Бесплатный фрагмент - Vera

Original production

Vera was first performed at the White Studios, Moscow, on 26 September 2022. The cast was as follows:

AMY Julia Chepurnova
TOM Jordan Worsley
ANDREI Anton Lunin
CLAIRE Sydney Vicidomini
ADI Eduard Magerramov

Music by L.V. Beethoven, performed by Ekaterina Belova⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

Director Alexandra Martynova
Production Designer Marta Vyazemskaya
Costume & Design Consultant Irina Ruden
Lighting Designer Oleg Zotov
Hair & Makeup Anna Oganisian, Mariya Poloskina, Anna Panish
1st Assistant Director Irina Mayorova
2nd Assistant Director Anastasia Andreeva

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Characters

AMY, 29
TOM, 30S
ANDREI, 40S
CLAIRE, 30S
ADI, LATE 20S

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Setting

TWO LOCATIONS, CLEARLY DISTINGUISHABLE BUT LINKED BY A COMMON ELEMENT — A TABLE CENTRE STAGE.

AMY’S — A ROOM IN A HOUSE IN LONDON. VERA’S — A ROOM SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA.

Time

2018.

ACT ONE. A WEEK IN SUMMER.
ACT TWO. THREE MONTHS LATER; AUTUMN.

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ACT ONE

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SCENE 1

AT VERA’S.

AMY IS ALONE, SITTING IN A CHAIR, WITH A TABLE NO MORE THAN A COUPLE OF METRES AWAY FROM HER. THE ONLY LIGHT IS ON AMY AND THE TWO PIECES OF FURNITURE. THE REST OF THE STAGE IS DARK — CLAUSTROPHOBIC.

AFTER A WHILE, TOM ENTERS, HOLDING A SMALL PILE OF A4 PAPER AND A HUGE BLACK OFFICE STAPLER. HE LEANS ON THE TABLE’S EDGE AND READS THE PAPERS SILENTLY, NOT PAYING ANY ATTENTION TO AMY. THEN, HE SHARPLY CLOSES THE STAPLER, AND AMY SHUDDERS NERVOUSLY.

AMY: Why am I here?

TOM KEEPS READING, NOT LOOKING AT HER, UNLESS OTHERWISE INDICATED.

PAUSE.

Why am I here?

TOM: I heard your question the first time.

PAUSE.

AMY: Why?

PAUSE.

TOM: You asked for it, didn’t you?

AMY: I…

TOM: (LOOKING AT HER) You absolutely demanded we take you too.

PAUSE.

AMY: My husband…

TOM: (LOOKING AT HER, AMUSED) Well, this isn’t about your husband anymore, is it?

AMY: Vladimir is not a traitor. Not a traitor. He is a man of honour. A patriot. He’s a true patriot. He would never… You must understand. You must trust me. You must… We came back. We… Vladimir is not a traitor.

PAUSE.

Where is he? What have you done to him?

TOM: Shush!

PAUSE.

TOM CLOSES THE STAPLER AGAIN.

AMY SHUDDERS AND STARTS CRYING SOFTLY.

FINALLY, TOM LOOKS AT AMY WITH HIS FULL ATTENTION.

TOM: So, a pianist?

AMY DOES NOT ANSWER.

I said… are you a pianist?

AMY: You must let him go. You must. He’s not–

TOM: Answer. When I ask you. Are you a pianist?

AMY: (BEAT. TREMBLING) Yes, yes… I’m a pianist.

TOM: Better.

PAUSE. HE STUDIES AMY.

Clever fingers, huh?

AMY SAYS NOTHING.

I said, “Clever fingers”?

AMY: Clever fingers, yes.

TOM: Now, we can do something about that, can’t we?

HE CLOSES THE STAPLER ONCE MORE.

THE LIGHTS FLICKER ONCE AND GO OUT.

⠀

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SCENE 2

AT AMY’S. SATURDAY AFTERNOON. IT’S SUNNY. A HEAT WAVE.

AMY AND TOM. AMY IS STANDING, FACING THE AUDIENCE. SHE IS SILENTLY READING A SCRIPT. TOM IS OCCUPIED WITH HIS LAPTOP.

AMY: I have a vague notion that I don’t like this play.

TOM: What?

AMY: I don’t like it.

TOM: Why not?

AMY: Dull. Vicious. And, well… oh so Russian.

TOM: You always said Chekhov was your favourite.

AMY: You see, Tom, this (WAVES THE SCRIPT IN THE AIR) evidently isn’t Chekhov.

TOM: You don’t have to do it if you don’t like it.

AMY WAVES THE SCRIPT SOME MORE AND THEN THROWS IT TO THE FLOOR.

TOM CLOSES THE LAPTOP AND COMES UP TO HER.

Breathe. In and out. In. And out. Time for motivation.

AMY: (BREATHES VISIBLY AND MAKES A GESTURE LIKE SHE IS PUMPING AIR INTO HER LUNGS WITH HER HANDS) Oh, God, yes!

TOM: We are offering you the part of Vera. Do we have your commitment?

AMY: You may have my commitment, my immortal soul and one of my kidneys. Where do I sign?

TOM: Amy, you’re brilliant, you know that?

AMY: Don’t you find it a bit suspicious that we seem to be the only two people in England to think so? Well, three, counting Mother. She still holds fond memories of my exquisite stunts with the hoover, impersonating Freddie.

TOM: (CHUCKLES) Oh, I’d pay to see that.

AMY: (DOES A COUPLE OF HOOVERING MOVEMENTS, TEASING) Mmmm… we could negotiate a private performance.

TOM: How old were you?

AMY: About… four?

TOM EMBRACES AMY FROM BEHIND.

TOM: (BEAT) Ames, don’t despair too early.

AMY: They call this the leading part. Can you believe it? I’m not sure what frustrates me more — these abysmal parts or the fact that I never get them.

TOM: The latter?

AMY: Ah!

TOM: You haven’t lost this one just yet.

AMY: But I will. No matter how abysmal, half of London will be after it.

TOM: When’s the audition?

AMY: Thursday. (BEAT, JOKINGLY) And just when I was about to launch my career, the shortcut to roles through certain hotel rooms became unavailable.

TOM: (BREAKING THE EMBRACE IN MOCK INDIGNATION) Amy!

AMY: Worry not, I’d choose someone positively decrepit to make sure you don’t doubt my motives.

TOM: Seriously, you only need to make yourself undeniable. So good that they won’t be able to refuse you.

AMY: And how am I to do that? All I have is the sides. Two scenes of cryptic hogwash. I’ve no idea what I’m playing.

TOM: Why sides? It’s a play.

AMY: Oh, I don’t know. A film director? Russians? Expect the unexpected.

PAUSE.

TOM: Would you like to spar tonight? Take your mind off it all?

AMY: Yes. Absolutely, yes!

TOM: Brilliant.

AMY: And after, we could get pissed.

TOM: Sounds like a plan.

THEY EMBRACE AGAIN.

AMY: I love you.

TOM: I know.

AMY: (SLAPPING HIM ON THE ARM JOKINGLY) Never… take me for granted.

TOM: I wouldn’t dare.

AMY: (BEAT) God, I’m so self-absorbed. I’m sorry. How was work?

TOM: Uneventful.

AMY: Uneventful good or uneventful bad?

TOM: I don’t know. Just uneventful, I guess.

AMY: I’ll take that as good.

TOM: How about… we skip boxing and move straight to the getting pissed part.

AMY: Mmmm…

TOM: What do you say?

AMY: I say your plan sounds divine.

TOM GETS A BOTTLE OF WINE AND TWO GLASSES AND POURS SOME.

TOM: To your roaring success.

THEY TOAST, DRINK AND THEN SIT DOWN AT THE TABLE.

A FEW MOMENTS OF SAVOURING THE WINE.

AMY: If I don’t get this part, I’m done for.

TOM: Ames…

AMY: No, seriously, I’m done. I promised Father I’d only keep trying till I’m thirty, and if nothing works out… well, three months left. Let the countdown begin.

TOM: Why do you care about your father’s opinion all of a sudden? Besides, he wouldn’t know.

(BEAT) I’m sorry. That was insensitive.

AMY: That’s okay. He used to say I have too good of a brain to waste it on acting. I could be doing something real.

TOM: “Real” is grossly overrated, trust me.

AMY: Make use of that glamorous degree of mine. Would you still love me if I were another arts or PR manager?

TOM: Don’t be ridiculous.

AMY: Not the best application of my brainpower either, but I’ll think of something decent.

AMY LOOKS AT THE AUDIENCE CONTEMPLATIVELY, HER GLASS IN HAND.

Off the top of my head… (BEAT, THEN WITH GUSTO) a theatre critic.

AMY RAISES HER GLASS TOWARDS THE AUDIENCE.

TOM: (CHUCKLING) Oh, God, have mercy.

AMY: Remind me, what did they do to deserve my mercy?

TOM: Ames, you’ve known since you were four. You can’t give up now. You simply can’t. Nor should you.

AMY: We might not remember my preadolescent theatrics if I had become a teacher or a doctor.

TOM: You didn’t.

AMY: We assign meaning to events when we look back on them. Construct our so-called destiny post factum.

TOM: Destiny? For heaven’s sake, Ames… Acting is what you’ve always wanted. And every successful artist always said the same thing — they always knew.

AMY: Survival bias.

TOM: Followed their childhood passions.

AMY: Were you passionate about market research as a child?

TOM: Not fair!

AMY: Why? You’re doing quite all right.

TOM: Where is your fighting spirit? Would you really give up?

AMY: Would you rather have me hang my entire life on a childhood knack for impersonating rock stars, a couple cathartic theatre experiences and one shady séance?

TOM: Oh, the séance…

AMY: Yeah… the séance. Sounds absurd, doesn’t it?

TOM: After all those years–

AMY: Of bloody nothing. Second-hand roles in second-rate productions. I’m flatlining. (BEAT) If having a normal wife sounds so abhorrent, I could try some other art forms. How does that sound?

TOM: What art forms?

AMY CAN’T COME UP WITH AN ANSWER.

Precisely.

AMY: I could try.

TOM: Noooo.

AMY: Why “noooo”?

TOM: Just no.

AMY: I don’t see why not.

TOM: You’re not poor enough to afford it.

AMY: Isn’t it usually the other way around?

TOM: You’re only allowed to jump arts if you’re sufficiently poor. Then, you can claim that you’re “looking for yourself”. But only then.

AMY: Oh, and I’m such a “daddy’s little heiress”.

TOM: You’re doing quite all right.

AMY: Oh, I should go roll in my privileges. Care to join? (TO TOM’S RELUCTANCE, TEASING) What if I throw in some hoovering? No?

TOM: Seagull artists, Ames.

AMY: (MAKES A REPEATED BIRD BEAK GESTURE WITH HER HAND) Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap a little here. Crap a little there. Crap a little somewhere else… I can do that!

TOM: (TRIES TO BE IRRITATED BUT NEARLY BREAKS INTO LAUGHTER AGAINST HIS OWN WILL) God, you’re exhausting.

AMY: You bet I am.

(ALMOST SERIOUS) Acting… Damned if I do it, damned if I don’t. What a Scylla and Charybdis situation. (BEAT AND THEN CHANGES TO PLAYFUL. LOOKS AT TOM, TEASING) Quite a horny dilemma.

TOM STANDS UP. THEY KISS. IT IS PLAYFUL AT FIRST AND THEN URGENT, HANDS UNDER SHIRTS AND SKIRTS.

AMY BREAKS THE EMBRACE.

THEY TAKE A FEW BEATS TO FIND BREATH AFTER THE KISS.

(SUDDENLY MORBID) Any art that doesn’t require begging for an entry ticket is fine by me.

HEAVY PAUSE.

TOM: (DETERMINED) Okay, we can do this. Come on, let’s figure this out. Let’s figure out what this play of yours is about.

AMY: Yes, let’s crack it.

TOM GOES BACK TO WHERE AMY DROPPED THE SCRIPT, PICKS IT UP.

TOM: Have you Googled this Vera?

AMY: First thing.

TOM: Nothing?

AMY: It’s fiction.

TOM: What have we got?

AMY: A French pianist. A French pianist who plays a wooden plank. A wooden plank, Tom! And then some Russian policeman breaks all her fingers with his gun.

TOM: A dose of rape, gore and mutilation.

AMY: Yeah… fun and games. No rape though, thank heavens.

TOM: You haven’t seen the whole thing yet.

AMY: Ever the optimist.

TOM: Looks to me like it’s a tragedy.

AMY: Whatever led you to that conclusion? I was convinced it’s a comedy.

TOM: Well… no, right, not a tragedy. Tragedy would imply it’s all somehow her own fault.

AMY: I told you — it’s a comedy.

TOM: I’m being serious.

AMY: So am I.

TOM: A guiltless victim caught in a random, cruel whatever…

AMY: You know victims rarely live long enough to see the curtain, right? (BEAT) Why would someone play a wooden plank instead of a real piano?

TOM: Symbolism of sorts? Wood as a metaphor? A core element, a central theme–

AMY: I might have a shot at this part after all, mightn’t I?

TOM: Oh, Ames… What else could it be?

AMY: I haven’t got a clue.

PAUSE. THEY THINK.

Another pressing matter. I don’t play piano.

TOM: So?

AMY: I need to play. Second scene. Vera playing.

TOM: You don’t need to play the piano. It’s a bloody wooden plank. All you need to do is look convincing playing it. Surely you can learn to imitate.

AMY: You’re right. YouTube, help us!

TOM: No, YouTube will not help us. I’ve got a better idea.

AMY: Better than YouTube?

TOM: I know someone at work who can play.

AMY: Who?

TOM: Andrei.

AMY: Your numbers guru?

TOM: Our statistician, yes.

AMY: Oh, I don’t know…

TOM: He can teach you.

AMY: I have a vague notion that I don’t like him.

TOM: You hardly know him. Come on. I could invite him to our next researchers’ club meeting.

AMY: Short notice.

TOM: Andrei seems like just the kind of guy to never decline a party invitation.

AMY: It’s always been the four of us. No new members. What would Claire and Adi say?

TOM: They wouldn’t mind. Besides, it’s our turn to host this month, so we get to decide on the guest list.

AMY: I really don’t know.

TOM: Would you like a legit piano lesson or not?

AMY: He’s not the only piano player in London.

TOM: But he’s Russian — extra insight.

AMY: (BEAT) Where did I meet him? Help me put a face to the name.

TOM: Our last summer’s corporate event?

AMY: (TRYING TO REMEMBER) Possibly.

TOM: Smart. Talks too much. Favourite topics: rock-n-roll and critiquing “the system”?

AMY: Yeah… I remember. I think he told me… I think he told me that we in the entertainment industry get money for nothing… way too much of it.

TOM: No?!

AMY: No?

TOM: (BEAT) Yeah… Sounds like him.

AMY: Yes, I remember. What an ignorant bastard.

TOM: (SIGHS) Your verdict?

AMY: Mad as a pit of snakes.

TOM: A contender. So?

AMY: Invite him!

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SCENE 3

AT AMY’S. MONDAY NIGHT. AMY, TOM, ANDREI, ADI, AND CLAIRE. SOME WINE, CHAMPAGNE, AND A LIGHT SNACK. EVERYONE IS MORE THAN A LITTLE TIPSY.

ADI: Is it a challenge? It’s a challenge, isn’t it? It’s a challenge!

CLAIRE: He threw down the gauntlet.

ADI: I’ll up the ante.

TOM: You can try.

ADI: (TO ALL) What was your worst fuck-up at work?

AMY: Ouch!

ADI: Confession time.

TOM: (TO ADI) We’ll let you start.

ADI: With pleasure.

AMY: I need a drink first.

CLAIRE: Me too!

TOM AND ADI REFRESH THE GLASSES.

ADI: (TOASTING EVERYONE) To fuck-ups.

ALL DRINK.

TOM: (TO ADI) So?

ADI: (BEAT, THINKING) I swapped TVCs. More than once.

CLAIRE: (SARCASTIC) Shocking!

AMY: TVCs?

ADI: Commercials. For the telly.

AMY: And swapping them means…?

ADI: It’s… Imagine you filmed two ads. Let’s say you sell… bicycles, and one ad is all riding through the summer countryside: flowers, fields, flies — like cycling for old people – and the other is all urban, edgy, BMX, and stuff.

CLAIRE: Actually, that’s not how advertising works. You know your core target audience in advance, you write your ad copy and film with them in mind.

ANDREI: What Claire’s trying to say is that the only difference between the commercials Adi gets to test is usually the colour of the flowers in the background.

CLAIRE: (TO AMY) Adi’s job is to interrogate potential consumers and determine which commercial is more memorable and convincing.

AMY: I know that.

ADI: Will you let me finish?

AMY: Please go on.

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ADI: Thanks. Okay, in my imperfect example, let’s imagine that BMX gets more votes.

AMY: But you advise your client to go with the countryside?

ADI: Yeah… not on purpose, mind you. I’m exhausted, two dozen projects at a time. And honestly, I’m not good with numbers.

TOM: You’re in quantitative market research. Being good with numbers is the first line of your job description.

ANDREI: The only numbers he must be good with are his sales targets.

AMY: (TO ADI) But eventually you catch your mistakes. No harm done.

ADI: I cover my tracks and keep mum.

AMY: Huh?

ADI: What? If I don’t, harm will come to me — I’ve got a nasty set of clients.

ANDREI: I’m sorry, but your story doesn’t sound particularly dramatic. Okay, people see yellow flowers instead of red flowers on the telly. Who cares?

ADI: Well, I don’t.

TOM: Adi!

ADI: What?

TOM: (SARDONIC) Professional integrity?

ADI: I have number one to look after. Who else will look after me? Not our agency, that’s for sure.

AMY: My friend, I find your lack of workplace ethics disturbing.

CLAIRE: He’s just cross because he thinks they plan to sack him. (HOLDS ADI’S HAND)

AMY: (TO ADI, GENUINELY SURPRISED) Sack you? Why?

ADI: I don’t know. Maybe because of the coming merger. To cut costs.

TOM: Nobody’s going to sack you. I hate to break it to you, but you’re neither important nor expensive enough to make it worthwhile.

ADI: They’re looking to replace me. A pal of mine called me. They interviewed him for this position, and it’s my position. It totally is.

AMY: Why would they sack you and then hire someone else? It makes no sense.

ADI: He’s cheaper.

CLAIRE: It’s been eating at Adi for three weeks now.

AMY: (TO ADI) Can’t you, I don’t know… ask them? Ask HR?

ANDREI: Like they would say! The slave juicer is not done squeezing you out yet. If they tell you early, you will stop pulling your weight. Motivation, motivation, motivation.

TOM: (TO ADI) Look, I’m sure you’re safe, okay. There must be some misunderstanding.

ADI: (SIGHS) I hope so.

CLAIRE: (DETERMINED) All right. I’ll share my story. Nothing too dramatic, either, but to contribute to the general anti-capitalist sentiment of the evening.

ADI: Yes!

CLAIRE: (AFFECTIONATELY) To cheer you up, darling.

ADI: We’re listening.

CLAIRE: (TO ANDREI) It has to do with Russia, by the way.

ANDREI: I’m all ears.

CLAIRE: So, I run consumer segmentation. I segment people into groups with different needs, motivations and behaviours — for corporations to do targeted communication.

TOM: (TO AMY) See, it’s not all telly ads and political polling. We do fun stuff, too.

AMY: I know.

CLAIRE: One of our global clients, a canned meals manufacturer, had set their eyes on the Russian market. The first question you should ask: “Who is my target audience?” You see, there’s no such thing as a shitty product, but miss your target and you’re screwed. Modern marketing is all about matchmaking. Now, that was our job, and we found them — “Happy Yummy Mummies”.

ANDREI: Don’t say you advised the poor bastards to sell canned food to the one group of the population whose raison d’être is to showcase their cooking skills in the healthiest way possible?

CLAIRE: Something like that.

ANDREI: You can’t compete with home-cooked borscht, you know.

CLAIRE: They kept on failing and we kept on advising.

AMY: I bet you were incredibly convincing.

ADI: She’d talk a bald man into a perm. Gifted.

CLAIRE: Babe, it’s nothing.

TOM: How long did they last?