Shimon: An educated Arab. You think he’s telling the truth?
Rivka: I have no idea. I’ve never met the guy. What’s he doing here anyways?
Shimon: Being a nuisance.
Alex: Let me be frank. I need to recruit five hundred Palestinians into my legions, so please, answer the following questions honestly.
When was the last time you engaged in the act of cunnilingus, Mr. Abu Dalo?
Abu Dalo: 1978.
Alex: Wow. So you’re like a museum piece. Fascinating. (writing notes, etc.)
Rivka: You need to talk to your son.
Shimon: I’ll talk to him all right. Right after I figure out what to do with this stinking Arab. He’s dangerous.
Rivka: If he’s a threat you should call the police.
Shimon: The police can’t help me with this. The house spoke to him.
Rivka: Are you drunk?
Shimon: This is a Jewish house.
The house told me so—she spoke to me.
But the house speaks to him too.
So how does the Arab fit into this?
ALEX writing, taking notes with ABU DALO.
Alex: Have you ever given cunnilingus to a Jewess?
Abu Dalo: I told you I’m married.
Alex: I’ll take that as a “no.” So where’s your wife?
Abu Dalo: Not here.
Alex: Can I interview her sometime?
Abu Dalo: NO.
Alex: How often do you two copulate? Per annum.
Abu Dalo: Shut up.
Alex: Does she wear a head scarf?
Abu Dalo: I don’t want to talk about my wife.
Alex: What does the Koran have to say about cunnilingus?
Abu Dalo: Kid, I don’t care what the hell the Koran says about anything. Now go into the backyard and spend some time with the fig tree. Try and learn from it. It knows the virtue of shutting the fuck up.
Shimon: That’s enough. I’m going outside.
Rivka: Hold on. We need to talk.
Alex: What fig tree?
ABU DALO leads ALEX into the backyard.
Abu Dalo: The fig tree that my great-grandfather planted. Does this still lead to the backyard?
SHIMON and RIVKA go through the front door to look for them.
Shimon: Alex? Where are you?
Abu Dalo: Where the hell is it?
Alex: I don’t think we ever had a fig tree. Are you sure you lived here?
Shimon: Alex? Come back inside!
Abu Dalo: Of course I’m sure. It was right here. Ten feet tall. The most beautiful fig tree in the world! What kind of person would cut down a fig tree? (a beat) May I use your bathroom?
Alex: I would be honoured, sir.
ALEX lets ABU DALO inside. ALEX searches for signs of the fig tree.
Shimon: The boy never listens.
Rivka: He’s a teenager. You need to find new ways to talk. It’s time, Shimon.
Shimon: I’ve had enough talking.
Rivka: The boy wants to know who his mother is.
Shimon: He floated down the river in a basket. And that’s all there is to say.
Rivka: Tell him the truth.
Shimon: My son is a miracle.
His life is a miracle.
But the world corrupts him.
That’s why he doesn’t listen.
People like you make him lost.
Rivka: I’ve been like a mother to your son. I’m his teacher.
Shimon: My book will be his teacher. He will learn the story of the gun.
The miracle of this country.
Rivka: Enough with the fairy tales. He’s growing up.
Shimon: Leave us, Rivka—it’s time to move on.
Get married. Meet someone your own age.
Have your own kids.
Rivka: You’re getting rid of me.
RIVKA exits. SHIMON opens a beer.
Alex: Hey, was there ever a fig tree out back?
Shimon: Alex! Are you okay?
Alex: I’m fine. The Arab’s nice—and he’s a writer.
Shimon: Where the hell is he?
Alex: (ignores him) He’s going to join me in my revolutionary peace efforts. Though his practices are somewhat out of date.
ABU DALO pulls a radio out from his coat. He turns it on. Arabic pop music.
Shimon: What the hell is that?
Alex: It’s Abu Dalo.
Shimon: You let him inside?
Alex: Yeah.
Shimon: Are you totally out of your mind?
Alex: He had to urinate.
Shimon: (knocks on the door) Abu Dalo! Get out of my bathroom! Abu Dalo!
My God. This is a disaster. Do you understand what this means?
Alex: It means there’s a stranger in our restroom.
Shimon: This changes everything.
He’s in the house. How could you do this?
Alex: I didn’t do anything.
Shimon: You let the enemy in.
Abu Dalo! Abu Dalo, open this door!
Enter THE CAMEL and THE HOUSE.
The Camel: You’re looking really good today, sweetheart. Especially from the back.
The House: I hate it when you objectify me. Especially since you’ve been gone for six months. How was Sinai?
The Camel: Not as beautiful as you.
The House: There are cobwebs in the corners of the living room. There’s mould between the floorboards. Peeling paint, broken pipes, an eroding foundation. I’m worried I’m going to get condemned—they’ll tear me down and put a road right through to that new mall they’re building.
The Camel: Humans. Messy species.
The House: Shimon used to be good to me. But every year he gets worse. He ignores the details. I’m the kind of house who believes that someone better will come along and finally take care of me.
The Camel: I could take care of you.
The House: You told me you’re “allergic to the domestic.”
The Camel: That was a crass and thoughtless comment. I’ve changed.
The House: A domestic camel? I’ll believe it when I see it.
The Camel: And that Arab’s domestic? When was the last time he took a shower?
The House: He’s an old friend.
The Camel: He’s weaving and muttering to the sink and the bathtub.
The House: He cares about me. He’s very passionate.
The Arabic music blasts at high volume (“Habibi, Habibi”: a love song to THE HOUSE). ABU DALO does some crazy dance and lip-synchs.
The Camel: He seems a bit fucked up, if you ask me.
The House: He knows what I need.
Abu Dalo: One is away for so many years.
One lives in another house. Many houses.
(to THE HOUSE) For all those years, when I was in exile, when I was in jail, you were all I could think of. I dreamt of your floorboards. I memorized every detail, and whatever I couldn’t remember I made up.
It’s so good to be here. Are you happy to see me too? (a beat)
I know, you probably thought I was dead. That I’d never come back.
But you know I can treat you so much better than that Jewish prick.
I missed you, very, very much.
The House: You’re sitting on the throne.
Abu Dalo: Real cedar. A joy on the rumpus.
The House: The toilet gets a bad rap. Nobody really wants to talk about toilets. People say, “nice bathroom.”
Abu Dalo: Nice bathroom.
The House: Or, “lovely bath.”
Abu Dalo: Lovely bath.
The House: Or, “I like the mirror you’ve put in.”
Abu Dalo: It is a nice addition.
The House: But how many people can say, “I love your toilet”?
Abu Dalo: I love your toilet.
You know, I’ve always thought the toilet is the heart of the house. It’s not unlike an altar.
You bring your offerings. And th
ey’re left in the earth.
ABU DALO flushes the toilet. He stands up.
The House: Well, well, Abu Dalo. It’s time. Wash up.
Abu Dalo: I’m afraid I can’t do that.
The House: To commemorate your return you need to clean up.
Abu Dalo: My filth is my penance.
The House: Then you’ve served your time, Abu Dalo.
Abu Dalo: No I haven’t.
The House: What could you have done to make yourself smell this bad?
Abu Dalo: I can’t say.
The House: You’re ashamed.
Abu Dalo: I don’t want to talk about it.
The House: But your smell insults me.
Abu Dalo: I choose to smell this way. To make myself ugly.
The House: Are you married?
Abu Dalo: Yes.
The House: What’s her name?
Abu Dalo: Yuad.
The House: I love that name: Yuad. It rolls off the tongue like water off an eavestrough. When is she coming?
Abu Dalo: It’s complicated. We haven’t actually talked in three years.
The House: Well what are you waiting for? Call her.
Abu Dalo: What if Yuad doesn’t want to hear from me?
I can barely remember what she looks like.
The House: Does she know about me?
Abu Dalo: Of course she does. I used to talk to her about you all the time.
The House: Then tell Yuad you’re bringing her home.
You’ll be a normal husband and wife again. You’ll have a child.
Abu Dalo: We already have one.
The House: Abu Dalo, why didn’t you just say so!
Abu Dalo: Because… I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since she was a baby. She’s fifteen.
The House: When you were sixteen, and you were preparing to leave, you made me a promise: you said you’d come back and take care of me. And I said, don’t come back until you have a wife and child. Until you’re ready. You’re ready, Abu Dalo. Fulfill your promise.
Abu Dalo: A promise is one thing. But putting it into practice is something else. I don’t even know how to talk to them.
The House: You’ll do just fine. Call your wife. I promise: if you want me, you will get me. And you need to look good for when your family comes. Lather up. Use good, hot water. Make yourself new.
Enter SHIMON.
Shimon: Abu Dalo?
He tries the door. It’s locked. He tries the door again.
Open up, you moron. I promise… I won’t kill you.
Silence.
I want to kill you, but I won’t. We can negotiate. You give me something, I give you something. We’ll figure it out. We’re men! We’re civilized!
A beat.
Abu Dalo? Let’s talk.
Knocks.
You little Arab turd. Open up! This is MY BATHROOM! This is MY HOUSE!
ABU DALO opens up the cabinet. Pulls out a bar of soap. A razor. He turns on the water and starts to clean his face.
The Camel: It’s like watching a train wreck.
The House: I haven’t felt this hopeful since Oslo.
The Camel: This has disaster written all over it. You’ve promised yourself to both of them.
The House: I’m looking for life. And here it is, right between these walls.
The Camel: They’ll fuck you up. Guaranteed.
The House: The difference between you and me is I believe in people.
The Camel: The difference between you and me is you’re completely unrealistic.
The House: People exhibit unusual and unexpected potentials. That is their beauty.
ALEX in SHIMON’s room. He snoops around, knocking on the floor, searching for a hollow place.
The Camel: So why’s the kid snooping around his father’s room?
The House: Oh dear.
ALEX tries to pry open a floorboard.
The Camel: With a crowbar? He doesn’t need to be so rough with you.
ALEX removes the floorboard. Searching inside he finds an ammunitions box.
What’s in the ammo box?
The House: More gentlemen’s magazines, I suppose.
The Camel: Nobody hides smut under nailed-down floorboards.
I don’t have a good feeling about this.
The House: All knowledge is good, right?
The Camel: You know what they say about knowledge. It’s like a renovation. It changes you.
Scene 7
Eight days pass. SHIMON and ABU DALO at the table. ABU DALO is clean-shaven and wearing SHIMON’s clothes.
Shimon: Now. My son is drawing up a contract for us based on last night’s final round of talks.
Abu Dalo: “For eight days and eight nights, the Palestinian defied the oppression of his enemy and barricaded himself in a toilet.” How’s that for an opening?
Shimon: You could’ve ended the occupation of my toilet earlier.
Abu Dalo: You would’ve shot me.
Shimon: I would’ve fed you.
Abu Dalo: I don’t need your food.
Shimon: No. Of course not. You ate all of my toothpaste and Aspirin instead.
Abu Dalo: “And when the Palestinian opened the bathroom cabinet, he saw there were only enough Tums for one day. But lo and behold, a great miracle occurred. And the Tums lasted for eight days and eight nights.”
Shimon: Shut up.
Abu Dalo: I really like Tums. They’re nice on the stomach.
Shimon: I should never have negotiated with you.
Abu Dalo: I would’ve stayed in there longer had you kept the fig tree in the back. If you hadn’t cut down that fig tree, I could’ve eaten figs till the cows came home.
Shimon: I cut down that tree years ago.
Abu Dalo: My great-grandfather planted that tree.
Shimon: And then some bugs came and ate it. What do you want me to say? I’m sorry your friggin’ fig tree died.
Abu Dalo: You have no respect.
Shimon: While I had to shit and piss in my own backyard, I brought you food. Dates. Almonds. Pistachios. Blood oranges—
Abu Dalo: I detest pity.
Shimon: That wasn’t pity. That was me not wanting a dead Arab stinking up my bathroom. So. Are we doing this or not?
Abu Dalo: I write your story.
Shimon: You’re a writer. You write my story.
Abu Dalo: I was a writer.
Shimon: Professor of Arabic literature.
Abu Dalo: That’s the past.
Shimon: I tell you what to say. You make it sound flowery and good.
Abu Dalo: Sure. And you’re really going to give me half this house?
Shimon: For as long we work on this book.
Abu Dalo: All right. Which half?
Shimon: I don’t know. We didn’t work out the specifics.
Abu Dalo: Well maybe we should.
Shimon: O-kay.
Abu Dalo: I want my old room.
Shimon: Fine.
Abu Dalo: I want the toilet.
Shimon: We share the toilet.
Abu Dalo: It spoke to me.
Shimon: The whole house spoke to me. 1967. The landscape was full of stealing and lies. The bodies roasting in the sun. And this house appeared before me like a miracle. She promised herself to me. This is a Jewish house.
Abu Dalo: Your vision was a lie. The house speaks to me. You heard her.
Shimon: It doesn’t mean she’s your house.
Abu Dalo: Yes it does.
Shimon: No, it means… we have to negotiate.
Abu Dalo: I want this room.
Shimon: I work in here.
Abu Dalo: Where will I work?
Shimon: In here with me.
Abu Dalo: This arrangement is unacceptable.
Shimon: You occupying my bathroom for eight days is unacceptable. I could have had you arrested. I still could. Would you like that?
Abu Dalo: Fuck you.
Shimon: Would you like to be deported?
Silence.
Would you like me to shoot you?
Abu Dalo: That would be murder.
Shimon: Not if I tell the police that some filthy Arab forced his way into my house. (picking up the gun, pointing it) You have to help me write this book. And we better live in fucking peace, you pain in the ass.
Abu Dalo: I want a DustBuster.
Shimon: I have a vacuum cleaner. You can borrow that.
Abu Dalo: I won’t agree to anything unless you buy me a DustBuster.
Shimon: What the hell do you need a DustBuster for?
Abu Dalo: They’re efficient, practical and they get into small places.
Shimon: My vacuum cleaner has changeable heads.
Abu Dalo: I’m not writing a word without the DustBuster.
Shimon: Oh God.
Abu Dalo: This place is a pigsty. The DustBuster is the essence of cleanliness. I even know the model I want. There’s a blond woman on the package in a tight red dress bent over, happily DustBusting. I promise to be as happy as that woman if you buy me that DustBuster.
House of Many Tongues Page 3