Killer\Foulkner

Пьесы для Англии

Александр Молчанов

© Александр Молчанов, 2019

ISBN 978-5-4496-2000-2

Создано в интеллектуальной издательской системе Ridero

KILLER/ FAULKNER

By Alexander Molchanov

amolchanov@yandex.ru

Translation Yuri Kaliada — English version Chris Thorpe

Killer

Characters:

Andrew

Oksana

Seka

Mama

— Room

ANDREW. I’ve never understood why, when you’re praying, even praying inside, you turn into such a pussy. It’s all «Please, Almighty God, please forgive me for my sins’. Does he want me rolling round in the dirt, covered in snot, begging for forgiveness? Does he feed off that? Is it how he gets his kicks? From performing scum. You can’t talk like a grown up? «I’ve sinned. It happened. Won’t do it again. If I’ve gone too far this time, if I’ve run out of road, then punish me — lay it out. Maybe a hundred Our Fathers, forty days’ fasting, a century in hell. And that’s it. Debt paid. Settled. No outstanding balance. No guilt. No humiliation. Dignity intact. Maybe he wants people crawling round on the ground like cowards, crying like kids. On the other hand — I mean, I don’t like being called Dyusha. Sounds too fucking sweet. My proper name’s Andrey Vitalievitch, so use it. Maybe he wants to be talked to properly. Still like God, of course. Or it’s face in the dirt, tears…

«Course I understand God’s just a psychological phenomenon — praying makes life easier. Or maybe there’s some kind of energy field out in space. Idiot. Cos here I am praying and that’s no fucking easier. Doing it wrong. Trying to keep my dignity. Let’s have some fucking give and take Lord. Let’s discuss. Let’s negotiate. I’ll throw the moneylenders out of the temple. Forgive me, Lord, I beg you. I’m a sinner, I’m going to hell, forgive me Lord, I’m screwed. Do something. Give me a thousand Our Fathers, send me to a monastery. Send me to hell. As long as Seka doesn’t come round today. As long as Seka-

SEKA. There was this one kid at school called Dyusha. Fat kid, so he used to use it in fights, crush people. This one’s skinny, though. Fuck knows if he can take Maronov. Maronov’s not been around college for a week. What’s he hiding for? He’s already lost. Came to the table, lost. No need to hide.. Vitalya says three more days, he’s selling his motorbike to the locals. I’ve said to him — «What do you think you’re gonna get for it? Twenty? Thirty? It’s not a Minsk or a Ural or a fucking Dnieper with a side-car — it’s a Honda. World-beating technology. I’ve even cut a deal with the super. Two grand, she’ll cut a key for the store room. It’s crazy, keeping it in the apartment. Dragging it up five flights of stairs every day like Vitalya does. And come Summer, it’ll be sweet, blowing it around the villages… One on one, Dyusha could take Maronov, maybe. Maybe not. The Dyusha from elementary school would probably do better. He’d probably crush him.

OKSANA. Seka’s rich, of course he is, and he’s beautiful, and he knows how to fuck. And he’s dripping with confidence. Four years since they kicked him out of college and he’s still living in the dorm. Cut a deal with the super. He knows how to live the good life, and so he just does it. Thing is, he’s mean. Never buys me gifts. Could at least take me to a movie once in a while, not spend all day in the dorm playing cards. That fucking music.

ANDREW. So no God, and all that praying’s just a racket. Seka came over with some girl. Marinka? Oksana? Does she want to see him humiliate me? Me to him like some lowlife is to God? Or maybe they were just out for a stroll — just popped in to fuck me up while they were passing. Oksanka’s ugly. Eyes too close together. Zits on her forehead. Flat chest. Lights a cigarette, though, turns to the side to find a jar, and what an ass. Curved. Like looking at an amazing guitar.

OKSANA. So some schmuck in a too-tight shirt and shorts is lying on the bed. The room’s a mess. I was going to drop the ash on the carpet, then I thought — fucking room’s a fire-trap. I’ll find a jar or something.

SEKA. So I’m looking at this Dyusha guy, and I am so pissed at Maronov. You’re fucking broke, man, so don’t sit at the table. Is that so hard to understand? Why the fuck did he have to play? And if you lose, don’t hide, just pay your debts. I am so fucking pissed.

ANDREW. Just amazing how he can be so handsome and so much of a fucking asshole. Always with the hot ones. Shits money. All the luck at cards. Looks scrawny. Little fists. I wanted his hairstyle. Black with a fringe. Looks good on him, but not on me. His hair manages to lie down at the sides and the back, and mine just flops over my eyes. I’ve seen him fight though. We’re downstairs, hanging out and that beardy guy walks past — the one that’s always in grey Alaska. Hangs out with the girls on the twenty-second all the time. He comes downstairs in his fucking stupid get-up, black beard, like a skinny Jesus on a drunk. Looks like the girls got him wasted and kicked him out. So he’s looking to kick someone’s ass. Like, he’s so drunk it’s hard to tell what he wants. But beardy makes some shitty remark to Seka. And Seka gets up, follows him out back, knocks him out, one punch, kicks him for a while. Comes back and he’s not even out of breath. One time he had a fight with this boxer — a real boxer. The guy’s boxed so much he can’t even think straight and Seka just straight-up lays him out. One shot. Game over, but this guy — the boxer — he’s programmed to get up. He’s on autopilot. If he’d just lie down Seka wouldn’t touch him, but he gets up and he keeps getting up and every time Seka just knocks him down.

OKSANA. So Seka says to the schmuck — you got any money? And he goes — no, you know I haven’t. But I’ll pay it all back. Seka says — you won’t pay back shit. You owe me twelve grand, right?

ANDREW. Right.

SEKA. You’ve got fuck all.

ANDREW. I’ll pay it back.

SEKA. «I’ll pay it back’. Say that one more fucking time.

OKSANA. And Seka just looked at him then.

ANDREW. Seka said Maronov owed him fifty grand. He said he’d let my twelve grand go if I went into Oskol, and I found Maronov, and got Seka’s fifty grand, and brought it back to him.

OKSANA. Seka took out a hundred, a fifty, and a ten, and gave it to him. For fucking what?

SEKA. Bus fare.

ANDREW. And if he won’t give me the money?

SEKA. Kill him.

ANDREW. How?

SEKA. I don’t care how. Stab him. Have you got a knife?

ANDREW. Are you fucking serious? You mean stab him to death? Right?

OKSANA. Seka picked up a flick-knife from the table. Touched the blade. Winced.

SEKA. It’s OK. Oksana’s gonna go with you. I don’t want you running off with the money.

OKSANA. Me? With him? What the fuck for?

SEKA. Yeah. Bus trips forty roubles, I checked. Enough there for two return tickets.

OKSANA. Seka, are you fucking nuts?

SEKA. Any other questions, darling?

ANDREW. If I remember, Oksana got thrown out last semester, so she’s only in the dorm with Seka’s permission cos he’s bribed the super. So if she steps out of line, it’s back to the village and she’ll die of boredom. Or maybe marry some fucking mechanic and see how that turns out.

SEKA. Get me the money by tomorrow.

OKSANA. Seka said to get the money by tomorrow. Then he left. Bastard. And this guy’s just staring at me. Aren’t I the lucky one? Bastard. Bastards. Fucking freak. Go and die in a fucking hole.

ANDREW. Come on. Calm down. I’ve got it worse than you..

OKSANA. Calm down? Calm fucking down? Are you fucking crazy? You touch me, I’ll tell Seka. Fucking idiot.

ANDREW. And she started crying. Sitting there sobbing while I got my stuff together.

OKSANA. He walks around the room, packing up his shit, and I think the main thing is not to cry in front of him-

ANDREW. Then off we go down the hall. All the girl’s heads poking out of the doorways, no fucking clue what was up.

OKSANA. If he thinks I’m a whore, he’s in for a fucking surprise.

2. Bus

ANDREW. At the bus station, I had an idea.

OKSANA. He says to me, you stand here, have a smoke. I’ll go in and get the tickets. The desk’s crowded. Me — I’m just standing there smoking and thinking about what a son of a bitch Seka is. He doesn’t give a shit about anyone else. I could work for the exams, pass them, get a grant. There’s loads of people doing that. They come and live in the dorm and get expelled, but they carry on living there for years and nothing happens. It’s easier for guys, of course. They just move to the girls’ floor, pick a girl, and stick around. But it’s harder for a girl to get taken in. The fucking pigeons have it alright. They just hang out here. No worries about grants or rooms, and every day’s a holiday.

ANDREW. I got the tickets and came back out. She’s standing there staring at the pigeons.

OKSANA. We’re getting on the bus and I just have this feeling. Like I’m going home. I hate the countryside. The dances. And the guys are all village idiots. Cultural life — basically drinking and fighting. Not that I go to the theatre here I guess. And not that Seka ever takes me to the movies.

ANDREW. So we’re on the bus, and I think, well I should at least say something.

OKSANA. And now he turns to me with his puppy-dog face and says.

ANDREW. Sorry it’s turned out like this.

OKSANA. I don’t need your fucking pity.

ANDREW. It’s not pity. I just…

OKSANA. Just sit there and shut up. It’s a shitty enough situation for me without you talking to me as well.

ANDREW. Oh and it’s not shitty for me? I’ve got it fucking worse than you.

OKSANA. Calm the fuck down. And fuck you. Look. There’s the street I went to college in, and that’s where I hung out with the girls on City Day. Wooden houses. The old watchtower they keep saying they’re gonna turn into a bar, a monastery, the barracks. Forest.

ANDREW. She didn’t notice we got on the wrong bus. I’m not going to tell her right now. I’ll tell her when we arrive. I was thinking it was all over. Of course, there’s more to come. I always thought I had to have been put here for a reason. I have proof of that too. Solid proof. Back in the eighth grade me and Mishka Astakhov were going to go to the School Of Communications in Arkhangelsk. It was all arranged. The paperwork was signed and they’d made the offer. I even studied. Like a week before the exams I learned some geometry. I rode around with Mishka at night on motorbikes, spending the last days before we went away, smoking, hanging out. Dreaming that soon we’d be walking round Arkhangelsk. And then the Colorado beetles came. These poisonous larvae, bright red, and they stripped the potato plants back to the stalks. Never seen them before. Just that one year. The old women were all saying the US has sent bio-weapons. Weaponised beetles. And we were all gonna die of starvation because potatoes were all we grew. Long story short, every morning I got on the bike and went to the fields, and I filled a half-litre jar with these fucking grubs and I siphoned in some gas from the tank and lit it. And one day I was watching them burn and I suddenly felt so sick. Puked my guts up. Didn’t feel any better. In the evening Mishka and me were riding around and I still felt feeling terrible. Woozy, like I was stoned. So I suggested going for a swim. Maybe it’d help. We went for a swim and I still felt shitty. Sick as a dog. Like, that night I thought I was going to die. My mum phoned the hospital and said «Go to the Emergency Room, the one our neighbour Aunt Sveta works at’ — so I went and she examined my eyes, and she checked out my stomach and the rest, and when she pushed her fingers over my liver she just stopped and said. Right. We’re done. Jaundice. I was in quarantine for three weeks. Everyone had to get vaccinations. Nobody else got it. Mishka went to Arkhangelsk and passed the entrance exams. I went back to school. And in four months Mishka had quit. Ran away. He said it was so fucking harsh — the hazing was so bad and the freshmen got beaten so brutally the walls in the room it happened in were covered in blood. Mishka stopped his education at the eighth grade, did his army service, started working as a welder. No fucking future. And I finished school and got into college. And I think that wasn’t an accident. I think God was watching over me. I think he sent a plague of locusts. Colorado beetles and jaundice, but same difference, eh? He did that so I didn’t go to the technical school. There’s something else I have to do with my life. Become a great musician or a great poet. Or maybe it’s all so I can kill Maronov. Maybe he’s going to become a new Hitler or build a dirty bomb? Although I reckon it’s probably something on the creative side. An artist. Something like that. I mean I can’t draw but that’s kind of optional. It’s not the Renaissance any more, thank fuck. I’m not going to kill anyone. It’s all OK. Everything’s gonna be OK. Right?

OKSANA. A three-room flat in a city. A floor lamp. Work anywhere, as an archivist maybe, or in a shop. Or in a firm. A business that pays a lot even if you don’t quite know exactly what it does. Apparently the bosses fuck all the women in firms like that. It’s tradition. It’s accepted. Fair enough, let them, as long as your husband doesn’t find out. Especially if the boss is cute like Seka. No. Better Seka’s the husband and the boss is even cuter. No, Seka’s the boss and there’s another husband and he’s cute and kind. Not greedy. But not some goon who can’t take care of money either. We’d go to the movies every week. Maybe somewhere in the south, although there are fucking wars everywhere now. Could get ourselves killed wherever. I’d cook for him, have to, wash, do laundry. Bear him a son. Why not? I’d push a kid out for a good man. When I first saw Seka I used to dream about him. That he had a wife somewhere. Like this toad of a woman. But a beautiful kid. And they’d go to the movies together and I’d say, you go. Let me stay here and take care of the baby.

ANDREW. When I get famous I’ll buy a house in a village. Or build one. Two stories for sure. Study on the second floor, looking out over the forest. Wake up in the morning to the sound of the birds. Nothing to do because I’m already in the encyclopedia. On the curriculum. Guitar all cabled and ready to go. Music up the ass. Speaker stack. Samurai sword on the wall. Next to it an abstract painting and on the table a manuscript. A novel called «My Life’. No. «My Triumph’. No. «My Defeats’. That’s cool. Everyone can see how humble that is. He got everything he wanted and he only remembers the defeats. He wandered from defeat to defeat. Live like that til I’m old. When you know you’ll be remembered, there’s no fear in dying. However it happens, it’s all good.

OKSANA. It’d be so lovely if everyone just died. I mean dying alone’s not fun. Even if you know heaven’s waiting for you. But with all the family in the room, kids, grandkids, watching, waiting for you to go. Why not just hit a button — switch everything off. Not bombs, or chemicals, but just gone, without pain. A clean planet. Forests, oceans, but no people. That’s be amazing. Nobody hurt. Fun, even. Someone who’s worked all his life. Saved millions, and then — voilà! Everyone’s equalised. And it’s interesting to think — where would all the souls go? The trees? Humans will pick a fight anywhere, even if they were trees. We’re bastards. The pine’s going — ’hey birch, get your fucking branches out of my space’. Then they fight with branches. Then some weapons research. A neutron chainsaw, and it starts over again.

ANDREW. The bus pulled up at the bridge. The driver turned round and shouted «Tickets to the bridge, you’re here.» I took her hand, pulled her towards the exit.

OKSANA. I was so lost in thought I didn’t notice where we were. Never been to Oskol before anyway. We stopped at a bridge and he took my hand and dragged me off the bus. So there we were. Standing at the bus stop. Bridge on the right, road on the left, and a field all around us. «What happens now’, I said? «What’s next? Is this Oskol?»

ANDREW. Kind of. Look. I’ve had an idea.

OKSANA. I couldn’t work it out at first. He’d bought tickets going in the opposite direction. The complete opposite. Like a fool I hadn’t even looked at the sign on the bus. I’m fucked. What do I tell Seka?

ANDREW. She was pissed off, obviously. Maybe she was thinking I was taking her to the woods. Drown her in a lake or something.

OKSANA. He’s jabbering about his mama.

ANDREW. Do you get it? Mama will give me the money. I’ll pay Seka what I owe him and it’s cleared. I don’t have to kill anyone. Seka can find someone else to do it.

OKSANA. Right.

ANDREW. Suddenly she’s calm. Seemed she wasn’t into the murder thing either. She even seemed a bit happier, I’d say.

OKSANA. She’s definitely good for the money?

ANDREW. For sure.

OKSANA. Come on, then. Where’s your rich mother?

ANDREW. I wasn’t actually certain she’d give me the money. She opened a shop six months ago. Converted a trailer and invested all her cash in the stock. She even put my dad on an allowance for his smokes and his booze. But I had cast-iron argument. If only…

OKSANA. Are you a fucking idiot? It says it’s fifty kilometres to Shichengi from here.

ANDREW. Not my fault. This is as far as the money got us.

OKSANA. So what are we gonna do? Walk?

ANDREW. Hitch..

OKSANA. Who’s going to stop out here, shit-for-brains?

ANDREW. Don’t know. Truckers, maybe? They get pretty bored. They might want passengers.

— Road

OKSANA. Every trucker’s got a No Hitchers sign on the windscreen. In the blue paint on the bus stop, someone’s scratched «Davydov is an asshole’ It’s like the local paper. Today’s headlines, Davydov’s still an asshole. I wonder who Davydov is? Fat, bald, businessman. They don’t write about guys like that on bus stops though. Some kid. Pissed off a girl or something. Now he’s famous as an asshole on the Moscow-Arkhangelsk bus route.

ANDREW. When I was a kid we were playing with knives behind our house — me, Bor’ka and Nataskha Sigalyovy — Sigalyata. One finger, then two, then three. They lived upstairs, and she’d always play the piano until my grandma knocked on the ceiling with the mop. Things were easy from about four years old. My grandma had a headache — smashed her skull in the war. She’d been dying for years. Headache, then shoulders, chin, lips, nose, eyebrows, forehead. Natashka started hanging out with soldiers, got married, to a soldier I guess, I don’t really remember, but throwing the knife was tricky, must have been the sun — you had to throw it up towards the moon, catch it behind your back. Natashka went to see some guy, came back, her and the guy owed someone money, someone wanted to kill him. The knife wouldn’t go in. I lost the game and Bor’ka carved a piece of rowan, a tiny piece not much bigger than a matchstick, and used the knife to pound it into the ground, I had to pull it out with my teeth. My face was in the dirt.

OKSANA. You fucking asshole. Why didn’t you stop that car?

ANDREW. Nobody’s stopping. Can’t you see that?

OKSANA. You ass-hat. What are they seeing? Some psycho car-jacker waving a knife around. Would you stop for that?

ANDREW. So you go and stop one.

OKSANA. I fucking will, then we’ll see.

ANDREW. So a car comes along. A green Zaporozhets. Only not towards Shichenga but back towards Volokovets. She walks to the edge of the road, puts her thumb out, the car stops. There are two old guys in the car. Like, a hundred and fifty. They’re smiling. Get in little girl and let’s go for a ride.

OKSANA. I’m going back to the city. I’m going to tell Seka what’s gone on and I’m gonna leave him to deal with this shit on his own.

ANDREW. Fucking bitch. Are you trying to get away?

OKSANA. He got so pissed. Threw down his knife, ran to the car, grabbed hold of me — waved the grandpas away. Keep on driving oldsters. They laughed — youngsters’ issues, cough cough, puttered away in their rust bucket.

ANDREW. What the fuck?

OKSANA. What? I have to sit here with you all night? Get your fucking hands off me.

ANDREW. I felt myself gong red. Got even angrier. What’s up with her? Is she crazy or what?

OKSANA. Then he starts yelling. It’s my fault I’m stuck out here. If I didn’t want to go I should just have refused to come. I just wanted him to shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

ANDREW. I was trying to explain that it’s her that’s in the wrong. That actually she’s only got herself to blame for ending up out here. She’s a free agent and she made a choice to come here. If not consciously then unconsciously. But she wouldn’t listen.

OKSANA. I crossed over to the other side, stuck my thumb out again, straight away stopped a BMW heading the other direction.

ANDREW. She got in the car like she wasn’t hanging around. I ran to it and got in the other side. The driver was a guy in a white shirt. He told me to watch out for his suit. It was on a hanger next my head. I hadn’t noticed.

OKSANA. The car smelled good, and I was really conscious I hadn’t showered in two days. In the dorm there’s one shower for a hundred and twenty rooms, so the queue takes forever, and you can only really use them at night. And people just fuck in them all the time anyway. Although me and Seka never did…

ANDREW. He was obviously some kind of businessman. He said «I’m headed to Arkhangelsk, so I’ll drop you in Shichenga, as long as you tell the cops there’s been an accident back there. I’ve got business to take care of. I can’t go to the cops, there’ll be all these procedures and it’ll be a pain in the ass.

OKSANA. He said a Zaporozhets had gone up the embankment and hit a tree. Two old men. One survived.

ANDREW. Looks like that old man was destined to die today. But not Oksanka. So I wondered — why’s she here? I used to not give a shit about that stuff. Main thing was being remembered after I’m gone. Maybe I’m smarter now. Maybe I want respect while I’m still alive. Money too, although that’s just paper. I’m not a greedy person — not business-greedy — not my thing. Like this guy, he didn’t just give us a ride, he wants us to go to the cops in return. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, and I’ll make people believe that’s the way it’s working cos that’s how I’ll sell stuff. And then the ads start appearing everywhere. When there didn’t exist before. Before you worked for the people around you. Now it’s for the house, the car, the cash. Travel. I used to see myself walking, camping, seeing the world that way. Now I want a beach resort in the Maldives. This guy’s probably been in the sea a hundred times. I’ve been once. In Riga. In the winter.

OKSANA. And that time my period was late. Please don’t let me be pregnant. They say if you have one abortion you’ll never have kids. He still wouldn’t marry me, even if I was pregnant. Literature class, in the fifth grade, room fourteen on the second floor. My legs felt sticky. And I saw blood on my legs, and my dress, and the chair. The teacher took me to the toilet, gave me a pad, sent me home. And none of the class made fun of me as like they were scared, because this was a new thing. I was the first. Nobody knew what this thing was.

ANDREW. We got out of the car and he drove off. Not a word. Not even a goodbye. Even the car was quiet, like it was sneaking away.

OKSANA. Didn’t tell us anything about the life of a businessman. Didn’t want to talk to mere mortals, apparently. I was ashamed of how I looked. Like I’d slept in a dumpster. Some kind of beggar princess.

ANDREW. It’s like a picture postcard. River here, bridge there, forest on the left, mountain on the right and on top of it, an old church, which was a primary school, then a vocational college, and now is a church again. Shops and a club. This band Stalker played there once. Andrey Derzhavin. Good gig.

OKSANA. Of course the village was a shit hole. The club was an actual building I guess. Trailers instead of shops.

ANDREW. I showed her the police station. The old wooden building and the new brick one. The wooden one’s been there since 1937 when the two previous villages were amalgamated. There was a drunk tank that the drunks used to tunnel out of. They’d catch them straight away. Nowhere to hide around here.

OKSANA. We stopped by the police station and sitting behind the security bars there’s this fat kid with glasses who was in Andrew’s class. They forgot about the old men in the car wreck straight away, and started talking about some guy called Sashka Tugarinov who’d hanged himself in a woodshed while he was wasted.

ANDREW. Tugarinov had come back from army service and got married straight away. Their parents bought them a studio flat on the other side of the river. They’d been living together a month and he came home really drunk, she got pissed and told him to go to his mothers. He went to the woodshed and hanged himself. She was really torn up, said it’d have been better if he’d just carried on drinking. But what’s done is done.

OKSANA. I couldn’t get why he was so upset. Was Tugarinov a close friend or something?

ANDREW. We were enemies right from nursery school. We used to beat the shit out of each other. Pretty well matched. Then he got stronger and started winning more. One time, back when we were actually speaking he even borrowed a tape off me. That started the whole thing off again. He corners me at the club, said «I want a bottle off you tomorrow’ and I said «Where will I get a bottle from?» and he said «I want a bottle off you — tomorrow’ and I said «Yeah — but where from?» and he kind of knows he’s making a dick of himself but he says «Will I get a bottle off you tomorrow?» and I said «Where from?» and then he punched me in the face. Twice. And I fell over. And he left. And one time I was standing on the porch smoking with Yurka Chesnokov. I was wearing this black cap I got off my dad. And Tugarinov came up and he smoked a cigarette, without saying a word and after a bit he said «I wanna wear your hat’ and he just took it and fucked off. I couldn’t work out why he scares me so much. I’ve always been an OK fighter, even if I was fighting someone like two or three years older. I used to be all over them — they’d have to peel me off. But Tugarinov scared me. Like, this paralysing fear. Probably cos when you’re in an actual fight everything flows, it’s all in the moment. But when you’ve got the fear about a thing or a person you wind yourself up and there’s kind of nothing you can do about that. One time I was walking back from the shop and he was walking by with some other dude and he said «Hello you fucking schmuck’ and I just said «Hello’ back. I hated myself for that. He made me his bitch, basically. And now he’s dead and I’ll never be able to say «No, YOU fucking schmuck’. God damn it. I guess I should be happy to be alive, but I don’t. I feel like a part of me just got amputated.

OKSANA. From the police station it felt like we walked another ten kilometres uphill, and then we finally found some more houses, and we were there. A semi-detached with a greenhouse in the yard. Just an ordinary village. And suddenly he turned to me and said. «Hey, we should probably tell my mum we’re getting married’.

4. House

ANDREW. My mum nearly shat herself when she saw Oksana.

MAMA. For some reason I thought she was a policewoman and Dyusha had done something wrong.

OKSANA. And he pushed me in front of him and said «Mum, this is Oksana. She’s my fiancée’

ANDREW. And mum got slightly pissed.

MAMA. He’s still a kid. He can’t get married. How can he get married?

ANDREW. Mum. Come on. I’m not sixteen any more.

OKSANA. He walked into the flat, looked in the bedroom, said «Is dad asleep?» and then he called me over and said «I’ll show you your room’.

MAMA. Are you staying for a while?

ANDREW. We have to leave tomorrow morning.

MAMA. I’ll get your father up. He can get the sauna ready..

ANDREW. I showed off my room. A dozen shelves of books, half of them I’d stolen from the library. Guitar, tape deck, Wave turntable, and the best bit — the view. You can’t buy a view like that. The pond, the forest, the clouds.

OKSANA. This poxy little room, an iron bed, a chair and some bookshelves.

MAMA. I’ve not even had a proper look at her. Is her background good? No alcoholism? Is she healthy? Can she wash and cook? I need to know these things so I can tell what kind of a wife she’ll be. It’s all so quick. He was only a toddler the other day and now he’s engaged.

ANDREW. Dad was taking firewood to the bath house outside. Smoke started coming out of the chimney. I didn’t say anything.

OKSANA. What the hell is this about?

ANDREW. You don’t have to do anything. Just one night pretending we’re engaged. Nobody’s gonna make you marry me.

OKSANA. It’s women who choose to get married anyway.

ANDREW. You know what I mean.

OKSANA. I can’t believe this is happening.

ANDREW. You should thank Seka.

OKSANA. Fuck you. Shall I go out there and tell your mum you’re a liar?

ANDREW. Please. We won’t get the money if you do.

OKSANA. What can I say to him? This is madness.

ANDREW. Mum knocks gently, like she’s not used to knocking on doors. Go and help your dad, she says. What kind of help would dad want? OK. I’ll go.

OKSANA. Yeah. So now mum-in-law’s come to get acquainted. She sat opposite me. Fat. Grey showing through the dye-job. Stank of tobacco.

MAMA. I’m sitting, sizing her up. Her skin’s not good. Her face too. As for how she’s going to have kids… I sat by the stove and lit a cigarette. She sits too, and suddenly there it is. She pulls out a cigarette as well. Green menthols. Good God.

ANDREW. I got to the bath house, dad was sitting, looking into the fire. I say ’what’s up dad? How’s it going?“ and he says „Well well’. That was the whole conversation.

OKSANA. We’re sitting by the stove, me and the mother-in-law, smoking. And she does not like me.

MAMA. Where are you from, then?

OKSANA. Ramenskoye.

MAMA. Where’s that?

OKSANA. Vashkinskiy

MAMA. And your parents?

OKSANA. Mum works for the Post Office. Dad’s dead.

MAMA. And you and Dyusha are studying together?

OKSANA. Nat-Geo.

MAMA. What’s that?

OKSANA. Natural Geography.

MAMA. So you go on field trips?

OKSANA. Not really. More, we talk about other people’s. Like Sienkiewicz.

MAMA. OK. Where did you meet him?

OKSANA. At the dorm.

MAMA. If you get married, do you get a family apartment?

OKSANA. Oh yeah. They just keep giving and giving. The family apartments are a wooden hut on the riverbank. And there’s a two-year waiting list. Or you can bribe the super as usual.

MAMA. Not bad, Looks like a good girl really, although she smokes. She’ll quit when she gets pregnant though. I meant to.

OKSANA. We need some money.

MAMA. For what?

OKSANA. We need to bribe the superintendent to get a family apartment. Twelve thousand.

MAMA. Why that much?

OKSANA. The super’s greedy.

MAMA. I don’t have that kind of money. I own a shop. Everything’s invested in the stock. You can have two thousand. The rest you’ll have to earn.

OKSANA. She’s a typical businesswoman. Not like Dyusha. Shame she won’t give him the cash. He’s really counting on it.

MAMA. I’ll start the pies warming. What kind do you like?

OKSANA. Raspberry jam..

MAMA. No jam. There’s fish.

5. Sauna

ANDREW. Why’s she so quiet? I was sitting on the floor in the sauna’s dressing room. Back to the door. I can feel the heat through it, on my back, but the dressing room’s cold. I start to freeze. Opposite me there’s a bench with towels laid out for us. There are gaps in the dressing room walls. The gaps are supposed to be there — in winter you can go outside and cool off in the outside air. But it’s not winter now so why is it so cold? Now it’s steam-room weather and I’m sitting here in the cold. My body’s got acclimatised to the sauna heat so the actual temperature feels cold. What’s she doing? Why’s she so quiet? Hey, are you sleeping or what?

OKSANA. What d’you want?

ANDREW. Don’t fall asleep. You’ll freeze.

OKSANA. Fuck off. You’d better come over here and whip me than, hadn’t you, husband?

ANDREW. Seriously?

OKSANA. Yeah. Come on.

ANDREW. I jumped up and took my pants off. Then put them back on? Is she actually naked? I half-open the door and of course she is. Face down on the shelf.

OKSANA. Come on in then. Why are you standing there like a stranger?

ANDREW. I went in and tried not to look. She was beautiful. Lying there like that. Her back’s thin, her ass is round, her legs. Oh God.

OKSANA. I look at him and the poor boy stumbles. Never seen a naked girl before? Come on. Get branches, and get to work. He picks up branches and sinks them in the hot water.

ANDREW. Got to soak the leaves. Why aren’t you wearing a hat?

OKSANA. A hat?

ANDREW. You have to protect your head in here or you’ll suffocate.

OKSANA. He takes these two bobble hats and puts one on him, and the other on me. We never used hats in the sauna at home.

ANDREW. I got this sudden mental image of her, skiing, in the hat but otherwise totally naked.

OKSANA. He took the ladle and made steam. It got very hot.

ANDREW. You have to turn the branches first to condense the steam. Then you wipe the sweat off. Then you can start whipping.

OKSANA. Hey! Watch it.

ANDREW. Take it like a woman. One day you’ll have to bear kids.

OKSANA. I said be careful.

ANDREW. The branches left red stripes on her wet skin.

OKSANA. Look at that. You’ve got a hard-on.

ANDREW. What should I do with it?

OKSANA. Take a shower. A cold one..

6. Dinner

MAMA. I ran away from home at 14. Of course I thought my mother didn’t understand me and she wanted me gone. I moved to Zhihovo and got a job in a club. We showed movies, put on gigs, did all the local propaganda. And one day this cute young guy came to interview me for the regional paper. I told him everything about myself. And about the village I came from. And how much milk it produced. I came home for the weekend to see my mum, and one evening I was out for a walk and there he was, doing the same. Turned out he lived in the next street, but we’d never met before because he was at college in St Petersburg. And before that he was at Suvorov Military Academy, so he wasn’t around much. We started hanging out. His place, my place. The first time we kissed it was by the old canteen, on the porch, before our wedding.

OKSANA. Maybe I really should marry him? Then we could kiss on a porch too, the night before. There’ll be a fight at the actual wedding. Plates smashed all over the place. Get a pig. He’ll work at the Farm Supplies Depot and I’ll go to the fertilizer plant. I think I’m gonna be sick. Then after that we’ll die. I might as well go hang myself in the woodshed.

ANDREW. Oksana leaned in and said «Let’s go smoke’. We went outside, sat on the porch and she got her cigarettes out. I asked her to sit lower down so we couldn’t be seen from the street. It’s not done here, girls smoking. If you do it means you’re a hooker.

OKSANA. «We’re still engaged’ he said. Moron.

ANDREW. She was definitely angry about something.

OKSANA. Me and your mum talked. She won’t give you the money.

ANDREW. Why not??

OKSANA. She said she’d give us two grand and we’d have to earn the rest ourselves.

ANDREW. What the fuck did you do? I’ll talk to her.

OKSANA. Talk to her then. Won’t do any good.

ANDREW. She fucked it all up. My mum didn’t approve of her. My mum’s already decided she’s got no money, so she can’t give us any. Can’t change her mind now. We went back to the house, and I asked mum to come out on the porch with me. I talked to her for two hours. I tried reasoning every way I could. No money. Of course. End of story.

MAMA. No money. And that’s the end of it. I didn’t ask my parents for anything after the age of fourteen. They shouldn’t expect it. Or they’ll never stop asking. And anyway he’s too young to get married. Hang out, yes, live together even. That’s fine these days. Or get married quickly and divorced just as fast. Or worse, don’t get divorced and live the rest of your life miserable. No money. Final.

7. Night

OKSANA. I pictured Seka. So calm and collected, most of the time. Especially when he’s playing. When he’s playing, you have to admire him actually. He’s polite. He smiles. The game, by the way, it’s called Sueca. That’s just a coincidence — the name Seka doesn’t come from the game. It’s from his surname. Sekushin. Everyone gets dealt two cards. They look. Then they stick or they ask for more. Then they bet. Really showy bets. Lots of raising. It’s like this really precise Blackjack. More than twenty-one? Lose. Less than twenty-one? Lose. Only way to win is with exactly twenty-one. If it’s a draw, leave the money in and start again. It can go on for days. Seka once told me a secret. Why he always wins. When he’s got a winning hand, he hears music. Every time. Music — he raises. Silence — he folds. And so he always wins. No cheating, just… music. I wish he was here instead of idiot-boy.

ANDREW. She was lying in bed in my white t-shirt. Just looking at me. And suddenly she held her hand out, said «Come here.»

OKSANA. I guess I’m spoiled but — he had no idea about kissing or what to do with a breast. Like a blind puppy looking for its mother’s tit.

ANDREW. Man, she was so hot. I stroked her, kissed her over and over… but it just didn’t happen. When it came down to it, nothing down there. No idea why. Maybe over-excitement. I wasn’t even drunk so it’s not like… just my fault somehow, I guess.

OKSANA. Didn’t want it that much anyway.

ANDREW. She turned over, faced the wall, didn’t say anything. I sat in a chair and looked out of the window for a long time. Today’s been the worst day of my life. Met a girl. Fell in love. Could have had a chance. Totally blew it. And now it’s fucked beyond repair. If I could go over like Casanova, don Juan, whoever, do that husky voice thing, say «Hey Baby, let’s give it another try.» Then take her places she’s never been before. But actually I’d fuck it up. Hesitate. She’ll just be «Leave it out, Mr. Soft’

OKSANA. What’s limp-dick doing over there? Is he going to sleep tonight? I’m freezing.

ANDREW. Could have been a fucking amazing final night. Anthony and Cleopatra. Let tomorrow do its worst! When mum finds out she’s gonna regret hanging onto the twelve grand. That’s like a day’s takings. Sacrificed her son’s future for that. It’ll be in all the papers. I’ll be a symbol. A movie. That’d be fun. Or they might make me the bogeyman. If you don’t sleep, Dyusha’s gonna come chop you up. What’s in Maronov’s head right now? Probably fast asleep. No idea he dies tomorrow. Where’s the best place to stab him to just get it over with? Not the heart cos of the ribs. Stomach. But they say that really hurts. I don’t want to hurt him, just kill him. Maybe I just won’t go. Hide. Then Seka sends someone for me. Go to the police? Not going to work. Look at Kustov. He wouldn’t exactly give a shit. What’s he going to do, put an armed guard on me? Arrest Seka?

My white t-shirt was on the floor. I went over to the bed quietly, lay down next to Oksana. She was sleeping. Naked. Lovely. I looked at the back of her head, her neck, her shoulders. She was so close and so far and I wanted to just scream. I’d die for her. Or kill.

8. Morning

OKSANA. In the morning we didn’t talk. His mum gave us breakfast. Dry buckwheat porridge, coffee, or whatever she was calling coffee. Then she called me out onto the porch and gave me twelve grand. Said on no account give it to Dyusha, take it straight to the super. And get a room on the sunny side of the building.

ANDREW. Mum took Oksana out on the porch after breakfast to give her a lecture on something. I was scared Oksana was gonna tell her the truth. She didn’t have a reason to pretend any more. She can’t have, though, cos they came back looking happy.

MAMA. Well my loves. A long goodbye’s a sad goodbye. Off you go to the bus station.

ANDREW. And mum wiped away a tear. And another, she gave Oksana a hug, shook her fist at me. Self-righteous old cow. Bye then. Sorry I’m such a let-down. Don’t faint when you see me on the six o clock news.

OKSANA. I wanted to tell him about the money straight away but he just stalked off like he didn’t know me. Walked all the way like that, like I wasn’t even there.

ANDREW. I couldn’t bring myself to look at her. I couldn’t speak. I thought she’d just laugh, or give me shit. So I walked a little bit ahead and led the way back.

OKSANA. And it was like that all the way to the bus station. So I thought, let him sweat a bit. I’ll tell him when we get to the city. And give him the money then. Not like I need it. He asked me to wait when we got to the bus station, went into a trailer to but something.

ANDREW. Good thing I remembered. I left my knife by the road when we were hitching. I went into the trailer, bought a folding knife with a metal handle. Then I went into the bus station. She was lying on a bench by the window and all the old women were staring. She was looking at some old guy trying to use the payphone.

OKSANA. Clown. The payphone’s just hanging there with no handset. Gramps comes up to it, puts a coin in, tries dialling. He works out something’s not right. Something’s missing. Takes him five minutes to work out there’s no receiver. Then he walks back to his wife and sits down.

ANDREW. I wend to the counter. Bought us two tickets to Oskol.

9. Bus

ANDREW. What do you get for murder? Eight years minimum. At least twenty-seven when I get out. Best years of my life wasted. Then what? Nothing I guess. Live out my life somewhere quiet. Do penance. Lord forgive this sinner. That doesn’t work though, does it? If I know I’m sinning already, do it anyway, then saying sorry won’t cut it. If I know killing’s wrong already I shouldn’t do it. I have go tell Seka to fuck himself. Then he’ll kill me. Suppose that’ll get me to heaven. But if there isn’t one? Nothingness I guess. How come with all this science everywhere we haven’t worked out if there’s a heaven? Or found God? Maybe he’s quantum. Maybe science has been fooling us and it’s all total bullshit. You read about Medieval times and you think, ignorant fuckers didn’t know the Earth orbits the Sun. This is elementary shit. And the scientists that suggested it got burned. Thinking about it, where’s Giordano Bruno, then? Heaven or hell? What if, when you die, you just get stuck in the last moment you were alive? That’s shit for the people who got burned. I heard about a woman from Shichengi who set herself on fire. Just an ordinary woman, lived with her son. He finished school, went to college. She was on her own and went quietly mad, and one night she took a van of gas, went into the fields, poured it on herself, and lit a match. That’s probably… I mean you’re on fire, you’re burning, the pain is indescribable, and you don’t die, you want so much to die so it’s over, but you just keep burning forever. And then you die, and you wake up on fire and it goes on and on and there’s no hope. Bit different to a knife in the belly. Although that’ll hurt too. I mean the intestines and stuff, it can take ages. Better in the heart, actually. Quicker. But you need the skills to get through the ribs. Am I really gonna kill him?

OKSANA. The bus stank of onions. This handsome guy was sitting to our left. Jacket, white shirt with polka dots, suit pants, boots. It was his hair that made it work — short at the front, shoulder length at the back. Moustache. He sits there and you know he knows every woman on this bus wants him. Dream husband material. Probably heads out into the forest at weekends. Comes back, throws a hare on the table while I’m heating up water to wash his feet.

ANDREW. No point hiding. Everyone knows Maronov owes Seka, and I do too. And Oksana will just spill everything as soon as the cops get there. They’d interrogate her. Every detail. Make her tell them I couldn’t get hard last night. It’ll be this young cop asking the questions. Four years older than me or something. He’ll laugh. They’ll be letting the rookie practice cos the case is open and shut.

OKSANA. Trees flashing by, away from the road, bushes, aspen, then birches, I know all the trees from natural history class. The forest still scares me.

ANDREW. She doesn’t feel even a bit sorry for me. If she had a cat, and it was me or the cat, she’s definitely let the cat live.

OKSANA. In the summer we lived with my mum, and around the time dad died, we decided to start doing yoga to lose weight. We were sitting up late, eating sunflower seed, watching TV, and out of nowhere my mum said «We’re amazing at Yoga’, and we laughed so much.

ANDREW. I looked at her. She didn’t notice. She was lying back with her eyes closed, smiling. Let’s see her smile when I kill someone right in front of her. One move. Under the ribs. And he lies back and it’s all gone already. Like he’s sleeping. I’m gonna do it. I want to. I’ll survive. You can have a life in jail too. Get accustomed. I’ll kill. I’ll be a killer. I’ve already done it. In my mind, I’m a murderer.

OKSANA. The bus stopped, and I woke up.

ANDREW. We’re here.

OKSANA. I only noticed when we got off, and there was no train station, and some broken-down sign that said Oskol.

ANDREW. She went crazy. «What the fuck are we doing here, numb nuts?»

OKSANA. He said I could wait here if I wanted. He went to a payphone. At least this one had a receiver. I followed him. I was totally mystified.

ANDREW. I called Mishka Koptsev, asked him for Maronov’s address. He gave it to me.

OKSANA. There’s no need to kill anyone.

ANDREW. Oh yeah?

OKSANA. No need. Your mum gave me the cash. I wanted to give it to you straight away but you just walked off like some kind of badass.

ANDREW. She took the money out.

OKSANA. Twelve grand. Give it to him. Seka.

ANDREW. I was furious. How the fuck can’t she realise the money’s nothing compared to this — for me to live, Maronov has to die today. I’m going to live.

OKSANA. And off he went down the street.

ANDREW. I thought she’d just buy herself a ticket out of town, but she came after me. Earlier, I thought she should be there to see me do it. Now I don’t give a shit. Means nothing.

OKSANA. This is so fucked. At some point. The sunshine’s gonna break open my head like a chrysalis. Out comes a butterfly or something. Then I won’t need to follow him. I’ll be done with this shit.

10. Yard

ANDREW. We walked into the courtyard and I saw Maronov straight away. He was on the kids’ carousel. There were two older guys next to him, around twenty-five. Behind him a guy was smoking on a second-floor balcony. Perfect. Mishka set me up perfectly. I can finish him, maybe one of the others as well. I have time.

OKSANA. Andrew said I shouldn’t follow him. But not to run if he falls down and they start beating him either, so they don’t instinctively go for me.

ANDREW. I reached in my pocket. Felt the knife-handle. Got to pull it out, take the blade in my left hand, open it. That’ll take too long. They could all jump me at once. Need to distract them, have a conversation. They’ve been warned. Mishka, obviously.

OKSANA. He walked up to them, said hi.

ANDREW. I said Seka sent me. Maronov’s leg was shaking. The other two were calm.

OKSANA. Maronov’s short, with long brown hair. I saw him at college once. He had this funny t-shirt about the adventures of a cartoon dick.

ANDREW. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and held it out.

OKSANA. Andrew stumbled back and one of the big guys said, «Don’t piss your pants, dude, it’s not a gun.»

ANDREW. Maronov said «Here it is, all fifty grand.» He’s made sure there are witnesses so everyone knows he gave the money back.

OKSANA. Andrew kept his right hand in his pocket, took the money with his left. Tried to put the money in his pocket. Missed every fucking time.

ANDREW. Maronov said, «Don’t lose it. My dad had to sell the motorbike.»

OKSANA. Andrew said, «I won’t’

ANDREW. The pressure just disappeared. The older guys even seemed to have a chat, maybe a smoke and something to drink. But I said, «Guys, a pleasure doing business with you. Stay cool.»

OKSANA. We left. And behind me I heard one of the older guys say, «We’ll catch up with them at the bus station. Get the money back.»

11. Bus Station

ANDREW. At the bus station, we had a fight. She said I disgusted her and she didn’t want us to travel together.

OKSANA. He was talking some shit about how dangerous it is to ride the bus alone. I said, «Give me the cash’. Even if they catch us, they aren’t going to think I’m carrying it. They’ll be looking for you. You get on the next bus out of here.

ANDREW. Of course I got it. She wants me gone. She hates being with me. So I said fine.

OKSANA. He gave me the bag, I gave him the twelve grand back. We’re even. For good.

ANDREW. I put her on a bus, and when I walked out of the bus station, I saw the two older guys coming for me. I ran. They ran after me. Down the street I ducked into the yard of a two-storey house, went to grab a branch from the woodpile to fight with, realised there was no time. I ran up to the house, pulled at the door of a flat. It was locked. I started banging on it, screaming «Help! They’re gonna kill me!» and then they caught up with me and dragged me out into the street. They were so out of breath they couldn’t even beat me up. They dragged me under a light and started searching me. «Where’s the money?» one of them said. I said «Gone’. «Where?» «The girl took it.» The other one said «I’m telling you, we don’t need this shit.» The first one punched me in the mouth and said «Where’s the money you fucking liar?». The second one pulled him off me and said «Look. He’s got nothing.» The first one said «I’m gonna do him anyway.» The second one put his arms around his shoulders and said to me «Get the fuck out of here.» And I left. I realised I was still carrying the twelve grand. I’d forgotten about it. They hadn’t found it. I walked back to the bus station and I just started laughing. Just laughing. I might have even sung something.

I went back to the bus station, bought a ticket, headed quietly back to the city. On the way I thought — even if I didn’t actually kill anyone, I did it in my mind, and that’s unpardonable. Because when I’d decided to kill him, I’d known it was a sin and I’d planned to repent after. God’s sees through that. He’s not a fucking idiot. And if you think like that, everyone gets caught out. Heaven’s pretty empty. Even the holiest monk, he’s sitting there in his cell, thinking — I’ll suffer hardship all my life, and pray, and when I die I’m gonna be sitting right there at the right hand of Jesus Christ and everyone’s going to say «Look at that monk there, must be pretty cool to be sitting with Christ,» and… there you go. Pride. But you haven’t sinned, you say? I have. And for what? It’s all wasted anyway. I met Oksana, and then I did it all for love, maybe. Maybe I love her? Course I do. I did all this for her. Or was it for me? Fear of Seka? I’m still scared of him. I’m vain too. Like Tugarinov, except he’s dead and buried and I’m alive and I haven’t killed anyone. It’d be great if something happened to Seka though. Maybe he could hang himself. Or drink a bad batch of vodka.

Soon as I get back, I’ll go to Seka’s place straight away. I’ll take her to my room and she’ll live there. I just want to see her smile every day. Fuck, aren’t we there yet? I’ve probably covered hundreds of kilometres the last few days. On a quest through distant lands.

12. Dormitory. Station

ANDREW. I went to the dorm. Nikipolev was sitting on a bench inside the hallway. He told me last night, Seka got thrown out of the seventh-floor window. Some local guys came to play, and he beat them. He shouldn’t have said this, but straight after, he said «I beat you cos I want to buy a motorbike.» He said it. And naturally they thought he’d been cheating. Apparently, the last thing he said was about hearing some music. The cops came, and there was no-one there, and nobody was stupid enough to mention the local guys. I asked where Oksana was? Nikipolev looked at me weird and said she’d left. Meaning she was homeless, I said «How long’s she been gone?» and he shrugged. About twenty minute, maybe.

I kicked the metal door open, jumped off the porch, ran across the field. I crossed the railway line, ran past the train sheds, the garages, the school yard, through the square with the statue of Babushkin, onto the road. The number five trolleybus had just arrived and I jumped on through the back door. Only just made it. She’d be at the bus station buying a ticket. Maybe the buses don’t run that often. I don’t even know what village she comes from. What bus will she be on? If she’s already gone than that’s it. Game over.

The trolleybus crawled across the bridge and I looked at the dome of St Sophia’s Cathedral, with the sun setting behind it, and I prayed she hadn’t left yet. Lord. You’ve helped me out so much. You killed Tugarinov. You killed Seka, You saved me from killing. Just help me this one more time. Help me make it. It’s easy for you! Or is this the price? You help me out and then you take her from me. Or maybe she wants to go alone.

The trolleybus pulled into the square by the station. But the back door doesn’t open, only the small one next to the driver. Then this fat woman gets on, says «Tickets, please’. The girl next to me quickly punched her ticker and I said „Have you got a spare?“. The woman shouted „Don’t punch your tickets after the bus has stopped!“ I went up to her and started to make an excuse, I forgot, I was in a hurry. She gets angry, starts telling me she’s gonna fine me. I» completely forgot I had money in my pocket. I looked at her face. Her round face. Two kids for sure. She probably reads them bedtime stories. And I punched her. She fell backwards onto a seat and yelled. I jumped out of the bus and ran across the square.

I had to blend in. I was exposed as an enemy bomber against a clear blue sky. I tried to get lost in the crowd. I turned the corner and was surrounded by people, coming out of the station, waiting for buses, drinking beer, just walking. I pressed through them, looking for Oksana everywhere. She wasn’t there. I looked. But she wasn’t there.

Then I stopped. I stopped still, and I closed my eyes and said «Let me see her.» And I opened them again and there she was. Getting onto a bus, carrying a red bag. I ran towards her. She turned, saw me, looked a little frightened, I ran. I was knocking people out of the way, left, right and centre. I jumped up on the step. I grabbed her and just started kissing her. Someone said «Young people. Just so arrogant.» I kissed her smoky lips, sweet and bitter, like licking a silver ashtray. And she kissed me back. Then someone said «You’re holding the bus up. Either gen on, or get off.» And we got off the bus.

THE END

FAULKNER

By

Alexander Molchanov

Translated by

Yuri Kaliada

Edited by

Rory Mullarkey

Characters

He

She

1. PRAGUE

Hotel room. He and She enter the room. He pushes in two big bags on wheels. She has a card and an envelope in her hand, which she puts on the table.

HE. And fourthly, last of all, a writer like Faulkner never would have existed in Russia.

She begins to unpack the bags and put things away. He walks to and fro around the room.

HE. Ask me why.

SHE. I don’t care.

HE. I’ll tell you why. Faulkner lived most of his life in a provincial town with a population of around ten thousand people. That’s slightly larger than my village, back at home. D’you know what would’ve happened to me if I’d lived in my village my whole life?

SHE. I’d never’ve met you, and you wouldn’t be driving me crazy right now? This room, by the way, is distinctly average.

HE. But it’s downtown though. The epicenter of the city. Look out the window.

She looks out of the window.

SHE. Brilliant. A view of the parking lot.

HE. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. One person sees a parking lot, and another the Cathedral of Saint… you know… the one they have here… the main Saint, the main guy.

SHE. Vaclav?

HE. Vaclav?

SHE. The main guy they have here is Vaclav.

HE. No, the other one. Shit, I looked it up on Wikipedia yesterday and now I’ve forgotten it.

He looks into the shower.

HE. No bathtub.

SHE. None of others had one either. Why would they have one here?!

HE. I’ll take a shower.

SHE. Set up the Internet for me first.

HE. You wanna get on Facebook as soon as you can, do you?

SHE. I want to talk to my Mom!

He pulls out a laptop, puts it on the table, turns it on. He sits down.

HE. If I’d stayed in my village, I’d probably’ve become an alcoholic and died. Best case scenario.

SHE. I’m scared to ask what would’ve been the worst. You’d have become a great writer like Faulkner and won the Nobel Prize?

He. Yeah, right, that’s it. Nobel Prize, Schnobel Prize. Worst case, I’d have survived and would have become… you know, like… some sort of… rural eccentric. Would’ve worked in some boiler room, walked around the forest with a notebook, talking to myself, would’ve overloaded the local paper with my lousy poetry.

SHE. Maybe Faulkner was a freak just like that.

HE. It’s no comparison. America, it’s kinda even, you know. There’s not much difference between the provinces and the capital. Three houses in the middle of a field — it’s already a town. It’ll have everything you need for communication. Mail, telephone, hot water, newspapers and contemporary literature. Sitting in his Yoknapatawpha County, Faulkner read the same Joyce that Hemingway read in Paris. That’s what’s important for the formation of a writer. But we’ve got Moscow and then we’ve got Russia — it’s not even two different countries. They’re two different civilizations. Travel outside the Moscow Central Ring Road and you go back two centuries. In some places it’s like serfdom still exists. The Russian village kills all living things. So even our so-called «provincial writers» have always tried to settle somewhere near the airport Metro station. Well. It’s asking for a password. Did they give us a password at reception?

SHE. Look on the envelope.

He looks at the envelope.

HE. And, here it is. Look at this clever trick, then. WiFi is kinda free, but the speed’s only 512 kilobytes.

SHE. Is that low or high?

HE. D’you remember what kind of Internet we had on the Otradnoye estate?

SHE. Seriously?

HE. That was 512 kilobytes.

SHE. So how much, then?

HE. Twelve Euros to upgrade it to 5 Megs, twenty-two to get it to 10.

SHE. Let’s do five.

HE. Okay.

Tapping on the keyboard.

HE. I wonder how many people will come today?

SHE. Someone might come. Czechs are curious. Only don’t make jokes about 1968.

HE. Don’t worry. My jokes were all pre-scripted. In Warsaw, there were about twenty people.

SHE. I thought there were more.

HE. Less than that, even: eighteen. I counted them. And how many of them are gonna buy my book? One, two?

SHE. It doesn’t matter.

HE. I think the publisher grossly miscalculated this trip. They definitely won’t recover the costs. Two plane tickets, first of all, that costs… well, it was a cheap flight, but it’s still nearly two hundred Euros. A room somewhere: seventy Euros a night, food…

SHE. Why do you care? Stop counting other people’s money. Enjoy the ride.

HE. I can’t.

SHE. What’s stopping you?

HE. Stupid question. Faulkner, first of all.

SHE. Here we go… Really?! Blame Faulkner. Why did you agree to it, then? You need to relax, escape, and now you’re up to your ears in Faulkner.

HE. If I said no, I still would’ve thought about Faulkner, just with a tinge of regret at the missed opportunity.

SHE. What opportunity?! How much are you getting paid to write this article?

HE. It’s not an article, it’s a column.

SHE. I don’t see the difference.

HE. Well there is one. In an article, it’s important what you write. In a column, it’s important who wrote it. There’s an added value to it.

SHE. And what’s that worth?

HE. Well, Toporov, who’s dead now, estimated that a writer today receives about five columns’ worth for a novel. And this is as true for the top authors who write columns for glossy magazines as it is for all the schmucks who write detective crap, who write columns for «MK» or the «Metro». One novel equals five columns. Penny to penny. So you can count. How much did I get paid for my novel? So, for a column about Faulkner they’ll pay me one fifth of that amount.

Pause.

HE. What, can’t you divide?

SHE. I’m thinking. Maybe you should start writing columns instead of novels?

HE. Well, I wouldn’t mind. But you know the difficulty: to be interesting to people as a columnist, you’ve gotta write the occasional novel. Be a writer. A celebrity. That’s to say, a person whose point of view people care about.

SHE. So write novels.

HE. That’s what I’m doing.

SHE. Write novels and columns.

HE. Oh you’re so smart. Well, here we go — we’re on the Internet. Wave bye-bye to twelve Euros.

SHE. Let me on it.

HE. Just a minute, I want to look up that cathedral again on Wikipedia.

SHE. When d’you need to deliver the column by?

HE. The fourth. No, I tell a lie, the fourth’s Sunday. The fifth.

SHE. Almost a fortnight. Why are you getting so stressed about it in advance? As usual, whining and whining, and then you’ll sit down and write everything in two hours.

HE. I’ll write something. I just need to know what to write. I need to come up with a hero.

SHE. Well, no need to invent anything. Look on Wikipedia.

HE. Yeah, William Faulkner was born in the provincial town Blah-blah-ville in nineteen something: no one writes a column that way. I need to find a plot. A twist. Intrigue.

SHE. So look for it.

HE. That’s what I’m doing. Look, I’ve just found a girl on «Vkontakte» I was in love with in my first year of college.

SHE. Show me.

HE. Wait a sec. Tanya. Tanya. Here she is. Tanya. Tatiana… shit, I forgot it again, her last name. Begins with a «z» … Aha, got it. Rogozina! Tatiana.

Tapping on the keyboard.

HE. Look.

Turns the laptop to her.

SHE. Wow.

HE. Here we go. She studied finance in St. Petersburg.

SHE. And you fell in love with her future money?

HE. No, I fell in love with her studying in St. Petersburg. God, I wanted to live in St. Petersburg back then! Maybe we should move there?

SHE. I didn’t hear that.

HE. Why are you getting hostile all of a sudden? We’ll sell the apartment, get just enough for a two bedroom place in St. Petersburg.

SHE. Yeah, right, sell it, then. We’ll have to pay back the loan we took out on it first.

HE. We’ll pay it, don’t worry. I’ll write a bestseller…

SHE. I’d get on with the Faulkner column, in the meantime.

HE. Bitch.

SHE. Yep.

HE. Just think, she’s probably still working there, a financier in some kind of financial office. Her husband’ll be that… guy from the Caucasus. Two kids. Imagine you’re a financier…

She makes her fingers into an imaginary gun, puts it to her temple and fires.

SHE. Bang.

HE. And I’m your Caucasian.

She puts her fingers into an imaginary gun, points it at him, and then puts it to her temple and fires.

SHE. Bang. Bang

HE. Ethnically motivated murder. Typical.

SHE. You should write a column about it for the «Metro.»

HE. Why don’t you write it?

SHE. I’m not a writer.

HE. So what? I didn’t become a writer straight away, either. We can be like Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir.

SHE. No way, she’s ugly. Like your finance girl.

HE. Maybe I should write a detective novel?

SHE. Here we go again.

HE. Akunin worked it out somehow. Maybe I could do it too.

SHE. And if not? Eternal shame.

HE. I’ll do it under a pseudonym.

SHE. Under a pseudonym: go on then.

HE. Deal?

SHE. Deal. Do what you want.

HE. Talk to me like that and of course I will.

SHE. Don’t mind my tone.

HE. Well you’re asking me not to mind it, but if I do you’ll give me shit about it.

SHE. Give it a rest.

HE. Maybe I’ll be a screenwriter.

SHE. Do whatever you want. Be an astronaut.

HE. I don’t have time to be an astronaut. I’m forty.

SHE. You’re thirty-eight.

HE. It doesn’t matter. Faulkner, by the way, worked as a screenwriter in Hollywood. Wrote, among other things, the script for Hemingway’s novel, «To Have and Have Not.» And then he ran back to Jefferson. You know, he was world-famous, but he couldn’t provide for his family with his writing.

SHE. Reminds me somebody.

HE. I talked to this one playwright. He used to write pieces for «Teatr.doc» and now he writes for this big mass-produced series for NTV. You know how much he’s paid per episode?

SHE. Envy’s bad for the liver.

HE. As much for ten of my novels. Can you imagine how much that is in columns? I ask him: «Gene, and how long does it take you to write an episode? He says: «Well, four days. With editing, about a couple of weeks.» D’you think I could write scripts?

SHE. I have no idea.

HE. I think I’m doing something fundamentally wrong.

SHE. Exactly, instead of writing your moronic column, you’re driving me crazy.

HE. By the way, I met Mitya at ROSKON. D’you remember Mitya?

SHE. The one who works on the radio?

HE. He doesn’t work there anymore.

SHE. That’s someone doing well for himself. As opposed to —

HE. Hell no. He told me how much he gets for a run. I wouldn’t say it’s a lot of money. Not like Gene gets for an episode. His main income’s computer games. Some Ukrainian company made a game based on his book, and now he lives entirely on those royalties. He’s retired from radio, just sits there scribbling out his fantasy novels —

SHE. Maybe you should start writing fantasy?

HE. Are you crazy? Everything’s all compartmentalised in fantasy. It’s really a complex market. And really cutthroat, too. Like spiders in a jar. It’ll eat you up straight away. Better to write scripts.

SHE. Then do it.

HE. Well there is one problem: I hate movies. You know, I have a theory —

SHE. No kidding.

HE. The fact is that in certain periods of history, this or that kind of art becomes more relevant than all the others. For example, in Homer’s time it was epic poetry. And why, you ask?

SHE. I didn’t ask.

HE. I’ll tell you: because at that time there was no written language, and literary text needed to known off by heart. A poem is easier to memorize than prose. And so The Iliad born, and Beowulf, and what else, maybe Icelandic sagas too. Then writing was invented and literature at once became an elitist pastime. Not every king can afford to have a whole book of parchment. Then, thanks to religion, the arts attracted the mob. And then an art for the illiterate appeared. Murals on church-walls, and the theatre. So you get Michelangelo, and you get Shakespeare. And in the 19th century, the novel as art made such a leap because people became universally literate, and books became available to everybody.

SHE. As they are now.

HE. The problem is that now TV and computers are more accessible than books.

People don’t make the effort to read. Everyone watches series and plays computer games. Soaps and computer games today are the same thing that the Iliad was for the ancient Greeks, «Hamlet» was for the British, and the Sistine Chapel was for the Italians.

SHE. Literature will never die.

HE. Wrong. D’you know Dante?

SHE. Not personally —

HE. Do you know the «Divine Comedy»?

SHE. That thick book of boring poetry?

HE. It’s a satirical work of entertainment in which Dante settle scores with his political opponents, and it’s written in almost unprintable language.

SHE. You mean filth?

HE. I mean, in a dialect, which in Dante’s time was not a literary language. Traders in the marketplace used it. It would never have occurred to anyone to write a poem in that language. The literary language was Latin. And by the way, Dante himself was convinced that he’d go down in the history of literature for his sublime verses in Latin. Today, nobody remembers any of his Latin verses. But everyone’s read «The Divine Comedy».

SHE. I haven’t. Well, once in childhood, I tried to after watching a puppet show of it on TV —

HE (laughs). Yeah, I’ve done the same. I even took it out of the library. But that later, at a University —

SHE. So, are you finished?

HE. No, wait. I mean, that writing novels today — it’s the same thing as writing Latin verses in Dante’s time. It’s prestigious, but it doesn’t guarantee a lifetime income, or posthumous fame. My novels will be forgotten the same way as the Latin verses of Dante.

SHE. Well write a «Divine Comedy.»

HE. Yes, but seemingly the «Divine Comedy» for today shouldn’t be a poem, it should be a TV series or a computer game.

SHE. Well, write a TV series or a computer game.

HE. I don’t know how.

SHE. Then get off the laptop.

He gets up and walks across the room to the shower.

SHE. Did you check what the cathedral it is?

HE. Shit, I forgot. Let’s take a look.

SHE. Never mind, just go away.

He gets in the shower. Turns water on. She puts her headphones on and signs into Skype.

SHE. Hi. We’re here. No, he can’t hear me. He’s in the shower. Good. Presentation at eight. We’ll probably have dinner first. What’s the name of the restaurant again? This is on Mala Strana? Three minutes’ walk? Okay, I’ll see you there. D’you miss me? I miss you too.

He comes out of the shower naked.

HE. Pass me my razor. It’s in the bag.

She pulls out a razor and gives it to him.

HE. Say «Hi» to Mom.

SHE. I will.

He goes back into the shower. She returnes to the laptop.

SHE. I’m tired. Of him, and of myself, too. And of this whole situation. I can’t just leave him. Actually, it’s my apartment, too. No, it’s not just about the apartment. I’m just afraid. With him — there’s some kind of stability. It’s the stability of getting by, that’s all, but it’s still stability. And with you there won’t be any stability. No, I haven’t been sleeping with him for a long time. It’s just a habit now. He’s like furniture. Well, not like furniture, as like an electric fan. It’s there noisy, buzzing, but I don’t listen to it. Don’t push me. I need to think. Give me a little more time.

He gets out of the shower, comes in his underwear, drying his hair with a towel.

HE. Look, I’ve been thinking —

She turns Skype off and takes off her headphones.

SHE. What?

HE. I need to do some exercise. Look the size of my belly.

SHE (not looking). It’s a normal belly.

HE. Really? I feel extremely chubby.

SHE. I don’t mind.

HE. It’s decided: tomorrow morning I’ll go to the gym. They’ve got one on the ground floor — a gym with exercise equipment. How’s your Mom doing?

SHE. All right. I said «Hi» from you. (Looks at his watch) I’ll just take a shower too and then let’s go have dinner.

HE. Do we have time? The presentation’s at eight.

SHE. I checked on Google Maps, there’s a good restaurant nearby. On Mala Strana. Three minutes walk.

HE. Good.

She goes into the shower. He takes a sit at the laptop.

HE. So. Wikipedia. The cathedral in Prague. Shit, what’s it called?

2. HELSINKI

Hotel room. He and she are sleeping. There is a mobile phone on the table. The phone alarm comes on. He stretches his hand out, turns it off and goes back to sleep.

SHE. So no exercise today?

HE. That’s right.

SHE. Then I don’t want to hear about your huge belly anymore.

He gets up, eyes closed. He picks up some sports clothes, which have been spread out on the table, and puts them on. He leaves. She opens her eyes, looks at the door, checking — making sure he’s gone. Gets up, turns on the laptop. Goes into the shower. Turns on the water. Comes out with a toothbrush in her mouth. Goes to the laptop. Looks at the screen. Leaves for the shower again. Comes back out a few seconds later without the brush. Sits down at the laptop. Logs into Skype. Puts on the headphones.

SHE. What the hell? Why can’t I get hold of you? We’ve been here for two days. When did you arrive? Well? What else d’you have to do? Your only business is being with me. You don’t have any other business and you shouldn’t have any other business. You know, if I needed someone to ignore me, I’d start flirting with the guy I already have. At least he’s always there. No, that’s not all. I’m angry and I’m going to punish you. You’re cruel. No, it’s not a joke. Where are you now? Oh, yeah. Very good. Look at my window. I said look at my window.

She takes off her headphones, gets up, walks to the window, pulls back the curtains. Looks out the window. Looks back to the bed. Returns to the laptop. Puts the headphones on. Looks back at the window.

SHE. Can you see me?

She takes the laptop and goes to the bed. She lies down with her feet towards the window.

SHE. Well?

Spreads her legs.

SHE. Well?

Places one hand on her breast, and the second between her legs.

SHE. Well?

She begins to breathe heavily and intermittently.

SHE. Good.

She puts her feet together, gets out of bed, goes to the window and draws the curtain. Returns the laptop on the table.

SHE. Wait.

Closes the laptop. Gets up, goes into the shower. Turns the water on. The room door opens. He comes in.

HE. I only did a warm-up today. You can’t just start doing power execises straight away, you’ll tear your ligaments. Can you imagine, there was nobody in the work-out room. Finns are lazy bastards, they’re no comparison to the Germans. Remember in Mainz on the waterfront? Everybody was running, running, running everywhere. Well, the young ones were running, and the old ones were drinking. There were only old men and women in the cafes. On the other hand, though, why not drink? You get a regular pension. And the Finns, generally, they’re all drinking. Old and young. Literball’s their national sport. They get drunk and start singing Heavy Metal. They’ve got the best Heavy Metal in Europe. Remember those ’peppers’ painted on Mannerheim yesterday? How old were they? Fifteen, perhaps? (Goes to the window and looks out.) Well, looking at this low sky, I start understanding why the Finns love Heavy Metal so much. (Walks away from the window.) No, this is no New Orleans…

He lies down on the bed on top of the blankets.

HE. Listen, I had a thought about creativity. We always go for the reader. We always try to entertain him when he’s bored, make him happy when he wants a laugh. The reader is God! But in fact, he should be like a sparring partner for an author. Art’s a duel. And, like in martial arts, there are different techniques. For example, in Boxing you get blows: to the body, to the head. And you have to endure them. Whoever’s better able to withstand the shocks, that’s the one who wins. In Kung Fu kick you need to block to defend yourself from the blows. In Aikido, you need to use the power of enemy’s attack to damage him in return. And then there’s Russian fighting. There are none of these tricks, blocks, no deviations. There are just hits, right through the enemy’s attack. He strikes you and you strike back to meet him, knocking through his blow. D’you understand? It’s not as spectacular as Kung Fu, there’s no dancing, no grace. Leo Tolstoy. «War and Peace»: there’s no beauty of style, no detective story intrigue. It just hits the spot. The reader’s like — «Well, come on, entertain me,» and you go to him and he punches you in the face. Done. Knockout.

She gets out of the shower in a robe.

SHE. Get in the shower.

HE. What d’you think?

SHE. About what?

HE. About my theory?

SHE. We’ll discuss it later. Get in the shower, before I change my mind.

HE. What?

He looks at her.

SHE. We’re wasting time.

He gets out of bed and rushes to the shower. Turns the water on. She goes to the window, pulls back the curtain. Looks at the street. Goes to the bed. She sits down on it. She looks out the window.

He runs out of the shower naked and climbs into bed.

SHE (without turning). You didn’t wash properly

HE. How d’you know?

SHE. I’ve lived with you for eleven years. Wash yourself with soap.

He gets out from under the blanket and goes back into the shower. Turns on water.

She takes off her robe and puts it on the bed headboard. Gets under the blanket. He comes out of the shower again, wiping himself with a towel.

HE. With soap. I swear.

He throws a towel on the bed headboard. Looks back at the window.

HE. Close the curtains?

SHE. Don’t. Come here. Take the blanket off, too.

HE. This is something new.

SHE. I want to see your belly.

He throws the blanket over the headboard. Thus, the blanket, the bathrobe and the towel completely block the audience’s view of what’s happening on the bed.

He and she make love. It lasts about a minute. Then he pulls the towel off the headboard, covers himself with it, and goes into the shower. The sound of running water. He returns. She takes the robe and goes into the shower. The sound of running water. She returns in a bathrobe. Falls. Both lie on the bed.

HE. It’s cold, by the way.

He pulls the blanket off headboard and covers himself.

HE. So, is it big?

SHE. Normal size.

HE. I’m talking about my belly.

SHE. I know. It’s normal size.

HE. What d’you think about my theory?

SHE. What theory?

HE. The one I just told you. About creative work being like a fight.

SHE. I wasn’t listening.

HE. As usual.

SHE. Are you unhappy?

HE. Why don’t you ever listen to what I tell you?

SHE. I’m not interested.

HE. Maybe you chose the wrong guy, then?

SHE. Maybe.

HE. I think so. We don’t have sex. We don’t understand each other. I don’t know why we’ve been together for so many years.

SHE. No sex? Are you joking? What was that just now?

HE. Yeah. Once every two weeks.

SHE. I’m ready.

HE. What d’you mean?

SHE. I can do it again, right now. D’you want to? Come on.

She throws the blanket off. He looks at her. Then he covers her with the blanket again.

HE. It’s the way you say it. I don’t want it. And if I did try and make love to you, you’d just lie with your eyes open, looking at the ceiling and thinking that all men are animals.

SHE. Not all of them.

HE. You know, it’s boring.

SHE. I have to do my make-up. Move over, give me some light.

She sits up on the bed, picks up her makeup and begins to put it on.

HE. You see, we’ve lived together for eleven years. We need to mix things up, diversify our sex life, somehow.

SHE. What d’you want? I can dress up as a nurse. Or d’you mean you want to tie me up and spank me? Is that what you mean?

HE. No.

SHE. Then what?

HE. I don’t know. Maybe you want something?

SHE. I’m happy with everything.

HE. You’re happy that we don’t make love for weeks?

SHE. Women have times when they don’t want anything at all.

HE. But there are times when you do want it?

SHE. Sometimes. But then, my friend, I’m afraid, you’re not quite up to it.

HE. Like when?

SHE. Like last spring. Remember how you turned me down?

HE. That was once. You know I need to work in the mornings. I spend all night psyching myself up for work in the morning. And then there you were… so of course, I couldn’t just switch from work to you. I love making love to you, just not in the morning.

SHE. That’s when I like it best.

HE. Well, alright, then, let’s do it the mornings. I’ll get up beforehand to work.

SHE. That’s hard to believe.

HE. You’ll see.

SHE. You could be working now.

HE. Am I allowed?

SHE. Yes, what’s the problem? Have a seat, the laptop’s free.

HE. D’you think it’s that easy — you get a free minute, you just sit down and start scribbling?

SHE. Is it not?

HE. You’re not always ready to make love. I’m not always ready to write.

SHE. It’s not the same thing.

HE. It is the same thing. Creativity — it’s sex.

SHE. You just said creativity’s a fight.

HE. It’s the same thing. Eros and Thanatos.

SHE. So you’re not going to write today?

HE. We’re on tour now. My job now is meeting my readers.

SHE. How’s your Faulkner doing?

HE. Almost finished. Just need to edit it. The file’s on the desktop.

SHE. Can I read it?

HE. Please.

She gets up, goes to the laptop and opens it.

SHE. What’s the name of the file?

HE. It’s the only one on the desktop there. It’s called «Faulkner.»

She clicks on the keyboard.

SHE. It’s a bit short.

HE. What d’you mean?

SHE. It’s an empty file.

HE. What d’you mean it’s empty?

SHE. See for yourself.

He gets up, goes to the notebook, looks over her shoulder.

HE. Shit! What have you done?

SHE. What have I done?

HE. It’s gone. My column’s gone.

She returns to the bed and continues to do makeup.

SHE. Don’t make fun of me.

HE. What d’you mean?

SHE. You haven’t written anything yet.

HE. I have!

SHE. It’s an empty file. You didn’t write anything. Not a word.

HE. For a moment I believed that I had. That I’d finished my column. And if you believed in its existence too, it would have appeared there. A sophisticated, witty, stylish column. Seven and a half thousand top-drawer characters.

SHE. You’re delusional.

HE. I’m serious. All reality has been created by our minds. And if you believed in that my column was there — it would have appeared there.

SHE. So it’s my fault?

HE. Of course it is.

SHE. So I’ve been created by your mind, along the entire world around you. So that means its your fault.

HE. No, that’s not how it works. It’s not as imprecise as that. You know, the whole world is made up of tiny particles.

SHE. Yeah, of atoms. We studied it at school.

HE. Yep, and atoms are composed of protons, neutrons, electrons, and all that other crap. Scientists conducted an experiment. They directed the flow of electrons through a narrow slit on a screen. And it turned out that, if you’ve been watching them, they behaved the same as particles which were uniformly distributed over the entire screen. And if you don’t watch them, then they behave like waves, spreading across the screen like strips. Like waves. You know what that means?

SHE. I hate it when you do this.

HE. When I do what?

SHE. When you make me enter into a dialogue with you about something I don’t understand. Finish the fascinating story by yourself, please. And preferably without the checklist to see that I’m listening.

HE. This means that particles, in the absence of an observer, behave like waves. It was only with the appearance of an observer that they become particles. For example, this table. D’you think that it’s composed of particles, huh?

SHE. Were you not listening to me?

HE. It’s a simple question.

SHE. Yes, it’s composed of particles. I’m running out of mascara. Remind me to go to the «Stockman» on the Aleksanterinkatu.

HE. But it’s only like that when you look at it. As soon as you turn away all the particles — bam! They turn into waves.

SHE. I don’t think so.

HE. Why?

SHE. Okay, so we leave the room.

HE. Okay.

SHE. The laptop stays on the table.

HE. So?

SHE. So the particles of the table turn into waves, or whatever you were going on about.

HE. It wasn’t my idea! This is quantum physics.

SHE. Okay, okay, anyway, the table turns into waves. Well, in that case, the laptop should fall through the table and onto the floor. But when we come back it’s still just on the table.

HE. God, God. The particles in the laptop also turn into waves. It’s all — just information. Our minds organize this information, turning it into objects. Into what we call objects. Into what we used to call objects. And therefore art — it’s not a mirror, it doesn’t reflect the real world. It creates the real world. Artworks transmit, from generation to generation, how to manage the information around us. Art is a guide for the human use of the universe. If all works of art suddenly disappeared, humanity would have to start all over again, we’d have to create the universe anew. Separate light from darkness, and so on. If we didn’t learn from children’s fairy tales that the sun rises in the east, then it can go up from anywhere, even out of a cup of milk.

Pause.

HE. Well, you don’t want to talk about art, let’s not talk about art. Let’s talk about astrology. It’s patently clear that the position of the stars cannot influence the destiny of man. However, for thousands of years lots of very smart people were involved with astrology. Why?

SHE. Maybe they weren’t so smart?

HE. No. Because the connection between the positions of the stars and the fate of human beings really does exist. It’s just the relationship works in the opposite direction. It’s the fate of people that affects the position of the stars.

Pause.

HE. And the Chinese Book of Changes? How do coins know what’ll happen in the future? They don’t know shit. The Book of Changes isn’t an indicator, it’s a switch. When the coins fall into a certain order, it’s at that time that they create a certain future.

Pause.

HE. Or the past. Perhaps, Troy didn’t exist, and it only appeared after Homer wrote the «Iliad.» And it means that I can write a column about the fictional Faulkner. For example, I can say that Faulkner was a vampire. Or an alien. Or that he’s the composite alias of a group of authors led by Sherwood Anderson.

SHE. Interesting.

HE. Maybe Faulkner was a woman?

SHE. A black woman.

HE. A voodoo sorceress. When I was at college I read an article where it said that the novel «The Sound and the Fury» was written from the point of view of a mentally disabled teenager. If you’d read the novel, you would have realized that that’s very funny. Because in fact there are four parts and only the first part’s written from Benji’s point of view. Which means, therefore, that whoever wrote the article only read —

SHE. What time is it?

HE. What?

SHE. What time is it?

He looks at his mobile phone.

HE. Three minutes past ten.

SHE. We missed breakfast because of your Faulkner.

HE. There’s a buffet till lunch time at «Frezer». We’ll stop by the «Stockman» for your mascara while we’re down there.

SHE. That’ll be expensive.

HE. I’m hungry.

SHE. Have a coffee and a sandwich in the bar. Cheaper than a restaurant.

He leaves. She puts her makeup on and sits at the laptop. She puts on her headphones. She sings into Skype.

SHE. Did you like it? D’you want more? Then don’t make me angry.

He comes back.

HE. What kind of sandwiches d’you want?

SHE. No, I don’t love him.

HE. What?

SHE. I love you.

HE. What?!!

He presses himself up against the wall.

SHE. When shall we meet? Today, maybe? In the evening. He has an eight o’clock meeting with his readers. I’ll say I feel ill and stay in the room. Good. Agreed. I love it when you’re like that. Obedient.

She takes off the headphones. He slams the door — as if he’s just walked in — and comes up to her.

SHE. Where’s my coffee?

HE. I forgot.

SHE. What d’you mean? You forgot to buy coffee?

HE. I forgot to ask: what sandwich d’you want?

SHE. Ham if they have it. Or cheese. Just don’t get the fish if it looks bad.

HE. Okay. Who were you talking to? Your mom?

SHE. Huh? Yeah, to my Mom. She says hi. Listen, I don’t feel well today. I’ll probably just stay in the room this evening.

HE. Of course. No problem.

He leaves.

3. BERLIN

Hotel room. She lies under a blanket in front of her laptop. He comes in.

SHE. You’re early today. Germans drove you away?

HE. I’ve escaped.

SHE. Helen wouldn’t like it.

HE. Are you alone?

SHE. Uh. Yep.

HE. Where have you been?

SHE. Here.

HE. And where is he?

SHE. Who?

HE. Your Skype guy.

SHE. Who?

HE. I heard you talking to him.

SHE. When?

HE. In Helsinki. You agreed to see him I was meeting the readers. Did you see him?

SHE. You’re delusional.

HE. I heard it. With my own ears. You told him you’d tell me that you didn’t feel well. I didn’t know what to do. And now here you are again saying you don’t feel good.

SHE. I feel sick.

HE. And I knew right away — you’re here with him.

SHE. There’s nobody here.

HE. He’s already gone?

SHE. There was nobody here.

HE. I checked your Skype contacts. I think he’s under the name «mother.» Let’s try it, shall we?

SHE. Go ahead.

HE. Let’s call your mother.

SHE. She’s sleeping right now. Two hours’ time difference.

HE. I bet I can find something.

SHE. Why don’t you look under the bed?

HE. No. It’s pathetic and it’s vulgar.

He sits down next to her on the bed.

HE. The whole thing, the whole situation’s vulgar. The man, the woman and her lover. Such a literary situation. At least this means there’s something unconventional about us at last.

SHE. I want a divorce.

HE. Let’s talk about our problems.

SHE. I want a divorce.

HE. What don’t you get from being with me? What d’you miss?

SHE. I want a divorce.

HE. I give you my love, my attention, care, my free time, we travel around the world, I surround you with interesting people.

SHE. Maybe I need something else?

HE. So it’s a woman?

SHE. Who?

HE. If you’d cheated on me with a woman, I’d understand it.

SHE. I’m not a lesbian. So now you’re fantasising about it?

HE. It’s perfectly normal. I’m trying to be tolerant.

SHE. Such a male fantasy: a hot lesbian couple. Both usually ugly, they both usually look like men.

HE. Am I right about this? Are you having an affair with another woman?

SHE. You’re wrong.

HE. Then who is he? Is he is a writer?

SHE. No.

HE. Does he work in finance?

SHE. Something like that, yes.

HE. Of course he does. Money conquers all.

SHE. He doesn’t pay me.

HE. That would make you a prostitute.

SHE. He doesn’t pay me.

HE. Tell me about him.

SHE. He’s tall. Strong. Short hair. Speaks six languages. Smart. He has an apartment in New York. He knows Obama. And he’s totally in love with me.

HE. Incredible.

SHE. I want to divorce you and live with him.

HE. Six languages. I’ve been learning English for eleven years and I still can’t order in a restaurant.

SHE. That’s right. You, my friend, are a loser.

HE. I’m a great Russian writer.

SHE. Literature’s refuge for losers. And I’ll tell you this as well: your writing’s bad.

HE. Here we go.

He gets up and starts walking around the room.

HE. I’ll prove I’m not a loser.

SHE. That’s what all losers say.

HE. I’m going to kill him. And then you. And then myself.

SHE. You wouldn’t do anything of the sort.

HE. Why not?

SHE. Because you’re a loser.

HE. Go on then, mock me.

SHE. You’re so funny when you’re angry. Loser.

HE. Whore.

SHE. Better to be a whore than a loser.

HE. You know what: get out of here.

SHE. With pleasure.

She gets up, get dressed, puts her things into her bag.

HE. Are you serious? You’re leaving?

SHE. You’re kicking me out.

HE. Just so you know: if you go, it’s over.

SHE. It was over a long time ago.

HE. The apartment stays mine. I’m paying for it.

SHE. I hope you choke on the apartment.

HE. Are you gonna fuck him today?

SHE. Of course. And we’ll laugh about you while we’re doing it.

HE. Wait.

SHE. You can’t stop me.

HE. Where’s he staying? What hotel?

SHE. At the «Hilton». He has the presidential suite. With views of the Reichstag.

HE. What? At the «Hilton»?

SHE. Yes.

HE. And he has the presidential suite with a view of the Reichstag?

SHE. Yes.

HE. How d’you know?

SHE. I was with him.

HE. When?

SHE. Yesterday afternoon. While you were stuck in Helen’s office.

HE. You’re lying. You don’t have anyone.

SHE. I do.

HE. You made him up.

SHE. What?

HE. You invented him to annoy me. I fucking checked everything — Skype, your email, the text messages on your phone. There was nobody. You aren’t seeing anyone. It’s all a fantasy. You’re just fantasizing. Obama. Six languages. Well, yes, of course. It’s a game, isn’t it? You were bored, so you came up with a game.

SHE. Think whatever you want, but it’s not a game.

HE. You’ve failed.

SHE. What d’you mean?

HE. «The Hilton»? Room facing the Reichstag? Do your research! Helen’s office is on Zhandarmenmarkt, across the road from the «Hilton.» You can’t see Reichstag from there. You should at least have checked the guide book, the Russo touristo…

SHE. It doesn’t matter.

HE. What?

SHE. Remember when you said that we create the reality around us?

HE. I was talking about atoms!

SHE. What’s the difference? If I believe this relationship, then it does exist.

HE. You can believe whatever you want. But to walk out on a real husband for a made-up lover: that’s bullshit.

SHE. I don’t love you.

HE. But you do love him?

SHE. I do love him.

HE. So where d’you see each other?

SHE. It’s none of your business.

HE. Forgive my curiosity, but how d’you have sex? How is he at sex?

SHE. Believe me, my friend, he is unsurpassable.

HE. And where are you gonna live with him? In the corridors of your imagination?

SHE. We’ll have no problem on that front. He’s a millionaire.

HE. You fucking made him up! Get your head of the clouds!

She says something in response. And the dispute continues for a long time, but there’s no point in us listening to it. We’ve learned the main thing already.

4. BARCELONA

She sits at the table, buried in the laptop. He lies on the bed. The TV remote is in his hand. He flicks through the channels. We hear snatches of TV in Spanish — a bit of soap opera, a football match, then the news. It goes on for a while. For long enough.

5. ROME

Hotel room. She is lying on top of the blanket pushing buttons on the remote, changing channels. He sits at the table with the laptop open on it.

HE. Listen, from the book «Around Grotowski.» Barba, one of his students, described a trip to India, where Kathakali actors were performing in a market square. (Reads) Barba was amazed that actors’ special magnetism attracted the attention of the audience. He attended acting school in Kerala and found that as a basic position the actors lean on the «edges» of their feet, which violates the usual balance of the body. That creates a delicate position that requires the actor’s concentration. The actor is forced constantly to expend energy, and this keeps the audience’s attention.

He looks at her.

HE. Are you listening?

She doesn’t answer.

HE. I think the same technique can be used in writing. Disequilibrium. For example, Dovlatov saw to it that in the same sentence all words began with different letters so that there wasn’t any repetition. In principle, there’s no stylistic reason to do this at all. A reader doesn’t see and doesn’t realize what he’s achieving through his, let’s call it, alphabetic jumble. However, the author of the work is in a constant state of tension, which is transmitted to a reader and so holds his attention.

Pause.

HE. The most important thing is the energy that an author puts into his work. Words, thoughts, ideas, characters, plot it’s all garbage. If the reader gets the energy he’s happy. If he doesn’t get it, he just gets bored. The emotional connection is lost.

Pause.

HE. It seems to me that the boundary between what’s art and what’s not art lies where emotion ends and the mind begins. All conceptualism is a scam. It’s the energy that affects the emotions, and it must come from the work itself, and not from some long convoluted name attached to it. Because in this case, a person, sort of, by himself, but with the help of his mind, makes himself feel some kind of emotion. He becomes the author of the work.

Here’s how it works. With Rothko, for example. His paintings consist of those stripes and squares. And a canvas sometimes just split into two parts. One is painted in one color, the other another. It all seems very simple. And title of it all — well it’s Composition 1, or Composition 2. All in all, everything is simple. But when you look at it in the original, it’s very impressive. I went to an exhibition of his at the Garage. I forgot to breathe. It’s just beautiful.

Pause.

HE. And let’s take Damien Hirst. The shark in formaldehyde. You look at it. An ordinary shark in ordinary formaldehyde. The cost-price of the thing — I don’t know how much the shark’s worth. Well, let’s say, three hundred dollars for the shark, three hundred dollars for the formaldehyde. Shark submerged into formaldehyde. Nothing happens. So the top price should be six hundred dollars. And then along comes the author, and hangs the plate nearby «The Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living.» And that fucking shark at once becomes a work of art and worth three million. So this is how the author puts his energy not into the work, but into its title. And if you look blankly for a shark in formaldehyde, you’ll see a shark in formaldehyde. And if you know that the work is called «The Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living,» you’ll be thinking about the fact that while you’re alive there is no death. And when you die you cease to exist. Hence, there is no death. Hurray, catharsis, applause to the author. Only this catharsis you make by yourself, for yourself. And the shark in formaldehyde, in principle, is not necessary for you at all. And after all the money you paid for it. Three million in cash. But then the critics start to find something already in the work itself — say, that it’s really nice to stand in front of this fish-tank for hours and admire the pale blue tint of the formaldehyde… Come on people, why stare at the fish-tank? Isn’t it better to look out the window and admire the pale blue tint of the Roman sky above us…

Pause.

HE. In the evening, while you were sleeping, I walked around the city. You know, it’s strange, but the way I saw Rome wasn’t the way I’d imagined it would be. It wasn’t a contemporary European city. Or the Rome of Fellini. Via Veneto, the lady in «La Dolce Vita» in a dress swimming in the Trevi Fountain — it was none of that at all. Or Rome of Imperial times, either. Caligula the maniac with his horse-senator. No, I saw a very different Rome. I saw the city as it was in the Middle Ages, when the capital was moved to Constantinople. An abandoned town. The Forum overgrown with grass. Goats grazing in the Colliseum. And people going to the Parthenon to piss or shelter themselves from the pissing rain. That’s what I saw today… For several centuries only about ten thousand people lived in Rome. As many as in my home village. Or in Faulkner’s Jefferson.

She brings remote control to her ear.

SHE. Hello. It’s me.

HE. What are you doing? Are you mad?

SHE (covers the control with her palm). Stop it. Can’t you see? I’m on the phone. (Into the remote.) Hello, can you hear me? I want you to do something for me.

HE. That’s a TV remote.

SHE. I want you to kill my husband.

HE. Enough already.

SHE. Today. He has a meeting with his readers in a bookstore. At eight o’clock.

HE. Stop it!

SHE. You can approach him quietly in the crowd and inject him with poison. He won’t feel a thing. The doctors will all say he had a heart attack.

HE. It’s not funny.

He jumps up and runs to her.

HE. Give me the remote.

SHE. If you do, I’ll come to you and be with you for the rest of my life. I’ve finally decided.

HE. Give me the remote.

He takes the remote from her. She’s looking at him.

HE. This is the remote control from the television.

SHE. Then you have nothing to fear.

HE. You’re sick.

SHE. And you’re dead.

HE. Nothing will happen. No one’s out there. There won’t be any injection. There won’t be any poison.

SHE. Then don’t be scared, go off to your meeting with your readers and die of a heart attack.

HE. I won’t die.

SHE. You will die. It’ll be on the news. Helen will be happy. You’ll finally be glorified.

HE. I know what you’re doing. Witch.

SHE. I’m bored of you.

He presses the buttons on the remote. He puts it to his ear.

HE. Hello. It’s all canceled. You hear? She told me to tell you that everything is canceled.

SHE. You don’t know his number.

HE. There is no number! This is the TV remote!

SHE. I’m not arguing with you. Fine: it’s the remote.

HE. What d’you want?

SHE. From you — nothing.

HE. Wait. Let’s just talk. For the last time.

SHE. The last time was in Berlin.

HE. No. Wait. Let’s try to understand each other. What d’you want?

SHE. I want to leave you.

HE. Done.

SHE. And I want you to leave me alone.

HE. Done.

SHE. No calls. No letters. Don’t pursue me.

HE. Done.

SHE. And don’t call my Mom, either.

HE. Done.

SHE. If you see me in the street, cross over.

HE. Done.

Pause.

HE. In terms of the apartment…

SHE. Stick it up your ass.

HE. Done.

He gives her the remote.

HE. Call him.

She takes the remote.

SHE. Scared?

HE. Yes.

SHE. You should be.

She presses the buttons on the remote.

SHE. All canceled. Let him live. I’m coming to you.

She throws the remote onto the bed.

HE. Where will you go?

SHE. None of your business.

HE. I’m serious! I’m worried about you!

SHE. We’re not going to talk about it.

HE. Come on, I’ll walk you out.

SHE. No.

She picks up her bag and walks out of the room.

He stands at the door.

Then he turns and starts to pace back and forth across the room.

Then he sits down at the laptop.

HE. William Faulkner was born on September 25, 1897 in New Albany, Mississippi.

He types on the keyboard.

January 29, 2014. Velikiy Novgorod.

Content

Killer\Foulkner
Пьесы для Англии
Александр Молчанов

KILLER/ FAULKNER

Killer

— Room

2. Bus

— Road

4. House

5. Sauna

6. Dinner

7. Night

8. Morning

9. Bus

10. Yard

11. Bus Station

12. Dormitory. Station

THE END

FAULKNER

Characters He She

1. PRAGUE

2. HELSINKI

3. BERLIN

4. BARCELONA

5. ROME