25 Noel Road:
a genius
like us
Carlos Be
Caja España Theatre Award 2001
Translated
by Berni Armstrong
25
Noel Road: a genius like us
©
2001 Carlos Be
Translation © 2010 Berni Armstrong
All rights reserved. The play, being fully protected under the copyright laws of Spain and all other countries of the copyright union, is subject to royalty. Permission for all uses of the play must be secured from the autor through his website www.carlosbe.net.
Printed
by Bubok Publishing S.L. in Spain
Cover ©
2005 The Zombie Company
For Fran
Elizondo suggests that pain converts our minds into a theatre convincing us that what seems a catastrophe is in fact a dance, a delicate construction of the sensibilities, a special form of music or mathematics, a rhythm, an enlightenment or a therapy, and, of course, a mystery that can only be cleared up with the help of a dictionary of the emotions. All of this can be applied to the presence of evil in contemporary literature, since the sickness is not catastrophe, but rather a dance from which new emotive constructions could already be emerging.
Enrique Vila-Matas, Bartleby and Company
First performed by The Zombie Company in the Sala Beckett (Barcelona, 2005), directed by Álex D. Capo with Fran Arráez and Ludovic Tattevin performing.
Characters
Ken
Joe
Setting
The bed-sit shared by Ken and Joe.
On the wall at the back can be seen a mural made up of a collage of cut out photographs: well-built naked men posing, making love; Renaissance paintings and sculptures; real and mythical animals; human organs ... In the middle of all of this chaos, certain compositions acquire greater significance due to their position and size: the acronym INRI dominates the central panel, from the initials descends, vertically, the following message: “I NOW REPRESENT IDIOTS”; a photograph of the British Museum with the roof on upside down. On the museum’s façade (in words cut out from the newspaper) can be read "CULTURE MARKET"; Jesus Christ crucified on a Union Jack with a headband that reads "EGO SUM ERGO DEUS EST"; a cadaverous monk and a phantasmagorical nun sat on both sides of a small painting entitled "Was Rosencrantz Jesus CHRIST?"
On opposite sides of the bedsit are an old record player and a telephone. Next to the record player, there is a chair with various records piled on top of it any old how. Next to the telephone, a crumpled mat.
Scene One. Post-mortem
“Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child” is on the record player.
Ken is in the middle of the flat. He is listening attentively to the song; his legs slightly apart; his head raised, in profile. He is dressed in a patterned dressing gown and slippers. Underneath the dressing gown he is wearing a white vest, long johns and dark socks. When he speaks, Ken betrays some nervous tics, such as touching his cheek only to slide his finger down towards his chin, or, for a few brief moments, letting his head drop onto his chest or onto his shoulders.
Joe is lying dead on the floor, wrapped in the mat. From the position of the body, we can guess he has suffered a violent death. His feet, wearing sports socks, stick out at one end.
The music comes to an end.
Ken.- They put us in the same urn. Joe. And me. We were just ashes mixed together. But not half and half. There was more of Joe. The funeral service made a balls up. Instead of putting one spoonful of him, then one of me, they lost count. Even in death he had to be more than me.
They scattered our ashes in the Golders Green Gardens, quite a dreary spot, truth be told. There were two separate funerals. Loads of people went to Joe’s: writers, famous actors, the press ... They cried over him and recited poetry ... They even wrote him an elegy. And they played his favourite song, "A Day in the Life". Only four people went to my funeral. And no song was played. Because nobody knew my tastes. Nobody except Joe.
I suppose none of this should bother me. In fact, before we even got to the crematorium, Joe and I had long gone. We were in hell ... Yes, both of us. Me for the murder I’d committed. And he for the just rewards of a whole life.
My little hell ... I even had to share my little hell with someone who had hurt me so much in life; if you can call it a life, after what I suffered. It’d be better to describe it as a living death. The life of a zombie. The first thing Joe asked me when he got to hell was how he had died. I lied to him. I didn't tell him that it was me who bashed his head in with a hammer, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine times. I lied to him. But if he knew I was lying, he didn't say anything. He just waltzed off with his hands in his pockets, whistling his favourite song.
–Wait for me!
–You follow me.
Enough!
Yes, I followed him ... With my head hanging down, but knowing the truth, it was me who killed him. Yes, me, his lover, his murderer ... And his victim. Yes, I followed him with my head hanging low and with no tune to whistle because nobody had played my favourite song at the funeral, because nobody knew my tastes.
Nobody except Joe.
Ken goes to the mat and pulls at it to reveal Joe.
Joe stirs, stretching himself. Apart from the sports socks, he is only wearing a pair of red underpants.
Scene Two. Sodom
Joe still on the mat, lying on his side, his head supported by one hand. He completely ignores Ken.
At one point, Ken appears to try to speak, but does not manage to articulate a single word. Finally, he manages to say:
Ken.- Can't you see what I'm saying ...?
Joe.- Ken!
Ken.- Don't you understand?
Joe.- Please!
Joe slaps him.
Joe.- Enough of playing the victim for fuck’s sake!
Ken.- I'm going to kill you!
Joe.- Think about what you're saying!
Ken.- What?
Joe.- How are you going to kill me?
Ken.- Er ... With ... With a hammer. I will batter you to death! Like a character from one of our plays!
Joe.- How original!
Ken.- I gave you that idea! I gave you all your ideas!
Joe ignores him.
Ken.- Or with sleeping tablets. I'll poison you. Although maybe that might look like suicide. No, the best thing is to smash your head in with a hammer. Splatter your grey matter all over the ceiling, yes. Then I’d kill myself; overdose on my valiums ...
He looks for the medicine bottle in the pockets of his dressing gown.
Joe.- Careful. Valium gives me a stiffy.
Ken.- Well, if I don't die, at least I’ll make good use of your corpse!
Joe.- I’d have already lost my head. You could do with me what you wanted.
Ken.- Huh! Even dead you’d be fucking me!
Joe.- Or rather you’d be fucking me. Well, you'd be getting more off me dead than alive, anyway.
Ken.- No ... I couldn't. I'd kill myself. I couldn't go on living ...
Joe.- After smashing my head in? How considerate of you!
Ken.- I’d burst it open! Can't you see that I love you?
Joe.- In other words, you want me to feel guilty ...
Ken.- What?
Joe.- ... Guilty about your suicide. That's the fucking limit! A victim to the end! You remind me of someone with that same shabby diva spirit of yours ...
He crosses his arms.
Ken.- I'd go to hell ... And on the third day, I wouldn't ascend anywhere.
Joe.- Nor me! I hope.
Ken.- We’d have a great time there too.
Joe.- Just thinking that even hell is Catholic churns my stomach over ...
Ken.- Us two, the new boys in hell ... rebels against ...
Joe.- Whatever they’ve got!
Ken.- Setting fire to hell. We would discover that there is another ethos beyond goodness and we would shake the foundations of that multinational ...
Joe.- Of course. Then we’d bring everything else crashing to the ground. You don't start with the roof when you're building a house ...
Ken.- What goes up, must come down!
Joe, with his arms crossed, lets himself fall forward, only breaking his fall with the palms of his hands at the very last moment.
He twists around on the floor and laughs.
Ken.- We’d create a new hell ... A new everything!
Joe.- What would we call it?
Ken.- We’d have a God almighty theme tune ... Er ... Devil almighty ... Every morning, at breakfast, Liszt’s Funeral march for piano.
Joe.- “A Day in the Life”!
Ken.- “A Day in the Life” ...
Joe.- I read the news today, oh, boy,
about a lucky man who made the grade ...
Ken.- We should create a saviour figure for the sceptics ...
Joe.- Which would be those who had more ...
Ken.- And the less violent. It could be you. I would sit at your right hand and we would decree the death of ideas. No one need ever ponder again “to be or not be”.
Joe.- The problem has always been whether to ponder or not.
Ken.- And the sky would be opaque and eyes would be useless and shrivel up like dried walnuts. In the firmament, a thousand doors will open, all of them trapdoors. The earth will be sown with embers to remember what before was ...
Joe.- History. People never pay it enough attention. We need something more dazzling ...
Ken.- Like what?
Joe.- A spectacular process of transition, a fucking brilliant spectacle! The public will be whores and rent boys ... and on stage, customers will have to show everyone the expression they have on their faces when they come; on pain of being stoned to death. You will be the master of ceremonies and I'll be the first to throw stones at Christ. Then we'll all strip him off ...
Ken.- And discover that he only had a tiny prick!
Joe.- We’ll fuck him off alright!
Ken.- And no one will believe in shame. And people shall be counted, backwards. And the waves of the sea also.
Joe.- You'll stop smoking.
Ken.- Why?
Joe.- It will be difficult to get hold of tobacco. Only angels deal in vices.
Ken.- We'd recycle them as rent boys. With feathery pricks!
Joe.- That's out of order.
Ken.- And we’d wander together around the palace grounds in our Sunday best, hand in hand.
Joe.- Oh!
Ken.- And we'd remember our lives and you would lie to me whenever I asked you if you ever loved me.
Joe.- Would I say that I had or I hadn’t?
The palace, I’ve thought what we could call it!
Sodom!
The telephone rings.
The two of them go to answer it.
Joe is the quicker of the two.
He picks up the phone.
Joe.- Hello, Achmed!
I called the number you gave me, but they said you'd split.
No, they gave me no idea ...
Already.
This afternoon? Fabulous.
Yes, yes, that’d be fine. See you soon.
He put down the phone.
Ken.- What did he want?
Joe gets dressed. White shirt, leather trousers and leather jacket, high boots.
Ken.- What did he want?
Joe.- I'm going out.
Joe goes out.
Ken begins to prowl around the bedsit.
He lights a cigarette.
He doesn't seem to know where to put himself, nor what to do with himself.
He goes over to the record player and puts on "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child" again.
The telephone rings.
He picks it up.
Ken.- Yes?
Disguising his voice:
Ken.- Okay, Achmed.
Yes, of course, it would be better for me too, if we met there!
See you soon, Achmed.
He put the phone down.
Ken, very still.
Slowly, he essays a smile on his lips.
Although his eyes remain sad.
Scene Three. The Dead Mother (I of II)
Joe arrives.
Joe.- Ken ...
Ken.- What?
Joe.- When did you say you were going to kill me?
Ken.- Today. Yesterday ... Is it dawn already?
Joe.- No, when are you going to do it? Which day?
Ken.- Are you in a hurry? When did you arrive? Hand us a fag, go on.
Joe.- The hammer’s not in the toolbox.
Ken.- That's because it’s somewhere else.
Joe.- Have you taken the hammer?
Ken.- Leave it out! I'm not going to kill you ... And get away from me. You stink like the gents!
I'm scared of death.
Joe.- You leave me speechless.
Ken.- Without you, what would become of me?
Joe.- Coward ...
Ken.- Joe. You're famous ... I’m ...
Joe.- I don't know where you're going with this ...
Ken.- I made you famous. I've been behind every line you've written. And you've taken all the glory. You haven't even left me the crumbs.
Joe.- And if you kill me, you won't have any artwork left.
Ken.- Like a painter burning his retrospective exhibition.
Joe.- All the more reason to slash your wrists, mate. Without me, you're nobody.
Ken.- Son of a bitch!
Joe.- Well alright, you are somebody. You’re a fucking coward!
Ken.- I don't want to be a nobody, not in life, nor in death!
Joe.- You will be remembered as the man who loved the great English playwright Joe ...
Ken.- That's a lie!
Joe.- Of course it is! I have never loved you!