Martin Crimp, Plays 3 Page 9

  Chris How was your day?

  Clair My day was fine. Only—

  Chris Oh?

  Clair Only—yes—I was waiting on the station concourse this afternoon after my meeting—waiting for my train—when this man came up to me and said, have you seen a little girl about so high—I’ve lost her.

  Chris Lost her?

  Clair Well that’s what I said. I said what d’you mean lost her?—what does she look like? He said, I’ve told you: she’s about so high and she’s wearing pink jeans. I said well in that case I’ve just seen her—she was heading for the taxi rank with a woman who looked like a nurse—I can’t say for certain she was a nurse, but it looked as if she had a uniform on, under her coat. So then he says, why didn’t you stop them?

  Chris It wasn’t your responsibility to stop them.

  Clair Exactly. But of course that’s not what I said—what I said to him was: well let’s call the police. And that’s when it turned out no no no it was nothing as serious as he’d led me to believe. Because the girl was his daughter, and the woman—who—I was right—is a nurse at a nearby hospital—the Middlesex—was his sister-in-law. The girl—because they’d just got off the train—the girl had been brought here to stay with the sister-in-law. But the man—the father—had decided at the last moment to buy his little girl a diary. So he’d gone into a shop to buy his little girl a diary. But when he came out with the diary, expecting his kiss, they’d gone.

  Chris His kiss.

  Clair Yes, to be kissed goodbye. I mean by his little girl. He said he didn’t expect to be kissed goodbye by his sister-in-law because his sister-in-law despised him. Which is why—thinking about it—not me, I mean him, him thinking about it—maybe why the moment he was out of sight she’d deliberately dragged the little girl off.

  Chris What? Was she being dragged?

  Clair No—but they were moving quite fast. Maybe not fast for the nurse, but fast for the little girl.

  Chris That’s why you noticed the jeans.

  Clair That’s right.

  Chris Because her legs were having to move quickly you mean to keep up with this woman, this nurse, this aunt dragging her to the taxi rank.

  Clair Well no—I’ve said—not dragging—but yes—I certainly did notice the jeans.

  Pause.

  What about you?

  Chris Mmm?

  Clair How was your day?

  Chris My day was good. Only my card wouldn’t swipe. Took me fifteen minutes to get into my own building.

  Clair Oh no. Why was that?

  Chris Well I tapped on the glass and the only person in there was a cleaner so the cleaner came over to the glass and I held up my card and pointed, obviously, at my picture on the card, but the cleaner just shrugged—which is odd because I know all those cleaners really well.

  Clair So what did you do?

  Chris Buzzed the buzzer till somebody came. (Slight pause.) What’s that?

  Clair What’s wrong?

  Chris Wrong? Nothing. Why?

  Clair It’s just the way you said: ‘What’s that?’

  Chris Nothing’s wrong.

  Clair Good.

  Chris Nothing’s wrong. Clair Good. I’m pleased nothing’s wrong. Because I wanted to show you this.

  Chris What’s that? The diary?

  Clair He gave me the diary—yes. I said: you mustn’t give me this—it’s for your daughter. Because of course the idea had been for his little girl to write down all her thoughts and feelings about this big change in her life.

  Chris What big change in her life?

  Clair Leaving her father of course. Living with her aunt.

  Pause.

  Have you not been / listening?

  Chris Does it start in January?

  Clair What?

  Chris Does it start in January?

  Clair Yes—it’s just a normal diary.

  Chris What’re you going to do with it?

  Clair I don’t know.

  Chris Write in it?

  Clair I don’t know.

  Chris Write what?

  Clair I’ve told you: I have / no idea.

  Chris And he just gave it to you?

  Clair Mmm?

  Chris The man—this man—he just gave it to you?

  Clair Well no—not right there—obviously—in the middle of Waterloo Station. He asked if he could talk to me. So because of what had happened—the little girl and so on—the fact I’d seen her heading off like that towards the taxis—I felt I didn’t really have a choice. And I was glad, as it happened, because it turned out I knew him.

  Chris You knew him?

  Clair Yes—not knew him—but knew who he was.

  Chris Oh?

  Clair Yes. Well yes. He’s this writer that everyone’s talking about. Well not everyone—obviously—but people who know—people who know about writing. So of course that was completely fascinating—it was completely fascinating to find myself sitting in a café with this writer that everyone’s talking about. Because he never gives interviews, but there he was sitting in this café opening his heart to me. About his time in prison—and the torture there—but all quite normally—just a normal conversation—just like me talking to you now—about torture—about the bucket on the cement floor—all quite normal—and the child of course—his little girl—the hopes he had for her—which made him sad—why is it, he said to me, that it’s our hopes that make us sad—even there—in the dark—in the cell—which is why he tried not to—hope, I mean—I think I’ve got this right—during all the nights and days he waited for them to come—just waited and waited for them to come.

  Chris Them?

  Clair His torturers.

  Chris I see.

  Clair The people who were determined to / break his will.

  Chris I had a visit from Bobby today.

  Pause.

  Clair Oh? Bobby Williams?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair What did Bobby Williams want?

  Chris Just to say hello. Well—no—more in fact than to say hello. He came into my office because he wanted to tell me about this lunch he’d had with Jeanette. Because the week before last it seems he’d had this lunch with Jeanette and according to Jeanette the North American division is beginning to restructure and Jeanette’s instinct is, is that if they’re beginning to restructure in North America it won’t be long before they start restructuring here.

  Clair Oh?

  Chris And of course he managed to make all this sound as if he cares about what happens to me and to my family but the truth is he wanted to see me squirm. And because of his relationship with Jeanette—which I would hesitate to call sexual—but because of this thing, whatever it is, this intimacy, these lunches they have—well because of that, Bobby’s job is protected, whereas mine, given the situation in the North American territories, is, well is obviously much more vulnerable.

  Clair Look: if the changes are going to be that radical, then even Jeanette won’t be able to protect Bobby for the simple reason that Jeanette will be vulnerable herself.

  Chris Yes, but Jeanette’s very clever. I’m not saying she’s indispensable—nobody’s indispensable—but she’s worked out a way of printing herself onto people’s minds. I mean let’s say, let’s just say that this afternoon, instead of meeting this man at Waterloo Station, you’d met Jeanette, and that it was Jeanette who’d taken you to a café and told you this ridiculous story about the little girl and the nurse and about being tortured in a bucket or whatever it is this man tried to make you believe. Well in those two hours in the café—because I’m assuming you spent a good couple of hours with him—but in those two hours Jeanette would have made it her business to print herself onto your mind. You’d come away from that café, and regardless of her ridiculous story, or perhaps, who knows, because of it, you’d be thinking that Jeanette—and I’ve seen this happen—was essential to your company’s survival. You’d be talking to me now—having, as you say, a normal conversation with me
now—but in your head there’d be this current—this flow of speculation about Jeanette—Jeanette’s grasp of the market—Jeanette’s strategic vision—Jeanette’s ability to think outside of the box blah blah blah. And once that flow started there would be no way you could ever dismiss her from your thoughts—the way for example you’ll almost certainly dismiss this man.

  Clair Oh?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair A flow of speculation.

  Chris Yes. And you’d have no idea why. Because after all Jeanette is very ordinary-looking.

  Clair Is she?

  Chris And yet she has this power.

  Clair Over men.

  Chris Over what?—no—that’s not at all what I mean—I mean over everyone—men and women / likewise.

  Clair So you’re saying you may lose your job?

  Chris I’m just saying what Bobby told me Jeanette said to him at lunch. It doesn’t mean I’m going to kill myself. I have no plans to hang myself from a tree, if that’s what you think. There are, as you are well aware, two small children sleeping in this house, and I’m not going to leave them fatherless, any more than I’m prepared to let my decomposing body be found by someone out walking their dog. I hardly think I’m unemployable. And even someone who’s spent a whole meeting with their head down drawing interlocking shapes on the agenda—or imaginary animals—will often come up to me afterwards and thank me for being the only person in the room to ’ve talked sense. Even Bobby Williams would grant me that. So I really don’t think you need to be afraid.

  Clair Afraid of what?

  Chris Because obviously this kind of rumour is unsettling.

  Clair I’m not afraid.

  Chris Then why are you smiling?

  Clair Am I?

  Chris You know you’re smiling.

  Clair I had no idea I was smiling. (Slight pause.) Am I still smiling?

  Chris You know you are.

  Clair Then I must be smiling in spite of myself. Or perhaps I’m smiling because I’m looking at you in that suit of yours and remembering how much I love you. But—well—listen—what makes you think I’ve dismissed him from my thoughts?

  Chris I’m sorry?

  Clair Why do you call his story ridiculous? What makes you think I’ve dismissed Mohamed from my thoughts?

  Chris Dismissed who?

  Clair The writer. Mohamed. What makes you think I’ve dismissed him from my thoughts?

  Chris Well haven’t you?

  Clair Yes—no—no—not necessarily.

  Pause.

  He begins to laugh.

  What is it?

  Chris You’ve stopped smiling.

  Clair Have I?

  Chris Yes.

  Clair Really?

  Chris Yes.

  They both chuckle.

  I’ll tell you something that will make you laugh. You know this morning when I got to my building? Well my card wouldn’t swipe. I tried and I tried but it would not swipe. So I tapped on the glass but the only person in there at that time of the morning was a cleaner so the cleaner came over to the glass … No. I’ve told you this. Have I already told you this?

  Clair Go on.

  Chris But I’ve already told you this.

  Clair Told me what? Have you?

  Chris About the cleaner coming over to the glass. About when I held up my card.

  Clair Oh that.

  Chris Well didn’t I?

  Clair Yes.

  Chris So why did you say go on? (Slight pause.) Hmm.

  Clair What is it?

  Chris Nothing. Nothing at all. Where’re you going?

  Clair I’m going to put this somewhere safe.

  Clair goes out with the diary. Chris remains. He does nothing.

  Scene II

  Clair works at a computer, referring to a book or manuscript beside her.

  Chris appears—‘casually’ dressed.

  He stands behind her, watching her work. She takes no notice. Time passes, then:

  Chris Don’t you get bored with it?

  Clair Mmm?

  Chris Translating. Don’t you get / bored with it?

  Clair (continuing to work) Well of course I get bored with it sometimes. Not everything people write is interesting and even interesting writing—like this—can be dull to translate. On the other hand, I do get to meet authors, and some of them are real characters—they take me out to dinner—introduce me to their families. Some of them are much quieter. They’re the crabs. As soon as you pick up the stone they’re hiding under, they scuttle off to another one. D’you have to keep standing behind me like that?

  He doesn’t move. She continues to work.

  Chris So you’re not ever tempted.

  Clair Tempted to do what?

  Chris To write something of your own.

  Clair Me? (Smiles, and turns to him for the first time.) What makes you say that?

  He starts to walk away.

  What makes you say that? Where are you going?

  Chris It was the doorbell.

  Clair What doorbell? I didn’t hear it. Are you sure?

  Chris I’m pretty sure I heard the doorbell.

  He goes off.

  She listens out for a moment and, hearing nothing, continues to work.

  Finally he returns with a woman, Jenny, who is wearing a nurse’s uniform under her coat. They are talking as they appear.

  Chris Please. I’m sure you won’t be disturbing her. She’s just here—look—in the garden—working.

  Jenny I don’t want to disturb anyone.

  Chris I really don’t think she minds—do you?

  Clair Minds what?

  Chris This is—sorry.

  Jenny Jenny.

  Chris This is Jenny.

  Jenny I’m Jenny. Hello.

  Chris Can I get you something, Jenny—something to drink.

  Jenny Oh no. I can’t stop. (To Clair.) I just wondered if

  we could talk for a moment.

  Clair I’d be very happy to. Let me just take these things back inside.

  Chris I’ll do that if you like.

  Clair No. You stay here and talk to Jenny.

  She gathers up her things and goes. Pause.

  Chris So … you’re a nurse.

  Jenny Yes.

  Chris Have you always been a nurse?

  Jenny Yes.

  Pause.

  Chris I suppose a lot of nurses are men.

  Jenny A lot of nurses—you’re right—are men. But a surprising number of nurses—perhaps the majority of nurses in fact—are women.

  Chris Is that so.

  Jenny Oh yes.

  Chris But you must be under a great deal of pressure.

  Jenny We are all of us—yes—men and women—under an intense pressure. (Pause.) And sometimes the pressure is so intense … it’s so intense that … (She laughs.) But this is such a beautiful garden. I can see it from my window. I often see your children running up and down shouting and screaming. I often think how extraordinary it is to see a garden like yours with children running up and down shouting and screaming—right here—right here in the middle of a city.

  Chris Isn’t our garden just like all the other gardens? Surely the city’s full of this kind of garden—a patch of grass—a few plants round the edge we typically don’t know the names of. I don’t really understand what you’re saying.

  Jenny Of course there are similar gardens—but now I’m in your garden—right inside your garden—actually standing here—actually standing on this patch of grass—I realise that your garden genuinely is unique. We know each other, don’t we. I’ve seen you somewhere—was it the opticians? Or I know what it is—looking in a freezer cabinet in the supermarket—digging right down into the packs of frozen vegetables—looking at the broccoli—digging right down—that was you—only you were wearing a suit—you must’ve been coming home from work.

  Chris Yes.

  Jenny Picking up some shopping on the way home from work.

 
; Chris Yes.

  Jenny And also—

  Chris You’re right.

  Jenny I’m sure I’ve seen you—

  Chris Oh?

  Jenny Yes—standing at an upstairs window.

  Chris You’re right.

  Jenny Because when you opened the door I thought to myself: I’ve seen that face before—in the supermarket or something—or standing at an upstairs window looking a bit sad.

  Chris Can I take your coat?

  Jenny What?

  Chris Your coat.

  Jenny Oh no. I can’t stay. I’m working. (Slight pause.) I did want to talk to your wife, though.

  Chris I’ll call her.

  Jenny No—please don’t raise your voice. It frightens me.

  Chris Well in that case I’ll go and find her.

  He goes. Jenny waits. She takes out a mirror and examines her face. The other two come back and watch her in silence. Then:

  Clair You wanted to talk to me?

  Jenny Yes.

  Clair What about?

  Jenny Mmm?

  Clair What about?

  Jenny You sound surprised that I want to talk to you, but the fact is we’re neighbours, and even if your house is much bigger than my tiny flat, we still—or at least I imagine we do—still care about the same things: street lighting, one-way systems, noise levels and so on. Not only that, but we’re both women—which means—well I hope it does—that unlike men we can hopefully define our territory without having to piss on it first.

  Clair Do I know you?

  Jenny I’m Jenny. I’ve told you who I am. We’re neighbours. You’ve probably seen me getting into my car—or—like your husband over there—watched me in the mornings taking off my uniform when I’ve driven back totally exhausted from the hospital at a time when most people are getting up and listening to the radio while they have their breakfast. In fact I could probably fall asleep there and then, but what I like to do instead is curl up in a chair with a nice piece of toast or a nice egg and watch one of those old black-and-white films on TV. Today for example there was the one where Humphrey Bogart pretends to be in love with Audrey Hepburn but ends up really loving her—really and truly loving her. After that—well you’ve probably heard—I like to play the piano for a bit. I’m not too bad at playing the piano—I took it quite seriously as a child—and I always warm up with scales and things like that—but the funny thing is, is that although I can get all the notes and understand just how intensely the composer must’ve imagined it, there’s no life to my playing. Emotionally it’s dead. Because you know what it’s like when the sun shines on the TV screen so the picture disappears and all you see is the glass surface of it? Well that’s what my playing’s like—hard and colourless. I’m not saying that if you heard me in the street on a summer’s day when I had the windows open you wouldn’t think ‘Oh—exquisite.’ But if you stopped and began to listen—began to really really listen—then the expression on your face would turn—oh yes—believe me—to dread—the same look I see on a patient’s face when they’re told that the tumour growing in their lungs has now spread to the brain—a kind of hardening—here—round the eyes—because of course once that point’s been reached then death—well I’m sure you both know this—is inevitable. But listen: I didn’t come here to talk about my piano playing.