Complete Works, Volume I (22 page)

Authors: Harold Pinter

[
Pause.
]

Sex, I suppose, means nothing to you. Does it ever occur to you that sex is a very vital experience for other people? Really, I think you'd amuse me if you weren't so hideous. You're probably quite amusing in your own way. [
Seductively.
] Tell me all about love. Speak to me of love.

[
Pause.
]

God knows what you're saying at this very moment. It's quite disgusting. Do you know when I was a girl I loved . . . I loved . . . I simply adored . . . what
have
you got on, for goodness sake? A jersey? It's clogged. Have you been rolling in mud? [
Slight pause.
] You haven't been rolling in mud, have you? [
She rises and goes over to him.
] And what have you got under your jersey? Let's see. [
Slight pause.
] I'm not tickling you, am I? No. Good . . . Lord, is this a vest? That's quite original. Quite original. [
She
sits on the arm of his chair.
] Hmmnn, you're a solid old boy, I must say. Not at all like a jelly. All you need is a bath. A lovely lathery bath. And a good scrub. A lovely lathery scrub. [
Pause.
] Don't you? It will be a pleasure. [
She throws her arms round him.
] I'm going to keep you. I'm going to keep you, you dreadful chap, and call you Barnabas. Isn't it dark, Barnabas? Your eyes, your eyes, your great big eyes.

Pause.

My husband would never have guessed your name. Never. [
She kneels at his feet. Whispering.
] It's me you were waiting for, wasn't it? You've been standing waiting for me. You've seen me in the woods, picking daisies, in my apron, my
pretty daisy apron, and you came and stood, poor creature, at my gate, till death us do part. Poor Barnabas. I'm going to put you to bed. I'm going to put you to bed and watch over you. But first you must have a good whacking great bath. And I'll buy you pretty little things that will’ suit you. And little toys to play with. On your deathbed. Why shouldn't you die happy?

A shout from the hall.

EDWARD
: Well?

[
Footsteps upstage.
]

Well?

FLORA
: Don't come in.

EDWARD
: Well?

FLORA
: He's dying.

EDWARD
: Dying? He's not dying.

FLORA
: I tell you, he's very ill.

EDWARD
: He's not dying! Nowhere near. He'll see you cremated.

FLORA
: The man is desperately ill!

EDWARD
: Ill? You lying slut. Get back to your trough!

FLORA
: Edward . . .

EDWARD
[
violently
]: To your trough!

She goes out. Pause.

[
Coolly.
] Good evening to you. Why are you sitting in the gloom? Oh, you've begun to disrobe. Too warm? Let's open these windows, then, what?

He opens the windows.

Pull the blinds.

He pulls the blinds.

And close . . . the curtains . . . again.

He closes the curtains.

Ah. Air will enter through the side chinks. Of the blinds. And filter through the curtains. I hope. Don't want to suffocate, do we?

[
Pause.
]

More comfortable? Yes. You look different in darkness. Take off all your togs, if you like. Make yourself at home. Strip to your buff. Do as you would in your own house.

[
Pause.
]

Did you say something?

[
Pause.
]

Did you say something?

[
Pause.
]

Anything? Well then, tell me about your boyhood. Mmnn?

[
Pause.
]

What did you do with it? Run? Swim? Kick the ball? You kicked the ball? What position? Left back? Goalie? First reserve?

[
Pause.
]

I used to play myself. Country house matches, mostly. Kept wicket and batted number seven.

[
Pause.
]

Kept wicket and batted number seven. Man called—Cavendish, I think had something of your style. Bowled left arm over the wicket, always kept his cap on, quite a dab hand at solo whist, preferred a good round of prop and cop to anything else.

[
Pause.
]

On wet days when the field was swamped.

[
Pause.
]

Perhaps you don't play cricket.

[
Pause.
]

Perhaps you never met Cavendish and never played cricket. You look less and less like a cricketer the more I see of you. Where did you live in those days? God damn it, I'm entitled to know something about you! You're in my blasted
house, on my territory, drinking my wine, eating my duck! Now you've had your fill you sit like a hump, a mouldering heap. In my room. My den. I can rem . . . [
He stops abruptly.
]

[
Pause.
]

You find that funny? Are you grinning?

[
Pause.
]

[
In disgust.
] Good Christ, is that a grin on your face?

[
Further disgust.
] It's lopsided. It's all—down on one side. You're grinning. It amuses you, does it? When I tell you how well I remember this room, how well I remember this den. [
Muttering.
] Ha. Yesterday now, it was clear, clearly defined, so clearly.

[
Pause.
]

The garden, too, was sharp, lucid, in the rain, in the sun.

[
Pause.
]

My den, too, was sharp, arranged for my purpose . . . quite satisfactory.

[
Pause.
]

The house too, was polished, all the banisters were polished, and the stair rods, and the curtain rods.

[
Pause.
]

My desk was polished, and my cabinet.

[
Pause.
]

I was polished. [
Nostalgic.
] I could stand on the hill and look through my telescope at the sea. And follow the path of the three-masted schooner, feeling fit, well aware of my sinews, their suppleness, my arms lifted holding the telescope, steady, easily, no trembling, my aim was perfect, I could pour hot water down the spoon-hole, yes, easily, no difficulty, my grasp firm, my command established, my life was accounted for, I was ready for my excursions to the cliff, down the path to the back gate, through the long grass, no need to watch for the nettles, my progress was fluent, after my long struggling against all kinds of usurpers,
disreputables, lists, literally lists of people anxious to do me down, and my reputation down, my command was established, all summer I would breakfast, survey my landscape, take my telescope, examine the overhanging of my hedges, pursue the narrow lane past the monastery, climb the hill, adjust the lens [
he mimes a telescope
] watch the progress of the three-masted schooner, my progress was as sure, as fluent . . .

Pause. He drops his arms.

Yes, yes, you're quite right, it is funny.

[
Pause.
]

Laugh your bloody head off! Go on. Don't mind me. No need to be polite.

[
Pause.
]

That's right.

[
Pause.
]

You're quite right, it is funny. I'll laugh with you!

He laughs.

Ha-ha-ha! Yes! You're laughing with me, I'm laughing with you, we're laughing together!

He laughs and stops.

[
Brightly.
] Why did I invite you into this room? That's your next question, isn't it? Bound to be.

[
Pause.
]

Well, why not, you might say? My oldest acquaintance. My nearest and dearest. My kith and kin. But surely correspondence would have been as satisfactory . . . more satisfactory? We could have exchanged postcards, couldn't we? What? Views, couldn't we? Of sea and land, city and village, town and country, autumn and winter . . . clocktowers . . . museums . . . citadels . . . bridges . . . rivers . . .

[
Pause.
]

Seeing you stand, at the back gate, such close proximity, was not at all the same thing.

[
Pause.
]

What are you doing? You're taking off your balaclava . . . you've decided not to. No, very well then, all things considered, did I then invite you into this room with express intention of asking you to take off your balaclava, in order to determine your resemblance to—some other person? The answer is no, certainly not, I did not, for when I first saw you you wore no balaclava. No headcovering of any kind, in fact. You looked quite different without a head—I mean without a hat—I mean without a headcovering, of any kind. In fact every time I have seen you you have looked quite different to the time before.

[
Pause.
]

Even now you look different. Very different.

[
Pause.
]

Admitted that sometimes I viewed you through dark glasses, yes, and sometimes through light glasses, and on other occasions bare eyed, and on other occasions through the bars of the scullery window, or from the roof, the roof, yes in driving snow, or from the bottom of the drive in thick fog, or from the roof again in blinding sun, so blinding, so hot, that I had to skip and jump and bounce in order to remain in one place. Ah, that's good for a guffaw, is it? That's good for a belly laugh? Go on, then. Let it out. Let yourself go, for God's . . . [
He catches his breath
.] You're crying . . .

[
Pause.
]

[
Moved.
] You haven't been laughing. You're crying.

[
Pause.
]

You're weeping. You're shaking with grief. For me. I can't believe it. For my plight. I've been wrong.

[
Pause.
]

[
Briskly.
] Come, come, stop it. Be a man. Blow your nose for goodness sake. Pull yourself together.

He sneezes.

Ah.

He rises. Sneeze.

Ah. Fever. Excuse me.

He blows his nose.

I've caught a cold. A germ. In my eyes. It was this morning. In my eyes. My eyes.

Pause. He falls to the floor.

Not that I had any difficulty in seeing you, no, no, it was not so much my sight, my sight is excellent—in winter I run about with nothing on but a pair of polo shorts—no, it was not so much any deficiency in my sight as the airs between me and my object—don't weep—the change of air, the currents obtaining in the space between me and my object, the shades they make, the shapes they take, the quivering, the eternal quivering—please stop crying—nothing to do with heat-haze. Sometimes, of course, I would take shelter, shelter to compose myself. Yes, I would seek a tree, a cranny of bushes, erect my canopy and so make shelter. And rest. [
Low murmur.
] And then I no longer heard the wind or saw the sun. Nothing entered, nothing left my nook. I lay on my side in my polo shorts, my fingers lightly in contact with the blades of grass, the earthflowers, the petals of the earthflowers flaking, lying on my palm, the underside of all the great foliage dark, above me, but it is only afterwards I say the foliage was dark, the petals flaking, then I said nothing, I remarked nothing, things happened upon me, then in my times of shelter, the shades, the petals, carried themselves, carried their bodies upon me, and nothing entered my nook, nothing left it.

[
Pause.
]

But then, the time came. I saw the wind. I saw the wind, swirling, and the dust at my back gate, lifting, and the long grass, scything together . . . [
Slowly, in horror
.] You
are
laughing. You're laughing. Your face. Your body. [
Overwhelming nausea and horror.
] Rocking . . . gasping . . . rocking . . . shaking . . . rocking . . . heaving . . . rocking . . . You're laughing at me! Aaaaahhhh!

The
MATCHSELLER
rises. Silence.

You look younger. You look extraordinarily . . . youthful.

[
Pause.
]

You want to examine the garden? It must be very bright, in the moonlight. [
Becoming weaker.
] I would like to join you . . . explain . . . show you . . . the garden . . . explain . . . The plants . . . where I run . . . my track . . . in training . . . I was number one sprinter at Howells . . . when a stripling . . . no more than a stripling . . . licked . . . men twice my strength . . . when a stripling . . . like yourself.

[
Pause.
]

[
Flatly.
] The pool must be glistening. In the moonlight. And the lawn. I remember it well. The cliff. The sea. The three-masted schooner.

[
Pause.
]

[
With great, final effort—a whisper.
] Who are you?
FLORA
[
off
]: Barnabas?

[
Pause.
]

She enters.

Ah, Barnabas. Everything is ready.

[
Pause.
]

I want to show you my garden, your garden. You must see my japonica, my convolvulus . . . my honeysuckle, my clematis.

[
Pause.
]

The summer is coming. I've put up your canopy for you. You can lunch in the garden, by the pool. I've polished the whole house for you.

[
Pause.
]