Barker, Plays Eight Read online

  First published in this collection 2014

  by Oberon Books Ltd

  521 Caledonian Road, London N7 9RH

  Tel: +44 (0) 20 7607 3637 / Fax: +44 (0) 20 7607 3629

  e-mail: [email protected]

  www.oberonbooks.com

  This collection copyright © Howard Barker 2014

  The Bite of the Night, copyright © Howard Barker 1988

  Brutopia, copyright © Howard Barker 1989

  The Forty copyright © Howard Barker 2011

  Wonder and Worship in the Dying Ward copyright © Howard Barker 2010

  Howard Barker is hereby identified as author of these plays in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. The author has asserted his moral rights.

  All rights whatsoever in these plays are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to Judy Daish Associates Ltd, 2 St Charles Place, London W10 6EG. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or binding or by any means (print, electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  PB ISBN: 978-1-78319-087-4

  E ISBN: 978-1-783-19586-2

  Cover photography by Eduardo Houth

  Printed, bound and converted

  by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY.

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  Contents

  The Bite of the Night

  Characters

  First Prologue

  Second Prologue

  Act One

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Scene Seven

  Interlude

  Act Two

  Prologue

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Interlude

  Act Three

  Prologue

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Brutopia

  Characters

  The Sickness

  Scene 1

  Scene 2

  Scene 3

  Scene 4

  Scene 5

  Scene 6

  Scene 7

  Scene 8

  Scene 9

  Scene 10

  Scene 11

  Scene 12

  Scene 13

  Scene 14

  Scene 15

  The Recovery

  Scene 1

  Scene 2

  Scene 3

  Scene 4

  Scene 5

  Scene 6

  Scene 7

  Scene 8

  Scene 9

  Scene 10

  Scene 11

  Scene 12

  Scene 13

  Scene 14

  Scene 15

  Scene 16

  Scene 17

  Scene 18

  Scene 19

  Scene 20

  Scene 21

  Scene 22

  The Forty

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  Wonder and Worship in the Dying Ward

  Characters

  Act One

  THE BITE OF THE NIGHT

  Characters

  MACLUBY a soap boiler

  CREUSA a woman of Troy

  SAVAGE a scholar

  BOY his son

  OLD MAN his parent

  HOGBIN his pupil

  HELEN a defector

  FLADDER her husband, King of the Greeks

  GUMMERY a soldier

  EPSOM a soldier

  SHADE a soldier

  A BOY of Troy

  GAY a daughter of Helen

  HOMER a poet

  BOY son of Savage (adult)

  ASAFIR a Truce official

  JOHN their servant

  CHARITY daughter of Gay

  SCHLIEMANN an archaeologist

  YORAKIM a labourer

  ASAFIR a labourer

  OFFICERS

  YOUTHS

  PUBLIC

  First Prologue

  MACLUBY: They brought a woman from the street

  And made her sit in the stalls

  By threats

  By bribes

  By flattery

  Obliging her to share a little of her life with actors

  But I don’t understand art

  Sit still, they said

  But I don’t want to see sad things

  Sit still, they said

  And she listened to everything

  Understanding some things

  But not others

  Laughing rarely, and always without knowing why

  Sometimes suffering in disgust

  Sometimes thoroughly amazed

  And in the light again said

  If that’s art I think it is hard work

  It was beyond me

  So much of it beyond my actual life

  But something troubled her

  Something gnawed her peace

  And she came a second time, armoured with friends

  Sit still, she said

  And again, she listened to everything

  This time understanding different things

  This time untroubled that some things

  Could not be understood

  Laughing rarely but now without shame

  Sometimes suffering disgust

  Sometimes thoroughly amazed

  And in the light again said

  That is art, it is hard work

  And one friend said, too hard for me

  And the other said if you will

  I will come again

  Because I found it hard I felt honoured

  Second Prologue

  IT IS NOT TRUE THAT EVERYONE WANTS TO BE

  ENTERTAINED

  SOME WANT THE PAIN OF UNKNOWING

  Shh

  Shh

  Shh

  The ecstasy of not knowing for once

  The sheer suspension of not knowing

  Shh

  Shh

  Shh

  Three students
in a smoke-filled room

  Three girls on holiday

  A pregnancy on a Saturday night

  I knew that

  I knew that

  I ALREADY KNEW THAT

  The marriage which was hardly

  The socialist who wasn’t

  The American with the plague

  I knew that

  I knew that

  I ALREADY KNEW THAT

  We can go home now

  Oh, car seat kiss my arse

  We can go home now

  Oh, underground upholstery

  Caress my buttock

  I loved that play it was so true

  Take your skirt off

  I loved that play it was so

  Take your skirt off

  What are theatres for

  TAKE YOUR SKIRT OFF

  THIS HAS TO BE THE AGE FOR MORE MUSICALS

  Declares the manager

  The people are depressed

  THIS HAS TO BE THE AGE FOR MORE MUSICALS

  Declares the careerist

  Who thinks the tilted face is power

  Who believes humming is believing

  No

  The problems are different

  They are

  They really are

  I say this with all the circumspection

  A brute can muster

  I ask you

  Hatred apart

  Abuse apart

  Boredom in abeyance

  Politics in the cupboard

  Anger in the drawer

  Should we not

  I KNOW IT’S IMPOSSIBLE BUT YOU STILL TRY

  Not reach down beyond the known for once

  I’ll take you

  I’ll hold your throat

  I will

  And vomit I will tolerate

  Over my shirt

  Over my wrists

  Your bile

  Your juices

  I’ll be your guide

  And whistler in the dark

  Cougher over filthy words

  And all known sentiments recycled for this house

  CLARITY

  MEANING

  LOGIC

  AND CONSISTENCY

  None of it

  None

  I honour you too much

  To paste you with what you already know so

  Beyond the slums of England

  Tower blocks floating on ponds of urine

  Like the lighthouse on its bed of mercury

  Beyond the screams of women fouled

  Who have lost sight and sense of all desire

  And grinning classes of male satirists

  Beyond

  The witty deconstruction of the literary myth

  And individuals in the web of class

  NO IDEOLOGY ON THE CHEAP

  NO IDEOLOGY ON THE CHEAP

  You think a thing repeated three times is a truth

  You think to sing along is solidarity

  NO IDEOLOGY ON THE CHEAP

  Apologies

  Old spasms

  Apologies

  Old temper

  Apologies

  Apologies

  I charm you

  Like the Viennese professor in the desert

  Of America

  My smile is a crack of pain

  Like the exiled pianist in the tart’s embrace

  My worn fingers reach for your place

  Efficiently

  IT’S AN OBLIGATION…!

  Act One

  SCENE ONE

  The ruins of a University.

  CREAUSA: Lost in Troy. (Pause.) Listen, getting lost. (Pause.) That also is an infidelity (Pause.) I walked behind. Wife bearing the food. The flask. The diapers. Wife under the bundle. The clock. The colander. The old man’s vests. Through flaming alleys by clots of rapists whose glistening arses caught the light. The chess set and the fruit cake. Wives under the soldiers. The flannel and the toothbrushes (Pause.)

  Turks in Smyrna

  Romans in Carthage

  Scots in Calais

  Swedes in Dresden

  Goths in Buda

  Japs in Nanking

  Russians in Brandenburg

  Unbelted and unbuttoned they thrust their arms into the well of skirt

  I did prefer

  I did

  To continuing this marriage in another place

  Prefer to get lost

  The gutters bubbling with semen notwithstanding

  The spontaneous stabblings of intoxicated looters notwithstanding

  I slipped down Trader’s Avenue and hid

  AND HE CAME BACK

  I will say this

  I will give credit where it’s

  He did

  He did come back

  A dozen paces boy in hand and dad on back

  His eyes shouted

  His mouth hung speechless as a ripped sheet

  I could have

  I wanted to

  That grey and never happy face

  CREU-SA!

  Once my name heaved out his gob and stuck to falling arches

  Once

  His last call

  Only once

  It drifted down with burning papers

  It sailed on draughts like embers of old Frocks

  And turned away

  Triangle of males

  The three degrees of man

  I vomited my shame into the shop

  On all smashed things I added pounds of self disgust

  And wiping on a dead man’s curtain stood up frail

  But light

  Widowhood is grief but also chance

  And falls of cities both finishes and starts

  SCENE TWO

  A MAN and A CHILD.

  SAVAGE: I WILL END UP KILLING YOU.

  BOY: Yes.

  SAVAGE: I think we know that, don’t we? I will end up killing you?

  BOY: Yes.

  SAVAGE: And burying you in the coke. Under the power station floor. Or sling you in a rusty truck…

  BOY: Yes.

  SAVAGE: One eye hanging from some almighty blow. WE DO KNOW THAT, DON’T WE?

  BOY: Yes.

  SAVAGE: (Sits.) Through no fault of your own…

  BOY: Not really, no…

  SAVAGE: My character being what it is. And the times being what they are. The state of the world and my temper. I think murdering you is inevitable. Kiss me. (THE BOY kisses him.)

  BOY: You have to have freedom

  SAVAGE: I must have it. I am forty and I must have it.

  BOY: Everything’s against you.

  SAVAGE: Every fucking thing.

  BOY: And I’m a constant irritation.

  SAVAGE: Not constant.

  BOY: Not constant, but an irritation.

  SAVAGE: Children are.

  BOY: We are, and then there’s grandad. We’re both an irritation and we are obviously holding up freedom.

  SAVAGE: Yes…

  BOY: You’re forty and freedom’s like a muscle, if it isn’t used it at-it at –

  SAVAGE: Shut up.

  BOY: It atrophies –

  SAVAGE: SHUT UP. (Pause.) Kiss me. Kiss me! (THE BOY kisses him. An OLD MAN enters with a pot.)

  OLD MAN: Done the potatoes.

  BOY: What does atrophy mean?

  OLD MAN: Done the potatoes.

  SAVAGE: Oh, the gnawed bone of my mind…the bloody, gnawed bone of my mind…(Pause. They look at him.) Dirty butcher’s bone in the gutter no dog would stoop to lick…(Pause.)

  BOY: You always say that.

  SAVAGE: I do. I do say that

  BOY: You put your hands to your head and you say the gnawed bone of my mind…

  SAVAGE: Yes…

  BOY: What’s the matter with it?

  OLD MAN: Lucky to find potatoes…(He goes off.)

  SAVAGE: I woke in the night. I woke in the night and the sky was purple with the bruise of cities. I thought of avenues where they sleep the sleep of family love, the pillowc
ase, the nightdress, the twitching of the poodle. YOU CALL THAT LIFE?

  BOY: Call that life?

  SAVAGE: The dozing daughter in the dormitory town has tossed off the eiderdown. Down it goes, hiss to the nylon carpet and piles like warm shit from the sphincter of the dog. YOU CALL THAT LIFE?

  BOY: Call that life?

  SAVAGE: Every dead clerk is a slab on the causeway to liberty.

  BOY: Down with the clerks! Down with the documents!

  SAVAGE: I taught Homer here…(HOGBIN enters.)

  HOGBIN: Sorry I’m late. (Pause.) Am I late? (Pause.) Am I sorry? (He sits.) I had an excuse, and then I thought, he does not care if I have an excuse or not. I thought in fact, if I do not appear he will not notice, so I would only demean myself by inventing an excuse in the first place. Why appear at all, in fact? HOMERIC FUCKING GREECE, WHAT DOES THAT SAY TO ME? Sitting on the bus this was, at the back eye-deep in soup of fags and women’s underwear. HOMERIC FUCKING GREECE?

  SAVAGE: You barren filth.

  HOGBIN: Now, then…

  SAVAGE: You ephemeral spewing of suburban couplings.

  HOGBIN: Of course I am ephemeral. So are we all.

  SAVAGE: Abuse and more abuse.

  HOGBIN: Merci. I didn’t do the essay. But here’s the notes.

  SAVAGE: The notes?

  BOY: He doesn’t want your notes!

  HOGBIN: I heard the reggae through the wall. The beat bored into me. I looked at Homer. Dead letters swum before my eyes. Old Europe struggling with the beat. The beat! The fucking beat! GIVE US KNOWLEDGE, DOCTOR SAVAGE! (Pause.)

  SAVAGE: The Trojan War. (Pause.) The Trojan war occurred because a married woman lent her body to a stranger. (Pause.) That’s all for today. (Pause.)

  HOGBIN: I knew that.

  SAVAGE: Excellent.

  HOGBIN: I KNEW THAT, GIT.

  SAVAGE: You read it. You did not know it. Knowledge is belief. (He gets up to go.)

  HOGBIN: DON’T GET UP. (Pause.) The seduction of Helen. The seduction of Helen is a metaphor for the commercial success of the tribes of Asia minor and the subsequent collapse of the Peloponnesian carrying trade. Only a military alliance of the Greek states restored the monopoly. In classical fashion the outcome of trade wars is the enslavement of populations in the interests of cost-free labour and the eradication of the infrastructure of the rival enterprise, namely the razing of cities. (Pause.)

  SAVAGE: No. It was cunt.

  HOGBIN: Cunt’s the metaphor, trade’s the –

  SAVAGE: HELEN’S CUNT. (Pause.)

  SAVAGE: That’s it for today, Mr. Hogbin. (Pause.)

  HOGBIN: I hate my father. He is a big-bollocked snob who walks the streets in shorts and stares at women. Intellectuals he calls bums. Bums, he calls them. He has foreign holidays and speaks American. What does bums mean? Bums means arses but I think he means tramps. GIVE US YOUR INTUITIONS AND STUFF THE FACTS. (Pause. He gets up.) Cunt, was it…(He goes out. MACLUBY enters, looks at SAVAGE, describes:)

  MACLUBY: Been crouching here since the final tutorial. The door shut and they left. Down slid the timetable with the rust. The tinkling of drawing pins, the descent of postcards. Then the lampshade crashed. The splintering of fluorescent lances in cracked corridors. The mole’s disdain of plastic tiles. And then the landscape yawned, and chalk breathed out, undoing the keystone of the library arch. WE ALL HEARD THE LIBRARY CRASH.