Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes

by Terry Southern

  FRANZ: [With soft, dreamy pride.] There was some rewriting, granted, but I think you’ll find that the—

  FRAU KAFKA: Why, it’s senseless! Senseless and incomprehensible!

  FRANZ: If by ‘senseless’ you mean—

  FRAU KAFKA: Good Lord, Franz, you’ve written and rewritten all meaning out of the thing!

  FRANZ: [With a frown of patience.] You’re wrong on that count, Mother . . . unless by “meaning” you want to imply that the—

  FRAU KAFKA: You say “tersely parallax!” Why in God’s name did you have to say a thing like that? [She begins to read from the ad slowly, in outraged astonishment.] “I think it is fair to imply, and yet by using the word ‘imply’ I would not wish to suggest, or rather to limit the suggestion to that of mere suggestion, even though in the strict sense of the word it may well . . .” [She breaks off the reading and strikes her head in anguish.] Oh God! More money down the drain!

  FRANZ: [With great patience.] I realize that you speak in a metaphorical sense when you—

  [There is a knock at the door.]

  FRAU KAFKA: Well, get the door! Just stand up, walk over, and open it!

  FRANZ: [Uncertain whether to put his notebook on the desk or in his pocket, he thumbs through it briefly, then decisively lays it aside, gets up, goes for the door; halfway there, he returns abruptly to the desk, picks up the notebook as though to pocket it, has second thoughts about this, lays it aside again and goes to the door. His mother has buried her face in her hands in anguished exasperation. FRANZ speaks briskly.] Right! [He opens the door, DOCTOR FREUD enters.]

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Grandly.] You are Herr Kafka?

  FRANZ: [Firmly, after having considered it for a second.] Yes. Yes, that is true.

  DOCTOR FREUD: Good! I am Doctor Freud—Doctor Sigmund Freud! Of Vienna! I have come about the advertisement in today’s paper An apartment to exchange! [He scrutinizes FRANZ, twinkling.]

  FRANZ: Please come in. [DOCTOR FREUD sweeps into the room.]

  FRAU KAFKA: [Demanding.] What is it, Franz?

  FRANZ: [Rather smugly.] Only what one might have expected—a response to the advertisement, which, if I may say so, would seem to bear out my—[Realizes he has not introduced them.] I beg your pardon. This is my mother, this is Doctor . . . Doctor . . . I’m afraid I didn’t get—

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Adjusting his spectacles, he studies FRANZ interestedly.] Afraid, Franz? Why are you afraid? [He turns to FRAU KAFKA.] Doctor Sigmund Freud, Madame. Of Vienna! [He takes her hand and bows with Old World grace.]

  FRAU KAFKA: [Charmed.] Gay Vienna!

  DOCTOR FREUD: [With jovial mischief.] Ah yes, Gay Vienna! Heh-heh-heh! Yes, yes, quite so! [He rubs his hands, savoring the image, adjusts his spectacles once more, studying FRAU KAFKA.] And you are the mother! Yes, of course!

  FRANZ: [Musing gravely.] All the way from Vienna, and so soon. Granted I had certain hopes for the advertisement, and yet I never dreamed . . .

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Shrewdly.] Never what, Franz? Hmmm?

  FRANZ: [Slightly taken aback.] No, of course I wouldn’t have dreamed it, would I? [He laughs nervously.] The image was unfortunate, granted, and yet—

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Interrupting, briskly.] Now as I interpret your advertisement—and may I say [smiles mischievously] that interpretation is, hee-hee, scarcely my weakest suit—as I interpret that advertisement, you wish to exchange this apartment for a larger one, hmm? [He eyes FRANZ significantly.] And preferably in the same part of the city? Is that correct?

  FRANZ: [With care.] Yes, in essence, or rather in substance, I think it is fair to say—

  FRAU KAFKA: [Very strongly.] That is precisely correct, Doctor!

  DOCTOR FREUD: [He nods darkly.] I see. [He continues to study both for a moment, then shrugs, as though somewhat let down that they have apparently failed to grasp certain hidden meanings at hand; he begins pacing about the room, looking it over.] Very well then, let’s have a look at this room. Hmmm, yes, very . . . compact! Very orderly! Good, I’m looking for an orderly place. I have quite a few ideas that need putting in order, yes indeed, quite a few!

  FRAU KAFKA: [Piously.] You’ll find it a clean house, Doctor. I somehow manage that [gives FRANZ a sharp look] in spite of everything.

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Nodding agreement as he continues to pace about.] Clean, yes . . . and [stops to face them both, raising a finger and arching his brows as though to call attention to something overlooked] and COZY! Eh? heh heh. Hmmm. Yes, small, clean, and warm! [He glances from one to the other, twinkling.] And when the lights are out, hmmm? . . . Then it’s dark as well. [Casually, but with a knowing smile.] Small, dark, and warm. [Directly to FRANZ] Nice, a room like that, eh Franz?

  FRANZ: [After a second.] Without pretending that my own opinion is necessarily definitive, I do think, or rather do have reason to think—that is to say, to believe that such a room as you describe, this room, in fact, may—

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Having resumed his pacing about, he has reached the writing-desk where he now picks up the notebook FRANZ has left there and begins leafing through it avidly, FRANZ rushes over.]

  FRANZ: [Desperately.] Doctor Freud, I must forbid . . . [He snatches at the notebook, which FREUD holds away at arm’s length, and attempts to continue reading, FRANZ struggles with him, looks back over his shoulder, and shouts:] Mother!

  FRAU KAFKA: [The two men are quite near to upsetting one of the lamps; she rushes toward them, screaming;] The lamp! For God’s sake, watch out for the lamp! [With this outburst, DOCTOR FREUD relinquishes the notebook, adjusts his spectacles, and gazes interestedly at FRANZ. FRANZ, notebook in his hand, makes adjustments to his clothes; he seems somewhat sheepish at having displayed that much emotion and avoids the Doctor’s eyes. During their silence—which is uneasy on Kafka’s part, intently scrutinizing on Freud’s—FRAU KAFKA rants about the lamp.] Thank Heaven! One of my most cherished pieces. Twelve kroner it cost, in der Schwindelstrasse! [Suddenly she turns to DOCTOR FREUD.] Of course, Doctor, you realize that we would be taking our things [she indicates the bric-a-brac in a gesture] with us. Objets d’art! This collection, modest enough I suppose in some eyes, was begun . . . by Papa. [She has crossed over to the mantel where she gazes reverently at one of the photographs. She turns back to DOCTOR FREUD, who, in his intent scrutiny of FRANZ, appears not to have heard anything she said.] I say you do understand, don’t you Doctor, that the collection does not go with the apartment?

  DOCTOR FREUD: [He looks at her dully, nods, turns back at once to FRANZ. There is a long pause, before he asks, narrowly, darkly:] Why so secretive, Franz?

  FRANZ: [As though he has considered the possibility of this question, he shakes his head quickly in denial.] I regret, Doctor, that I cannot accept such a usage of the term in the context you have given it—I say “regret” for this reason: namely that—

  FRAU KAFKA: [Interrupting irately.] Franz is about half off his rocker, Doctor Freud, can’t you tell that? [FRANZ stares at his mother furiously, as though he may challenge something in the syntax of what she has said, DOCTOR FREUD expresses immediate interest and crosses over to where she is now seated in the armchair.]

  DOCTOR FREUD: Off his rocker? What do you mean by that?

  FRAU KAFKA: Good God, don’t you know what that means? [She takes a finger and rotates it near her temple.]

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Impatiently.] Yes, yes, but why rocker? How curious that you should use that particular image. [He begins to pace about, absently stroking his fly, musing half-aloud.] Rocker, rocker, rocker . . . off his rocker. Hmmm. Rocks, rocking-chair, rocking-horse, rock-a-bye baby. [He turns to FRAU KAFKA.] Let me ask you this: did you ever, as a child, have a horse?

  FRAU KAFKA: [Irately.] What on earth! Doctor, I think you are forgetting yourself. May I suggest that we return to the purpose of your visit?

  FRANZ: I agree, Doctor. All this is well and good, and under other circumstances, I, for one, would welcome—

  DOCTOR FREUD: Yes, yes, of course, you’re quite right.
Very well then, where were we? Ah yes, this flat [He walks about, looking up and down.] And all this [he indicates the bric-a-brac] is to be cleared out, right? Hmm. Yes, this will do quite nicely. Now get your coats, get your coats! [He looks around the room, spots the coats hanging, quickly collects them, and helps FRANZ and his mother put them on.] Good! Now then we’ll just take a little walk, hee-hee, over to my place . . .

  STAGE DARKENS AS THEY SLOWLY START FOR THE DOOR.

  Scene Two

  A dark stage. The sound of footsteps is heard on the stairs, off-stage-right, then the sound of the door opening. The lights come up, and we see DOCTOR FREUD, his hand on the light switch just inside the door; he enters, followed by FRANZ and FRAU KAFKA.

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Ushering them in, rubbing his hands together.] Well, here we are! Here we are!

  [It is a huge loft-like room, bare of furniture except for a table, chair and a couple of mattresses; it is strewn with books, crumpled papers, and discarded food cans. Two trunks stand askew, lids up, near the wall, their contents sprawling out of them onto the floor. Against the wall, stage-left, is a small booth about four feet square. Near it, center-stage, is a hole in the floor about three feet square.]

  FRAU KAFKA: [On appraising the scene.] Good God! [FRANZ looks about, frowning terribly.]

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Walking quickly toward the booth.] Have a look round, I won’t be a minute. I just want to check on this . . . [voice trails off as he reaches the booth, opens a peek-hole, peers in, extracts a notebook and makes a few hurried notations in it, then contemplates the notebook and what he has written.] Hmm. Interesting I should say that. Curious, curious. [Closes the notebook, then addresses the others:] Well, what do you think of the place? Plenty of freedom here, eh Franz?

  FRANZ: If by “freedom” you mean to convey the sense of—

  FRAU KAFKA: [Interrupting:] But there are no . . . no facilities here, Doctor! Where is the kitchen? Where is the bathroom?

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Impatiently:] Kitchen, kitchen, of course there is no kitchen. Beyond sustenance, food is merely an escape, surely you know that. As for waste-disposal, that goes here. [Points to the hole in the floor.]

  FRAU KAFKA: [Aghast, she comes over, peers into the hole, shudders, and nearly swoons.] Franz! Take me home!

  FRANZ: [Trying to be reasonable:] Now Mother, while our own values may not exactly coincide with, or rather, may not seem to exactly coincide with, values which we impute to, or at least—

  DOCTOR FREUD: [Firmly:] Making a great to-do over waste-disposal is often where the trouble begins. Now take this case, for example [indicates the booth] . . . here is a young Samoan couple whom I’ve been observing . . .

  FRAU KAFKA: [Shocked:] A young couple? What on earth! Do you mean to say there is someone in that thing? [Walks toward the booth.]

  FRANZ: [Following her:] Mother!

  doctor freud: [Shrewdly,] You realize, of course, that they do not go with the flat.

  FRAU KAFKA: [Arrives at the booth, opens the peek-hole and peers in, is stunned by what she sees, reels backwards, shrieking:] Franz! [She tumbles into the waste-disposal hole.]

  FRANZ: MOTHER! [He leaps in after her.]

  DOCTOR FREUD: [He rushes across the room to fetch a rope and a flashlight, shouting:] Hold on! Hold on! [He hurries to the hole and peers in, kneels down, playing the flashlight about in the hole. His expression changes from alarm to fascination; he quickly lays the rope aside, takes out his notebook and begins making notations in it as he peers into the hole; he speaks with terse excitement.] Yes, yes . . . that’s it . . . excellent! . . . yes, yes, react! . . . react! . . . hee-hee . . . REACT!

  STAGE DARKENS, LEAVING ONLY THE BEAM OF THE FLASHLIGHT DARTING ABOUT IN THE CIRCUMFERENCE OF THE HOLE.

  Love Is a Many Splendored

  FIRST [SPLENDORED]: A Call of Certain Import

  Scene: A winter evening of 1914 at Kafka’s home in Prague, where he lived with his mother until the following year, when he reached the age of thirty-three.

  FRANZ has just come in from his clerical job at the bank and is seated by a reading-lamp in the small living room. The evening paper is on his lap and, after looking thoughtfully at the floor for a moment or two, he begins slowly unfolding it—when the telephone rings. From the adjoining room, where she is arranging the table for dinner, HIS MOTHER quickly enters, wiping her hands and giving FRANZ a sharp accusative look, as she picks up the phone, FRANZ stops unfolding the paper and strikes an attentive attitude towards his mother at the phone.

  HIS MOTHER: [Frowning:] Hello?

  VOICE: Hello, is young Kafka there? Franz Kafka?

  HIS MOTHER: Franz? Why . . . yes. Who is this calling?

  VOICE: This is Sig.

  HIS MOTHER: Who?

  VOICE: Sig. I’m a friend of Franz.

  his mother: [Rather annoyed:] All right, you’ll have to wait a minute. [To FRANZ, with a pained smile:] It’s for you.

  FRANZ: [Raising his brows:] Oh? [He starts to refold the paper with care, then after a minute decisively lays it aside, gets up and crosses the room to where his mother stands holding the phone, one hand over the mouthpiece.]

  his mother: [As one not to he easily fooled:] It’s Sig.

  FRANZ: [In consternation:] Who is it?

  [HIS MOTHER does not answer, but gives him a knowing look as she hands him the phone and leaves the room abruptly. She returns at once, however, and stands between the dining-room and the telephone, hands on hips, apparently waiting for FRANZ to finish the conversation.]

  FRANZ: [Darkly intent at the phone:] Hello.

  VOICE: Hello, Franz? Is that you? Sig here. Eh?

  FRANZ: Yes. Yes, this is Franz. Who is calling? I’m afraid I didn’t . . .

  VOICE: Oh, don’t be afraid, Franz. Hal It’s Sig. You remember. Sig? Siggy. You know, Vienna. Sig. Sigmund Freud.

  FRANZ: [Astonished:] Sigmund Freud? Doctor Sigmund Freud? [Eagerly:] Why, this is a . . . a . . .

  voice: [Jovially:] Yes, it’s Doctor Freud all right! Ho-ho! I was hoping we could get together, Franz. I’ve got some new ideas, you see—quite a lot of them actually, ha-ha . . . and, well, I’d like to go over a few things with you. What do you say to that, eh?

  FRANZ: Well, I . . . Doctor Freud, I hardly know what to say. I mean, I never dreamed that I . . .

  voice: [Shrewdly:] You never what?

  FRANZ: No, no. I mean . . . well, naturally I wouldn’t have dreamed it, would I? [Laughs nervously:] May I say I never dared to hope, or rather that I couldn’t have imagined that my opinion . . . that is to say, that my . . .

  VOICE: [Impatiently:] Now look here, Franz, I need your help and I need it badly! Now then, tell me this: Does desire—and, of course, I mean in the very strict sense of the word—does this so-called desire for ejaculation . . . eh? . . . desire-for-ejaculation precede state of erection? OR does state-of-erection precede this desire? Eh? Tell me that, Mister Franz Kafka! Eh? [Laughs uncontrollably for a full minute: Ho-ho-ho! Ha-ha-ha! He-he-he! Etc.] Franz! Hey, Franz! Still there? Eh? Well, it’s merely a joke, Franz! Merely another joke at your expense! HAW! [Hangs up.]

  FRANZ: Hello. Hello, hello. [Jiggles the phone-hook:] Hello, operator, we’ve been cut off. Hello, hello.

  his mother: [Crossing to the phone and snatching for it, demanding crossly:] What on earth is going on here?

  FRANZ: [Anxiously, backing away, clutching phone:] It’s Doctor Freud calling, Mother. We’ve been cut off. I’m trying to get the operator now. Hello, hello. [Jiggles the hook wildly:] Hello, operator, hello . . . hello . . . hello . . . hello . . .

  SLOW CURTAIN

  SECOND [SPLENDORED]: An Orderly Retreat

  There is tiredness in a soldier’s walk through nights of winter rain that holds off fear like a grotesque brother. Tonight how they move as each were apart, away, and alone—it is the incredible walk of the wooden doll, the heartbreaking walk of the huddled, shutting things out. Are they dead or alive?

  Only Singer is smoking now. Beside h
im walks a man half-conscious, his feet too deep in the mud. He is bored, terrifically bored; the boredom has come all down into his chest and stomach, leaving his insides shot through like a torn sieve, threaded with morphine.

  “Let’s have some of that before you put it out, Singer.”

  Singer, withholding it, looks at him in concern. “Listen, Joe, you din’t see Al back there, when was the last time you seen him?”

  “I ain’t seen him for chrissake, I told you, I ain’t seen him since they come down off the road back there.”

  Singer passes the cigarette, heavily, as though it weighed more than a cocked rifle.

  “What happen over past where you were at, Joe?”

  What is talk but diluted hysteria? And how in his cupped hands now in the night rain the cigarette burns as a chemical light, soundless and without heat.

  “Are you kiddin’?”

  “I mean where them tanks come down off the road, how’d it look there where they were comin’ down off the road?”

  “Are you kiddin’ for chrissake?”

  “How’d it look when you seen it, Joe, it look like it was takin’ everthing, didn’t it, how’d it look when you seen it?”

  The fear of the infantry stretches out through time into a single quivering wire of tedium—or it may shatter tiredness, hunger and cold, on one bleak afternoon when inside the head, somewhere just behind the eyes: the world pops open.

  “Listen. You seen past the house from where you were at, din’t you Joe? You seen along that ditch, din’t you?”

  “Are you goin’ to start that again for chrissake?”

  “I’m not goin’ to start anything, you son of a bitch.”

  THIRD [SPLENDORED]: A Bad Mother-hubber

  An extraordinary thing happened at City Clerk’s Office the other day, where I went to get married.

  The whole procedure, beginning with blood-tests, had come off quite casually. Granted, there had been certain delays—the usual thing, I suppose; but, in any case, the event I speak of occurred independently of the marriage, did occur, in fact, only just after the marriage, at the moment when the Clerk pronounced us “husband and wife.” At that moment, my “wife” asked me what time it was, wanting, I suppose, to make some sentimental note of it—which didn’t strike me as particularly objectionable, because it was in a more humorous than romantic spirit that she had asked—so I raised my arm, to uncover my wristwatch. In doing so, however, I upset a very large bucket of paste which had been sitting on a shelf at about head level just to my left. It fell on the Clerk, emptying all over the ceremonial robe he had donned before beginning the marriage. A paste, this muck had apparently once dried out because of the overheated office, and then had been remixed with too much water, so that now it was an incredible lumpy slop.