Swann (44 page)
Director’s Note: The handing over of the pencil must be done so that the audience understands that Sarah and Jimroy have broken through to some sort of understanding. Jimroy’s voice has lost its hostility; he has surrendered his privately held fantasy of Sarah, as well as his perverse anger at the loss of his fantasy. His hand, grasping the pencil, trembles; Sarah’s smile, at first provisional, indicates a measure, at least, of this transformation.
SARAH
(meaningfully): You’re welcome.
ROSE:
Who’s next?
JIMROY:
Anders, Peter. He’s the one with the jowly face. A bit of a schemer.
CRUZZI:
Anders. I think he was one of the ones involved in the discussion tonight. He seemed most indignant, and that might indicate —
SARAH:
I guess we can cross him off then.
ROSE:
Of course, you can’t be absolutely sure, just because he was a little —
CRUZZI:
What do we know about him?
SARAH:
Not much.
JIMROY:
I’ll put a question mark for Anders. Barcross? Susan Barcross.
ROSE:
She’s the one with the suede boots.
JIMROY:
Feisty.
CRUZZI:
Pleasant woman.
SARAH:
Bright.
JIMROY:
Cross her off?
SARAH:
Might as well.
JIMROY:
Herb Block. I suppose he’s safe. He’s only been working on Swann since last summer.
SARAH:
You can cross him off.
JIMROY:
Sydney Buswell?
SARAH:
Buswell! That paranoid —
CRUZZI:
Nevertheless it would be ludicrous —
ROSE:
True.
JIMROY:
Cross him off
SARAH:
Yes.
JIMROY:
Off. Butler? Jane Butler?
SARAH:
Jane Butler. Isn’t she the one —
ROSE:
Green tweed suit. Little orange scarf. Lots of blush.
CRUZZI:
The one who asked about semi-colons?
JIMROY:
Right. From Montreal.
SARAH:
She’d never —
JIMROY:
Off?
ROSE:
Maybe
a question mark. Sometimes the most innocent—
JIMROY:
Question mark? All right, question mark. Byford.
SARAH:
Tony Byford. With the hair. (She holds up her hands to suggest an outsize Afro.)
CRUZZI:
Charming man. Not the sort at all.
ROSE:
Awfully polite. He complimented me on —
SARAH:
Cross off Tony. Who next?
JIMROY:
Carrington, Richard. Isn’t he from —?
SARAH:
I vaguely remember. In my workshop —
CRUZZI:
Moustache? I can’t quite place —
JIMROY:
Question mark? We can always go back …
Director’s Note: The voices become indistinguishable, but the scene continues a few seconds longer. The late hour and the curious impromptu nature of this mini-symposium demand a surreal treatment.
MUSIC
overrides the voices, almost drowning them out. A burst of laughter comes through, indicating the charged air. Jimroy is seen, stroking off names, his mouth curved into a smile. Rose, cross-legged on her bed, is slicing the air and expressing reservation. Sarah gestures, makes a point, laughs. Cruzzi, his legs elegantly crossed, shrugs, speaks, smiles ruefully, signals to Jimroy to continue.
VOICES
grow increasingly indistinct, then fade completely. Dissolve.
Fade to: Interior of Sarah’s room. Early morning.
A few bars of light enter the bedroom. Sarah is seen sleeping on her side. Rose is sprawled on her back, asleep, her mouth wide open. Cruzzi sleeps in the armchair, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loose, one foot on the end of a bed. Jimroy is curled on the floor with Rose’s dressing-gown pulled over him. The registration list, covered with pencil markings, is spread on the floor beside him.
SOUND:
a telephone ringing.
SARAH
(jerking awake, she gropes blindly for the telephone and croaks into the receiver): Hello. Hello. Yes this is … Stephen! … Yes … No … Fine, honestly … Yes. (She slides languorously down under the covers with the phone cradled next to her face.) Of course! … No, she’s fine, just fine. (She pats her stomach, smiling.) Not complaining one bit. She loves travelling. No … no … yes, it’s … lonely here, too. I know. (She looks around the room, takes in Cruzzi, Rose, Jimroy.) No, really … Yes … Me too, you know I do. (She laughs.)… What can I say? I know … me too … I promise, yes … Bye. (She replaces the phone. Across the room Cruzzi is seen smiling with his eyes closed; Rose is attentive, at attention, but pretending to sleep; Jimroy shuts his eyes grimly.)
CRUZZI
(rising from his chair, almost crippled with stiffness, and stepping across Jimroy on his way to the bathroom): Good morning, comrades.
ROSE
(singing out): Good morning.
JIMROY:
It’s morning. (He regards the sun coming through the window with pleasure.)
SARAH:
Anyone for breakfast? (She reaches for the phone.)
ROSE:
I could eat a horse.
SARAH
(into phone): Three full breakfasts. The Bay Street Specials, orange juice, bacon, eggs, toast, coffee. One wheat cereal with double milk, also double orange juice. (She sits up and stretches.)
Cut to: Interior of Sarah’s room. Breakfast time.
Sarah and Rose sit on the edge of the bed with the breakfast table in front of them. Across from them, seated on the other bed, are Jimroy and Cruzzi. Jimroy, with a smudge of egg adhering to his chin, is rechecking his list.
* * *
JIMROY
(businesslike): A quick rundown then. With single question marks we’ve got Anders, Carrington, Gorham, Loftus, Norchuk, Oldfield, Skelton, and Tolliver.
ROSE:
Urbanski? What happened to Urbanski?
JIMROY:
Who?
SARAH:
The one from Los Angeles. With the short socks. I think we decided he was okay.
CRUZZI:
I must have drifted off at that point.
JIMROY:
And—with
double
question marks we have—Crozier, Hall, and Webborn.
SARAH:
And?
JIMROY:
Triple
question mark—Lang.
CRUZZI:
Willard Lang. I
did
drift off.
JIMROY:
I’ve never trusted the man. One of us—today—should ask him if he still has
his
copy of
Swann’s Songs
.
SARAH:
I’ll volunteer.
ROSE:
Wouldn’t it be funny if—
SARAH:
If what, Rose?
ROSE:
Well, if here we were, all sixty-seven of us. All of us here to talk about Mary Swann’s poems, and what if—what if not a single one of us has a copy of her book?
SARAH:
That would be strange all right.
JIMROY:
Statistically speaking …
CRUZZI:
It’s possible, I suppose.
JIMROY
(bitterly): Of course some of us
came
here with a copy and —
CRUZZI:
Well, my four copies are certainly gone. All four.
ROSE:
And mine. I don’t know how I could have —
SARAH
(spooning up cereal): Luckily I’ve got mine.
CRUZZI
(delighted): You do! I hadn’t realized that you —
SARAH:
Well, not with me. I didn’t bring it, as a matter of fact. I’ve lent it to a friend, and he hasn’t returned it yet.
Director’s Note: Sarah’s face—and her voice—must convey the warmth of affection. She stretches, smiles, bites her lower lip on the word
friend
.
CRUZZI:
You’re sure he
will
return it—your friend?
SARAH:
Oh, Brownie would never lose a book. He’s in the business, rare books. Books—(she stops to think)—books to Brownie are holy. Other things he’s careless about, but books, well, with book’s he’s —
JIMROY:
Where is it? The copy he borrowed? (He asks this in an abrupt, almost rude tone.)
SARAH:
Where?
JIMROY:
What I mean is, can you get your hands on it? Today?
SARAH
(doubtfully): He works out of Chicago, my friend. Well, more than just a friend, actually …
JIMROY:
I wonder if you should warn him. Make sure it’s safe with him. It may be the last copy we have.
CRUZZI:
A good idea.
SARAH:
I suppose I
could
phone him. (She smiles at the thought.) Just to make sure. I could phone him at work. (She looks at her watch.) He’s always there by eight o’clock, a real workaholic, that was part of the … he was always working.
ROSE
(handing Sarah the phone): Here.
SARAH
(looking around at the others): Maybe … maybe I should … make it a private call. He’s sort: of …
ROSE:
I’m going back to my room anyway to get dressed. It’s getting late.
CRUZZI
(tactfully): I should be going too. (He rubs his chin.) A shave, perhaps, is in order.
JIMROY
(gathering up papers): I’m going to have to duck my way back. (He gestures at his pyjamas.)
ROSE:
Me too. (She laughs. Jimroy flinches, then follows her out.)
The instant they are gone Sarah takes up the telephone. She makes an effort to compose herself, strokes back her hair, breathes deeply, then dials with almost childish deliberation.
SARAH:
Hello. Hello, it’s Sarah Maloney. May I speak to Brownie please. Mr. Brown. Yes … Oh … (Disappointed): Well, what time will he be in? … Are you sure? … Well, do you know when he’s expected back? I was anxious to get hold of him today. Something’s come up, business … No, I don’t think so, I have to speak to him confidentially, because … You don’t happen to know where he is at the moment? … No, I’ll be happy to hold on … (She hums while she waits, taps her fingers on the table, smiles.) Yes. But
someone
there must know where he is. I mean, hasn’t he left some kind of … I see. Yes. But he must have something written on his appointment calendar … Yes, I’ll hold … (She rubs nervously at her hair, twirling a strand around a finger.) Yes. Is that all? … Just that one word … I see. Symposium. (She puts down the phone and for a minute sits on the edge of the bed, unable to move.) Symposium.
Fade to: Interior of the meeting room. Morning.
Members of the symposium are taking their seats. The mood is congenial and relaxed, with a distinct sense of anticipation.
BUTTER MOUTH:
… running a bit late this morning —
MERRY EYES:
… not like Lang to be —
TOP KNOT:
What a night! I’m so goddamn hungover —
SILVER CUFFLINKS:
This is what I’ve really been waiting for —
CLIPBOARD:
… and this is why I came, if you want to know the truth —
CRUZZI
(to Jimroy who is sitting next to him): Well, do you think it’s really going to happen?
JIMROY
(deeply skeptical): He’s promised to
talk
about the love poems, but as far as actually
giving up
the poems themselves —
ROSE
(sitting beside them): There’s Sarah now. (Calls): Over here. I’ve saved you a seat.
SARAH
(dazed): It’s a quarter to ten. I thought I’d be late.
ROSE
(conspiratorially): Did you get through? To your … friend?
SARAH:
No. (Her face is stiff with incomprehension, and she speaks as though in a trance.) He’s … out of town.
ROSE:
You can always try later.
SARAH:
No. (She pauses, gives a violent shake of her head.) I don’t think so.
SILVER CUFFLINKS
(loudly): Hey, what’s up? I thought Willard was supposed to start at 9:30.
CRINKLED FOREHEAD
(at lectern): Ladies and gentlemen, fellow scholars. Professor Lang appears to have been delayed. If you’ll just be patient, I’m sure he’ll be along in a minute or two.
WATTLED GENT:
… bugger slept in —
GINGER PONYTAIL
: … not Lang, he’s always right on the button —
GREEN TWEED SUIT:
Personally, I can’t sit too long in these chairs —
WISTFUL DEMEANOUR:
What’s a love poem to one ear is just a—
WIMPY GRIN
: … bird calls and mating dances —
CLIPBOARD:
… a tad elitist, but he’s managed to trash those elements most cherished —
GREEN TWEED SUIT:
Almost time for the coffee break —
CRINKLED FOREHEAD
(stepping up to lectern again): We’ve just telephoned up to Professor Lang’s room, and since there’s no answer, we assume he’s on his way. Please bear with us for a few minutes longer.
As though a signal has been given, the meeting room falls silent. All eyes are fixed on the empty lectern and on the clock behind it. The only sounds are throat clearing, coughing, sighing, and shuffling of feet. It is now 10:00 A.M. There is some rustling of papers, an air of expectancy. The clock does not actually tick, but there is a distinct
sense
of a clock ticking. The seconds pass, then the minutes. It is now 10:02. Crinkled Forehead once again approaches the lectern.
CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
I’m sure any minute now —
WOMAN WITH TURBAN:
Has anyone looked in the coffee shop?
CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
He’s not there. We checked.
SARAH
(rising): Perhaps one of us should go to see if—
JIMROY
(on his feet): I’ll gladly volunteer. I think we’ve been sitting quite long enough. (He heads for the doorway.)
ROSE:
I’ll go along with you. Mr. Jimroy. Keep you company.
SARAH:
Maybe I will too. Might as well.
CRUZZI:
I’ll just —
CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
Well, I’ll just tag along too, perhaps.
WOMAN WITH TURBAN:
Might as well join in —
BLUE-SPOTTED TIE:
Why don’t I come along —?
CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
He may be ill.
