Man From the USSR & Other Plays (13 page)

The Reporter

Mesháev One (Ósip Mikhéyevich Mesháev)

Iván Ivánovich Shchel', a gun dealer

Ál'fred Afanásyevich Barbóshin, a private detective

Mesháev Two (Mikhéy Mikhéyevich Mesháev), Mesháev One's twin brother

Leoníd (Lyónya) Váctorovich Barbáshin (does not appear)

Arshínski (does not appear)

Troshcheykin's studio. Doors on right and left [here, as in the original Russian text, stage directions are given from the audience's point of view]. On a low easel, in front of which is an armchair (Troshcheykin always works in a sitting position), stands a nearly finished portrait of a boy in blue, with five round blank spaces (future balls) arranged in a half circle at his feet. Against the wall leans an unfinished old woman in lace, with a white fan. A window, an ottoman, a scatter rug, a screen, a wardrobe, three chairs, two tables, portfolios piled up in disorder.

At first the stage is empty. Then a red-and-blue child's ball appears from the right and rolls slowly across. Through the same door enters Troshcheykin. With his foot he shuffles out another ball, this one red and yellow, from under the table. Troshcheykin is in his late thirties. He is clean-shaven and wears a shabby but colorful long-sleeved sweater that he does not remove for the entire length of the three acts (which represent, by the way, the morning, afternoon and evening of the same day). He is infantile, nervous, capricious.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Lyuba!
Lyuba!
(Lyubov'comes in from left. She is young, pretty and seems a bit lazy and vague.)

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

What a
disaster!
How do these things happen? Why have those balls gone wandering off all over the house? It's scandalous. I refuse to spend all morning looking and bending. The kid is coming to pose today, and there are only
two
balls here. Where are the others?

 

LYUBOV'

How do I know? There was one in the hallway.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Here, this is the one that was in the hallway. The green one and the two speckled ones are missing. Vanished.

 

LYUBOV'

Will you please stop pestering me. After all, it isn't the end of the world. You can call your picture “Boy with Two Balls” instead of “Boy with Five Balls.”

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

That's an intelligent suggestion. I would just like to know who actually spends his time scattering my props.... It's a disgrace.

 

LYUBOV'

You know as well as I that he was playing with them yesterday after his sitting.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

In that case they should have been picked up afterwards and put where they belong,
(sits in front of the easel)

 

LYUBOV'

What do I have to do with it? Tell Marfa. She's the one who does the housework.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

And pretty badly too. I'm going to go give her a little lecture.

 

LYUBOV'

In the first place she has gone shopping, and in the second you're terrified of her.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Sure, that's quite possible. Although, personally, I'd always thought I was simply being courteous. That boy of mine isn't bad, though, is he? Just look at that velvet! I made his eyes so shiny partly because he is a jeweler's son.

 

LYUBOV'

I don't know why you can't paint in the balls first, and then finish the figure.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

How can I explain it....

 

LYUBOV'

You don't have to.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

You see, the balls have to
glow,
to cast their reflection on him, but I want the reflection firmly in place before tackling its source. You must remember that art moves against the sun. See what a nice mother-of-pearl sheen his legs have already. I must admit I really like that portrait. The hair came out well, with that hint of black curliness. There is a certain connection between precious stones and Negro blood. Shakespeare sensed it in
Othello.
So.
(looks at the other portrait)
As for Madame Vagabundov she is extremely pleased that I am painting her in a white dress against a Spanish background, and does not understand what a horrid, lacy grotesque that makes.... I'd really like to ask you to look for those balls, though, Lyuba. I don't want them to remain in hiding.

 

LYUBOV'

This is cruel—unbearable, even. Lock them in the closet, for God's sake. I can't have things rolling around the rooms and crawling under the furniture either. Really, Alyosha, don't you see
why?

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

What's the matter with you? Why this tone?...Why the hysterics?

 

LYUBOV'

Certain things are torture for me.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

What things?

 

LYUBOV'

These toy balls, for one thing. I. Can't. Stand. It. It's Mother's birthday today—that means day after tomorrow he would have been five. Five—just think.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

So that's it.... Well, you know.... Lyuba, Lyuba—I've told you a thousand times it's not possible to live in the conditional like this. Five years, then another five, and so on, then he would have been fifteen and would have smoked and been rude and had acne and peeked into ladies' décolletés.

 

LYUBOV'

Want to know what I sometimes ask myself? Do you realize you are monstrously gross?

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

And you're as rude as a fishwife,
(pause—approaching her)
Come on, come on, don't go into a huff.... Maybe my heart is breaking, too, but I know how to control myself. Look at it sensibly—he died at two, he folded his little wings and fell like a stone into the depths of our souls, and if he hadn't he would have grown and grown, and developed into a nincompoop.

 

LYUBOV'

I implore you, stop it! Don't you realize this is so vulgar it's frightening! The way you talk gives me a toothache.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Relax, old girl. That'll be enough. If I say something wrong, forgive me and pity me instead of snapping at me. By the way, I hardly got any sleep last night.

 

LYUBOV'

Liar.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

I knew you would say that!

 

LYUBOV'

Liar. You did not know.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Still, it's true. In the first place, I always get palpitations when there is a full moon. And then I've been getting these shooting pains here every now and then—I don't know what's happening to me....And all kinds of thoughts, too—my eyes are closed, but there is such a merry-go-round of colors spinning in my head I could go insane. Give me a smile, Lyuba, my dove.

 

LYUBOV'

Leave me alone.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN
(on the proscenium)
Listen, pet, let me tell you about an idea I had last night. I think it's quite a stroke of genius. Here's what I'd like to paint—try to imagine that this wall is missing, and instead there is a black abyss and what looks like an audience in a dim theater, rows and rows of faces, sitting and watching me. And all the faces belong to people whom I know or once knew, and who are now watching my life. Some with curiosity, some with vexation, some with pleasure. This man with envy; that woman with compassion. There they sit before me, so pale and wondrous in the semidarkness. My late parents are there, and my past enemies, and that character of yours with his gun, and my childhood friends, of course, and lots and lots of women—all the ones I told you about: Nina, Ada, Katyusha, the other Nina, Margaret Hoffman, poor Olenka—all of them. What do you think of it?

 

LYUBOV'

How should I know? Paint it, then I'll tell you.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Then again, maybe it's all nonsense, just a fleeting image seen in a semidelirious state, a surrogate for insomnia, sickroom art....Let there be a wall again.

 

LYUBOV'

About seven people are coming for tea today. You'd better tell me what to buy.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

(who has sat down and is holding, propped on one knee, a charcoal sketch, which he examines, then begins to touch up)

What a bore. Who's coming?

 

LYUBOV'

I, too, have a list for you. First of all, His Authorial Majesty—I don't know why Mama
¹
wanted at all costs that he honor her with a visit; he has never been to our house before, and they say he is arrogant and obnoxious....

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Yeah.... You know how fond I am of your mama and how delighted I am that she is living with us. Rather than in some cozy little room with a clock that goes tick-tock and one of those dachshunds, perhaps even no more than a couple of blocks away—but forgive me, pet, if I say that her most recent opus, in yesterday's paper, is a catastrophe.

 

LYUBOV'

That's not what I wanted to know. I asked you what I should get for tea.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

It makes no difference to me. Ab-so-lute-ly none. I don't even want to think about it. Get whatever you want. A strawberry cake, say. And lots of oranges—you know, the sour but nice-looking ones: that immediately brightens up the whole table. Champagne we have, and candy will come with the guests.

 

LYUBOV'

I'd like to know where I'm supposed to find oranges in August. Incidentally, this is all we have by way of money. We owe the butcher, we owe Marfa, and I don't know how we are going to make ends meet until the next time you get paid.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

I repeat again that the matter is totally indifferent to me. How boring, Lyuba, how sad! For five years now we've been languishing in this super-provincial town, where I think I have daubed every paterfamilias, every round-heeled little housewife, every dentist, every gynecologist. Things are going from ludicrous to plain lewd. By the way, you know, I used my double-portrait method again the other day. It's pretty damned amusing. Unbeknownst to Baumgarten I painted two versions of him simultaneously on the sly: on one canvas as the dignified elder he wanted, and on another the way
I
wanted him—purple mug, bronze belly, surrounded by thunderclouds. Of course I didn't show him the second, but gave it to Kuprikov. When I accumulate twenty or so of these by-products, I'll exhibit them.

 

LYUBOV'

All of your plans have one remarkable peculiarity: they are always like half-open doors that slam shut with the first gust of wind.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Well, what do you know. How clever we are at observing things and at expressing them! Well, dear girl, if that were so, you and I would have starved to death long ago.

 

LYUBOV'

And you're not going to get away with calling me a fishwife.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

We start squabbling first thing in the morning, and it's tedious beyond words. Today I deliberately got up early to get something finished and start on something new. How nice. Your foul mood has made me lose all desire to work. I hope you're satisfied.

 

LYUBOV'

You ought to stop and think how it started today. No, Alyosha, we can't go on like this.... You keep living under the illusion that time heals all wounds, as they say, while I know that it is only a palliative, if not outright quackery. I can forget nothing, while you do not want to remember anything. If I see a toy, and it brings back the memory of my baby, you get bored and vexed, because you have reached an agreement with yourself that after three years it's time to forget. And perhaps even—Heaven only knows—perhaps you have nothing to forget.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Nonsense.... What on earth has gotten into you? First of all, I never said anything of the sort, but simply that we cannot expect to exist forever by collecting life's old debts. There's nothing either vulgar or insulting about that.

 

LYUBOV'

Never mind. Let's not talk about it anymore.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Suit yourself,
(pause. He sprays the sketch with a fixing agent by blowing into a special jar, then starts on something else.)
No, I don't understand you at all. And you don't understand yourself. The point is that we are decaying in this hick-town atmosphere, like Chekhov's three sisters. No matter.... In a year or so we'll have to get out of here, like it or not. Don't know why there's no answer from that Italian....
(Antonina Pavlovna Opayashin, Lyubov's mother, comes in with a speckled ball. She is a neat, even slightly prim, mawkish and absentminded lady with a lorgnette.)