BEN: also Bosch, Marek, Bobby
VANDAL: also Andrius
EGLĖ: also Miglė
LIZ: also Elizabeth, Police Woman
EDDIE: also Hippy, Christ
OLGA: Russian woman, squatter
KAROLINA: interior designer
FREDDIE: also Farouk
AZIM: a Pakistani man
HARRY: also Englishman, Calmface, Galileo Figaro
SHASHKO: also Super Heavyweight
OKSANA: also Super Heavyweight’s Wife
KARLIS: a Latvian squatter
ALGIRDAS: also Brother
ROMAS: also Brother II
REGINA: also Lithuanian Woman
ROBERT: British Policeman
ZBIGNIEW: also Box I, Homeless Man I
BEARDFACE: also Box II, Homeless Man II
DRIVER: driver of minibus
DRIVER II: driver of minibus
FRIEND: from Victoria Park
FRIEND II: from Victoria Park
CHRIST: wooden sculpture
TWO ANGELS
COMMUTER WITH THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
CRIMINAL
ACT I
BEN: It was ten years ago. I’m lying, it’s been twelve . . . Back then, it was also October. I remember buying a can of Coca-Cola. I don’t remember exactly how much it cost . . . Then, as we slid on further to the West, I would buy a new one, each time more expensive. The last one cost n-times more than the first. Four or five times more valuable . . . So, it turns out, I’ve become four times more valuable on this trip . . . You gain in value without doing a thing . . .
Though really, I was a secret agent. And we were rolling on to London—banishing ourselves—as we used to say back then. It smelled of sausages and exhaust. The Twin Towers were still standing in New York, but the princess had already died.
In order to recreate that time, that scent, I have to recreate Ben. In other words, myself, though I barely remember him. I only know that Ben was very happy back then.
He was more or less like this: a hard, tensed face; a slightly protruding and predatory chin; a gaze that was directed partly to the inside, as if hidden, dimmed. It’s hardest to recreate what was inside of him, all that junk he was stuffed with, which he tried so long to get rid of. I call that part of him The Mongol, or The East.
(Pause.)
No, I won’t be able to recreate him, not entirely. Let him slowly spread his wings, fill himself out, sink down, and then I’ll let him go. For now, Vandal will be enough.
VANDAL: Blet! Whose sausages are those?
BEN: It won’t be so easy to put up with him.
VANDAL: They stink, for fuck’s sake . . .
BEN: But this is not some fictional world where you can just make everything nice, cut off your hero’s balls . . .
VANDAL (lighting a cig): It’s like, blet, traveling in a country cottage.
BEN: My Vandal has both his balls—and big ones. And if you can’t squeeze them . . .
DRIVER I: Guys, no smoking . . .
VANDAL: Oh, fuck off! Should we vomit from the smell of sausages instead?
BEN: Chill out about those sausages . . .
VANDAL: Well, I can’t, kurva . . . They stink.
BROTHER (from the front of the bus): Put it out, man.
(VANDAL stops and listens.)
BEN: Well, this is getting dicey.
BROTHER: You, I’m talkin’ to you.
BEN: And if I wasn’t here . . .
VANDAL (trying to force his way out): Who the fuck is talkin’ to me like that . . . ?
BEN: Vandal is a puncher. Powerful, willing to let his fists fly . . .
VANDAL (to BEN): Let me out, kurva. My legs are fuckin’ asleep . . .
BEN (holding on to the struggling VANDAL): But where there’s no space, like here . . .
VANDAL: Seriously, I need to walk around, blet, I want to.
BEN: . . . he’s helpless against me. Vandal, I’m a wrestler, and you know it.
BROTHER (to VANDAL): No one’s afraid of you here.
(VANDAL stops and listens.)
BEN: Well, this is getting dangerous . . .
DRIVER II: Guys, let’s cut the crap.
BEN: I don’t know who those guys are—sturdy enough, like bricks, but if Vandal got over to them . . .
DRIVER II: We’ll stop, and then you can work things out.
BEN: . . . because I’ve seen what he can do . . . When we were stealing a Lexus SUV and a bunch of young men ran up—the security team—he swiped them away like papers from a desk. I saw for the first time—and not in a movie, but right there in real life—men flying through the sky . . .
VANDAL: Will you let me out or not, blet!
BEN: Chill out.
VANDAL: I’m tellin’ you, there’ll be no warning . . .
(VANDAL hits BEN on the shoulder.)
BEN: He doesn’t have much patience either.
If there’s a ride that won’t go, Vandal puts his spurs into it. He breaks the glass, forces the lock and drives it off to the garage. He’s not a cautious man. We spent a lot of time running on adrenaline together. We stared death in the face, just like in the movies . . .
VANDAL (hits BEN on the shoulder): Will you let me out?
BEN: That’s enough!
VANDAL: I’ll smack you, I will.
(He hits BEN on the shoulder. His fist slides off into BEN’s chin.)
It slipped, blet . . .
(BEN puts VANDAL in a headlock.)
Let go of my neck, blet. It hurts . . .
BEN: It hurts. It’s supposed to hurt . . .
VANDAL: You kurva, Russky! You’re strangling me . . .
BEN (gritting his teeth): Russky, Polack, Mongol . . . I’m all of Žalgiris, you shit. Everything that stood in that field and fought the Christian Horde has run into me. That’s why today I’m righteous and you’re the pits. You’re just a gangster, blet.
You gonna hit me again?
VANDAL: Fuck off.
(BEN releases VANDAL.)
Kurva, you tweaked my neck.
BEN: That’s what I’m talking about: as long as I’m here—it’s all good. We’re like brothers—gangsters. We run together . . .
But we got into some trouble and have to disappear now for a while . . .
VANDAL (to the BROTHER): I’ll kill that faggot. We’re suffocating because of these sausages, blet.
BEN: It’s just that Vandal doesn’t know that I’m his real trouble.
BROTHER: They’re not my sausages.
VANDAL: I don’t give a damn . . .
BEN: And it was because of me that he was told: get lost, Vandal, or we’ll help you get lost.
VANDAL: Do you have something to drink?
BEN: Cola.
VANDAL: Give me some, blet, so I can wash down that stench.
BEN (hands him the can): And my section ordered me to watch his every move . . .
VANDAL (drinks): You gave me an empty.
BEN: Drink.
VANDAL: What, blet, should I drink—the can?
BEN: I remember wondering why they wanted an everyday car-thief when I laid out the whole pyramid for them, all the way to the top bosses.
VANDAL: Ben!
BEN: What?
VANDAL: Give me something to drink.
BEN: But it seems that’s how it had to be . . .
(The brothers stand up and approach BEN and VANDAL. VANDAL watches them.)
Wow, he’s really straining at the leash. It’s looking like things are gonna get hot here.
BROTHER (with a bottle of vodka in his hand): Guys, do we really need to fucking bark at each other? We’re all brothers here, Lithuanians . . .
(VANDAL crushes the can in his hand.)
You’re going to work?
VANDAL: To kill.
To kill, and then, blet, to smoke and eat some kurva sausages.
BROTHER II: Let’s go, stay away from them . . .
BROTHER: So why are you guys so angry?
VANDAL: We’re the angry ones, blet?
BROTHER: Well, sure . . .
VANDAL: Say it again, kurva.
BROTHER: What?
BROTHER II: Let’s go. Don’t get involved.
Vandal: Ben, are you a man or what? This faggot is putting you down.
BEN: Chill out . . .
VANDAL (to BROTHER): On your knees! On your knees before the angel . . . Kurva, if it wasn’t for him you’d have been lying in a ditch long ago.
(Pause.)
BROTHER: Have you been before?
BEN: Where?
BROTHER: To the United Kingdoms.
VANDAL: We’ve been . . . We’re going, blet, to check them out.
BROTHER II: What?
VANDAL: The fucking kingdoms, blet, if they’re united properly.
BROTHER (with an angry laugh): You like making jokes?
VANDAL: Fuck. (Grabs the bottle.) Can I get a drink, blet, or are you just holding it?
(Guzzles vodka. Shakes it off.)
(to BROTHER) What is this shit?
BROTHER: Lithuanian.
(VANDAL guzzles vodka. Gives it to BEN.)
VANDAL (to BEN): Want some?
BEN: Give it to me (takes bottle).
(Guzzles vodka. Shakes it off.)
It didn’t seem we drank that much . . . But a warmth came over us . . .
And a kind of love . . . (has a drink).
ALL (singing): Let’s saaadle up our steeds, brothers
Let’s saaadle up our steeds, brothers
Let’s saaaaaadle up our steeds, brothers
We have to ride to waaar . . .
BEN: . . . then you think proudly to yourself: Ben . . . B. Ivanovas. Secret agent of the police . . . You’ve almost done your heroic deed.
ALL (singing): Let’s saaaaaadle up our steeds, brothers
We have to ride to waaar
BEN: Undercover Ben. Ben who got into the very heart of the mafia . . .
ALL (singing): Haaand me up my swoord, sister
Haaand me up my swoord, sister
Haaand me up my swoooord, sister
I have to kill my foe . . .
VANDAL: We’re singing it wrong.
BROTHER: What?
VANDAL: We switched the verses. How is she going to give you the sword if you’re already on the steed?
BROTHER: Why can’t she give it?
VANDAL: Fuck . . . What’s she gonna do, drag it along the ground? Kurva, you know how much that fucker weighs?
BROTHER: Well, you stretch out your hand . . .
VANDAL: What, blet, hand?
BROTHER: What, is it hard to stretch out a fucking hand?
VANDAL: Wouldn’t it, blet, be easier to take the sword first? Then get up on the horse?
BROTHER: I don’t see a problem here.
VANDAL: Fuck, he doesn’t see a problem . . .
BROTHER: She stretches it out and you take it . . .
VANDAL: And what, kurva, you’re not sorry for the sister? That, blet, she’s going to pull a muscle, that some hump is gonna grow on her and fuck if anyone’s gonna heal it with the health care in those days . . .
BROTHER: Well, but that’s how they sing it . . .
VANDAL: Who, blet, sings it?
BROTHER: Everyone.
VANDAL: So, kurva, you’re going to maim someone for some kind of established order to the lines? The sister, kurva, that tomboy, and all for some kind of principle, blet. Give it to him, blet, because that’s how it’s written, though you would shit yourself trying.
(Pause.)
Wouldn’t it be easier to just switch those verses?
(Raises the bottle.)
Here’s to you.
BROTHER: Cheers.
(VANDAL drinks.)
BEN: Then Vandal fell asleep, manspreading as gangsters do. I had to change seats to where I had already been wanting to go. (Goes to a free seat.) Maybe I could sit here?
GIRL: Why?
BEN: My colleague pushed me out.
GIRL: So where am I in all this?
BEN: By the window (laughs).
(Grows silent.)
Sorry, just kidding.
(GIRL turns away demonstratively.)
And so she didn’t let me sit down. I have in mind—with her voice . . . She just waved her tail at me . . . So that I would sit and not say shit.
(Sits.) Who makes them this way?
GIRL: What?
BEN: These . . . (Hitting the seat-back in front of him.) Mini-buses. There’s no privacy.
LITHUANIAN WOMAN: Hey, can we not hit the seat?
(BEN looks at GIRL.)
BEN: We were pressed together, sooo classic. Our tails were touching . . .
GIRL (turning): You’re going to play with bricks? Or what?
(BEN snorts.)
What’s so funny?
BEN: It’s just . . .
She completely missed the mark with her question . . . Had no idea who was really sitting next to her . . . And you? Probably not to play with bricks?
GIRL: No, I’m going to shoot photos.
BEN: Of what?
GIRL: Well, whatever . . . London.
BEN: You mean, like, houses?
GIRL: Fashion.
But that’s for bread—income . . . But for my soul—I shoot people.
(Proudly turns back to the window.)
BEN: What a friggin’ gay word—soul. But coming from her lips it did sound good. Like love, or something like that. And she wasn’t looking through the window, but through herself—into that soul. She was developing me there. She was photogasmically pleased with how I was developing . . . What people?
GIRL: All kinds. There’s more diversity there. We’re just one white mass at home.
BEN: I, of course, was an exception. We were both exceptions . . .
GIRL: For the record, I’m Miglė.
BEN: For what record?
GIRL: In case you ask . . . But listen, it stinks here. I’ll spray myself, OK?
BEN: Spray away.
MIGLĖ (pulls out perfume, sprays): It makes me sick.
Ben: We were going super-turbo. As if by the manual, but all on our own. With no forcing of the matter . . . (Sniffs.) And this would be some kind of Chanel?
MIGLĖ: Bulgari.
BEN: So that’s, like, Bulgarian?
(MIGLĖ turns to the window.)
She turned to the window again—propped her head on the edge of the seat, and the ass-seams of her jeans poked into my leg.
MIGLĖ: Listen, why don’t we sleep? Or do you want to keep chatting some more?
(Pause.)
Good night then.
BEN: Good night.
(Pause.)
I touched that seam of her jeans for the rest of the night. I was afraid to move my legs. I didn’t want to scare her. Of course, my legs fell asleep like that . . . Then my back . . .
(Closes his eyes.) Then from the ass of the bus the sausages broke in. The photographer was sleeping . . . The whole bus was snoring. And I was sitting there numb and the sausages got to me . . .
Then they turned to Miglė and I felt them touch her. I felt like I was that fucking sausage . . . that my sausage ends were crawling over the seams of her jeans. I even stopped breathing and started to swallow hard . . .
MIGLĖ (waking): Hey, coo-coo . . . Good morning . . .
BEN: I’m swallowing and swallowing and choking . . . but those sausages were endless—the whole sausagey bus . . .
MIGLĖ: Ring-a-ding, gas station . . .
BEN: And I don’t have anywhere to put them . . .
MIGLĖ: Hello, good morning . . .
(BEN vomits. MIGLĖ screams, jumps onto the seat.)
BEN: Sorry, I didn’t mean to. (Stretching his hand to her jeans.) I’ll clean it . . .
MIGLĖ (disgusted): Don’t bother.
BEN: I really didn’t mean it.
MIGLĖ: That’s it. (Cleans her clothes.)
(BEN stands up, walks back to his place, doubled over.)
BEN: Maybe we wouldn’t have gotten married anyway . . . Fact: somehow we would break up . . . But at least we would’ve had a goodbye hug . . . And if she had any problems with all that diversity I would rush over and put things in order. But for now—good-bye. Until we meet again, until we need each other again. (Sits by VANDAL.) In other words, I was for an end to our relationship, but a humane one . . . a noble one.
(VANDAL, sleeping, falls over onto BEN.)
Vandal was still pressing on me—like he was trying to push me out and back to her. But I couldn’t go back. My image in her soul was fading into a negative.
