Guerguan Tsenov
Shakespeare in the Park
One:
“Unbelievable how many people are here.”
“The girl said they almost never cancel a performance.”
“I mean, the audience has raincoats and umbrellas, but what are the actors supposed to do?”
“Totally ridiculous, if you ask me.”
Two:
“How are you?”
“How do you think I am?”
“Try not to think about it, at least for one night. Just relax and leave everything to me.”
“Sometimes I wonder if there’s anything human left inside of us at all.”
Three:
“I have this feeling he won’t show up.”
“Has he ever kept a promise?”
“Oh, stop it!”
“I’m just saying.”
Four:
“Don’t hesitate to ask me anything that comes to mind. Here’s my business card—it has my phone number and email address.”
“You must be the most hated person at this festival.”
“Which is extraordinarily strange and definitely unfair, because I’m not here to attack or insult anyone. My only goal is to encourage people to consider the debate around the authorship of these so-called ‘Shakespeare works’ as legitimate.”
“In your opinion, how many of the people here tonight have come looking for legitimacy?”
Five:
“Well, are you ready? Are you excited?”
“What’s there to be excited about? This is my ninth or tenth trip to Paris, and besides, I don’t exactly expect to be welcomed there with open arms.”
“Look, I think the expectations you arrive with will definitely affect things.”
“Expectations are for fools. I’ll go to Paris, and if I don’t like it, I’ll go somewhere else.”
Six:
“Am I imagining this, or are there at least a thousand people here?”
“The task is challenging, but not impossible.”
“Just remember, don’t leave a trace. We do the job and get out without being seen, just like we came in.”
“The only problem is, there are a thousand people here, and they all look thirty years old to me.”
Seven:
“Last year, Juilliard arranged for us to help backstage. We had a blast. A few years back, a friend of mine interned here and told me he offered a bottle of water to Al Pacino between scenes for The Merchant of Venice. Al Pacino just gave him a short ‘Thanks’ and didn’t even take the bottle.”
“If I were your friend, I’d tell anyone who’d listen that Al Pacino and I performed in a show together. Who’s gonna argue with me?”
“The guy playing Osric tonight graduated last year. I saw a couple of his shows—nothing to write home about.”
“Yeah, but he will be the one to invite Hamlet to a duel tonight.
One:
“This is absurd. Look at the lamppost.”
“It’s not rain, it’s just raindrops falling from the trees.”
“Nonsense. Look at the lamppost.”
“I’m telling you, it’s from the trees.”
Two:
“Do you think Max knows?”
“No chance. How would he?”
“I don’t know. I just have this weird feeling.”
“A feeling? Relax! Everything’s fine.”
Three:
“He’s acting like a total teenager. Besides never picking up my calls or answering my texts, he can’t seem to say a word without dropping some pretentious philosophical nonsense or cracking a half-witted joke that only he finds funny.”
“Look, I’m not trying to make matters worse, but time’s flying by, and you need to figure out—sooner rather than later—whether you’re really cut out for each other. Puffed-up peacocks like him are a dime a dozen. Next time, just corner him and demand he tell you how serious his feelings are, when he’s proposing, and how many children he plans on having with you.”
“You think I haven’t tried yet?”
“Well, if you ask me, it’s time to move on.”
Four:
“I know it sounds banal, but there are times when common sense is the greatest proof.”
“Don’t you think that when solving essential problems like this, one ought to be guided by facts?”
“Take a sober perspective for a moment.”
“Well, you see, I think this is where you and I differ in our approach—you want me to take a sober perspective, while I, a non-expert on English literature or Shakespeare, would like you to provide me with clear and indisputable proof.”
Five:
“The most important thing is, don’t act like a wise guy, but don’t be meek and shy either. You have the necessary upbringing and education. If you combine your ambitions with a certain dose of pragmatism—you know what I mean by pragmatism—your success is all but guaranteed.”
“Dad, you’re talking to me like I’m seven.”
“To me, you’ll always be seven.”
“Now I really can’t wait to leave.”
Six:
“Are you sure this is the place?”
“How many Shakespeare theaters do you think there could be in one park?”
“I’m just trying to avoid a stupid mishap.”
“There won’t be any mishap. How about we shut up and look around?”
Seven:
“I agree with you, but you also have to admit we’re not living in the 1950s anymore. Even previously unassailable luminaries like Strasberg and Adler are, in many ways, démodé.”
“Wow, démodé? Really?”
“Of course. The fifties were a decade of everyday pragmatism, where so-called realist theater and realist acting—whatever that means—were in perfect harmony with the post-war period’s lost illusions and the collective pursuit of something simple and real, like traveling salesmen or warehouse workers. But who’s looking for realism now?”
“I think you might be oversimplifying things. Besides, I don’t personally find Death of a Salesman particularly realistic, despite all the sociocultural clichés ascribed to it with each new rendition. Especially with all that chaotic jumping around in time and space.”
One:
“I don’t understand why they’re still making us stand outside when it’s clear to everyone that the rain won’t stop.”
“Weren’t you the one who said that they’ve never canceled a show? And even if that’s true, how could we all fit in there with these umbrellas?”
“What’s truly ridiculous is us still waiting in this line when the forecast calls for even more rain.”
“Well, I think it’s getting more amusing by the minute.”
Two:
“I just can’t find a common language with him. Every time I try talking to him, he either cuts me off immediately or replies with downright disdain, which is humiliating.”
“I think you’re exaggerating a bit. He and I talk too, and I don’t find anything strange in his behavior, considering the situation we’re all in. And let’s not forget the age gap.”
“For Christ’s sake, he’s thirty already. His friends are long married with children.”
“Do you really think the three of us would have it any easier if he were married with kids?”
Three:
“Ugh, and that flower shop...”
“Hey, pull yourself together! First of all, there’s nothing bad or embarrassing about working at a flower shop, and second, you know it’s only temporary.”
“A few weeks ago, he asked me what my reaction was when other guys brought me flowers on the first date, and I wasn’t sure whether to answer or to slap him across the face.”
“You should’ve told him that if he wants, you’d offer him a discount at your shop. What an idiot!”
Four:
“There’s something deeply intriguing about the whole debate around the identity of the old bard. Frankly, I personally wouldn’t mind it one bit if the biggest controversy in his complete oeuvre ends up being his very existence—or lack thereof.”
“Oh, we know for certain that William Shakespeare, the actor, existed. There’s no argument there. The argument is whether he was the one who wrote the tragedy you’re about to see.”
“Hmm, it all feels like footsteps on the seashore, which the sea erases with each wave, leaving you with nothing to show the people around you.”
“Wow, you’re a real poet—and one who actually exists.”
Five:
“Why don’t we save the sharp insults for when you’re... a little more independent?”
“I knew sooner or later we’d be talking about you supporting me. Don’t you think I’d give anything not to have to depend on you?”
“Okay, I think we’re both getting carried away. How about we enjoy the show and save the sparring for something more serious than your departure or finances?”
“I’m starting to like this rain more and more.”
Six:
“I’ve no idea how we’re supposed to find him with this many umbrellas. We can only hope he looks the same as he did when we last saw him. Look at this freak show. Did people come to watch the theater or a parade?”
“What should I do if I find him?”
“Just see if he’s alone or with friends. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Got it. I’m heading that way. Let’s meet back here in ten minutes.”
Seven:
“Brecht is even more pathetic. People have been going to plays for twenty-five centuries not to get schooled or admonished, but because we are all sadistic voyeurs who derive genuine pleasure from the pain and suffering of others—especially when they are weak and defenseless.”
“What a bunch of nonsense! Has the beer gone to your head? We are in theater, and what we do is play roles. These roles wouldn’t have the slightest significance, nor would they fascinate us, if they weren’t directly tied to our everyday life. I don’t think anyone in the audience, no matter how big a fan of Stanislavski, could ignore the simple fact that they’re looking at a stage—a stage with actors who, as we all know, will head to the nearest bar to get wasted once the play ends. They’ll no longer be some abstract, distant characters, but John and Sally with their petty problems. For Brecht, it’s just as important that the audience is fully aware of the fact that before them stand precisely John and Sally. For it is precisely their petty problems that are far closer to us than those of some contrived, powdered royal highness.”
“I don’t know... At the end of last semester, we were putting on scenes from ancient Greek plays, and during one rehearsal, the girl in charge of lighting suddenly broke down in tears. We all froze. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since. I asked my colleagues about her—twenty-eight, from Colombia. She was just sitting there, waiting for her lunch break, bored to death with our semi-professional efforts, when all of a sudden, she broke down, and we couldn’t do anything to console her. You think she was crying because of the socioeconomic dynamics in Ancient Athens? I don’t think so. I’d bet it was because one calm night, some thugs from a local cartel broke into her home in Medellín, cut up all the men with machete, and raped all the women over some unpaid debt her father had. And when my fellow actors and I enter Priam’s palace and slaughter everyone before his wife’s eyes, this girl can’t do anything but break down in tears. So much for Brecht and his theater of alienation.”
“Dear God, will they start letting people in already? I’m soaked to the bone.”
One:
“Give me one good reason why we’re still waiting in this line. The rain is coming down harder by the minute, and please don’t tell me again the raindrops are coming from the trees because they’re not. This is obvious to every normal person in this line, for whom theater is entertainment and not an act of heroism. As a matter of fact, as I look around, all I see are people who’ve come for everything but theater. I don’t know—maybe I’m too conservative—but isn’t the expectation that at a theater performance the suffering should happen on stage, not in the audience?”
“Okay, but tell me, don’t you find it romantic—two people in love, holding each other in the rain, just a few steps from the statue of Romeo and Juliet? Yes, I agree, we’re surrounded by some of the weirdest people in New York City, but just think of them as part of the show. See, it’s as though most of them aren’t even speaking to the person next to them but to the whole park. People come here not to enjoy Shakespeare’s plays but to enjoy the roles they themselves play. Once you accept the fact that Shakespeare, in this case, is only the pretext and not the end goal, everything suddenly falls into place.”
“I don’t understand—are you trying to keep me here or chase me out? What time is it, anyway?”
“It’s already past eight. If they haven’t canceled the show by now, I’d say we still have a shot.”
Two:
“I dreamt about Peter last night. We were in the garden of our summer house in Pennsylvania. For the last few years, that garden had become his raison d’être. You could hire a local company to do a full-service job for literally pennies—from trimming the tree branches around the house and the roof to planting whatever flowers you could think of—but he wouldn’t hear of me hiring a gardener.... In my dream, he was resting in one of the hammocks in the garden. I’d stepped out onto the back patio to call him in for lunch, but just as I was about to yell his name, the trees in the garden began falling on him, one by one. I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t yell. The trees just kept falling and falling until they buried him.”
“Listen to me—you have to stop torturing yourself with things that can’t be changed. Peter was a good man, but he wasn’t without flaws, and in the last few years, he’d lost any real sense of the world around him. Besides, I don’t think you were meant for each other. Even Max wasn’t terribly attached to him. I never saw them speaking to each other about important things the way a father and son should—or, at the very least, show a minimal degree of tolerance toward one another.”
“Sometimes I think Max is hiding something from me. I know, it probably sounds crazy, but I think there was some kind of unspoken understanding between him and his father, which was on a different level from the one I had with each of them. It’s as though our relationships were like separate but parallel radio frequencies—intertwined in time and space but sending out different impulses, different signals, different—”
“Stop! Just stop. What’s done is done. There’s no going back. We’re both grown-up people with a strong grasp on reality. The decisions we made were planned out and discussed numerous times. It’s crazy to blame ourselves for any of it, whether good or bad. And what is good and bad, anyway?... Lousy rain!”
Three:
“Sometimes I feel as though I work not at a flower shop but at a funeral home, surrounded not by bouquets of flowers but by rows of neatly lined coffins piled high with wreaths. People go in and out, smiling, and I can’t figure out what they’re smiling at when I’m standing there frozen with horror and revulsion. I sell them flowers that, in just a few days, will wilt and die. Isn’t that a bit like selling empty promises? The flowers—beautiful, blooming, beguiling—in just a few days will dry out, shrivel up, and begin to reek of death and decay.”
“For the love of God, have we come to a play or a funeral? I think you’re taking this schoolgirl love a bit too much to heart. Hear me out—you’ve been together for what, over a year? Has he even kissed you? I won’t even ask if you’ve slept together. Don’t make that face, please! I’m your best friend in the world. You know you can trust me. I think you’ve built up some idealized version of him in your head, absolutely contrary to what’s actually there. You know I never liked him, and I don’t think I’m the only one. The way he drifts around you like some fairytale prince whose only goal is to impress you but not to love you... I really think he considers himself irreplaceable. On top of that, he’s impossible to talk to. He acts like a little child who’s not quite sure what he wants. What I’m confused about is why you feel like you’re the one who needs to indulge his every childish whim. For God’s sake, you’re still so young. Do yourself a favor and next time you see him, look at yourself as the center of the universe, not him.”
“My God, look at this beautiful rain. It’s so soft and peaceful—I don’t know what I’d do without it. I’m so glad we left the umbrellas at the shop. I know I sound crazy, but... the rain trickles down me, over my body and legs. Around me, small rivulets form, which further out in the park drain into a ditch that likely leads to a local reservoir. From there, it probably flows into a river or straight to the ocean. I feel that if I lie down on the ground and let go, the sensation would be like floating on the waves of the lake across the way.... I know I’m talking complete nonsense. I just think the only thing I need right now is a little calm and quiet.”
“Yes, you’re right—you’re talking complete nonsense!”
Four:
“What I don’t understand is how it’s possible that a theory you find to be so obvious has failed to gain any sort of mainstream traction and become the official theory, so we can finally put an end to this torturous debate.”
“Your words lead me to believe you can’t be more than thirty years old. I too remember very well the time when I was also thirty and, like you now, thought we all live in an obvious and indisputable world where things are as we see and hear them. But the years pass by, one by one, and what you find obvious and indisputable is, for me, an ever-changing illusion. Even now, as we’re speaking, I’m sure you see me only as an aging oddball, up to his neck in conspiracy theories... up to his neck in delusions. And I’m sure that after the show tonight—if there’s a show at all—you’ll go home to your wife or family and share with a perfunctory sneer how we met and what I said to you. As of me, I too will return home tonight, but my home is cold and lonely, filled with dead silence and utter calm. And because I won’t have anyone to share our conversation with, I will say to myself that tonight, in Central Park, I met a young man with whom I shared my revelation, but that this young man responded to it with only a sneer.”
“Why do you assume I’m disdainful toward your words? I’m a bit hurt by that. And why would you assume I’m not just as deeply repulsed by all these crowds around us, regardless of what they think about the authorship of what they’ll watch in just a moment, if the skies are merciful to us? Why do you assume it’s only you who returns to a cold and lonely home? My home is no less cold and lonely, despite being overcrowded... overcrowded with careerist parents and egotistical friends. You go home, lock the front door behind you, and relax into your armchair or bed without fearing the outside world or the people around you, while every night I go home to an enormous house ruled by habits and relationships that would make your hair stand on end. The most chilling thing of all is that everything I’m describing to you rests entirely on doubts and suspicions, which makes it the more revolting and depressing.”
“I understand, and I feel for you. But perhaps it’s time to cleanse yourself of the things the people around you are trying to persuade you of, cut straight through the illusion, and get to the truth. Have you never been in a situation where all logic seems to be against you, all your closest friends are trying to convince you that you’re mistaken, the encyclopedias and the reference books clearly point to your delusion... and yet your own intuition refuses to bow to the collective logic?... Look, it doesn’t matter in the slightest who wrote the play you’re about to watch. What’s more important—and what I’m trying to explain to you, but can’t seem to put into words—is that... isn’t truth simply an agreement among the majority of people in the world to call certain things by certain names? This here is a tree because we’ve all agreed to call it a tree. What you’re about to watch is theater because someone in ancient Athens decided to call it theater. But the thing we call a tree is not a tree—it’s a giant sanctuary for animals, birds, and insects. That behind me isn’t a theater but the place where, in just a few minutes, a young man your age will discover with piercing pain in his heart that his entire world is a monumental illusion and that the biggest conspiracy in his life is the work of those closest to him. How would a person be expected to react after such a harrowing revelation? And what’s more—are we in our rights to judge the lengths he’s ready to go to restore order to the universe; an order which should have never depended on the evil conspiracy of a coterie of vile-minded nincompoops?”
Five:
“The only thing that worries me is that I’m leaving my sister in your care. Promise me you won’t try to shatter her life too.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying these things to me. Have you ever given a single thought to all the sacrifices I’ve made so that you can—”
“So that I can do the same thing as you—turn into a servant for a few nobodies for whom the world is a game of chess whose rules change depending on their whims? You think all these years I didn’t notice you slowly turning into a pawn that those above you moved wherever they chose, and every time you got sacrificed without a second thought, you simply bowed even lower and kissed the ring even harder?”
“Why do you assume I don’t worry about your sister? I worry about her just as I worry about you. You probably won’t believe me, but what you’re saying isn’t that different from what I said to my own father more than once when I was your age. One day soon, you’ll hear the very same words from your own son or daughter. And then you’ll understand that each of us lives with his own truth, his own logic, his own set of moral values, and these are all unique to each one of us. They’re neither good nor bad. We, as people, are neither good nor bad—we’re just incapable of tearing ourselves away from our own world and peeking into the world of the person next to us. The only thing we can do for that person is show compassion, but understanding them is impossible.”
Six:
“You got nothing either, huh? It’s my fifth time going through the crowd, and people are starting to stare at me. On top of that, I ran into two clowns who wouldn’t stop talking to me and said I looked like one of their colleagues who was also in the show.”
“Hey, listen—do you think the boss thought everything out properly? What I’m trying to say is... I’ve thought about it a lot... Do you ever wonder what might happen to us afterwards? We’re his best friends, after all... Do you think he’ll ever come back, and then... is there even a point in going through with this... Wait, wait—don’t be so quick to jump at me... I’m just thinking out loud. There is something not quite right about our boss’s plan, and since he’s sending us to do his dirty work for him, what would stop him from, say, one day sending a couple of other helpful assistants to do another dirty work?”
“Why don’t you give him a call then and let him know that after a long and deep discussion, we’ve decided we don’t really feel like living anymore, and we don’t mind disappearing without a trace, and we certainly don’t mind if our corpses are thrown into the Hudson and never found. I suggest we get a grip because the second they let the audience in, our job becomes significantly harder.”
“I just remember all the childish mischief the three of us got into together. Don’t tell me you don’t think about it. Didn’t you see the boss’s face—even he’s not a hundred percent sure of the call he made. Not to mention the fact that everything feels like absolute paranoia to me... And then this lousy rain on top of it...”
Seven:
“I can only imagine what it’s like for the guys backstage right now. Dark clouds over Elsinore... Last Friday, Stevens had us improvise being actors. Hilarious.”
“I know—we’ve all been through the same insanity. I remember it took me quite a while to forget Stanislavski and all those other theories on objective and realistic acting. No, really—please tell me, how do you act out acting?”
“Precisely. He made us improvise a Shakespeare-style monologue, and, of course, we all ended up doing the same one—guess which one. And just when we’d almost given up, Stevens called up the Colombian girl on stage—the same one who broke down in tears at our rehearsal—and made her show us ‘how it’s done.’ Naturally, at first, she felt embarrassed and refused to get up on stage, but Stevens approached her and quietly told her that the class would not continue unless she got up and recited her monologue. All of a sudden, without any preparation, the girl jumped up on stage and started talking—about herself, about Colombia, about her journey to New York... things that were quite puzzling and unrelated. But Stevens kept on nodding and exclaiming ‘No way!’ and ‘Unbelievable!’ and so on, until at some point, we, too, became enthralled. And just when we all began to enjoy ourselves, he suddenly clapped and took her down from the stage as unceremoniously as he’d gotten her up on it. Then he turned to us, all stunned in the first row, and said: ‘Anyone can show off with to be or not to be. Don’t fool yourselves for a second—none of you will pass this class if your only goal is to show off.’”
“Oh, yes, painfully familiar tricks. I suppose he also relayed the maxim that there are only two professions where one must know when to improvise: acting and prostitution. Which, personally, I can’t agree with, but that’s just me. In my mind, there’s no separation between the stage and the audience. We’re all inside the same melting pot, and for me, the real game begins when I’m not quite certain which side of the barrier I’m on—whether there’s even a barrier to begin with or if it’s forced on us by people and experts who fail to see beyond these meaningless black symbols on white paper.... Prostitution? For me, theater is brutal rape, and that’s how I want it to stay.”
One:
“I think the performance is slowly making its way from the stage to the audience. It’s eight-thirty, and I’m starting to look around for hidden cameras. Besides, at this point, the actors have either decided to go on or they’ve decided not to.”
“Schrödinger’s Actors.”
“What?”
“Schrödinger. Schrödinger’s cat. You have a cat in a box. You shoot a gun at the box, and the chances of the cat being alive or dead after you open the box are fifty-fifty. It’s the same with actors. I think every actor’s worst nightmare is not being a hundred percent sure whether the show that’s supposed to start in minutes or seconds will actually take place. It’s like asking a girl out and not knowing whether she’ll say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ It’s like being parachuted onto the battlefield and not knowing whether you’ll make it out alive. It’s like not knowing whether to be or not to be.”
Two:
“Get a hold of yourself, please! People are looking at us!”
“How late is it to call and tell them the job’s off?”
“You’re out of your mind. And what do you mean ‘the job’s off’? Did you forget that this ‘job’ is part of a much bigger ‘job’? Or did you forget that we both agreed to this ‘job’ and nobody forced anyone to take this ‘job’? For the love of God, can you relax for just a second? I’m begging you—hear me out, and please, trust me just one more time. There are times when a man has to do things that, at first glance, seem unthinkable, but when he reflects on them, he sees there is no other choice. Forget your feelings! Feelings are clichéd reactions thrust upon us by people who’ve had the same clichéd reactions thrust upon them, and so on, ad infinitum. Sometimes it’s better to just shake it off and look soberly at life and the future. At this precise moment, feelings are our worst advisor, our worst enemy.”
“But for God’s sake, he’s my son!”
Three:
“What do you say if, after the show, we grab a bottle and recklessly drink it at home like two girls for whom the best is yet to come? I think all our troubles come from allowing ourselves to be held hostage by the present. Our life in this very moment is such-and-such, our relationship with our partner in this very moment is such-and-such, and we too, in this very moment, are such-and-such... and without fail, we’re always in some catastrophic and desperate situation. Let me ask you something—do you recall your most catastrophic problem from a year ago? I’m willing to bet it was a problem that, a year ago, seemed like the end of the world, but right now, you can’t even remember it.... The present doesn’t exist.”
“I want to leave.”
“You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying here with me until the end of the evening, even if we end up leaving here utterly soaked and with a terrible cold. And something else—I forbid you from mentioning him until the end of the evening. And one more thing—I forbid you from even thinking about him. What do you say?”
“I’m leaving.”
Four:
“Well, I have to get going. This rain is death to my old bones.”
“I’m really happy we met and had the chance to talk. I hope we meet again soon and continue our debate.”
“The chances we’ll see each other again are quite slim. Time has left its mark, and it’s a real challenge to venture out of my dark hole. One last thing—I’d advise you to look around and try to see the world not through the eyes of others but through your own eyes.... Well, goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
Five:
“Are we just going to sit in silence all evening?”
“Why not? If we’ve got nothing to say to each other.”
“Don’t worry about your sister. Everything’s going to be alright.”
“If you say so.”
Six:
“I found him. He’s talking to some lunatic with a giant placard hanging from his neck that says, ‘Shakespeare is not Shakespeare.’”
“Where?”
“Over there, just by the statue with the two young people. You see that clown with the placard? On his right.”
“Yes, yes, yes! Great!... Okay, let’s see... So... The only thing I need from you is to stir up a loud commotion on this side of the line to divert the crowd’s attention. I don’t know, think of something—knock over a table, or pretend you’re drunk and get into a fight with someone in line. I don’t know, think of something. The only thing I need is ten seconds of chaos. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Seven:
“I overheard you talking about theater. Professional actors, or still in school?”
“Juilliard students. And what do you do?”
“What do I do? Well... what don’t I do? Lately, it’s been aimlessly wandering around lines of people at theater festivals and eavesdropping on interesting conversations. For instance, just a minute ago, I was at the other end of the line talking to a truly unique oddball who plied me with so many strange ideas that I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.... So—actors, you say? Good ones, or ones that leave something to be desired?”
“Maybe it’s best if we continue this conversation in a few years when you’re going to be in line waiting to watch us.”
One:
“What happened? Where did you go?”
“The line for the women’s restroom was longer than the line for the show. By the way, at the other end of the line, a couple of young actors from Juilliard have started quite a party. They’ve written the titles of plays on little pieces of paper, filled a hat with them, and now people are drawing from the hat while the actors act out parts of the plays. I told you the actual performance will be offstage. Do you want to go join them? Something tells me there’s no point in keeping our place in line.”
“I’ll come, but first, I want you to admit that this is one of the most romantic nights of your life.”
“Are you coming or not?”
Two:
“I envy them!... Their life is a yet unwritten book, and if there was any way to tell them that the only thing asked of them is to be careful and to watch who they trust... By the way, aren’t they in danger of being thrown out by security? Isn’t it a bit tactless to dump on the real show like that?”
“Security can’t do anything if they’re not soliciting money, and as far as any perceived lack of diplomacy goes, where would their successful peers on the other side of the fence be today had they not been tactless back when they were on this side of it?”
“Oh god, is that supposed to be a mustache? It looks more like a bowtie... Ha, it is a bowtie!”
“You see that, darling—all you need is a fake mustache to get right back into a good mood. Come here, let me hold you!”
Three:
“Excuse me, have you seen a girl, twenty-four, with long black hair and a long flowery dress?”
“I haven’t, I’m sorry. Doesn’t she have a phone?”
“I’ve been trying her for ten minutes, but she’s not answering.”
“Why don’t you check out the bars across the park? A lot of people are headed that way now. This rain won’t let up anytime soon.”
Four:
“Okay, here we go! This one is a special request from our sophisticated audience for an improv on illusions. Hey, Billie, how strong are your illusions? Do you want to give it a try?”
“No, my friend, I’ll pass. Maybe Mike?”
“Hey, Mike? What do you say?”
“Wow... Okay... Illusions, illusions... Oh, God... Illusions... Okay!... Well, I know, nobody here will believe this, but... just a minute before I got in this line, in another line outside the cafeteria, I met a guy who told me about a mysterious old man with a placard, whom, apparently, none of us noticed, but who, it seems, told our guy quite a strange tale about a woman and her husband who went up to their summer house in the mountains for a few days. This was the place where the two loved to be alone, take endless walks in the forest, spend blissful moments in front of the fireplace, and lie lazily in the hammocks in their backyard. On one such weekend, the woman was unusually quiet and deep in thought. Anytime her husband asked her a question, her responses were brisk and curt. She said she was tired or indisposed each time he suggested they take a walk among the trees or take the boat out to swim in the nearby lake. The husband was left with nothing else to do but lie back in one of the hammocks with a book, and it took him no time at all to drift away under the sun’s gently caressing rays and the beguiling birdsong. As he lay in the hammock, quietly dozing off, the woman stayed glued to the kitchen window, her eyes hungrily searched between the trees. She stood, tensely expecting something for a long while, until she spotted the dark figure of a man slowly sneaking his way onto their property, or more precisely, toward the hammock where her husband now lay in deep slumber. The woman didn’t tear her eyes away from the dark figure until it was just a few steps away from her husband. Then she slowly lowered the kitchen blinds and waited for several minutes. When she raised them again, there was no trace of the dark figure, but her husband lay dead in his hammock with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes. The woman did not budge from her spot by the window for a whole hour, until dusk descended outside. As she stood there, frozen like a statue, she relived, one by one, all those moments she and her now-dead husband had spent together—their walks in the forest, their boat rides on the lake. The woman’s life flashed before her eye—from the moment they had their first date until the moment she raised the kitchen blinds. And when the memories finally melted away, she became horrified with herself, realizing she hadn’t so much as let out a single sob or shed a single tear. With a heavy heart, but not without a certain sense of relief, she realized that the most significant part of her life had been one big illusion, and that with the raising of the kitchen blinds, it was as though her life’s illusions had also been lifted.”
One:
“The boy definitely had talent, but you have to admit, his story was terribly predictable.”
“Don’t be cruel. He was improvising.”
“I think that you’d expect sharper twists and turns precisely because he was improvising. Life is filled with sharp twists and turns, anyway.”
“Well, maybe his life isn’t. Maybe his life is so boring and predictable that he just wants to shoot himself.”
Two:
“Please, wait! Listen to me, please, stop!”
“I can’t! I can’t take it anymore, I can’t!”
“Please, just stop screaming! Just don’t scream!”
“Let’s get out of here! Now!”
Three:
“Oh, my God! No! Dear God, no!”
“Please, I need you to calm down! Please!... Do you recognize the body?”
“Jesus Christ! What happened?”
“A few minutes ago, some kids spotted her body by the edge of the pond... You need to come down to the police station with me, as you were likely the last person to see her alive. Do you have her family’s contact information?... Please, calm down and get in the car with me!”
Four:
“Excuse me, did you happen to see an older man with white hair and a giant placard hanging from his neck?”
“No, I haven’t, I’m sorry. Have you checked the cafeteria... or maybe the restroom?”
“I checked both. It’s a huge placard that says, ‘Shakespeare is not Shakespeare’.”
“Very funny!”
Five:
“Do you want to get going?”
“I don’t care either way.”
“I think even if we’re able to get in, I’m not sure how much we’ll be able to enjoy the show in this awful downpour.”
“I told you, I don’t care.”
Six:
“I lost him.”
“What do you mean you lost him?”
“I lost him. He disappeared into a crowd of young men who were putting on some kind of show in the waiting line. Before I knew it, he vanished into thin air.”
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
Seven:
“What was wrong with that woman? Why was she screaming like that?”
“I assume for the same reason the Colombian girl broke down in tears.”
“Too bad Stevens wasn’t around to yell out, ‘Unbelievable!’”
“No chance—the woman simply fell victim to Stanislavski’s system.”
One:
“Attention, please! Tonight’s performance has been canceled due to heavy rain.”
“What was the point of having us wait a whole hour to tell us something you could have told us at eight o’clock?”
“I’m sorry, sir!... Attention, please! Tonight’s performance has been canceled due to heavy rain.”
“Well, at least now all of us, without exception, have finally been assured that these drops weren’t falling from the trees but were, in fact, heavy rain—plain and simple.”
