you.
Paul ‘I see.
Elsa ‘Yes. I married the man my father should have been.
Paul ‘How was your father?
Elsa ‘A pig. A drunk. Yours?
Paul ‘Pig-ish.
Elsa ‘Yes.
Again, Elsa is unforgiving.
Paul, I made myself a promise, I made a decision.
Paul ‘When?
Elsa ‘Some weeks ago. You threw me. It was your fault. You threw me off course.
Paul ‘I did?
Elsa ‘Yes.
Paul ‘That night? When we kissed?
Elsa ‘Then. And I made a decision not to discuss Victor with you. Never to discuss
our relationship with you. Whatever happens.
Paul ‘I’m not asking you to diss him.
Elsa ‘It’s not a question of dissing him. It’s a question of privacy. It’s a question of respect.
Paul is frowning, having trouble getting this.
Paul ‘OK. I’m just asking.
Elsa ‘I know what you’re asking.
Paul ‘And?
Elsa ‘And I won’t tell you.
Paul ‘What?
Elsa ‘Anything. Least of all about whether we’re happy or not. There’s a line there and I promise you, I’m not going to cross it.
Paul ‘Right.
There’s a slight pause.
Are you?
Elsa ‘What?
Paul ‘Happy?
Elsa ‘Well, what do you think?
Elsa has gone to pour a third drink.
Paul ‘Are you sure you need the glass? Isn’t the glass a bit …
Elsa ‘What?
Paul ‘Intermediate? Why not just jam the bottle to your lips?
Elsa looks at him a moment, not rising to the joke.
Elsa ‘Tell me, I’d be interested, come on, tell me why are you here?
Paul ‘Why am I here? Why do you think?
Paul looks at her in disbelief.
I was out of work. I’m broke. I’m trying to dry out. I’m sent by the worst newspaper in England to go interview the Marxist maniac of Regents Park.
Elsa ‘So?
Paul ‘I don’t like being a drunk. Believe me. I don’t want to be a drunk. Nobody wants to be a drunk.
Elsa ‘Of course not.
Paul ‘I’ve studied a thousand methods of how not to be a drunk. And I promise you the method least recommended by experts – the one thing experts all really agree on – is: don’t use the falling-in-love-with-a rich-man’s-wife aversion therapy method.
Paul turns round and raises his arms to the skies.
Fuck! That’s what’s wrong! I’m hopelessly in love!
There is a sudden silence. Elsa smiles, but Paul persists, desperate to define what he wants to say.
Elsa ‘You don’t make it sound very pleasant. What am I meant to do?
Paul ‘And if one more therapist tells me that I only fall in love with what I can’t have and it’s because I can’t have it, that’s why I fall in love with it, then I’ll punch the fucking bastard on the nose.
Elsa ‘You loved Clem.
Paul ‘I was fly-half to a rugby team that loved Clem. The therapist’s point, exactly. Whereas you, you have a husband, who’s real, who’s solid, who radiates solidness. Computers! Opinions! Suits!