MLADEN:
What a beautiful day, what a blessed life, what happiness, joy, what an honour to be born and to live in these wonderful times, dedicated to man and his ideals. Prosperity and the concern I am surrounded by subtly ring, echo and tremble in my soul, painting a powerful picture of the future which will really be hard put, will need a lot of imagination to surpass our present situation, already colossal, not to say - gigantic. My tingling feelings about this age are indubitable, without any doubt. Because I'm a man who's not threatened, a fighter for something which goes without saying, a fighter for proof, if you like, which is why I'm writing this novel, because I want to leave at least one reliable piece of evidence of the grandeur of the age in which I live, should it ever happen that our descendents, degenerated by the prosperity we have generated, cast themselves upon us with underhanded lies, falsifications of history and smutty stigmas, in return for all that we have created for them, for having created them. Let no one try to tell me that I'm not a man, a man I am, and concern for man is a case of the first order in my case. And that's why I'm happy, and that's why my heart beats to the rhythm of prosperity, lightness of spirit and well-meaning assurances that we are well off today. And. I would generously even add ... very well off. Although I think, I believe, I'm sure, I contend, that is ... I've decided! I'm just fine, and that goes for me - here at the bottom of the barrel - so what does that say for others?! Well, as a writer it is here that for the first time I shake with anger and impotence because I have fallen into the poet's dilemma of finding the right word to express all this grandeur, this glory - the gioriousness of this bright sunny morning. And so, my dear, and I'm sure my happy, reader: "Good Morning!!!" (Sister Valery, her washed-out, highly-starched white uniform rustling, stiffly walks up to him.)

VALERY:     

We hope you have enough light and sunshine.    

MLADEN:

It's hard to breathe, nurse. And the alarm clock isn't what it used to be.

VALERY:     

We've spoiled you, that's your problem. We pamper you too much, and you take advantage of it.

MLADEN:  

I asked for less light, and more air. My eyes hurt. It wouldn't be too bad if a tree could be persuaded to grow outside my window. When I was a kid, we had a great big walnut tree, and a well with mineral water in it. My late father once sat under the tree, and he was just getting ready to drink a glass of mineral water, when one of the walnuts fell off - right into his glass. It created such a splash that my late father was drenched, and we children laughed ourselves sick.                           

VALERY:  

How is your novel going? Are you going to finish it soon?

MLADEN:    

(Pleadingly.) I don't ask for much, just a little more air. And somebody to repair the alarm clock. In fact, if someone just fixed the spring, if I could be sure, if a good repair-man could be found, one who wouldn't steal any of the parts, an honest man, so that I could wake up fresh in the morning and without fearing I'd be robbed ...
(Sister Valery leaves. Mladen shouts after her.)
I need to be in a good mood, you see, my novel calls for a feeling of all-pervading human happiness.

- FADE OUT-


SCENE II

Dawn, in a narrow yard filled with overflowing garbage cans. All around the yard, low delapidated hovels, and looming over them decaying high-rises, crowded together and leaning against each other like desperately tired commuters in a crowded tram. Crooked balconies loom like ghosts over those below, who have sought refuge between walls so thin that often the neighbour's presence is more palpable than one's own breathing. No one can be alone here, and yet they all hate each other so much that instead of leading a normal life, they are engaged in a constant, cruel and perfidious war. They are sleeping now, but they are not resting. There is no sound, although the war is still on, their dry, erosive hatred has taught them that the winner can only be the one who survives the longest, and this turns them into ancient, self-absessed, malicious creatures who save up all their energy for the ultimate showdown. Front stage, under Mladen's window, are garbage cans, and on the narrow window-ledge, withered plants in pots. Mladen's room takes up a good half of the stage. One of the many doors onto the yard creaks open, and a sleepy old man emerges in dirty, ragged pyjamas carrying a garbage pail. He goes to the garbage below Mladen's window. He empties the pail into one of the overflowing cans, spilling the garbage. Then the old man puts down the pail, turns his back to the audience, undoes his pyjamas, and noisily urinates into Mladen's flowerpots, swaying sleepily. Judging by the increasing volume of noisy clangor, a tram is passing by outside. Suddenly, a cat is run over, letting out a piercing scream of pain, almost human in its suffering, which fills the damp air in the first light of dawn. The old man overbalances and almost falls into the garbage. Mladen leaps up from his wooden bed, which is so unusually large as to almost fill the room.

MLADEN:

(Yelling.) Hey! How much longer do I have to put up with this terror? (He opens the window abruptly and sleepily looks through the half-dark of the yard, while the old man grabs his empty garbage pail in fright and stumbles off to the safety of his own door.)

Well, well ... who was that, what did he want? Interesting. The hell it's interesting. What was he doing under my window? (Shouts.) Hey, there. If you think the darkness concealed you, that I didn't see what you were doing in the dark under my window, you're very wrong. (Yelling.) Hey, you! Stop, thieves and informers! (Stops to listen, but nothing is happening.) How could I fall asleep just now, when I almost had him. When I could have grabbed him by the neck and wrung the dirty truth out of him about the web they're weaving around me, aboutevery thread. (Grumbles.) Damned alarm clock, useless piece of junk, what a time to conk out on me, if it hadn't been for that cat getting run over, I wouldn't have seen a thing. As it is, I didn't see anything, just enough to make my life miserable. What a scream, it's almost human. So it got run over by a tram, so what?! It's a cat, it's not a man. A man doesn't scream like that when he's run over, he sort of whimpers or groans. Like me. They've cornered me, and now they're cutting me to pieces. Piece by piece. While I'm sleeping, they're hard at it, setting me up for the kill. Where's that coffee, what could have happened to the coffee? I've got some kind of lump in my throat, and I can't swallow a thing. Get out of there, lump, come on, get out, you're strangling me. (He coughs.) Serves me right for going to sleep, what's the matter with me? (Shouts.) Hey, Grandma! Is that coffee ever going to be ready? You know I can't start the day without a cup of coffee, that sleeping makes my brain go fuzzy, and that makes me lose the best hours of the day. (Grumbles.) And all because somebody's too lazy to make coffee when they should. She's a good woman, but frustrated. And frustrated people are dangerous to the environment and to its vital interests, and I'm part of her environment, coffee is my vital interest, though, again, the lack of coffee devalues my thinking, and pure thought is another thing that can endanger the environment, and so my environment protects itself from its environment, that is, from me. It's all connected, it's all a cycle, nothing changes. The only thing is that I don't get my coffee. That's the thing! Why me, what is it, why not somebody else? I'm an upright and honorable citizen. I'm a perfectly solid and solidary literary patriot. (Incensed, heraises his voice.) I respect this system, I sing inspired praises to it, the rag-pickers, the scavengers, the pimps, and the con-men, and all the rest of the neighbourhood scum. (Sticks his head out of the window, yelling.) Oh, Alexis, if it's you, and it can only be you, because you're the biggest swine in Dorchol, why don't you learn how to tell the difference between the system and the people, and if you've already set the bastards from the yard against me, you don't have to set the authorities on me, too. Get it?! The people are the support, as proved by you, and the system is the supra-structure, as proved by the system, you philistines, you illiterates, you villains, you who use the cloak of darkness to piss in my flowerpots, in my little oxygen factory, my green paradise, in my glorious vision of the future!
(A draft opens the door of the other room with a bang, and Grandma Mata enters in her pyjamas, shakily carrying steaming hot coffee.)

MATA:       

Here's the coffee. (She puts the coffee-pot down onto a shabby radio, kneels beside it, turns it on and twiddles the dial, looking for a station to the noise of unbearable static. Suddenly, the loud and cheerful voice of a radio announcer rings out.)

ANNOUNCER:

And now, for all our friendly listeners in Belgrade, Isuggest that instead of that old, bourgeois, antiquated and profoundly compromised "Good morning!" we start off the new day with an old hit!
SONG OVER THE RADIO:
"Old man drinkin'barley-water,
But he just won't pay.      
Barley-water seller
Gonna beat him up today ..."                              
(Mladen is unpleasantly surprised.)

MLADEN:

What's he say, what's he say?! (Listens nervously, but hears nothing. Slams his fist on the radio, whereupon the alarm clock suddenly goes off, which almost paralyzes Mladen with fear.)
Well, well ... it rings when I'm already awake. And probably late at that.

(Grabs the alarm clock, which is still ringing, and towers over the old woman.)

Grandma! Didn't I say this alarm clock should be fixed, that it sounds all wrong, that it damn well ruins my concentration, it makes me nervous, that it doesn't ring, it knells, it doesn't toll, it yells, that if it goes on howling so uncontrollably, one day I'll ... (Waves the alarm clock around violently, and just as he is about to throw it on thefloor, he notices a letter in the old woman's outstretched hand.)
What's that?

MATA: 

The mail, Sir. (Pause.) For you.

MLADEN:

Oh, it must be some mistake, Madam.

MATA:                                   

It says, Sir, "Mladen Sekulovich".

MLADEN:                                 

What does it say about my profession, there must be some kind of title?

MATA:

See for yourself, Sir: "Mladen Sekulovich, Physical
Education Teacher".

MLADEN:

Well, then that's not me. I'm a writer. You go right ahead and take it back, it's not for me.

MATA:   

Didn't you used to teach in school?                        

MLADEN:

I kindly asked you not to mention that any more. I'm a writer now. I'm writing a novel about prosperity. Everything's very nice, people are tall, nobody under six feet, with a lung capacity between 6,500 and 20,000 cc-s. It's an optimistic novel, with sentiments. Very wholesome.

MATA:

Like the fireman gentleman.

MLADEN:                                                                                 

Which fireman?   

MATA:        

The one that Alexis dented his helmet with a crowbar, and then he used to come into the yard bareheaded for a while. But he shouldn't have done it... seeing as how it's his cousin.

MLADEN:  

(Sipping his coffee.) That Alexis is a shithead.

MATA:      

A real swine, Sir. To ruin such a lovely helmet. (Mladen suspiciously eyes the letter; he can't bring himself to open it.)

MLADEN:

I dreamt I was in a strange hospital with padded walls and bars on the windows. I had to read my novel, Madam. Everyone applauded, but somebody stole the gold chain, and they were ashamed of themselves, and a fight almost broke out over it. Everything would have been all right if a horrible, dessicated nurse hadn't appeared at the end with a lewd look in her eye.

MATA:

Christ came into my dreams again. Last night he came all covered in blood, and said: "Grandma Mata, the end of the world is near." The young generation, he said, is degenerate, they don't even all wear silk scarves, and even those who do, have let the knots get loose. The ends are flapping in the wind, and they might even, God forbid, smack some illustrious person on the nose, or nick them in the eye.

MLADEN:

Did you ask him about you-know-what?

MATA:

I forgot, Sir. I was so confused by all that light. And the benevolence. He put his hand on me, and extended my life by another ten years.

MLADEN:

I asked you to ask him, Madam, why people are evil. What it is we actually breathe, and why people are evil and dirty. (Picks up a notebook and writes.) "How wonderful life is, what a magnificent day." (Puts down the notebook.)

(Works himself up.)

Who photographs feces, Madam, who's in charge of history, who's going to immortalize the little that sticks out of the shit before we sink for good?

(Leaps up from his bed, opens the window, sticks his head out into the yard and shouts.)

Why don't they breed their intestinal parasites somewhere else, why right here, under my window?

MATA:

With the geraniums? (Mladert calms down. Picks up the letter again and fingers it suspiciously.)

MLADEN:

(Mumbling.) We cut down the forests, eat the plants, and the animals keep breeding and crapping all over the countryside. (He thinks.) Take it back. You take that back, Grandma. It can't be for me. Why should I open it when it's a mistake. Let the person it's addressed to be the one to open it. It's not even nice to open other people's letters. I wasn't brought up to do that sort of thing. I've mastered the principles of elementary culture, my dear.

(Absently.) Tell me, Madam, what sort of beauty were you in your day?

(Noisily slurping coffee.) Could somebody be suing me? Then again, maybe it's an answer to my complaint. I sued them all for poisoning the atmosphere, for filling my lungs with layers of black soot, I could pave the courtyard with the sludge that's stopping me from breathing.

(Shuts the window, goes back to bed, sips his coffee.)
MATA:
(Looks through the window.) The fireman gentleman is taking his dogs out for a walk again. (Pause) What a handsome man. What impressive dogs. What a granduniform.

MLADEN:

The fur will fly, I'll show 'em, they don't seem to realize, I'm a fighter, they'll scream to high heaven, but it'll be too late. Nobody does that to me. I can defend myself. I'm strong. Fighters are strong, Madam. (ButMata has already left the stage. He grabs the letter off the radio and tears open the envelope. For a moment the holds the open but still unfolded letter, hesitating again.)

(Shouts.) Did you water the geraniums? (There is no answer. He sips his coffee. Yells louder.) The asters and the daisies?! (Still no answer. Absently he holds the letter, gazes at it, sips his coffee.)

You should never skip your coffee, they're lying about coffee, coffee's good for you, particularly in the morning. Later - maybe, and in the evening ... herbal tea. Herbal tea without fail! (Builds up his courage.) That's the way, boy, you're still a young man, you can do it... open the window and fill your lungs with the fresh morning urine vapors!

(Shouts.) Hah, Mladen, you fine figure of a man you, morning has broken and another day's begun. "It's a new day, so ..." let's drink a cup of coffee to celebrate a new beginning, so ... (Sips his coffee in bed.)

... beginning ... (Slurps his coffee.) But first ... to begin with ... after the coffee ... (sips his coffee.) ... let'ssee - the letter!
(Puts his cup of coffee down on the radio, then has second throughts and takes another quick sip.)

What do they have to say, what do they want from us? Maybe it's a mistake, and then again, maybe it isn't. (Opens the letter and reads.) "You are requested to present yourself without fail for a medical check-up which will take place in the store-room of the Psychiatric Clinic, on the seventeenth day of September, 1979, at 10:00 a.m., as part of a regular health program for our esteemed citizens. Non-appearance will make you liable to legal prosecution, with a view to rectifying an impermissible attuitude to society's concern for the nation's health."

What? What? Oho! ... Ho ... ho ... ho ... Grandma! Come see this, come and see the extent of their imagination. They're sending my brain for a check-up in a hospital store-room. Ha ... ha ... ha ... Oh, that's terrific. I'll get a new pair of pyjamas, Grandma, with long sleeves tied behind my back. In other words, I'm crazy, in other words, they're controlling the esteemed citizenry. They're concerned about my mental make-up. Because my physical health is beyond all doubt. They're aiming at my brain. (An old woman comes and noisily crams a pile of garbage into one of the overflowing cans.)

Good morning. Nice day today. Yes ... yes ... the gold of autumn has already spilled its hues over the fallen leavesin the city's gutters ... (The din of the tram completely drowns out part of his speech. Meanwhile the old woman has vanished behind one of the doors in the yard.)

If you didn't take it out once a month, you could grow weeds in there. Beautiful, lush, green weeds, and you could lavishly water them with your own liquid manure, you could breed tiny green bugs, right here, under my window, and they could crawl every morning into my room to wish me a happy delirium.

(Bursts into hysterical laughter, then falls silent, stares off into space, tense.)

I'm damn well going to tell them, Grandma, so help me I am. I won't allow it. I have to breathe here, to use up oxygen. As an old athlete, I need a lot of oxygen. More than they do. (Whines.) Where's my oxygen, you thieving bastards?!

(Leaps out of bed, opens the window wide, sticks his head out and screams.)

I need it for my brain! The mind must breathe!

(Again the clatter of the tram. He storms into the yard, grabs the ashcans and moves them away no more than a meter, as much as the limited space allows. Then he sees he has blocked the passage, and moves them back about half a meter. Suddenly, the doors in the yard begin to open one after another, and men, women and children appear inthe doorways, all in torn and dirty pyjamas. They observe the entire scene in silence, with no trace of expression on their gaunt, apathetic faces. Mladen looks at them searchingly. His feverish eyes move from one face to another.)

The weather's nice today. (Pause.) I got a summons for a medical check-up. Maybe one of you knows something about it? I'm not surprised it's in a store-room, but I don't understand why it's in a mental institution, and why it's for me. Maybe you know something about it? None of you got anything like it? Nobody but me? Of course, no one doubts your good health, look at how athletically you're built, how strong and rosy you are. The fact that some of you are hunchbacks, crippled, blind, deaf, drunk, that doesn't matter at all, that's part of the mentality, no one questions the mentality, mental strength must be undermined and ploughed under, that's what seems to be bothering somebody here, so they're systematically eroding my nervous system's perception of the world. But, I'm healthy, despite the poison all around me. My novel is the quintessence of positive mental states, and social orientations. I'm fighting for air!

(They all morosely withdraw into their unappetizing dwellings. Mladen looks sadly at the flower pots and shouts.) Grandma! Did you see what divine neighbours we have? Somebody's pissed in my geraniums again.

(He suddenly starts running in a circle and around the garbage, constantly shouting: "Hup - two - three - four, hup - two - three - four ..." Breathing hard, he returns to the room still doing his exercises. Grandma Mata enters the room, sits on a stool, turns on the radio, and resting her head on her cupped hands, sits like a tiny dried-up insect, losing herself in the programme.)

ANNOUNCER:
And now, dear listeners, an important announcement! The invasion of caterpillars which has begun spreading in our green parks, our green streets, our green courtyards, the green lungs of our city, is a grim warning to experts that appropriate steps must be taken. We hope the City Park Administration will not let us down again, and deprive us of the right to this small piece of greenery which is ours by law, to this small dose of oxygen enriched by our fine, but unfortunately critically endangered vegetation. And so, in my opinion, we should throw ourselves into the fight against caterpillars, we should mobilize all available forces and means, and save Belgrade from this sinister and relentless enemy.

 

FADE OUT

SCENE III

In the strong morning sunlight, the dirt and mess in the yard looks even grimmer, even more depressing, and 60-year-old Yoshka, in his wheelchair, with a blanket covering his amputated legs, completes this tragi-comic picture of human misery. He has just interrupted his breakfast and looks helplessly from time to time in the direction of a torn cardboard box from which comes a pitiful and piercing mewling.

YOSHKA:

Eh, if I only had something to belt you in the mouth with, to rip you apart, to tear you to shreds. You're spoiling my breakfast, my God-given right ... (Shouts.) Vasilka! Vasilka! Get that cat out of here, Vasilka. (Listens.) Oh, Vasilka, Vasilka ... (Shouts.) If I get up, I'll shake that motheaten hide of yours so loose you'll have to zip yourself up before you can go out.

(Turns to the cat.) Shoo, you goddamned bag of bones! (Pause.) No good. It's made its mind up to die right here, next to me, and just when I'm eating frankfurters and horseradish. When I'm hog-tied, and I can't move anywhere without you, huh ... (Shouts.) Oh, you, can hear me, you can hear me all right, you're just pretending, you're making out you can't hear me because you're too busy chopping onions. (Listens, then shouts endearingly.) Vasilka, my sweet, love of my life ... (Listens. Sings to the tune of an old folk song.) "Vasilka my barefoot love, I'm so in love with you, Don't go out, Your pretty feet, Will dampen in the dew ..."
(Listens. No answer. He is amazed. Shouts angrily.) Roxanda, my little intellectual, forget your books, my child, and concentrate on quantum theory and nuclear physics, think of the glorious future your father the grave-digger has dug up with his shovel.
What? Still no-one to rescue me from this monster! Get lost, you freak! (Shouts.) Neighbour, neighbour! It's morning, cut the snoring, rise and shine! (He furiously races his wheelchair up and down and around the cardboard box. Tries to reach the box, but can't. A loud and angry death-rattle is heard from the box.) Come on, come on, stop fucking around, hold out a bit longer, I know it hurts, be a man, I mean be ... well, be a hero, hang in there, that's life, kid, I'll give you a frankfurter, who knows, maybe you'll choke on it. Here, look ... look carefully where I'm going to throw it, by that garbage can over there. See the garbage can? No, you can't see it, you haven't got anything to see with, your eyes have been knocked out, but you've got a nose, you're a nice pussy­cat, follow your nose ... Follow the flying frankfurter! Come on, now! Sniff! Up! Hey, are you sniffing? (shouts at the top of his lungs.) Fetch!! (throws the frankfurter, but nothing happens. A rackety, noisy, clattering city tram rushes past the house in a flurry of clanging, ringing its bell. Moving slowly and mechanically, Yoshka doffs his cap.)

Damned tram, it's always disturbing me, a man can't sleep with all this noise.
(Suddenly, Jolly, a large, untidy, robust youths, and his stepmother Mitzy, an intriguer, and a woman of loose morals, burst upon the scene.)

MITZY:

Jolly, honey, throw it in the garbage, the yard's full of kittens, pick which one you want, and Daddy Alexis will catch it for you in my hairnet.

JOLLY:

(Sad.) Poor Mitchka. Look, mother, how its tummy aches. Look, Uncle Yoshka.

YOSHKA:

Ah, he's had it, he can't feel a thing.

JOLLY:
(Sobbing, choking on his tears.) Look, ma, my Mitchka isn't anything like his old self. Somehow he looks different now, he's all cold and formal. And before, he used to come to be petted, he'd rub himself up against my hand, trying to get me to run with him, to chase the dog-catcher's van, and the dogs all whining and howling, and Mitchka and me just running like the wind, and hating them, and loving them, because the dog'-catcher's taking them away, because Mitchka's enemies are my enemies. Real friends die for each other. Isn't that right, Uncle Yoshka?

YOSHKA:  

Ah, so that was your cat?! I tried everything, believe me, Ma'am I even threw him a frankfurter, my best one, there it is, it rolled all the way over there to the garbage. Jolly, my boy, you see that frankfurter there by the garbage can?
(A door opens onto the yard. Roxanda appears. She is a young girl at the age of puberty, tall and thin, with thick glasses, carrying a basin of dirty water, which she spills in the middle of the yard.)

ROXANDA:

Oh, Daddy dear, my Daddikins, Mommy says that if you've finished your frankfurters, you shouldn't be angry and throw away the horseradish if it's stale. She'll be needing it for the meat.

YOSHKA:

(Flares up.) You know what I'm gonna give you, you know what? Here's what I'm gonna give you. The finger! To you and your mother. When I was calling you a while back, calling and calling for you to take away that... dead body, you know how it is, Mitzy, I don't like to look at misery, a poor cat, she didn't suffer too much, but it looks as if some heel spilled its guts, you know, there are some bad people in this world.

ROXANDA:

Have you heard that the professor got a summons for a mental institution?

MITZY:

Thank God, they're finally onto him. What a vocabulary, God, and he claims to be a writer. Only, I think he's a dangerous lunatic, and it's good they're going to put him behind bars. Who knows, maybe he was the one who fixed Mitchka.

YOSHKA:

Maybe so. And then again, maybe the tram ran him over, just like it did me, in my day, as you know, Miz Mitzy. Only, in my case it ran over my legs, and in his, it looks like it got him smack through the middle.

ROXANDA:

Who can say, Daddy dear.

YOSHKA:

What do you mean, who can say? Don't talk stupid. Who else could it have been? Who else is so mean and blind in his hatred for us? Who? We're all cripples, and I'm an invalid. Why do so many people complain of stomach aches when they hear its familiar clatter? Why? Because we're poisoned with fear of the terrible things it can do to us.

ROXANDA:

Science teaches us that there is an answer to every question, Daddy dear. The only problem is the learning process. The course of study must be synchronized to its results, and the question must presume an understanding of the answer and the mysterious connection between them. Understanding is merely a question of establishing coordinates between numerous fields of life, science and politics. I hope you've understood me, because you're my wise, clever Daddy, who won't give the horseradish back to Mommy, because it's gone stale, and because he doesn't want to renew the experience of insufficient stimulation of his taste-buds. Isn't that right?

YOSHKA:

(Looks at her, frightened, with hatred and intolerance.) Get the fuck out of here, you freak! Get lost, get out of here. (Roxanda giggles and runs off. Yoshka is confused.) Please tell Vasilka what happened. You see, I lost my temper, I was provoked. When I just think about how right now she's putting me in Vasilka's bad books, I get an urge to pull her out of school.

MITZY:

Oh, Mr. Yoshka, I'm so happy that all this, our whole yard, will finally become safe for all of us. We're just poor folks, and we surely don't need lunatics around.

YOSHKA:

Little creep.
(The thunder of a female voice comes from the house, filling the stage like a threatening cloud.)

VASILKA:

Yoshka, you old lush, you good-for-nothing lazy pig, you champion gold-bricker, that's enough sitting around in the sun, get inside right this minute, which means NOW, and no back-talk. (A moment of stunned silence.)

YOSHKA:

(In a tiny, barely audible voice.) But, Vasilka, darling, a tram ran over Mitchka, what a tragedy! You know how attached Jolly was to it. (Listens tensely. Silence.)
And, let me tell you, about the meat, I didn't throw the horseradish away, Roxanda's lying, the little creep. Here, the frankfurter and the horseradish are right here. (He holds the horseradish and frankfurter in his outstretched hand. The same drunken voice screeches out of the house.)

VASILKA:

What?! (In fear, Yoshka lets go of the frankfurter and horseradish, which fall into the garbage.) I still don't hear any creeping and crawling. Does that mean that you still haven't had the courtesy to move your fat ass?! (There is a loud thump, as if someone has fallen, then complete silence, soon replaced by some music from a record-player.)

YOSHKA:

(Confused.) Ooh, she's gone and got soused again, and I thought she was frying onions, making lunch, and I've had my breakfast ruined already. (Mladen comes out of the house and comes over to Yoshka.)

MLADEN:

Listen! Have you noticed the incredible stench in this yard? (Looks at the assembled company, notices the dead cat.) It gets worse with each passing day. What kind of people are we, what a way to live, letting filth creep up on us like this?

YOSHKA:

(Yells.) Roxanda, you monster, turn off that record-player and see what your mother's doing. See to lunch together, the two of you, if she's not up to it herself. Don't let the onions burn. (The music is turned down. Roxanda appears at the window of Yoshka's house.)

ROXANDA:

Quiet, Daddy, Mother's asleep. She doesn't feel well.

MLADEN:

(Goes through his pockets. Takes out the summons.) Did you get one of these?

YOSHKA:

What is it?

MLADEN:

(Cautiously.) You don't know what it is? You've no idea? Nobody knows anything? Look at me. Why are you lying? Look me in the eye. Right in the eye. (Yoshka looks at the summons, but Mladen roughly grabs it out of his hand.) Gimme that! What is it!? You want to take it away from me, eh? You want to read it, then go around the yard telling everybody the writer's sick, the writer's crazy.

ROXANDA:

Don't be afraid, Professor, go right ahead and give it to him. He can't read, anyway.

YOSHKA:                  

You're lying, you slut! I finished highschool.

ROXANDA:

What?

YOSHKA:

Why don't you get a new prescription, Roxy, honey, you keep tripping over things, and that's a fact.

ROXANDA:

Nobody's perfect, Daddikins, my sweet. (Shuts the window and withdraws).

YOSHKA:

Ah, if only I had my health, I'd have shown her a long time ago.

MLADEN:

I just can't see why they're summoning me, and why there, when everybody knows I'm clean. I'm a proven friend, I'm writing an optimistic novel, I'm healthy, much healthier than the others. It's true I've been getting more of these spells of suffocation, but that's not my lungs, it's the bad air. Is it my fault there's something wrong with the oxygen? It seems to have lost its chemical purity, it just seems that world science is incapable of identifying the formula of what we've been breathing in. Oddly enough, a lot of people seem to be thriving on this smelly compound, it's poisoning them, but they eVen enjoy it. As far as I'm concerned, I'm suffocating. My soul is yearning for pure mountain air. (Energetically starts to leave the stage.)

YOSHKA:

Professor!

MLADEN:

(Pauses.) What is it?

YOSHKA:

Your don't really believe that little snake when she says I can't read?

MLADEN:

Roxanda is a "Wunderkind". She has willpower, and faith in the future.

YOSHKA:

Yes, Professor, she's a lovely child, your best student. Actually, I've got an idea, I mean, if you're going there anyway, do you think you could try and get them to do something about this goddamn tram? I mean, see for yourself, even your nerves ...

MLADEN:

What about my nerves?

YOSHKA:

I'm not saying they're shot, but, well ... look what it did to Mitchka. A person can't even go outside this yard anymore. You can, you're alright, you've got a summons, but we haven't got one and we're stuck. Remember how I looked when it cut my legs off, when it threw me in the axle-grease and the dust, and when the brakeman pulled me out ... half a man! With what you might call an essential half of me missing. I'm not saying fate didn't have a hand in it all, but... if it hadn't been for that tram, maybe fate would have abandoned the project.

MLADEN:

I don't think so. (Leaves the stage.)

YOSHKA:

(Spits in disgust.) Pah! I just thought, while you were there, at that examination, you might drop a hint or two
about the tram. They should get rid of it! If thay can. (Meanwhile Jolly has been pondering deeply on Mitchka's fate.)

JOLLY:

Why did someone bash his head in so horribly, and I wonder how his belly could split open so funny in ail directions.

YOSHKA:

Only a tram can do that. It either cuts you in half, or it crushes your bones, tears and rends your flesh like a wild animal.

JOLLY:

(Firmly.) If somebody killed my Mitchka, I'm going to kill them.
(Goes into the house.)

JOSHKA:

That's the spirit! Atta boy! I applaud you! I always do when I hear a young man speak out like that. These days, men of action are few and far between. They've all gone soft, a bunch of fairies, Jolly, my boy. Good for you, Mitzy, congratulations on your boy, you've really brought him up well. But I'm telling you again, it's the tram's fault! That's where you should avenge Mitchka, and Grandma Alexandra and my legs. You should figure out a way to turn over that iron coffin, and spill its guts in the hot dust and black axle-grease. Show it there's a power that can bring it down. Man - shit, even half a man and your strapping son, Yovan, known as Jolly! (Jolly comes back on stage holding himself upright, with a crowbar over his shoulder.)

JOLLY:

I've found a crowbar, we can start any time, I think it's strong enough, Dad once clobbered the fireman on the head with it, I bet he saw stars, if it hadn't been for his helmet he'd have been a goner ... ha ... ha ... ha ... even his fireman's axe wouldn't have helped.

MITZY:

Jolly, honey, how many times do I have to tell you that wasn't any old fireman, it was my cousin, your uncle, Vassily.

JOLLY:

(Brandishing the crowbar.) Ma, we're gonna turn the tram over.

MITZY:

Just hurry so your lunch doesn't get cold. Also, we have to get a good place in the yard for the picnic. I don't want to have to have to eat indoors again because of the crowd. It's so stuffy in this heat.

YOSHKA:

Heaven forbid ... somebody might think I was trying to make up for that frankfurter of mine. You know Miz Mitzy, Mitchka didn't even so much as look at it. True, it was his fault, his responsibility that frankfurter had to be thrown away, but I'm not that kind of man. Though, just to satisfy my curiosity, if I might just inquire, I mean, I deserve that much, don't I? (Pause.) What are you having
for lunch?

JOLLY:

Dumpling stew with chicken giblets.

YOSHKA:

Ooh, don't mention giblets, they are my special weakness, I can turn anything down, but dupling stew with chicken liver, never. Even if you hadn't asked me, I would have come on my own.

MITZY:

Then I'll just go and add a bit more tomato. (Walks into the house with a lively, mincing step. Yoshka follows the sway of her hips with a burning look.)

YOSHKA:

And a teeny chicken heart, and the tiny eggs, Ma'am, clustered like grapes against the backbone on the inside, I hope that's a young chicken you're cooking, but if it's a rooster, then its balls are delicicus! (Mitzy smiles her way into the house.) Boy, does that Mitzy have a good ass.

JOLLY:

That's what Uncle Vassily says, and Dad says: "Jolly, my son, you're a big boy now, twice as strong as I am. Here's lookin'at you, I'm off on a trip, and don't you let anyone in the house, especially not Vassily the fireman, and I'll bring you a nice stuffed pussycat, so your Mitchka won't be lonely, (cries) so it won't grieve, so it has somebody to keep it company when I send you out to get my beer." (Softly, in a funereal way, Jolly solemnly carries the dead cat and in slow motion, full of piety, lowers it into the garbage can below Mladen's window.) Well, Mitchka my friend, farewell, all the best to you, I'll avenge you, don't you worry. (The tram clatters past the house. The two of them look at each other.) I'm gonna set a trap. And you take your time, I'll see you when you get there. (Leaves.)

YOSHKA:

Wait for me, you fool! Don't do anything without me. I wanna be there when it happens. Jolly, my boy, don't rush things, you'll ruin the operation. I'm your brain. Remember, the brains of the operation. You can't do it without brainwork. Take me with you, you moron I Take your brain along. You can't do it without me, I'm the one that set it all up. I've got a plan (with trembling hands he takes out a crumpled piece of paper from his shirt), here are the details. You can't get along without details. It takes more than a crowbar to overturn a tram. You need brains. Jolly, baby, you forgot the brains. The brains, Jolly baby ... the brains! (Yoshka in his wheelchair has struggled to get himself scross the yard, and when he finally makes it, he almost collides with his daughter Roxanda on the way out.) What is it now? Get out of my way! Clear the way!

ROXANDA:

Oh, Daddy, dear Daddy, Mommy's awfully sick, she's going to die. What do we do now?

YOSHKA:

Don't tell me. Vasilka? Now of all times? There was nothing wrong with her a minute ago. Hell, she sure picked a time!

ROXANDA:

She took a sudden turn for the worse.

YOSHKA:

Splash some cold water on her. (Shouts.) Hey, Jolly, wait, there's been a change of plan!

ROXANDA:

I've already splashed her with water, it didn't help. She fell flat on her face, gritted her teeth, and went all yellow.

YOSHKA:

Come on, don't bother me with that, just give me the details. She's always been yellow.

ROXANDA:

But, Daddy, Mommy never shook like that, and her eyes have turned right round in their sockets. It's terrifying. I can't stand to look at her.

YOSHKA:

(Shouts.) Jolly, there's been a change of plan! Vasilka's sick, she's gonna die! There, you see, Roxanda, my child, the moron can't even hear me, he's too far away. Mommy won't die, I don't believe it, why now, when I've got the chance of a lifetime, and a while ago, when I was calling, when it was a question of life and death, when I was calling for help, shouting, screaming, nobody even so much as stuck their nose out, let alone tried to rescue me. All right, what do you want me to do now? Pour some more water on her, and if she doesn't turn pink, run for the doctor. But, not the same one, he'll just lecture us again. He'll tell us we live in a pigsty, how everything stinks of booze, as if he didn't know I use it for compresses, when the pain comes, and I'm dying. And, for God's sakes, put in a good word for me with Vasilka.

ROXANDA:

But, Daddy, she'll suffocate by the time I find another doctor. Her breathing's bad, it's more like a rattle.

YOSHKA:

Suffocate - aw, come off it. Why should she be suffocating? You just pour a bit of brandy down her throat, she'll loosen up her jaw, I betcha. (Moves off, shouting.) Here I come, Jolly! Don't do anything until I get there. (Stops for a moment.) If the doctor asks about me, say I've gone to the doctor. (He hurries off stage as quickly as his wheelchair allows. Roxanda follows him with her eyes, then shifts her gaze to the garbage cans, rummages through the garbage and pulls out a bit of tile. She then begins playing hop-scotch on the stage.)

 

FADE OUT

SCENE IV

A white mobile screen covers the left half of the stage. On the right side is the admissions room for the psychiatric clinic. And while Sister Valery sits at her desk, writing in a large, thick book, Vassily Boris the fireman, wearing a magnificent uniform, and with his gleaming helmet in his hand, shifts nervously from one foot to the other.

VASSILY:           

You don't really mean it, Sister. They're just sweet little dogs. Pedigreed dogs, well looked after, and properly trained. You're not really going to make me give up Puffy and his daddy Carmichael. Who's ever seen a proper fireman without a dog?

VALERY:

We've been too lenient with you already, Vassily Boris. You're our only patient who doesn't wear a uniform.

MLADEN:

That's the title of the book. (Worried.) I hope everything's all right. About my health, I mean?

VALERY:

For heaven's sake, Mladen Sekulovich, you've already given a public reading of it, don't you remember? You got a gold watch.

MLADEN:

But, somebody

stole the chain.

VALERY:
There, you see. You remember.

MLADEN:

No, I don't remember.

VALERY:

Ingrate. Have you forgotten me, too?

MLADEN:

I often dream of that event, and so I know it's a dream. True enough, I've remembered you, too, but that's pure coincidence. You remind me very strongly, in fact you look uncommonly like, my ex-wife.

VALERY:

Where is she now?

MLADEN: I don't know.

VALERY:

Take a good look at me, my friend. Have you really forgotten me?

MLADEN:

Since when have we been friends?

VALERY:

I wonder if anyone can be sure of anything these days. We're dealing in exact science here, and yet we're never quite sure who's sick and who's perfectly healthy. Is anyone?

MLADEN:

So you're planning to keep me here?                           

VALERY:

No, no. What good are you to us if you're sick. We need healthy people, people who'll cooperate with us in their treatment.

MLADEN: I'm sick, Sister.

VALERY:

(Quickly.) What's the matter with you? Where does it hurt? Where's the pain? Come on what are you all tensed up for? We won't hurt you. Relax.

MLADEN:

Please, let me out of here. I've devoted my life to children. For years, I taught them how to be healthy and how to preserve their health, and become the Titans of their age. See, in my novel, nobody's under six feet tall, and their lung capacity is beyond belief, amazing. You see, all that ambition calls for a lot of oxygen. Smelly air causes a reflex reaction in the human lungs. They contract, degenerate, and a man turns into a mouse. He's content with the scraps they toss him.

VALERY:

(Taking notes.) You mean, you lack air. To be more precise, oxygen. (Looks at him guardedly.) And of course that seems normal to you?

ML ADEN:

You may think it's normal, I think it's a perfect crime against humanity.

VALERY:

You know that, unfortunately, we don't have the money to move that eyesore out of our immediate neighbourhood.

MLADEN:

I'm talking about our yard, sister. We're in the middle of that eyesore, or else the eyesore is in the middle of us.

VALERY:
We'll issue another order saying they shouldn't throw their garbage under your window. After all, you're an important person, and our institution cares about you a great deal. Please go into the next room. Have a nice rest until we see what we can do for you. For your hygiene.

MLADEN:

You're lying. I know you're lying. You want to trick me again.

VALERY:

You're an intelligent and reasonable man. Stop playing the fool. Are we going to have to force you? Anyway, where would you go to fill your lungs? (Reaches for the bell-push on the desk and rings.) You'll get air enriched with ozone, like after a rainfall.

MLADEN:

Just don't forget to project a rainbow on the horizon.

VALERY:

Come now, don't be sarcastic. Go slowly into the room, so I don't have to call an orderly. They're very strong, and pretty rough. They might hurt you unintentionally, and that would be bad for our reputation. (Two huge, muscular orderlies suddenly enter. They're wearing white short-sleeved summer uniforms. Valery speaks to them sharply.) What is it, boys. I told you not. to come until you're called. But, since you're already here, show Mladen Sekulovich into the next room, and then go for the oxygen mask. You see, our writer is a little tired, and he needs to be refreshed, he needs oxygen. So give him the oxygen. Let him breathe his fill. (The orderlies open the door of the room concealed behind the screen. MIaden stands helplessly for a long time, then turns like a broken man, and enters the room. The two orderlies follow him in. Valery waits expectantly. Soon, Mladen's shocked voice can be heard from the neighbouring room.)

MLADEN:

What's this? You bastards! What kind of a game is this, what do you want from me? I refuse! This isn't my house! (From inside, MIaden pulls away the screen which reveals his own room, with its familiar details.) Let me out of here! Don't play at imitations of life! I refuse to breathe, to think, to write for you! You play with those who agree to the rules of your game. I'm a serious man! I'm not crazy!

VALERY:

Hold onto him, boys. Don't let him hurt himself. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's not in his right mind. Shut the windows and door tight, and don't let anybody disturb the operation, let him get used to the idea that he's here. (The orderlies have just grabbed MIaden and are holding him tightly, while he tries to struggle free, screaming dementedly.)

MLADEN:

What operation, you phonies! I refuse to let them pick at my brain! I'm perfectly healthy, I just need oxygen, you filthy scum. Let me go, asshole! You think I haven't seen through you, that I don't know what you've been plotting from the start. You deliberately poison the air, grow germs in my house, try and infect me, you're getting ready to operate ang getting set to kill me! Why?! You don't like my clean habits, you're afraid of my novel, you're scared to death my health will outlive you. Only, you've forgotten that apart from you there are still people around, and I'm one of them. Me! Mladen Sekulovich, who can't, who won't, who refuses to live without air!

VALERY:

(Firmly, with a furious gleam in her eye, whispers.) He'll get used to it. He'll get used to it.  

CURTAIN

 

 

ACT II