India Song Read online

  VOICE 2 is full of desire and terror.

  VOICE 2: Your heart, so young, a child's . . .

  No answer.

  Silence.

  VOICE 2: Where are you?

  No answer.

  Silence.

  Shouts in the distance: the VICE-CONSUL. Cries of despair. Heart-rending, obscene.

  VOICE 1 (distant): What's he shouting?

  VOICE 2: The name she used to have in Venice, in the desert of Calcutta.

  Silence.

  The cries fade in the distance.

  Disappear.

  VOICE 2, all in one breath, in fear, tells the story of the crime, the crime committed in Lahore:

  VOICE 2 (low): “He fired a gun. One night, from his balcony in Lahore, he fired on the lepers in the Shalimar gardens.”

  Silence.

  VOICE 1 is gentle—calm and gentle:

  VOICE 1: Couldn't bear it.

  VOICE 2: No.

  VOICE 1: India—couldn't bear India?

  VOICE 2: No.

  VOICE 1: What couldn't he bear about it?

  VOICE 2: The idea.

  Silence.

  It is getting darker. The bodies grow less and less distinguishable. Above them the fan goes on turning, the blades gleaming slowly.

  You can no longer tell one body from another.

  Silence.

  VOICE 1: A black Lancia is speeding along the road to Chandernagor . . .

  No answer.

  VOICE 1 (continuing): . . . It was there . . . there that she first . . .

  The voice stops.

  VOICE 2: Yes.

  Brought back by ambulance.

  They talked about an accident . . .

  Pause.

  VOICE 1: She's been thin ever since.

  VOICE 2 (scarcely heard): Yes.

  Beethoven's 14th Variation on a Theme of Diabelli. Distant.

  Total blackout.

  Then, beyond the garden, gleams in the sky. Either day or fire—rust-colored fire.

  The voice is slow: a calm declaration.

  VOICE 1: Those gleams over there?

  VOICE 2: The burning-ghats.

  VOICE 1: Burning people who've starved to death?

  VOICE 2: Yes.

  It will soon be daylight.

  Silence.

  The 14th Variation is heard till the end, over the gleams from the burning-ghats.

  Blackout.

  II

  We are in the same place as before.

  The only difference is that the right side of it is now revealed, as if the angle of vision had been changed. Doors opening on the reception rooms on one side, and on the other on the garden.

  (As if these rooms were in a wing of the Embassy.)

  Bright light everywhere. Chandeliers.

  Chinese lanterns in the garden.

  Silence.

  It is as if the French Embassy were quite empty.

  Nothing can be seen of the reception rooms except the light coming out of the doors and illuminating the garden.

  All remains empty for a few seconds.

  Then, without a sound, a servant passes through. Carrying a tray with glasses of champagne, he goes through and out toward the right.

  Silence again. Emptiness again.

  Waiting.

  Then, suddenly, noise.

  The noise of the reception begins quite suddenly, full volume. The party is triggered off as if by some mechanism: the noise bursts forth instantaneously from behind the walls, through the open doors.

  A woman is singing “The Merry Widow,” accompanied by a piano and two violins.

  Behind the music:

  The sound of many conversations all merging into one.

  The sound of glasses, crockery, etc.

  But the feet of the dancers make no sound.

  No conversation will take place on the stage, or be seen. It will never be the actors on the stage who are speaking.

  The only exception to this rule is that the sobs of the French VICE-CONSUL are both seen and heard.

  When the conversations recorded here take place, the sound of the reception grows fainter.

  Often it almost stops: for example, during the conversations between the YOUNG ATTACHÉ and ANNE-MARIE STRETTER, and between her and the French VICE-CONSUL. It is as if the guests at the reception, intrigued, watched them talking instead of talking themselves. So the fading of the sound is not arbitrary.

  All the conversations, whether private or not, whether they make the guests around them go quiet or not, should give the impression that only the spectators hear them clearly—not the guests.

  So the sound of the reception should be heard, however faintly, behind all the conversations. The fact that these conversations are now and again mingled with conversations on other subjects should prove that the private conversations are not audible, or hardly, to the guests. So also the fact that some of what is overheard is sometimes repeated, but always more or less wrongly —with slight mistakes which show that only the spectators hear the private conversations properly.

  The sound of the reception should come from the right and from the stage, and from the auditorium, as if the reception were taking place beyond the walls of the auditorium, too.

  ANNE-MARIE STRETTER wears a black dress—the one she wore at the dance in S. Thala—the one described in Le Ravissement de Lol. V. Stein.

  The men wear black dinner jackets, with the exception of the French VICE-CONSUL in Lahore, who wears a white one.

  The other women at the reception wear long dresses, colored.

  The reception overflows, all the time it lasts, either into the garden or into the place we already know: ANNE-MARIE STRETTER’s private drawing room.

  From the point of view of sound, the image, the stage, plays the part of an echo chamber. Passing through that space, the voices should sound, to the spectator, like his own “internal rending” voice.

  The set should seem accidental—stolen from a “whole” that is by its nature inaccessible, that is, the reception.

  The diction should in general be extremely precise. It should not seem completely natural. During rehearsals some slight defect should be settled on, common to all the voices.

  One ought to get the impression of a reading, but one which is reported, that is, one which has been performed before. That is what is meant by a “reading-to-himself voice.”

  To repeat: not a single word is uttered on the stage.

  “Heure exquise” sung by a woman. Then repeated by the orchestra.

  A waltzing couple cross a corner of the garden.

  Some women are talking (quite close):

  ––––– This is the last reception before the monsoon.

  ––––– What? Do you mean to say the monsoon hasn't begun?

  ––––– Not really. It'll be at its height in a fort-night. No sun for six months . . . You'll see . . . No one can sleep . . . They just wait for the storms to break . . .

  An Indian servant passes through, on his way to the reception. He carries a tray with brimming glasses of champagne.

  Two couples go through, waltzing. Slowly. Disappear.

  Some women are talking (farther away):

  ––––– She invited the French Vice-consul in Lahore . . .

  ––––– Yes. At the last minute she sent him a card: “Come.” The Ambassador didn't say anything.

  A young man arrives. He stops and looks around. Clearly he isn't familiar with this part of the Embassy. He looks tired, as if he wants to get away from the reception. He looks out toward the deserted tennis courts.

  As he looks, a couple dance across a corner of the garden and disappear.

  Some men are talking (about the young man):

  ––––– Who is he?

  ––––– The new Attaché . . . Only been out here a month . . . He can't get used to it.

  ––––– It's the first time he's been here.

  Pause.

  ––�
�–– He'll be back. He'll be invited, he'll go to the islands . . . The Ambassador asks people to stay there. For her—for his wife.

  Pause.

  ––––– What makes you think he'll be asked?

  Pause.

  ––––– He looks so troubled . . . She doesn't like people who get used to it.

  ––––– Are there any?

  ––––– Some . . .

  ––––– Clubs, to keep India out, that's the answer . . . isn't it?

  ––––– Yes.

  The YOUNG ATTACHÉ goes on looking around. Then he turns toward the dancing, watches the reception. And goes back to it.

  “Heure exquise” ends.

  There is a moment without music.

  Only the sound of the reception. No laughter. A sort of general dejection.

  Some women go by in the garden, looking curiously toward ANNE-MARIE STRETTER’s drawing room. They fan themselves with big white fans.

  They are gone.

  A man speaks (the Ambassador):

  ––––– I think my wife may have mentioned it . . . we'd be very glad if you'd join us some time in the islands . . . There are some newcomers one feels specially attracted to . . . And the rules governing ordinary society don't apply here . . . We don't choose . . . (A smile in the voice.) You will? The residency looks out on the Indian Ocean, it dates from the days of the Company, it's worth seeing. And the islands are very healthy, especially the main one, it's the biggest island in the Delta.

  Silence.

  Men talking:

  ––––– He used to write, the Ambassador . . . Did you know? I've read a little volume of his poems . . .

  ––––– So I've heard . . . They say it's because of her he gave it up . . .

  “Heure exquise” has been followed by a tango.

  The French VICE-CONSUL in Lahore has come into the garden. He is wearing a white dinner jacket. He is alone. No one seems to have noticed him yet.

  Two conversations (1 and 2) between men and women:

  No. 1

  ––––– She might have spared us the embarrassment . . .

  Pause.

  ––––– What exactly did he do? I never know what goes on . . .

  ––––– The worst possible thing . . . How can I explain . . . ?

  ––––– The worst . . . ?

  Silence.

  No. 2

  ––––– An intriguing woman. No one really knows how she spends her time . . . What does she do? She must do something . . .

  ––––– She must read . . . Between her siesta and when it's time to go out, what else could she do . . .

  ––––– Parcels of books come for her from Venice . . . And she spends some time with her daughters . . . In the dry season they play tennis—you see all three of them going by the office, dressed in white . . .

  Pause.

  ––––– The fact that one wonders what she does, that's what's strangest of all.

  Silence.

  No. 1 (continued)

  ––––– Did he kill somebody?

  ––––– He used to fire shots at the Shalimar gardens at night . . . You knew that . . . ? But bullets were found in the mirrors of his own residence in Lahore . . .

  ––––– He was shooting at himself . . . (Little laugh.)

  No answer.

  ––––– It's difficult to tell which are the lepers . . .

  ––––– You see, you do know: you talk about the lepers . . .

  Silence.

  No. 2 (continued)

  ––––– She goes cycling too, very early in the morning, in the grounds. Not during the monsoon, of course . . .

  No. 1 (continued)

  ––––– What's the official version?

  ––––– His nerves gave way . . . Often happens.

  Pause.

  ––––– Funny, he forces you to think about him . . .

  MICHAEL RICHARDSON has entered. He is not wearing a dinner jacket. He sits down. He smokes a cigarette. He doesn't look toward the garden.

  In the garden, the VICE-CONSUL: he looks at MICHAEL RICHARDSON.

  Two women enter on the right, and stop. They have seen MICHAEL RICHARDSON and look at him with curiosity. He doesn't see them.

  A servant goes by with glasses of champagne. He offers one to MICHAEL RICHARDSON, and goes.

  The tango, as if in the distance.

  MICHAEL RICHARDSON gets up, begins to go toward the reception, looks at it from some distance, then turns around: sees the VICE-CONSUL in the garden.

  Then the women see him too and draw back.

  Women speaking (low):

  ––––– Look . . . Michael Richardson . . .

  Pause.

  ––––– Yes . . . He doesn't attend receptions?

  ––––– No, only at the end, toward the middle of the night. When there's just a few friends left . . .

  Pause.

  ––––– What a business . . . what love . . . They say he gave up everything to be with her . . .

  ––––– Everything. He was engaged to be married. Everything. Overnight . . .

  Silence.

  MICHAEL RICHARDSON makes a movement toward the VICE-CONSUL—toward the gate into the garden.

  The VICE-CONSUL turns away.

  MICHAEL RICHARDSON stops.

  The two women watch.

  Women talking (low, afraid):

  ––––– Look in the garden . . .

  ––––– Is that him?

  ––––– Yes.

  ––––– So thin . . . and the face . . . as if it were grafted on . . . so pale . . .

  Silence.

  MICHAEL RICHARDSON turns back toward the reception.

  The watching women disappear.

  Women (continued):

  ––––– Do they know each other?

  ––––– Evidently not . . .

  Silence.

  The VICE-CONSUL looks at the reception. MICHAEL RICHARDSON looks again at him. The VICE-CONSUL seems absorbed, and does not notice him.

  Men talking:

  ––––– He used to fire shots at night from his balcony.

  ––––– Yes. He used to shout too. Half naked.

  ––––– What?

  ––––– Disconnected words. He used to laugh.

  Pause.

  ––––– And no woman was ever close enough to him, in Lahore, to be able to say anything . . .?

  ––––– No. Never.

  ––––– How is that possible?

  ––––– His house, no one ever went to his house in Lahore . . .

  ––––– It's terrifying . . . Such abstinence . . . Terrible . . .

  Silence.

  MICHAEL RICHARDSON turns toward the reception, tries to make out what the VICE-CONSUL can be watching so avidly.

  Men and women:

  ––––– Did you hear? The Ambassador said to the Young Attaché: “People avoid him, I know . . . he frightens them . . . But I'd be grateful if you'd go and have a word with him.”

  Pause.

  ––––– What's known about his background? his childhood?

  ––––– His father was a bank manager in Neuilly. An only child. The mother's supposed to have left the father. Expelled from several schools for bad behavior. Brilliant at his work, but after high school . . . That's all . . .

  ––––– So they don't know anything about him really?

  ––––– Nothing.

  Pause.

  ––––– Isn't there in all of us . . . how shall I put it . . . ? a chance in a thousand we might be like him . . . I mean . . . (Pause.) I'm only asking . . .

  No answer.

  Silence.

  A couple come to the edge of the garden. They see the VICE-CONSUL, and don't go any farther. MICHAEL RICHARDSON looks at them. They hesitate. Turn away
. Go back to the reception.

  The VICE-CONSUL looks at the reception and laughs.

  Some women go through the garden fanning themselves. They don't see the VICE-CONSUL. They stop and look at the reception from a distance: something catches their attention:

  Women:

  ––––– Who's she dancing with?

  ––––– The Ambassador.

  ––––– You knew he took her away from some official in the wilds of French Indochina . . . I can't quite remember where . . . Laos, I think . . .

  ––––– Savannakhet?

  ––––– That's it . . .

  ––––– Don't you remember? “. . . slow launch with awnings, slow journey up the Mekong to Savannakhet . . . wide expanse of water between virgin forest, gray paddy-fields . . . and in the evening, clusters of mosquitoes clinging to the mosquito nets . . .”

  ––––– What a memory! (Little laugh.)

  Silence.

  ––––– Seventeen years they've been wandering around Asia.

  Silence.

  They all look toward the reception, toward the Ambassador dancing with his wife.

  The VICE-CONSUL laughs silently.

  Men:

  ––––– Has he ever talked to anyone about Lahore?

  ––––– Never.

  ––––– About anything else?

  ––––– I don't think so . . . He gets letters from France. An elderly aunt . . . The letters were intercepted . . . Apparently . . . he told the Secretary of the European Club he was in a reformatory . . . when he was fifteen . . . in the North . . .