Читать книгу Real and Phantom Pains: An Anthology of New Russian Drama - John Freedman - Страница 10

Next day. BOY enters the apartment alone. He takes off his shoes at the door, leaving on his fur-lined trench coat and hat. He takes the coat off and lays it over the armchair.

BOY opens the nightstand and removes more textbooks, the covers are splattered with blood. BOY reaches under his shirt and produces one of the books he took the night before—blood splatters on it as well. He lays the books on the floor, bloody side up, and begins to rearrange them, as if working a puzzle. His cell phone rings.

BOY: Yes.

GIRL: Hello.

BOY: Hey.

GIRL: Where are you right now?

BOY: At home. Right under you.

GIRL: You’re here?

BOY: I’m home.

GIRL: I’ll come down. Should I come down?

BOY: I’ve got a cool surprise. Re-donk-u-lous.

GIRL: I’ll be right down.

BOY: I’ll be waiting.

(BOY plays with the books.

Doorbell. BOY lets the GIRL into the apartment.)

GIRL: What are you doing here?

BOY: Do you remember the first time we met?

GIRL: Do I remember the first time we met?

BOY: Yes.

GIRL: Of course.

BOY: I was sitting here, pulling out books.

GIRL: Okay.

BOY: Look.

(BOY steps aside.)

GIRL: Holy shit.

BOY: See?

GIRL: Were they on the floor?

BOY: Exactly.

(Beat. Expectant.)

They were in here.

(BOY opens the bedside chest.)

GIRL: And where was your Mom?

BOY: Over there. On the sofa.

GIRL: So, she crawled all the way over here?

BOY: But look! Look!

GIRL: What?

BOY: There’s no blood on the floor.

GIRL: None?

BOY: If she crawled, she’d drip. All over the floor. See?

GIRL: But there’s nothing?

BOY: Nothing. She mopped it up.

GIRL: Mopped?

BOY: You sure do echo a lot.

GIRL: Echo?

BOY: Why?

GIRL: Because I don’t understand why she crawled over to touch your books.

BOY: She didn’t touch them. It was an accident. She even mopped it up so they wouldn’t know she’d moved off the couch.

GIRL: Are you sure?

(BOY opens the balcony door, brings in a ski pole and closes the balcony door.

BOY pokes the ski pole under the sofa and retrieves a cleaning cloth. He puts the pole into the corner.

BOY opens the wadded up cloth in the light, the cloth is covered with bloodstains.)

BOY (Strong): I know. For sure.

GIRL: She definitely stood up.

BOY: Yeah, she put something in my books.

GIRL: What?

BOY: Look.

(GIRL peeks into the chest.)

GIRL: What’s that? Money?

BOY: Dunno. I haven’t opened it.

GIRL: Why?

BOY: Well, I cried first, then I thought about it, but –

GIRL: Duh. So, are you going to open it now?

BOY: I don’t know. I guess I should.

GIRL: You should. It’s your inheritance.

BOY: Will you pull it out?

GIRL: You don’t want to?

BOY: If you don’t want to – I can. But I want you to.

GIRL (Honored): Well, thank you.

(GIRL pulls the black-plastic-wrapped bag out of the nightstand. She gives it to the boy and looks down at her blood-covered hands.

BOY takes the bag from GIRL and wipes it on his T-shirt, where it leaves a reddish brown stain.

Pause. BOY stands for a time.)

BOY: Fine. Now I’m unwrapping it.

(He does.)

GIRL: This is all your Mom left you?

BOY: I guess nothing else is worth anything.

GIRL: What do mean?

(Beat.)

BOY: Two years ago, all the guys grew up. They started wearing watches. I got into Mom and Dad’s stuff to find a watch for me, and Mom tells me – Dad only has one watch.

(Beat.)

Well, he’s got an alarm clock too, but the thing about that is that if you don’t wind it up all the time it lies.

(Beat.)

Anyhow, my Mom never even got fake pearls, only a chain and her wedding ring.

GIRL: What about your Dad?

BOY: I just told you – he’s got the watch.

GIRL: That’s it?

BOY: No one else in the family had one –

GIRL: This is all they had. They left this for you. What now?

BOY: What?

GIRL: What are you going to do?

BOY: It can chill right there, for now.

GIRL: And later?

BOY: I’ll sell it, I guess. When I grow up. Or I’ll take it to the police.

GIRL: Do the police pay for plunder?

BOY: No. They don’t pay – Why’d you call this plunder?

GIRL: Did your parents make it?

BOY: No. I’d know. For sure. When someone makes moonshine, you can tell.

(BOY weaves a bit.)

And when someone picks up empties from recycling bins, you know he’s poor. So I think if they were making drugs, I’d know. Really. Come on.

GIRL: Who scavenges bottles in our part of the building?

BOY: Well, there’s those goons downstairs. Ivan Mikhailovich and his psycho-chick.

GIRL: Is she the morning squealer?

BOY: Yeah. And he mutters. Mom said they’ve been fucked up so long they see pink spiders.

GIRL: And who makes moonshine?

BOY: Granny Valya Konstantinova used to, but they busted her for fencing stolen gold. Nowadays, I don’t know. They say the police blew up her still, but –

GIRL: Well, this is quite the... place.

BOY: So, this proves that if they were making drugs, I’d know it. And, no, it’s not theirs, but it’s not grift either.

GIRL: You’re sure?

BOY: My mom wouldn’t leave me a snatch-and-grab inheritance.

GIRL: Oh, sure she wouldn’t.

BOY: No, I’m serious. She wouldn’t. Cause that’s a sin.

(A noise at the door.)