ADRIAN, his hand flies out to grip Sigmund’s shoulder: No! Oh, Jesus—when?
SIGMUND: Now. Tonight.
ADRIAN, glancing quickly around, to cover their conversation: He had a record player . . .
SIGMUND, with a contemptuous wave toward the ceiling: No—I don’t care.
ADRIAN: The last fifteen, twenty minutes, you mean?
sigmund: Tonight. They have take it away.
ADRIAN: My God, Sigmund . . .
Sigmund turns to him.
I mentioned something to Maya, but I had no idea it was really . . . He breaks off, pointing to the ceiling.
SIGMUND: When, you told Maya?
ADRIAN: In the last fifteen minutes or so.
SIGMUND: No—they came earlier—around six o’clock.
ADRIAN: Nearly stopped my heart . . .
SIGMUND: No, I believe they find out for different reason.
ADRIAN: Why?
SIGMUND: I was so happy.
Pause.
ADRIAN: So they figured you’d finished the book?
SIGMUND: I think so. I worked five years on this novel.
ADRIAN: How would they know you were happy?
SIGMUND, pause; with a certain projection: In this city, a man my age who is happy, attract attention.
ADRIAN: . . . Listen. When I leave tomorrow you can give . . . He stops himself, glances upstage to the bedroom doorway, taking out a notebook and pencil. As he writes, speaking in a tone of forced relaxation: Before I leave you’ve got to give me a tour of the Old Roman bath . . .
He shows the page to Sigmund, who reads it and looks up at him. Sigmund shakes his head negatively.
Horrified: They’ve got the only . . . ?
Sigmund nods positively and turns away.
Appalled: Sigmund—why?
SIGMUND: I thought would be safer with . . . He holds up a single finger.
Pause. Adrian keeps shaking his head.
ADRIAN, sotto: What are you doing here?
SIGMUND: I met him in the airport by accident.
ADRIAN: What were you doing at the airport?
SIGMUND: To tell my wife. She works there.
ADRIAN: I thought she was a chemist.
SIGMUND: She is wife to me—they don’t permit her to be chemist. She clean the floor, the windows in the airport.
ADRIAN: Oh, Jesus, Sigmund . . . Pause. Is there anything you can do?
SIGMUND: I try.
ADRIAN: Try what?
Sigmund thumbs upstage.
Could he?
Sigmund throws up his chin—tremendous influence.
Would he?
Sigmund mimes holding a telephone to his mouth, then indicates the bedroom doorway.
Really? To help?
SIGMUND: Is possible.
ADRIAN: Can you figure him out?
Sigmund extends a hand and rocks it, an expression of uncertainty on his face.
ADRIAN: And Maya?
SIGMUND, for a moment he makes no answer: Woman is always complicated.
ADRIAN: You know that they . . . lie a lot.
SIGMUND: Yes. Slight pause. He looks now directly into Adrian’s eyes. Sometimes not.
ADRIAN: You don’t think it’s time to seriously consider . . . He spreads his arms wide like a plane, lifting them forward in a takeoff, then points in a gesture of flight. What I mentioned at dinner?
Sigmund emphatically shakes his head no, while pointing downward—he’ll remain here.
When we leave here I’d like to discuss whether there’s really any point in that anymore.
Sigmund turns to him.
I don’t know if it was in your papers, but there’s a hearing problem all over the world. Especially among the young. Rock music, traffic—modern life is too loud for the human ear—you understand me. The subtler sounds don’t get through much anymore.
Sigmund faces front, expressionless.
On top of that there’s a widespread tendency in New York, Paris, London, for people to concentrate almost exclusively on shopping.
SIGMUND: I have no illusion.
ADRIAN: I hope not—shopping and entertainment. Sigmund?
Sigmund turns to him, and Adrian points into his face, then makes a wide gesture to take in the room, the situation.
Not entertaining. Not on anybody’s mind in those cities.
SIGMUND: I know.
ADRIAN:: Boring.
SIGMUND: Yes.
ADRIAN: Same old thing. It’s the wrong style.
SIGMUND: I know.
ADRIAN: I meant what I said last night; I’d be happy to support— He points at Sigmund, who glances at him. Until a connection is made with a university. He points to himself. Guarantee that.
Sigmund nods negatively and spreads both hands—he will stay here.
We can talk about it later. I’m going to ask you why. I don’t understand the point anymore. Not after this.
SIGMUND: You would also if it was your country.
ADRIAN: I doubt it. I would protect my talent. I saw a movie once where they bricked up a man in a wall.
Marcus enters in a robe, opening a whisky bottle.
MARCUS: A few friends may turn up. He sets the whisky bottle on the marble table. To Adrian: Will you excuse us for a few minutes? Sigmund? He indicates the bedroom.
SIGMUND: I have told him.
Marcus turns to Adrian with a certain embarrassment.
ADRIAN: They wouldn’t destroy it, would they?
Marcus seems suddenly put upon, and unable to answer.
Do you know?
MARCUS, with a gesture toward the bedroom; to Sigmund: Shall we?
SIGMUND, standing: I would like Adrian to hear.
ADRIAN, to Marcus: Unless you don’t feel . . .
MARCUS, unwillingly: No—if he wishes, I have no objection.
Sigmund sits.
ADRIAN: If there’s anything I can do you’ll tell me, will you?
MARCUS, to Sigmund: Does Maya know?
SIGMUND: She was going out.
MARCUS, as a muted hope for alliance: I suppose she might as well. But it won’t help her getting excited.
SIGMUND: She will be calm, Maya is not foolish.
ADRIAN: Maybe we ought to get into it, Marcus—they wouldn’t destroy the book, would they?
MARCUS, with a fragile laugh: That’s only one of several questions, Adrian—the first thing is to gather our thoughts. Let me get your drink. He stands.
ADRIAN: I can wait with the drink. Why don’t we get into it?
MARCUS: All right. He sits again.
ADRIAN: Marcus?
Marcus turns to him. He points to the ceiling.
I know.
Marcus removes his gaze from Adrian, a certain mixture of embarrassment and resentment in his face.
Which doesn’t mean I’ve drawn any conclusions about anyone. I mean that sincerely.
MARCUS: You understand, Adrian, that the scene here is not as uncomplicated as it may look from outside. You must believe me.
ADRIAN: I have no doubt about that, Marcus. But at the same time I wouldn’t want to mislead you . . . he glances upward . . . or anyone else. If that book is destroyed or not returned to him—for whatever it’s worth I intend to publicize what I believe is an act of barbarism. This is not some kind of an issue for me—this man is my brother.
Slight pause. Marcus is motionless. Then he turns to Adrian and gestures to him to continue speaking, to amplify. Adrian looks astonished. Marcus repeats the gesture even more imperatively.
For example . . . I’ve always refused to peddle my books on television, but there’s at least two national network shows would be glad to have me, and for this I’d go on.
He
stops; Marcus gestures to continue.
Just telling the story of this evening would be hot news from coast to coast—including Washington, D.C., where some congressmen could easily decide we shouldn’t sign any more trade bills with this country. And so on and so forth.
MARCUS: It was brandy, wasn’t it?
ADRIAN, still amazed: . . . Thanks, yes.
Marcus goes to get the drinks. Adrian catches Sigmund’s eye, but the latter turns forward thoughtfully. Irina enters, heading for the drinks. Marcus brings Adrian a brandy as she makes herself a drink. In the continuing silence, Marcus returns to the drink table, makes a whisky and takes it down to Sigmund. Adrian turns toward Irina, upstage.
So how’s everything in Denmark?
IRINA, with a pleasant laugh: No, no, not everything.
ADRIAN, thumbing to the ceiling, to Sigmund: That ought to keep them busy for a while.
MARCUS, chuckles, sits with his own drink: Cheers.
ADRIAN: Cheers.
SIGMUND: Cheers,
They drink. Irina brings a drink, sits on the floor beside Marcus.
MARCUS: Have you been to London this time?
ADRIAN, pauses slightly, then glances toward Sigmund: No. How was London?
MARCUS: It’s difficult there. It seems to be an endless strike.
ADRIAN, waits a moment: Yes. He decides to continue. Last time there my British publisher had emphysema and none of the elevators were working. I never heard so many Englishmen talking about a dictatorship before.
MARCUS: They probably have come to the end of it there. It’s too bad, but why should evolution spare the English?
ADRIAN: Evolution toward what—fascism?
MARCUS: Or the Arabs taking over more of the economy.
ADRIAN: I can see the bubble pipes in the House of Commons.
Laughter.
The Honorable Member from Damascus.
Laughter. It dies. Adrian thumbs toward Sigmund and then to the ceiling, addressing Marcus.
If they decide to give an answer, would it be tonight?
MARCUS, turns up his palms: . . . Relax, Adrian. He drinks. Please.
ADRIAN, swallows a glassful of brandy: This stuff really spins the wheels. He inhales.
MARCUS: It comes from the mountains.
ADRIAN: I feel like I’m on one.
MARCUS: What’s New York like now?
ADRIAN: New York? New York is another room in hell. He looks up. Of course not as architecturally ornate. In fact, a ceiling like this in New York—I can’t imagine it lasting so long without some half-crocked writer climbing up and chopping holes in those cherubim.
MARCUS: The ceiling is nearly four hundred years old, you know.
ADRIAN: That makes it less frightful?
MARCUS: In a sense, maybe—for us it has some reassuring associations. When it was made, this city was the cultural capital of Europe—the world, really, this side of China. A lot of art, science, philosophy poured from this place.
ADRIAN: Painful.
MARCUS, with a conceding shrug: But on the other hand, the government spends a lot keeping these in repair. It doesn’t do to forget that, you know.
SIGMUND: That is true. They are repairing all the angels. It is very good to be an angel in our country.
Marcus smiles.
Yes, we shall have the most perfect angels in the whole world.
Marcus laughs.
But I believe perhaps every government is loving very much the angels, no, Adrian?
ADRIAN: Oh, no doubt about it. But six months under this particular kind of art and I’d be ready to cut my throat or somebody else’s. What do you say we go to a bar, Marcus?
MARCUS, to Sigmund: Ezlatchu stau?
SIGMUND, sighs, then nods: Ezlatchu.
ADRIAN, to Marcus: Where does that put us?
MARCUS: He doesn’t mind staying till we’ve had something to eat. Afterwards, perhaps.
Pause. Silence.
ADRIAN: Let me in on it, Marcus—or are we waiting for something?
MARCUS: No, no, I just thought we’d eat before we talked.
ADRIAN: Oh. All right.
IRINA, patting her stomach: I to sandwich?
MARCUS, patting her head like a child’s, laughing: Maya is bringing very soon.
ADRIAN: She’s as sweet as sugar, Marcus, where’d you find her?
MARCUS: Her husband is the head of Danish programming for the BBC. There’s Maya. He crosses to the corridor door.
ADRIAN: What does he do, loan her out?
MARCUS, laughs: No, no, she just wanted to see the country. He exits into the corridor.
SIGMUND: And Marcus will show her every inch.
ADRIAN, bursts out laughing: Oh Sigmund, Sigmund—what a century! Sotto: What the hell is happening?
Men’s shouting voices below, Maya yelling loudly. Marcus instantly breaks into a run, disappears up the corridor. Adrian and Sigmund listen. The shouting continues. Sigmund gets up, goes and listens at the door.
ADRIAN: What is it?
Sigmund opens the door, goes into the corridor, listens.
Who are they?
A door is heard slamming below, silencing the shouts. Pause.
Sigmund?
Sigmund comes back into the room.
What was it?
SIGMUND: Drunken men. They want to see the traitor to the motherland. Enemy of the working class. He sits.
Pause.
ADRIAN: . . . Come to my hotel.
SIGMUND: Is not possible. Be calm.
ADRIAN: How’d they know you were here?
Sigmund shrugs, then indicates the ceiling.
They’d call out hoodlums?
Sigmund turns up his palms, shrugs.
Marcus and Maya appear up the corridor. She carries a large tray covered with a white cloth. He has a handkerchief to his cheekbone. He opens the door for her. Irina stands and clears the marble table for the tray. Marcus crosses to the upstage right doorway and exits.
Sigmund stands. Maya faces him across the room. Long pause.
What happened?
MAYA, with a gesture toward the food: Come, poet.
Sigmund watches her for a moment more, then goes up to the food. She is staring excitedly into his face.
The dark meat is goose.
Sigmund turns from her to the food.
Adrian?
ADRIAN: I’m not hungry. Thanks.
MAYA, takes the plate from Sigmund and loads it heavily: Beer?
SIGMUND: I have whisky. You changed your haircut?
MAYA: From Vogue magazine. You like it?
SIGMUND: Very.
MAYA, touching his face: Very much, you say.
SIGMUND: Very, very much.
He returns to his chair with a loaded plate, sits, and proceeds to eat in silence. She pours herself a brandy, sits near him.
MAYA, to Adrian as she watches Sigmund admiringly: He comes from the peasants, you know. That is why he is so beautiful. And he is sly. Like a snake.
Slight pause. Sigmund eats.
What have you done now? She indicates below. Why have they come?
Sigmund pauses in his eating, not looking at her.
ADRIAN, after the pause: The cops took his manuscript tonight.
She inhales sharply with a gasp, nearly crying out. Sigmund continues to eat. She goes to him, embraces his head, mouth pressed to his hair. He draws her hands down, apparently warding off her emotion, and continues eating. She moves and sits further away from him, staring ahead, alarmed and angry. Marcus enters from the bedroom, a bandage stuck to his cheekbone.
MARCUS, to Adrian: Have you taken something?
ADRIAN: Not just yet, thanks.
Maya rises to confront
Marcus, but refusing her look, he passes her, a fixed smile on his face, picks up his drink from the marble table, and comes downstage and stands. First he, then Adrian, then Maya, turn and watch Sigmund eating. He eats thoroughly. Irina is also eating, off by herself.
Pause.
Marcus goes to his chair, sits, and lights a cigarette. Adrian watches him.
It’s like some kind of continuous crime.
MAYA: You are so rich, Adrian, so famous—why do you make such boring remarks?
ADRIAN: Because I am a bore.
MARCUS: Oh, now, Maya . . .
MAYA, sharply, to Marcus: Where is it not a continuous crime?
SIGMUND: It is the truth. To Adrian: Just so, yes. It is a continuous crime.
MAYA, to the three: Stupid. Like children. Stupid!
MARCUS: Sssh—take something to eat, dear . . .
ADRIAN: Why are we stupid?
Ignoring his question, she goes up to the table, takes a goose wing, and bites into it. Then she comes down and stands eating. After a moment . . .
MARCUS: It’s wonderful to see you again, Adrian. What brought you back here?
MAYA: He has been talking to Allison Wolfe.
MARCUS, smiling, to Adrian: Oh, to Allison.
ADRIAN: Yes.
MARCUS: Is he still going around with that story?
MAYA: Yes.
MARCUS, slight pause: Adrian . . . you know, I’m sure, that this house has been a sort of gathering place for writers for many years now. And they’ve always brought their girlfriends, and quite often met girls here they didn’t know before. Our first literary magazine after the war was practically published from this room.
ADRIAN: I know that, Marcus.
MARCUS: Allison happened to be here one night, a month or so ago, when there was a good bit of screwing going on.
ADRIAN: Sorry I missed it.
MARCUS: It was fairly spectacular. But believe me—it was a purely spontaneous outburst of good spirits. Totally unexpected, it was just one of those things that happens with enough brandy.
Adrian laughs.
What I think happened is that—you see, we had a novelist here who was about to emigrate; to put it bluntly, he is paranoid. I can’t blame him—he hasn’t been able to publish here since the government changed. And I am one of the people he blamed, as though I had anything to say about who is or isn’t to be published. But the fact that I live decently and can travel proved to him that I have some secret power with the higher echelons—in effect, that I am some sort of agent.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 90