VICTOR—laughs: I haven’t opened my mouth!
SOLOMON: I mean you’re a policeman, I’m a furniture dealer, we both know this world. Anything Spanish Jacobean you’ll sell quicker a case of tuberculosis.
VICTOR: Why? That table’s in beautiful condition.
SOLOMON: Officer, you’re talking reality; you cannot talk reality with used furniture. They don’t like that style; not only they don’t like it, they hate it. The same thing with that buffet there and that . . . He starts to point elsewhere.
VICTOR: You only want to take a few pieces, is that the ticket?
SOLOMON: Please, Officer, we’re already talking too fast—
VICTOR: No-no, you’re not going to walk off with the gravy and leave me with the bones. All or nothing or let’s forget it. I told you on the phone it was a whole houseful.
SOLOMON: What’re you in such a hurry? Talk a little bit, we’ll see what happens. In a day they didn’t build Rome. He calculates worriedly for a moment, glancing again at the pieces he wants. He gets up, goes and touches the harp. You see, what I had in mind—I would give you such a knockout price for these few pieces that you—
VICTOR: That’s out.
SOLOMON, quickly: Out.
VICTOR: I’m not running a department store. They’re tearing the building down.
SOLOMON: Couldn’t be better! We understand each other, so—with his charm—so there’s no reason to be emotional. He goes to the records. These records go? He picks up one.
VICTOR: I might keep three or four.
SOLOMON, reading a label: Look at that! Gallagher and Shean!
VICTOR, with only half a laugh: You’re not going to start playing them now!
SOLOMON: Who needs to play? I was on the same bill with Gallagher and Shean maybe fifty theaters.
VICTOR, surprised: You were an actor?
SOLOMON: An actor! An acrobat; my whole family was acrobats. Expanding with this first opening: You never heard “The Five Solomons”—may they rest in peace? I was the one on the bottom.
VICTOR: Funny—I never heard of a Jewish acrobat.
SOLOMON: What’s the matter with Jacob, he wasn’t a wrestler?—wrestled with the Angel?
Victor laughs.
Jews been acrobats since the beginning of the world. I was a horse them days: drink, women, anything—on-the-go, on-the-go, nothing ever stopped me. Only life. Yes, my boy. Almost lovingly putting down the record: What do you know, Gallagher and Shean.
VICTOR, more intimately now, despite himself; but with no less persistence in keeping to the business: So where are we?
SOLOMON—glancing off, he turns back to Victor with a deeply concerned look: Tell me, what’s with crime now? It’s up, hey?
VICTOR: Yeah, it’s up, it’s up. Look, Mr. Solomon, let me make one thing clear, heh? I’m not sociable.
SOLOMON: You’re not.
VICTOR: No, I’m not; I’m not a businessman, I’m not good at conversations. So let’s get to a price, and finish. Okay?
SOLOMON: You don’t want we should be buddies.
VICTOR: That’s exactly it.
SOLOMON: So we wouldn’t be buddies! He sighs. But just so you’ll know me a little better—I’m going to show you something. He takes out a leather folder which he flips open and hands to Victor. There’s my discharge from the British Navy. You see? “His Majesty’s Service.”
VICTOR, looking at the document: Huh! What were you doing in the British Navy?
SOLOMON: Forget the British Navy. What does it say the date of birth?
VICTOR: “Eighteen . . .” Amazed, he looks up at Solomon. You’re almost ninety?
SOLOMON: Yes, my boy. I left Russia sixty-five years ago, I was twenty-four years old. And I smoked all my life. I drinked, and I loved every woman who would let me. So what do I need to steal from you?
VICTOR: Since when do people need a reason to steal?
SOLOMON: I never saw such a man in my life!
VICTOR: Oh yes you did. Now you going to give me a figure or—?
SOLOMON—he is actually frightened because he can’t get a hook into Victor and fears losing the good pieces: How can I give you a figure? You don’t trust one word I say!
VICTOR, with a strained laugh: I never saw you before, what’re you asking me to trust you?!
SOLOMON, with a gesture of disgust: But how am I going to start to talk to you? I’m sorry; here you can’t be a policeman. If you want to do business a little bit you gotta believe or you can’t do it. I’m . . . I’m . . . Look, forget it. He gets up and goes to his portfolio.
VICTOR, astonished: What are you doing?
SOLOMON: I can’t work this way. I’m too old every time I open my mouth you should practically call me a thief.
VICTOR: Who called you a thief?
SOLOMON, moving toward the door: No—I don’t need it. I don’t want it in my shop. Wagging a finger into Victor’s face: And don’t forget it—I never gave you a price, and look what you did to me. You see? I never gave you a price!
VICTOR, angering: Well, what did you come here for, to do me a favor? What are you talking about?
SOLOMON: Mister, I pity you! What is the matter with you people! You’re worse than my daughter! Nothing in the world you believe, nothing you respect—how can you live? You think that’s such a smart thing? That’s so hard, what you’re doing? Let me give you a piece of advice—it’s not that you can’t believe nothing, that’s not so hard—it’s that you still got to believe it. That’s hard. And if you can’t do that, my friend—you’re a dead man! He starts toward the door.
VICTOR, chastened despite himself: Oh, Solomon, come on, will you?
SOLOMON: No-no. You got a certain problem with this furniture but you don’t want to listen so how can I talk?
VICTOR: I’m listening! For Christ’s sake, what do you want me to do, get down on my knees?
SOLOMON, putting down his portfolio and taking out a wrinkled tape measure from his jacket pocket: Okay, come here. I realize you are a factual person, but some facts are funny. He stretches the tape measure across the depth of a piece. What does that read? Then turns to Victor, showing him.
VICTOR—comes to him, reads: Forty inches. So?
SOLOMON: My boy, the bedroom doors in a modern apartment house are thirty, thirty-two inches maximum. So you can’t get this in—
VICTOR: What about the old houses?
SOLOMON, with a desperation growing: All I’m trying to tell you is that my possibilities are smaller!
VICTOR: Well, can’t I ask a question?
SOLOMON: I’m giving you architectural facts! Listen—Wiping his face, he seizes on the library table, going to it. You got there, for instance, a library table. That’s a solid beauty. But go find me a modern apartment with a library. If they would build old hotels, I could sell this, but they only build new hotels. People don’t live like this no more. This stuff is from another world. So I’m trying to give you a modern viewpoint. Because the price of used furniture is nothing but a viewpoint, and if you wouldn’t understand the viewpoint is impossible to understand the price.
VICTOR: So what’s the viewpoint—that it’s all worth nothing?
SOLOMON: That’s what you said, I didn’t say that. The chairs is worth something, the chiffoniers, the bed, the harp—
VICTOR—turns away from him: Okay, let’s forget it, I’m not giving you the cream—
SOLOMON: What’re you jumping!
VICTOR, turning to him: Good God, are you going to make me an offer or not?
SOLOMON, walking away with a hand at his temple: Boy, oh boy, oh boy. You must’ve arrested a million people by now.
VICTOR: Nineteen in twenty-eight years.
SOLOMON: So what are you so hard on me?
VICTOR: Because you talk about everything but money a
nd I don’t know what the hell you’re up to.
SOLOMON, raising a finger: We will now talk money. He returns to the center chair.
VICTOR: Great. I mean you can’t blame me—every time you open your mouth the price seems to go down.
SOLOMON, sitting: My boy, the price didn’t change since I walked in.
VICTOR, laughing: That’s even better! So what’s the price?
Solomon glances about, his wit failed, a sunk look coming over his face.
What’s going on? What’s bothering you?
SOLOMON: I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I thought it would be a few pieces but . . . Sunk, he presses his fingers into his eyes. It’s too much for me.
VICTOR: Well, what’d you come for? I told you it was the whole house.
SOLOMON, protesting: You called me so I came! What should I do, lay down and die? Striving again to save it: Look, I want very much to make you an offer, the only question is . . . He breaks off as though fearful of saying something.
VICTOR: This is a hell of a note.
SOLOMON: Listen, it’s a terrible temptation to me! But . . . As though throwing himself on Victor’s understanding: You see, I’ll tell you the truth; you must have looked in a very old phone book; a couple of years ago already I cleaned out my store. Except a few English andirons I got left, I sell when I need a few dollars. I figured I was eighty, eighty-five, it was time already. But I waited—and nothing happened—I even moved out of my apartment. I’m living in the back of the store with a hotplate. But nothing happened. I’m still practically a hundred per cent—not a hundred, but I feel very well. And I figured maybe you got a couple nice pieces—not that the rest can’t be sold, but it could take a year, year and half. For me that’s a big bet. In conflict, he looks around. The trouble is I love to work; I love it, but—Giving up: I don’t know what to tell you.
VICTOR: All right, let’s forget it then.
SOLOMON, standing: What’re you jumping?
VICTOR: Well, are you in or out!
SOLOMON: How do I know where I am! You see, it’s also this particular furniture—the average person he’ll take one look, it’ll make him very nervous.
VICTOR: Solomon, you’re starting again.
SOLOMON: I’m not bargaining with you!
VICTOR: Why’ll it make him nervous?
SOLOMON: Because he knows it’s never gonna break.
VICTOR, not in bad humor, but clinging to his senses: Oh come on, will you? Have a little mercy.
SOLOMON: My boy, you don’t know the psychology! If it wouldn’t break there is no more possibilities. For instance, you take—crosses to table—this table . . . Listen! He bangs the table. You can’t move it. A man sits down to such a table he knows not only he’s married, he’s got to stay married—there is no more possibilities.
Victor laughs.
You’re laughing, I’m telling you the factual situation. What is the key word today? Disposable. The more you can throw it away the more it’s beautiful. The car, the furniture, the wife, the children—everything has to be disposable. Because you see the main thing today is—shopping. Years ago a person, he was unhappy, didn’t know what to do with himself—he’d go to church, start a revolution—something. Today you’re unhappy? Can’t figure it out? What is the salvation? Go shopping.
VICTOR, laughing: You’re terrific, I have to give you credit.
SOLOMON: I’m telling you the truth! If they would close the stores for six months in this country there would be from coast to coast a regular massacre. With this kind of furniture the shopping is over, it’s finished, there’s no more possibilities, you got it, you see? So you got a problem here.
VICTOR, laughing: Solomon, you are one of the greatest. But I’m way ahead of you, it’s not going to work.
SOLOMON, offended: What “work”? I don’t know how much time I got. What is so terrible if I say that? The trouble is, you’re such a young fella you don’t understand these things—
VICTOR: I understand very well, I know what you’re up against. I’m not so young.
SOLOMON, scoffing: What are you, forty? Forty-five?
VICTOR: I’m going to be fifty.
SOLOMON: Fifty! You’re a baby boy!
VICTOR: Some baby.
SOLOMON: My God, if I was fifty . . . ! I got married I was seventy-five.
VICTOR: Go on.
SOLOMON: What are you talking? She’s still living by Eighth Avenue over there. See, that’s why I like to stay liquid, because I don’t want her to get her hands on this. . . . Birds she loves. She’s living there with maybe a hundred birds. She gives you a plate of soup it’s got feathers. I didn’t work all my life for them birds.
VICTOR: I appreciate your problems, Mr. Solomon, but I don’t have to pay for them. He stands. I’ve got no more time.
SOLOMON, holding up a restraining hand—desperately: I’m going to buy it! He has shocked himself, and glances around at the towering masses of furniture. I mean I’ll . . . He moves, looking at the stuff. I’ll have to live, that’s all, I’ll make up my mind! I’ll buy it.
VICTOR—he is affected as Solomon’s fear comes through to him: We’re talking about everything now.
SOLOMON, angrily: Everything, everything! Going to his portfolio: I’ll figure it up, I’ll give you a very nice price, and you’ll be a happy man.
VICTOR, sitting again: That I doubt.
Solomon takes a hard-boiled egg out of the portfolio.
What’s this now, lunch?
SOLOMON: You give me such an argument, I’m hungry! I’m not supposed to get too hungry.
VICTOR: Brother!
SOLOMON—cracks the shell on his diamond ring: You want me to starve to death? I’m going to be very quick here.
VICTOR: Boy—I picked a number!
SOLOMON: There wouldn’t be a little salt, I suppose.
VICTOR: I’m not going running for salt now!
SOLOMON: Please, don’t be blue. I’m going to knock you off your feet with the price, you’ll see. He swallows the egg. He now faces the furniture, and, half to himself, pad and pencil poised: I’m going to go here like an IBM. He starts estimating on his pad.
VICTOR: That’s all right, take it easy. As long as you’re serious.
SOLOMON: Thank you. He touches the hated buffet: Ay, yi, yi. All right, well . . . He jots down a figure. He goes to the next piece, jots down another figure. He goes to another piece, jots down a figure.
VICTOR, after a moment: You really got married at seventy-five?
SOLOMON: What’s so terrible?
VICTOR: No, I think it’s terrific. But what was the point?
SOLOMON: What’s the point at twenty-five? You can’t die twenty-six?
VICTOR, laughing softly: I guess so, ya.
SOLOMON: It’s the same like secondhand furniture, you see; the whole thing is a viewpoint. It’s a mental world. He jots down another figure for another piece. Seventy-five I got married, fifty-one, and twenty-two.
VICTOR: You’re kidding.
SOLOMON: I wish! He works, jotting his estimate of each piece on the pad, opening drawers, touching everything. Peering into a dark recess, he takes out a pencil flashlight, switches it on, and begins to probe with the beam.
VICTOR—he has gradually turned to watch Solomon, who goes on working: Cut the kidding now—how old are you?
SOLOMON, sliding out a drawer: I’m eighty-nine. It’s such an accomplishment?
VICTOR: You’re a hell of a guy.
SOLOMON, smiling with the encouragement and turning to Victor: You know, it’s a funny thing. It’s so long since I took on such a load like this—you forget what kind of life it puts into you. To take out a pencil again . . . it’s a regular injection. Frankly, my telephone you could use for a ladle, it wouldn’t interfere with nothing. I want to thank you
. He points at Victor. I’m going to take good care of you, I mean it. I can open that?
VICTOR: Sure, anything.
SOLOMON, going to an armoire: Some of them had a mirror . . . He opens the armoire, and a rolled-up fur rug falls out. It is about three by five. What’s this?
VICTOR: God knows. I guess it’s a rug.
SOLOMON, holding it up: No-no—that’s a lap robe. Like for a car.
VICTOR: Say, that’s right, ya. When they went driving. God, I haven’t seen that in—
SOLOMON: You had a chauffeur?
VICTOR: Ya, we had a chauffeur.
Their eyes meet. Solomon looks at him as though Victor were coming into focus. Victor turns away. Now Solomon turns back to the armoire.
SOLOMON: Look at that! He takes down an opera hat from the shelf within. My God! He puts it on, looks into the interior mirror. What a world! He turns to Victor: He must’ve been some sporty guy!
VICTOR, smiling: You look pretty good!
SOLOMON: And from all this he could go so broke?
VICTOR: Why not? Sure. Took five weeks. Less.
SOLOMON: You don’t say. And he couldn’t make a comeback?
VICTOR: Well some men don’t bounce, you know.
SOLOMON—grunts: Hmm! So what did he do?
VICTOR: Nothing. Just sat here. Listened to the radio.
SOLOMON: But what did he do? What—?
VICTOR: Well, now and then he was making change at the Automat. Toward the end he was delivering telegrams.
SOLOMON, with grief and wonder: You don’t say. And how much he had?
VICTOR: Oh . . . couple of million, I guess.
SOLOMON: My God. What was the matter with him?
VICTOR: Well, my mother died around the same time. I guess that didn’t help. Some men just don’t bounce, that’s all.
SOLOMON: Listen, I can tell you bounces. I went busted 1932; then 1923 they also knocked me out; the panic of 1904, 1898 . . . But to lay down like that . . .
VICTOR: Well, you’re different. He believed in it.
SOLOMON: What he believed?
VICTOR: The system, the whole thing. He thought it was his fault, I guess. You—you come in with your song and dance, it’s all a gag. You’re a hundred and fifty years old, you tell your jokes, people fall in love with you, and you walk away with their furniture.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 74