Art by Mel Stringer
2. Melodrama/A Play
‘So what would you have done if you had the ten thousand dollars back in school?’ Vera asked. The hypothetical question flooded Amitai’s mind with vivid memories.
In high school he had always occupied himself with something, be it his extraneous and intensely thorough studying in the library or being the centre of attention for a random assortment of fellow students. The former was always the most preferable side of the coin, the most pleasurable way for him to spend his time; he studied a wide range of topics, divided equally between those for scholastic pleasure and those for personal knowledge. Such topics ranged from the decadent works of Ovid – that scandalous exile – to Marxism in all of its many perversions; sexual celebrations and political diatribes.
Unlike most of the other students, Amitai dared not yawn, sigh or fall asleep over one of his books, if not for his public image then because books generally deserved far more respect than that. That type of disgusting behaviour made an utter mockery of the pursuit of knowledge, truth and higher education; because of this, it would be safe to say that Amitai had a hard time stomaching those who surrounded – or rather suffocated – him.
If only they were meek and understanding enough to follow the examples he had set for them instead of just making him the focus of their insurmountable jealousy. Yes, this was the plight of a noble prince in a kingdom of scoundrels. Even with ten thousand dollars he would still be weaponless against them; for money does not resolve a lack of interest, it merely causes people to feign one.
‘I think you would have found something important to do with the money, like fund the production of our play.’
A fog began to rise from the glass partitions in young Amitai’s mind; he began remembering all of the intricate and unbearably nostalgic details of their most fateful encounter. The memory played back like an old film, one in the process of being re-mastered in real time; he could see Vera walking to the middle of the classroom after closing the door for privacy. Her euphoric smile was absolutely infectious, though Amitai was far too restrained to match it physically.
‘It’s exciting to be all alone in class after everyone has gone, isn’t it?’ The corners of Vera’s lips nearly touched her ears; she was just like a mischievous fox spirit let loose in a mundane human world, perfectly ripe for the tricking.
‘I think it’s kind of creepy, to be honest,’ admitted Amitai.
‘That’s because you’re so used to being completely surrounded,’ teased Vera. She grabbed two copies of the play from her desk and handed one to Amitai. ‘Anyway, I think we should begin rehearsing now.’
(VERA opens the play book and positions herself several feet away from AMITAI, facing him.)
VERA (Not paying attention to the book): Do you remember this scene very well?
AMITAI (Also holding his book open but not paying it any mind either): I remember that this was when you first started to really talk to me. Before this we kind of bumped into each other in classes and hallways, but nothing especially memorable. You were one of the few students who actually seemed to care about their studies so you kind of interested me in that way. I remember watching from the roof of the school as you sat with a book under the weeping willow; god, that was enough for me to fall in love. Did you really care about your studies, Vera? When you read Don Quixote, did you laugh at Sancho Panza?
VERA (Visibly embarrassed; she covers her face with the play book): Are you being subtle? Do you mean to say that you knew I – that you knew I was pretending all along, just to get your attention?
AMITAI (Lowering the book): No, I didn’t know that, Vera. (He hesitates to say anything more; VERA is shaking, as though she is on the verge of tears.) Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me at all whether you were pretending or not. I hadn’t a clue. You were you and I appreciated you for it, and that hasn’t changed at all. I appreciate your trickery; I appreciate your honesty; I appreciate how delicate and joyous and sad you are. I appreciate your very existence. You’re a work of art.
VERA (No longer holding back her emotions): How can you say that? How can you call me honest? I knew you were watching me from the roof, but I only looked up once you left. That wasn’t honest to me and it wasn’t honest to you.
AMITAI (Shaking his head): You are honest, Vera; it has always been in your power to be honest. Prove yourself wrong by telling me what you came here to tell me.
VERA: Your father is trying to conquer the world.
AMITAI: Let him.
(VERA wipes away tears with the side of her hand; her cheeks are coloured hot pink. AMITAI has never seen this side of her before, though he always knew that it was there. An AWKWARD SILENCE enters the room.)
VERA (Excited, as tears stain her cheeks): Do you understand the weight of those words? At all? (Calm now) I meant what I said . . . exactly how I said it. You’re not heartless, Amitai. You don’t understand.
AMITAI (Not taking the time to compose his thoughts before speaking, his words come out in a jumble): No, the literal meaning came across as you intended it. I just don’t believe in a unified world. I mean, everyone’s world is different: I have my own world, consisting of my experiences and my mind’s reaction to those experiences, which are totally and completely different from yours. Our worlds are an infinite number of isolated satellites orbiting the compacted clump of dirt we call the Earth. The Earth, as a world, cannot be universally conquered, for everyone’s perspective of the Earth is different. If you think about it, everyone has a different god – and I’m not just taking into account the various religions. One Christian will view his god differently than another Christian does. Many of them are conscious of it, too – I’ve known a great deal of Christians in my life and they’re all openly proud of this. I – I know what you mean, though. I do. I’m sorry for going off on such an existential tangent; it’s tacky, I know. But I just wanted you to know my thoughts. You’ve always wanted to know my thoughts, haven’t you? Wanted to know why I was so . . . lonely, even though I was surrounded by more than a hundred devotees; my religion of lies. When I take off my mask, all I can see are stars in an infinite void – hope and hopelessness eternally juxtaposed in every night sky. My father wants to conquer the world? I say let him. Let him conquer his world; let him realise why some of us are so lucky to know ourselves. For even if the Earth was his, it would never actually change.
(VERA raises her arm in front of her as though making to protect herself.)
VERA: Such excessive, cumbersome philosophy! I never would have expected it! Well, I expected it, but I didn’t think you’d come out with it all at once like that. You must’ve been saving it up for a very long time, Amitai. Don’t feel too silly about it, though – I actually think it’s kinda cute! I mean, there’s no chance you would’ve told that to anyone else other than your demons. But they’ve all escaped by now, haven’t they?
AMITAI (Readily, as though relieved to finally have someone to openly talk with): Yeah, they have. (Pauses for effect) Wait, what do you mean by ‘escaped’?
VERA: Well, I’m sure the demons would rather be in the chaotic world itself instead of being trapped in the mind forming the chaos.
AMITAI (To himself, pointlessly): Kind of like a prison break, then. (To VERA) You’re a clever girl, Vera. I would not have thought of that myself.
(VERA opens the notebook to a random page and stares into it blankly. She is obviously susceptible to AMITAI’s compliments.)
VERA (Stuttering in embarrassment): I – I think you’re a good actor, Amitai.
AMITAI (Letting slip a laugh): I wasn’t acting. Is that what you thought?
(VERA bites her lower lip and shyly looks away.)
VERA: I guess – I guess I’m still not used to it. Hearing you say those kinds of things to me has always been a dream of mine. (Looking to the side, she smiles beautifully and tucks some stray strands of fine black hair behind her ear.) You know, if we had ever been able to actually put on our play, I think it would’ve been a great success.
AMITAI (Nodding and smiling in agreement): I think you were right when you suggested that one of the reasons why I stole the money was for the play. I still think about it from time to time, to be honest. But without you, I don’t think I could ever go through with it: this is our play, not anyone else’s. Even though it’s filled with the typical his and her circumstances – sprinkled with some evangelion – I don’t think anyone else could act through the play nearly as well as we personally lived it.
VERA (Grinning wide; her eyes bright): That’s exactly what I was thinking! Even if it’s kinda pretentious – whatever! Why should we care about what anyone else thinks? This is what we want to do. (Then, as though seeking confirmation) Isn’t it?
AMITAI: Only we can be the judge of ourselves.
VERA (As though gloating to the entire world): Then it’s right. Then it’s settled.
AMITAI: Yes, Vera, you’re right – it’s settled. I’m going to donate the ten thousand dollars to the play. No one will be able to deny us our right to live forever, not even my father.
(VERA strides up to AMITAI, wraps her arms around him and rests the side of her head on his chest. AMITAI, uncertain of what to do, holds his play book open behind her back as though to look up his lines. Then he drops his arms and closes his eyes in order to feel VERA’s emotions more purely. On the backs of his eyelids he finds an astonishing number of stars dancing unceasingly amongst a reddish-black sky; the view is that of impossible loneliness, threatening to swallow him whole. But he opens his eyes to find VERA still there and is exhilarated.)
AMITAI: I don’t need the briefcase anymore.
(VERA pulls away and looks up at him, smiling.)
VERA: Why’s that?
AMITAI: Because I have you. You are the real proof that I lived through my memories – that I reached this point because of them. It’s a cliché line, I know, but it’s entirely true so I have no regrets about saying it – you give my life meaning, Vera. Can you imagine that I had actually decided to use the briefcase for that purpose? (An embarrassed – albeit relieved – chuckle escapes from his normally cool façade, relaxing the atmosphere.)
VERA: Yes, I can imagine it. You’re absurd.
(AMITAI gently rests his fist on top of VERA’s head.)
VERA: Ow. Well, I guess I deserve that! But I’m afraid you forgot about my special attack, Amitai: Rocket punch, go! (VERA sends a slow punch to AMITAI’s lower sternum. AMITAI makes to keel over in pretend pain.)
AMITAI (Dramatically): Traitor! I should’ve known it was you.
(VERA holds her forehead with her palm as she giggles; she laughs so hard that tears begin to form in her eyes, but she wipes them away before they can drop. AMITAI straightens himself and closes his eyes, smiling.)
AMITAI: Vera, I know you’re there even when I close my eyes; I know I’m never alone now because you’ll always be in front of me.
VERA (Calming down to match AMITAI’s mood, though still retaining her whimsical mannerisms; she smiles as though a pleasant joke has just been made): It’s true, Amitai; it’s utterly true. Don’t you think that’s wonderful?
AMITAI: Yes – god, yes. I don’t know what has happened to me but I feel changed somehow; I feel like I can do something that has meaning for once.
VERA: Do you mean the play?
AMITAI (Clearly thinking before answering): Of course I mean the play!
VERA (Laughing): Calm down, Amitai – you’ll wake the entire school!
AMITAI: They should be awake, anyway – otherwise they’d miss it all. Could you imagine our performance being seen by absolutely everyone we know? Everyone we don’t know? I think it’s almost scary. I mean, I’m used to being watched by large crowds of people, but they’ve only watched me with my mask on. This, here, is the naked Amitai; this is the me I’ve lived my life as. Will people laugh at me? Will they understand me? But what’s there to understand, anyway? I wonder if there really is anything at all that makes me unique. No – no there’s nothing. There have been many, many, many others like me, an infinite number of Amitais: young boys questioning their existence and desperately trying to relate their lives to others. Dreaming of becoming generic; of being remembered in order to become forgotten – a subconscious desire for death. (Using orange chalk, VERA begins to slowly draw a spiral – representing AMITAI’s rapid loss of lucidity – on the classroom’s blackboard.) Nobody can remember what their lives were like before they were born because then there was only frightening nothingness. If we came from a void then that means we will return to that void when we die. Why are we so afraid of entering into nothingness upon death when we were born out of that very same nothingness? Is it really so terrible? Yes, I suppose it is, because then our entire world will end – when we die, we take everyone else with us. Our precious accumulated memories vanish like a small stone dropped into an ocean. Farewell, dear memories. (VERA draws a happy face on the blackboard and giggles.) Farewell, world!
(In large capital letters VERA writes THIS IS REALLY ANNOYING, ISN’T IT on the other side of the blackboard. She replaces the chalk, does a slipshod job of brushing the chalk dust from her hands, and returns to AMITAI.)
VERA (Smiling gently): Are you all done with your random, convoluted speech Amitai? Did you get it out of your system?
AMITAI (Embarrassed): Yes – yes, I think so. I hope so.
VERA (Sincerely and still smiling): Good, I’m glad.
The sun had been setting all this time: the deep dark blue of evening was seeping into the classroom, bathing Amitai and Vera in its gorgeous light; they could still see clearly even without the flourescent beams turned on. Vera took Amitai’s play book from his hands and put both of the copies back onto her desk, where the books sat like patiently waiting things. She then took up the blackboard’s eraser and brushed away her chalk scribbles.
‘I think that went well,’ she said, suddenly turning back to Amitai with an elated smile. ‘It seems like the more we rehearse the more natural it seems – finding a rhythm, knowing what to do with our bodies and so on. I think it helped that you brought your costume.’
Amitai looked down at his black suit: his suave work uniform and his professional costume. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he thought aloud, startling Vera. ‘I won’t be wearing my school uniform anymore, will I? That’s all in the past now. Now all I have is my black suit.’
‘I’m glad you decided to get into character so much,’ said Vera, her cheeks colouring like bright red apples. ‘I think it’s very admirable.’ There was an embarrassed silence as Vera realised she was coming across like the students who blindly followed Amitai around. But I’m not one of them. I’m not.
Am I?
(Silence.)
No, I’m not. Vera then looked directly into Amitai’s eyes with stunning determination. ‘Amitai, I’m not trying to suck up to you. I’m not jealous of you. I’m not like any of the other students – did you know that? I know you’re flawed. I know your shell is made out of cheap plastic, because I can see through the cracks: I see a lost, wounded boy inside, one who is struggling to break free from his own trappings. Is that you, Amitai? Am I right? I know I probably look like an idiot right now, I know I probably sound like a jerk, but –’ She wiped at the thin rivers of tears that were streaming down her cheeks.
(A member of the audience – preferably an uncomfortable middle-aged man – coughs.)
Vera closed her eyes in order to hide from her own tears and braced her body as though she was preparing for a physical assault; Amitai reached out to her in concern but she was unable to see his sympathetic hand as it hesitated halfway between them. Then, as soon as he was about to touch her, she looked up into his eyes again and put forth her proclamation exclamation with all of the thunderings of her tiny heart: ‘You have terribly stunted philosophical ideas but I don’t care because you’re Amitai Amitai and I love you Amitai did you know that did you know that I love you did you know because I really do Amitai I really do love you – I love you, I love you, I love you so much!’ And then she covered her face with her hands, because she really had no idea how it could have all come out like that – especially after spending so many sleepless nights running through the confession in her mind. How elegant she was in those practice runs – how calm and restrained. But it’s better this way. Because there can be no running away from this.
Amitai was rendered both speechless and motionless, his hand still hovering inches away from her trembling shoulder. Then the trembling suddenly stopped and Vera looked up, smiling through her tears – a rainbow after the rain – and Amitai finally managed to speak.
‘I know you’re not like anyone else,’ he told her in solace, seemingly disregarding her confession of love. ‘We wouldn’t be here today if you were.’
Vera pulled a chair out from a desk and sat in it, limply resting the knuckles of her right hand on her legs as she looked to the side. ‘But maybe I really am everybody else; it’s a thought that’s always there, waiting for me to succumb to it. Maybe you’re everybody else, and once I’ve conquered you then that means I’ve conquered everybody. No. I – I love you. They say love conquers all, but I don’t want to conquer anything. I just want to be yours. Is that really so hard, to be yours?’
‘I don’t know, Vera,’ said Amitai with an intimate air. He stood behind her and rested his hands on the back of her chair, causing her to close her eyes in comfort as though he had actually placed his hands on her slack, slender shoulders. ‘That’s something only you would know. I’m not sure if I’m capable of accepting such ownership of a human being as though you were some songbird eager to be caged. You’re you and I admire your independence. Why should I take that away?’
‘I think you’re confusing independence with loneliness, Amitai. You’re so utterly dense sometimes, you don’t even understand what it means when somebody says they want to be yours. Or to have you be mine. To be each other.’
‘No, I guess I don’t understand.’
Without any warning, in mock anger, Vera stood up on her chair and forcefully pushed Amitai by way of foot on chest.
(Here the orchestra begins tuning its instruments.)
‘Are you really that alien to actual human interaction? Is your biology as messed up as your head is? Listen, Amitai, when I say I love you I really mean that I love you. What is it – do you have your own concept of love swimming around in all that angst? Does it come from a book? A movie? Some underground song that you put on repeat as you lie awake at night, wondering if it really is as bad as it seems?’
‘I know that love creates life and hate destroys it. You’re the only person I really know,’ admitted Amitai. ‘And I thank you. You have given meaning to my life and I love you for it.’
Vera opened her mouth as though to speak but instead closed it again and looked directly downwards from her perch on the chair; she found a loose thread coming out of the hem of her jacket and began playing with it, every twirl sending forth a different thought to her mind as she calmed considerably. ‘Amitai . . .’ she said, if only to savour the sound of his name on her lips. ‘You love me.’
‘Of course I do, Vera. How could you have ever questioned that?’
‘Oh . . . oh, Amitai. Amitai.’ She continued to stand on the chair until Amitai helped her down. They stood holding each other at a polite distance as though participating in an elementary school slow dance; then Vera wrapped her arms around Amitai and pressed the side of her head against his chest like she had done during the play, only this time Amitai returned the embrace. An electric shock ignited the flames of their souls upon contact: Amitai could see unseen colours spread over the room as though it was part of a black and white film being remade in splendid pastels; he could think unthinkable thoughts, such as: Would I rather relive my memories or create new ones? Does the past even exist or is it just a fabrication of my mind created as a coping mechanism for the present? If the past becomes my present, will Vera become my future? Is the future real or is it a memory in reverse?
Meanwhile Vera could see only Amitai and thought only of Amitai: What world is this where such things are allowed to happen? (I don’t know. What do you mean by ‘things’?) Oh, well, I mean beautiful, beautiful things: Amitai’s thick, curly black hair, like rings of angel feathers made exclusively for the exploration of my fingers; his black business suit suiting him so well; his lucid liquid intelligence and dry demonstrative demeanor. His essence. Basically everything that makes Amitai Amitai – that is the/my world and that is the/my universe; etcetera, etcetera.
(The orchestra ceases tuning its instruments, leaving absolute silence for approximately one full minute.)
‘Is the melodrama over?’ asked Amitai through the fabric covering Vera’s shoulder; he continued to press her towards him like a bandage being applied to a nasty cut.
Vera replied with alarming sentience: ‘I don’t know. Maybe it depends on us to break free from these teenage chains.’ But do teenagers really behave like that?
‘We should remain happy while we can. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?’ He hoped it would bring more Vera.
More Amitai. But something is not right, Vera thought. There was a notion hidden inside of her that knew – and was frightened that it knew – that her existence relied almost entirely on Amitai’s perception of her. Was she a memory? I don’t know; I don’t want to say – I just want to be by Amitai’s side. Was she a ghost? No: I have nobody to scare but myself. Was she a miracle? Come on, what’s with all the questions? Is it . . . is it really so bad to accept our temporary realities? I mean . . . I’m not a memory (but you are; of course you are; Amitai remembers you, doesn’t he?) and I’m not a ghost (then why come back?) and, um, I’m definitely not a miracle; I’m just . . .
‘Vera,’ Amitai asked with tender concern, ‘Are you okay? You look kind of upset about something.’
She shook her head, rubbing her nose against his chest and disturbing the oversized exclamation mark of his tie until it covered half of her face. ‘No, I’m not upset. I’m okay. Why?’
‘Your forehead was kind of creased as though you were having a really intense dream.’
Was she a dream? No. Stop it. ‘I was just asking myself some questions.’
‘Well, it was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Then that’s good for you.’
(Mild shuffling occurs within the audience: A well dressed gentleman rises to go to the washroom and politely excuses himself as he ducks across the middle row.)
They disentangled. Amitai and Vera decided that enough was enough; that they had in fact squeezed more than enough use out of the room to suit their playful purpose. Further acts would require further practice, of course; but for now – barring any contretemps – they felt they deserved respite from the consensual disquiet of their teenage (mis)understandings. God, how wordy. Is there a text in this class that even remotely resembles the elegant simplicity of T–? Or the accessible ideas of D–? Probably not, or so Vera thought as she eyed the low bookshelf beneath the blackboard. Time to go.
She took Amitai’s hand and led him out of the classroom. The hallway past that dim doorway – that painted portal leading into a world of gorgeous pathos – was ghostly quiet, filled to the brim with unheard examples of electronic voice phenomena (‘Are you there?’ ‘Am I alive?’ The dead cannot speak but they can try). A row of large windows lined one side of the hall, feeding the thick ocean blue of night into the rather private school; Vera and Amitai moved through the labyrinthine tunnels as though they were fish caught in a dream – slowly, surely and ignoring any bait. Bait included, but was not limited to: the washroom (for Amitai needed to pee); the cooking classrooms with all of their secret snacks and goodies (Amitai was not particularly hungry, but Vera felt one did not require hunger in order to snack); and the faculty lounge with all of its own secret snacks and goodies (because the teachers kept all of the best stuff for themselves).
Having left their home room so quickly and without any warning, Vera found that all of their memories of the events that had taken place within were rapidly fading like magazines left out in the sun. The haste of their exit factored into the subject of this discovery as it seemed to diminish the previously growing sense of importance that being so utterly earnest had summoned forth. Vera began to wonder as she had wondered before, about who she was, what she was and where she was. So many questions and so many answers – too many things. Just. Stop. Thinking. About. It.
Amitai followed Vera’s lead with trust so blind that it needed eye surgery. She wanted to take him someplace special, in an environment more intimate than the classroom that they had abandoned with weak knees and hand squeezes; she wanted to express her feelings, not just for him but for absolutely everything, in a way that words could never hope to achieve. She wanted to let him hear the universe sing.
For a moment Vera stopped in front of one of the windows overlooking the school courtyard; she recalled a dream she had once had of Amitai meeting her down there. In the dream Amitai looked younger than he did now and wore his usual school uniform instead of the black business suit that was currently merging him with the shadows (Vera then had him step closer to the window so that he could be lit in the brilliant blue). The dream Amitai sat with her on one of the wrought iron benches that were far more comfortable than they looked; the curving designs, like calligraphy strokes in the process of being produced, grew, stretched and curled subtly beneath them. No words were spoken in the dream and the entire sequence had in fact held the atmosphere of a silent film, with the motions of the actors seeming forced but nonetheless effective; every small movement received its own practiced exaggeration.
Nothing was particularly spectacular in the dream, it was simply a keepsake that Vera had cherished with all of her imaginary heart while longing for Amitai from a distance. In those days he would never have sat down with her, not even by accident or coincidence; he never would have sat with anyone, really, whether he was in need of a bench or not. Yet everyone still fawned after him since he was so cool.
All that the dream consisted of, in its entirety, was the simple act of sitting on one side of the bench while Amitai sat on the other. Surely nothing was spectacular about that.
Waking from her memory of the dream, Vera turned from the window with a wistful smile and returned Amitai’s hand to hers; they fell back into reality together, that special place where worlds are made to collide, and continued traversing the miles of hall. Soon they arrived at a door with a small sign above it that featured the symbol of a man in the midst of running; once Vera opened the door the sign lit up in green like a verdant sun. They entered the room.
‘Why are we –‘ Amitai began, but Vera turned to him with her index finger pressed to her lips in order to silence him.
Why are we here?
You’ll see.
In the middle of the room was a metal folding chair. Amitai stood by the closed door with his hands in his pockets, watching as Vera strode past the chair so that she could enter into the darkness in the back of the room. Rummaging sounds came fumbling stumbling from that faraway zone of black infinity until Vera finally returned, lugging a cello case along with her; she then flopped down onto the metal chair with the case laid down before her. With noticeably calm fingers she undid the latches to the case and raised the lid, revealing a snow white cello resting within like a perfectly preserved corpse in a coffin; the wooden Lazarus was then pulled out and Vera cradled it like a long loved lover. She positioned the bow and closed her eyes.
‘Cello Suite No. 1 in G major: Prelude,’ she softly declared. And then she played.
The sounds of her cello filled the room, shaking the very air around them – shook Amitai’s bones until he rattled like a skeleton. He had never felt so deeply affected by music as he did then, touched to the soul by Vera’s playing. In the span of approximately two minutes and twenty-eight seconds Vera encapsulated the entire history of the universe in a single performance, captured in the smallest room by the smallest hands and heard by the only ears that mattered. This was the solution to that blushing awkward phase after two express their love for one another; this eradicated it, phased out the phase completely. How perfect for Amitai’s sensibilities and how utterly understanding of Vera.
For the duration of the performance Vera was completely lost in her own world, but Amitai was lost with her; because of her he gained a growing understanding of what it meant to connect to another human being. What did it mean, exactly? To Amitai it meant expanding his personal universe in order to incorporate another. So Vera’s plan worked: for Amitai heard the universe sing, and what the universe sang was a song of longing.
When did Vera stop playing the cello? Amitai had not a clue, for both of them still retained their initial positions: he with feet firmly planted on the floor and she on the chair, holding her bow as though she was either about to begin or had most recently finished with dramatic flair.
‘Where did you learn how to play so brilliantly?’ Amitai asked, expecting to hear the most extravagant answer excavated from her lips: Something that proved she was a leap above the rest; something that graded her like fine meat.
‘Here,’ she modestly replied, shrugging, as though he should have known.
‘“Here”, as in here, in this school, in this room?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
Oh, Amitai, how could you be so daft? Of course she would have learned how to play here. What did you know of her childhood? Barely anything at all. So most of your memories of her, the things that create her, come from the school, don’t they? Of course; of course they do. So do you really have to ask such questions? Don’t be daft, Amitai – don’t ruin a good thing, because a good thing is hard to find. Yes, he thought. I’m asking myself some very silly questions; I’m trying to turn myself into a third person monstrosity in order to better objectify my viewpoints on the proceedings: my ceding to the preceding. I’m a thief. I can’t hide from that – I can’t stay in the past forever. This simply isn’t me; it can’t be. None of this is real. Is anything real? Vera, I need you to prove to me that everything is real. Why did I steal the briefcase?
‘Hey, Raskolnikov,’ Vera called in a teasing singsong voice. ‘You know how overdone your little interior monologues are? Redemption isn’t possible. It’s a concept created for cowards by cowards. So you took the briefcase – so what? That was your choice to make. You’ve lived a life without any real consequences and because of that your memories turn into a cheap paste as soon as they’re created. You wanted to do something about that, right? But you’re no Bonaparte; not even a Raskolnikov. Your life was set out for you by your father. You’re so boring. But now you have your briefcase! And – and you’ll always have me, Amitai. Do you really have to ask yourself so many questions? I’d almost think you were doing it just to take up space, to make yourself more solid and prevalent. I think you’re solid and prevalent. You’re relevant to me. I think you’re the entire universe, Amitai. I thank the world for you.’
Amitai shook his head as though in a vain attempt to clear it. ‘There’s so much repetition of ideas, of thoughts; it’s like music. I can’t believe we’re so capable of lingering on the most inconsequential of . . . of . . .’
‘Listen, Amitai. Your demons are gone. What does that leave you with?’
‘I don’t know. Angels?’
Vera laughed at how silly he was being. ‘Nothing but yourself,’ she said. ‘You can’t blame anything or anyone else for your thoughts. Just because your dad pretty much controlled your fate up until you ran off with the briefcase doesn’t mean you have the right to call him a demon. Don’t you want to hold up the briefcase to your father and tell him what you’ve done? You’ve proven what you’re capable of. I love you so much, Amitai; I’m so proud of you. You’ve stolen all that money so that our play can be what it is. I don’t care what anyone else thinks but I can understand if you do. Just don’t let it get to you. Please, Amitai, you have to be stronger than you’re being. You’re not a teenager anymore. I mean, I can get away with being the way I am because I’ll never change. But you’re capable of changing with every passing moment. You’re the strongest man alive.’
How strange, he thought. The way we talk, you wouldn’t think we were really human beings. But I guess the purpose of being a person is to veer away as much as possible from your humanity. I miss my humanity: I miss eating when I’m not hungry; going to the washroom whenever I need to; picking my nose every ten minutes; masturbating every night without fail; thinking up terrible deaths for the people I hate; imagining what it would be like if I wrote this song, this movie, this book. But I guess those last few things come more with being a person. I can’t pretend I’m not a person, but sometimes I wish I was something else, like a cardboard comfortable character in some old science fiction story or cartoon. I wish things could be a lot easier for me.
‘And here I thought you were no longer a teenager,’ Vera sighed with great exaggeration. ‘Grow up, Amitai. You’re going to have to sometime or another if you want your memories to have some real meaning.’
‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
‘I wish I could be over you,’ Vera said, mock blushing as she bit her knuckle.
‘You’re funny,’ Amitai told her, and he meant it. He loved it when she did not take things seriously.
‘God, we’ve only just started and this already feels like one big denouement. Don’t you think so?’
‘I guess I just wanted to clarify some things before we got really into it: I don’t want our love to be false, I want you to know me. And I want to know you, Vera. I never knew that you played the cello before now. But I guess that goes without saying, since I never really paid all that much attention to you. I had only ever cared about myself, I guess. Sigh.’ He did in fact actually say ‘sigh’. ‘Well, that’s all in the past now . . .’
Vera smiled gently. ‘I see why you have that ellipsis there, Amitai. Don’t think you can fool me.’
Amitai smiled back. ‘You’re too clever, Vera. I think you’re definitely more intelligent than I am.’
She blushed at his words as though they were a hand sneakily sliding up her shirt to feel her sensitive skin. ‘Hearing that from you, Amitai, is almost too good to be true. Oh, it’s so wonderful to receive a compliment from Amitai.’
Amitai shrugged. ‘You’ve received many from me by now.’
‘Yeah,’ she responded lovingly, ‘and I cherish each and every one of them. I take nothing for granted; I have no right to. No right to take things for granted, I mean.’
‘Well, you’re pretty amazing; ten thousand dollars worth of amazing, if you ask me.’ He then moved to embrace her as she continued to sit in the chair; the cello fell over but somehow it did not make any sound – it was as though the entire world around them had been muted, rendered meaningless by their actions. Yes, they were action stars; for they were stars in action.
(A baby cries in the audience, obscuring the scene’s remaining dialogue.)