Harold Pinter Plays 2 (15 page)

MARK:
No.

LEN:
What do you do in the day when you’re not walking about?

MARK:
I rest.

LEN:
Where do you find a resting place?

MARK:
Here and there.

LEN:
By consent?

MARK:
Invariably.

LEN:
But you’re not particular?

MARK:
Yes, I’m particular.

LEN:
You choose your resting place?

MARK:
Normally.

LEN:
That might be anywhere?

MARK:
Yes.

LEN:
Does that content you?

MARK:
Sure! I’ve got a home. I know where I live.

LEN:
You mean you’ve got roots. Why haven’t I got roots? My house is older than yours. My family lived here. Why haven’t I got a home?

MARK:
Move out.

LEN:
Do you believe in God?

MARK:
What?

LEN:
Do you believe in God?

MARK:
Who?

LEN:
God.

MARK:
God?

LEN:
Do you believe in God?

MARK:
Do I believe in God?

LEN:
Yes.

MARK:
Would you say that again?

LEN
goes
swiftly
to
shelf.
Picks
up
biscuit
jar.
Offers
to
MARK
.

LEN:
Have a biscuit.

MARK:
Thanks.

LEN:
They’re your biscuits.

MARK:
There’s two left. Have one yourself.

LEN
puts
biscuits
away.

LEN:
You don’t understand. You’ll never understand.

MARK:
Really?

LEN:
Do you know what the point is? Do you know what it is?

MARK:
No.

LEN:
The point is, who are you? Not why or how, not even what. I can see what, perhaps, clearly enough. But who are you? It’s no use saying you know who you are just because you tell me you can fit your particular key into a particular slot, which will only receive your particular key because that’s not foolproof and certainly not conclusive. Just because you’re inclined to make these statements of faith
has nothing to do with me. It’s not my business. Occasionally I believe I perceive a little of what you are but that’s pure accident. Pure accident on both our parts, the perceived and the perceiver. It’s nothing like an accident, it’s deliberate, it’s a joint pretence. We depend on these accidents, on these contrived accidents, to continue. It’s not important then that it’s conspiracy or hallucination. What you are, or appear to be to me, or appear to be to you, changes so quickly, so horrifyingly, I certainly can’t keep up with it and I’m damn sure you can’t either. But who you are I can’t even begin to recognize, and sometimes I recognize it so wholly, so forcibly, I can’t look, and how can I be certain of what I see? You have no number. Where am I to look, where am I to look, what is there to locate, so as to have some surety, to have some rest from this whole bloody racket? You’re the sum of so many reflections. How many reflections? Whose reflections? Is that what you consist of? What scum does the tide leave? What happens to the scum? When does it happen? I’ve seen what happens. But I can’t speak when I see it. I can only point a finger. I can’t even do that. The scum is broken and sucked back. I don’t see where it goes. I don’t see when, what do I see, what have I seen? What have I seen, the scum or the essence? What about it? Does all this give you the right to stand there and tell me you know who you are? It’s a bloody impertinence. There’s a great desert and there’s a wind stopping. Pete’s been eating too much cheese, he’s ill from it, it’s eating his flesh away, but that doesn’t matter, you’re still both in the same boat, you’re eating all my biscuits, but that doesn’t matter, you’re still both in the same boat, you’re still standing behind the curtains together. He thinks you’re a fool, Pete thinks you’re a fool, but that doesn’t matter, you’re still both of you standing behind my curtains, moving my curtains in my room. He may be your
Black Knight, you may be his Black Knight, but I’m cursed with the two of you, with two Black Knight’s, that’s friendship, that’s this that I know. That’s what I know.

MARK:
Pete thinks I’m a fool? [
Pause.
]
Pete … Pete thinks that I’m a
fool?

LEN
exits.
Lights
in
MARK’S
room
fade
out
and
then
fade
in
again.
Doorbell
rings.
MARK
rises,
goes
off
to
front
door.

Silence.

PETE
[
entering
]:
Hullo, Mark.

MARK
[
re-enters
and
sits
again
)
:
Hullo.

PETE:
What are you doing?

MARK:
Nothing.

PETE:
Can I sit down?

MARK:
Sure.

Pete
sits
right
armchair.
Pause.

PETE:
Well, what are you doing with yourself?

MARK:
When’s that?

PETE:
Now.

MARK:
Nothing.

MARK
files
his
nails.

[
Pause.
]

PETE:
Len’s in hospital.

MARK:
Len? What’s the matter with him?

PETE:
Kidney trouble. Not serious. [
Pause.
]
Well, what have you been doing with yourself?

MARK:
When?

P
ETE:
Since I saw you.

MARK:
This and that.

PETE:
This and what?

MARK:
That.

[
Pause
.]

PETE:
Do you want to go and see Len?

MARK:
When? Now?

PETE:
Yes. It’s visiting time. [
Pause.
]
Are you busy?

MARK:
No.

[
Pause.
]

PETE:
What’s up?

MARK:
What?

PETE:
What’s up?

MARK
: What do you mean?

PETE:
You’re wearing a gasmask.

MARK:
Not me.

[
Pause.
]

PETE
[
rising
]:
Ready?

MARK:
Yes. [
He
rises
and
exits.
]

PETE
[
as
he
follows
mark
off
]:
Fine day. [
Pause.
]
Bit chilly.

The
door
slams
as
they
leave
the
house.
Lights
up
on
LEN
in
hospital
bed.
Listening
to
wireless
(earphones).

PETE
and
MARK
enter.

LEN:
You got here.

PETE
[
sitting
left
of
bed
]:
Yes.

LEN:
They can’t do enough for me here.

P
ETE:
Why’s that?

LEN:
Because I’m no trouble, [
MARK
sits
right
of
bed.
]
They treat me like a king. These nurses, they treat me exactly like a king. [
Pause.
]
Mark looks as though he’s caught a crab.

MARK:
Do I?

PETE:
Airy, this ward.

LEN:
Best quality blankets, home cooking, everything you could wish for. Look at the ceiling. It’s not too high and it’s not too low.

[
Pause.
]

PETE:
By the way, Mark, what happened to your pipe?

MARK:
Nothing happened to it.

[
Pause.
]

LEN:
You smoking a pipe? [
Pause.
]
What’s it like out today?

PETE:
Bit chilly.

LEN:
Bound to be.

PETE:
The sun’s come out.

LEN:
The sun’s come out? [
Pause.
] Well, Mark, bring off the treble chance this week?

MARK:
Not me.

[
Pause.
]

LEN:
Who’s driving the tank?

PETE:
What?

LEN:
Who’s driving the tank?

PETE:
Don’t ask me. We’ve been walking up the road back to back.

LEN:
You’ve what? [
Pause.
]
You’ve been walking up the road back to back? [
Pause.
]
What are you doing sitting on my bed? You’re not supposed to sit on the bed, you’re supposed to sit on the chairs!

PETE
[
rising
and
moving
off
]:
Well, give me a call when you get out. [
He
exits.
]

MARK
[
rising
and
following
him
]:
Yes give me a call. [
He
exits
.]

LEN:
[
calling
after
them
]:
How do I know you’ll be in?

Blackout.
Lights
come
up
on
MARK’S
flat.
MARK
enters
and
sits.
PETE
enters,
glances
at
MARK
,
sits.

PETE:
Horizontal personalities, those places. You’re the only
vertical. Makes you fed dizzy. [
Pause.
]
You ever been inside one of those places?

MARK:
I can’t remember.

PETE:
Right. [
Stubs
out
cigarette,
rises,
goes
to
exit.
]

MARK:
All right. Why do you knock on my door?

PETE:
What?

MARK:
Come on. Why do you knock on my door?

PETE:
What are you talking about?

MARK:
Why?

PETE:
I call to see you.

MARK:
What do you want with me? Why come and see me?

PETE:
Why?

MARK:
You’re playing a double game. You’ve been playing a double game. You’ve been using me. You’ve been leading me up the garden.

PETE:
Mind how you go.

MARK:
You’ve been wasting my time. For years.

PETE:
Don’t push me boy.

MARK:
You think I’m a fool.

PETE:
Is that what I think?

MARK:
That’s what you think. You think I’m a fool.

PETE:
You are a fool.

MARK:
You’ve always thought that.

PETE:
From the beginning.

MARK:
You’ve been leading me up the garden.

P
ETE:
And you.

MARK:
You know what you are? You’re an infection.

PETE:
Don’t believe it. All I’ve got to do to destroy you is to leave you as you wish to be.

He
walks
out
of
the
room.
MARK
stares,
slowly
goes
off
as
lights
fade.
Lights
come
up
on
down
centre
area.
Enter
LEN
.

LEN:
They’ve stopped eating. It’ll be a quick get out when the whistle blows. All their belongings are stacked in piles.
They’ve doused the fire. But I’ve heard nothing. What is the cause for alarm? Why is everything packed? Why are they ready for the off? But they say nothing. They’ve cut me off without a penny. And now they’ve settled down to a wide-eyed kip, crosslegged by the fire. It’s insupportable. I’m left in the lurch. Not even a stale frankfurter, a slice of bacon rind, a leaf of cabbage, not even a mouldy piece of salami, like they used to sling me in the days when we told old tales by suntime. They sit, chock-f. But I smell a rat. They seem to be anticipating a rarer dish, a choicer spread. And this change. All about me the change. The yard as I know it is littered with scraps of cat’s meat, pig bollocks, tin cans, bird brains, spare parts of all the little animals, a squelching, squealing carpet, all the dwarfs’ leavings spittled in the muck, worms stuck in the poisoned shit heaps, the alleys a whirlpool of piss, slime, blood, and fruit juice. Now all is bare. All is clean. All is scrubbed. There is a lawn. There is a shrub. There is a flower.