"Minor marital crimes"
It’s difficult to choose material for a debut. I want to be original, new, unexpected. But Anton Yakovlev was not afraid to take on the most common topic - the relationship between a man and a woman. He turned to the play of the modern playwright E.-E. Schmitt “Small Marital Crimes”, making his own stage version. The range of subjects in art is small; the question is from what angle to look at the problem. And here nothing limits the director's imagination.
It's no secret that people are afraid to look into the future. Of course, everyone wants to know in advance about their successes and victories. But the fear of seeing dreams destroyed always wins. A major disaster can hit too hard, dividing life into “before” and “after”. And it will become especially difficult if we ourselves turn out to be the cause of the tragedy. We are very vigilant about important turns in fate. However, beingware of serious mistakes, we stop noticing those small “crimes” that we commit against loved ones every day. Lies, deceit, and indifference do not destroy well-being suddenly, but gradually undermine it. This lump of falsehood and misunderstanding grows over the years and often crushes the hard-preserved crumbs of family happiness.
He and she are an inexhaustible topic. There is invariably a temptation to get carried away by the event outline, to immerse yourself in descriptions of romantic dates, breakups, etc. But Anton Yakovlev does not need an exciting plot. The director tries to understand the essence of the relationships between the characters, carefully “listening” to each side.
Gilles and Lisa lived together for more than ten years and accumulated enough mutual grievances and claims. The play is built on a continuous confrontation between two people who are disappointed in each other. Everyone wants to have an ideal life partner. Lisa needs a great lover who would accompany her shopping when he is not busy working on another painting or detective story. And Gilles was tired of enduring Lisa’s jealousy and stumbling upon the wine bottles she had carefully hidden. At the same time, he does not at all try to find out the reason for his wife’s dangerous hobby. Gilles simply throws reproaches in her face with disgust. Gilles needs to know how his wife treats him, and therefore he pretends that he lost his memory after falling down the stairs. And Lisa takes advantage of his “illness” to finally “raise” the man of her dreams. By telling her husband about the past, she gives Gilles abilities that he never had. Deception, in essence, is a small crime. But in the end, Gilles will behave as she should. Both heroes are fixated on themselves, but somehow I don’t want to accuse them of selfishness: after all, these two people suddenly realized that a life full of happiness and pleasure had passed them by. This is where the instinct of self-preservation kicked in, forcing you to forget about everything except yourself and look for the culprit of your troubles in the person who had been nearby for many years.
The conflict between Gilles and Lisa is not reduced to a “kitchen” scandal. The director aestheticizes their psychological drama. Anton Yakovlev's performance is not intended to entertain, but to evoke empathy, because his characters are lost and alone. Lisa performed by Marina Ignatova is elegant, beautiful woman with refined manners and the plasticity of a cat. There is nothing prim and puffy about her. Lisa has a subtle mental organization and knows how to demonstrate her femininity and vulnerability. Evgeniy Baranova's Gilles is a family man, and he makes compromises easier than Lisa, his character is softer. And maybe that’s why he sometimes doesn’t mind feeling sorry for himself. An offended look, a drawn-out answer, a frozen pose, an awkward gesture. Such little things are subtle, but instantly captivate the viewer and endear him to the hero. Lisa and Gilles are different. And the more acute the misunderstanding between them.
Constantly arguing, they lie to each other more and more. It seems that, apart from reproaches, they have nothing in common. (Except for the memories of the day they met. And even those are not particularly romantic. What girl dreams of meeting a young man who vomited on the hood of her car?) A lump of family crimes is growing before our eyes. And the couple’s apartment doesn’t look like a cozy nest at all. Everything is covered with white canvas, “eating up” the space, creating a vacuum in which it is impossible to exist in harmony with oneself and the world. In this monochrome room without doors or windows, you feel squeezed, cornered. Black people on a white background (the heroes are dressed in deep black coats). No shades or halftones. The same irreconcilable confrontation is in the life of Lisa and Gilles, the same monotony that has bothered them over many years, the reluctance to give in, the ability to see only black and white in every situation. The draped walls are covered with quotes from Gilles’s book “Small Marital Crimes,” which tells the story of seemingly happy spouses who actually wish each other death. So the heroes live among these “crimes,” stuck in the vacuum of their problems. Anton Yakovlev and production designer Nikolai Slobodyanik seem to push the actors towards the viewer, not allowing the slightest nuances of the psychological drama of Lisa and Gilles to be “hushed up” among the draperies. Everything is important here: every intonation, every turn. And the actors play with great attention to words and gestures.
But isn't it possible to stop the torment? Despite all the discontent and torment, Lisa is attached to Gilles, and he is attached to her. No matter what insults they inflicted on each other, they divided a good ten years of their lives in half. They feel bad together, and even worse apart. Therefore, when Lisa collects her things, Gilles is even ready to sacrifice his selfish principles, promising to pay more attention to his wife. When she does leave, Gilles will turn into a “broken machine.” Moving like a robot, it will make several circles around the table and fall down without moving. If an important gear disappears, the entire mechanism of his life will fail. But very soon they will be rummaging through piles of Gilles’ manuscripts together, diving headlong into “Small Marital Crimes.” And in the future, probably, Lisa and Gilles will not part, still not yielding to each other in the dispute. Not everything is so simple in our life...
Anton Yakovlev
Source: “Theatrical Petersburg”
The theatrical traditions of Moscow and St. Petersburg intersected in the works of many directors. This happened in the life of Anton Yakovlev. Screenwriting and directing courses, the Moscow Art Theater School, work in cinema... This is in Moscow. Anton Yakovlev's directorial debut in the theater is a play based on the play by modern playwright E.-E. Schmitt “Little Marital Crimes” will take place in St. Petersburg on the stage of the Russian Entreprise Theater named after Andrei Mironov in St. Petersburg. Premiere: November 4.
- Anton, what do you think is better for a director: constantly working in one theater or changing venues?
Of course, when the director is free-floating. He has the ability to compare.
- But isn’t a lot of time spent getting used to new people?
Lapping in is great. Novelty is useful. Now I have two wonderful artists - Evgeny Baranov and Marina Ignatova. And our grinding in happened instantly. We're just talking in vernacular. The only problem is the lack of rehearsal time; the actors work not only with me.
- Is the practice of filming beneficial for the theatre?
Working in a big movie is always good. But today, actors, at best, play in average TV series, and this is only a negative experience. “Art” and “series” are completely opposite things.
- Some actors believe that filming is a good school...
The series does not provide the opportunity to work with the material in detail. People learn the text in 15 minutes and go into the frame. This is good training for a film artist, not a theater artist. It is built on complete improvisation. This regime teaches you to swim and that’s all. The equivalent of a TV series in the theater is an enterprise. But not like in the Russian Entreprise Theater named after Andrei Mironov, where the contract system and repertory theater are combined. Here, despite the presence of the word “enterprise” in the name of the theater, there is an opportunity to constantly look closely at the actors and there is no need to fire anyone.
- What do you think about the concept of “commercial performance”?
- “Commercial” is, as a rule, a comedy with humor “below the belt”, which, unfortunately, today’s audience goes for. People are accustomed to bad taste. It's a rare occasion when a comedy is truly interesting. Also: now any actor who feels organic on stage is already considered good. But organics is the minimum that is required in the first year of theater institute. It’s bad when there is no metaphor in the play, and the actor in the role has a “background”, when the production is just a series of solo numbers, when there is no ensemble, no riddle, no real analysis of the play - this is a very dangerous trend that has developed in Moscow, too. and in St. Petersburg. But it’s ridiculous to approach today’s situation with the standards of the 1960s and 1970s.
- If we compare St. Petersburg and Moscow theaters...
For me, Peter is, first of all, Tovstonogov. Since childhood, all my theatrical associations have been connected with the Bolshoi Drama Theater. And Moscow is the basis of everything, starting with the Moscow Art Theater. All systems arose in Moscow: Stanislavsky, Mikhail Chekhov, Tairov, Meyerhold. Theater life in Moscow is more active. But Moscow is a merchant, bustling, huge metropolis, and St. Petersburg has something that Moscow sometimes lacks - sometimes deeper approaches, a special mood. The St. Petersburg world is completely different. In general, I would not compare.
- Where is modern drama most often staged, and doesn’t it discourage interest in the classics?
In this sense, Moscow is ahead. Peter is more conservative. There are more new young directors in Moscow. They often come to St. Petersburg, but here’s the paradox: in my opinion, they don’t enjoy success here. Maybe St. Petersburg audiences are accustomed to more traditional theater. But that's probably a good thing. Why repeat Moscow? It’s great that there is modern dramaturgy, foreign or Russian. It must be mandatory and large quantities. Another question is its quality. The public, unfortunately, does not want to think. It seems to me that you need to fight this, even if sometimes you sacrifice the number of spectators in the hall for the sake of quality. Many people believe that if a play is about eternal values, then it will certainly be something boring. But you can use an interesting one new uniform. The most important thing in the theater is for there to be contact between the heart and the head. Nyakrosius holds the hall! For example, “Othello”: this is a five-hour crossword puzzle, constant brain work, but combined with amazing emotionality. I see my task in staging Schmitt’s play “Minor Marital Crimes” in combining form and content. This is a play for two people. I liked the situation proposed here, but the play is very literary, and I do everything to ensure that it does not turn out to be just conversational theater. And I hope that we managed to find an acceptable form.
- Your performance involves actors from different theater schools...
And that's great. Evgeny Baranov is a typical representative of the St. Petersburg school - a student of Vladimirov. And Marina Ignatova is a Moscow actress and a student of Goncharov. She worked for Zakharov at Lenkom for quite a long time. These actors work completely differently. They have different reactions, different approaches. Sometimes they themselves do not expect certain things from each other. And then naturalness and liveliness appears. But there is a foundation for the performance, a plan, and everything is aimed at its implementation.
- With Nyakrosius, everything is also subordinated to the main task, but his actors are “of the same school”...
Undoubtedly. Nyakrosius is in everyone there. And they work great. With strict directing, much of their work is based on improvisation. But this is not spontaneous, but prepared improvisation. The actor is responsible only for his role. And the director controls the course of the performance.
- What is primary for you in the theater?
Nemirovich-Danchenko said that the director must die in the actor. Meyerhold believed that plasticity is more important than words. I agree with both. But how to absorb all the systems, take the best from them and make sure that both plastic and emotional decisions are combined into one whole? So that it is not obvious where the director worked, where the artist, and where the actor?..
- How much freedom do you, as a director, give to the actor?
Zakharov believes that an actor should have a “corridor of improvisation” set by the director. In this corridor, the actor needs to be given a certain freedom and ensure that he does not go beyond it. Otherwise, you won’t be able to extract some successful non-standard solutions from the actor, which the director sometimes doesn’t even suspect. But this depends on the talent, because giving freedom to a mediocre actor is pointless.
- Are Stanislavsky or Meyerhold closer to you?
It is impossible to compare a student with a teacher. Meyerhold came out of Stanislavsky, he just took a completely different path. Stanislavsky is like a primer, like a foundation. There's no getting away from the basics. His system cannot become obsolete. This is the foundation of an artist’s life, an attempt to help him identify the emotions that are necessary in at the moment. This is not a theory, but an elementary aid in theater practice. You know, like in a movie: in order to shoot one frame, you must know that you need such and such light, such and such a lens and such and such a film sensitivity. The system must be used. She doesn't need to be idolized.
LISA (sorrowfully). Do you remember...
GILLES. No. All I remember is that I'm not like that!
LISA (complainingly). Oh God, is it all going to start again?
GILLES. What will start again?
Without answering the question, Lisa pulls herself together. She approaches him and throws a sofa cushion in his face.
LISA (hard). You never lost your memory. You remember everything.
GILLES. No. This is wrong.
LISA. I don't believe you. Do you remember?
GILLES. Partially.
LISA. I don't trust you anymore.
GILLES. My memory is returning, but some gaps remain.
LISA (continues to hit him with the pillow). You remember everything!
GILLES. Not the last day.
LISA (freezes with the pillow in the air). Last day?
GILLES. The day the accident occurred. I can't remember anything.
LISA (fires a series of blows on him again). Fiction! You know everything, you're kidding me!
GILLES. But not about the last day!
LISA. Your imaginary amnesia is a torture that you invented to punish me, to simmer me. Make you feel ashamed. Enjoy my stupid answers. You…
GILLES (sincerely). Punish you for what, Lisa?
She stops fighting him and lets out a strangled laugh. He grabs her hands.
GILLES. Punish you for what?
She tries to free herself, but, realizing at some point that he does not put any irony or ambiguity into his question, she calms down. He shrugs.
LISA. Sorry. You spent two weeks in the hospital under the supervision of doctors and nurses, taking medications and regaining your strength, and here I was alone biting my nails. No one cared about me. I want someone to take care of me.
He kisses her hand with grace.
GILLES. My skull - open book, which is missing pages. Mostly the latter. I just can’t remember the day the accident happened.
LISA. Don't remember at all?
GILLES. At all. (Looks into her eyes.) I swear to you.
She realizes that he is speaking sincerely.
GILLES. I suspect I owe you an apology.
LISA. Yes.
GILLES. Lots of apologies?
LISA. I doubt that you will be able to pay off your debts.
GILLES. My memory came back to me on Monday. The further, the more. It was as if a sponge was swelling under the dropper. This Monday, I don’t know why, but you weren’t there. And I, without saying a word to the doctors, swelled alone, finding the edges of our history with you, our marriage, our love. I was proud. I was happy. On Tuesday, as soon as you came in, I was ready to announce everything to you, but you stopped me with your lies. First.
LISA. I?
GILLES. You brought me books, a collection of detective stories, to stimulate my memory. However, you forgot to bring one of the novels. Which? . After checking the list, I brought this to your attention. You replied that it didn't matter because I hated the book and regretted writing it in the first place. And so, this sweet lie, expressed so categorically, shut my mouth.
Lisa mutters something, not trying to deny it.
GILLES. I started to think. "Small marital crimes" I've always been proud. I repeated to everyone who was not too lazy that if I had to choose one of all my novels, it would be this one. You calmly stated the exact opposite.
LISA. I agree, I passed off my opinion as yours. Is it that serious?
GILLES. No. But what is serious then?
LISA (defensively). "Small marital crimes" didn't have any success.
GILLES. Some of my other novels were not successful either.
LISA. But "Small marital crimes" he was accompanied to the least extent. There is a difference between zero and below zero.
GILLES. It doesn't matter, Lisa, because when you highly appreciate one of my works, you don't need anyone's support, and you are ready to rush to its defense against anyone.
LISA. It's true I hate "Small marital crimes" that you adore. And I ask again: is this so serious?
GILLES. No. Because the same day you lied to me, I realized that deep down I agreed with you. (Turns to her.) I hated this book without knowing it. Your lies turned into my truth. My new truth.
She peers at him, intrigued and not sure if she understands him correctly.
He takes the novel in question from the shelf.
GILLES. "Small marital crimes" , a collection of short stories, one should say very bad short stories, the events unfolding in them are so mired in pessimism. I describe a married couple as a community of killers. From the very beginning, the spouses are united by violence, a carnal desire that throws them towards each other, pushes one body into the other in sweat, to the accompaniment of wheezing and groans, a struggle stopped only by exhaustion, and a truce called pleasure. Then the two murderers, if they didn’t get their way in the marriage, having chosen a truce, unite to fight society. They will demand rights, benefits, privileges, use their fights, their children to gain the attention and respect of others. And here the scam is elevated to the level of a masterpiece! Both enemies are now ready to justify everything in the name of the family. Family is the pinnacle of their deception! For they have left their rude and carnal embraces in order to provide a service to the entire human race and will now be able to distribute kicks and slaps in the name of education, unceremoniously imposing their stupidity, harmfulness and noisiness on everyone. Family, or selfishness in the garb of altruism... Over time, the killers grow old, their children leave to create new unions of killers. And now the aged robbers, no longer having an outlet for violence, end up attacking each other, as during their first dates, but this passion is no longer embodied in the movement of the hips, not in sexual blows, but in other forms. From now on these are blows, more sophisticated, blows of malice. Everything is allowed in this struggle - nervous tics, illness, deafness, indifference, dementia. The one who pays the other one first wins. And here is married life, a union of killers who first attack others, then each other, a long road to death, strewn with corpses. A young couple strives to free themselves from those around them. An elderly couple - from a marriage partner. When you look at newlyweds, try to guess which of the two will be the killer.
Lisa mockingly applauds.
LISA. Bravo! I applaud so as not to puke.
GILLES. Why did I write this? Because I think completely differently.
LISA. When I asked you about this, you answered: because this is reality.
GILLES. Perhaps it is like that, but why imagine reality as it is? Why not imagine her the way you want to see her? After all, a married couple is not a product of reality, but a product of a mutual dream, isn’t it?
Since Lisa does not answer, Gilles continues eagerly.
GILLES. That Tuesday, when I realized that I hated the book that I used to be so proud of, I decided to remain silent and give you the opportunity to introduce me to me as you wanted me to be. Perhaps the new Gilles Andari, described by you and regretting what he has done Minor marital crimes , would be better than the previous one. Version corrected and expanded. I should have used it. And my accident should have served this purpose. I closed myself off in my lies just to listen to you, Lisa, for nothing else. Listen and understand what kind of person you would feel good with.
LISA. Not very fair.
GILLES. What?
LISA. Behave like that.
GILLES. My behavior is no worse than yours. But just as instructive. I have truly given in to the pleasure of being born again by the woman I love. I tried to become like what you wanted. A piece of the real me, a piece of the improved one, dignity - in any set, a husband to order. But…
LISA. But…
GILLES. First, my memory returned, and I realized that the seams on the brand new character you had created from me were about to burst. And then... I couldn’t understand where you want to lead. One did not agree with the other.
It would seem that November 30, 2012 is a completely ordinary day in a stream of others. But! Now it’s not quite ordinary, because you can safely write it down in the history of Kaznetov blogging. And all because for the first time in the history of the theater in Kazakhstan, not only journalists, but also bloggers were invited to the performance. And therefore I have the opportunity to write a post about a performance that the general public has not yet seen - quite strange, but very pleasant sensations, I tell you. For this extraordinary opportunity I want to say a huge thank you to the theater named after..
Oh can't anybody see
We"ve got a war to fight
In principle, I love the chamber stage more than the main stage for its intimacy, for the closeness of what is happening on stage directly to the viewer, who no longer becomes just a detached observer, but almost a witness, a kind of peeping through the keyhole at someone else’s life. A chamber scene, I think, is a greater risk for actors than a regular one - here every stroke, every tear is visible. In general, victory is more visible and defeat is louder.
The play “Small Marital Crimes” is designated as a melodrama in two acts, but I would call it a little differently: a detective melodrama, because there is actually an investigation going on: what is happening now, what happened two weeks ago, what happened for 15 years in a row in Gilles’s life together and Lisa, the heroes of the play.
Alexander Bagryantsev and Olga Landina staged a real duel on stage, making you forget that this was a game, so lively and energy-intensive was what was happening. Nothing superfluous, nothing deceitful, nothing that would go beyond the viewer’s trust in the actor. Even the hysterical screams of an enraged woman were not theatrical!
The third hero on stage was the wall, a gray brick wall, a silent witness to someone else's life, a keeper of secrets, either a prison or a refuge. Since this wall made an additional impression on me and brought its own shades of meaning into the performance, I will take this opportunity and say to production designer Sergei Meltser: “Great find!”
My dearly beloved Dmitry Skirta once again proved that he is an incredibly talented person both as an actor and as a director. He staged an amazing love-hate story in such a way that you experience it with the characters, no longer feeling particularly embarrassed about your tears at the end. When the lights were turned on in the hall, the most discerning audience, consisting of journalists writing about the theater, gave a standing ovation. And I applauded louder than anyone else, so much so that my new watch would have stopped!
On December 4, 2012, the official premiere will take place at the theater, which, unfortunately, I will not attend. But I will definitely take everyone I can reach to see “Atrocities.” And one more thing: in January Skirta himself will play Gilles, so budget for two visits: December with Bagryantsev and January with Skirta.
PS. I also took Dmitry’s autograph. The day was full of happiness!
Eric Emmanuel SCHMITT
SMALL MARITAL CRIMES
Translation from French
Irina PROKHOROVA and
Vladimir ALEXEEV
Tel. Irina Prokhorova:
House. + 33.1.46.60.54.41
Cell: + 33.6.13.13.85.38
E-mail: [email protected]
Empty apartment. Dark.
You can hear the key turning in the lock...
The door opens. In the dim light falling from the corridor, there are two shadows.
A woman enters the apartment, a man with a suitcase in his hands remains on the threshold, not daring to enter.
Lisa hastily turns on the lamps one after another and, standing in the middle of the room, spreads her arms, as if inviting her to admire the scenery that she has prepared for the performance.
LISA: Well, how? (He shakes his head negatively. She is upset, but persists.) Well, take your time, concentrate. (He carefully examines the room, lingering his gaze on every object, and lowers his head in resignation.) Nothing?
GILLES: Nothing.
(Dissatisfied with his answer, she motions for him to put down his suitcase, closes the door and leads him by the hand to the chair.)
GILLES: It's kind of shabby.
LISA: I offered you a hundred times to reupholster it, but you answered that I would have to choose between you and the upholsterer.
(Gilles sits down in a chair and screams in pain.)
GILLES: Not only does the upholstery need to be changed, one of the springs behaves quite aggressively.
LISA: Intelligent spring.
GILLES: I don’t understand...
LISA: In your opinion, only an uncomfortable chair is suitable for work. You call this spring, which digs into your left buttock, intellectual, the edge of thought, the peak of vigilance!
GILLES: So who am I really: an intellectual or a fakir?
LISA: Go sit at your desk.
(He follows her obediently, but before sitting down on the chair, he runs his hand over it. As he sits down, a metallic grinding sound is heard.)
GILLES: (With a sigh.) And that I have a theory about chairs that creak7
LISA: Of course. You won't let me put any oil in there. You think that every creak is an alarm signal. The rusty stool actively participates in your fight against universal laxity.
GILLES: Do I have my own theory for everything?
LISA: Almost everything. You can't stand it when I clean up your desk. You call the pile of papers that piles up on it a “historically established archive.” You claim that dust-free bookshelves are only found in waiting rooms where hundreds of thousands of people pass through. According to you, crumbs are not dirt, they are part of the bread we eat. You even recently stated that crumbs are the tears that bread cries when we cut and shred it. According to your same theory, beds and sofas are full of sadness. You never change burnt-out light bulbs, because you consider it necessary to mourn for the extinguished light for several days. But over the fifteen years of our married life, I finally managed to deduce from all your theories one, the most important one - nothing needs to be done in the house!
GILLES: (Smiles guiltily.) Is life like hell with me?
LISA: (Surprised.) You touched me with this question.
GILLES: What about the answer?
(She is silent, but he waits, and finally she says with bashful tenderness in her voice:)
LISA: Of course it's hell, but... somehow... it's dear to me.
GILLES: Why?
LISA: It's warm.
GILLES: As it should be in hell.
LISA: And my place is in it.
GILLES: Glory to Lucifer...
(Touched by her confession, he looks around and strokes nearby objects.)
GILLES: Strange... I feel like I was born again. When... When did this happen?
LISA: Fifteen days ago.
GILLES: Just something?
LISA: It seemed like a very long time to me.
GILLES: And for me - short. (To myself) In the morning I woke up in the hospital, my mouth was tight, as if I had left the dentist, my cheeks were stinging, there was a bandage on my head, my skull felt like it was filled with lead. “What am I doing here? Did I have an accident? Thank God he’s alive.” I perceived the awakening as a blessing. I felt my body as if it had returned to me again. Did I tell you?...
LISA: (Corrects) You. Tell me "you".
GILLES: (Come on) Yes, did I tell you how shocked the nurse gave me?
LISA: Nurse?
GILLES: A nurse came into my room. “Finally, you have opened your eyes, Mr. Dubery!” I turn around to see who she's talking to and find that I'm alone in the room. And she continues: “How are you feeling, Mr. Dubery?” I see that she is quite confident in what she says. I was very weak, but somehow I mustered all my strength to utter at least a few words. When she left, I reached for the sign on my bed, where the patient’s name and temperature are usually listed. It said: Gilles Dubery. “Why do they call me that? Someone must have made a mistake? The name Dubery means nothing to me. But I immediately discover that I cannot remember my name. Only some names from childhood come to mind: Mickey, Winnie the Pooh, Fantasio, Snow White. And finally it dawns on me that I have lost my memory and don’t remember anything about myself. I remember everything that I taught before: Latin cases, and the multiplication table, and the conjugation of Russian verbs, and greek alphabet. I even repeated them for good measure. Everything is fine. This calmed me down. Maybe I'll remember the rest. How can you perfectly remember the multiplication table, even the most difficult part of it - multiplying by 8, and not know who you are? I decided not to panic. I even convinced myself that it was the headband that was squeezing my temples too tightly and blocking my memory; and as soon as they take it off, everything will go back to normal. Doctors and nurses took turns at my bedside. I told them about my memory lapses, but they only looked at me with sympathy. Then I expressed to them my thoughts about the headband. They did not dampen my optimism. A few days later, a beautiful woman without a robe entered my room. “Bah,” I said to myself, “a new nurse!” But why isn’t she dressed like everyone else?” She didn't say anything, just looked at me smiling. Then she took my hand and began stroking my cheek. I thought that this was some kind of special nurse, a nurse with a special mission “to comfort suffering men,” a nurse from a brigade of prostitutes, when suddenly she told me that she was my wife. (Turns to Lisa) Are you really sure about this?
LISA: Absolutely.
GILLES: Are you sure you're not one of the service staff?
LISA: You must speak to me on a first-name basis.
GILLES: You don't... you don't...
LISA: (Interrupts) I'm your wife.
GILLES: So much the better. (Silent). And you... And are you sure that we are at home?
LISA: I'm sure.
(He looks around the room again.)
GILLES: I don’t want to make hasty conclusions, but still, I like my wife much more than my apartment.
(Both laugh. Gilles’ joke shows complete confusion. It’s obvious how he suffers.)
GILLES: Well, what are we going to do?
LISA: Tonight? Settle down, return to our normal life.
GILLES: What will we do if my memory doesn’t return?
LISA: (Concerned). She'll be back.
GILLES: My optimism is at its limit and the pills are gone.
LISA: The memory will certainly return.
GILLES: For fifteen days they have been telling me that all it takes is a small shock and everything will go back to normal... I saw you and didn’t recognize you. You brought me an album with photographs, I looked at it and it seemed to me that I was leafing through a phone book. We arrived here, and I decided that this was a hotel. (With pain). I don't recognize anything. I hear various sounds, see objects, inhale smells, but all this does not make the slightest sense to me. There is a rich, diverse and harmonious world around me, but I do not find my place in it. Everything is solid and solid except me. I'm gone, I've disappeared.
(She sits down next to him, takes his hands in hers, trying to calm him down.)
LISA: Enlightenment will come. Cases of complete amnesia are very rare.
GILLES: Judging by the little that I have learned about myself, I seem to be quite rare occurrence. Yes? (Disappointed). What will you do...
LISA: What are you going to do!
GILLES: What will you do if I don't come to my senses? You wouldn't live with a brainless double, a monkey who looked like me, would you?
LISA: (Laughing at his fears) Why not?
GILLES: No, you won’t, if you love me, Lisa, if you really love me!
(Lisa stops laughing.)
GILLES: If you love me, you cannot love my double, my reflection, my empty shell, a souvenir that reminds me of nothing!
LISA: Calm down.
GILLES: If you love me, you will accept me crippled, old, sick, but on the condition that it will be me myself, and not a blockhead with my appearance. If you love me, you will want me, not just my reflection. If you love me... you...
(Lisa gets irritated, gets up and starts walking back and forth around the room.)
GILLES: Tell me, do you love me?
LISA: You!
GILLES: Do you love me?
(Lisa is silent and looks at him with pain. Gilles thinks, stopping after each phrase:)
GILLES: What is this - love or condescension? Just condescension? A stranger even to himself. I'm not even sure I like myself...
(He clasps his head in his hands. She looks at him strangely, wants to say something, but holds back. Pause.)
GILLES: Did you love him?
LISA: Who is it?
GILLES: Him! Me when I was still me! Your husband!
LISA: Calm down.
GILLES: Yeah, you're on par with me! That means you are not my wife! I must leave immediately!
LISA: Gilles, calm down. I'm lost from your questions. This “you” escaped me involuntarily.
GILLES: Involuntarily?
LISA: This is a reaction to your weaning. You address me as you and talk about yourself in the third person. I'm just confused, I don't know where I am anymore.
GILLES: Me too.
LISA: What did you ask me?
GILLES: Did you love your husband?
(She smiles. He is amazed by her silence.)
GILLES: If you didn't love him, it's time to get rid of him. Take advantage of the fact that he has lost himself and push him out the door. Kick us both out. Get things in order. You don’t dare admit to me that we are no longer happy in marriage, are you? So let's take advantage of the situation. I'm ready. Just tell me and I'll leave. It won’t be difficult for me, I still don’t know who I am and who you are to me. Great opportunity. Couldn't be better! Please show me the door, I beg you.
(Lisa, surprised by his reaction, approaches him.)
LISA: Have you taken your medication?
GILLES: (Irritated). My suffering is incurable! And what is this manner of putting pills in my mouth as soon as feelings come up?
LISA: (Laughs). Gilles!
GILLES: You're also laughing at me!
LISA: (With admiration). Gilles, this is wonderful, you are coming to your senses! After all, this is one of your favorite phrases: “What kind of manner of putting pills in my mouth as soon as it comes to feelings?” This is all about you... You always couldn’t stand people who alleviated their indignation, grief or fears with sedatives. You said: our era has become so sophisticated that it is trying to control our consciousness with the help of drugs, but it will not be able to erase the person out of us with pills.
GILLES: (Pleasantly surprised). Did I say so?
LISA: And he also added: wisdom does not lie in avoiding feelings, but in experiencing them fully.
GILLES: Really? But on the issue of cleaning, I adhered to a metaphysical view and urged that nothing needs to be done?
(Delighted by his enlightenment, she kisses his forehead. Gilles pulls her towards him, their lips touch.)
LISA: (Also) Great.
GILLES: Not surprising.
(They stand huddled close to each other.)
GILLES: Did it happen... violently... or often?
LISA: Very violently and very often.
GILLES: Not surprising.
(He tries to kiss her on the lips, but she moves away.)
GILLES: Why?
LISA: Too early.
GILLES: But this could be the very shock.
LISA: And for me too.
GILLES: I don't understand.
(He tries to kiss her again, she stops him.)
LISA: No. (He insists). I said no.
(She releases herself from his embrace firmly but gently.)
(Upset, he looks around the room and then, as if realizing his humiliation, rushes to the suitcase.)
GILLES: I'm very sorry, but nothing will work out for us. I'm leaving
LISA: Gilles!
GILLES: I'm leaving!
LISA: Gilles!
GILLES: No, no, I better go back.
LISA: Where?
(Gilles freezes in place.)
LISA: (Affectionately). You have nowhere else to go. (Pause). You are at home. (Pause). Here you are at home.
(He looks around uneasily.)
GILLES: Do we really know each other? (She confirms with a smile.) I don't recognize you.
LISA: You won’t even recognize yourself.
GILLES: Who can prove to me that you didn’t exactly come to the hospital to a shelter for homeless animals? You walked into the amnesiac ward and asked which of them you could take into your care. Looking at me, you thought: “This one seems okay. He is not very young, but he has beautiful eyes and a well-groomed appearance. I will take him to my home and make him believe that I am his wife.” Are you by any chance a widow?
LISA: Widow?
GILLES: I was once told about a gang of widows who were engaged in selling men who had lost their memory.
LISA: Gilles, I am your wife.
(He puts down the suitcase.)
GILLES: Then tell me about me, help me find myself.
(Lisa points to the paintings hanging on the walls.)
LISA: What do you think of these paintings?
GILLES: They're not bad. This is the only thing I liked about this apartment.
LISA: Really?
GILLES: It looks like they belong to the same artist.
LISA: And this artist is you.
GILLES: (Involuntarily). Bravo! (Surprised). I?
LISA: Yes.
GILLES: It turns out that I am not only a writer, but also... an artist?
LISA: So it is.
(Gilles examines the paintings, at first incredulously, then with delight.)
GILLES: Look, I turn out to be a wonderful type, except for my views on cleaning the house: successfully married, a wonderful lover, artist, writer, creator of all sorts of theories. (Confused). I wouldn't mind getting to know myself.
LISA: ( ^ With irony). You are simply charming!
(Gilles does not notice the irony.)
GILLES: So, I make a living from painting too?
LISA: No, only detectives. Painting is your hobby
GILLES: Oh, so... (Looks at her suspiciously). What kind of husband was I?
LISA: Could you clarify the question?
GILLES: Was I jealous?
LISA: Not at all.
GILLES: (Surprised). How's that?
LISA: You said you trusted me, and I liked that.
GILLES: So you... took advantage of the fact that I'm not jealous?
LISA: For what?
GILLES: To make me jealous.
LISA: (Smiling). No.
(He sighs with relief.)
GILLES: And I... I was faithful to you?
(She stalls for time, amused by the fear that appears on his face, and finally drops it:)
LISA: Yes.
GILLES: Oof!
LISA: (Cunningly). If you cheated on me, then you simply have God’s gift to hide your actions.
GILLES: I haven’t noticed such a gift in myself
LISA: (Cunningly). Or rather, the ability to be in different places at the same time. You almost never left here. I wrote, read or drew all the time. How could you do this?
GILLES: Really, how?
(She comes up and hugs him.)
LISA: Your loyalty was very important to me. I’m not so confident in myself that I can fight day after day with my rivals... or with suspicions.
GILLES: However, you give the impression of a man well armed for such a fight. Few women your age...
LISA: Yes, but the fact of the matter is that the world is populated not only by women my age. At twenty years old, you can not pay attention to age; but after forty, illusions dissipate. A woman begins to feel her age as soon as she discovers that there are younger rivals.
GILLES: I... I was looking at younger women?
LISA: Of course.
(He sighs with relief, although anxiety continues to torment him.)
GILLES: It's terrible. I'm walking on the edge of an abyss. At any moment something could be revealed that would turn me into a monster. I'm walking along a tight wire and I still manage to maintain my balance. I am not afraid of the future, but I am full of doubts about my past. What if it turns out to be so unsightly that I can’t stand it and snap? I'm moving towards my goal, but I don't know what awaits me there. Tell me about my shortcomings.
LISA: (Thinking). You... you have practically none.
GILLES: But still.
LISA: Nothing comes to mind... Impatience! Yes, you are very impatient.
GILLES: Is that bad?
LISA: No, that's great. Returning home, you used to start undressing right in the elevator. One day you tore my dress off there too. You…
(She feels embarrassed when she remembers this evening.)
GILLES: Even so?...
LISA: Yes. We barely managed to close the door.
GILLES: Did you make it?
LISA: No, I think not.
(Laugh.)
GILLES: So I don't have to worry about my memory returning?
(Lisa hesitates to answer. Gilles notices this and begins to insist.)
GILLES: You see, sometimes I wonder if my brain is intentionally short-circuiting. Is he profiting from this unconsciousness?
LISA: What benefit?
GILLES: Maybe it’s to his advantage not to know something. For him, the unknown is a form of protection. He runs from the truth.
LISA: (Embarrassed). Really?
GILLES: Maybe the blow I received was not only physical properties...Injuries are different...
(They look at each other intently. They both seem to be afraid.)
LISA: (Not very confident). I think you needn't worry.
GILLES: Are you sure?
LISA: Quite. You will not make any unpleasant discovery for yourself.
GILLES: Swear it.
LISA: I swear.
(The tension subsides.)
GILLES: Tell me about me. This has become my favorite topic
LISA: It has always been like this.
GILLES: Really?
LISA: We must give you credit: you have never suffered from a lack of attention to your own person. Look at your library: on all your novels you have written a dedication to yourself. (Takes the first book he comes across.) Here you go: “I dedicate my book to myself with sincere love. Gilles."
GILLES: (Embarrassed). What arrogance!
LISA: This is your kind of humor.
GILLES: It smacks of narcissism.
LISA: No, this is the same humor behind which lies the truth.
GILLES: I hope I wrote dedications to you too?
LISA: (Laughs). Yes. (He goes to another shelf and takes a book.)“Lisa, my wife, my conscience, my sick conscience, my love, the one that I adore and which I am not worthy of. Gilles."
(Lisa is excited, these lines take her into the past, she has tears in her eyes.
He looks at her silently, trying to understand.
^ She sits down heavily, as if under the weight of memories.)
GILLES: Lisa...
LISA: Forgive me. Memories came flooding back.
GILLES: But I'm here. I'm still alive.
LISA: Yes, but the past... - it no longer exists. (Tries to smile through tears). I loved you very much, Gilles, very much.
GILLES: It sounds like: “I suffered a lot, a lot.”
LISA: Perhaps. I don't know love without suffering.
GILLES: (Affectionately). Did I make you suffer?
LISA: (Obviously telling a lie). No.
(He doesn't insist.
Lisa is trying to put her feelings in order.)
LISA: What else can I tell you about you? You love to hang out shopping, which is quite rare for a man. You can even endure an entire hour in a women's shoe store, which is commendable. You always give valuable advice regarding my clothes, advice from an esthete, not from a lout who only cares about brand and price. Sometimes we make dates for each other in tea salons.
GILLES: So I like to drink tea?
LISA: And you drink with great pleasure. You seem upset?
GILLES: I imagined myself more courageous... All these clothes, shops, tea... just some kind of girlfriend.
Eric-Emmanuel SCHMITT
MINOR MARITAL ACTIONS
Characters
LISA
GILLES
Night. Apartment.
You can hear the sound of a key in the lock and the bolts being unlocked.
The door opens, revealing two shadows in a halo of yellowish light from the corridor.
A woman enters the room, a man with a suitcase in his hand remains behind her, on the threshold, as if hesitant to enter.
Lisa quickly begins to light all the lamps one after another, she can’t wait to give light to the scene of action.
Once the apartment is lit, she opens her arms, showing off the interior as if it were a set for a play.
LISA. Well, how?
He shakes his head. She is worried and insists.
LISA. Take your time! Focus.
He carefully and thoroughly examines all the available furniture, then lowers his head. He looks unhappy and depressed.
LISA. Nothing?
GILLES. Nothing.
However, this answer does not satisfy her. She puts the suitcase on the floor, closes the door, takes him by the arm and leads him to the chair.
GILLES. It seems a little worn out to me.
LISA. I offered to change the upholstery a thousand times, but you always answered: either me or the upholsterer.
Gilles sits down in a chair. A grimace of pain appears on his face.
GILLES. It’s not just the upholstery that needs to be changed, it’s like the springs too...
LISA. Spring of intelligence.
GILLES. What, what?
LISA. You think that a chair is only useful when it is uncomfortable. And you call the spring that is currently cutting into your left buttock the spring of intellect, the injection of thought, the peak of vigilance!
GILLES. Who am I: a pseudo-intellectual or a genuine fakir?
LISA. Better move to the desk.
He obediently follows her advice, but the chair distrusts him, and he tentatively places his hand on it. As he sits down, a metallic groan is heard. He sighs.
GILLES. Do I have a theory about squeaky chairs too?
LISA. Of course. You forbid me to oil the springs. For you, every creak is an alarm. And the rusty stool is an active participant in your battle against general relaxation.
GILLES. It seems to me that I have acquired theories for all occasions?
LISA. Almost. You can’t stand it when I put things in order on your desk, and you call the primordial chaos in your papers “the order of historical storage.” You think that books without dust are like reading in a waiting room. You think that bread crumbs are not garbage, because we eat bread. And just recently he assured me that the crumbs are tears of bread, which suffers when we cut it. Hence the conclusion: sofas and beds are full of sorrow. You never replace burnt-out light bulbs on the pretext that you should observe mourning for the extinguished light for several days. Fifteen years of marriage education have taught me to reduce all your theories to a single, but fundamental thesis: do nothing in the house!
He smiles a soft, apologetic smile.
GILLES. Life with me is pure hell, right?
She turns to him in surprise.
LISA. You touched me with your question.
GILLES. And what will be the answer?
She doesn't answer. As he continues to wait, she ends up giving in with shy meekness:
LISA. Of course, this is hell, but... in a certain way... this hell suits me.
GILLES. Why?
LISA. It's warm...
GILLES. It's always warm in hell.
LISA. And I have a place there...
GILLES. Oh wise Lucifer...
Pacified by her confessions, he directs his attention to the objects around him.
GILLES. It's strange... I feel like I'm a newborn, but an adult. By the way, how many days?
LISA. Fifteen…
GILLES. Already?
LISA. And it seemed to me that time was passing so slowly.
GILLES. For me, it's fast. (To myself) I woke up in the hospital this morning, my mouth was wet, as if I had just left the dentist, my skin was crawling, there was a bandage on my head, there was a heaviness in my skull. “What am I doing here? Am I in an accident? But I'm alive." An awakening that brings relief. I touched my body as if it had just been returned to me. I told you...
LISA (corrects him). You!
GILLES (continues). Did I tell you about the room with the nurse?
LISA. Room with a nurse?
GILLES. The nurse enters. “I’m glad to see you with your eyes open, Mr. Andari.” I turn to see who she is talking to and see that I am completely alone. She again: “How are you feeling, Mr. Andari?” And she looks so confident. Then I gather all my strength to overcome fatigue and answer her at least something. When she leaves, I climb onto the bed, reach for the temperature sheet - and there is this name: Gilles Andari. “Why do they call me that? Where does this misconception come from? Nothing in me responds to Andari. And at the same time, I can’t give myself any other name; only some childhood nicknames wander in my memory - Mickey, Winnie, Teddy Bear, Fantasio, Snow White. I realize that I don't know who I am. Lost my memory. Memory of yourself. But I still remember perfectly well the Latin declensions, the multiplication table, the conjugation of Russian verbs, and the Greek alphabet. I repeat them to myself. This encourages me. The rest will come back too. It can’t be that, while memorizing multiplication by eight—the hardest thing, everyone knows—you can’t remember who you are? I'm trying to stop panic. At some point, I even manage to convince myself that my memory is being compressed by a bandage that is too tight on my head; Once you remove it, everything will return to its place. Doctors and nurses come one after another. I tell them about memory loss. They listen seriously. I explain to them my theory of the compression bandage. They don't dispute my optimism. A few days later, another nurse, a beautiful woman, without a uniform, enters the room. “Cool, new nurse! - I tell myself. “But why is she in civilian clothes?” She doesn't say anything, just looks at me and smiles, takes my hand, strokes my cheek. The question is brewing: has this nanny been sent to me to perform special, specific functions, “serving suffering males”, the nanny is a member of the brigade of prostitutes. But then the nurse in civilian clothes announces that she is my wife. (Turns to Lisa) Are you really convinced of this?
LISA. I'm convinced.
GILLES. And you're not part of the special services team?
LISA. You must say "you" to me.
GILLES. You don't... you don't...
LISA (interrupts him). I'm your wife.
GILLES. So much the better. (Pause) And you... are you sure that we are at home?
LISA. Sure.
He looks around the room he's in again.
GILLES. Beware of hasty conclusions, I will say, however, that I like my wife more than my apartment.
Both laugh. There must be confusion in Gilles' humor. He is suffering.
GILLES. So what are we going to do?
LISA. Tonight? Relax and we will live as before.
GILLES. What will we do if my memory doesn’t return?
LISA (alarmed). Will definitely return.
GILLES. My optimism is at its limit, and the pills have run out.
LISA. She will definitely return.
GILLES. For two weeks now they have been telling me that it’s enough to experience shock... I saw you and didn’t recognize you. You brought me an album with photographs, and it was as if I was flipping through a calendar. Coming here is like coming to a hotel. (Sorrowful) Everything is foreign to me. There are noises, colors, shapes, smells, but everything is meaningless and does not add up to a single whole. There is a huge world full of life and internal interweavings, but I wander in it, not finding a role for myself. Everything has density, but not me. My Self does not exist.
She sits down next to him and takes his hands in hers, trying to calm him down.
LISA. The shock will not be long in coming. Cases of permanent amnesia are extremely rare.
GILLES. As far as I can judge myself, I belong to the category of guys with “rare” reactions. Isn't it? (Pleadingly) What are you going to do...
