The Waiting-Room (A One-Act Play For The Stage)

A basement café.

SETTING: There is a small table downstage right, set with salt and pepper pots. The lights are very low.

AT RISE: Enter GORDON. In one hand, he carries a flashlight. In the other, he carries a mug of tea. A visibly old newspaper is tucked under his arm. He is wearing a long black coat and a hat. He carries a bag. As he stoops to put the bag down, he bangs his leg against the table-leg.


GORDON
Bloody hell! Could’ve killed myself then! I say, can’t you get more light down here? Get some candles, or something! Bloody power-cuts! I’ve never known anything like it!

Hmm, only me here, ay? Quiet today, isn’t it?

(Louder)

I say, it’s quiet today!

(Quieter, apologetically)

Sorry. ’Course, it’s Sunday, isn’t it. And these bloody power-cuts don‘t help, do they! No. I’m surprised you’re open, really. Must be worth it, though, I suppose, ay? I mean, you’re getting enough, are you? Warm bodies - like me - just passing through? Good. I like to see a place do well.

(He takes out some books from his bag and puts them onto the table.)

Listen, this is going to sound weird, I know. I think there’s someone following me.

That‘s why I came. I knew she wouldn’t find me down here. It’s too dark, you see.

It’s a good-looking woman. Or man, not sure which. I keep seeing her, him. Just now, for instance.

I’m walking along, and I get this voice in my head. It’s strong like a man’s, maybe, but softer, warmer.

It’s not the first time. And it’s trying to tell me something - something important. A message, or a warning, maybe. But I can never catch the words. Like a radio not tuned right, you know. And I want to: it’s a beautiful voice. If it is a voice, mind. Sometimes it’s more like the sound of a, a trickling river, if you don’t mind. Heavenly, you might call it. Like a beautiful song. Then, I call it my angel. Well, why not? But, sometimes, you know, it scares me, too. When I feel sad or lonely, it roars like a lion, or maybe a raging fire, you know? It sounds angry and I want to run away. That’s how it was this time. So, I began to walk faster. Then I ran. I ran until I had no strength left. Then, I stopped and looked up. And there it was, right in front of me. A face, eternal, if you get me. Looking straight at me, no, straight into me, into my soul, if you understand me. There’s a real kindness in the eyes and I want to hear the gentle voice again.

I was afraid, you know. But I said, “Why are you tormenting me? You don’t think I have enough problems?” And then it disappeared! Just like that! What do you think? You know, I haven’t touched a drop since coming here, as God’s my witness, but … well, I don’t mind the lovely singing, but the other stuff - and hasn’t a man got a right to some privacy?

So, anyway, I escaped down here, into the darkness. And cold. Bloody cold it is, too! Hey, I said - now where’s he gone to? A customer in the other room, perhaps. Well, good luck to him. I hope it’s warmer than in here.

(Shouts)

And lighter, too!

(He opens his bag, takes out a photograph of himself and puts it on the table.)

Bloody power-cuts! I wouldn’t mind in the summer. ‘Be all right then. But not now. Feels like years since I saw the sun. It’s the cold that’s the worst. Gets to you - right inside your bones. Like everything: your arms, you legs, even your heart, maybe, wants to stop. Maybe he’s got some more candles round here somewhere. Let me have a look.

(He goes upstage and searches for candles. LIGHTS: There is a flash of light and a candle lights on another table. Turning, he sees a young man at the table.)

Alright, mate! Didn’t see you there. I’m not really talking to myself. Just looking for some light, you know. You didn’t bring any with you, did you? Light? No. Not seen you before. Just arrived, have you? OK if I - ?

(He starts to sit at the young man’s table.)

No. ’Course not. Sorry. A man needs his privacy, right? Right.

(He stands behind his chair.)

I remember when I was your age, ’used to like my privacy, too. I valued my time, you see. You know, I used to think that other people might steal it. Sounds silly, doesn’t it? Out loud. ’Stealing time’. I didn’t want to share it with anyone, you see. Afraid that they might take something away from me, perhaps. Yes, if there was one thing I had at your age, it was time to myself.

‘That your paper? Do you mind if I - ? Only, this one’s a bit old, see.

(He reaches for and takes the newspaper from the other table.)

Thanks. Another murder! Only a young lad, too. Look!

(He shows him the photo.)

Fancy! You two not twins, are you? Sorry. Bad taste. Well, it’s no good, anyway.

(He puts the paper back and wanders upstage).

Might as well be blind for all the light there is down here. Surprised you can see - never mind read - that book there. What is it? ‘The Tibetan Book Of The Dead’? Comedy, is it? Sorry. I used to be a great reader. Could always find time for a good book, you know. Didn’t go anywhere without a book. Trouble was, over the years, it got so I couldn’t leave the house without one. Or maybe a newspaper. Company, I suppose. Like a prop, maybe. Then the prop starts to be a crutch, then it turns into a defence, a wall. I mean, if I had my time again …

(He sits at his own table.)

So what’s your story then? Poland, ay? Krakow? You like it there, do you? Yes. You’re studying, I suppose? Oh, a writer, hey? A wordsmith, that’s the word, am I right? Wordsmith. Yes. I knew a writer once. In Berlin. Here’s a good word for you: partition. Meaning: to bisect, to divide. Like Berlin, you see, partitioned. East and West. No, never a soldier: undercover, me. Well, tell the truth, I was the writer. That’s what I told them, anyway. Oh, it’s alright. I can tell you. Can’t hurt me now, can they?

(He moves his chair a little closer to the young man.)

Lvov also. You know? Ukraina, yes.

(He gives a thumbs-up).

I was a baker. Finland, also. Truck driver, there. Norway: repair technician. All very cold. Dark, too. Not much light, you see. Not really. You need the light. To be happy. I’ve learnt that. My travelling days are over, now, of course. Spend most of my time down here, if I’m honest. Trapped, maybe could say.

You got friends over there, have you? Good friends? Course you have. You must have good friends. Married, are you? Oh, girlfriend. Is she? Helps with the language, am I right? Difficult language, yes? Of course it is. ‘How are you?’ - I used to know. Jik … jik shee mish … jik shee nish? Now, tell me, how I’ m wrong. What’s that? Jak sie masz? Yes! Am I right?

(He gives a double thumbs-up).

Never forget, do you?

Polish man comes in here, you know. Most days. I hear the language, you see. You never forget.

(He winks)

‘Dzien dobry‘, he says, every time. That’s right. ‘Good day‘. You know. Him and his friend. Two teas with lemon, they order. Not milk. It’s Polish, see. Herbata, they call it.

Herbata. Kasia used to drink that. Bez cukrem. ’I’m sweet enough,‘ she‘d say. Polish girl, you know, living in Berlin. We were going to get married. Translator. You know, good with words. Clever. Like you. Could tell you any street, church or square in the city - the West, anyway. Mannstrasse vierundfunfzig. Hagenstrasse und Main. I’d say the name and she’d drive.

I remember this one time, there was a party. She hurt her leg, dancing. We’re both pretty drunk but I’ve got the legs, so it’s me driving back.

(He stands.)

I was rushing because of the curfew. ‘Right at the church‘, she said. ‘Right at the church‘. I distinctly remember this, you see. But ‘after’, she meant. ‘After’, not ’before’. I thought it was before. Always words, you see. So important. You know. They wanted to see our papers. Then they wanted names - all words again, do you see? ’Course, we didn’t have our papers, did we? Left them at the party, hadn’t we? Drunk, remember? So they searched the car. And they found them: her translations. ’Classified’. From the Russian.

(He takes some official-looking papers from his bag and puts them onto the table.)

So they took us in: for ‘questioning’. And all the time, questions. For days. ‘What were you doing? Why were you there? Why? Why? Why?’ I don’t really know what they wanted. I don’t even know if they cared. It was all a game back then. The Cold War, you understand.

(He takes a gun from his bag and puts it onto the table.)

And the questions got harder, of course. Longer. Painful questions, if you understand me. And they way they asked, well, it wasn‘t fair, you know. In the dark, at nighttime, when you‘re sleeping.

(He sits down.)

Well, I‘m not a strong man, you see. Never have been. The pain got louder than the questions. I’m not proud of it, but put yourself in my position. I wonder if you can. I made a deal. Me and Kasia would be free to go, but on the condition, of course. They wanted names. Names of people operating in the Eastern Sector. I thought: they only want more words, that's all. To put on their reports: statistics, number and names of enemy operatives identified, year-by-year. That was how I justified it to myself, you see. Just a game, with words.

I don’t remember now which names I gave them. But they seemed happy with their new words and the next morning, they released me. I waited outside all day but Kasia never came. So, I went up and asked them.

(He stands up.)

‘Just a few more questions’, they said. ‘Come back tomorrow’. So I went and I came back the next day. Every day for a week I went back. Always the same answer. Then, on the seventh day, I got a letter.

(He opens a letter.)

Unstamped: I had to pay for it. ‘To whom it may concern. Fraulein Kaminski has been found guilty of espionage. Evidence of serious anti-state activities has come to light during periods of intensive questioning. Her confinement will be indefinite.’

(He puts the letter back into his pocket.)

So it was all for nothing: my treachery, my weakness. I hated myself. But so what? I’d spent most of my life hating myself. But the guilt, that was the worst thing. I couldn’t escape the guilt. Three years they held them for. Three years of questions, pain, words, darkness. I know.

Here’s a good word for you: amnesty. Yes, a word of power. They released them - Kasia too. ‘They took her east. Try the Ukraine.’ I tried to look for her; to tell her that I hadn’t betrayed her - my life for hers. I knew that’s what they would have told her. I wanted to tell her about the words and the games. That it wasn’t treachery. I’d done it for us. For love.

Where is she now, do you think? She’d be older, of course. Yes, with a big family, I reckon. Babcia, even. Do you know ‘babcia’? Grandmother? ‘Course you do. You’re educated, you see. You know things. You know words. Words that have power.

Hey! How about that! They’ve put some lights back on up there. Maybe there’s hope for us yet!

The voice!

(He goes upstage, listening for the voice.)

There it is - again! Still a roar. Quieter, but still … You hear it too, don’t you? But you hear the voice, right? You know what she’s saying, don’t you? Tell me. What’s the message? No, don’t leave now! Please, tell me, what’s the message? Come back. Please … Gone. Just like the others. Where do they go?

(LIGHTS: There’s a flash of light. He returns to his seat. Another flash of light. He half-stands and tips his hat to a young couple who he now sees sat downstage right. As he does so, he bangs his leg again on the table.)

F - ! Oops!

(Apologetically)

Bloody power-cuts. What can you do, ay? Oh, don’t worry; he’ll be back in a minute. You just visiting, are you? Tourists? What - newlyweds! Now, that’s nice. Seems strange, though, a nice, young couple like you, down here. Ah well, you’ve got your own story, I suppose. Everybody has.

(He moves his chair a little closer to the other table.)

So how long is it? Only a week? So you’re on honeymoon, then. From London? Hey, wasn’t there a plane crash from there the other day? No survivors, right? You know, you look a bit rough yourselves, with your clothes all burned and all that blood on your faces. Don’t mind me. Actually, flying’s the safest form of travel, statistically. Provided you don’t believe in fate, that is.

Not sure, myself. Used to be. All for free will, I was. Each moment is the doorway to a thousand possible futures. And each of those thousand futures … in the end, there’s no way of knowing. You start off with all good intentions. Then something happens. It always does. We had a child, you know. In London, it was. I lived there - for a while. Artist, I was. Anyway, let me be honest: she had a baby, and I got drunk. Proud father? The nurse said I didn’t walk into that hospital ward, I floated on air.

(He takes out a family photo from the bag and puts it on the table.)

Those next six months were the happiest time in my life. I adored my son and I worshipped her for giving me such a beautiful child. Nobody was more in love than we were. Nobody.

But you know how to make God laugh? You tell him your plans.

We lost the child. Meningitis, you know? That night, he died, just like that. No warning. Nothing. There was a moment that night when we both walked through a doorway together. Doorways, remember? But, somehow, a moment later, we’d both chosen different routes. It finished us. And I said to God, ‘Why? Why have you done this to me? You’ve taken the only people I’ve ever really loved away from me! I want my happiness back!’

And do you know what happened? Nothing. There’s no God, I thought. And if there is, he doesn’t give a damn! So I began the drinking again, but worse. And every drink moved us further apart. She never said anything, but I knew she blamed me. I should have been quicker. ‘Called the doctor, called an ambulance, done something, for God’s sake!’ She’s right, I thought. It’s my fault. And so I’d have another drink. And another. I deserved to be hurt. Badly. And every time we looked at each other, all we saw was our little boy. And then she left.

I spent a long time hating myself, feeling guilty, usually with a drink in hand. Going over the same scenes, again and again, stopping at the parts that hurt the most, twisting the knife, until there wasn’t a moment I couldn’t fill with some pain or regret, real or imagined. I was screaming inside. I couldn’t think. This is hell, I thought. I’ve died and gone to hell. And then I saw her, for the first time. The lovely voice, remember?

When I listened to the voice, to the song, the screaming would subside, if only for a moment. But even that was a blessing. In time, I learned to listen harder. And as the song took the place of the scream, I began to think, once again, but honestly, without self-hate or deception. It was hard, but at least the screaming had stopped. You know, It’s only when you look back, honestly, that you start to find redemption. I’ve been a bad man. I know that. A fool, a coward, adulterer. Yes. I wanted forgiveness. To get out of hell, you know. You know what I learned? You want forgiveness? You have to forgive. You forgive. Then forgiveness. That was the moment. And I’ve done it. Oh, it’s taken me a while, but I’ve done it. I’ve sat down - God knows how long it’s taken me - I’ve sat down and honestly forgiven everyone who I felt had ever done me harm, including him, God.

(He takes a mirror from the bag and holds it in his hand.)

You know, of all the people, you were the ones I was afraid of seeing the most. It’s what you represent to me, you know. Forgiving myself: the baby. That’s been the hardest thing. Forgiving myself. For everything. And I mean everything! And I feel lighter, you know, all the time. Do you know how free, how light, you feel when you forgive? When you give, you get. Forgive, forget. Let go of the pain you’ve been carrying, holding tight to yourself for all those years. And so I know I’m ready now. To try again, you know. Maybe do things differently this time. Try to make it up to a few people.

(He closes his eyes.)

There she is! My angel! And she’s singing: everything I’m going to do; everything I’m going to be. Hey, I think I like this song!