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 MARBLE
Copyright © 2010, Marina Carr

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SPECIAL NOTE
Anyone receiving permission to produce MARBLE is required to give credit to the
Author as sole and exclusive Author of the Play on the title page of all programs
distributed in connection with performances of the Play and in all instances in
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MARBLE was first performed at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, on February 17 2009.
MARBLE received its world premiere at the Abbey Theatre in
Dublin, Ireland, on February 17, 2009. It was directed by Jeremy
Herrin; the set and costume design were by Robert Innes Hopkins;
the lighting design was by Paul Keogan; the sound design was by
Fergus O’Hare; and the music was by Conor Linehan. The cast
was as follows:

ee tne dence vettesiicaseptraeronvedseioeve Stuart McQuarrie

ED, bop, an inert meter OO re ARR ESOP Peter Hanly
Be LE NN Ber in acemvntatyioe pricvousWosenensiors Aisling O’Sullivan
eda ror MPI OST ogi sivcorvessvstvoes Derbhle Crotty
 CHARACTERS

ART

CATHERINE
ANNE

SETTING

One space. One couch. One table. Two chairs. One drinks cabinet.
One lamp. All use this space as if it is their own.

A backdrop that can be flooded with light and indigo sky for the
marble passages. There should be an emptiness to the set, which
can take on great beauty at times. De Chirico’s painting Melancholy
and Mystery of a Street is the mood and landscape I would like to
catch: the near-absence of people, the dream shadows, yet full of
vibrant colour and intrigue.

TIME

Now.

MUSIC

To underscore the marble passages and to create mood during scene

crossovers. Possibly clarinet and strings, chant and strings. Haunting.
 MARBLE
ACT ONE

Scene 1

Art and Ben sit outside a restaurant, puffing on cigars and

drinking brandies.

ART. And what age is she now?

BEN. She'll be forty-five in December, why?
ART. No reason, I dreamt about her last night.
BEN. Was it a good dream?
ART. It was fantastic.
BEN. How so?
ART. I was making love to her.
BEN. Were you?
ART. I never dream, or I never remember them, but this was so
vivid. The sheets were gleaming, her legs perfect against the dazzling
white.
BEN. Was it in your bed or mine?
ART. I’ve never seen your bed. It was just a bed, a room, marble
somewhere; yeah, marble, the floor, the windows.
BEN. Marble windows?
ART. Well, it was a dream.
BEN. Why can’t you dream about your own wife?
ART. She was beside me. Why should I dream about her? Are you
going fishing this weekend?
BEN. I don’t know. Catherine has booked tickets for the theatre.
ART. What are you seeing?
BEN. I forgot to ask her, she sorts all of that out. She has good
taste. Generally I enjoy her choices.
ART. Yeah, I read somewhere ninety percent of theatre tickets are
booked by women.
BEN. Yeah, they seem to do everything. Are you planning a fish-
ing trip?
ART. I was, but the young fella’s communion is on this Saturday.
But it was an amazing dream. Tell Catherine. It'll amuse her. It was
so real, that’s the extraordinary thing. I don’t believe I’ve ever spo-
ken to Catherine for more than three minutes together. But there
we were, as happy as ... oh god ... She’s a good-looking woman.
BEN. She is.
ART. But I’ve never fancied her.
BEN. I would hope not.
ART. Do you not like other men fancying your wife?
BEN. I don’t mind them looking, but any conversation on the
topic I find distasteful, I suppose.
ART. I love when men give Anne the once-over, feel I’ve made the
right choice.
BEN. A bit late now if you haven't, what are you? Twenty years
married?
ART. Eighteen. We were very young. Men now are starting off at
my age, older.
BEN. Are you going to leave Anne?
ART. Why would I do that?
BEN. Well, you're dreaming about it.
ART. But that’s nothing. Do you mind me saying I dreamt I made
love to your wife last night?
BEN. I’m not sure you shouldn't have kept it to yourself.
ART. You're very old-fashioned.
BEN. Am I?
ART. I didn’t realise you were so repressed. Have you never dreamt
about Anne?
BEN. Would you like me to?
ART. Why not, as long as it’s just a dream, what do I care?
BEN. I never dream about sex.
ART. Come off it. It was fantastic, the light was beautiful. I
couldn't stop looking at her. It'll never happen again. Why do I
suddenly feel guilty?
BEN. Are you going to have an affair with Catherine?
ART. [can't help what I dream ... I was such a powerful man in
that marble room.
BEN. Were you?
ART. It was so male and female, so clear, that was the thing about
it, not like when I’m awake ... does Catherine have affairs?
BEN. Not that I’m aware of.
ART. Are you telling me you're not sure?
BEN. I’m not sure about anything.
ART. But you love her?
BEN. And Anne? What do you feel about Anne?
ART. What do I feel about Anne? That’s an odd question. She's
one moody wagon, I'll tell you that much.
BEN. Have you told her about your dream?
ART. God no, it would only upset her. Why should I upset her
like that for no reason?
BEN. You don’t mind upsetting me.
ART. Have I? Ah! Forget it. I should’ve kept it to myself. I thought
we could say anything to one another.
BEN. There is no one you can just say anything to.
ART. Is there not?
BEN. No, there isn’t.
ART. Then I’ve blundered.
BEN. Ah, it doesn’t matter.
ART. No, I’m out ofline. If youd dreamt about Anne like that, I'd
probably never speak to you again.
BEN. What exactly were you doing to her?
ART. Nothing, I swear. There was a beautiful room ... the door is
open and I walk along this grey-panelled hallway and come to this
door and the light and the smell and the sound from it is intoxicat-
ing. I walk into the room holding my breath, afraid I will sully this
beautiful space, that it’s not for me, but someone far more deserving.
And the marble glistens all around her as she lies there on the bed.
I’m sorry, Ben ... but just thinking about her. All of this for me? Her
hair was a star-shot, splintered gold. Does Catherine dye her hair?
BEN. Yes, she does her roots. Sometimes I do them for her. She
hates hairdressers, they waste her time.
ART. So her time is precious. I love that about women, they sit
around doing nothing, complaining about never having a minute.
But in the dream, her hair was natural, a waterfall of spun gold, |
was climbing all over it, I had to resist the urge to eat it.
BEN. Maybe it was someone else.
ART. No, it was Catherine. And her hair was golden.
BEN. She’s never been golden. Catherine is dark. I don't think
she'd like us talking about her like this.
ART. Why not?
BEN. Look, we're very happy.
ART. I’m not disputing that for a minute.
BEN. You are. I am a good husband and father. You have no right
to speak about her like that.
ART. I was just telling you a dream I had.
BEN. I am the one should be dreaming about Catherine.
ART. But youre not. It was my dream.
BEN. About my wife.
ART. What's wrong, Ben?
BEN. I need to go home and see her. Make sure she’s still there.
Will you take care of the bill?
ART. Of course ... I’m sorry if 1...
BEN. (Exiting.) It’s nothing ... nothing ... It’s nothing. (Art looks
after him, takes a last puff of his cigar, exits.)

Scene 2

Catherine enters in a bathrobe with a towel on her head. She

drinks from a large glass of red wine. Music in the back-
ground. Enter Ben.

BEN. They're all asleep?

CATHERINE. You say that every evening. Yeah, they were very
good, no one shouting. How was dinner?
BEN. It was fine.
CATHERINE. You had a salad, then arrabbiata with artichokes,
or maybe you went crazy and had arrabbiata without artichokes.
BEN. I had steak.
CATHERINE. Very adventurous.
BEN. It was good ... I’m tired.
CATHERINE. Who isn’t, my darling?
BEN. Show me your hair ... take the towel off.
CATHERINE. (Flings off the towel.) My hair! (Ben examines her
hair, a close inspection ofstrands.) What?
BEN. Nothing. (Fingers her hair dreamily, lazily.) Xt smells lovely.
It’s so dark.
CATHERINE. It’s always been dark.
BEN. I dreamt last night it was blond.
CATHERINE. I’ve never been blond. Would you like me blond?
BEN. I don’t think so.
CATHERINE. And what was I doing in the dream?
BEN. You were making love.
CATHERINE. To you?
BEN. Of course to me. Why would you ask a thing like that?
CATHERINE. No reason.
BEN. Did you dream last night?
CATHERINE. As a matter of fact, I did.
BEN. About me? ;
CATHERINE. No, about Art.
BEN. Art?
CATHERINE. I dreamt I was making love to him. Isn't that
ridiculous? I don’t know when IJ last saw him, and there he was
beaming at me, so intense, on a white, white bed, marble windows,
was it? Or was it a marble door? Anyway, marble, lots of marble.
BEN. What’s so important about marble?
CATHERINE. I just remember it, the gleam off it. I shouldn't
have told you. I wish it was you I dreamt about. (Kisses him.)
BEN. I wish it too.
CATHERINE. How is Art?
BEN. You know old Art, easy company. Art is the same, he's get-
ting on.
CATHERINE. We're all getting on, none of us boys and girls any-
more and yet I still don’t feel ready to be a woman ... What age is
he now?
BEN. The same age he always was ... a year younger than me.
CATHERINE. I thought he was younger.
BEN. He’s aged. He drinks too much.
CATHERINE. Well. (Drinks, finishes glass, pours.)
BEN. Talks about dying a lot.
CATHERINE. Only recently have I started noticing graveyards,
hearses, churches. I always thought they were some kind of deco-
ration that had nothing to do with me, but now they follow me
everywhere.
BEN. Graveyards follow you?
CATHERINE. You know what I mean, and dead butterflies seem
to be stalking me, they appear at my feet, on the doorstep, in the
bathroom, under my pillow.
BEN. Yes, I know what you mean.
CATHERINE. I'll be walking along or making the kids’ lunches
and it creeps over me, you're going to die soon, all of this will be
taken from you. Impossible, but there it is.
BEN. Art should stop smoking cigars. He’s too old for that sort of
indulgence.
CATHERINE. And you?
BEN. I only smoke when I’m with him. If I get cancer it'll be his
fault.
CATHERINE. Has he done something to you?
BEN. No, why?
CATHERINE. You're very grumpy about him.
BEN. Art is great. He’s great.
CATHERINE. And how is Anne?
BEN. I think they’re going through a bit of a crisis.
CATHERINE. Like us?
BEN. Us?
CATHERINE. What sort of crisis?
BEN. He's dreaming about other women.
CATHERINE. What's wrong with that?
BEN. He's dreaming about you.
CATHERINE. About me?
BEN. Last night he dreamt he was making love to you in a room
full of marble.
CATHERINE. Last night?
BEN. Yes. Last night. While you were dreaming about him, he was
dreaming about you. What crisis are we going through?
CATHERINE. That’s fantastic. I love it.
BEN. You love it?
CATHERINE. Adds a bit of fizz to my life.
BEN. Is your life so boring?
CATHERINE. I believe it is.
BEN. Do I give you such a terrible time?
CATHERINE. I’ve no one to compare you with, have I?
BEN. Id like to know what’s so fantastic about dreaming you were

10
making love to Art?
CATHERINE. We shared something in our sleep, Art and I.
BEN. Art and you?
CATHERINE. Yes, that’s all. Darling, there is always regret for the
life you didn’t lead.
BEN. Is there?
CATHERINE. I think so, yes, the life not lived is what kills. I bet
Art and Anne are very happy. They always struck me as a model
couple.
BEN. A model couple, what does that mean?
CATHERINE. Well, all those dogs on the furniture, all those
dirty children, Anne doesn’t give a damn, just cooks and drinks
red wine. | bet she forgets to collect them from school and they all
make their way home safe and sound. I’m too conscientious and
youre looking for a row and you lied to me.
BEN. When did I lie to you? ;
CATHERINE. You didn’t dream about me last night.
BEN. Oh, that. No, that was Art. I borrowed his dream, that’s all.
CATHERINE. Maybe you should dream about Anne, even it all
out.
BEN. Anne is not my type.
CATHERINE. So now you have a type?
BEN. I do. I certainly do.
CATHERINE. And what is your type?
BEN. You are my type.
CATHERINE. [’m what life threw at you.
BEN. That too.
CATHERINE. Don’t forget it was I who asked you to marry me.
BEN. Did you?
CATHERINE. You don’t remember?
BEN. No, I don’t. Come to think of it, I don’t seem to remember
making any decisions at all ... ever. Things just have the habit of
happening to me.
CATHERINE. So if I hadn’t asked you to marry me, we wouldn't
be married?
BEN. But you did ask me. Did I say yes?
CATHERINE. I don’t remember, did you mean to say no?
BEN. I organised everything. I must've said yes, or meant to. I
even had to buy you a slip on the way to the church, that’s what I
remember most about our wedding, buying you a slip in a shop

11
because your dress was see-through.
CATHERINE. You should tell Art I dreamt about him tomorrow.
And tell him there was marble in the dream, lots of marble, that’s
all I remember, and wild pleasure.
BEN. Wild pleasure?
CATHERINE. It was a good dream.
BEN. Maybe the pair of you should run off together.
CATHERINE. In a way we have, we seem to have managed an
escape of sorts, a co-ordinated escape while staying put. What colour
was my hair in the dream?
BEN. Blond. A star-seared, gold-shot blond.
CATHERINE. Yes, in my dream I was blond, too. Should I dye
my hair before it’s too late?
BEN. Too late for what?
CATHERINE. Before I go completely grey?
BEN. I like your hair dark.
CATHERINE. Then dark it stays ... but just for a week, a month,
imagine a decade of blond license before I’m filed for the tomb. It
might be interesting to do something interesting with myself for a
change.
BEN. I want your hair dark.
CATHERINE. It’s that important to you?
BEN. Yes, it is. You must remain dark.
CATHERINE. And ifI don’t?
BEN. Well, that’s as good as betrayal.
CATHERINE. Is it?
BEN. Yes it is ... what play are we going to see on Friday?
CATHERINE. Why?
BEN. No reason.
CATHERINE. Youve never asked before.
BEN. I trust your judgement.
CATHERINE. And now you don't?
BEN. Art was asking me.
CATHERINE. I forget the name of it, about the auld one dying.
BEN. Auld ones dying don’t interest me. Women who've stopped
ovulating should die offstage. Who cares?
CATHERINE. You don’t have to come.
BEN. Of course I’ll come. I'll probably love it.
CATHERINE. Someday I'll be old if I’m lucky.
BEN. (Examining her hair.) You need to do your roots again.

12
CATHERINE. Why can’t you bear me getting old?
BEN. Women aren't allowed to get old. I mean, of course you're
allowed, but it’s not mannerly. It’s somehow not appropriate. Old
women interfere with my sense of myself.
CATHERINE. And what about old men?
BEN. Ah, men don’t matter. Can’t stand them. It’s never about
men.
CATHERINE. You're wrong, as usual. It’s all about men, always
has been, we're not even allowed to grow old without your disdain.
BEN. Just don’t turn into one of those gangs of hags who go to
flower shows.
CATHERINE. Those gangs of hags look happy. They’ve buried
their men. I could do worse than end up going to flower shows.
BEN. Well, at least wait ’til you've trampled my grave.
CATHERINE. We're talking rubbish now. It’s late. I’m going to
bed. (Kisses him.) See you in a while.
BEN. Don’t dream about Art tonight.
CATHERINE. But darling, not even you can control that. (And
exit Catherine.)

Scene 3

Ben sits there a minute, dials on his mobile. Enter Art with
cigar and brandy.

ARI: Ben.
BEN. Why aren't you in bed?
ART. How do you know I’m not? I’m too tired to go to bed. Are
you up?
BEN. Catherine's just gone up.
ART. How is she?
BEN. She dreamt about you last night.
ART. Oh?
BEN. There was loads of marble in it.
ART. Was there? Wow! Was it a good dream?
BEN. It was wild and her hair was blond.

13
ART. She’s dyed her hair?
BEN. No, in the dream. It was the same as yours: marble, sex,
blondness.
ART. Ben, youre exhausted.
BEN. Are you going to bed now?
ART. I’m having a brandy.
BEN. Are you having a cigar?
ART. Far too late for a cigar. (Puffs, laughs to himself.) ... Are you
alright?
BEN. I’m fine ... I just ... I don’t know, I was ringing to ask you
something.
ART. What is it, Ben?
BEN. Don’t dream about Catherine again.
ART. Sure, I never dream. That was a once-off.
BEN. Where’s Anne?
ART. She’s asleep.
BEN. Are you going to wake her up?
ART. No, it’s too late, she always wakes when I get into bed.
BEN. Talk to Anne, you'll feel better about it.
ART. I feel fine ... Is Catherine asleep?
BEN. Why do you want to know?
ART. Is she dreaming about me?
BEN. I doubt it, she’s just gone up, she always reads herself to
sleep.
ART. What's she reading?
BEN. Some travel book ... by your man who was drowned ... A
torpedo.
ART. Did he drown?
BEN. I believe he did. It’s on the blurb, anyway. Someone drowned
at the end of some war.
ART. Is it a good book?
BEN. Well, Catherine's reading it.
ART. Ages since I read a good book ... well, good night, Ben.
BEN. Just don’t dream, or dream about Anne, me, anyone except
Catherine.
ART. It’s a coincidence though. I’m glad I was wild in her dream.
BEN. Why?
ART. I don't know, out there I’m someone’s fantasy man.
BEN. Youre not, you know.
ART. Yeah, well, good night.

14
BEN. And put out that cigar, I can smell it over the phone.
ART. It’s nearly finished.
BEN. Are you going to pour another brandy?
ART. I haven't thought that far ahead.
BEN. I might have one too, don’t feel like sleeping tonight. Isn’t it
ridiculous the way people go to bed every night, we're far too trust-
ing, anything might happen.
ART. Have a brandy, Ben, relax. Night.
BEN. ‘Night, Art. (He sits there a minute, takes a cigar from drawer,
clippers, lights it, puffs, pours a drink. Art does the same in his space.
They look at one another without seeing. And exit both.)

Scene 4

Anne comes on in coat and nightdress with a take-away coffee,

paper, and a bag ofcroissants, which she eats during this scene.
Enter Art in suit, with a briefcase. He drinks her coffee, eats
some of her croissant.

ANNE. What time did you come to bed last night?

ART. Don't know, I sat in the garden. I saw the hare.
ANNE. Yeah, she’s back with two leverets.
ART. I know, raised my glass to them, “Welcome to the world, lit-
tle creatures,” I said.
ANNE. Did you? ... You were talking in your sleep.
ART. Did I wake you?
ANNE. You were mourning with pleasure.
ART. Mourning with pleasure?
ANNE. Leave my croissants alone, you can get your own in town.
Moaning ... whatever it’s called.
ART. Did I say anything I should be ashamed of?
ANNE. Lots.
ART. I did not. I’m always on my best behaviour when asleep.
ANNE. You look extremely guilty standing there in your suit.
ART. I was born guilty ... kids are all fine?
ANNE. Yeah, they’re fine.

is)
ART. Are we all set for the confirmation?
ANNE. Communion.
ART. That’ right.
ANNE. I’m getting caterers in. I can’t be bothered anymore.
ART. Well, don’t look so sad about it. Are we inviting the world
and its mother or just our own ghastly shower?
ANNE. Just our own ghouls.
ART. All the crones?
ANNE. Every last one of them.
ART. Remind me to start on the wine early. Could we have a few
friends? A few people we actually like?
ANNE. Like who?
ART. Is there no one you like?
ANNE. Now that you ask, no, no one I like enough to put up
with all day.
ART. What else was I saying in my sleep?
ANNE. I can’t remember ... sable or scrabble or ... did you have
a dream or something?
ART. I never dream.
ANNE. But last night?
ART. No ... definitely no.
ANNE. I dreamt I was French-kissing a dog. He was forcing my
mouth open with his paws. He had my tongue clamped between
his teeth.
ART. Was it good?
ANNE. And then you woke me up.
ART. With my mourning with pleasure.
ANNE. No, after that.
ART. What happened after that?
ANNE. You don’t remember?
ART. No, what did I do?
ANNE. Don't look so frightened. You just made love to me.
ART. Last night?
ANNE. Towards morning.
ART. But that’s impossible.
ANNE. What are you saying?
ART. I have no memory of it.
ANNE. Maybe you drank too much.
ART. I had two bottles of wine with dinner and four brandies. I
don’t think that’s excessive. You must have been dreaming.

16
ANNE. I know when I’m being made love to.
ART. Maybe it was the dog. Well, I’m glad one of us had a good time.
ANNE. You enjoyed it too.
ART. Did I?
ANNE. Your back was a river of sweat.
ART. And that equals enjoyment?
ANNE. (Kisses him.) Darling, try and remember when you make
love to me.
ART. I do. I usually do. This is bizarre.
ANNE. Maybe you thought I was someone else ... look, if you
ever need to have an affair, just go ahead, only don’ tell me.
ART. Why would I have an affair?
ANNE. I’m just saying.
ART. I’m not that kind of man. Why would I do a thing like that?
ANNE. People do the strangest things.
ART. In their thoughts, maybe, but the waking world is different.
ANNE. I don’t find it so different. Recently, I find the daylight
strange, distorted, shadowy, where all was clear before.
ART. Are you going to have an affair?
ANNE. Not that I’m aware of.
ART. Then why are you telling me to have one?
ANNE. Just if you need to.
ART. Are you tired of me?
ANNE. I’m just tired, I’m tired of living, of course I’m not tired
of you.
ART. Are you having an affair?
ANNE. God, youre so literal. Just forget it. Forget it, Art. You're late.
ART. I don’t care if I’m late. I get no credit for being on time.
What are you talking about?
ANNE. Just breakfast conversation. I was so happy with you last
night. Look, if you need to destroy us, do it without my knowing,
that’s all. I don’t want honesty. I don’t have the energy for honesty
anymore.
ART. What?
ANNE. Go to work. We have lots of bills. Go to work.
ART. [ll go in a minute.
ANNE. Will I make a pot of coffee?
ART. I don’t want coffee ... (Drinking Anne’ coffee.) What are you
doing today?
ANNE. What I always do?
ART. What do you always do?
ANNE. You know what I always do.
ART. And what’s in it for you?
ANNE. You come home, the children are healthy, I’m alive.
ART. That doesn’t seem like much.
ANNE. Lots survive on less. My life is full.
ART. Have I been neglecting you?
ANNE. Probably ... have you?
ART. No, you have to tell me.
ANNE. Tell you what? It’s just living, Art. Just waiting for it all to
end like everyone else.
ART. Id better go.
ANNE. Do you want dinner or will I just eat with the children?
ART. Can I call you later?
ANNE. Don’t leave it too late.
ART. I wont. (Kisses her. And exit Art. Anne sits there, eating croissants.
And exit.)

Scene 5

Enter Ben in a suit. Drinks from a bottle of water. He stands

there looking out. Enter Art with a pile ofpapers, glasses.

ART. I’ve been all over the building ... What're you doing up here?
BEN. I like looking down on the city.
ART. We've a meeting in five minutes. I thought you were meant
to have this sorted.
BEN. Fractions and decimals. Nothing to do with anything.
ART. This is not the time for philosophy.
BEN. Do you ever look down on this city? God bless us all, is all I can
say. Youd need to be made of steel and concrete to survive this place.
ART. We are, Ben, we are, steel and concrete, decimals and frac-
tions, the square root of nothing. But so what? So is everyone else.
BEN. In time this will all be ice again. You know we're actually liv-
ing in the middle of an ice age, always thought it was millions of
years ago. The rising water is only the ice melting and when it’ all

18
melted it'll freeze again.
ART. It’s an ice-lolly world.
BEN. Catherine dreamt about you again.
ART. Did she?
BEN. That's two dreams in forty-eight hours.
ART. Was there marble in it?
BEN. No, it was full of sand.
ART. That's strange. I dreamt last night I was with Catherine on a
beach, we were shipwrecked on this beach and I kept thinking as I
made love to her, I’m the one who’ going to have to find water, build
a hut, fight off natives, lions, scorpions and night was coming on.
BEN. Just what did you do to her?
ART. I'm sorry, but I’ve done nothing ... Did you dream?
BEN. As a matter of fact I did have a dream last night.
ART. About Anne?
BEN. No, about you.
ART. About me?
BEN. You were prancing around in your underpants showing me
the cherry blossom.
ART. And was I a turn-on in my underpants?
BEN. “Smell the cherry blossom,” you kept shrieking, and there
were two cherry blossoms shedding, miraculously shedding in my
garden. I have oaks in my garden, oaks, for chrissakes, and there
you are like some mad Cinderella waltzing round in your under-
pants, invading my lawn.
ART. Suddenly I’m irresistible. Everyone's dreaming about me,
even Anne, she said I made love to her last night.
BEN. And didn’t you?
ART. I think she made it up.
BEN. Maybe you thought Anne was Catherine and reached for
her on your shipwrecked beach among the scorpions.
ART. We're late, let’s get this meeting over with and take a long
lunch.
BEN. There’s no time for lunch today ... I hate my life.
ART. (Papers.) What’s the story on this shower?
BEN. Up to their necks in gutter. We don’t go near them.
ART. You better have your reasons. I hope you're in the mood for
a row.
BEN. Oh God, I’m going to die in a boardroom looking up some
fella’s hairy nostrils. (And exit both.)

19
 Scene 6

Enter Catherine in nightdress with a glass of wine and a

child’ story book. A child cries offstage.

CATHERINE. Go to sleep now ... good boy ... I'll be up in a

minute. (Under her breath.) Oh Christ, give me a break! (Enter
Ben.)
BEN. What’s wrong with him?
CATHERINE. He just won’ settle. I’ve read him three stories.
BEN. I'll go up.
CATHERINE. Give him a minute, he might drop off.
BEN. Does he cry every night?
CATHERINE. Most nights, yes.
BEN. It’s pitiful.
CATHERINE. After seventeen years of crying children, you get
pretty immune.
BEN. Why is he crying?
CATHERINE. Because he wants a chocolate bar and I wouldn't
give him one, then he wanted me to cut my hair off and leave it
on the pillow, which I cruelly refused to do, and then he wanted
to paint his nails pink. But he’s really crying because he can’t make
sense of this world and neither can his mother. (Ben goes to her,
kisses her.) Did Art dream about me?
BEN. On a tropical beach, no less.
CATHERINE. What a cliché. I suppose we were happy.
BEN. Ecstatic.
CATHERINE. Is Art good-looking?
BEN. I don’t know.
CATHERINE. Don't you have eyes?
BEN. Not for men, no, I certainly don’t.
CATHERINE. Describe him.
BEN. Art?
CATHERINE. Yeah.
BEN. He's an in-between man, I suppose. Not too bad, despite his
cigars and his brandy. Eyes, wide-spaced, dark, I think. Teeth are

20
good, tans easily, veiny legs, which he says he inherited from his
mother, but his mouth is unfinished.
CATHERINE. What do you mean?
BEN. Foetal or something, like he’s never been weaned.
CATHERINE. And your mouth?
BEN. I never got the breast. That’s what’s wrong with me. Rejection
from day one. Were you thinking about him today?
CATHERINE. Yeah. ... can’t stop:
BEN. It’s really not on.
CATHERINE. Why isn’t it on?
BEN. Well, there’s me in the background.
CATHERINE. I think about you too.
BEN. A lot?
CATHERINE. Enough.
BEN. And what do you think about when you think about me?
CATHERINE. What is this? The Inquisition?
BEN. You're the one dreaming about people you shouldn't be.
CATHERINE. There is no vocabulary for this.
BEN. Do you want me to die?
CATHERINE. You're not exactly burning with life. Widows have
a great time, it has to be said.
BEN. They do.
CATHERINE. All that freedom, no big man stomping round the
kitchen rattling the knife drawer ... Yeah, I'd like to be a girl again,
without the stupidity, yes, I long to be alone, all this clutter is too
much for me.
BEN. Have you dyed your hair?
CATHERINE. I set out the dye. I put on the gloves and then I said,
“What's the point?” I suppose what I’m no longer capable of is deep
feeling, you know, when your breath stops, except when I dream
about Art. It’s fantastic. Don’t be jealous, Ben. I can't wait to go to
sleep tonight and dream about him.
BEN. I wish youd dream about me.
CATHERINE. But I’m not. I’m dreaming about Art and he’s
dreaming about me. Just who is it hurting?
BEN. Me.
CATHERINE. It’s not. You can’t control my mind. I can’t control it.
You can’t tell me to switch off a dream just because it’s not about you.
BEN. I don’t have to like it.
CATHERINE. I think you should if it makes me happy.

On|
BEN. I’m the one should make you happy.
CATHERINE. Don't be ridiculous.
BEN. So I’m just here taking up space?
CATHERINE. Well, yes, but that’s normal.
BEN. What? Hovering with my hands in my pockets? Waiting for
you to start the conversation? Sort out the day for me.
CATHERINE. Is that what you do? I suppose that’s the way we
go on. I hope Art dreams about me tonight. Johnny got ninety-five
in his reading. He told me to tell you, not to forget. Ring Art and
tell him to dream about me tonight.
BEN. You're mad. I never realised it before.
CATHERINE. Well, I can’t ring him.
BEN. Why not? You've such a fantastic time together.
CATHERINE. Anne might think I have designs on him.
BEN. And don’t you?
CATHERINE. Only in bed, only in sleep.
BEN. I have a premonition of an impending catastrophe.
CATHERINE. A what?
BEN. A sentence from my English teacher. She made us write it
down, she was talking about Macbeth. That’s what I have, a premo-
nition of an impending catastrophe.
CATHERINE. It’s only a bit of distraction.
BEN. So if he stops dreaming about you it won't matter?
CATHERINE. He won't. We're too far in to just stop.
BEN. Too far in?
CATHERINE. I can't explain it. It’s as if my real life is happening
when I go to sleep and you and J are a dream, a fragment, difficult
to remember on waking. Being awake is no longer important.
BEN. But if he stops?
CATHERINE. Don’t say that to me.
BEN. Why not?
CATHERINE. You're tampering with the hardwiring of my mind,
my heart, my soul. Stop tampering with me.
BEN. And youre playing with me. You like to see me jealous.
CATHERINE. I didn’t notice. Oh, Ben, it’s the prose of living I
can't take much longer. I look around me and everything irregular,
irrational, opaque is what seems beautiful to me now. What are
these senseless rules we live by? Who decided them and why? And
the minute | assert any personality I’m rejected by you. Any whiff
of the essential me is off. I’m so tired of behaving myself.

22
BEN. (Goes to her, kisses her.) | wish youd stop this nonsense and
go back to your dreamless sleeps.
CATHERINE. You like me catatonic.
BEN. I like you to think about me.
CATHERINE. ‘Night. (And exit Catherine. Ben wanders round,
turning off lamp, tidying up. And exit Ben.)

Scene 7

Enter Art with coffee in a take-away cup, briefcase. He stands

there a minute staring off into the distance. Ben walks by,
briefcase, coffee, newspaper. Passes Art without a word.

ART. Ben.
BEN. I see you.
ART. Stop. Stop for a minute.
BEN. You want to tell me about your fantastic dream?
ART. No dream.
BEN. You mean youre not going to tell me.
ART. No, I didn’t dream about Catherine last night. I didn’t dream
at all.
BEN. Well, she dreamt about you.
ART. It'll stop soon.
BEN. She couldn’t wait to wake and tell me.
ART. What was I doing?
BEN. The usual Romeo stuff under a marble statue, marble floor,
white marble everywhere, and the pair of you sprawled all over it.
ART. If only it was real. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room with
a white marble floor. You get all that fake stuff in hotel lobbies, but
a real marble room, classical proportions, pillars, columns, statues
that are not copies.
BEN. You dreamt it too?
ART. Yeah, yeah, I dreamt it too.
BEN. Then why did you lie?
ART. Because you look awful. Look, I don't give a hoot about
Catherine. She’s your wife, so I want her to be okay so you're okay,

23
but that’s all, Ben, that’s all.
BEN. Are you having an affair with Catherine?
ART. That’s crazy.
BEN. No, listen, I’ve been thinking that all this dreaming is just a
front, hiding the real thing that’s going on.
ART. What real thing that’s going on? Tell me. I'd love to know
something real.
BEN. You can’t continue playing with me like this. Look, I’ve known
you too long. If it’s a big joke, you've had your laugh, now come clean.
ART. Im not playing with you, Ben.
BEN. Aren't you? Between the pair of you, you've unhinged me.
Catherine said last night that she'd like me to die.
ART. She didn't. I don’t believe that.
BEN. And what was terrible was she was being philosophical
about herself. She didn’t mean to be cruel.
ART. This is getting out of hand. Will I call Catherine?
BEN. Don’t you dare!
ART. Alright. Christ!
BEN. You're just looking for an excuse to be near her.
ART. I am not.
BEN. She’s the same. She’s fascinated with you. She can’t stop her-
self talking about you. She loves saying your name.
ART. So, what’s that to do with me? I can’t remember the last time
I saw Catherine, spoke to her. I can’t visualise her, she’s blond,
right? Sandy blond, darker in winter, blue eyes, is it? Or grey?
BEN. I don’t know.
ART. You don’t know the colour of your wife’s eyes?
BEN. They keep changing. Last night they were brown.
ART. Has she dyed her hair yet?
BEN. What's it to you? She’s just a woman like any other. I can’t
see the individual in her, the space that defines her, that makes her
who she is. I suppose I haven't thought about her in a long time
and now when I’m forced to look at her, she’s not there, she’s so
strange all of a sudden.
ART. Is it that you and Catherine are not happy and I’m being
blamed? Piggy in the middle, gooseberry, the scapegoat who'll take
the rap for everything?
BEN. No, we're happy, we're happy, no more miserable than anyone
else. There are children, gardens, afternoons looking out on the bay.
All of that. We're not miserable, Art, far from it, but something has

24
to happen, you and Catherine have started something. I’m just the
sleepwalker in the middle of it.
ART. I refuse to take any responsibility if you and Catherine break
up.
BEN. What are you talking about?
ART. I’m just saying it now. I want no part in it. It has nothing to
do with me.
BEN. You think you'll come out of this unscathed? We're all in
this. All of us.
ART. Is that a threat?
BEN. You think you can spill your sleeping world all over me, all
your hidden fantasies and passions, all over my house, my wife and
walk away scot-free?
ART. I thought we were friends.
BEN. This is way beyond the call of friendship. (And exit Ben.)

Scene 8

Art looks after Ben. Takes out his phone, clears his throat, dials.
Enter Anne. Glass of wine, some crooner in the background.

ANNE. What is it, Art?

ART. Can’ I call you whenever I want?
ANNE. But you never do. Is everything okay? (Takes a sip of wine.)
ART. Of course, a glorious morning. The sun is shining.
ANNE. Don’t talk to me about the sun. (Looks out.) It goes on all
day.
ART. I’m drinking coffee in the plaza before I head into work.
ANNE. Isn’t that great for you?
ART. I just thought I'd ring to say hello.
ANNE. What is it, Art? I’m busy.
ART. You're always saying I never call you, and when I do, you
have a go at me.
ANNE. Has something happened?
ART. No, nothing has happened. How are the kids?
ANNE. They’ fine, about their day.

25
ART. And what are your plans for the day?
ANNE. I’m going to the shop to buy digestive biscuits and washing-
up liquid.
ART. Have you noticed anything about me?
ANNE. The cat’s iris has fallen out.
ART. Fuck the cat, have I changed?
ANNE. She’ staring at me through the window like it’s my fault, with
a hole in her eye, no you haven't changed, do you want to change?
ART. Of course not.
ANNE. What is it, Art? What’s wrong?
ART. I just wanted to hear your voice.
ANNE. Are you about to do something you shouldn't and you
want me to say it’s alright?
ART. What would I be about to do?
ANNE. God knows I don’t know, Art, I like to hear you too.
ART. But have you noticed anything odd in my behaviour this last
while?
ANNE. Youre the same old Art, a bit more passionate these nights,
but that’s you too.
ART. Is it? Is that me?
ANNE. Look, I can’t tell you who you are, darling, I’m saving all
vital energy for defining Anne, the several Annes that seem to have
taken up residence in this old carcass. Don’t worry, sweetheart, I'll
be here this evening, one of me will, at any rate.
ART. I never for a second suspected you wouldn't be there this
evening. What in the name of God are you talking about?
ANNE. Oh Art, I’m just babbling on, enjoy the day, darling, don’t
work too hard.
ART. But there’s something youre not saying.
ANNE. Is there?
ART. Yes, there is.
ANNE. What, what have I forgotten?
ART. That you love me.
ANNE. Oh that, I suppose I’m out of the habit.
ART. But do you?
ANNE. I don’t like to be coerced into those three words. I’ll tell
you I love you if and when I feel like telling you.
ART. It’s impossible to have a romantic conversation with you!
You think just because you have me in the bed you don’t need to
woo me out of it!

26
ANNE. Is that what I think?
ART. Yes, that’s what you think! I know you, woman. You always
think you know better.
ANNE. Well, I'm glad you told me what I think. Thar’s one thing
off my list today. Thinking.
ART. You're a contrary rip! Impossible to please, sitting on your fat
arse, smug with sex.
ANNE. I'm going to hang up now. (Hangs up and exits.)
ART. That’s right, hang up on me! Why can’t you just say what
youre supposed to say? I'll break you down yet. (Flings the phone
away.) That's the last time you get a romantic call from me. (Picks
up phone, straightens tie, preens himself, cuffs, jacket, briefcase. And
exit Art.)

Scene 9

Enter Ben; the room is in shadow.

BEN. Catherine? ... Catherine, are you here?

CATHERINE. (A sigh.) Oh, God ... what?
BEN. Why is the house in darkness?
CATHERINE. I fell asleep ... I was dreaming ... I don’t suppose
you want to hear it.
BEN. Art has stopped dreaming about you.
CATHERINE. He hasn't?
BEN. He told me this morning he dreamt about another woman.
CATHERINE. Who?
BEN. What does it matter who? It wasn’t you, that’s the important
thing.
CATHERINE. I don’t believe it.
BEN. Can I turn the light on?
CATHERINE. No, I want shadow, candlelight, stars.
BEN. There are no stars here anymore ... Just the lamp then.
CATHERINE. Why must you always break the spell?
BEN. Is that what I do?
CATHERINE. You ruin every dusk. And when it’s dark you ruin

27,
the dark. Why did you tell me Art dreamt about me in the first
place, only to take it from me?
BEN. I’m sorry. I should never have told you.
CATHERINE. You actually believe you're innocent, wronged, that
Art and I are the deviants?
BEN. And aren't you?
CATHERINE. That was my lifeline!
BEN. Art dreaming about you?
CATHERINE. I didn’t think I needed one, but now youve taken
it, I feel I’m being sucked up out of here. I live for sleeping, dream-
ing about Art, my waking life is just pretence.
BEN. Well, of course it is, Catherine. It is for everyone.
CATHERINE. I don’t care about everyone. The same for everyone!
What about me? Me? I am here now, in time, for a very, very short
time, and I doubt I will ever be again, why this thing called me if
every avenue of expression is closed off from me? And all I have to
look forward to is dying?
BEN. There are codes and rules and contracts we must live by,
Catherine. And as for dying, we are dying all the time, look at this
hand, the skin on it is dead, look at your face, the skin on your
cheeks died yesterday. Ridiculous to think, monumentally stupid,
to hope it all just happens at the end.
CATHERINE. And love?
BEN. An awful repetition of nights and days and days and nights.
CATHERINE. Please Ben, tell me, has he really stopped?
BEN. No ... I made it up ... I just want ... Just want all of this
to be over.
CATHERINE. It is over. I’ve crossed some line or other without
realising it. And it’s fantastic, Ben, something is happening to me.
(Lights down.)

End of Act One

28
 ACT TWO

Scene 1

Art sits at a table drinking a glass of red wine and smoking a

cigar. Enter Catherine with a glass of red wine.

CATHERINE. Art?
ART. My God! I was just thinking about you, was thinking how
lovely it would be if I bumped into you.
CATHERINE. You were not? ... And here I am.
ART. And here you are.
CATHERINE. Ben’s not here, is he?
ART. No, he won't have a glass with me these days.
CATHERINE. Well, I will. (She sits.) Cheers. (They clink glasses.)
ART. Why are you here?
CATHERINE. I got a babysitter. I went to the art gallery. I thought
I might run into Ben. No, I wanted to be on my own ... I just
wanted to have a look at you.
ART. And how was the gallery?
CATHERINE. A blur ... a blur of relentless colour ... drank it all
in too quickly, feel dizzy now, like there are moths fluttering and
banging around my brain. I stood in front of this painting, can’t
remember who it was, but a woman just staring out at me with
dirty fingernails, one of the Dutch, maybe, and I wished I could be
her, fixed in a painting somewhere, trapped behind glass. And peo-
ple could come and stare and think what they liked about me and
it wouldn't matter. My expression wouldn't change, my dress would
still be green, my hands filthy.
ART. And what do you think of me? Do I disappoint?
CATHERINE. Your neck is a bit ... I don’t know ...
ART. What’s wrong with my neck?
CATHERINE. Well, it's a bit ... thought it was longer ... It’s
hardly a neck at all. There’s nothing wrong with your neck.

29
ART. This is the real world, baby. Some people are neckless here.
No marble around to glisten off.
CATHERINE. I must be a fright to look at?
ART. Let me tell you something, Catherine, you are exactly as I
dream you. Ben said your hair was brown.
CATHERINE. I dyed it.
ART. For me?
CATHERINE. For the dream. For me. Yes, for you. I want to be
that dream. I want to live it. I want it to be my waking world.
ART. And Ben?
CATHERINE. Oh Ben, Ben, Ben. What is Ben at?
ART. Ben loves you.
CATHERINE. Ben loves the idea of me. He doesn’t know the first
thing about me.
ART. And I do?
CATHERINE. Describe to me the dream you had last night.
ART. No.
CATHERINE. Why not?
ART. It seems ridiculous now.
CATHERINE. You believe in the day too much?
ART. The day is where we must live.
CATHERINE. I disagree. Night is where it all happens.
ART. Ina million years, perhaps, but not now. This is the age of
ice, an era when men and women’s hearts were frozen, that’s how
they'll describe us in the future. But we can’t live in the future. It has
been given to us now, this age of prose and flint and it is here, just
here, we must bide our time.
CATHERINE. No, no, Art, you mustn't talk like that. You know,
I've been looking around this last while, P’'ve been looking at peo-
ple a lot and I see us all now as some fabulous species, and you
know something, Art, it is we who are the beautiful thing, yes us,
not God, not mountains, oceans, rivers, architecture, none of that
haphazard vastness, but us, wandering through this hostile land-
scape, so full of hope, for what? And despair, for why?
ART. It’s what we do, Catherine. It’s called living. It happens to
everyone.
CATHERINE. This blinding joy?
ART. Moments. Yes.
CATHERINE. I know I don’t seem like a great prospect right
now, but that’s because I’ve spent all these years cutting bits of

30
myself off. With you ... I would retrieve them.
ART. Catherine ... that is not possible.
CATHERINE. You get enough just dreaming?
ART. Well, no ... but ...
CATHERINE. Anne ... the children.
ART. Yes ... all of that.
CATHERINE. You coward ... you're using me.
ART. How am I using you?
CATHERINE. You deny me now? Last night I was sprawled under
you.
ART. You were not.
CATHERINE. Ben told you to say the dreams have stopped.
ART. They have.
CATHERINE. Youre afraid. Don’t be. It’s me, Art. I’m afraid too.
But what awaits us if we would only ..
ART. I can’t, Catherine.
CATHERINE. Look, I have a whole show on the road too. You
think I come to you on a whim? I know the fallout for Ben and the
children will be terrible.
ART. I have a wife I wouldn’t hurt for the world. I have four
children.
CATHERINE. I know how many children you have.
ART. I have a good life. You have too. Ben is a good man.
CATHERINE. I am so sick of being told I have a good life. That I
have a good man, that my children are beautiful. I’m not denying
any of it and I’m not ungrateful and may the gods not strike me
down. But I want more. I want more than good. | want spectacular.
I want marble, marble, marble.
ART. Last night was spectacular.
CATHERINE. So you don’t deny it?
ART. I don’t deny it, but how do we get from here to there? It’s the
coldness of this world I can’t take, the terrifying greyness that sat-
urates my days and nights. Half the time I look up at the sky, when
I remember to, and it’s just not there, only a cloak of elephant iron
weighing me down where that indigo should be and you know
sometimes I think our dreaming is about dying, that I don’t care to
prolong the jaunt much further here.
CATHERINE. Then let it be about dying. It’s happening anyway.
ART. You're dangerous.
CATHERINE. Am I?

oH
ART. You want destruction, don’t you?
CATHERINE. Anything new seems to involve it. There can be no
change without change.
ART. Change is what I do not want.
CATHERINE. You think I want it? It would be far easier for me
to stay with my good life, my good man, my beautiful children.
ART. Then stay.
CATHERINE. And give up, is it?
ART. It’s what everyone does.
CATHERINE. So like sheep, we should do the same?
ART. Yes, exactly the same.
CATHERINE. So what youre saying is, there is no place in this
world for our dream of marble.
ART. You assume too much. A handful of dreams. How can they
possibly impact here? Where is the place for them?
CATHERINE. In our hearts, there is nowhere else.
ART. Just because you know me intimately in that marble room,
you shouldn't presume anything out of it. |am, or rather was, your
husband’s oldest friend.
CATHERINE. Don’t lecture me on loyalty. I know the cost of
what we're talking about.
ART. What you're talking about.
CATHERINE. I know the price that will be extracted in blood.
Your blood. Mine. I have thought this through. I don’t sit here talk-
ing to you lightly. I don’t ask you to come with me lightly.
ART. I’m going nowhere with you. (Gets up.) ’m going home. If
youre wise you'll say nothing to Ben about this.
CATHERINE. I[’m past protecting anyone, least of all myself.
Dont go. Have another glass with me.
ART. I have to go.
CATHERINE. Youre afraid of me.
ART. Yes, I am.
CATHERINE. I am too. Feel like a lone magpie on the wind, a
bad omen, sorrow for everyone around me, so be it.
ART. Good night Catherine, and don’t say anything to Ben. He'll
read it all wrong.
CATHERINE. You're more worried about Ben than anything.
ART. Iam. I just can't do this. It’s not I’m not tempted but there
are laws ... unwritten, but there nevertheless.
CATHERINE. Your laws are crippling.

a2
ART. That may be so, but they’re all that’s between us and chaos.
For the third time, good night. (And exit Art. Catherine sits there
looking after him. Takes stub of his cigar from ashtray, smells it. Holds
it. Sips from his unfinished wine ... and exit.)

Scene 2

Enter Ben with sandwich and coffee, sits, begins opening

sandwich, forgets about it, stares out. Enter Art after a
minute. Stops, looks at Ben.

ART. Are you avoiding me?

BEN. Damn right, I am.
ART. I was wondering if youd care to go fishing on Saturday or
Sunday?
BEN. I work. I go home. That’s it now.
ART. Is she improving?
BEN. Sleeps all day.
ART. So who’s looking after the kids?
BEN. No one. She sits like a statue at the kitchen table and they
tiptoe round her.
ART. Dare I ask?
BEN. Yes, the dreams keep coming and coming.
ART. Yeah.
BEN. Your still dreaming about her?
ART. Yes, I suppose I am.
BEN. You never stopped.
ART. So? It’s nothing, Ben.
BEN. Why don’t you just fuck her and be done with it. Run away
with her. It'd be over in a week.
ART. You're blaming me for all of this.
BEN. Just for your part in it.
ART. Ever occur to you it’s you wants everything to change? It's
you wants rid of Catherine?
BEN. I am not the dreamer here.
ART. And suppose I do go off with her, what then?

Bp)
BEN. I don’t know, build your marble room, frolic in it til ye suf-
focate, tear it down around ye. Puncture your wild fantasies.
ART. And what of your wild fantasies?
BEN. There are none.
ART. Everyone has them.
BEN. Mine are darkness and silence.
ART. I don’t believe you.
BEN. That’s the official version. My private life is my private life.
I don’t spew it over the first passerby.
ART. Well, if you believe I would walk into your house and just
steal your woman, you don't know me.
BEN. No, I don’t know you. I begin to realise I don’t know anyone.
ART. We're dealing with elusive territory, Ben, things imagined
without rhyme or reason. You and Catherine are confusing the two
worlds, trying to apply there to here. And trying to hold me to ran-
som because of it. I am not responsible for my dreams. They're just
visitors, uninvited, come and go as they please.
BEN. She says your spirits meet in this marble room.
ART. So? So what? So they meet?
BEN. Easy for you to say. I have a woman at home who sleeps
twenty-four hours a day, she gets up in the middle of the night, eats
crackers and hardboiled eggs from their shells, which she scatters
around the carpets, the stairs. She hovers around windows, door-
ways, leans against the fence for an hour at a time and then sinks
back into her catatonic dream of you.
ART. I can’t help you, Ben. I can’t help Catherine. I have my own
circus, children in school, a wife I love. I’m not throwing that
away for ...
BEN. Do you love Anne? You don’t look to me like a man in love.
ART. And you do?
BEN. Nothing bears scrutiny, does it? I told you at the start how it
would be. You laughed in my face, lit another cigar, sloshed down
more brandy. You leather-skinned slobs who dribble and drool over
other people’s lives, smearing and sundering without even realising,
all the time pleading innocence. Well, I’m sorry but that sort of blun-
dering innocence is a crime. She is pining for you. She’s skin and
bone, she is very fragile right now and you treated her so callously.
ART. She told you then?
BEN. How dare you treat my wife like that! You dare to get on
your high moral horse with her when you started the whole thing.

34
ART. I was very reasonable with her. What do you want from me,
Ben? Are you asking me to have an affair with her?
BEN. Yes ... I believe I am.
ART. Maybe it’s you wants the affair with me?
BEN. Is that what you think?
ART. The whole thing is so out of control I don’t know what to
think anymore.
BEN. Well, be assured on one point. J have no desire to have any-
thing to do with you. I want my wife back. Look, I’m feeding and
dressing a woman who no longer loves me and now I wonder if she
ever has. I want her back. And if I have to give her to you to get
her back, then that’s what I have to do.
ART. That is never going to happen.
BEN. I’m afraid she’s going to die on me! We're dealing with hearts
and minds here, Art, mine and Catherine’s, not some after-dinner
titillation. I knew youd run when the chips were down.
ART. I’m protecting my own hearth is all.
BEN. I should ring Anne, tell her the lie of the land.
ART. Leave Anne out of this. I don’t want her sullied with this. I
don’t want this near my house.
BEN. This is what thirty years’ friendship comes down to.
ART. Don’ threaten me with Anne.
BEN. But Catherine is fair game?
ART. I am so sorry, Ben, if I have been careless.
BEN. Careless?
ART. Yes, careless! That’s all it was. I am sorry, but for you to
attack my wife because of a lapse in me is despicable. That's what
cowards do, go after the women and children. _
BEN. And what of my woman and my children?
ART. Not in my house! This is your mess. Catherine’s mess. Don't
bring it near my lair.
BEN. It’s already there.
ART. What have you done?
BEN. I don’t need to do anything. Look at you. (And exit Ben. Art
stands there a minute, shaken, recovers his composure, then exits.)

35
 Scene 3

Sound of Anne offstage.

ANNE. Come in. Come in. Honestly. Once I answer the door I
let people in.
CATHERINE. What a lovely hall.
ANNE. Of course I never have visitors.
CATHERINE. (Entering followed by Anne.) \ dont either. I hope
you don’t think it odd of me, just dropping in without calling
first.
ANNE. It’s very odd. You're lucky I wasn’t napping.
CATHERINE. How are you?
ANNE. Keeping going, keeping going.
CATHERINE. Yes, I can see you're keeping going with that bright
smile on your face.
ANNE. Is it bright, my smile? Well, it was the smile I was given
or maybe I learned it along the way. Will I make tea? Wine? Coffee?
CATHERINE. I brought you these. (Flowers.)
ANNE. No, keep them for yourself.
CATHERINE. Well, they’re dead. I certainly don’t want them.
Why do people bring dead things to one another?
ANNE. Look, I’ve enough rubbish in my life, it’s a lovely thought
though.
CATHERINE. I don’t suppose you heard I’ve been ... I don’t
know ... not myself, anyway.
ANNE. You look fine to me.
CATHERINE. But I’m not, despite the lipstick and the new shawl
and trousers ... I’m very far from myself right now.
ANNE. Yes, Art told me, Ben is very worried about you.
CATHERINE. Feel I’ve been peeled like an onion, I’m down to
the core and there’s nothing there.
ANNE. There’s breathing.
CATHERINE. Moss breathes. Cement breathes.
ANNE. As long as youre breathing there’s something going on.
CATHERINE. But the mind, the heart, the soul, whatever it is

36
that’s me is just not there. Maybe it never was. I am far more than
just breath.
ANNE. No, you're not. None of us are. You're smoke. A light
breeze will blow you away.
CATHERINE. You're one of those old cynics.
ANNE. I just don’t expect anything. I live by ritual, repetition.
This old machine thrives on cappucinos and emptying the dish-
washer and polishing my white marble tiles in the hall. I’m in love
with those tiles. ] made Art import them.
CATHERINE. Yes, I noticed them.
ANNE. I love the sheen, the light, the texture and grain.
CATHERINE. And that’s enough for you?
ANNE. I do have a few other things, of course, to disguise the
journey.
CATHERINE. Like what?
ANNE. Am I boring you?
CATHERINE. No, tell me.
ANNE. Well, I have half a bottle of red wine in the evening. Every
evening. I think I would murder someone if I couldn't have my
three glasses of red wine in the evening. I measure them out.
Generous measures. And I have a cigarette with each glass. ’m not
a fascist about the cigarettes, but I must have the wine. No one but
no one can interfere with that.
CATHERINE. It’s very ... I don’t know what.
ANNE. Yes, I refuse to panic.
CATHERINE. What else do you do?
ANNE. I read to the children.
CATHERINE. Everyone does that. That's nothing to sustain you.
Even I read to the children.
ANNE. And something a lot of people don’t realise and forget to do
and become depressed or psychopaths, but I figured out years ago.
CATHERINE. What?
ANNE. I leave the lights on all day in winter, lamps, overhead
lights, every light blazing in the house, all winter.
CATHERINE. Your battle against the dark.
ANNE. Pathetic, I know, but I need to. It keeps me, I suppose it
keeps me here.
CATHERINE. So you refuse darkness, you deny it, do you sleep
with the lights blazing?
ANNE. Until Art comes to bed. Then I don’t mind if they're off.

oy
CATHERINE. He’s like a lamp, is he?
ANNE. And every morning I decide what time I'll go to bed at.
Before I get up I'll say to myself, okay, tonight bedtime is at ten for
you, missus, or nine, or eleven. It’s a matter of light policing of
myself, not engaging because I’ve long figured out there’s nothing
there to engage with. Just a simple police state. At the appointed
hour I do this or that, and so time does not encroach on me or
weigh me down or disturb me in any way.
CATHERINE. Is my visit disturbing you?
ANNE. There is room for the unplanned up to a point.
CATHERINE. This is what Art is married to. What Art comes home
to in the evening, kisses goodbye in the morning. This is what Art
is so desperate to hold on to.
ANNE. I’m past caring how I appear. As long as it keeps me off
window ledges.
CATHERINE. You like window ledges?
ANNE. What woman doesn’t? It’s one of the big themes, isn’t it?
CATHERINE. So seductive to fly off one.
ANNE. The will-I, won't-I thrill of it.
CATHERINE. And do you dream?
ANNE. Why?
CATHERINE. Because I do.
ANNE. Other people’s dreams don’t interest me.
CATHERINE. Not even if they’re about your husband?
ANNE. You dream about Art?
CATHERINE. I can't stop.
ANNE. Oh.
CATHERINE. Erotic dreams like a drug.
ANNE. You can’t have him.
CATHERINE. So you own him?
ANNE. I surely do.
CATHERINE. He’s part of your police state?
ANNE. The chief superintendent. I'd rather you didn’t dream
about him.
CATHERINE. So would everyone.
ANNE. It’s time for my wine. (Pours.) Do you want a glass?
CATHERINE. Only if it doesn’t interfere with your quota.
ANNE. I have cases of it. (Hand her a glass of wine. Catherine takes
it, wanders around. Anne lights a cigarette, watches her.) Its messy.
There are cobwebs and I don’t wash windows or floors, gave that

38
up a few years ago. I’m a housewife who does no housework.
CATHERINE. There are a lot of us. (Photo.) Is that one of your
sons?
ANNE. That’s Art. That’s what he looked like when I met him. I
took it. He'd just caught his first salmon of the season.
CATHERINE. He’s so beautiful.
ANNE. (Looks at photo.) Yeah ... he was.
CATHERINE. Can I have it?
ANNE. Just because I give you a glass of wine doesn’t mean you
can bare your soul to me. I hate confessions. I can’t stand them.
CATHERINE. I would like this photograph. I could get a copy
made and return it to you. And since I’ve lost all my pride asking
you, | think you should give it to me.
ANNE. I don’t like to see people without their pride ... take it
then ... as a loan.
CATHERINE. Thank you. (She puts it in her bag.)
ANNE. Would you like a cigarette?
CATHERINE. I don’t smoke.
ANNE. Is there anything else you want?
CATHERINE. Your life. I'll just drink this and go.
ANNE. What is it?
CATHERINE. Oh, you don’t want to know.
ANNE. You came to tell me something.
CATHERINE. Did I?
ANNE. I thought you were a missionary at the door before I rec-
ognized you. You want to convert me to something.
CATHERINE. I had something to say but it seems appalling now
in front of your wholesome decency.
ANNE. My wholesome decency?
CATHERINE. I don’t mean it as an insult, or maybe I do. I don't
know anymore but you've read the book on etiquette, you're too
civilised for me.
ANNE. What else is there?
CATHERINE. There’s more, believe me, there’s more.
ANNE. Like what?
CATHERINE. No, you're too innocent, too decent, you've it all
planned to your grave. I wish I had a grave plan, a scheme that
would take me to the end without my noticing. I should congrat-
ulate you on the ingenious scaffolding you hang about yourself to
evade time, which is really just another name for emptiness. Oh, the

oy)
emptiness, the emptiness, to die of an empty heart must surely be a
crime. Here, (Photo.) take this back. I don’t know how I could've
asked for it.
ANNE. Keep it. It’s nothing.
CATHERINE. It’s not nothing. It’s your husband.
ANNE. That’s not him, he’s as dead to me in that photo as some-
one from the eleventh century.
CATHERINE. And is he alive for you now? As he is now?
ANNE. What an odd question.
CATHERINE. He is dreaming about me.
ANNE. So that’s what’s wrong with him. That’s all. Thank God. I
thought he had cancer and wasn‘ telling me.
CATHERINE. You don’t believe in the finer things, do you? The
subtle things that quicken the blood and quiver the knee?
ANNE. Oh, I believe in them, too much to ever mention them.
My motto now is keep the head down, stay out of trouble, hold fast
to those you need and who need you.
CATHERINE. I used to be like that too.
ANNE. I know it’s not living on the edge, but there isn’t room on
the edge for everyone. Countries have to be run, children fed, taxes
paid, all the stuff the drones take care of while you lost little wisps
have your crises. Art belongs here. You can't have him. He is nec-
essary for my life and my children’s lives to run smoothly, without
event or upset.
CATHERINE. So you decide everything for Art?
ANNE. Always have. Is it not that way for everyone else?
CATHERINE. No, it’s not.
ANNE. They just don’t realise it yet.
CATHERINE. No, there’s a percentage, dwindling, yes, but a
number nevertheless who believe in the individual and the individ-
ual’s rich and varied journey.
ANNE. The only individuals I know are in mental hospitals or
remote rural parts of the country which are really just open asylums.
Do you want to end up there? Drugged to the eyeballs, weeping for
having crossed the line?
CATHERINE. Is that what you're afraid of?
ANNE. Crossing the line? To be sure I am. And let me tell you
something, Catherine, you can cross as many lines as you want but
I wont let you take Art with you. Youd probably survive. He wont.
Just what do you expect? For me to hand him to you ona platter?

40
CATHERINE. Not quite, but I didn’t expect such fierce holding
on to someone you no longer love.
ANNE. Leave love out of it. It’s about deals, deals beeween strangers.
There's your definition of love. (Pours wine.) You want another glass?
CATHERINE. No, I'll go. Just one thing. Whatever I am, a blun-
derer, a fool, I am not heartless. You’re the heartless one talking
about yourself and Art like that. You are people, you are here, you
will never be again. How can you be so hard on him? How can you
be so terrible to yourself?
ANNE. And Ben?
CATHERINE. Ben is none of your business. This has nothing to
do with Ben. This is between Art and me. It was stupid of me to
come. (And exit Catherine.)

Scene 4

Ben wanders around the room, hands in his pockets. After a

while enter Catherine in coat and scarf, handbag.

CATHERINE. Oh, your'e up.

BEN. You were staying out until I'd gone to bed?
CATHERINE. Something like that ... yeah.
BEN. I decided to sit up all night, wander the rooms like you, see
would it throw light on anything.
CATHERINE. We are not an equation to be solved.
BEN. One thing has occurred to me, traipsing the house.
CATHERINE. The wisdom of the night.
BEN. For some time now I suppose we have passed the point
where anything new can happen to us.
CATHERINE. Long passed it.
BEN. This city is grey and brown, not the colours of possibility.
The odd patch of green in public spaces, usually locked, our gar-
den perhaps, but really there is no refuge from the inevitable, no
softening, no buffer anymore.
CATHERINE. No, there isn’t.
BEN. We must rear our young until they can survive without us.

4]
And that’s it. The life pared back to the essentials. Sooner or later
it comes down to this.
CATHERINE. It’s not enough.
BEN. Is it not?
CATHERINE. You know it isn’t.
BEN. There’s travel.
CATHERINE. I have lost the capacity to walk the pavements of
other people’s cities. I can’t even walk my own anymore.
BEN. Come here.
CATHERINE. No, you'll only kiss me.
BEN. Then I'll come to you. (He does, takes her in his arms.)
CATHERINE. Don’t kiss me. (He does, a long passionate kiss.)
BEN. Was that so terrible?
CATHERINE. We've done this a million times, what does it alter?
... There’s nothing wrong with your kisses.
BEN. Which means there’s nothing right with them ... With this
body I thee worship ... Remember that?
CATHERINE. I wanted to run down the aisle.
BEN. You think I didn’t?
CATHERINE. I wish youd find someone else.
BEN. You dont.
CATHERINE. I do. I swear. You need someone who believes in
all of this. I need to be alone now with myself. I need to leave while
I still love you, before it all turns ugly.
BEN. What?
CATHERINE. You heard me.
BEN. Just like that?
CATHERINE. Nothing happens just like that. It swells and swells
inside until one day you make a decision, probably the wrong one,
but just to decide something. Hopefully it will lead on to ... some-
where else.
BEN. To Art?
CATHERINE. No, no ... Art despises me.
BEN. And I should comfort you because Art despises you?
CATHERINE. I was so wrong about Art. I don’t know why he is
still such a huge presence inside me ... maybe he’s just a signal, a
beacon, not important in himself, but a sign that has brought me
to a different place ... strange, that, and I thought he was the great
magic thing that has been missing.
BEN. And the children?

42
CATHERINE. Don’t mention the children. Please. P’'ve done my
time. I’m no good for them anymore. You must keep them safe
now.
BEN. And what will you do?
CATHERINE. I will sit in a chair or stand looking out a window
until the end comes. I won't force it but neither will ] stop it.
BEN. What is happening to you? Why are you talking like this?
CATHERINE. I’m about to take a dive, Ben, a dive down into the
dark, the blue, blue, dark. I know I won't return, but if I do, I will
be altered beyond recognition. If you're wise you'll let me remove
myself from you and the children, let me just flounder down there.
BEN. These dreams of marble that won't stop coming. I’ve been
thinking about them and all I can think of are those marble beds
we lie under when we die. Is that what you want? A marble bed?
And to be under it, not over, because you won't in this world and
probably not in the next. A marble bed, all its weight fastening you
down, glinting dimly under star and moon, but mostly dull, weed-
strangled, forgotten. Is that what you want, Catherine? Someone
who cannot be brought back here? Never to be whole again?
CATHERINE. Do you believe? Actually believe this sojourn here
means something?
BEN. Yes, I do. If it doesn’t then there is nothing, nothing to hold
on to.
CATHERINE. Houses, jobs, children, art galleries, theatres, sta-
diums, wine bars, trees, mountains, birds for god’s sake, who can
possibly believe in the fact ofa bird?
BEN. Yes, I believe in all of those things, Catherine. We are sur-
rounded by mystery, glutted with it, so much so we must deny it
all to go on.
CATHERINE. They believed it in Babylon, too, and there is no
trace of them now. I walk this city and all I see is scaffolding, build-
ing, building, building, an avalanche of warrens and ratholes to
stuff us in and all I can think of is Troy. And when people ask me
for directions in the street, I have to turn away quickly so I don't
laugh in their faces. How can they possibly stand there with a map
when everything is in such chaotic flux? But they point with their
mortal fingers, insisting that such and such a place actually exists
to be visited and admired or criticized. Turn left, I say, always left,
when what I really want to tell them is, there will be no trace of you
or I or that child you hold so lovingly by the hand, a hundred years

43
from now there will be no trace of us, not a whisper, not a puff of
ether, we're gone, we were never born.
BEN. You're not well, really, you're not.
CATHERINE. I’m just talking, Ben, about my life. It’s not pretty,
but it’s mine. This is what is happening to me.
BEN. It is not yours. It is mine too. It’s the children’s. You cannot
talk like this in our house. I won't permit it. This guffawing at
innocent strangers whose only crime is to ask you directions. It’s
barbaric, Catherine. It is barbaric.
CATHERINE. Yes it is. My reptilian brain is on the ascent, and
I’m on a descent, a descent away from some marble room that can-
not be reached. Why are we given such images, such sublime
yearnings for things that are never there? A dream was given to me,
inside me from birth, a dream of marble, a woman in a marble
room with her lover. And all the waking world can do is thwart it
and deny it, and say, no, it cannot be, childish, impossible, you
must walk the grey paths with the rest of us, go down into the wet
muck at the close. That’s your lot. That’s what you have to look for-
ward to. Well, I refuse it, Ben, I refuse it. I refuse this grey night-
mare with its ridiculous rules and its lack of primary colours. And
I despise you for lying down under it, worse, for embracing it, for
being so smug, satisfied with so little.
BEN. You think I’m satisfied?
CATHERINE. You're not champing at the bit.
BEN. If I’m not champing at the bit, it’s because I know the
wilderness is out there and that we are safe inside seems to me a
great miracle. That we are run-of-the-mill, escaping all the terrible
things that living can bestow or withhold. Why court tragedy?
Why bring it into our nest? Why speak with such disdain against
those who love you most?
CATHERINE. Because I need the wilderness now.
BEN. You realise what you're saying cannot be unsaid?
CATHERINE. I realise it.
BEN. There will be no reconciliation if you walk out that door.
CATHERINE. The price is high ... ferocious.
BEN. Whar'll I say to the children? (A long pause.)
CATHERINE. Whatever you need to.
BEN. But where will you go?
CATHERINE. God knows. I might disappear off the face of the
earth tonight, that’s how insubstantial I feel right now ... I’m just

44
going to get a few things together. I'll take some money too. Is that
alright?
BEN. I don’t believe this is happening.
CATHERINE. It seems to be ... I don’t want to talk to you any-
more or I'll waver. I'll just look at the children and then ... gone.
(And exit Catherine. Ben stands there looking after her.)

Scene 5

Enter Art with brandy and cigar. Anne enters, sits reading
and sipping wine. Art wanders the space, watching her.

ART. Is it good?
ANNE. Riveting.
ART. What’s it about?
ANNE. This woman who is having an affair with her son.
ART. Do people still do that?
ANNE. People do everything.
ART. Except us.
ANNE. It’s set in France, exotic, kind of high-class incest. It hap-
pens between the croissants and the boeuf bourgignon and the
Veuve Clicquot. More palatable, I suppose.
ART. Youd marvel at their energy, all that passion. I don’t read
anymore, but there was an article in the paper today.
ANNE. Don’t tell me, something about what a happy litce nation
we are, a woman in a bikini telling us to invest so we'll be happier.
ART. No, this was about the nuclear family. It’s over.
ANNE. Of course it is. Too much has to be excluded for it to
survive.
ART. I suppose.
ANNE. It’s a throwback, like believing in God.
ART. Do you believe in God?
ANNE. No one asks that question anymore apparently.
ART. I’m asking it.
ANNE. I saw a red sofa today.
ART. Do we need another sofa?

45
 ANNE. It’s just something to do. Order it. Pay for it. It won't
arrive for six months, by which time we'll have forgotten about it.
I'd like to put it in the hall instead of that table.
ART. Then do.
ANNE. But where will I put the table?
ART. You know what, Anne? I don’t give a damn where you put
the table.
ANNE. And what do you give a damn about?
ART. Right now, another brandy.
ANNE. You should eat out more. I see far too much of you.
ART. I’ve no one to eat out with.
ANNE. What's wrong with Ben?
ART. Ben is having a breakdown.
ANNE. Catherine was here today.
ART. What was she doing here?
ANNE. Haven’ a clue. She looked fantastic ... hollowed out, on
fire with something. Whatever’s wrong with her, it suits her.
ART. She has no business here.
ANNE. Are you afraid of her or something?
ART. I hardly know the woman.
ANNE. Yeah, well, ferocity coming off her in waves, felt helpless
in front of her, that she would take my life and trample on it if let.
She was admiring your photograph.
ART. Was she?
ANNE. She wanted it.
ART. And you said no.
ANNE. No, I gave it to her.
ART. Don't give my photograph to people.
ANNE. Why not?
ART. Just don't. It’s dangerous.
ANNE. What’s wrong with you these days?
ART. Why don’t you have some more wine, a brandy, knock your-
self out?
ANNE. Is that what you're doing?
ART. I don’t like to be too sober in the evening.
ANNE. Thank God for that.
ART. I wish something would happen to us ... to me.
ANNE. Something good?
ART. Of course something good. No one seems to know who they
are in this house.

46
ANNE. That’s why I want that sofa.
ART. So you can concentrate on the sofa’s faults.
ANNE. It’s not even beautiful. I’m sick of it already. I bought it
anyway.
ART. Then why ask my opinion?
ANNE. I want you to believe you are considered in the matter of
sofas in your hall.
ART. So we can leave all the visitors in the hall?
ANNE. What visitors?
ART. Is it that bad?
aeNE. We're under siege. Haven't you noticed? My god, you're so
im.
ART. Am I?
ANNE. Say something interesting or I'll have to go to bed. Just
write the day off like all the yesterdays and all the tomorrows. Tell
me a story. R
ART. I have no stories.
ANNE. Make one up.
ART. About what? ... Okay, here’s a story for you. Once there was
a man, happily married, big house, good-looking wife, healthy
children. He made enough not to have to worry.
ANNE. About sofas.
ART. His wife bought five sofas every day. There wasn’t room to
move with all the sofas. Then one night it struck this man that all
these sofas were a trap, a banal trap. His wife sat opposite him on
her new sofa. He sat opposite her on his new sofa. “We're death sit-
ting opposite one another on designer sofas,” the man said.
ANNE. To himself.
ART. Of course to himself. He was a businessman, he didn’t deal
in metaphors. He didn’t read, didn’t listen to music, go to the the-
atre, the opera, he was past all of that and grown coarse with its
passing, though in his youth he had loved distraction, more than
distraction, to fill himself up with all the good and necessary
things. All that was left was fishing. So he went fishing, but the
salmon he caught was seeping green and cancerous because the
river was over and the ocean was silted up. So he threw the salmon
back into the filthy water and never went fishing again. “Now
what’s left,” the man wondered as he sank into another new sofa
and drank a brandy from another new brandy glass and smoked an
ever-more expensive cigar. “There is nothing left,” he said to him-

47
self as he watched his good-looking wife read a story about tasteful
incest. He went to bed thinking he could die that night and it
wouldn’t matter. But instead of dying, he had a dream. He dreamt
he was in a room full of marble and on the marble bed was a beau-
tiful woman, her hair was spun gold, her eyes were a turquoise grey,
her throat was smooth and white as the marble pillar she leaned
upon. He lay beside her on the gleaming bed, the veins in her arms
running like the crystal blue rivers of Eden. “How have I come from
nothing to this,” the man marvelled, “from nothing to this awesome
soul breathing beside me?” She leaned on one marble elbow and ran
a finger across his lips. “You have come to this place of marble,” the
woman said, “because you have asked.” And then he woke.
ANNE. And then what happened?
ART. Then the man got up and left the room, left his sleeping
wife, his children, his sofas, his brandy, his expensive cigars and he
went and found the marble woman who lived not far. He went into
her marble room and they lay down together and wept. That they
should be so happy. That they should cause such suffering to the
good-looking wife and the good husband and the healthy children
and all the sofas. But even so they vowed to one another that they
would stay in the marble room together forever.
ANNE. So.
ART. (Phone, laptop, briefcase, puts on jacket.) Do you know where
my overcoat would be?
ANNE. What do you want an overcoat for in this weather?
ART. Itll be winter soon.
ANNE. It won't work out like that, Art.
ART. I have to leave because you won't.
ANNE. Why should I?
ART. You want to be the martyr, the abandoned one.
ANNE. You're not leaving me for a mere dream of marble. Did
you even dream it?
ART. I certainly did.
ANNE. Who is she?
ART. I have no idea.
ANNE. That Catherine.
ART. I've hardly spoken three words to her in as many years. But
yes, I’m going to ask her to come with me.
ANNE. You would do that to Ben?
ART. I’m beyond loyalty.

48
ANNE. To me? To your children?
ART. Yes, I would do that.
ANNE. I should shout and scream, hit you across the face. I can’t
muster up the wherewithal. Go. Go. Go. You're braver than me.
And don’t come back. You'll end up under an archway.
ART. I may.
ANNE. The other won't happen.
ART. You don't know what'll happen when I walk out that door.
Sure as hell nothing happening here.
ANNE. That at least is true. Go on then. Let me see you walk out
that door.
ART. Can't we part amicably? This is so predictable.
ANNE. You must be joking.
ART. Right, so. Take me to the cleaners. Use the children as weapons.
ANNE. I aim to.
ART. This is our love in a nutshell. This is what it comes down to
at the toss of a coin. The great happy marriage.
ANNE. It surprises you? That it’s a fiction? An empty fiction? The
dogs on the street know that much. Step out of line and the sky
falls in, glance sideways for a second, and it’s gone. Don’t look so
hurt. Go. Go on. Go to your brilliant future, your marble fantasy.
ART. I will. Pll head in that general direction.
ANNE. Youre a fool.
ART. Then let me be foolish. (And exit Art. Anne watches him. And
music and fade.)

End of Play

49
 PROPERTY LIST

Cigars, ashtrays
Glasses of brandy
Glasses of wine
Towel
Bottle of wine
Cell phones
Cigar cutter, lighter
Bottle of brandy
‘Take-away cups of coffee
Newspaper
Bag of croissants
Briefcases
Bottled water
Pile of papers
Eyeglasses
Children’s book
Sandwich
Flowers
Cigarettes, lighter
Framed photo
Purse
Book
Laptop

50
 SOUND EFFECTS

Music
Child crying

51
 NEW PLAYS
* YELLOW FACE by David Henry Hwang. Asian-American playwright
DHH leads a protest against the casting of Jonathan Pryce as the Eurasian pimp
in the original Broadway production of Miss Saigon, condemning the practice as
“yellowface.” The lines between truth and fiction blur with hilarious and mov-
ing results in this unreliable memoir. “A pungent play ofideas with a big heart.”
—Variety. “Fabulously inventive.” ~The New Yorker. [5M, 2W] ISBN: 978-0-
8222-2301-6

* 33 VARIATIONS by Moisés Kaufmann. A mother coming to terms with

her daughter. A composer coming to terms with his genius. And, even though
they're separated by 200 years, these two people share an obsession that might,
even just for a moment, make time stand still. “A compellingly original and
thoroughly watchable play for today.” —Talkin’ Broadway. [4M, 4W] ISBN:
978-0-8222-2392-4

* BOOM by Peter Sinn Nachtrieb. A grad student’s online personal ad lures

a mysterious journalism student to his subterranean research lab. But when a
major catastrophic event strikes the planet, their date takes on evolutionary sig-
nificance and the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. “Darkly funny dia-
logue.” —VY Times. “Literate, coarse, thoughtful, sweet, scabrously inappropri-
ate.” —Washington City Paper. [|1M, 2W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2370-2

% LOVE, LOSS AND WHAT I WORE by Nora Ephron and Delia Ephron,
based on the book by Ilene Beckerman. A play of monologues and ensem-
ble pieces about women, clothes and memory covering all the important sub-
jects—mothers, prom dresses, mothers, buying bras, mothers, hating purses
and why we only wear black. “Funny, compelling.” —NY Times. “So funny and
so powerful.” —WowOwow.com. [SW] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2355-9

% CIRCLE MIRROR TRANSFORMATION by Annie Baker. Whei four

lost New Englanders enrolled in Marty's community center drama class exper-
iment with harmless games, hearts are quietly torn apart, and tiny wars of epic
proportions are waged and won. “Absorbing, unblinking and sharply funny.”
—NY Times. (2M, 3W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2445-7

* BROKE-OLOGY by Nathan Louis Jackson. The King family has weath-

ered the hardships oflife and survived with their love for each other intact. But
when two brothers are called home to take care of their father, they find them-
selves strangely at odds. “Engaging dialogue.” —TheaterMania.com. “Assured,
bighearted.” —Time Out. [3M, 1W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2428-0

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 NEW PLAYS
* A CIVIL WAR CHRISTMAS: AN AMERICAN MUSICAL CELEBRA-
TION by Paula Vogel, music by Daryl Waters. It’s 1864, and Washington,
D.C. is settling down to the coldest Christmas Eve in years. Intertwining many
lives, this musical shows us that the gladness of one’s heart is the best gift of all.
“Boldly inventive theater, warm and affecting.” —Talkin’ Broadway. “Crisp strokes
of dialogue.” —NY Times. [12M, 5W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2361-0

%* SPEECH & DEBATE by Stephen Karam. Three teenage misfits in Salem,

Oregon discover they are linked by a sex scandal that’s rocked their town. “Savvy
comedy.” —Variety, “Hilarious, cliché-free, and immensely entertaining.” —VY
Times. “A strong, rangy play.” —NY Newsday. [2M, 2W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-
2286-6

* DIVIDING THE ESTATE by Horton Foote. Matriarch Stella Gordon is

determined not to divide her 100-year-old Texas estate, despite her family’s
declining wealth and the looming financial crisis. But her three children have
another plan. “Goes for laughs and succeeds.” —NY Daily News. “The theatrical
equivalent of a page-turner.” —Bloomberg.com. [4M, IW] ISBN: 978-0-8222-
2398-6

%* WHY TORTURE IS WRONG, AND THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE

THEM by Christopher Durang. Christopher Durang turns political humor
upside down with this raucous and provocative satire about America’s growing
homeland “insecurity.” “A smashing new play.” —NVY Odserver. “You may laugh
yourself silly.” —Bloomberg News. (4M, 3W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2401-3

* FIFTY WORDS by Michael Weller. While their nine-year-old son is away

for the night on his first sleepover, Adam and Jan have an evening alone together,
beginning a suspenseful nightlong roller-coaster ride of revelation, rancor, pas-
sion and humor. “Mr. Weller is a bold and productive dramatist.” —NY Times.
[1M, 1W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2348-1

* BECKY’S NEW CAR by Steven Dietz. Becky Foster is caught in middle age,
middle management and in a middling marriage—with no prospects for change
on the horizon. Then one night a socially inept and grief-struck millionaire stum-
bles into the car dealership where Becky works. “Gently and consistently funny.”
—Variety. “Perfect blend of hilarious comedy and substantial weight.” —Broadway
Hour. [4M, 3W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2393-1

DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.

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 NEW PLAYS
* AT HOME AT THE ZOO by Edward Albee. Edward Albee delves deeper
into his play THE ZOO STORY by adding a first act, HOMELIFE, which pre-
cedes Peter's fateful meeting with Jerry on a park bench in Central Park. “An
essential and heartening experience.” —NY Times. “Darkly comic and thrilling.”
—Time Out. “Genuinely fascinating.” —Journal News. (2M, 1W] ISBN: 978-0-
8222-2317-7

%* PASSING STRANGE book and lyrics by Stew, music by Stew and Heidi
Rodewald, created in collaboration with Annie Dorsen. A daring musical
about a young bohemian that takes you from black middle-class America to
Amsterdam, Berlin and beyond on a journey towards personal and artistic authen-
ticity. “Fresh, exuberant, bracingly inventive, bitingly funny, and full of heart.”
—NY Times. “The freshest musical in town!” —Wall Street Journal. “Excellent songs
and a vulnerable heart.” —Variety. [4M, 3W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2400-6

% REASONS TO BE PRETTY by Neil LaBute. Greg really, truly adores his

girlfriend, Steph. Unfortunately, he also thinks she has a few physical imperfec-
tions, and when he mentions them, all hell breaks loose. “Tight, tense and emo-
tionally true.” —Time Magazine. “Lively and compulsively watchable.” —The
Record, (2M, 2W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2394-8

%* OPUS by Michael Hollinger. With only a few days to rehearse a grueling

Beethoven masterpiece, a world-class string quartet struggles to prepare their
highest-profile performance ever—a televised ceremony at the White House.
“Intimate, intense and profoundly moving.” —Time Out. “Worthy of scores of
bravissimos.” —Broadway World.com. (4M, 1W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2363-4

%* BECKY SHAW by Gina Gionfriddo. When an evening calculated to bring

happiness takes a dark turn, crisis and comedy ensue in this wickedly funny play
that asks what we owe the people we love and the strangers who land on our
doorstep. “As engrossing as it is ferociously funny.” —NY Times. “Gionfriddo is
some kind of genius.” —Variety. [2M, 3W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2402-0

%* KICKING A DEAD HORSE by Sam Shepard. Hobart Struther’s horse

has just dropped dead. In an eighty-minute monologue, he discusses what path
brought him here in the first place, the fate of his marriage, his career, politics
and eventually the nature of the universe. “Deeply instinctual and intuitive.”
NY Times. “The brilliance is in the infinite reverberations Shepard extracts
from his simple metaphor.” —TheaterMania. [1M, 1W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-
2336-8

DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.

440 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016 212-683-8960 Fax 212-213-1539
postmaster@dramatists.com www.dramatists.com
 NEW PLAYS
% AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY by Tracy Letts. WINNER OF THE 2008
PULITZER PRIZE AND TONY AWARD. When the large Weston family reunites after
Dad disappears, their Oklahoma homestead explodes in a maelstrom of
repressed truths and unsettling secrets. “Fiercely funny and bitingly sad.” -VY
Times. “Ferociously entertaining.” —Variety. “A hugely ambitious, highly com-
bustible saga.” —VY Daily News. (6M, 7W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2300-9

% RUINED by Lynn Nottage. WINNER OF THE 2009 PULITZER PRIZE. Set in

a small mining town in Democratic Republic of Congo, RUINED is a haunting,
probing work about the resilience of the human spirit during times of war. “A
full-immersion drama of shocking complexity and moral ambiguity.” —Variety.
“Sincere, passionate, courageous.” —Chicago Tribune. [3M, 4W] ISBN: 978-0-
8222-2390-0

% GOD OF CARNAGE by Yasmina Reza, translated by Christopher

Hampton. WINNER OF THE 2009 ToNy AWARD. A playground altercation
between boys brings together their Brooklyn parents, leaving the couples in tat-
ters as the rum flows and tensions explode. “Satisfyingly primitive entertain-
ment.” —NY Times. “Elegant, acerbic, entertainingly fueled on pure bile.”
—Vartety. [{2M, 2W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2399-3

% THE SEAFARER by Conor McPherson. Sharky has returned to Dublin

to look after his irascible, aging brother. Old drinking buddies Ivan and Nicky
are holed up at the house too, hoping to play some cards. But with the arrival
of a stranger from the distant past, the stakes are raised ever higher. “Dark and
enthralling Christmas fable.” —NVY Times. “A timeless classic.” —Hollywood
Reporter. [5M] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2284-2

* THE NEW CENTURY by Paul Rudnick. When the playwright is Paul

Rudnick, expectations are geared for a play both hilarious and smart, and this
provocative and outrageous comedy is no exception. “The one-liners fly like
rockets.” —VY Times. “The funniest playwright around.” —Journal News. [2M,
3W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2315-3

%* SHIPWRECKED! AN ENTERTAINMENT—THE AMAZING ADVEN-

TURES OF LOUIS DE ROUGEMONT (AS TOLD BY HIMSELF) by
Donald Margulies. The amazing story of bravery, survival and celebrity that
left nineteenth-century England spellbound. Dare to be whisked away. “A deft,
literate narrative.” —LA Times. “Springs to life like a theatrical pop-up book.”
—NY Times. [2M, 1W] ISBN: 978-0-8222-2341-2

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 MARBLE
by Marina Carr
2M, 2W

A premonition of impending disaster precedes a collision

between the conscious and subconscious lives of two married
couples. Hidden fantasies and passions conflict with the calls of
friendship and fidelity. The characters’ everyday existences and
their struggles to accept mortality provide the backdrop to
MARBLE’s exploration of the tragedy of dying of an empty heart.

“... passion and urgency ... [Carr] is speaking to our times, even as
she speaks of the eternal, existential predicament.”
—A Dublin Miscellany

“Its an extraordinary examination of obsessive love, full of verbal

explosions that concurrently make the blood run cold and yet are
frighteningly recognisable as emotional possibilities.”
—The Irish Independant

“Carr [is] the most consistently exciting and original voice i

theatre...” —tThe Irish

Also by Marina Carr

BY THE BOG OF CATS ISBN 978-0-8222-2417-4
THE MAI 90000
WOMAN AND SCARECROW
and others

DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC . 9 "7808 22"22 4174