ADRIAN: Well, do they? To Marcus: Are they part of your lives at all?
MARCUS: I don’t really know . . .
ADRIAN: Maya? It interests me.
MAYA: It’s such a long time, now. And you don’t see them unless you drive out there . . .
MARCUS: It’s hard to say.
ADRIAN, of Sigmund: Why do you suppose he can’t stop thinking about them? I bet there isn’t an hour a day when they don’t cross his mind.
MAYA: Because he is a genius. When he enters the tram, the conductor refuses to accept his fare. In the grocery store they give him the best oranges. The usher bows in the theatre when she shows him to his seat. She goes to Sigmund, touches his hair. He is our Sigmund. He is loved, he creates our memories. Therefore, it is only a question of time when he will create the departure of these tanks, and they will go home. And then we shall all be ourselves, with nothing overhead but the sky, and he will turn into a monument standing in the park. Her eyes fill with tears, she turns up his face. Go, darling. Please. There is nothing left for you.
SIGMUND, touches her face: Something, perhaps. We shall see.
Maya moves right to the window, sips a drink.
IRINA, with a swimming gesture, to Marcus: I am bathing?
MARCUS: Yes, of course—come, I’ll get you a towel. He starts to rise.
MAYA, looking out the window: She’d better wait a little—I used all the hot water. With a laugh, to Sigmund: I came tonight to take a bath!
Marcus laughs.
ADRIAN: Marcus, when they arrested you . . .
MAYA, suddenly: Will you stop writing, for Christ’s sake! Isn’t there something else to talk about?
MARCUS: Why not—if he’s interested?
MAYA: Are we some sick fish in a tank! To Adrian: Stop it! She gets up, goes to the drink table. What the hell do you expect people to do? What is it?
MARCUS: You’ve had enough, dear . . .
MAYA, pouring: I have not had enough, dear. She suddenly slams the glass down on the table. Fuck all this diplomacy! At Adrian: You’re in no position to judge anybody! We have nothing to be ashamed of!
MARCUS, turning away in disgust: Oh, for God’s sake . . .
MAYA: You know what he brought when he came to me? A bottle of milk!
Perplexed, Marcus turns to her.
I wake up and he’s in the kitchen, drinking milk! She stands before Marcus, awaiting his reaction. A grown man!
MARCUS, to calm her: Well, they drink a lot of it in the States.
MAYA, quietly, seeking to explain: He smelled like a baby, all night.
MARCUS, stands: I’ll make you some coffee . . .
He starts past her, but she stops him with her hand on his arm, frightened and remorseful. She kisses him.
MAYA: I’m going home. She takes his hand, tries to lead him toward Sigmund with imperative force. Come, be his friend . . . you are friends, darling . . . The telephone in the bedroom rings. She turns up to the entrance in surprise. Goddamn that Hilton!
She starts toward the bedroom, but as the telephone rings again, Marcus goes up and exits into the bedroom. She comes to Sigmund.
Darling . . . She points up to the ceiling, speaking softly in desperation. I really don’t think there is anything there. I would never do that to you, you know that. I think it was only to make himself interesting—he can’t write anymore; it left him . . . In anguish: It left him!
SIGMUND: I know.
MAYA: He loves you, he loves you, darling! . . . She grips her head. My God, I’m sick . . .
She starts upstage as Marcus enters. He has a stunned look.
She halts, seeing him, looks at him questioningly. Sigmund turns to look at him, and Adrian. After a moment . . .
MARCUS, turns to Sigmund with a gesture inviting him to go to the phone: It’s Alexandra.
Sigmund does not move.
. . . She wishes to speak to you.
Sigmund stands, confounded by Marcus’s look, and goes out into the bedroom. Marcus remains there, staring.
MAYA: What?
Marcus is silent, staring.
ADRIAN: Something happen?
Marcus crosses the stage and descends into his chair, his face transfixed by some enigma.
MAYA, in fright, starting up toward the bedroom: Sigmund! . . .
Sigmund enters, halts, shakes his head, uttering an almost soundless laugh, his eyes alive to something incredible.
MARCUS: They’re returning his manuscript.
Maya claps her hands together, then crosses herself, her face between explosive joy and some terror, rigid, sobered.
ADRIAN, grabs Sigmund by the shoulders: Is it true?
MARCUS: She may be able to bring it when she comes.
ADRIAN: Sigmund! He kisses him. They look at each other and laugh.
SIGMUND, half smiling: You believe it?
ADRIAN, taken aback: Don’t you?
SIGMUND, laughs: I don’t know! He walks, dumbfounded. . . . Yes, I suppose I believe. He suddenly laughs. Why not! They have made me ridiculous, therefore I must believe it.
MARCUS: Well, the main thing is, you . . .
SIGMUND: Yes, that is the main thing. I must call Elizabeth . . . He starts to the bedroom but looks at his watch. No . . . she will not yet be home.
ADRIAN, to all: What could it mean? He laughs, seeing Sigmund. You look punchy. He grabs him. Wake up! You got it back! . . . Listen, come to Paris with me . . . with the boy and Elizabeth. We’ll get you a visa—you can be in New York in ten days. We’ll go to my publisher, I’ll break his arm, we’ll get you a tremendous advance, and you’re on your way.
SIGMUND, laughing: Wait, wait . . .
ADRIAN: Say yes! Come on! You can waste the rest of your life in this goddamned country. Jesus, why can’t they steal it again tomorrow? To the ceiling: I didn’t mean that about the country. But it’s infuriating—they play you like a yo-yo.
SIGMUND, sits; an aura of irony on his voice: So, Maya . . . you are immortal again.
ADRIAN: Is she that character?
MAYA: Of course.
ADRIAN: She sounded terrific.
MAYA: She is the best woman he has ever written—fantastic, complicated personality. To Sigmund: What is there to keep you now? It is enough, no?
IRINA: Is good?
MARCUS, patting her: Yes, very good.
SIGMUND: She is so lucky—she understands nothing. We also understand nothing—but for us is not lucky.
MAYA: We should go to Francesco’s later—we should have a party.
SIGMUND, turns to her with a faint smile: It is strange, eh? We have such good news and we are sad.
MARCUS: It isn’t sadness.
SIGMUND: Perhaps only some sort of humiliation. He shakes his head. We must admire them—they are very intelligent—they can even create unhappiness with good news.
ADRIAN, to Marcus: What do you suppose happened?
MARCUS: I’ve no idea.
ADRIAN: It seems like a gesture of some kind. Is it?
MARCUS: I haven’t the foggiest.
ADRIAN: Could it be that I was here?
MARCUS: Who knows? Of course they would like to make peace with him, it’s a gesture in that sense.
Sigmund looks across at him.
I think you ought to consider it that way.
SIGMUND: It is their contempt; they are laughing.
MARCUS: Not necessarily—some of them have great respect for you.
SIGMUND: No, no, they are laughing.
MAYA: Why are you such children?
Sigmund turns to her.
It is not respect and it is not contempt—it is nothing.
ADRIAN: But it must mean something.
MAYA: Why? They have the power to take it and the po
wer to give it back.
ADRIAN: Well, that’s a meaning.
MAYA: You didn’t know that before? When it rains you get wet—that is not exactly meaningful. To the three: There’s nothing to say; it is a terrible embarrassment for geniuses, but there is simply no possible comment to be made.
SIGMUND: How is in Shakespeare? “We are like flies to little boys, they kill us for their sport.”
MAYA: They are not killing you at all. Not at all.
SIGMUND: Why are you angry with me? I am not obliged to ask why something happens?
MAYA: Because you can live happily and you don’t want to.
ADRIAN: It’s not so simple.
MAYA: But for you it is! You are so rich, Adrian, you live so well—why must he be heroic?
ADRIAN: I’ve never told him to . . .
MAYA: Then tell him to get out! Be simple, be clear to him . . .
ADRIAN: I’ve been very clear to him . . .
MAYA: Good! To Sigmund: So the three of us are of the same opinion, you see? Let’s have a party at Francesco’s . . . call Elizabeth . . . a farewell party. All right?
He looks up at her.
It is all finished, darling!
He smiles, shaking his head. She is frightened and angry.
What? What is it? What more can be said?
SIGMUND, with a certain laughter: Is like some sort of theatre, no? Very bad theatre—our emotions have no connection with the event. Myself also—I must speak, darling—I do not understand myself. I must confess, I have feeling of gratitude; before they have stolen my book I was never grateful. Now I am grateful— His laughter vanishes. I cannot accept such confusion, Maya, is very bad for my mentality. I must speak! I think we must all speak now! He ends looking at Marcus; his anger is open.
MARCUS: What can I tell you? I know nothing.
SIGMUND: I am sure not, but we can speculate, perhaps? To Maya: Please, darling—sit; we must wait for Alexandra, we have nothing to do. Please, Adrian—sit down . . . I have some idea . . .
Adrian sits. Sigmund continues to Maya.
. . . which I would like to discuss before I leave my country.
Maya sits slowly, apprehensively. He turns to Marcus, adopting a quiet, calm air.
Is possible, Marcus—there was some sort of mistake? Perhaps only one police commander has made this decision for himself—to stealing my book? Perhaps the government was also surprised?
Marcus considers in silence.
I am interested your opinion. I think so, perhaps—no?
MARCUS: Do you know if they were the Security Police?
SIGMUND: Yes, Security Police.
MARCUS: They might, I suppose.
SIGMUND: I think so. But in this case . . . this fellow in London taxi—is possible he was also speaking for himself?
MARCUS: I can’t believe that.
SIGMUND: But if he was speaking for the government . . . such terrible thing against me—why have they chosen to returning my manuscript? I think is not logical, no?
MARCUS: . . . Unless they had second thoughts, and felt it would make it easier for you to leave.
SIGMUND: Yes. That is very strong idea.
ADRIAN: I think that’s it.
SIGMUND: Very good, yes. But at same time, if I have manuscript—you do not object that I . . . ?
MARCUS: Go ahead—it’s simply that I know no more than . . .
SIGMUND: You understand is very important to me. . . . I must understand why I am leaving.
MARCUS: Of course. Go ahead.
SIGMUND, slight pause: If I have manuscript, I must probably conclude it is not dangerous for me here, no? I must believe is only some particular antagonistic enemy who wish me to go out. Is possible?
MARCUS: What can I tell you?
SIGMUND, with nearly an outcry through his furious control: But you know you are sad! I am sad, Maya is sad—if was only some sort of mistake . . . why we are not happy?
Maya gets up and strides toward the bedroom.
Maya?
MAYA, hardly turning back: I’m going home . . .
SIGMUND, leaps up and intercepts her: No, no—we must have celebration! He grips her hands.
MAYA: Let me go!
SIGMUND: No! We have tremendous good news, we must have correct emotion!
MAYA, wrenching her hands free, pointing at his pocket: Give me that thing . . . Give it to me!
SIGMUND: My God—I had forgotten it. He takes out the pistol, looks at it.
MAYA: Please. Sigmund. Please! . . .
SIGMUND: I have crazy idea . . .
MAYA, weeping: Sigmund . . .
SIGMUND, moving toward the piano: One time very long ago, I have read in American detective story . . . that criminal has placed revolver inside piano. He sets the pistol on the strings and comes around to the bench. Then someone is playing very fortissimo . . . something like Beethoven . . . raising his hands over the keyboard. . . . and he is firing the pistol.
ADRIAN: What the hell are you doing?
SIGMUND, smashes his hands down on the keyboard: Ha! Is not true.
ADRIAN, stands: What the hell are you doing?
SIGMUND: Wait! I have idea . . . He reaches over, takes out the pistol, and cocks it.
MAYA: Marcus!
SIGMUND, replacing the cocked pistol in the piano: Now we shall see . . .
ADRIAN, rushing Maya away from the piano: Watch out!
SIGMUND, crashes his hands down; the gun explodes, the strings reverberating: Is true! He reaches in and takes out the revolver. My God, I am so happy . . . He holds up the revolver. The truth is alive in our country, Marcus! He comes and sits near Marcus. Is unmistakable, no?—when something is true?
He looks at the pistol, puts it in his pocket. Marcus turns to him only now. Maya suddenly weeps, sobbing, and makes for the bedroom.
I cannot permit you to leave, Maya!
She halts, turning to him in terror.
I must insist, darling—is most important evening of my life and I understand nothing. Why do you weep, why do you go? If I am ridiculous I must understand why? Please . . . sit. Perhaps you also can say something.
She sits a distance from him and Marcus. Adrian remains standing, catching his breath; he leans his head on his hand, as though caught by a rush of sadness and he shakes his head incredulously, glancing at Marcus.
MARCUS: What is it? What is it!
SIGMUND: This fellow . . . this fellow in taxi who has threatened me—what was his name?
MARCUS: I don’t recall, I only heard it once. Granitz, I think. Or Grodnitz. But I’m sure he didn’t know you.
SIGMUND: Grodnitz.
MARCUS: . . . Or Granitz.
ADRIAN: You know him?
SIGMUND: . . . No. Slight pause. No Granitz. No Grodnitz. Slight pause. He takes the pistol out of his pocket, looks at it in his hand, then turns again to Marcus. He exists? Or is imaginary man?
Marcus is silent.
Was ever discussion of trial for me? Or is imaginary trial?
Marcus is silent. Sigmund looks at the pistol again; then, stretching over to Marcus he places it in his hand.
I believe I have no danger, at the moment.
Long pause. No one dares do more than glance at Marcus whose face is filled with his fury. The pause lengthens. Sigmund looks at his watch.
I will try to call Elizabeth . . . she was worried.
MARCUS: The sole function of every other writer is to wish he were you.
Sigmund stands, looks to Maya, who avoids his eyes. He exits into the bedroom. After a moment . . .
ADRIAN, sotto, to assuage Marcus: He’s terribly scared . . .
MARCUS, slight pause; like a final verdict: I couldn’t care less. He looks at his watch.
ADRIA
N, silent for a moment: For what it’s worth . . . I know he has tremendous feeling for you.
MARCUS: For his monument. To build his monument he has to prove that everyone else is a coward or corrupt. My mistake was to offer him my help—it’s a menace to his lonely grandeur. No one is permitted anything but selfishness. He’s insane.
ADRIAN: Oh come on . . .
MARCUS: He’s paranoid—these letters to the foreign press are for nothing but to bring on another confrontation. It was too peaceful; they were threatening him with tolerance. He must find evil or he can’t be good.
MAYA: Let’s not talk about it anymore . . .
MARCUS: I exist too, Maya! I am not dancing around that megalomania again!
Slight pause.
ADRIAN: I can’t blame you, but I wish you wouldn’t cut out on him yet. Look, I’ll stay through the week, maybe I can convince him. Does he have a week?
MARCUS, slowly turns to Adrian: How would I know?
ADRIAN: All I meant was whether you . . .
MARCUS: I won’t have any more of this, Adrian!
Slight pause.
ADRIAN: I believe you—I’ve told him to get out.
MARCUS: No, you haven’t; you’ve insinuated.
ADRIAN: Christ’s sake, you’ve heard me say . . .
MARCUS: I have heard you.
They are facing each other. Slight pause.
You don’t believe me, Adrian . . . not really.
Adrian can’t answer.
So it’s all over. It’s the end of him—I’ve been there. He will smash his head against the walls, and the rest of us will pay for his grandeur.
Slight pause. Adrian turns front in his conflict. Sigmund enters. Marcus turns away.
MAYA, with a forced attempt at cheerfulness: Did you reach her? Elizabeth?
SIGMUND: She is very happy. To Marcus: She send you her greetings—she is grateful. Slight pause. I also.
Marcus half turns toward him. Sigmund says no more, goes to his chair and sits.
ADRIAN: Sigmund? Sigmund glances at him. Do you trust me?
Sigmund is silent.
I’m convinced he’s told you the truth.
In all the times we’ve talked about you, he’s never shown anything but a wide-open pride in you, and your work. He’s with you. You have to believe that.
Sigmund turns, stares at Marcus’s profile for a moment. Then looks at Maya. She ultimately turns slightly away. He looks down at the floor.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 94