Howard Barker: Plays Nine. Howard Barker
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was of the charm of her each and every part / Sisi would not post us pictures of her cunt and arse / this was the Emperor / and the scale / the sheer scale of these / these /
(He waves an arm towards the bed.)
This was the Emperor / so /
(He plucks a dirty comb from the pocket of the jacket and drags it over his hair.)
I suggest / given six months has certainly elapsed since the last petition was submitted / we request a sheet of paper / and do our best to be amusing / I have to go / I’m late /
(He stuffs the comb back in his pocket.)
By amusing I mean /
(Not certain what he means, BIBLE shrugs.)
What do I mean? / I mean / whilst scrupulously avoiding the slightest implication we are satisfied to be here / nevertheless to / to /
(He is frustrated.)
It’s a matter of discovering a tone / a tone which / I’m late / I’m late now / a tone which somehow conceals our pain behind an obviously insubstantial posture of / contrition /
(He grasps at a word.)
Irony / irony perhaps /
(And repudiates it.)
No / not irony / he hated that / I’m going /
(BIBLE makes for the door but stops on a thought.)
THE PROBLEM IS HE / HE IS SO /
(He frowns. THRASH resumes her crouching posture.)
EVERYTHING WE APPLAUDED IN HIM / HIS SUBTLETY / HIS MISCHIEF / HIS / HIS CONTEMPT FOR LOGIC / HIS / LOATHING FOR CONVENTION / IT’S / IT’S NOT SO DELIGHTFUL / IS IT? / WHEN IT’S TURNED ON US? /
(He suppresses a sob.)
I’ll think about the tone / there is a tone / I know there is / it’s a matter of / discovering it /
WARDROBE: (Grimly.) You’re the poet /
BIBLE: I’m the poet / I’m the poet / yes /
(A boot flies in, followed by another.)
I’m late /
(He goes to hurry away and stops.)
He’s with Sisi now I expect / the two of them / naked /
WARDROBE: I expect so /
BIBLE: Naked / yes /
(His inclination to meditate upon this is curtailed by a flurry of boots. With a low moan he swiftly departs. Once he has gone, the boots cease. The wind moans. THRASH and WARDROBE are perfectly still for some time.)
4
WARDROBE: Poet I call him /
(He stares at the ceiling.)
Poet he calls himself /
(He chews a finger, as if thoughtful.)
But does that make him a poet? /
(THRASH appears indifferent to the subject.)
In situations of profound sordidity such as this / where the faintest flicker of human intelligence is a treasured antidote to solitude / one is / naturally enough / inclined to be charitable / if someone says he is a poet / one takes it at face value / and to hell with authenticity / would you harbour the slightest resentment / if the claim were less preposterous / if / for example / he declared he was a taxi driver? / of course not / no / let him be a poet /
(The wind moans. The floorboards creak.)
But I know Bible / I have known him seven years / and in all those seven years / I have to say / in good times and in bad / I entertained a cruel and never-articulated suspicion that he was / I am articulating it now / of course / not only not a good poet / but not a poet at all / Sisi knew this / Sisi / for some reason / loved him / but Sisi was / is / was and still is / I daresay / shockingly instinctive and shockingly intelligent / and Sisi knew / you could see it in her eyes / she knew Bible was untalented / when he read she looked at the floor / whereas when I played / she looked at me /
(He sighs.)
A critical distinction /
(He chews. He frowns.)
Oddly enough / it is the very fact of our situation / its tendency to eliminate all discernment and discrimination in a pitiful struggle to simply stay alive / that now persuades me of the absolute necessity to issue verdicts / render judgement / and such like / to dissent / to quarrel if need be / to consign what’s worthless to the pit of worthlessness / and thereby preserve us from a humiliating intellectual decline / Bible is a fraud / I owe it to Bible not to disguise this from him any longer /
(Pause. WARDROBE starts to laugh. The canvas bed shudders as this derision turns to heartfelt weeping. THRASH, as if acquainted with, and anticipating this outcome, rises to her feet and going to WARDROBE, methodically and tenderly removes his clothes. When he is naked, she proceeds to climb onto him, running her hands over his torso, caressing his agonized flesh until at last WARDROBE emits small sounds of contentment. ENGINE returns, neither obtrusive nor discreet. He carries a violin, in its case and wrapped.)
ENGINE: She’s all right / then? / I do my best for you / I do my best for everyone /
(They ignore him.)
This instrument may or may not be the last / it is however / the last I am authorized to issue /
(He looks for a place to deposit it.)
If you’re wise / you’ll take care not to smash it / all breakages are reported /
(He places it on the floor.)
And the character of the breaking / if it was accident / or temper /
(He moves it a little further away.)
And thereupon it is the Emperor who decides what / if any / action is appropriate / whether to tolerate / to punish / or /
(He moves it fractionally.)
Simply to avert his eyes / this is the fourth replacement in as many months / and they are priceless / so I hear / priceless antiquities /
(As if reluctantly, he abandons the violin to its fate.)
Why he chooses to supply you with instruments of such distinction / when all you do is damage them / I have no idea / but how should I have? / the Emperor is who he is / and you /
(The OLD WOMAN lets out a sweet, deep cry.)
You are who you are /
(THRASH hangs her head, gratified.)
Vast is that woman’s rear / the circumference of a station clock / and bigger every year /
(He is briefly nostalgic.)
When I first saw her she was neater than a squirrel / her whole arse fitted in your hand / ‘I’m passing through’ / she said / ‘there’s nothing to keep a woman here’ / ‘me too’ / I said / my sky-blue tunic / her orange skirt / we did not / however / we did not pass through / and as time went by / it spread / her arse / as arses do / and in it I read the seasons / and the seasons / they turned into years /
(ENGINE barely indulges his melancholy.)
A station clock / that arse /
(The OLD WOMAN climbs off the canvas bed.)
Mine too / probably / but I rarely see it /
(ENGINE goes to leave.)
WARDROBE: (Raised on his elbows.) You’re a good man / Captain / what does it matter if you are unkind? /
ENGINE: (Turning.) Am I unkind? / In stating her arse was a clock / I was stating a fact / can facts be unkind / Mr Wardrobe? / I don’t think so /
WARDROBE: Unkind to remind me of the propensity of individuals who enter this place to imagine they might ever leave it again