Barker, Plays Eight
First published in this collection 2014
by Oberon Books Ltd
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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.