January 24, 2004
Saturday, 11:15 p.m.
It’s windy, really windy. They’ve smashed that streetlight again. Not kids this time; it was those people, the people who carry the darkness inside them. Better call City Hall tomorrow. No, not tomorrow; tomorrow’s Sunday—first thing Monday. They’ll get on to it at once; they’re always bending over backward to make everything safe for the people who live in the nice parts of the city. I always hated those dark Saturday nights and always liked the matinées; they meant I could beat the dusk and the heavy sadness of the sky, and afterward, at night, the city would light up and Leoforos Alexandras would smother both the darkness and the silence. God knows how many years I’ve been in love with Ippokratous—that street, it’s like a knife slicing right through the heart of the city. What was his name again—the one who lived in the penthouse on the corner of Kallidromiou? The artist. No, he wasn’t an artist—an architect, maybe. He used to like poking his tongue through the gap in my front teeth: the gaps between your teeth drive me crazy, my love, he would whisper. What was his name? Something Byzantine—not Konstantinos, of course. I was doing Anya in The Cherry Orchard at the time. So what was it?
I’ll have some more wine and turn on the television, on mute so I don’t wake them. It’s probably very late. I’ll have the wine first. Perhaps I should open the vodka that dear boy Noni brought me last week, completely ignoring that old tyrant’s prohibition. Anyone would think he was Simeon the Stylite the way he carries on—still hopeful that I’ll get off the booze one day, still believing that he can get off it himself. But when I started begging Noni, like a little girl, he took pity on me and turned up later with a bottle of Stoli. In return I gave him a photograph of me playing Medea—awful production in a basement theater, genuine tragedy. I am still embarrassed just thinking about it, even more than I am about that Yerma. Total fiasco—directors and their fucking special effects. Luckily I did Betrayal straight after—that shut most of them up, but even so, I don’t like to think about it. Who does like thinking about betrayal, after all? No one. I’m getting cold again. I’ll get that vodka, fight ice with ice. Here I go, stumbling, talking to myself. Someone’s left the window open. What was that play with the billowing curtain, remind me—a white curtain? I had to worry that someone might climb in, about being invaded, the end. I always cried on the last night, always, no matter how fed up I was by then after fifty, one hundred, two hundred performances. That’s a lot, it ends up being too much, how can you escape the lie? That’s why I prefer vodka. I’m going. I’m going to carry on, and the curtain can billow all it likes—who’d want to come in here anyway? Who’d want to get their hands dirty here in this wretched refuge of ours? No one. No one, my love. Now, when have I said that before?
Fight ice with ice. Let me break your seal, Stoli, my love. My red beauty, come here, give yourself to me, transparent like all my mistakes, dense as, oh damn you! Why are you doing this, you miserable fool? Why isn’t anything coming out? Why isn’t your liquid treasure pouring out? Come on, baby, drip, drip, drip—that’s right—whoa! Not too fast. That’s right, I’m holding you, not one tiny drop will escape me, my little darling. Who was it who called me that—“my little darling”?
There’s light in the garden. That’s good. That damned wine has done me in. Spotlight falls on my almond tree. Another one, I don’t feel good, damned wine, it’s all your fault. Armchair—prepare yourself. My sweet throne, I’m coming, I’ll get rid of all those shameless special effects in our peaceful garden. Who’s that creeping around outside—who’s after my vodka? It burns, the bitch. Shadows, I can see shadows, I can hear them walking, where’s the door? It burns like hell: fight ice with ice, fire with fire, it’s cold outside, shadows on the other side of the fence, I’ll give up the drink, my love, you’ll see, I’ll stop drinking and I’ll get well, and I’ll come back to you, I’ll be yours, I’m leaving now, but I’ll be back so I can truly be yours. Who’s doing the lighting? It’s too soon, we haven’t started yet, no, no, that’s far too bright, why are you burning the almond tree? No! My face is burning, don’t, why won’t you listen to me? No, please, fire is never real for us.