by Alan Filewod
At the moment where the play begins, at 10:30 in the morning on 5 July 1967, the interrogation has been going on since 1:00 o’clock in the morning of 4 July, without interruption. One has the feeling that Him and the police officers are getting nowhere; in Him’s case, because he has no intention of telling them any more than what he has already told them a hundred times; and in their case, because they know who, when, and where, but the “why” is missing and there’s no one there to help them dig themselves out of this explosive situation.
3 An hour after the beginning of the performance (at precisely 11:30 fictional time), there are three knocks at the main door. The judge has arrived. No matter at what point this happens, the effect is the same: the Inspector motions to the Stenographer to go out and ask the judge to wait a few more minutes. Immediately at the sound of the first knock: total silence on stage. The silence of citizens who have been tracked down. The Stenographer exits. Returns. As soon as the Stenographer has gone back to his place, the actors go back to the beginning of the line interrupted by the knocks or they continue where they left off, whichever seems more appropriate.
René-Daniel Dubois
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
In the original French-language version of Being at Home with Claude, René-Daniel Dubois used phonetic spelling and unorthodox punctuation extensively. These effects were not used to create a sense of dialect or social class, but rather to reproduce the sound and the music of the spoken language, as it is spoken daily by “ordinary” people in the street and at home, with all the variations that personality and circumstance bring to bear. The use of phonetic contractions and the frequent dropping of the “g’s” throughout the text of this translation are used to achieve the same effect in English. Actors can simply view these spelling eccentricities as an invitation to listen for the sound of the characters’ inner and outer voices.
Linda Gaboriau
Being at Home with Claude was originally published in French (under the same title) by Editions Leméac, 5111, ave Durocher, Outremont, Quebec, H2V 3X7.
Gong. Lights go up. Freeze-frame onstage for three seconds. Gong rings again. The three actors begin to move. Immediately:
Inspector: (shouting) And whatabout me? Dontcha think I’d rather be standing in line at the Japanese Pavilion, instead of being stuck here with a trick from Parc Lafontaine who gets off on slitting people’s throats? You think I got nothing better to do in life?
(Beat.)
Inspector: (calmer) Okay. So when you left the park, then where did you go?
Him: Oh, Christ, I told you 10 times already.
Inspector: Tell me again.
(Beat.)
Him: All right, listen, I’ll tell you again, the whole bit. But this is the last time. Tape it or film it. Mark little x’s on the map with a numbered code. Draw pictures for all I care, but …
Inspector: Hey, watch it, kid. Forget the good advice and answer my questions. You called the cops? … Well, here I am. I’ve listened to your half-cocked story. Now you can deliver the goods and let me …
Him: Don’t call me kid.
Inspector: … and let me do my job. C’mon, shoot. Tell us the story. The real story.
Him: Jeesus, I told you everything. What more do you wanta know?
Inspector: Your name.
Him: …
(Beat.)
Inspector: Start over again.
Him: When I left the park, I went …
Inspector: From the beginning.
Him: (sighs)
(Pause. Someone knocks at the side door.)
Inspector: What is it?
(The Police Officer enters.)
Police Officer: You wanted to know when it was 10:30, well, it’s just after. The judge will be here in an hour.
(The Police Officer exits, closing the door behind him.)
Inspector: Let’s go. Shoot.
Him: When I left his place, I took the metro. Got on at Jarry. Must’ve been around nine. I got off at Bonaventure. And I walked down to the port. When I got there, I headed west. Must’ve walked for about an hour. Maybe more. I dunno. I don’t have a watch. After a while I sorta woke up. I was sitting on a fence in Westmount. I felt like I had a headache. Like I had fallen asleep in the bathtub. Ya know what I mean? You fall asleep, you know you’re in the bath, but you dream anyway. So all of a sudden, I woke up, sittin’ on a green wood fence, and I realized that all that time I’d known I was walkin’ and at the same time, I didn’t know. I was just walkin’, that’s all.
Inspector: You can skip the moods, kid. We got an hour left. Get to the point.
Him: What the hell do you think I’m doin’? I’m tellin’ you what happened. I didn’t slit his throat for twenty bucks. Or because I didn’t like the way he looked at me …
Inspector: So why did you do it, then?
(Beat.)
Him: The whole time, I knew I was walkin’, but at the same time, I didn’t realize what I was doin’. I even knew why I was walkin’, but I didn’t want to think about it.
Inspector: What were you thinking about?
Him: About the other times I had been around there.
Inspector: What other times?
Him: Other times. Just walking around. When I feel … whenever I felt real down, I used go for a long walk. I’d feel just as down afterwards, but at least I’d be tired enough to go to sleep.
(Beat.)
Inspector: Then what?
Him: What?
Inspector: We reached the point where you were sitting on the fence.
Him: I felt scared.
Inspector: Scared of what?
Him: Huh?
Inspector: Scared of what? If you were so scared, why didja call the cops? Why the hell didn’t you take off? Why did you call police headquarters to tell us there was a dead body in an apartment on Casgrain? And why did you call back an hour later to tell us you were the one who killed the guy? And if you were so scared, why the whole fuckin’ trip on the phone to get us to come here? And how the hell did you get a hold of Judge Delorme’s keys anyway? And why did you call the reporter from Montreal Matin? Why did it havta be here? And why don’t you want to tell us your name?
(Beat.)
Inspector: (calmly) Okay. Let’s get on with the story.
Him: When I woke up, I couldn’t believe it. It was like, you know, like when you’re with someone and suddenly you feel like you’ve been there before, in a dream, and you’re even sure you’ve already told the other person about it. You say to him, I dreamt about this situation. Remember? I mentioned it to you once … And the other person isn’t sure. Well, that’s the way I felt. I’d been walkin’ for more than an hour, I woke up sittin on a fence, and the whole time I was walkin’, in the back of my head, there was like the memory of something I wasn’t sure I had really done. And when I woke up, the picture was sharper than ever, but it didn’t seem possible I’d really done it. Just didn’t seem possible. Hey, can’t you tell him to get outta here?
Inspector: Why?
Him: I can’t stand him anymore. He just sits there writin’ everything down and never says a word. Nothin’. Not a sound. ’Cept when he slurps his coffee. You never look at what he writes anyway.
Inspector: If I tell him to leave, are you gonna tell me your name and why you killed that guy? Are you gonna tell me what the fuck we’re doin’ here? And what it’ll take to prevent you from making a scandal when we walk outta here?
(Beat. Him doesn’t answer.)
Inspector: Guy, go get me another coffee. You want one?
Him: No thanks.
Inspector: The joint next door must be open. Then wait outside ’til I call you.
(The Stenographer takes the dollar hill the. Inspector hands him and exits.)
Inspector: All right.
Him: There was kinduva cool breeze, you could tell it was gonna rain. Real muggy. I was on I dunno what street … one of those streets that run off Sherbrooke. I guess I was headed for the mountain
when I stopped.
Inspector: Why were you headed there?
Him: Whaddaya mean, why? What do you think? Why do you usually go walkin’ on the mountain in the middle of the night in early July?
Inspector: How the hell do I know?
Him: You puttin’ me on?
Inspector: C’mon, out with it, for chrissakes, let’s get to the point.
Him: Cause you’re looking for a good fuck, that’s why. Okay? You happy now?
Inspector: Jesus Christ Almighty! Can you please tell me why you went lookin’ for a fuck on the mountain an hour-and-a-half after you slit some guy’s throat in his own apartment?! … And why you ended up calling us instead?
Him: I didn’t call you.
Inspector: Oh, yeah? So what are we all doing here?
Him: Not right away. I called you later. Two days later. I called his place first.
Inspector: Whose place?
Him: His place.
Inspector: So you’re really not gonna tell us his name?
Him: (mum)
Inspector: Why didja call him? You knew he was dead. You’re the one who killed him.
Him: I thought it was a dream.
Inspector: Okay. Okay. So you thought it was a dream. So you called him.
Him: Not right away.
Inspector: When?
Him: I was sittin’ on the fence. I sat there for a while, starin’ at the houses. I like the houses in Westmount. Always wanted to be rich. My father, when he was little, his family was rich. He used to tell me stories about when he was rich. My grandparents, my father’s parents, they used to tell me about it when we went to their house for dinner at Christmas and Easter. They had a tiny apartment, full of Louis XIV furniture. It was my grandfather who built the building for my grandmother’s father. Then when they lost all their money, they moved into the second floor. It looked like Ali Baba’s cave. There was too much stuff. Paintings … silverware … china …
Inspector: Westmount.
Him: Yeah. They lived in Westmount. Before they lost their money.
Inspector: You were sitting on a fence in Westmount.
Him: Right. You could see the light inside the house flickerin’ through the blinds. People must’ve been watchin’ television.
Inspector: So why did you call his place?
Him: Huh?
Inspector: The guy … (He leans over to read a file on the desk.)
Him: Hey! Don’t!
Inspector: What? Whatsa matter?
Him: Don’t say it.
(Beat.)
Inspector: So you called his place …
Him: Yeah.
Inspector: Then what?
Him: I told you a thousand times already: when I left his place I went for a walk.
Inspector: You took the metro.
Him: Right. I took the metro, then I went for a walk and I ended up sitting on a fence … There’s where I woke up. Then … I took off down the hill, running like crazy. All the way to the Forum. Running like there was no tomorrow. Like I thought I could prevent somethin’ terrible from happening.
Inspector: All the way to the Forum?
Him: Yeah.
Inspector: What did the street look like? The street where you ended up on the fence?
Him: uhhh …
Inspector: Did it go straight up? Tell me about the street. Not the houses, the street.
Him: It went uphill.
Inspector: The cars were going uphill? Were you above Sherbrooke?
Him: Yes.
Inspector: You said there were cars goin’ by …
Him: Yeah. I remember this one big white Chrysler that went by real slow. The guy inside was lookin’ for an address. He had the light on. The interior was bright red.
Inspector: Which side of the street was he on? Was he going up the hill or headed down towards Sherbrooke? Or were there cars in both directions?
Him: He was headed up the hill. But it was a two-way street.
Inspector: Lansdowne. (He writes it down on a piece of paper)
Him: What?
Inspector: Forget it.
(Inspector goes over and puts the paper on the Stenographer’s table.)
Inspector: So then what happened?
Him: I ran to the Forum.
Inspector: That’s quite a ways.
Him: Maybe.
Inspector: You run the whole way?
Him: Yes.
Inspector: How many blocks?
Him: I dunno.
Inspector: You run along Sherbrooke?
Him: Probably.
Inspector: Did you or didn’t you?
Him: Why the hell do you care if I ran along the Metropolitan Boulevard, along Sherbrooke or down the middle of Saint Catherine Street?
Inspector: Never mind why I care, just answer the question. Look at me. Look me in the eye. (He glances at his watch.) It’s quarter to eleven. Monday morning. I been here with you since one a.m. Sunday. And here it is Monday, for Chrissakes, and we’re gettin’ nowhere fast. You set it up so we had to come and meet you here, right? And you’re the one who baited the fuckin’ reporters who are standing outside that door waiting for a scoop. Right? You’re the one who told them that some heavy shit was gonna go down at the Courthouse. Well, listen, kid, you’re the one who’s in deep shit now. Stuck in your own shit. Right up to the neck. And now it’s my turn to make a move. You’re the one who called us to tell us to check out an apartment …
(Someone knocks at the side door.)
Inspector: Yeah?
(The side door opens. The Stenographer enters and hands the Inspector a small file of documents.)
Stenographer: This just came in. I’m gonna go getcha coffee.
(The Stenographer exits, closing the door behind him. Pause. The Inspector leafs through the documents.)
Inspector: It’s gonna be your birthday soon.
(Beat.)
Him: How do you know?
Inspector: Nice name … Yves.
(Him stands up.)
Inspector: Sit down!
(Pause. The Inspector is reading.)
Inspector: Does your sister know you work Dominion Square?
(Him sits there, frozen.)
Inspector: You think we’re a bunch of idiots? Did you really think we were gonna sit around and twiddle our thumbs while you gave us the run-around in this office? Did you think we were gonna sit around and wait for you to decide to tell us your name and why you want to get the whole fuckin’ city out to watch you wash your dirty laundry?
Him: I’m not givin’ you the runaround. I killed a guy. I told you I did it and I turned myself in. Here I am.
Inspector: So?
Him: So what more do you want?
Inspector: The autopsy shows he died between 9 and 11, July 1st. You called us in the middle of the night, July 3rd. I wanta know where you were in between.
Him: That’s what …
Inspector: Shut up. I wanta know where you were and what you did. I wanta know why you killed him. I wanta know who you are. Where you come from and what you do in life. And all I can get outta you is a bunch of half-assed stories that don’t fit together and make no goddam sense at all. I’m beginning to feel like you’ve been laughing in my face for the last 36 hours. And I hate that feeling. You hear me? I hate it.
(He turns abruptly, goes over to the Stenographer’s table, picks up the transcription and begin to read some random excerpts out loud.)
Question: Name? Answer: Forget it. Question: Your first name? Answer: Forget it. Age? None of your business. Here I am. I’m the one who killed him. What more do you want? Give me a break. If you want to know anything else, call Judge Delorme. (Skips several excerpts.) How did you get in here? Answer: Figure it out. That’s your job, not mine. (Further on.) Question: What do you do for a living? Answer: I fuck. For money? A guy’s gotta earn a living. Where do you hang out? Answer: hesitates, then: in the park. Pare Lafontaine? No answer. And now we find out that you work Dominion Square
. If you don’t call that laughing in my face, what the fuck is it?
Him: And why the hell do you care where I come from?
Inspector: (waving one of the documents at him) You didn’t even want to tell us his name. You take us for a bunch of jackasses? Everything was right there in the apartment: his passport, his social insurance card, his lease. You think we were gonna tiptoe in, pick up the body, wash the floor and leave, lockin’ the door behind us? Who the fuck do you think you are? James Bond? Let’s cut the shit now. C’mon, out with it. What do you want? (He goes back to the desk and picks up the rest of the file.) He didn’t have a police record. Neither do you.
Him: What makes you so sure?
Inspector: Next time you leave a cup on someone’s desk, if you don’t want anyone to check your fingerprints, make sure there’s no pig around picking up after you, wise guy … No sign of dope or alcohol in his blood. No trace of nothing in the apartment. But … (Looks up at the ceiling) … he died screwing. With a guy. And it wasn’t rape cause he came too. And his clothes weren’t torn. They were all over the kitchen floor but all in one piece. Your fingerprints were all around the apartment, except on the handle of the knife that was used to slit his throat. A steak knife with a fuckin’ imitation hickory plastic handle. Impossible to get any prints off it … Maybe he was one of your customers. Your “colleagues” in the Square say you’re okay … just a bit loose sometimes. Couple of them don’t have much good to say about you …
Him: My colleagues? You don’t even know where I work.
Inspector: Listen, kid. You want some cheap advice? Next time you decide to kill someone, make sure he’s not a lit major who writes in his diary every day and talks about you, saying how weird it is to sleep with a “pro.” Once you got that straight and you decide to set up a meeting with the cops in some judge’s office in the middle of the night, during Confederation Day weekend, with a quarter of a million tourists in town for Expo … just remember not to leave your jean jacket hanging on a chair beside the door with AVAILABLE embroidered on the back in day-glo orange beads. And don’t spend 36 hours sitting next to a window when you’re not sure who can look in and see you … What kinduva weirdo are you anyway? How long did you know him? And why did you slit his throat in the middle of his kitchen floor?