The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  MAYA, stands suddenly, between anger and fear: Why have you come?

  ADRIAN, stands: I’ve told you, Maya—I thought maybe I could grab hold of the feeling again.

  MAYA: Of what?

  ADRIAN:: This country, this situation. It escapes me the minute I cross the border. It’s like some goddammed demon that only lives here.

  MAYA: But we are only people, what is so strange?

  ADRIAN: I’ll give you an example. It’s an hour from Paris here; we sit down to dinner last night in a restaurant, and two plainclothesmen take the next table. It was blatant. Not the slightest attempt to disguise that they were there to openly intimidate Sigmund and Otto. They kept staring straight at them.

  MAYA: But why did he take you to a restaurant? Elizabeth could have given you dinner.

  ADRIAN:: . . . I don’t understand.

  MAYA: But Sigmund knows that will happen if he walks about with a famous American writer.

  ADRIAN: You’re not justifying it . . . ?

  MAYA: I have not been appointed to justify or condemn anything. She laughs. And neither has Sigmund. He is an artist, a very great writer, and that is what he should be doing.

  ADRIAN: I can’t believe what I’m hearing, Maya.

  MAYA, laughs: But you must, Adrian. You really must believe it.

  ADRIAN: You mean it’s perfectly all right for two cops to be . . .

  MAYA: But that is their business. It is not Sigmund’s business to be taunting the government. Do you go about trying to infuriate your CIA, your FBI?

  He is silent.

  Of course not. You stay home and write your books. Just as the Russian writers stay home and write theirs . . .

  ADRIAN: But Sigmund isn’t permitted to write his books . . .

  MAYA: My God—don’t you understand anything?

  The sudden force of her outburst is mystifying to him. He looks at her, perplexed. She gathers herself.

  I’m very tired, Adrian. Perhaps we can meet again before you leave.

  ADRIAN: Okay. He looks about. I forgot where I put my coat . . .

  MAYA: I hung it inside.

  She goes upstage and out through the doorway. Adrian, his face taut, looks around at the room, up at the ceiling. She returns, hands him the coat.

  You know your way back to the hotel?

  ADRIAN: I’ll find it. He extends his hand, she takes it. I’m not as simple as I seem, Maya.

  MAYA: I’m sorry I got excited.

  ADRIAN: I understand—you don’t want him taking risks.

  MAYA: Why should he? Especially when things are improving all the time anyway.

  ADRIAN: They aren’t arresting anybody? . . .

  MAYA: Of course not. Sigmund just can’t get himself to admit it, so he does these stupid things. One can live as peacefully as anywhere.

  ADRIAN, putting on his coat: Still, it’s not in every country where writers keep a novel manuscript behind their fireplace.

  MAYA, stiffening: Goodnight.

  ADRIAN, sees her cooled look; slight pause: Goodnight, Maya. He crosses the room to the double doors at left, and he opens one . . .

  MAYA: Adrian?

  He turns in the doorway.

  You didn’t really mean that, I hope.

  He is silent. She turns to him.

  No one keeps manuscripts behind a fireplace anymore. You know that.

  ADRIAN, looks at her for a moment, with irony: . . . Right. He stands there, hand on the door handle, looking down at the floor, considering. He smiles, turning back to her. Funny how life imitates art; the melodrama kept flattening out my characterizations. It’s an interesting problem—whether it matters who anyone is or what anyone thinks, when all that counts anymore—is power.

  He goes brusquely into the corridor, walks upstage into darkness. She hesitates then rushes out, closing the door behind her and calls up the corridor.

  MAYA, a suppressed call: Adrian? She waits. Adrian!

  He reappears from the darkness and stands shaking his head, angry and appalled. She has stiffened herself against her confession.

  We can talk out here, it is only in the apartment.

  ADRIAN: Jesus Christ, Maya.

  MAYA: I want you to come inside for a moment—you should not have mentioned Sigmund’s manuscript . . .

  ADRIAN, stunned, a look of disgust—adopting her muffled tone: Maya . . . how can you do this?

  MAYA, with an indignant note: They never knew he has written a novel, how dare you mention it! Did he give it to you?

  ADRIAN: My head is spinning, what the hell is this? . . .

  MAYA: Did he give it to you?

  ADRIAN, a flare of open anger: How can I tell you anything? . . .

  MAYA: Come inside. Say that you have sent it to Paris. Come . . . She starts for the door.

  ADRIAN: How the hell would I send it to Paris?

  MAYA: They’ll be searching his house now, they’ll destroy it! You must say that you sent it today with some friend of yours. She pulls him by the sleeve.

  ADRIAN, freeing himself: Wait a minute—you mean they were taping us in bed?

  MAYA: I don’t know. I don’t know when it was installed. Please . . . simply say that you have sent the manuscript to Paris. Come. She grasps the door handle.

  ADRIAN, stepping back from the door: That’s a crime.

  She turns to him with a contemptuous look.

  Well it is, isn’t it? Anyway, I didn’t say it was his book.

  MAYA: It was obviously him. Say you have sent it out! You must! She opens the door instantly, enters the room, and speaking in a relaxed, normal tone. . . . Perhaps you’d better stay until the rain lets up. I might go to bed, but why don’t you make yourself comfortable?

  ADRIAN, hesitates in the corridor, then enters the room and stands there in silence, glancing about: . . . All right. Thanks. He stands there silent, in his fear.

  MAYA: Yes?

  ADRIAN: Incidentally—He breaks off. A long hiatus. He is internally positioning himself to the situation. . . . that manuscript I mentioned.

  MAYA: Yes?

  ADRIAN: It’s in Paris by now. I . . . gave it to a friend who was leaving this morning.

  MAYA: Oh?

  ADRIAN: Yes. Slight pause. It occurs to him suddenly: A girl.

  MAYA, as though amused: You already have girls here?

  ADRIAN, starting to grin: Well, not really—she’s a cousin of mine. Actually, a second cousin. Just happened to meet her on the street. All right if I have another brandy?

  MAYA: Of course.

  ADRIAN, pours: I’ll be going in a minute. He sits in his coat on the edge of a chair with his glass. Just let me digest this. This drink, I mean.

  She sits on the edge of another chair a distance away.

  Quite an atmosphere in this house. I never realized it before.

  MAYA: It’s so old. Sixteenth century, I think.

  ADRIAN: It’s so alive—once you’re aware of it.

  MAYA: They built very well in those days.

  ADRIAN, directly to her: Incredible. I really didn’t believe it.

  MAYA: Please go.

  ADRIAN: In one minute. Did I dream it, or did it belong to the archbishop?

  MAYA: It was his residence.

  ADRIAN, looks up to the ceiling: That explains the cherubims . . . looks at his drink . . . and the antonyms.

  She stands.

  I’m going. This is . . . looks around . . . this is what I never got into my book—this doubleness. This density with angels hovering overhead. Like power always with you in a room. Like God, in a way. Just tell me—do you ever get where you’ve forgotten it?

  MAYA: I don’t really live here anymore.

  ADRIAN: Why? You found this style oppressive?

  MAY
A: I don’t hear the rain. Please.

  ADRIAN, stands facing her: I’m not sure I should, but I’m filling up with sympathy. I’m sorry as hell, Maya.

  She is silent.

  I could hire a car—let’s meet for lunch and take a drive in the country.

  MAYA: All right. I’ll pick you up at the hotel. She starts past him toward the doors.

  ADRIAN, takes her hand as she passes: Thirty seconds. Please. I want to chat. Just to hear myself. He moves her to a chair. Half a minute . . . just in case you don’t show up.

  MAYA, sitting: Of course I will.

  ADRIAN, clings to her hand, kneebends before her: I’ve never asked you before—you ever been married?

  She laughs.

  Come on, give me a chat. Were you?

  MAYA: Never, no.

  ADRIAN: And what were your people—middle class?

  MAYA: Workers. They died of flu in the war.

  ADRIAN: Who brought you up?

  MAYA: The nuns.

  ADRIAN, stands; looks around: . . . Is it always like a performance? Like we’re quoting ourselves?

  MAYA, stands: Goodnight. She goes and opens the door.

  ADRIAN: My God—you poor girl. He takes her into his arms and kisses her. Maybe I should say—in all fairness—leaving her, he addresses the ceiling—that the city looks much cleaner than my last time. And there’s much more stuff in the shops. And the girls have shaved their legs. In fact—he turns to her—she is smiling—this is the truth—I met my dentist in the hotel this morning. He’s crazy about this country! With a wild underlay of laughter: Can’t get over the way he can walk the streets any hour of the night, which is impossible in New York. Said he’d never felt so relaxed and free in his whole life! And at that very instant, Sigmund and Otto walked into the lobby and he congratulated them on having such a fine up-and-coming little civilization! He suddenly yells at the top of his lungs. Forgive me, I scream in New York sometimes.

  She is half smiling, alert to him; he comes to the open doorway and grasps her hands.

  Goodnight. And if I never see you again . . .

  MAYA: I’ll be there, why not?

  ADRIAN: How do I know? But just in case—I want you to know that I’ll never forget you in that real short skirt you wore last time, and the moment when you slung one leg over the arm of the chair. You have a sublime sluttishness, Maya—don’t be mad, it’s a gift when it’s sublime.

  She laughs.

  How marvelous to see you laugh—come, walk me downstairs. He pulls her through the doorway.

  MAYA: It’s too cold out here . . .

  ADRIAN, shuts the door to the room, draws her away from it: For old times’ sake . . .

  MAYA: We’ll talk tomorrow.

  ADRIAN, with a wild smile, excited eyes: You’re a government agent?

  MAYA: What can I say? Will you believe anything?

  ADRIAN, on the verge of laughter: My spine is tingling. In my book, Maya—I may as well tell you, I’ve been struggling with my sanity the last ten minutes—in my book I made you an agent who screws all the writers and blackmails them so they’ll give up fighting the government. And I abandoned it because I finally decided it was too melodramatic, the characters got lost in the plot. I invented it and I didn’t believe it; and I’m standing here looking at you and I still don’t believe it!

  MAYA: Why should you?

  ADRIAN, instantly, pointing in her face: That’s what you say in the book! He grasps her hand passionately in both of his. Maya, listen—you’ve got to help me. I believe in your goodness. I don’t care what you’ve done, I still believe that deep inside you’re a rebel and you hate this goddamned government. You’ve got to tell me—I’ll stay through the week—we’ll talk and you’re going to tell me what goes on in your body, in your head, in this situation.

  MAYA: Wait a minute . . .

  ADRIAN, kissing her hands: Maya, you’ve made me believe in my book!

  She suddenly turns her head. So does he. Then he sees her apprehension.

  You expecting somebody?

  Voices are heard now from below. She is listening.

  Maya?

  MAYA, mystified: Perhaps some friends of Marcus.

  ADRIAN:: He gives out the key?

  Maya: Go, please. Goodnight.

  She enters the room. He follows her in.

  ADRIAN: You need any help?

  A man and woman appear from upstage darkness in the corridor.

  MAYA: No—no, I am not afraid . . . She moves him to the door.

  ADRIAN: I’ll be glad to stay . . . He turns, sees the man, who is just approaching the door, a valise in his hand, wearing a raincoat. For Christ’s sake—it’s Marcus!

  Marcus is older, fifty-eight. He puts down his valise, spreads out his arms.

  MARCUS: Adrian!

  Laughter. A girl, beautiful, very young, stands a step behind him as he and Adrian embrace.

  MAYA, within the room: Marcus?

  MARCUS, entering the room: You’re here, Maya! This is marvelous.

  He gives her a peck. The girl enters, stands there looking around. He turns to Adrian.

  A friend of yours is parking my car, he’ll be delighted to see you.

  ADRIAN: Friend of mine?

  MARCUS: Sigmund.

  MAYA: Sigmund?

  ADRIAN: Sigmund’s here?

  MARCUS: He’s coming up for a drink. We ran into each other at the airport. To Maya: Is there food? To Adrian: You’ll stay, won’t you? I’ll call some people, we can have a party.

  ADRIAN: Party? Flustered, glances at Maya. Well . . . yeah, great!

  An understanding outburst of laughter between him and Marcus.

  MAYA: There’s only some ham. I’m going home. She turns to go upstage to the bedroom.

  MARCUS, instantly: Oh, no, Maya! You mustn’t. I was going to call you first thing . . . Recalling: Wait, I have something for you. He hurriedly zips open a pocket of his valise, takes out a pair of shoes in tissue. I had an hour in Frankfurt. Look, dear . . .

  He unwraps the tissue. Her face lights. She half unwillingly takes them.

  MAYA: Oh, my God.

  Marcus laughs. She kicks off a shoe and tries one on.

  MARCUS: Right size?

  IRINA, as Maya puts on the other shoe: Highly beautiful.

  Maya takes a few steps, watching her feet, then goes to Marcus and gives him a kiss, then looks into his eyes with a faint smile, her longing and hatred.

  MARCUS, taking out folds of money: Here, darling . . . ask Mrs. Andrus to prepare something, will you? He hands her money. Let’s have an evening. He starts her toward the bedroom door upstage—But come and put something on, it’s raining—and comes face to face with the girl. Oh, excuse me—this is Irina.

  Maya barely nods, and goes back to pick up her other shoes.

  ADRIAN: I’ll go along with you, Maya—He reaches for his coat.

  MARCUS: No, it’s only down the street. Irina, this is my good friend, Maya.

  IRINA: ’Aloo.

  Maya silently shakes her hand.

  MARCUS: And here is Adrian Wallach. Very important American writer.

  Maya exits upstage.

  ADRIAN: How do you do?

  IRINA: ’Aloo. I see you Danemark.

  ADRIAN: She’s going to see me in Denmark?

  MARCUS: She’s Danish. But she speaks a little English.

  IRINA, with forefinger and thumb barely separated, to Adrian: Very small.

  ADRIAN: When do you want to meet in Denmark?

  Maya enters putting on a raincoat.

  MAYA: Sausages?

  MARCUS: And maybe some cheese and bread and some fruit. I’ll open wine.

  IRINA: I see your book.

  ADRIAN, suddenly, as Maya goes for
the door: Wait! I’ll walk her there . . .

  Maya hesitates at the door.

  MARCUS, grasping Adrian’s arm, laughing: No, no, no, you are our guest; please, it’s only two doors down. Maya doesn’t mind.

  Maya starts out to the door. Sigmund appears in the corridor, a heavy man shaking out his raincoat. He is in his late forties. She halts before the doorway.

  MAYA, questioningly, but with a unique respect: Sigmund.

  SIGMUND: Maya.

  He kisses the palm of her hand. For a moment they stand facing each other.

  MARCUS: Look who we have here, Sigmund!

  Maya exits up the corridor as Sigmund enters the room.

  SIGMUND: Oh—my friend! He embraces Adrian, laughing, patting his back.

  ADRIAN: How’s it going, Sigmund? He grasps Sigmund’s hand. What a terrific surprise! How’s your cold, did you take my pills?

  SIGMUND: Yes, thank you. I take pills, vodka, brandy, whisky—now I have only headache. With a nod to Irina: Grüss Gött.

  Marcus goes and opens a chest, brings bottles and glasses to the marble table.

  IRINA: Grüss Gött.

  ADRIAN: Oh, you speak German?

  IRINA, with the gesture: Very small.

  MARCUS: Come, help yourselves. He takes a key ring out of his valise. I have whisky for you, Adrian.

  ADRIAN: I’ll drink brandy. How about you, Sigmund?

  SIGMUND: For me whisky.

  MARCUS, taking out an address book: I’ll call a couple of people, all right?

  ADRIAN: Girls!

  Sigmund sits downstage, takes out a cigarette.

  MARCUS: If you feel like it.

  ADRIAN, glancing at Sigmund, who is lighting up: Maybe better just us.

  MARCUS: Sigmund likes a group. He picks up his valise.

  SIGMUND: What you like.

  ADRIAN, to Marcus: Well, okay.

  MARCUS, pointing upstage to Irina: Loo?

  IRINA: Oh, ja!

  MARCUS, holding Irina by the waist and carrying the valise in his free hand as they move upstage; to Sigmund: We can talk in the bedroom in a little while. He exits with Irina.

  ADRIAN: That’s a nice piece of Danish.

  Sigmund draws on his cigarette. Adrian gets beside him and taps his shoulder; Sigmund turns up to him. Adrian points to ceiling, then to his own ear.

  Capeesh?

  SIGMUND, turns front, expressionless: The police have confiscated my manuscript.