(IRV throws down the newspaper, then feeds the fish in the fishbowl.)
SAMMY. But I thought you gave up on dames after Doris. Traded in females for fish.
IRV. Well, I’m making an exception. Not permanent. A temporary exception. Very temporary. Just long enough for Max to find out. And to rub his face in it. And you, with girls trooping in and out of your place like the dressing room at Bloomingdale’s, you can be my coach. ’Cause it’s been a while since I played this game.
SAMMY. (He stands and sizes up IRV.) Jeez, Irv. I don’t know.
IRV. What do you mean you don’t know! I’ll use a fake name, so she won’t know who I am. She’s never met me, so she won’t know my face. I’m not that bad looking. It’s perfect!
SAMMY. It’s not perfect! It’s a long shot. It’s the Cubs winning the World Series.
IRV. Thanks.
SAMMY. (He walks around IRV, examining him, then checks his bicep. Pause.) Can you kiss?
IRV. What — you’re gonna send me down to the minors to brush up my skills? Of course I can kiss!
SAMMY. I’ll bet. You and the Tin Man.
IRV. So it’s been a while! So we squirt a little lubricating oil on my mouth.
SAMMY. And we know how dames go for the taste of 3-in-One. (Pause.) You dance?
IRV. Sure I dance. (Searches his memory.) Foxtrot . . . waltz . . .
SAMMY. . . . minuet. Irv, it’s 1965! Maybe we oughta go for the color TV.
IRV. I can do it!
SAMMY. I’m just warning you, it might not be easy. Tell you what. Give me everything you know about her. Then I’ll think about it for a couple of days and try to come up with a plan. But right now, I got my mind on other things. (He checks his watch.) Like the Yankees–Red Sox game in an hour. So if you don’t mind —
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY. BEETON is pouring glasses of whiskey, the bottle three-fourths empty by the time the drinks are all poured. EMMALINE enters with COL. and MRS. HARDWICKE, in their sixties, the fresh-faced REV. SMYTHE, and LADY DENSLOW, thirty and sultry.)
EMMALINE. His train’s still not arrived. This awful storm —
(BEETON circulates with the drinks on a tray, exiting when the tray is empty.)
COL. HARDWICKE. From our English climate, one could conclude, Reverend, that God quite enjoys playing with water.
LADY DENSLOW. And playing with soldiers. Another boyish pastime.
EMMALINE. Only they’re real, not toys. But I mustn’t start. We’re here to help Clifford forget all that.
LADY DENSLOW. (Raising her glass.) To forgetfulness!
THE OTHERS. To forgetfulness!
INSPECTOR SWIFT. (Entering, dapper in evening clothes.) The same toast apparently drunk by the witnesses on my last murder case.
EMMALINE. Inspector Swift! I’m so pleased you’re here. Let me introduce you. Colonel and Mrs. Hardwicke, our nearest neighbors . . .
INSPECTOR SWIFT. I couldn’t help noticing, motoring here, the extreme isolation of the houses.
COL. HARDWICKE. Makes us value human contact all the more.
(He chuckles nervously.)
INSPECTOR SWIFT. Indeed.
EMMALINE. Lady Vanessa Denslow. Her husband is also leading a regiment in France.
LADY DENSLOW. And will be dining this evening on horsemeat and rainwater.
INSPECTOR SWIFT. A most commendable sacrifice.
LADY DENSLOW. If we are what we eat, I suppose I should expect him to return even more of a beast than before.
EMMALINE. Reverend Smythe.
REV. SMYTHE. My apologies on the weather.
INSPECTOR SWIFT. Now, now. I don’t think we’ll be charging you as an accessory.
COL. HARDWICKE. A bit of a thorny question, what? Who is to blame for the weather? Perhaps that’s the perfect crime, eh, Inspector?
(Chuckles nervously at his own observation.)
INSPECTOR SWIFT. Actually, I’m drawn to a different question — namely, whether your nervous laugh is a regular habit or especially in my honor. (Pause. He turns toward REV. SMYTHE.) Odd how my presence, like yours, Reverend, leads many to anxious recollection of their sins. We are walking confession booths, you and I. Mr. Freud has dealt with the topic in fascinating detail, inquiring as to — please stop me if I’m boring you.
(The others all encourage INSPECTOR SWIFT to continue, with “Not at all,” “Please go on,” etc.)
INSPECTOR SWIFT. Very well. He began by —
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on RICHARD III, act 1, scene 1. GLOUCESTER, hunchbacked, stands alone. The actor portraying him delivers his lines with great pride in Shakespearean oratory.)
GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lowr’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows —
(Zap sound. GLOUCESTER appears stunned. Blackout. Lights come up on the PERFORMANCE ART MONOLOGUE. The time is the present. MARSHA, twenty-two, is dressed in black, from her motorcycle boots to her lipstick. She wears a bandanna on her head. She stumbles onstage in slight confusion and flops onto the couch. She addresses the audience directly throughout.)
MARSHA. Whoa. This is too weird. Totally. I can’t believe we’re really doing this. And that I’m in it. That we all are. And with barely rehearsing, so we could hurry up and open and bring in some money. Talk about opening-night jitters. You should see it backstage. Bunch of chickens with their freaking heads cut off. And the director — totally ballistic. Not that that’s exactly a change of pace. And Ron Throckmorton, the guy who runs the company, he’s like oozing around telling everybody, “It’s just for a little while, to help balance the books.” Except we’re always short of cash, even with none of us getting paid. And we’re always about to lose our lease on the building, like right now, which is always gonna be the way it is in theater as long as people can sit at home and watch three million freaking cable channels with the zapper in one hand and a bowl of bubble gum fudge swirl in the other. But you gotta compete. Which is how Ron thought up putting on seven plays at once, something for everybody, including my performance art piece, and giving you guys zappers. High art meets short attention span. Naturally, I came down with a cold two days before we open, but who cares, you know? Acting’s not actually my thing. Telling the truth is my thing. The whole truth. Nothing but the truth. The truth shall make you free! Somebody famous said that. (She sniffles loudly and wipes her nose on her sleeve.) The truth shall gross you out! I said that. (She displays her sleeve to the audience.) ’Cause I’m going to tell you about my repulsive family and my amazingly disgusting hometown and how I discovered theater and dared to tell the truth and how for the past five years I wouldn’t stop telling the truth no matter what anybody —
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY. The time is 1870, a morning in spring. The place is a Russian country estate, home to the Volnikov family. NIKOLAI, thirty-five, rushes in and looks about in rapture. Actors use Russian accents.)
NIKOLAI. The sofa . . . Great-grandfather’s books . . . the view of the birches! (Calling offstage.) Irina! We’re here! (To himself.) Everything just as I recall it from my boyhood! Exactly! (IRINA enters, thirty and beautiful, sulkily surveying the room’s furnishings.) Darling Irina! Can you believe it? Never again the noise of St. Petersburg, the crowding, the greed and moneygrubbing, the filthy air, the coarseness of spirit. Here in the country we shall both be reborn!
IRINA. (Trailing a finger on the furniture and staring at her dusty fingertip.) If that filthy ogre who brought our bags is our midwife, I believe I’d prefer a St. Petersburg specialist.
NIKOLAI. Dearest — you’ll come to adore Gregor. Believe me.
IRINA. And frankly, Nikolai, I must confess that I feel no great need to be reborn. I leave that to the Hindus of India.
NIKOLAI. Come now, Irina. We’ve already decided. (He
takes her arm.) And here is the house I’ve described to you so often!
(He tries to land a kiss, but IRINA pulls away.)
IRINA. With its awful curtains.
NIKOLAI. Irina, darling. It’s a house filled with tradition!
IRINA. A tradition of tasteless furnishings.
NIKOLAI. Here I shall learn to farm as my ancestors did. Here we shall live on honest toil, eat from our own fields, make merry with the local inhabitants at harvest time.
IRINA. If I don’t perish of boredom first. How far is it to the nearest ballet?
NIKOLAI. Hmmm. I’m not certain, exactly. Probably only a moderate distance. Perhaps six hundred and fifty versts.
IRINA. And just how far is a verst, anyway? I’m always forgetting.
NIKOLAI. A verst? (He thinks.) Isn’t it three point two leagues? (IRINA raises her arms in a how-should-I-know gesture.) Gregor will know. And if not, here in the house you have the country branch of my family, happy to instruct you in such practical matters and to entertain you with droll family stories. They should be here shortly. Let’s review. (His delivery speeds up.) First, there is my great-grandfather, Konstantin Alekseyevich Volnikov. My aunt, Olga Andreyevna Barkakovich, nicknamed Nika. My cousin, Pavel Sergeyevich Spivetsky, nicknamed Spavil —
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the COMEDY. IRV is on the phone.)
IRV. I dunno, Sammy. About my age, I think. . . . Yeah, part-time as his secretary and part-time interior decorator, the last I heard. . . . Audrey. Audrey McPherson. . . . Hmmm. Let me think. . . .
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the AVANT-GARDE PLAY. The time is the 1950s. The place is a hotel room. A MAN sits in one of the chairs, reading a brochure. A WOMAN, seen in a different posture on the couch in each scene, reclines there, staring at a crossword puzzle. Both wear white terry-cloth robes. On the floor in front of the couch, face-down, lies a dummy of a dead man, dressed in a dark business suit. The actors speak with robotic dispassion, their lines separated by longer-than-usual silences. There is a long silence before the MAN speaks.)
MAN. Apparently, this hotel is quite well appointed.
WOMAN. I need a three-letter word for “despair.”
MAN. There’s parking across the street for motoring guests. And all rooms are equipped with radios and telephones. (Pause.) “Artichoke.” (The WOMAN smiles and writes the word in her crossword.) There’s a restaurant on the second floor. . . . A concierge can be found next to the bellman’s desk. . . . The staff welcomes the chance to serve us.
WOMAN. How long have we been here now?
MAN. Hmmm. Six. Or seven. Or fourteen. Or thirty-one.
WOMAN. And yet, they’ve still not brought up our luggage.
MAN. No doubt they’re busy with other travelers.
WOMAN. And the robes from the closet are really quite comfortable. (Pause.)
MAN. I’ve read through all the hotel information, but nowhere does it say what to do in the case of a dead body in the room.
WOMAN. (She looks down at the corpse, then pokes him experimentally with her toe.) He seems to have been here for quite some time. Perhaps he was left by one of the other guests. (She returns her gaze to her crossword.) A four-letter word for “pertaining to brass family instruments.”
MAN. You dial three for the front desk. Four for room service. Eight for housekeeping. (Pause.) “Bathtub.”
WOMAN. (She smiles and writes the word in.) But no number given for the morgue?
MAN. (He turns the brochure over and scans it in bafflement.) No.
(Long pause, during which nothing happens. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the ENGLISH MYSTERY, as before. Immediately, there is a peal of thunder and the lights flicker off. When they come up again a moment later CLIFFORD GRAY, thirty, is in the room, in uniform and with his right arm in a sling. His manner is troubled and distant.)
EMMALINE. Clifford! You’re here! Oh, darling! (She embraces him, then gently touches his right arm.) But what happened?
CLIFFORD. We had a visit in my trench — from one of the Kaiser’s shells. Hello, Colonel, Marjorie, Reverend, Lady . . . (He stares at LADY DENSLOW but can’t think of her name.)
LADY DENSLOW. Denslow. Vanessa. How could you forget?
CLIFFORD. (Slightly dazed.) Vanessa — of course. (To the others.) Don’t let me interrupt.
EMMALINE. Interrupt? But, darling — you’re the guest of honor.
CLIFFORD. Am I? I do pity you all. (To INSPECTOR SWIFT.) I don’t believe we’ve met.
INSPECTOR SWIFT. Actually, we have. Roderick Swift. We dined together last May, in Cambridge.
EMMALINE. You remember, darling. The celebrated detective.
COL. HARDWICKE. The most famous in all England.
CLIFFORD. Memory hasn’t been the same since that German shell. Sorry.
EMMALINE. You must be famished. Come, let’s go into the dining room. (CLIFFORD heads in one direction; all the rest exit in the opposite direction, except for EMMALINE, who spots CLIFFORD’s mistake and rescues him.) Oh, Clifford. This way. Don’t you remember?
(Sobbing, she leads CLIFFORD off. Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the SOUTHERN PLAY. The place is an antebellum mansion in Mississippi, home to the Puckett family. The time is 1934. AARON PUCKETT, twenty-five and fiery, is in the midst of a shouting match with his father, REGINALD, who’s pouring himself a whiskey from the bottle. Actors use southern accents.)
REGINALD. And what’s the disgrace in living in Catfish Crossing, Mississippi?
AARON. My God, don’t you have eyes? People . . . here . . . are narrow!
REGINALD. Narrow? (Considers.) Miz Cornford down the road—
AARON. Narrow-minded! Backward! Intolerant! Provincial! I can’t breathe here, Pappy. Don’t you understand? People here can’t see past their crops and account books — and neither can you. No one here has time for art, or patience for anybody who does. Not one of the world’s great watercolorists has come from Pinkham County. That’s why I’ve got to go.
(Sound of train whistle. REGINALD drains his glass with one swallow.)
REGINALD. Well, go on, then! Take your two-bit paint set and those puny little brushes and go starve up north! (He slams his glass down.) We aren’t good enough for you, is that it? Well, let me tell you, Aaron — you’re not good enough for us!
(CAROLINE, twenty, with bizarrely stiff hair, enters in robe and slippers and shuffles straight for the whiskey. She takes no notice of the argument.)
CAROLINE. Morning, Aaron.
REGINALD. (To AARON.) You’re a disgrace to the Puckett family!
CAROLINE. Morning, Pappy.
(CAROLINE pours the last of the whiskey into her glass, holding the bottle upside down and pounding on it like a catsup bottle to extract the last drops. She sits. Having heard this argument many times, she mouths AARON’s lines and echoes his gestures.)
AARON. And how could I bring the proud name of Puckett any lower than it already is? A chimpanzee in the family would raise us up! You’ve drunk and gambled away what was left of the family fortune. The Depression is wiping out the rest. Grandmammy still thinks Vicksburg is under siege. Mother hanged herself in the smokehouse, right there amongst the hams. We’re lucky she wasn’t served that Sunday for supper. After that, you turned to moonshining, along with my “sister” Caroline —(Indicates CAROLINE.) — whose father everyone knows full well wasn’t you, but the Fuller Brush man on this route twenty years ago, which possibly explains her hair — but no one will actually come out and say it!
REGINALD. (Fumes a few moments in silence, then explodes.) And what’s the matter with all that?!
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on RICHARD III, as before.)
GLOUCESTER. And if King Edward be as true and just
As I am subtle, false, and treacherous,
This day should Clarence closely be mew’d up,
About a prophecy, which says that —
(Zap sound. Blackout. Lights come up on the RUSSIAN PLAY. GLO
UCESTER remains onstage, looking daggers at the audience, and finally stalks off through the Russian cast. NIKOLAI is introducing IRINA to his family: OLGA, his sickly aunt, and PAVEL, his wolfish layabout cousin, are standing. His great-grandfather KONSTANTIN, bent-backed and with a wild beard, is crossing the room with the help of a heavy staff when the lights come up.)
NIKOLAI. My maternal great-grandfather, Konstantin Alekseyevich Volnikov.
(Never pausing in his slow, staff-pounding trip across the room, wheezing KONSTANTIN glances briefly at IRINA, ignores her outstretched hands, mutters darkly, and exits.)
NIKOLAI. In time, dear Irina, a deep understanding and affection will bloom between you two. I feel sure of it.
PAVEL. (To IRINA.) You mustn’t take his behavior personally. The old man hates everyone — not just you.
NIKOLAI. My first cousin, Pavel Sergeyevich Spivetsky.
(PAVEL kisses IRINA’s hand, maintaining possession until she finally yanks it away.)
IRINA. What could have brought about such an attitude in him?
PAVEL. He thinks man is despicable and should therefore never have been created. And perhaps he has a point. (He grins mischievously at IRINA.)
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