Real and Phantom Pains: An Anthology of New Russian Drama. John Freedman
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gun.
WOMAN shoots at JOHN. Click. A misfire.
WOMAN and JOHN shoot each other.
Time passes.
Evening comes.
Doorbell rings. Doorbell rings again. Again.
The door opens and BOY enters the apartment. He stands at the door for a moment. BOY sneaks into the kitchen and returns with a knife.
BOY steps around the bodies. He picks up the phone off the coffee table with both hands. He finds a clean place to stand. BOY dials 911 and closes his eyes tight.)
BOY: Hello. My parents have been killed. I came home to the apartment. They’re on the floor, shot. And two other guys, too. It’s true. I am not kidding.
(BOY cries.)
Come. Please. Pleeeaaasseee coooommme. Twenty-two. Twenty-two Victory Street. Apartment eight... eighteen.
(Dark. Night.)
3
The door of the apartment opens. BOY and GRANDMOTHER enter, leaving the door open. The apartment is empty. A rolled up carpet with bloodstains lies under the window. GRANDMOTHER covers a large dark stain on the back of the sofa with her raincoat.
BOY opens the lower section of the closet. He pulls out a bag of toy soldiers, a toy truck, and a plastic gun. BOY puts all this in a plastic bag.
GRANDMOTHER sits on the bed and cries.
GRANDMOTHER (Sobbing): Take... time. Take your... take your time. We’ve got lots of... time. We’ve got lots of time now.
(BOY opens the drawer on the large bedside table.
GIRL enters the apartment.)
GIRL: Hello.
BOY: Hi.
GIRL: Why is your door open?
BOY: We won’t be here long.
GIRL: You’re moving?
BOY: I don’t know. I’m going somewhere else for now.
GIRL: So...who’s moving in here?
BOY: They’ll probably rent it.
GIRL: Why?
BOY: You don’t know?
GIRL: We just moved in today.
BOY: And this is the first place you stumble into? Some luck.
GIRL: Why?
BOY: Cause someone shot my mom. Yesterday. Here. And bad too.
GIRL: Yeah?
BOY: Yeah.
GIRL: What are people supposed to say to you when your parents’ve been killed?
BOY: You say you feel sorry for them.
GIRL: I feel sorry for them.
BOY: Thank you.
GIRL: Do you wanna meet up tomorrow?
BOY: Are you leaving?
GIRL: I have to help carry boxes upstairs. I only stopped by for a minute.
BOY: Oh. What about tomorrow? Or I can help you carry boxes now.
GRANDMOTHER: No. It’s time for her to go home. You can see each other tomorrow.
GIRL: Okay, tomorrow. Good-bye.
BOY: Bye.
(GIRL exits. BOY pulls some textbooks out from the nightstand. He hides them in his bag.)
BOY: Grandma. I’m done.
(GRANDMOTHER stands and picks up her raincoat. BOY helps her to put it on. THEY exit)
4
Next day. BOY enters the apartment alone. He takes off his shoes at the door, leaving on his fur-lined trench coat and hat. He takes the coat off and lays it over the armchair.
BOY opens the nightstand and removes more textbooks, the covers are splattered with blood. BOY reaches under his shirt and produces one of the books he took the night before—blood splatters on it as well. He lays the books on the floor, bloody side up, and begins to rearrange them, as if working a puzzle. His cell phone rings.
BOY: Yes.
GIRL: Hello.
BOY: Hey.
GIRL: Where are you right now?
BOY: At home. Right under you.
GIRL: You’re here?
BOY: I’m home.
GIRL: I’ll come down. Should I come down?
BOY: I’ve got a cool surprise. Re-donk-u-lous.
GIRL: I’ll be right down.
BOY: I’ll be waiting.
(BOY plays with the books.
Doorbell. BOY lets the GIRL into the apartment.)
GIRL: What are you doing here?
BOY: Do you remember the first time we met?
GIRL: Do I remember the first time we met?
BOY: Yes.
GIRL: Of course.
BOY: I was sitting here, pulling out books.
GIRL: Okay.
BOY: Look.
(BOY steps aside.)
GIRL: Holy shit.
BOY: See?
GIRL: Were they on the floor?
BOY: Exactly.
(Beat. Expectant.)
They were in here.
(BOY opens the bedside chest.)
GIRL: And where was your Mom?
BOY: Over there. On the sofa.
GIRL: So, she crawled all the way over here?
BOY: But look! Look!
GIRL: What?
BOY: There’s no blood on the floor.
GIRL: None?
BOY: If she crawled, she’d drip. All over the floor. See?
GIRL: But there’s nothing?
BOY: Nothing. She mopped it up.
GIRL: Mopped?
BOY: You sure do echo a lot.
GIRL: Echo?
BOY: Why?
GIRL: Because I don’t understand why she crawled over to touch your books.
BOY: She didn’t touch them. It was an accident. She even mopped it up so they wouldn’t know she’d moved off the couch.
GIRL: Are you sure?
(BOY opens the balcony door, brings in a ski pole and closes the balcony door.
BOY pokes the ski pole under the sofa and retrieves a cleaning cloth. He puts the pole into the corner.
BOY opens the wadded up cloth in the light, the cloth is covered with bloodstains.)
BOY (Strong): I know. For sure.
GIRL: She definitely stood up.
BOY: Yeah, she put something in my books.
GIRL: What?