KATURIAN. And that's kind of like the end of the story, that should be like the end of the story, the father gets his comeuppance. But then it goes on.
TUPOLSKI. But then it goes on. The girl wakes up that night. A number of applemen are walking up her chest. They hold her mouth open. They say to her ...
KATURIAN. (Slight voice.) "You killed our little brothers ..."
TUPOLSKI. "You killed our little brothers." They climb down her throat. She chokes to death on her own blood. The end.
KATURIAN. It's a bit of a twist. You think it's a dream sequence. It isn't. (Pause.) What? I said it wasn't my best one.
ARIEL. You hang out round the Jew quarter, Katurian?
KATURIAN. The Jew quarter? No. Now and then I pass through there. I collect my brother the Lamenec district, his school. It's not the Jewish quarter. You go through the Jewish quarter.
ARIEL. You collect your brother, he's older than you, he still goes to school?
KATURIAN. It's a special school. It's a learning difficulties. (Pause.) Is this a Jew thing? I don't know any Jews.
ARIEL. You don't know any Jews?
KATURIAN. I don't have anything against any Jews, but I don't know any Jews.
ARIEL. But you don't have anything against any Jews?
KATURIAN. No. Should I have?
TUPOLSKI. "Should I have?" Good answer. "Should I have?" Kind of lily-livered and subservient on the one hand, yet vaguely sarcastic and provocative on the other. "Should I have?"
KATURIAN. I wasn't trying to be provocative.
TUPOLSKI. Were you trying to be subservient?
KATURIAN. No.
TUPOLSKI. Then you were trying to be provocative. And now Ariel is going to hit you again ...
KATURIAN. Listen, I don't understand what I'm doing here. I don't know what you want me to say. I don't have anything against anybody. Any Jews or you or anybody. I just write stories. That's all I do. That's my life. I stay in and I write stories. That's it. (Ariel stands, moves to the door.)
ARIEL. This reminds me. I'm going to talk to the brother. (Ariel exits, Tupolski smiles.)
KATURIAN. (Stunned, scared) My brother's at school.
TUPOLSKI. Me and Ariel, we have this funny thing, we always say, "This reminds me" when the thing hasn't really reminded us of the thing we're saving it reminds us of at all. It's really funny.
KATURIAN. My brother's at school.
TUPOLSKI. Your brother is one door down.
KATURIAN. (Pause.) But he'll be scared ...
TUPOLSKI. You seem a little scared yourself.
KATURIAN. I am a little scared.
TUPOLSKI. What are you scared about?
KATURIAN. I'm scared my brother is all alone in a strange place, and I'm scared your friend is gonna go kick the shit out of him, and I'm scared he's gonna come kick the shit out of me again although if he does it's okay, I mean I'd rather he didn't but if there's something in these stories you don't like then go ahead and take it out on me, but my brother gets frightened easily, and he doesn't understand these things and he's got nothing to do with these stories anyway, I've only ever read them to him, so I just think it's completely unfair you should've brought him down here and I think you should just fucking go and fucking let him out of here right now! Right fucking now!
TUPOLSKI. (Pause.) I bet you're all adrenaline now, aren't you, all "Ooh just shouted at a policeman," all "Ooh probably shouldn't've but ooh got really angry." Ooh. Calm the fuck down. Alright? Do you think we're animals?
KATURIAN. No.
TUPOLSKI. Well, we're not animals. We deal, sometimes, with animals. We're not animals. (Pause.) Your brother will be fine. I give you my word. (Tupolski looks at another story from the pile.) "The Tale of the Three Gibbet Crossroads." This does not have your theme, it seems.
KATURIAN. What theme?
TUPOLSKI. Y'know, your theme, "Some poor little kid gets fucked up." Your theme.
KATURIAN. That isn't a theme. Some of them have come out that way. That isn't a theme.
TUPOLSKI. Although maybe, in an oblique way, it docs have your theme.
KATURIAN. I don't have themes. I've written, what, four hundred stories, and maybe ten or twenty have children in?
TUPOLSKI. Have murdered children in.
KATURIAN. So, what, this is about stories with murdered children in? Do you think I'm trying to say, "Go out and murder children"?
TUPOLSKI. I'm not saying you're trying to say "Go out and murder children." (Pause.) Are you trying to say, "Go out and murder children"?
KATURIAN. No! No bloody way! Are you kidding? I'm not trying to say anything at all! That's my whole thing.
TUPOLSKI. I know, I know, your whole thing, the first duty of a storyteller is to ...
KATURIAN. Yes...
TUPOLSKI. ... Blah blah blah. I know. This "Three Gibbet Crossroads" ...
KATURIAN. If there are children in them, it's incidental. If there is politics in them, it's incidental. It's accidental.
TUPOLSKI. Except, the thing is, don't interrupt me when I'm talking ...
KATURIAN. No, I'm sorry...
TUPOLSKI. If I ask you something outright, or if I go with my eyes, like, "Go ahead and say something," like with my eyes, then you go ahead and say something, but if I'm in the middle of something ...
KATURIAN. I know, I'm sorry ...
TUPOLSKI. And you're fucking doing it again! Did I ask you something outright?! Did I go with my eyes like, "Go ahead and say something"?!
KATURIAN. No.
TUPOLSKI. No, I didn't, did I? (Pause.) Did I? See, that was an outright question and I did go with my eyes like, "Go ahead and say something."
KATURIAN. I'm sorry. I'm nervous.
TUPOLSKI. You have a right to be nervous.
KATURIAN. I know.
TUPOLSKI. No, you didn't hear me. I said, "You have a right... to be nervous."
KATURIAN. Why?
TUPOLSKI. (Pause.) "The Three Gibbet Crossroads." What are you trying to tell us in this story?
KATURIAN. I'm not trying to tell you anything. It's supposed to be just a puzzle without a solution.
TUPOLSKI. And what is the solution?
KATURIAN. (Pause.) There isn't one. It's a puzzle without a solution.
TUPOLSKI. I think there's a solution. But then, I'm really clever.
KATURIAN. Well, I mean, you're right, the idea is you should wonder what the solution is, but the truth is there is no solution, because there is nothing worse, is there? Than the two things it says.
TUPOLSKI. There is nothing worse?
KATURIAN. (Pause.) Is there?
TUPOLSKI. (Paraphrases through the story.) A man wakes up in the iron gibbet he's been left to starve to death in. He knows he was guilty of the crime they put him in there for, but he cannot remember what the crime was. Across the crossroads from him are two other gibbets; there's a placard outside one that reads "Rapist," there's a placard outside the second that reads "Murderer." There's a dusty skeleton inside the rapists cage; there's a dying old man inside the murderer's cage. Our man can't read the placard outside his own cage, so he asks the old man to read it for him, to find out what he's done. The old man looks at the placard, looks at our man, then spits in his face in disgust. (Pause.) Some nuns come along. They say prayers over the dead rapist. Uh-huh. They give food and water to the old murderer. Uh-huh. They read our man's crime. The life drains from them and they walk away in tears. (Pause.) A highwayman comes along, ah-hah. He looks over the rapist without much interest. He sees the old murderer, smashes the lock off his cage, sets him free. He comes to our man's cage, reads his crime. The highwayman smiles slightly. Our man smiles back, slightly. The highwayman raises his gun and shoots him through the heart. As our man is dying he screams out, "Just tell me what I've done?!" The highwayman rides off without telling him what he's done. The last words that our man ever says are, "Will I go to Hell?" And the last sound he ever hears is the highwayman quietly laughing.
KATUR
IAN. That's a good story. That's something-esque. What kind of "esque" is it? I can't remember. I don't really go in for that "esque" sort of stuff anyway, but there's nothing wrong with that story. Is there?
TUPOLSKI. No, there's nothing wrong with that story. There's nothing in that story you would say the person who wrote this story is a sick fucking scummy cunt. No. All this story is to me, this story is a pointer.
KATURIAN. A pointer?
TUPOLSKI. It is a pointer.
KATURIAN. Oh.
TUPOLSKI. It is saying to me, on the surface I am saying this, but underneath the surface I am saying this other thing.
KATURIAN. Oh.
TUPOLSKI. It is a pointer. You understand?
KATURIAN. Yes. It is a pointer.
TUPOLSKI. It is a pointer. (Pause.) It's your best story, you say?
KATURIAN. No. It's one of my best stories.
TUPOLSKI. Oh, it's one of your best stories. You have so many.
KATURIAN. Yes. (Pause.) My best story is "The Town on the River" one. "The Tale of the Town on the River."
TUPOLSKI. Your best story is "The Tale of the Town on the River"? Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait ... (Tupolski quickly finds the story.) Hang on ... Here we are. Ah-hah. This tells me something, "This is your best story."
KATURIAN. Why, what is it, is it a pointer? (Tupolski stares at him.) Um, it's the only one that was published.
TUPOLSKI. We know its the only one that was published.
KATURIAN. So far.
TUPOLSKI. (Half-laughs. Pause.) The Libertad it was published.
KATURIAN. Yes.
TUPOLSKI. The Libertad.
KATURIAN. I don't read it.
TUPOLSKI. You don't read it.
KATURIAN. I send the stories around, you know, just in the hopes, to wherever might take them. I don't read all the ...
TUPOLSKI. You don't read The Libertad.
KATURIAN. No.
TUPOLSKI. It isn't illegal, you read The Libertad.
KATURIAN. I know. Nor if you have a story published in it. I know.
TUPOLSKI. It has your theme. (Pause.) Did they give you themes, The Libertad? Like, "Write a story about a pony," or, "Write a story about some little kid who gets totally fucked up." Did they do that?
KATURIAN. They just gave a word-count thing. The maximum words.
TUPOLSKI. It was a theme of your own choosing?
KATURIAN. It was a theme of my own choosing. (Tupolski hands Katurian the story.)
TUPOLSKI. Read it to me.
KATURIAN. The whole of it?
TUPOLSKI. The whole of it. Standing. (Katurian stands.)
KATURIAN. This feels like school, somehow.
TUPOLSKI. Mm. Except at school they didn't execute you at the end. (Pause.) Unless you went to a really fucking tough school. (Pause, then Katurian reads the story, enjoying his own words, its details and its twists.)
KATURIAN. (Pause.) Um, "Once upon a time in a tiny cobble-streeted town on the banks of a fast-flowing river, there lived a little boy who did not get along with the other children of the town; they picked on and bullied him because he was poor and his parents were drunkards and his clothes were rags and he walked around barefoot. The little boy, however, was of a happy and dreamy disposition, and he did not mind the taunts and the beatings and the unending solitude. He knew that he was kind-hearted and full of love and that someday someone somewhere would see this love inside him and repay him in kind. Then, one night, as he sat nursing his newest bruises at the foot of the wooden bridge that crossed the river and led out of town, he heard the approach of a horse and cart along the dark, cobbled street, and as it neared he saw that its driver was dressed in the darkest of robes, the black hood of which bathed his craggy face in shadow and sent a shiver of fear through the little boy's body. Putting his fear aside, the boy took out the small sandwich that was to be his supper that night and, just as the cart was about to pass onto and over the bridge, he offered it up to the hooded driver to see if he would like some. The cart stopped, the driver nodded, got down and sat beside the little boy for a while, sharing the sandwich and discussing this and that. The driver asked the boy why he was barefoot and ragged and all alone, and as the boy told the driver of his poor, hard life, he eyed the back of the drivers cart; it was piled high with small, empty animal cages, all foul-smelling and dirt-lined, and just as the boy was about to ask what kind of animals it was had been inside them, the driver stood up and announced that he had to be on his way. "But before I go," the driver whispered, "because you have been so kindly to an old weary traveller in offering half of your already meagre portions, I would like to give you something now, the worth of which today you may not realise, but one day, when you are a little older, perhaps, I think you will truly value and thank me for. Now close your eyes." And so the little boy did what he was told and closed his eyes, and from a secret inner pocket of his robes the driver pulled out a long, sharp and shiny meat cleaver, raised it high in the air and brought it scything down onto the boy's right foot, severing all five of his muddy little toes. And as the little boy sat there in gaping silent shock, staring blankly off into the distance at nothing in particular, the driver gathered up his bloody toes, tossed them away to the gaggle of rats that had begun to gather in the gutters, got back onto his cart, and quietly rode on over the bridge, leaving the boy, the rats, the river and the darkening town of Hamelin far behind him." (Looks at Tupolski for any response, giving him back the story, sitting back down.) Of Hamelin, see?
TUPOLSKI. Of Hamelin.
KATURIAN. Do you get it? The little boy is the little crippled boy who can't keep up when the Pied Piper comes back to take all the children away. That's how he was crippled.
TUPOLSKI. I know that.
KATURIAN. It's a twist.
TUPOLSKI. I know it's a twist.
KATURIAN. It's the children he was after.
TUPOLSKI. It's the children who was after?
KATURIAN. It's the children the Pied Piper was after. To begin with. My idea was he brought the rats. He brought the rats. He knew the townspeople wouldn't pay. It was the children he was after in the first place.
TUPOLSKI. (Nods. Pause.) This reminds me. (Goes to the filing cabinet, takes out a metal box the size of a biscuit tin, then sits back down with it, placing it on the table between them.)
KATURIAN. What? Oh, "This reminds you." When it hasn't reminded you of anything. (Tupolski stares at him.) What's in the box? (Sound of a man screaming hideously a few rooms away. Katurian stands, becoming flustered.) That's my brother.
TUPOLSKI. (Listening.) Yes, I believe it is.
KATURIAN. What's he doing to him?
TUPOLSKI. Well, something fucking horrible. I don't know, do I?
KATURIAN. You said you wouldn't touch him.
TUPOLSKI. I haven't touched him.
KATURIAN. But you said he would be fine. You gave me your word. (The screaming stops.)
TUPOLSKI. Katurian. I am a high-ranking police officer in a totalitarian fucking dictatorship. What are you doing taking my word about anything? (Ariel returns, wrapping his bloodied hand in white cloth.)
KATURIAN. What have you done to my brother? (Ariel motions Tupolski over. They confer in a corner a while, then sit.) What have you done to my brother, I said?!
TUPOLSKI. See, Ariel? Katurian's asking the questions now. First it was, "What's in the box?" — that was while you were torturing the spastic — then it's, "What have you done to my brother?"
KATURIAN. Fuck "What's in the box." What have you done to my brother?!
TUPOLSKI. Well, Ariel had a problem childhood, see, and he tends to take it out on all the retards we get in custody. It's bad, really, if you think about it.
KATURIAN. What have you done to him?!
ARIEL. Y'know, you being such an upstart and shouting all over the place, I would usually have smashed your face in by now, but because I've just been doing that to your subnormal brother, my hand really hurts, so for
now I'm just going to let you off with a very stern warning.
KATURIAN. I want to see my brother. Right now.
TUPOLSKI. You smashed his face in, did you, Ariel? Except, hang on, that could be classified as police brutality, couldn't it? Oh no!
ARIEL. He really hurt my hand.
TUPOLSKI. Look at your poor hand!
ARIEL. I know, it really hurts.
TUPOLSKI. How many times have I told you? Use a truncheon, use a whaddyacall. Your bare hands, Ariel? And on a spastic? He won't even get the benefit.
KATURIAN. He's just a child!
ARIEL. I'm taking a breather now, but the next time I go in there, I think I am going to put something sharp up inside him and then turn it.
TUPOLSKI. Oh, Ariel, that'd definitely be classed as "police brutality."
KATURIAN. I want to see my brother right now!
TUPOLSKI. What happened to the third child?
KATURIAN. What? (Pause.) What third child?
ARIEL. So it's you and your brother, yeah? You're close, you and your brother?
KATURIAN. He's all I've got.
ARIEL. You and your spastic brother.
KATURIAN. He's not spastic.
TUPOLSKI. "The Writer and his Spastic Brother." Title for a story, Katurian.
KATURIAN. (Tearfully.) He's just a child.
TUPOLSKI. No, he's not. You know who was? Andrea Jovacovic was. You know who she was?
KATURIAN. (Pause. Sitting down.) Only from the papers.
TUPOLSKI. Only from the papers. What do you know about her, "only from the papers"?
KATURIAN. She was the girl they found on the heath.
TUPOLSKI. She was the girl they found on the heath, yes. You know how she died?
KATURIAN. No.
TUPOLSKI. Why don't you know how she died?
KATURIAN. The papers didn't say.
TUPOLSKI. The papers didn't say. You know who Aaron Goldberg was?
KATURIAN. Only from the papers.
TUPOLSKI. Yes. He was the boy they found in the dump behind the Jewish quarter. You know how he died?