ESTHER, alerted: And?
VICTOR, with difficulty—he cannot understand it himself: I suppose there’s some kind of finality about it that . . . He breaks off.
ESTHER: But what else did you expect?
VICTOR: It’s stupid; I admit it. But you look at that goddamned form and you can’t help it. You sign your name to twenty-eight years and you ask yourself, Is that all? Is that it? And it is, of course. The trouble is, when I think of starting something new, that number comes up—five oh—and the steam goes out. But I’ll do something. I will! With a greater closeness to her now: I don’t know what it is; every time I think about it all—it’s almost frightening.
ESTHER: What?
VICTOR: Well, like when I walked in here before . . . He looks around. This whole thing—it hit me like some kind of craziness. Piling up all this stuff here like it was made of gold. He half-laughs, almost embarrassed. I brought up every stick; damn near saved the carpet tacks. He turns to the center chair. That whole way I was with him—it’s inconceivable to me now.
ESTHER, with regret over her sympathy: Well . . . you loved him.
VICTOR: I know, but it’s all words. What was he? A busted businessman like thousands of others, and I acted like some kind of a mountain crashed. I tell you the truth, every now and then the whole thing is like a story somebody told me. You ever feel that way?
ESTHER: All day, every day.
VICTOR: Oh, come on—
ESTHER: It’s the truth. The first time I walked up those stairs I was nineteen years old. And when you opened that box with your first uniform in it—remember that? When you put it on the first time?—how we laughed? If anything happened you said you’d call a cop! They both laugh. It was like a masquerade. And we were right. That’s when we were right.
VICTOR, pained by her pain: You know, Esther, every once in a while you try to sound childish and it—
ESTHER: I mean to be! I’m sick of the— Oh, forget it, I want a drink. She goes for her purse.
VICTOR, surprised: What’s that, the great adventure? Where are you going all of a sudden?
ESTHER: I can’t stand it in here, I’m going for a walk.
VICTOR: Now you cut out this nonsense!
ESTHER: I am not an alcoholic!
VICTOR: You’ve had a good life compared to an awful lot of people! You trying to turn into a goddamned teenager or something?
ESTHER, indicating the furniture: Don’t talk childishness to me, Victor—not in this room! You let it lay here all these years because you can’t have a simple conversation with your own brother, and I’m childish? You’re still eighteen years old with that man! I mean I’m stuck, but I admit it!
VICTOR, hurt: Okay. Go ahead.
ESTHER—she can’t quite leave: You got a receipt? I’ll get your suit. He doesn’t move. She makes it rational: I just want to get out of here.
VICTOR—takes out a receipt and gives it to her. His voice is cold: It’s right off Seventh. The address is on it. He moves from her.
ESTHER: I’m coming back right away.
VICTOR, freeing her to her irresponsibility: Do as you please, kid. I mean it.
ESTHER: You were grinding your teeth again last night. Did you know that?
VICTOR: Oh! No wonder my ear hurts.
ESTHER: I wish I had a tape recorder. I mean it, it’s gruesome; sounds like a lot of rocks coming down a mountain. I wish you could hear it, you wouldn’t take this self-sufficient attitude.
He is silent, alarmed, hurt. He moves upstage as though looking at the furniture.
VICTOR: It’s okay. I think I get the message.
ESTHER, afraid—she tries to smile and goes back toward him: Like what?
VICTOR—moves a chair and does a knee bend and draws out the chassis of an immense old radio: What other message is there?
Slight pause.
ESTHER, to retrieve the contact: What’s that?
VICTOR: Oh, one of my old radios that I made. Mama mia, look at those tubes.
ESTHER, more wondering than she feels about radios: Would that work?
VICTOR: No, you need a storage battery. . . . Recalling, he suddenly looks up at the ceiling.
ESTHER, looking up: What?
VICTOR: One of my batteries exploded, went right through there someplace. He points. There! See where the plaster is different?
ESTHER, striving for some spark between them: Is this the one you got Tokyo on?
VICTOR, not relenting, his voice dead: Ya, this is the monster.
ESTHER, with a warmth: Why don’t you take it?
VICTOR: Ah, it’s useless.
ESTHER: Didn’t you once say you had a lab up here? Or did I dream that?
VICTOR: Sure, I took it apart when Pop and I moved up here. Walter had that wall, and I had this. We did some great tricks up here.
She is fastened on him.
He avoids her eyes and moves waywardly. I’ll be frank with you, kid—I look at my life and the whole thing is incomprehensible to me. I know all the reasons and all the reasons and all the reasons, and it ends up—nothing. He goes to the harp, touches it.
It’s strange, you know? I forgot all about it—we’d work up here all night sometimes, and it was often full of music. My mother’d play for hours down in the library. Which is peculiar, because a harp is so soft. But it penetrates, I guess.
ESTHER: You’re dear. You are, Vic. She starts toward him, but he thwarts her by looking at his watch.
VICTOR: I’ll have to call another man. Come on, let’s get out of here. With a hollow, exhausted attempt at joy: We’ll get my suit and act rich!
ESTHER: Vic, I didn’t mean that I—
VICTOR: Forget it. Wait, let me put these away before somebody walks off with them. He takes up the foil and mask.
ESTHER: Can you still do it?
VICTOR, his sadness, his distance clinging to him: Oh, no, you gotta be in shape for this. It’s all in the thighs—
ESTHER: Well, let me see, I never saw you do it!
VICTOR, giving the inch: All right, but I can’t get down far enough any more. He takes position, feet at right angles, bouncing himself down to a difficult crouch.
ESTHER: Maybe you could take it up again.
VICTOR: Oh no, it’s a lot of work, it’s the toughest sport there is. Resuming position: Okay, just stand there.
ESTHER: Me?
VICTOR: Don’t be afraid. Snapping the tip: It’s a beautiful foil, see how alive it is? I beat Princeton with this. He laughs tiredly and makes a tramping lunge from yards away; the button touches her stomach.
ESTHER, springing back: God! Victor!
VICTOR: What?
ESTHER: You looked beautiful.
He laughs, surprised and half-embarrassed—when both of them are turned to the door by a loud, sustained coughing out in the corridor. The coughing increases.
Enter Gregory Solomon. In brief, a phenomenon; a man nearly ninety but still straight-backed and the air of his massiveness still with him. He has perfected a way of leaning on his cane without appearing weak.
He wears a worn fur-felt black fedora, its brim turned down on the right side like Jimmy Walker’s—although much dustier—and a shapeless topcoat. His frayed tie has a thick knot, askew under a curled-up collar tab. His vest is wrinkled, his trousers baggy. A large diamond ring is on his left index finger. Tucked under his arm, a wrung-out leather portfolio. He hasn’t shaved today.
Still coughing, catching his breath, trying to brush his cigar ashes off his lapel in a hopeless attempt at businesslike decorum, he is nodding at Esther and Victor and has one hand raised in a promise to speak quite soon. Nor has he failed to glance with some suspicion at the foil in Victor’s hand.
VICTOR: Can I get you a glass of water?
Solomon gestures an imperiou
s negative, trying to stop coughing.
ESTHER: Why don’t you sit down?
Solomon gestures thanks, sits in the center armchair, the cough subsiding.
You sure you don’t want some water?
SOLOMON, in a Russian-Yiddish accent: Water I don’t need; a little blood I could use. Thank you. He takes deep breaths, his attention on Victor, who now puts down the foil. Oh boy. That’s some stairs.
ESTHER: You all right now?
SOLOMON: Another couple steps you’ll be in heaven. Ah—excuse me, Officer, I am looking for a party. The name is . . . He fingers in his vest.
VICTOR: Franz.
SOLOMON: That’s it, Franz.
VICTOR: That’s me.
Solomon looks incredulous.
Victor Franz.
SOLOMON: So it’s a policeman!
VICTOR, grinning: Uh huh.
SOLOMON: What do you know! Including Esther: You see? There’s only one beauty to this lousy business, you meet all kinda people. But I never dealed with a policeman. Reaching over to shake hands: I’m very happy to meet you. My name is Solomon, Gregory Solomon.
VICTOR, shaking hands: This is my wife.
ESTHER: How do you do.
SOLOMON, nodding appreciatively to Esther: Very nice. To Victor: That’s a nice-looking woman. He extends his hands to her. How do you do, darling. Beautiful suit.
ESTHER—laughs: The fact is, I just bought it!
SOLOMON: You got good taste. Congratulations, wear it in good health. He lets go her hand.
ESTHER: I’ll go to the cleaner, dear. I’ll be back soon. With a step toward the door—to Solomon: Will you be very long?
SOLOMON, glancing around at the furniture as at an antagonist: With furniture you never know, can be short, can be long, can be medium.
ESTHER: Well, you give him a good price now, you hear?
SOLOMON: Ah ha! Waving her out: Look, you go to the cleaner, and we’ll take care everything one hundred per cent.
ESTHER: Because there’s some very beautiful stuff here. I know it, but he doesn’t.
SOLOMON: I’m not sixty-two years in the business by taking advantage. Go, enjoy the cleaner.
She and Victor laugh.
ESTHER, shaking her finger at him: I hope I’m going to like you!
SOLOMON: Sweetheart, all the girls like me, what can I do?
ESTHER, still smiling—to Victor as she goes to the door: You be careful.
VICTOR, nodding: See you later.
She goes.
SOLOMON: I like her, she’s suspicious.
VICTOR, laughing in surprise: What do you mean by that?
SOLOMON: Well, a girl who believes everything, how you gonna trust her?
Victor laughs appreciatively.
I had a wife . . . He breaks off with a wave of the hand. Well, what’s the difference? Tell me, if you don’t mind, how did you get my name?
VICTOR: In the phone book.
SOLOMON: You don’t say! The phone book.
VICTOR: Why?
SOLOMON, cryptically: No-no, that’s fine, that’s fine.
VICTOR: The ad said you’re a registered appraiser.
SOLOMON: Oh yes. I am registered, I am licensed, I am even vaccinated.
Victor laughs.
Don’t laugh, the only thing you can do today without a license is you’ll go up the elevator and jump out the window. But I don’t have to tell you, you’re a policeman, you know this world. Hoping for contact: I’m right?
VICTOR, reserved: I suppose.
SOLOMON, surveying the furniture, one hand on his thigh, the other on the chair arm in a naturally elegant position: So. He glances about again, and with an uncertain smile: That’s a lot of furniture. This is all for sale?
VICTOR: Well, ya.
SOLOMON: Fine, fine. I just like to be sure where we are. With a weak attempt at a charming laugh: Frankly, in this neighborhood I never expected such a load. It’s very surprising.
VICTOR: But I said it was a whole houseful.
SOLOMON, with a leaven of unsureness: Look, don’t worry about it, we’ll handle everything very nice. He gets up from the chair and goes to one of the pair of chiffoniers which he is obviously impressed with. He looks up at the chandeliers. Then straight at Victor: I’m not mixing in, Officer, but if you wouldn’t mind—what is your connection? How do you come to this?
VICTOR: It was my family.
SOLOMON: You don’t say. Looks like it’s standing here a long time, no?
VICTOR: Well, the old man moved everything up here after the ’29 crash. My uncles took over the house and they let him keep this floor.
SOLOMON, as though to emphasize that he believes it: I see. He walks to the harp.
VICTOR: Can you give me an estimate now, or do you have to—?
SOLOMON, running a hand over the harp frame: No-no, I’ll give you right away, I don’t waste a minute, I’m very busy. He plucks a string, listens. Then bends down and runs a hand over the sounding board: He passed away, your father?
VICTOR: Oh, long time ago—about sixteen years.
SOLOMON, standing erect: It’s standing here sixteen years?
VICTOR: Well, we never got around to doing anything about it, but they’re tearing the building down, so . . . It was very good stuff, you know—they had quite a little money.
SOLOMON: Very good, yes . . . I can see. He leaves the harp with an estimating glance. I was also very good; now I’m not so good. Time, you know, is a terrible thing. He is a distance from the harp and indicates it. That sounding board is cracked, you know. But don’t worry about it, it’s still a nice object. He goes to an armoire and strokes the veneer. It’s a funny thing—an armoire like this, thirty years you couldn’t give it away; it was a regular measles. Today all of a sudden, they want it again. Go figure it out. He goes to one of the chests.
VICTOR, pleased: Well, give me a good price and we’ll make a deal.
SOLOMON: Definitely. You see, I don’t lie to you. He is pointing to the chest. For instance, a chiffonier like this I wouldn’t have to keep it a week. Indicating the other chest: That’s a pair, you know.
VICTOR: I know.
SOLOMON: That’s a nice chair, too. He sits on a dining-room chair, rocking to test its tightness. I like the chairs.
VICTOR: There’s more stuff in the bedroom, if you want to look.
SOLOMON: Oh? He goes toward the bedroom. What’ve you got here? He looks into the bedroom, up and down. I like the bed. That’s a very nice carved bed. That I can sell. That’s your parents’ bed?
VICTOR: Yes. They may have bought that in Europe, if I’m not mistaken. They used to travel a good deal.
SOLOMON: Very handsome, very nice. I like it. He starts to return to the center chair, eyes roving the furniture. Looks a very nice family.
VICTOR: By the way, that dining-room table opens up. Probably seat about twelve people.
SOLOMON, looking at the table: I know that. Yes. In a pinch even fourteen. He picks up the foil. What’s this? I thought you were stabbing your wife when I came in.
VICTOR, laughing: No, I just found it. I used to fence years ago.
SOLOMON: You went to college?
VICTOR: Couple of years, ya.
SOLOMON: That’s very interesting.
VICTOR: It’s the old story.
SOLOMON: No, listen— What happens to people is always the main element to me. Because when do they call me? It’s either a divorce or somebody died. So it’s always a new story. I mean it’s the same, but it’s different. He sits in the center chair.
VICTOR: You pick up the pieces.
SOLOMON: That’s very good, yes. I pick up the pieces. It’s a little bit like you, I suppose. You must have some stories, I betcha.
VICTOR: Not very often.
SOLOMON: What are you, a traffic cop, or something . . . ?
VICTOR: I’m out in Rockaway most of the time, the airports.
SOLOMON: That’s Siberia, no?
VICTOR, laughing: I like it better that way.
SOLOMON: You keep your nose clean.
VICTOR, smiling: That’s it. Indicating the furniture: So what do you say?
SOLOMON: What I say? Taking out two cigars as he glances about: You like a cigar?
VICTOR: Thanks, I gave it up long time ago. So what’s the story here?
SOLOMON: I can see you are a very factual person.
VICTOR: You hit it.
SOLOMON: Couldn’t be better. So tell me, you got some kind of paper here? To show ownership?
VICTOR: Well, no, I don’t. But . . . He half-laughs. I’m the owner, that’s all.
SOLOMON: In other words, there’s no brothers, no sisters.
VICTOR: I have a brother, yes.
SOLOMON: Ah hah. You’re friendly with him. Not that I’m mixing in, but I don’t have to tell you the average family they love each other like crazy, but the minute the parents die is all of a sudden a question who is going to get what and you’re covered with cats and dogs—
VICTOR: There’s no such problem here.
SOLOMON: Unless we’re gonna talk about a few pieces, then it wouldn’t bother me, but to take the whole load without a paper is a—
VICTOR: All right, I’ll get you some kind of statement from him; don’t worry about it.
SOLOMON: That’s definite; because even from high-class people you wouldn’t believe the shenanigans—lawyers, college professors, television personalities—five hundred dollars they’ll pay a lawyer to fight over a bookcase it’s worth fifty cents—because you see, everybody wants to be number one, so . . .
VICTOR: I said I’d get you a statement. He indicates the room. Now what’s the story?
SOLOMON: All right, so I’ll tell you the story. He looks at the dining-room table and points to it. For instance, you mention the dining-room table. That’s what they call Spanish Jacobean. Cost maybe twelve, thirteen hundred dollars. I would say—1921, ’22. I’m right?
VICTOR: Probably, ya.
SOLOMON—clears his throat: I see you’re an intelligent man, so before I’ll say another word, I ask you to remember—with used furniture you cannot be emotional.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 73