COLLECTOR: May I make a suggestion?
MARY: Of course.
COLLECTOR: Two dollars.
MARY: Two dollars. (Goes to her purse obediently.)
COLLECTOR: I don’t think that’s too much, do you?
MARY: No no.
COLLECTOR: Five dollars would be too much.
MARY: Too much.
COLLECTOR: And one dollar just doesn’t seem right.
MARY: Oh, I only have a five. I don’t have any change.
COLLECTOR: I’ll take it.
MARY: You’ll take it?
COLLECTOR: I’ll take it. (A command.)
(MARY drops the bill in the transaction, being afraid to make any physical contact with the COLLECTOR. MARY stoops to pick it up. The COLLECTOR prevents her.)
COLLECTOR: Let me do that. The whole idea is not to treat us like invalids. You just watch how well I get along. (The COLLECTOR retrieves the money with immense difficulty.)
COLLECTOR: That wasn’t so bad, was it?
MARY: No. Oh no. It wasn’t so bad.
COLLECTOR: I’ve even done a little dancing in my time.
MARY: That’s nice.
COLLECTOR: They have courses for us. First we do it in water, but very soon we’re right up there on dry land. I bet you do some dancing yourself, a girl like you. I heard music when I came.
MARY: Not really.
COLLECTOR: Do you know what would make me very happy?
MARY: It’s very late.
COLLECTOR: To see you do a step or two.
MARY: I’m quite tired.
COLLECTOR: A little whirl.
MARY: I’m not very good.
COLLECTOR: A whirl, a twirl, a bit of a swing. I’ll put it on for you.
(The COLLECTOR begins to make her way to the record-player. MARY, who cannot bear to see her expend herself, overtakes her and switches it on. MARY performs for a few moments while the COLLECTOR looks on with pleasure, tapping out the time. MARY breaks off the dance.)
MARY: I’m not very good.
COLLECTOR: Would a little criticism hurt you?
MARY: No –
COLLECTOR: They’re not dancing like that any more.
MARY: No?
COLLECTOR: They’re doing something altogether different.
MARY: I wouldn’t know.
COLLECTOR: More like this.
(The record has reached the end of its spiral and is now jerking back and forth over the last few bars.)
COLLECTOR: Don’t worry about that.
(The COLLECTOR moves to stage centre and executes a terrifying dance to the repeating bars of music. It combines the heavy mechanical efficiency of a printing machine with the convulsions of a spastic. It could be a garbage heap falling down an escalator. It is grotesque but military, excruciating but triumphant. It is a woman-creature proclaiming a disease of the flesh. MARY tries to look away but cannot. She stares, dumbfounded, shattered, and ashamed.)
COLLECTOR: We learn to get around, don’t we?
MARY: It’s very nice. (She switches off the machine.)
COLLECTOR: That’s more what they’re doing.
MARY: Is it?
COLLECTOR: In most of the places. A few haven’t caught on.
MARY: I’m very tired now. I think –
COLLECTOR: You must be tired.
MARY: I am.
COLLECTOR: With all my talking.
MARY: Not really.
COLLECTOR: I’ve taken your time.
MARY: You haven’t.
COLLECTOR: I’ll write you a receipt.
MARY: It isn’t necessary.
COLLECTOR: Yes it is. (She writes.) This isn’t official. An official receipt will be mailed to you from Fund headquarters. You’ll need it for Income Tax.
MARY: Thank you.
COLLECTOR: Thank you. I’ve certainly enjoyed this.
MARY: Me too. (She is now confirmed in a state of numbed surrender.)
COLLECTOR (with a sudden disarming tenderness that changes through the speech into a vision of uncompromising domination): No, you didn’t. Oh, I know you didn’t. It frightened you. It made you sort of sick. It had to frighten you. It always does at the beginning. Everyone is frightened at the beginning. That’s part of it. Frightened and – fascinated. Fascinated – that’s the important thing. You were fascinated too, and that’s why I know you’ll learn the new step. You see, it’s a way to start over and forget about all the things you were never really good at. Nobody can resist that, can they? That’s why you’ll learn the new step. That’s why I must teach you. And soon you’ll want to learn. Everybody will want to learn. We’ll be teaching everybody.
MARY: I’m fairly busy.
COLLECTOR: Don’t worry about that. We’ll find time. We’ll make time. You won’t believe this now, but soon, and it will be very soon, you’re going to want me to teach you everything. Well, you better get some sleep. Sleep is very important. I want to say thank you. All the Obese want to say thank you.
MARY: Nothing. Goodnight.
COLLECTOR : Just beginning for us.
(Exit the COLLECTOR. MARY, dazed and exhausted stands at the door for some time. She moves toward stage centre, attempts a few elementary exercises, collapses into the chair and stares dumbly at the audience. The sound of a key in the lock. Door opens. Enter DIANE alone, crying.)
DIANE: I didn’t want him to see me home.
(MARY is unable to cope with anyone else’s problem at this point.)
MARY: What’s the matter with you?
DIANE: It’s impossible.
MARY: What’s impossible?
DIANE: What happened.
MARY: What happened?
DIANE: He doesn’t want to see me any more.
MARY: Harry?
DIANE: Harry.
MARY: Your Harry?
DIANE: You know damn well which Harry.
MARY: Doesn’t want to see you any more?
DIANE: No.
MARY: I thought he loved you.
DIANE: So did I.
MARY: I thought he really loved you.
DIANE: So did I.
MARY: You told me he said he loved you.
DIANE: He did.
MARY: But now he doesn’t?
DIANE: No.
MARY: Oh.
DIANE: It’s terrible.
MARY: It must be.
DIANE: It came so suddenly.
MARY: It must have.
DIANE: I thought he loved me.
MARY: So did I.
DIANE: He doesn’t!
MARY: Don’t cry.
DIANE: He’s getting married.
MARY: He isn’t!
MARY: He isn’t!
DIANE: This Sunday.
MARY: This Sunday?
DIANE: Yes.
MARY: So soon?
DIANE: Yes.
MARY: He told you that?
DIANE: Tonight.
MARY: What did he say?
DIANE: He said he’s getting married this Sunday.
MARY: He’s a bastard.
DIANE: Don’t say that.
MARY: I say he’s a bastard.
DIANE: Don’t talk that way.
MARY: Why not?
DIANE: Don’t.
MARY: After what he’s done?
DIANE: It’s not his fault.
MARY: Not his fault?
DIANE: He fell in love.
(The word has its magic effect.)
MARY: Fell in love?
DIANE: Yes.
MARY: With someone else?
DIANE: Yes.
MARY: He fell out of love with you?
DIANE: I suppose so.
MARY: That’s terrible.
DIANE: He said he couldn’t help it.
MARY: Not if it’s love.
DIANE: He said it was.
MARY: Then he couldn’t help it.
(DIANE begins to remove her make-up and undress, reversing exactly every step of her toil
et. MARY, still bewildered, but out of habit, assists her.)
MARY: And you’re so beautiful.
DIANE: No.
MARY: Your hair.
DIANE: No.
MARY: Your shoulders.
DIANE: No.
MARY: Everything.
(Pause.)
MARY: What did he say?
DIANE: He told me everything.
MARY: Such as what?
DIANE: Harry’s a gentleman.
MARY: I always thought so.
DIANE: He wanted me to know everything.
MARY: It’s only fair.
DIANE: He told me about her.
MARY: What did he say?
DIANE: He said he loves her.
MARY: Then he had no choice.
DIANE: He said she’s beautiful.
MARY: He didn’t!
DIANE: What can you expect?
MARY: I suppose so.
DIANE: He loves her, after all.
MARY: Then I guess he thinks she’s beautiful.
(Pause.)
MARY: What else did he say?
DIANE: He told me everything.
MARY: How did he meet her?
DIANE: She came to his house.
MARY: What for?
DIANE: She was collecting money.
MARY: Money! (Alarm.)
DIANE: For a charity.
MARY: Charity!
DIANE: Invalids of some kind.
MARY: Invalids!
DIANE: That’s the worst part.
MARY: What part?
DIANE: She’s that way herself.
MARY: What way?
DIANE: You know.
MARY: What way, what way?
DIANE: You know.
MARY: Say it!
DIANE: She’s an invalid.
MARY: Harry’s marrying an invalid?
DIANE: This Sunday.
MARY: You said he said she was beautiful.
DIANE: He did.
MARY: Harry is going to marry an invalid.
DIANE: What should I do?
MARY: Harry who said he loved you. (Not a question.)
DIANE: I’m miserable.
(MARY is like a woman moving through a fog toward a light.)
MARY: Harry is going to marry an invalid. He thinks she’s beautiful.
(MARY switches on the record-player.) She came to his door. Harry who told you he loved you. You who told me I had my points.
(“The Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairies” begins. MARY dances but she does not use the steps she learned at the YWCA. She dances in conscious imitation of the COLLECTOR.)
DIANE: What are you doing? (Horrified.)
(MARY smiles at her.)
DIANE: Stop it! Stop it this instant!
MARY: Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t you dare. Don’t ever tell me what to do. Don’t ever.
(The dance continues, DIANE, dressed in bra and panties as at the beginning, backs away.)
CURTAIN
THE PAPER
My fingers trembled
like eyelashes assailed by lust
I signed a paper preventing
the Market from loving me
My childhood friends lined up
to say goodbye
I mistook their gesture
for a firedrill
and out of habit of hatred
for the make-believe
I underlined my signature
Goodbye girls and boys
I call today in a riper voice
In the cold mirror of opium
I saw all our lives
connected and precise
as pieces in a clock
and the shining ladder
I teetered on was nothing
but the pendulum
NURSERY RHYME
A beautiful woman dignified
the cocktail lounge
suddenly we were drinking
for a reason
We were all Absolutists
with a rose carved in our minds
by a 5-year-old brain surgeon
Gentlemen
somewhere a shabby wife waits for us
with some decent news about chickenpox
But let me speak for myself
I believe in God
I have seen angels pulsing
through the veined atmosphere
I am alone with a window
full of bones and wrinkles
O terrible eyes
O perfect mouth
my fantasy shipwrecked
on the metal of your hair
Your beauty rides a wet flower
like a sail above a deep old hull
I need to touch you
with my fleshy calipers
Desire is the last church
and the ashtrays
are singing with hunger
Even if you are the Golden Calf
you are better than money
or government
and I have bent my knee
Roses are roses
blue is blue
History Greece Art Measure Face Tree Sphere Blossom Terror Rose
remind me remind me remind me
OLD DIALOGUE
- Has this new life deepened your perceptions?
- I suppose so.
- Then you are being trained correctly.
- For what?
- If you knew we could not train you.
WINTER BULLETIN
Toronto has been good to me
I relaxed on TV
I attacked several dead horses
I spread rumours about myself
I reported a Talmudic quarrel
with the Montreal Jewish Community
I forged a death certificate
in case I had to disappear
I listened to a huckster
welcome me to the world
I slept behind my new sunglasses
I abandoned the care of my pimples
I dreamed that I needed nobody
I faced my trap
I withheld my opinion on matters
on which I had no opinion
I humoured the rare January weather
with a jaunty step for the sake of heroism
Not very carefully
I thought about the future
and how little I know about animals
The future seemed unnecessarily black and strong
as if it had received my casual mistakes
through a carbon sheet
WHY DID YOU GIVE MY NAME TO THE POLICE?
You recited the Code of Comparisons
in your mother’s voice.
Again you were the blue-robed seminary girl
but these were not poplar trees and nuns
you walked between.
These were Laws.
Damn you for making this moment hopeless,
now, as a clerk in uniform fills
in my father’s name.
You too must find the moment hopeless
in the Tennyson Hotel.
I know your stomach.
The brass bed bearing your suitcase
rumbles away like an automatic
promenading target in a shooting gallery:
you stand with your hands full
of a necklace you wanted to pack.
In detail you recall your rich dinner.
Grab that towel rack!
Doesn’t the sink seem a fraud
with its hair-swirled pipes?
Doesn’t the overhead bulb
seem burdened with mucous?
Things will be better at City Hall.
Now you must learn to read
newspapers without laughing.
No hysterical headline breakfasts.
Police be your Guard,
Telephone Book your Brotherhood.
Action! Action! Action!
Goodbye Citizen.
The clerk is talking to nobody.
Do you see how I have tip
toed
out of his brown file?
He fingers his uniform
like a cheated bargain hunter.
Answer me, please talk to me, he weeps,
say I’m not a doorman.
I plug the wires of your fear
(ah, this I was always meant to do)
into the lust-asylum universe:
raped by aimless old electricity
you stiffen over the steel books of your bed
like a fish
in a liquid air experiment.
Thus withers the Civil Triumph
(Laws rush in to corset the collapse)
for you are mistress to the Mayor,
he electrocuted in your frozen juices.
GOVERNMENTS MAKE ME LONELY
Speech from the Throne
dissolves my friends
like a miracle soap
and there’s only the Queen and me
and her English
Soon she’s gone too
I find myself wandering
with her English
across a busy airfield
I am insignificant as an aspirant
in the Danger Reports
Why did I listen to the radio
A man with a yellow bolo-bat
lures my immortal destiny
into a feeding trough
for Royal propellers
and her English follows
like an airline shoulder bag
I’m alone
Goodbye little Jewish soul
I knew things
would not go soft for you
but I meant you
for a better wilderness
THE LISTS
Straffed by the Milky Way
vaccinated by a snarl of clouds
lobotomized by the bore of the moon
he fell in a heap
some woman’s smell
smeared across his face
a plan for Social Welfare
rusting in a trouser cuff
From five to seven
tall trees doctored him
mist roamed on guard
Then it began again
the sun stuck a gun in his mouth
the wind started to skin him
Give up the Plan give up the Plan
echoing among its scissors
The women who elected him
performed erotic calesthenics
above the stock-reports
of every hero’s fame
Out of the corner of his stuffed eye
etched in minor metal
under his letter of the alphabet
he clearly saw his tiny name
Then a museum slid under
his remains like a shovel
TO THE INDIAN PILGRIMS