Complete Works, Volume III (21 page)

APPLICANT

An office
.
LAMB
,
a young man, eager, cheerful, enthusiastic, is striding nervously, alone. The door opens
.
MISS PIFFS
comes in. She is the essence of efficiency
.

PIFFS:
Ah, good morning.

LAMB:
Oh, good morning, miss.

PIFFS:
Are you Mr. Lamb?

LAMB:
That's right.

PIFFS
[
studying a sheet of paper
]: Yes, You're applying for this vacant post, aren't you?

LAMB:
I am actually, yes.

PIFFS:
Are you a physicist?

LAMB:
Oh yes, indeed. It's my whole life.

PIFFS
[
languidly
]: Good. Now our procedure is, that before we discuss the applicant's qualifications we like to subject him to a little test to determine his psychological suitability. You've no objection?

LAMB:
Oh, good heavens, no.

PIFFS:
Jolly good.

MISS PIFFS
has taken some objects out of a drawer and goes to
LAMB
. She places a chair for him.

PIFFS:
Please sit down. [
He sits
.] Can I fit these to your palms?

LAMB
[
affably
]: What are they?

PIFFS:
Electrodes.

LAMB:
Oh yes, of course. Funny little things.

She attaches them to his palms.

PIFFS:
Now the earphones.

She attaches earphones to his head.

LAMB:
I say how amusing.

PIFFS:
Now I plug in.

She plugs in to the wall.

LAMB
[
a trifle nervously
]: Plug in, do you? Oh yes, of course. Yes, you'd have to, wouldn't you?

MISS PIFFS
perches on a high stool and looks down on
LAMB
.

This help to determine my . . . my suitability does it?

PIFFS:
Unquestionably. Now relax. Just relax. Don't think about a thing.

LAMB:
No.

PIFFS:
Relax completely. Rela-a-a-x. Quite relaxed?

LAMB
nods
.
MISS PIFFS
presses a button on the side of her stool. A piercing high pitched buzz-hum is heard.
LAMB
jolts rigid. His hands go to his earphones. He is propelled from the chair. He tries to crawl under the chair.
MISS PIFFS
watches, impassive. The noise stops.
LAMB
peeps out from under the chair, crawls out, stands, twitches, emits a short chuckle and collapses in the chair
.

PIFFS:
Would you say you were an excitable person?

LAMB:
Not – not unduly, no. Of course, I—

PIFFS:
Would you say you were a moody person?

LAMB:
Moody? No, I wouldn't say I was moody – well, sometimes occasionally I—

PIFFS:
Do you ever get fits of depression?

LAMB:
Well, I wouldn't call them depression exactly—

PIFFS:
Do you often do things you regret in the morning?

LAMB:
Regret? Things I regret? Well, it depends what you mean by often, really – I mean when you say often—

PIFFS:
Are you often puzzled by women?

LAMB:
Women?

PIFFS:
Men.

LAMB:
Men? Well, I was just going to answer the question about women—

PIFFS:
Do you often feel puzzled?

LAMB:
Puzzled?

PIFFS:
By women.

LAMB:
Women?

PIFFS:
Men.

LAMB:
Oh, now just a minute, I . . . Look, do you want separate answers or a joint answer?

PIFFS:
After your day's work do you ever feel tired? Edgy? Fretty? Irritable? At a loose end? Morose? Frustrated? Morbid? Unable to concentrate? Unable to sleep? Unable to eat? Unable to remain seated? Unable to remain upright? Lustful? Indolent? On heat? Randy? Full of desire? Full of energy? Full of dread? Drained? of energy, of dread? of desire?

Pause.

LAMB
[
thinking
]: Well, it's difficult to say really . . .

PIFFS:
Are you a good mixer?

LAMB:
Well, you've touched on quite an interesting point there—

PIFFS:
Do you suffer from eczema, listlessness, or falling coat?

LAMB:
Er . . .

PIFFS:
Are you virgo intacta?

LAMB:
I beg your pardon?

PIFFS:
Are you virgo intacta?

LAMB:
Oh, I say, that's rather embarrassing. I mean – in front of a lady—

PIFFS:
Are you virgo intacta?

LAMB:
Yes, I am, actually. I'll make no secret of it.

PIFFS:
Have you always been virgo intacta?

LAMB:
Oh yes, always. Always.

PIFFS:
From the word go?

LAMB:
Go? Oh yes, from the word go.

PIFFS:
Do women frighten you?

She presses a button on the other side of her stool. The stage is plunged into redness, which flashes on and off in time with her questions.

PIFFS
[
building
]: Their clothes? Their shoes? Their voices? Their laughter? Their stares? Their way of walking? Their way of sitting? Their way of smiling? Their way of talking? Their mouths? Their hands? Their feet? Their shins? Their thighs? Their knees? Their eyes? Their [
Drumbeat
]. Their [
Drumbeat
]. Their [
Cymbal bang
]. Their [
Trombone chord
]. Their [
Bass note
].

LAMB
[
in a high voice
]: Well it depends what you mean really—

The light still flashes. She presses the other button and the piercing buzz-hum is heard again
.
LAMB’S
hands go to his earphones. He is propelled from the chair, falls, rolls, crawls, totters and collapses.

Silence.

He lies face upwards.
MISS PIFFS
looks at him then walks to
LAMB
and bends over him.

PIFFS:
Thank you very much, Mr. Lamb. We'll let you know.

INTERVIEW

INTERVIEWER:
Well, Mr. Jakes, how would you say things are in the pornographic book trade?

JAKES:
I make 200 a week.

INTERVIEWER:
200?

JAKES:
Yes, I make round about 200 a week at it.

INTERVIEWER:
I see. So how would you say things were in the pornographic book trade?

JAKES:
Oh, only fair.

INTERVIEWER:
Only fair?

JAKES:
Fair to middling.

INTERVIEWER:
Why would you say that, Mr. Jakes?

JAKES:
Well, it's got a lot to do with Xmas, between you and me.

INTERVIEWER:
Xmas?

JAKES:
Yes, well what happens is, you see, is that the trade takes a bit of a bashing round about Xmas time. Takes a good few months to recover from Xmas time, the pornographic book trade does.

INTERVIEWER:
Oh, I see.

JAKES:
Yes, what's got something to do with it is, you see, that you don't get all that many people sending pornographic books for Xmas presents. I mean, you get a few, of course, but not all that many. No, we can't really say that people in our trade get much benefit from the Xmas spirit, if you know what I mean.

INTERVIEWER:
Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Jakes.

JAKES:
Well, there you are. We make the best of it. (
Pause
.) I mean I put a sprig of holly . . . here and there . . . I put holly up all over the shop, but it doesn't seem to make much difference. (
Pause
.)

INTERVIEWER:
What sort of people do you get in your shop, Mr. Jakes?

JAKES:
I beg your pardon?

INTERVIEWER:
What sort of people do you get in your shop?

JAKES:
I'd rather not answer that question, thanks.

INTERVIEWER:
Why not?

JAKES:
I should think the security police could tell you a thing or two about that.

INTERVIEWER:
Security police?

JAKES:
Yes. They've got their dossiers, don't you worry about that.

INTERVIEWER:
But we have no security police in this country.

JAKES:
Don't you? You'd be surprised. They know all about it, take it from me. I've seen their dossiers.

INTERVIEWER:
You've seen their dossiers?

JAKES:
Dossiers? I've looked at more of their dossiers than you've had nights off.

INTERVIEWER:
I see. Well, perhaps we'd better pass on to another question.

JAKES:
Dossiers? I've been there morning and afternoon checking over their dossiers, identifying my customers, identifying their photographs right into the middle of the night, right into the middle of their dossiers.

INTERVIEWER:
I had no idea—

JAKES:
We've got them all taped in the pornographic book trade, don't you worry about that.

INTERVIEWER:
Yes, well—

JAKES:
You've no need to become anxious about
that
.

INTERVIEWER:
Mr Jakes—

JAKES:
Every single individual that passes through my door goes out.

INTERVIEWER:
What?

JAKES:
Every single dirty-minded individual that passes through my door goes straight out again. As soon as he's chosen his fancy – out he goes.

INTERVIEWER:
You don't . . . keep them in?

JAKES:
Keep them in! Never! I wouldn't keep one of them in my own little pornographic bookshop, not me. Not that they haven't begged, mind you. Begged. They've gone down on their bended knees and begged me to allow them to stay the night in the backroom, in the punishment section. Not me. Not since I got the word.

INTERVIEWER:
I think perhaps—

JAKES
(
confidentially
): You don't think the security police are the only people who've got dossiers, do you?

INTERVIEWER:
No, I'm sure—

JAKES:
You don't think that, do you? Get out of it. I'm up half the night doing my dossiers! I've got one on every single member of my clientele. And the day's coming, my boy, I can tell you.

INTERVIEWER:
Coming?

JAKES:
We're going to hold a special exhibition, see? We'll have them all in there, white in the face, peeping, peering, sweating, showing me false credentials to get to the top shelf, and then at a given moment we lock the doors and turn the floodlights on. And then we'll have them all revealed for what they are.

INTERVIEWER:
What . . . are they?

JAKES:
They're all the same, every single one of them.

COMMUNISTS.

DIALOGUE FOR THREE

1ST
MAN
: Did I ever tell you about the woman in the blue dress? I met her in Casablanca. She was a spy. A spy in a blue dress. That woman was an agent for another power. She was tattooed on her belly with a pelican. Her belly was covered with a pelican. She could make that pelican waddle across the room to you. On all fours, sideways, feet first, arseupwards, any way you like. Her control was super-human. Only a woman could possess it. Under her blue dress she wore a shimmy. And under her shimmy she wore a pelican.

2ND MAN
: The snow has turned to slush.

1ST MAN
: The temperature must have dropped.

WOMAN
: Sometimes I think I'm not feminine enough for you.

1ST MAN
: You are.

WOMAN
: Or do you think I should be more feminine?

1ST MAN
: No.

WOMAN
: Perhaps I should be more masculine.

1ST MAN
: Certainly not.

WOMAN
: You think I'm too feminine?

1ST MAN
: No.

WOMAN
: If I didn't love you so much it wouldn't matter. Do you remember the first time we met? On the beach? In the night? All those people? And the bonfire? And the waves? And the spray? And the mist? And the moon? Everyone dancing, somersaulting, laughing? And you – standing silent, staring at a sandcastle in your sheer white trunks. The moon was behind you, in front of you, all over you, suffusing you, consuming you, you were transparent, translucent, a beacon. I was struck dumb, dumbstruck. Water rose up my legs. I could not move. I was rigid. Immovable. Our eyes met. Love at first sight. I held your gaze. And in your eyes, bold and unashamed, was desire. Brutal, demanding desire. Bestial, ruthless, remorseless. I stood there magnetised, hypnotised. Transfixed. Motionless and still. A spider caught in a web.

1ST MAN
(
to
2ND MAN
): You know who you remind me of? You remind me of Whipper Wallace, back in the good old days. He used to knock about with a chap called House Peters. Boghouse Peters we used to call him. I remember one day Whipper and Boghouse – he had a scar on his left cheek, Boghouse, caught in some boghouse brawl, I suppose – well, anyway, there they were, the Whipper and Boghouse, rolling down by the banks of the Euphrates this night, when up came a policeman . . . . . . up came this policeman . . . . . . up came a policeman . . . . . . this policeman . . . . . . approached . . . . . . Boghouse . . . . . . and the Whipper . . . . . . were questioned . . . . . . this night . . . . . . the Euphrates . . . . . . a policeman . . . . . .