Authors: Harold Pinter
Six
- Whatever you do, don’t wake the cat up.
- Do me a favour.
- You don’t understand. Today I was playing Bach to that cat. I was trying a sonata for unaccompanied violin. Can’t you see? He deserves a rest, from his point of view. Not, I can tell you this, that I pretend to understand his point of view. Though I’m closer to that cat than you might think. We’ve a lot in common.
- Dear oh dear, Pete said.
Len turned the key in the door. They walked down to the living room. The cat, lying on the armchair, lifted its head.
- He’s awake.
- He’ll never sleep again, Pete said, sitting down. Bach may be the making of you, but he’s the ruination of that cat.
- I can’t see that, Len said.
He nudged the cat from the chair. It dropped with a thump and stared, switching its tail, at Pete.
- You may not understand his point of view, but I think he understands mine well enough.
- You mean in respect of him?
- Yes.
- What is it?
- Scorn, Pete said, and defiance. Slight regard, contempt, and anything that may not misbecome the mighty sender, do I prize him at.
- That’s sad. Good God.
- Look here. Any sensible man would be cagey of a cat who was mathematical and musical and proclaimed himself, on those grounds, king of the roost.
- Did you say cagey or leery?
- I said cagey.
- I thought you said leery.
The cat sat down on the carpet and licked its paws.
- That cat has ceased to be the animal he was, Pete said. Look at him. He’s become a semiquaver.
- You can’t lay everything at Bach’s door.
- Why not? He rules this house with a rod of iron.
Len shook his head and drew the curtains. Shaking his head, he sat on the table, drawing breath between his clenched teeth. He lowered his glasses and stared up over the rim, about the room, eventually twitching them back to their level.
- What? he exclaimed, whipping the glasses from his nose. What was that? What did you say? Eh? Bach? Bach? What about Bach?
Pete lay back in the armchair.
- Tell me something, he said. Who was Bach?
- Who was he? You can’t ask me a question like that!
- What can you tell me about him?
- You’re mad.
- Look, Pete said, leaning forward, have a bit of common. You must know something about him, after all this barney. What was he up to?
- No, Len said. Ask someone else. I can’t tell you. It’s out of the question. I can’t speak about him.
- No?
Len shrugged and opened the cupboard door. From a shelf he took a bottle of wine, drew the cork and sniffed, placed the bottle on the table, with two glasses. He glared at the bottle, lifted it up and read the label. He then passed it to Pete. Pete sniffed and passed it back. Len raised his glasses and held his breath to sniff again. He poured the wine, lifted the glass to his nose, looked into it, and took a quick sip. Keeping the wine in his mouth he walked about the room, rolling his eyes and flicking his eyelids. He began to gargle.
- Bach? he said, spitting the wine back into the glass, it’s simple. The point about Bach - the point about Bach -
He lifted the bottle, frowned, and put it back in the cupboard, closing the door.
- The point, Len said, about Bach, is that - give me a chance - is that -
He sat on the table and stood hurriedly, picking up the glass and slapping the seat of his. trousers, on which the spilt wine clung.
- Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!
- Use a rag.
- Ugh!
- Turn round, Pete said. There’s nothing there.
- I’m wet through.
- You were talking about Bach.
Len undid his trousers and stepped out of them. He grasped them by the legs and shook them violently. He examined the stain, stepped into them and did them up.
- Thirty-nine and six five years ago.
- Why don’t you stand on your head next? Pete said. What about, for Christsake get on with it, bloody Bach?
- Bach? It’s simple. The only point about Bach is that he saw his music as emanating through him and not from him. From A via Bach to C. There’s nothing else to say.
He sat in an armchair and leaned back.
- Look at Beethoven.
- What do you mean?
- What do you mean? Len said. Beethoven is always Beethoven. Bach is like cold or heat or water or flame. He is Bach but he’s not Bach. There’s no comparison.
- Wait a minute -
- Look, Len said, feeling the cloth under his buttocks, when I listen to Bach’s music I know what recognition is. Not recognition that I am listening to Bach - just recognition. There’s no skin, there’s no wood, there’s no flesh, there’s no bone, there’s no orgasm, there’s no recovery. There’s no life, but there’s no death. There’s no deed. Consciousness is left to the four breezes, or the forty, of course, it depends who you are.
- Does it?
- There is no question of saying - It is here, now. That doesn’t apply. It would apply if Bach were someone else. Then you could say - Yes, I am listening to this - I. But Bach doesn’t want to know you. It’s a pointless attitude. Pointless.
- Yes.
- Bach is the composer for the weak. But also for the strong, in that he is terrifying to many who are neither weak nor strong.
- Whoah!
- Bach, Len said, standing up and walking to the wall, is not concerned with murder, nature, massacre, earthquake, plague, rebellion, famine or the other one. He is not concerned with
big things
, as such. There is always room for him. You can, you can believe this or not, you can put him in your back pocket. You can put him in your back pocket. But if you put him in your back pocket, you’re not putting
him
in your back pocket, you must understand that.
- Huh.
- They tell me, Pete, Len said, sitting on the table, that a warm and generous woman makes all else pale into insignificance. No doubt at all. Even Shakespeare becomes a few well-chosen words. But Bach could never become, for me, a few well-chosen notes. I suppose that’s because I distrust everyone. I can understand, I think, where my property becomes a woman’s too and all is forgetfulness. But the last card of all, at the moment, is his.
- I see.
- One, you see, Len said, standing, purely technical point about Bach is his insistence and his flowering justification of that insistence. Bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu b bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu bu……….bu tillellellellellalalalalala bu bu bu etcetera. You can come in on the tillellella, but you can easily fit in the previous bu bus. No trouble. That’s all I’ve got to say about Bach. There you are. You shouldn’t have asked me.
- Well, said Pete. Ah. Yes, you’ve told me something. They stood with their hands in their pockets, on the carpet.
- What about a cup of cocoa?
- Cocoa?
- Yes, Pete said, we’ll drink a toast.
- All right. All right, I don’t mind doing that.
They left the room and walked down to the scullery, the cat following. Through the basement window, the moon shone crooked on the hanging crockery. Len switched on the light and put the kettle on. He brought out a tin of cocoa.
- Yes, you’ve got something there.
- It’s not possible.
- My face is a death’s head, Pete said, looking into the flaked mirror above the sink.
- You’re quite right.
- Do you know, a neighbour stopped me the other day and told me I was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.
- What did you say to that?
- What could I say?
- I’ve got a few bagels, Len said.
Pete sat at the table and stroked its surface.
- This is a very solid table.
- I said I’ve got some bagels.
- No thanks. How long have you had this table?
- It’s a family heirloom.
- Yes, said Pete, leaning back, I’d like a good table, and a good chair. Solid stuff. Made for the bearer. I’d put them in a boat. Sail it down the river. A houseboat. You could sit in the cabin and look out at the water.
- Who’d be steering?
- You could park it. Park it. There’s not a soul in sight.
- Where would you go?
- Go? Pete said. You wouldn’t go.
- Here’s your cocoa.
They sipped.
- How’s Mark?
- Fine, Len shrugged.
- What does he have to say for himself?
- He said he wouldn’t spit last night.
- I’m glad to hear it.
- I’m glad to be able to say it.
- What’s he got to spit about?
- Well, he likes a good spit sometimes.
- Yes, but what’s he spitting, or not spitting, about, this time? Pete asked.
- My examiner.
- Who?
- Christ. Jesus Christ.
- What, Pete said, sitting up, is he thinking of having a gob at Jesus Christ?
- Not exactly. But he can’t help it now and again, I suppose.
- What are you gabbling about?
- Well, Len said, you told him yourself I was having a look at the New Testament.
- Oh. So he’s spitting at that, eh?
- I told you, he said he wouldn’t.
- That’s very generous of him.
- Well, he may be in a position to. You can never tell.
Pete dug his hands in his pockets and laughed.
- You’re talking like Joe Doakes. In a position to spit at Jesus Christ? I’ll split a gut in a minute. But go on, I’m interested. Tell me. Why do you think he’s in a position to spit?
- You’re tearing my fingernails off, one by one.
- I’m letting you off lightly. Come on.
- All right. I think he has one answer, that’s all. Even if he hasn’t, I think I think he has, and even if I don’t think he has he may have or, if you like, someone with his name may have.
- Someone with his name may have! You’ve made the cat crawl under the table. Is this how you talk to the cat every night?
- All right, Len said. You’ve got something to say. Why don’t you say it?
- No, Pete said.
He picked up his cup and gulped.
- No, he smiled. I’ve got nothing to say.
- Really? Len frowned .
He looked up and shook his head and then, reflecting, began to chuckle.
- All right. He said something else though, that I’m sure you’ll appreciate.
- What’s that?
- He was talking about Dean Swift, you see, and he said he ended up eating his own shit and left his money to lunatic asylums. Have you seen Pete lately? Just like that. Straight off. What do you think of that?
Pete sat forward and laughed.
- That’s very amusing.
- Amusing! I should say it is.
- Yes, very odd.
- Odd? What do you mean, odd?
- When I got home from work the other day, Pete said, a neighbour was at the door. Smoke was coming through the window.
- What?
- It was all right. It was a cake I’d forgotten about, in the oven. The place was intact, but the cake was just about ready for your cat. The neighbour, though, was in a state, white in the face. Obviously thought I’d been boiling human bones.
- Yes, I can see that, Len nodded.
- You can?
- Oh yes, I can see that all right.
The tap dripped. Len turned it tight.
- Well, how are you, Len? Pete said.
- What?
- How’s things?
- Huh, Len said, and kicked a chair. I’m supper for the crows.
- Who is?
- I’ll tell you, Len said, and straddled the chair. I’m a non-participator.
- Go home. You? You’re just a Charley Hunt.
- That too.
- I’ll tell you what your trouble is, Pete said. You need to be more elastic.
- Elastic? Elastic. You’re quite right. Elastic. What are you talking about?
- How are you getting on with Christ?
- Christ? No, no. No. He’s what he is and I’m what I’m not. I don’t see how we can be related.
- Giving up the ghost, Pete said, lighting a cigarette, isn’t so much a failure as a tactical error. By elastic I mean being prepared for your own deviations. You don’t know where you’re going to come out next at the moment. You’re like a rotten old shirt. Buck your ideas up. They’ll lock you up before you’re much older, if you go on like this. You want to cut out this terror and pity lark. It’s bullshit. Common-sense can work wonders. The first thing you’ve got to do is kill that cat. It’s leading you nowhere.
Len stood up and wiped his glasses. He looked down, shivering.
- No, he said. There is a different sky each time I look. The clouds run about in my eye. I can’t do it.
- The apprehension of experience, Pete said, must obviously be dependent upon discrimination if it is to be considered valuable. That’s what you lack. You haven’t got the faculty for making a simple distinction between one thing and another. Every time you walk out of this door you go straight over a cliff. What you’ve got to do is nourish the power of assessment. How can you hope to assess and verify anything if you walk about with your nose stuck between your feet all day long?
- Look, Len said, I could never give up Bach.
- Who asked you to do that?
- No? Oh. Oh, I see. I misunderstood you.
- What?
- You didn’t ask me to give up Bach?
- What are you talking about?
- It must have been somebody else.
Len cleared the cups and put them in the sink.
- I wonder what Mark’s up to.
- Saying sweet syllables into some lady’s earhole, Pete smiled. Don’t you think?
- Probably.
- Yes, Pete said, he’s a strange chap, is Mark. I sometimes think he’s a man of weeds.
Balancing the chair under his body, he put his legs up on the table.
- Yes, he said, I sometimes think he’s a man of weeds. And yet I don’t know. Fie surprises me, that bloke, now and again, for the good, I mean. But often I wonder about him. I sometimes think he makes capital out of the mud on his shoes, that he’s just playing a game. But what game?
Len turned the tap and rinsed a saucer.
- I wonder, Pete said, now and again, why I bother. He’s got, after all, a conceit enough to hid an army in. And what’s there to back it up? There’s the point. Eh?