Man From the USSR & Other Plays (20 page)

Lyuba, dear, shouldn't we wait until everybody is here?

 

LYUBOV'

No, it doesn't matter—please begin.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

All right. Here we go. So, this fairy tale, or rather sketch, concludes my
Illumined Lakes
cycle. Paul, dear, will you sit down please?

 

UNCLE PAUL

I would rather stand.
(The doorbell rings.)

 

AUNT ZHENYA

I don't understand it. He told it so colorfully, so nicely, before, and now something has jammed. Maybe he'll get going again later on.
(to her husband)
You worry me lately.
(Ryovshin enters, ushering in Mrs. Nikoladze, a wizened little old lady with short-trimmed hair, dressed in black, and the Famous Writer. He is old, used to being lionized, and speaks slowly, weightily, a little nasally, with throat-clearing noises that give his words impressive emphasis. He is wearing a dinner jacket.)

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

Ah, at last!

 

WRITER

Well....It appears one is supposed to wish you a happy birthday.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

I'm so glad to see you here in my house! I kept worrying you might rush off somewhere, bird of passage that you are.

 

WRITER

I don't think I know anyone here....

 

MRS. NIKOLADZE

Happy birthday. Some candy. Only a trifle.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

Thank you, darling. You shouldn't have gone to the expense for my sake!

 

WRITER

(to Vera)
Haven't we met somewhere before, my dear?

 

VERA

At His Highness's reception, right, dear sir?

 

WRITER

At His Highness's reception.... Ah, bravo. I see you're a tease.

 

LYUBOV'

What can I offer you?

 

WRITER

What can you offer me.... Mm—yes. What's that you have there—one of those things people eat after funerals? Oh, it's a fruitcake. Very similar. I thought you were holding a wake.

 

LYUBOV'

I have no reason to hold a wake, Pyotr Nikolaevich.

 

WRITER

Oh, really? Well, I don't know, my dear. The mood is pretty indigo here. The only one missing is the reverend.

 

LYUBOV'

What will you have? Some of this?

 

WRITER

No, I am an antidulcinist, an enemy of all things sweet. How about some liquor?

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

In a minute we'll have the Moët, Pyotr Nikolaevich.
Lyubushka, ask Ryovshin to open the bottle.

 

WRITER

How come you have Moët? You must be getting richer and richer.

 

LYUBOV'

If you must know, the wine merchant gave it to my husband in payment for a head-and-shoulders portrait.

 

WRITER

Great thing, to be a portrait artist. You develop horns. Of plenty, that is. Say, would you have a little brandy for me?

 

LYUBOV'

You'll be served right away.

 

MRS. VAGABUNDOV

Pyotr Nikolaevich, pardon a widow's confession....
To meet you in person makes such an impression!
I'm so honored I could die.
Not only I,
But everyone loves your creations.

 

WRITER

Thank you.

 

MRS. VAGABUNDOV

But do give us your evaluation
Of the situation.

 

WRITER

Of what situation, Madam?

 

MRS. VAGABUNDOV

You mean you haven't yet learned
Who has unexpectedly returned?

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

(taking the snifter out of Marfa's hands)
There you are.

 

WRITER

I have been informed,
(to Lyubov')
Tell me, my dear, are your knees shaking? Let's have a look.... In my youth I once fell in love with a girl just because of her knees.

 

LYUBOV'

I'm not afraid of anything, Pyotr Nikolaevich.

 

WRITER

You
are
fearless, aren't you? M-mm—this assassin is quite a connoisseur.

 

MRS. NIKOLADZE

What's that? I don't understand anything. What masseur? What assassin? What happened?

 

WRITER

To your health, my dear. Your brandy is nothing to brag about, I must say.

 

ELEONORA SHNAP

(to Mrs. Nikoladze)
I zee you know nussing about itt. I'll tell you.

 

MRS. VAGABUNDOV

If you'll allow,
It's my turn now.

 

ELEONORA SHNAP

No, it's mine. Please not to interfere.

 

LYUBOV'

Mummy—now, please....

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

When you came in, Pyotr Nikolaevich, I was going to read them a little piece of mine, but now, in front of you, I feel kind of abashed.

 

WRITER

Stop the pretense. You'll enjoy it even more. I assume that in your youth you prattled between kisses like all deceitful women.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

I have long since forgotten such things, Pyotr Nikolaevich.

 

WRITER

Go ahead. Let's hear it.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

The title is “The Resurrection of the Swan.”

 

WRITER

“The Resurrection of the Swan.”...The death of Lazarus.... The second and final death.... Not bad....

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

No, Pyotr Nikolaevich, not Lazarus—the swan.

 

WRITER

Forgiye me. I was talking to myself. Something flashed through my mind. A reflex of the imagination.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

(appearing at the door)
Lyuba, come here for a minute.

 

LYUBOV'

You come here, Alyosha.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Lyuba!

 

LYUBOV'

Come here. Mr. Kuprikov will also find this interesting.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Suit yourself.
(comes into the room with Kuprikov and the Reporter. Kuprikov is a tritely picturesque picture-painter, in a jacket with padded shoulders, an extremely dark shirt and an extremely light necktie. The Reporter is a young man with parted hair and a fountain pen.)

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

This is Igor Olegovich Kuprikov. Get acquainted. And this gentleman has come to interview us for the
Sun.

 

KUPRIKOV

(to Lyubov)
Honored to meet you.... I've given your husband all my information.

 

MRS. VAGABUNDOV

Oh, I'm filled with expectation!
Let's hear your information.

 

AUNT ZHENYA

Now, Paul! Now is your chance to shine! You told it so beautifully before. Paul! Come on.... Mr. Kuprikov, Alyosha—my husband, here, also saw...

 

UNCLE PAUL

Be glad to. It happened like this. The ambulance was coming around the corner from the left, and the lady on the bicycle was coming full speed from the right—a rather fat lady, with a red beret, as far as I could make out.

 

WRITER

Halt. You've lost the floor. Next.

 

VERA

Come, Uncle Paul, come, my sweet. I'll give you a piece of candy.

 

AUNT ZHENYA

I don't understand what is the matter.... He's developed some kind of mechanical defect.

 

KUPRIKOV

(to the Writer)
May I?

 

WRITER

Maestro Kuprikov has the floor.

 

LYUBOV'

(to her husband)
I don't know why all this has to be transformed into some kind of nightmarish farce. Why did you bring this reporter with his note pad? Mama is about to read her story. Please, let's not talk about Barbashin anymore.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

What can I do?...Leave me in peace. I'm dying a slow death,
(to the guests)
What time is it? Does anybody have a watch?
(All look at their watches.)

 

WRITER

Five on the dot. We are listening, Mr. Kuprikov.

 

KUPRIKOV

I have just been reporting the following fact to Alexey Maximovich. I shall now give a short version. As I was walking today at two-thirty through the city park, namely along the avenue that ends at the urn, I saw Leonid Barbashin sitting on a green bench.

 

WRITER

You don't say?

 

KUPRIKOV

He was sitting motionless, pondering something. The shadows of the foliage lay in beautiful patterns around his yellow shoes.

 

WRITER

Fine ... bravo....

 

KUPRIKOV

He did not see me, and I observed him for some time from behind a thick tree trunk, on which somebody had carved some initials, which, however, were already blackened with age. Barbashin was gazing at the ground and thinking weighty thoughts. Then he shifted his position and began looking to one side at a bit of sunbathed lawn. After about twenty minutes he got up and left. The first yellow leaf of the season fell onto the empty bench.

 

WRITER

A vital and beautifully phrased report. Does anyone wish to comment?

 

KUPRIKOV

From which I concluded that he was planning some evil deed and therefore I once again address to you, Lyubov' Ivanovna, and to you, dear Alyosha, in the presence of witnesses, an emphatic appeal that you take maximum precautions.

 

TROSHCHEYKIN

Yes! But
what
precautions?
What
precautions?

 

WRITER

That, as Shakespeare would have said, is the question,
(to the Reporter)
And what do you have to say, my dear
Sun?

 

REPORTER

I'd like to ask Mrs. Troshcheykin a few questions. May I?

 

LYUBOV'

Have a cup of tea instead. Or a brandy?

 

REPORTER

My humble thanks. I wanted to ask you for a general description of your emotions when you found out.

 

WRITER

Quite useless, dear chap. She won't tell you a single thing. Keeps silent but burns you up with her gaze. I confess that such women make me tremble with desire. As for this brandy—well, I advise against it.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

I'll start now if I may....

 

WRITER

(to Reporter)
By the way, your paper has again started printing all kinds of cheap trash about me. I haven't been preparing a story based on gypsy life and would never prepare one. Shame on you.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

Pyotr Nikolaevich, may I?

 

WRITER

By all means. Attention, everybody.

 

ANTONINA PAVLOVNA

The first rays of the sun.... Oh yes, I forgot to tell you, Pyotr Nikolaevich. This is from my
Illumined Lakes
cycle. Maybe you have read some of it.... “The first rays of the sun playing and, as it were, frolicking, ran in a tentative chromatic scale across the smooth surface of the lake, touched the keys of the reeds, and paused amid the dark-green sedge. On this sedge, with one wing folded, and the other”—
(Ryovshin comes in with Meshaev One: a ruddy blond fellow with a bouquet of similarly ruddy roses.)

 

RYOVSHIN

Here, Lyubov' Ivanovna, I think this is the last one. I'm tired.... May I have some—

 

LYUBOV'

Sh-sh!...Sit down, Osip Mikheyevich. Mama is reading her fairy tale.

 

MESHAEV ONE

May I interrupt the reading for just one second? I have sensational news.

 

SEVERAL VOICES

What happened? Tell us! How interesting!

 

MESHAEV ONE

Lyubov' Ivanovna! Alexey Maximovich! Know who got home from jail? Last night? Barbashin!
(general laughter}

 

WRITER

Is that all? My dear fellow, they even know about it in the maternity wards by now. Ye-es—Came barbashing in a little late, didn't you?