FINK: But it’s outrageous! I won’t allow it! We have some rights . . .
FANNY: Sure. Rights. C.O.D. rights. Not worth a damn without cash. And where will you get that?
FINK: [
Sinking wearily into a chair
] But it’s unthinkable!
FANNY: Well, don’t think of it, then. . . . [
Looks around
] You don’t seem to have done much packing, have you? How are we going to finish with all this damn junk tonight?
FINK: What’s the hurry? I’m too upset.
FANNY: What’s the hurry! If we’re not out of here by morning, they’ll dump it all, right out on the sidewalk.
FINK: If that wasn’t enough! And now this trial! Now you had to get into this! What are we going to do?
FANNY: I’m going to pack. [
Starts gathering things, hardly looking at them, and flinging them into the cartons with ferocious hatred
] Shall we move to the Ambassador or the Beverly-Sunset, darling? [
He does not answer. She flings a book into the carton
] The Beverly-Sunset would be nice, I think. . . . We shall need a suite of seven rooms—do you think we could manage in seven rooms? [
He does not move. She flings a pile of underwear into the carton
] Oh, yes, and a private swimming pool. [
Flings a coffee pot into carton viciously
] And a two-car garage! For the Rolls-Royce! [
Flings a vase down; it misses the carton and shatters against a chair leg. She screams suddenly hysterically
] Goddamn them! Why do some people have all of that!
FINK: [
Languidly, without moving
] Childish escapism, my dear.
FANNY: The heroics is all very well, but I’m so damn sick of standing up to make speeches about global problems and worrying all the time whether the comrades can see the runs in my stockings!
FINK: Why don’t you mend them?
FANNY: Save it, sweetheart! Save the brilliant sarcasm for the magazine editors—maybe it will sell an article for you someday.
FINK: That was uncalled for, Fanny.
FANNY: Well, it’s no use fooling yourself. There’s a name for people like us. At least, for one of us, I’m sure. Know it? Does your brilliant vocabulary include it? Failure’s the word.
FINK: A relative conception, my love.
FANNY: Sure. What’s rent money compared to infinity? [
Flings a pile of clothing into a carton
] Do you know it’s number five, by the way?
FINK: Number five what?
FANNY: Eviction number five for us, Socrates! I’ve counted them. Five times in three years. All we’ve ever done is paid the first month and waited for the sheriff.
FINK: That’s the way most people live in Hollywood.
FANNY: You might
pretend
to be worried—just out of decency.
FINK: My dear, why waste one’s emotional reserves in blaming oneself for what is the irrevocable result of an inadequate social system?
FANNY: You could at least refrain from plagiarism.
FINK: Plagiarism?
FANNY: You lifted that out of
my
article.
FINK: Oh, yes.
The
article. I beg your pardon.
FANNY: Well, at least it was published.
FINK: So it was. Six years ago.
FANNY: [
Carrying an armful of old shoes
] Got any acceptance checks to show since then? [
Dumps her load into a carton
] Now what? Where in hell are we going to go tomorrow?
FINK: With thousands homeless and jobless—why worry about an individual case?
FANNY: [
Is about to answer angrily, then shrugs, and turning away stumbles over some boxes in the semidarkness
] Goddamn it! It’s enough that they’re throwing us out. They didn’t have to turn off the electricity!
FINK: [
Shrugging
] Private ownership of utilities.
FANNY: I wish there was a kerosene that didn’t stink.
FINK: Kerosene is the commodity of the poor. But I understand they’ve invented a new, odorless kind in Russia.
FANNY: Sure. Nothing stinks in Russia. [
Takes from a shelf a box full of large brown envelopes
] What do you want to do with these?
FINK: What’s in there?
FANNY: [
Reading from the envelopes
] Your files as trustee of the Clark Institute of Social Research . . . Correspondence as Consultant to the Vocational School for Subnormal Children . . . Secretary to the Free Night Classes of Dialectic Materialism . . . Adviser to the Workers’ Theater . . .
FINK: Throw the Workers’ Theater out. I’m through with them. They wouldn’t put my name on their letter-heads.
FANNY: [
Flings one envelope aside
] What do you want me to do with the rest? Pack it or will you carry it yourself?
FINK: Certainly I’ll carry it myself. It might get lost. Wrap them up for me, will you?
FANNY: [
Picks up some newspapers, starts wrapping the files, stops, attracted by an item in a paper, glances at it
] You know, it’s funny, this business about Kay Gonda.
FINK: What business?
FANNY: In this morning’s paper. About the murder.
FINK: Oh, that? Rubbish. She had nothing to do with it. Yellow press gossip.
FANNY: [
Wrapping up the files
] That Sayers guy sure had the dough.
FINK: Used to have. Not anymore. I know from that time when I helped to picket Sayers Oil last year that the big shot was going by the board even then.
FANNY: It says here that Sayers Oil was beginning to pick up.
FINK: Oh, well, one plutocrat less. So much the better for the heirs.
FANNY: [
Picks up a pile of books
] Twenty-five copies of
Oppress the Oppressors—
[
Adds with a bow
]—by Chuck Fink! . . . What the hell are we going to do with them?
FINK: [
Sharply
] What do you
think
we’re going to do with them?
FANNY: God! Lugging all that extra weight around! Do you think there are twenty-five people in the United States who bought one copy each of your great masterpiece?
FINK: The number of sales is no proof of a book’s merit.
FANNY: No, but it sure does help!
FINK: Would you like to see me pandering to the middle-class rabble, like the scribbling lackeys of capitalism? You’re weakening, Fanny. You’re turning petty bourgeois.
FANNY: [
Furiously
] Who’s turning petty bourgeois? I’ve done more than you’ll ever hope to do! I don’t go running with manuscripts to third-rate publishers. I’ve had an article printed in
The Nation
! Yes, in
The Nation
! If I didn’t bury myself with you in this mudhole of a . . .
FINK: It’s in the mudholes of the slums that the vanguard trenches of social reform are dug, Fanny.
FANNY: Oh, Lord, Chuck, what’s the use? Look at the others. Look at Miranda Lumkin. A column in the
Courier
and a villa at Palm Springs! And she couldn’t hold a candle to me in college! Everybody always said I was an advanced thinker. [
Points at the room
]
This
is what one gets for being an advanced thinker.
FINK: [
Softly
] I know, dear. You’re tired. You’re frightened. I can’t blame you. But, you see, in our work one must give up everything. All thought of personal gain or comfort. I’ve done it. I have no private ego left. All I want is that millions of men hear the name of Chuck Fink and come to regard it as that of their leader!
FANNY: [
Softening
] I know. You mean it all right. You’re real, Chuck. There aren’t many unselfish men in the world.
FINK: [
Dreamily
] Perhaps, five hundred years from now, someone will write my biography and call it
Chuck Fink the Selfless.
FANNY: And it will seem so silly, then, that here we were worried about some piddling California landlord! FINK: Precisely. One must know how to take a long view on things. And . . .
FANNY: [
Listening to some sound outside, suddenly
] Sh-sh! I think there’s someone at the door.
FINK: Who? No one’ll come here. They’ve deserted us. They’ve left us to . . . [
There is a knock at the door. They look at each other.
FINK
walks to the door
] Who’s there? [
There is no answer. The knock is repeated. He throws the door open angrily
] What do you . . . [
He stops short as
KAY GONDA
enters; she is dressed as in the preceding scene. He gasps
] Oh! . . . [
He stares at her, half frightened, half incredulous.
FANNY
makes a step forward and stops. They can’t make a sound
]
KAY GONDA: Mr. Fink?
FINK: [
Nodding frantically
] Yes. Chuck Fink. In person. . . . But you . . . you’re
Kay Gonda,
aren’t you?
KAY GONDA: Yes. I am hiding. From the police. I have no place to go. Will you let me stay here for the night?
FINK: Well, I’ll be damned! . . . Oh, excuse me!
FANNY: You want us to hide you here?
KAY GONDA: Yes. If you are not afraid of it.
FANNY: But why on earth did you pick . . .
KAY GONDA: Because no one would find me here. And because I read Mr. Fink’s letter.
FINK: [
Quite recovering himself
] But of course! My letter. I knew you’d notice it among the thousands. Pretty good, wasn’t it?
FANNY: I helped him with it.
FINK: [
Laughing
] What a glorious coincidence! I had no idea when I wrote it, that . . . But how wonderfully things work out!
KAY GONDA: [
Looking at him
] I am wanted for murder.
FINK: Oh, don’t worry about that. We don’t mind. We’re broadminded.
FANNY: [
Hastily pulling down the window shade
] You’ll be perfectly safe here. You’ll excuse the . . . informal appearance of things, won’t you? We were considering moving out of here.
FINK: Please sit down, Miss Gonda.
KAY GONDA: [
Sitting down, removing her hat
] Thank you.
FINK: I’ve dreamed of a chance to talk to you like this. There are so many things I’ve always wanted to ask you.
KAY GONDA: There are many things I’ve always wanted to be asked.
FINK: Is it true, what they say about Granton Sayers? You ought to know. They say he was a regular pervert and what he didn’t do to women . . .
FANNY: Chuck! That’s entirely irrelevant and . . .
KAY GONDA: [
With a faint smile at her
] No. It isn’t true.
FINK: Of course, I’m not one to censure anything. I despise morality. Then there’s another thing I wanted to ask you: I’ve always been interested, as a sociologist, in the influence of the economic factor on the individual. How much does a movie star actually get?
KAY GONDA: Fifteen or twenty thousand a week on my new contract—I don’t remember.
[FANNY
and
FINK
exchange startled glances
]
FINK: What an opportunity for social good! I’ve always believed that you were a great humanitarian.
KAY GONDA: Am I? Well, perhaps I am. I hate humanity.
FINK: You don’t mean that, Miss Gonda!
KAY GONDA: There are some men with a purpose in life. Not many, but there are. And there are also some with a purpose—and with integrity. These are very rare. I like them.
FINK: But one must be tolerant! One must consider the pressure of the economic factor. Now, for instance, take the question of a star’s salary . . .
KAY GONDA: [
Sharply
] I do not want to talk about it. [
With a note that sounds almost like pleading in her voice
] Have you nothing to ask me about my work?
FINK: Oh, God, so much! . . . [
Suddenly earnest
] No. Nothing. [KAY GONDA
looks at him closely, with a faint smile. He adds, suddenly simple, sincere for the first time:
] Your work . . . one shouldn’t talk about it. I can’t. [
Adds
] I’ve never looked upon you as a movie star. No one does. It’s not like looking at Joan Tudor or Sally Sweeney, or the rest of them. And it’s not the trashy stories you make—you’ll excuse me, but they are trash. It’s something else.
KAY GONDA: [
Looking at him
] What?
FINK: The way you move, and the sound of your voice, and your eyes. Your eyes.
FANNY: [
Suddenly eager
] It’s as if you were not a human being at all, not the kind we see around us.
FINK: We all dream of the perfect being that man could be. But no one has ever seen it. You have. And you’re showing it to us. As if you knew a great secret, lost by the world, a great secret and a great hope. Man washed clean. Man at his highest possibility.
FANNY: When I look at you on the screen, it makes me feel guilty, but it also makes me feel young, new and proud. Somehow, I want to raise my arms like this. . . . [
Raises her arms over her head in a triumphant, ecstatic gesture; then, embarrassed:
] You must forgive us. We’re being perfectly childish.
FINK: Perhaps we are. But in our drab lives, we have to grasp at any ray of light, anywhere, even in the movies. Why not in the movies, the great narcotic of mankind? You’ve done more for the damned than any philanthropist ever could. How do you do it?
KAY GONDA: [
Without looking at him
] One can do it just so long. One can keep going on one’s own power, and wring dry every drop of hope—but then one has to find help. One has to find an answering voice, an answering hymn, an echo. I am very grateful to you. [
There is a knock at the door. They look at one another.
FINK
walks to the door resolutely
]
FINK: Who’s there?
WOMAN’S VOICE: [
Offstage
] Say, Chuck, could I borrow a bit of cream?
FINK: [
Angrily
] Go to hell! We haven’t any cream. You got your nerve disturbing people at this hour! [
A muffled oath and retreating steps are heard offstage. He returns to the others
] God, I thought it was the police!