Fragile! (NHB Modern Plays)

by Tena Štivičić

  MARTA. Yes?

  GAYLE. Well, I’ve noticed that the level of hygiene around here is not quite what it’s supposed to be.

  MARTA. Ah, pipple no care. Dearty, fealty pipple. Special that black boy new.

  GAYLE. I wish you wouldn’t call him ‘black boy’.

  MARTA. But is true. Is she white boy? No. Is she yellow boy?

  ‘Yellow’ makes GAYLE cringe even more.

  GAYLE. ‘Yellow’ –

  MARTA. She black boy. Black boy not washing. That is simple true. She very . . . (She mimics rage with her face and hands.) after talk with you. Tttt . . .

  GAYLE. Yes, he was upset but –

  MARTA. You want I talk to him?

  GAYLE (frustrated). No, thank you. You have to stop doing that. Please! It’s my job to talk and yours is to clean. Which you haven’t been doing, have you?

  MARTA. I clean every day.

  TIASHA stands there, behind the cabinet, behind GAYLE’s back. Not really trying to hide any longer, but also not trying to find an opportune moment to make her presence known. Simply standing there, waiting to be noticed.

  GAYLE. I happened to be passing by the bathroom number three while you were cleaning and I noticed you only do the cleaning halfway up?

  MARTA. You spying me?

  GAYLE. Spying? I am your boss! I took the effort of going around all the bathrooms, both common rooms and kitchens, and it’s the same everywhere, everything is cleaned halfway up.

  MARTA stands up energetically.

  What – where are you going?

  MARTA. You look. Me, not big lady. Me – little lady.

  GAYLE. Yes, but –

  MARTA. Ploos, not so young. You know what deafficult is clean high. Arms hurt, shoulders hurt, cramps, terrible.

  GAYLE. I realise, but we do have a ladder, why don’t you use it?

  MARTA. No! My head go dizzy on ladder. I fall, I break heap, then what? No work, no money, bye bye Marta.

  GAYLE. Yes but, you’re not doing the work. Don’t you see? I wouldn’t like to have to dismiss you . . .

  MARTA. What – suck Marta? I speak with your boss.

  GAYLE notices TIASHA and stops talking.

  GAYLE. Oh!

  They stare at each other.

  Oh. (She looks at the time, looks at her papers.)Oh, of course. Ti . . . Tiasha?

  TIASHA nods.

  Oh. Well . . . Please, I’m sorry, I had no idea you had come in. Marta, did you know that Tiasha was in here?

  MARTA puts on a face of perfect naivety.

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  MARTA. Marta doesn’t sticks her nose where it’s not belong.

  GAYLE. Right. Well, we shall have to speak later. In the meantime, please, consider this: if you do half the job, I think it’s reasonable to pay you half the salary.

  MARTA. What?

  GAYLE (showing her out). I hope we’ve understood each other.

  MARTA (on her way out). I no understand nothing. I only understand you want scam me. Every step rip off here, rip off there. (She is now off.) Bloody capitalism – thinks pipple is just kettle, look at this old weeman, she can’t work, we take her to slaughterhouse, make sausages – what you watching, black boy? You take bath, you stink.

  GAYLE and TIASHA are both listening to MARTA’s voice coming in from the corridor. GAYLE takes a deep breath, then offers TIASHA a seat.

  GAYLE. What am I going to do with her? I’m sorry. What a welcome, ha? You speak English, don’t you?

  TIASHA. Yes.

  GAYLE. Right, brilliant. That’s Marta, she works here. She’s a nice lady, although strong-minded. I’m Gayle.

  TIASHA. Nice to meet you.

  GAYLE. Have you settled in?

  TIASHA. Yes.

  GAYLE. Okay. Let’s see. Basically, I am here to help you with practical stuff.

  TIASHA. Yes.

  GAYLE. You know what that means?

  TIASHA (pauses). You are a psycholog?

  GAYLE. Ah, no, not quite. Obviously I am here to talk if you want. And a psychologist can be arranged.

  TIASHA. No, I don’t need.

  GAYLE. It’s something to think about. It seems like you are dealing with your experiences in a very healthy way, but you know, traumas have a way of hiding and sneaking up on us when we least expect.

  TIASHA. You had it?

  GAYLE. What, a trauma? Well, we all have some, of one sort or the other.

  TIASHA. What sort?

  GAYLE. Oh, well, um, when I was five in New Zealand my mum slaughtered my pet lamb before my eyes. I think I’m fine, but every once in a while when I see anything like that I get nauseous.

  TIASHA stares at GAYLE.

  Not quite the same . . .

  TIASHA. I had a dove. Birds are very important in my country. One time my father punish my brother for something we did together. My brother breaks my dove neck. And I always get, you know . . . (Runs her hands over her body, tapping her fingers on the skin.)

  GAYLE. . . . Uh, goosebumps.

  TIASHA. Yes, when somebody does this . . .

  She puts her hands together, turns her palms out and suggests the sound of cracking links. GAYLE repeats and actually produces the sound. TIASHA squeals.

  GAYLE. Oh, my God, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Are you all right?

  TIASHA. Yes. Yes.

  GAYLE. I’m sorry.

  A really awkward moment. GAYLE despairs.

  Um . . . all right . . . So, we’ll need to talk about . . . more recent events.

  TIASHA. How I got here?

  GAYLE. Exactly. Since we are applying for asylum, we’ll need to go through everything from when you got taken from your country until now, in detail.

  TIASHA (lightly). Okay.

  GAYLE. You can do that?

  TIASHA. Of course.

  GAYLE looks at TIASHA, unusually intrigued for a moment, but then goes back to the briskly business mode.

  GAYLE. Okay. That’s good. In the meantime you’ll stay here. We’ll help you with anything we can . . .

  TIASHA. I find work?

  GAYLE. No. Unfortunately you will not be allowed to work while your case is being assessed. You will receive thirty pounds a week, (TIASHA calculates in her head.) and of course this accommodation. I know it’s not very much . . . but people actually manage to do wonders with their rooms. Making them . . . personal.

  TIASHA. How long it will take?

  GAYLE. That’s hard to say. Each case is individual. On average – two years.

  TIASHA. Two years? Here? No!

  GAYLE. I know it seems like a long time . . .

  TIASHA. No! That is . . . No.

  GAYLE. Please, calm down. Look.

  GAYLE gets up and starts explaining a graph that is hanging on the wall behind her desk. She assumes a teaching tone.

  This graph charts the usual progress of our clients. You see . . . the initial shot of energy upon arrival. ‘I can do everything. Whatever it takes, I’m on my way up!’ Then there is a sudden drop. Lack of energy, pessimism, defeatism. Nothing to worry about. Perfectly natural and short term. Then there is a slow but steady uplift. It’s longer, more real. Followed by another drop, once you are faced with practical difficulties. That can go on for a while but again, it’s only another natural phase. The intensity may vary from person to person, but these are all . . . steps . . . on the way to creating a happy and stable environment.

  TIASHA. Where are you?

  GAYLE. I’m sorry?

  TIASHA. On the graph? Where are you now?

  GAYLE is startled and unprepared for that question.

  GAYLE. I’m a . . . I suppose . . . Well, it’s designed mostly based on a different . . . kind of immigrants, um . . .

  TIASHA looks at her intently.

  But, I suppose I would be . . .

  She inspects the graph and finds there is no way out. Then she points to the last part of it, where the curve drops again.

  . . . here.

  TIASHA. How lon
g you are here?

  GAYLE. Four years. (Beat.) But, as I said, this is a very loose interpretation. I don’t really fit the frame.

  TIASHA. Why did you come?

  GAYLE. I’ve come here to study and then I stayed.

  TIASHA. And you are not going back?

  GAYLE (slightly uneasy). No. Well . . . I hope not.

  TIASHA. Why? Is it very bad?

  GAYLE. In New Zealand? No. If you like the sheep and the rain. And the smell of wet sheep.

  TIASHA doesn’t respond to GAYLE’s humour.

  No, it’s . . . small. And it’s incestuous.

  Again, no response comes from TIASHA.

  I mean, everybody knows what everybody else had for breakfast and . . . You know?

  TIASHA nods. She looks at the box.

  TIASHA. Is that . . . what you study?

  GAYLE. Fine art, yes.

  TIASHA. And this is . . . (Motioning around the office.) like . . . humanity work?

  GAYLE. You mean ‘humanitarian’. No. This is actually my work. I don’t quite live off my art. Not yet anyway.

  GAYLE finishes each sentence as if it is the end of this particular conversation. But TIASHA keeps questioning.

  TIASHA. You are good? You are good artist?

  GAYLE. People always said I had talent. But . . . I suppose it’s not just about talent.

  TIASHA. What is it about?

  GAYLE. Oh . . . um . . . it’s work and patience and thick skin. Ultimately who you know and what’s ‘in’.

  TIASHA. Like anything. When white girls become popular, then Asian girls are not so popular. Not ‘in’ . . . But that not means they are free, that means they are less value, so they are treated badly. Then they need thick skin. And patience.

  Pause. GAYLE tries to come up with something to say.

  GAYLE. Yes, that’s . . . that’s very . . .

  GAYLE is suddenly on the verge of tears.

  TIASHA (looking at the box). I like it.

  GAYLE (snaps out of it). Do you?

  TIASHA. Yes. It looks like you want to look inside. You shouldn’t, but you want to. And pick things up and see what is under.

  GAYLE (taken). Yes. Yes, that’s what it looks like.

  TIASHA. Like persons.

  GAYLE. Exactly. You know, my mother had this box, and every once in a while she used to put something in it, something she cherished. She never really looked at it, just stored it in the box. For years. And then, when she died, I was nineteen, I opened the box and I started picking things up. It’s funny what you can tell about a person from the trinkets they keep. It was like, with every layer of things I was chronologically going back through layers of her character. And when I reached the very bottom it was like looking at a different person. Someone she was years ago. Someone I never even knew.

  TIASHA. Did you find something nice on bottom?

  GAYLE (smiles fondly). Yes, I think so.

  Pause.

  TIASHA. You think I can stay? I hear all kind of people stays.

  GAYLE. I can’t guarantee anything, but we’ll do our best.

  TIASHA. There is nowhere to go back.

  GAYLE (pauses). . . . I know.

  TIASHA. What if I have somebody to help me? To help me settle in. Maybe I live with.

  GAYLE. ‘Somebody’, as in, a friend?

  TIASHA. Yes, a friend.

  GAYLE (suspiciously). I wasn’t aware . . . (Going through her papers.) that you had a friend in London –

  TIASHA. I would have to find him first. It was a long time since I saw him.

  GAYLE. Tiasha, you know it’s important that you don’t rely on your former friends . . .

  TIASHA. Why?

  GAYLE. If you are looking to stay it is extremely important you don’t associate with people from your previous life.

  TIASHA (realising what GAYLE means). Oh! No. He’s not like that. He is someone who helped me one time already. He is journalist.

  GAYLE. Right. A journalist.

  TIASHA. Yes. A good man.

  GAYLE. And you think this person would be willing to . . .

  TIASHA. He promised he will take care of me.

  GAYLE. Right. I suppose we can look into that. What is his name?

  Scene Three

  A newsroom.

  Behind the desk, a number of TV screens light up. Apart from a few showing a weather forecast and some animals, most of them are showing war reports. ERIK, a handsome thirty-five-year-old Norwegian man is sitting at the editing desk in a big leather office chair. He is on the phone and is simultaneously messing with the keys on the editing table. All the screens change to a new report that has just come in. Shots of shooting, explosions, blood, a wounded man screaming into the camera, an interior of a demolished palace.

  ERIK. Yeah . . . right. That’s a good shot. Look at those uniforms, really bring out the colour of their gut . . . Good work, Matt. (He laughs.) What, you miss me? I don’t know. I’m not coming back just yet . . . Yeah, they offered, but I’m all right for the moment. Night shifts put insomnia to good use.

  MILA has come in. She is wearing a long leather coat and extremely high stiletto shoes. She is standing in the doorway. She has assumed a seductive pose waiting for ERIK to notice her. By the end of his phone conversation, he notices her and smiles.

  Matt, gotta go. Hey, don’t get yourself killed, man . . . We’ve got a bet running that those two Reuters twats go before you . . . Take care . . . I’m off . . . Cheers.

  He puts the phone down. She comes very close. All through the scene she is very seductive and their conversation is like a prelude to sex.

  Hey, how did you get in?

  MILA. There’s a Croatian guy working at the reception desk. I worked my charms.

  ERIK. You people get around, don’t you?

  MILA. True cosmopolitans.

  They kiss.

  ERIK. Hi.

  MILA. Hi.

  Kiss.

  You alone?

  ERIK. Yeah.

  MILA. Poor baby. All of this on your back.

  ERIK. Dreadful, isn’t it? But I get to edit. The truth is in my hands. (He smiles playfully and kisses her.)

  MILA. Where were you?

  ERIK. You smell like honey –

  MILA. Where were you last couple of days?

  ERIK. I had things to do.

  MILA. What things?

  ERIK. Oh, you know . . . things.

  MILA. No . . . tell me. What are those things that you wander off to do and you’re nowhere to be found for days.

  ERIK. Two days.

  MILA. Two days doing what?

  ERIK. Mila . . .

  MILA. Where –

  ERIK. No –

  MILA. I want to know.

  ERIK. It’s nothing. I just need to be by myself sometimes.

  MILA. I don’t believe you.

  ERIK. It’s true.

  MILA. Where do you go?

  ERIK. It doesn’t really matter. Wherever is silent.

  MILA. Where did you go now?

  ERIK completely changes his expression. He turns grim. Suddenly they’re not teasing any more.

  ERIK. Mila, lay off!

  She backs off. With her whole body. She feels this uncomfortable change of tone. But she pretends it doesn’t bother her.

  MILA. Well . . . Did you think about me?

  ERIK glares into her eyes, still frowning. Then a flirty smile flies across his face again.

  ERIK. All the time.

  MILA. Liar.

  ERIK. I did. I thought about this little spot right here.

  He kisses her neck.

  And here.

  He kisses her cleavage.

  And then particularly this spot. Here.

  He puts his hand between her legs.

  Wow.

  He giggles. He opens her coat. A proud smile on MILA’s face as she reveals her nude body underneath the coat.

  And the alarm didn’t go off downstairs?

  MILA. I blamed i
t on the shoes.

  A giggle. A kiss.

  ERIK takes a little metal dose from his pocket. He taps some cocaine on her cleavage and snorts it. She giggles. Then he makes a line for her and she snorts it.

  ERIK then starts kissing MILA passionately. MILA responds, but over ERIK’s shoulder, the screens catch her eye. War reports, shots of carnage and mayhem are playing on mute. Her eyes focused on the screens, she lets him kiss her, but her mind is somewhere else.

  Will you ever tell me –

  ERIK (between kisses). Tell you what?

  MILA. What happened in Bosna?

  ERIK. You know what happened in Bosnia.

  MILA. I want to hear it from you.

  ERIK (pulling back, annoyed). Why?

  MILA. Because. (Teasing.) Because it turns me on.

  ERIK considers. He sighs, as if she’s won.

  ERIK. Once upon a time –

  MILA. Seriously.

  ERIK. It was a hot summer night. Dust stuck to our skin. The air was heavy. The smell of burning whirled up my nostrils.

  MILA. What was burning?

  ERIK. Grass, trees, sky. Flesh.

  Pause.

  They put us up in that pilgrimage site.

  MILA. Medjugorje?

  ERIK nods.

  ERIK. Where Our Lady first appeared sometime in the eighties. Left some notes to some blind people or something. Of course, by now, she’s more up-to-date. So at this B&B you get a fax with a message from Our Lady every morning. As if it were a weather forecast.

  MILA (sarcastic). Did she have anything to say to you?

  ERIK. No, she gave up on me. I did purchase a nice lamp though. In the shape of Our Lady supporting the lamp shade with her long languid arms. Very attractive. And for under ten pounds.

  MILA grows slightly – but cautiously – impatient. She’s not getting what she wants.

  MILA. Right. A bargain. And then what happened?

  ERIK. I found a rope attached to my window and stretching out into the distance.

  MILA. A rope?

  ERIK. A rope. I tried to follow it from the ground and see what it was attached to on the other side. But I couldn’t. It was high up and it would get lost in the treetops.

  MILA. What was it?

  ERIK. The only thing to do was walk on the rope to see where it went. So I did. I walked on the rope. And it was the most amazing walk of my life.

  A touch of scepticism appears on MILA’s face.

  The things you see up there. Like nothing you’ve ever imagined possible. The people you’ve never imagined existed. Horror, delight. Danger, exhilaration. And no going back. Even though the rope kept getting thinner. Something wouldn’t let me turn back. And then . . . there was an explosion, the rope snapped, I fell and everything went to black.