Александр Молчанов - KillerFoulkner. Пьесы для Англии

ANDREW. Looks like that old man was destined to die today. But not Oksanka. So I wondered – why’s she here? I used to not give a shit about that stuff. Main thing was being remembered after I’m gone. Maybe I’m smarter now. Maybe I want respect while I’m still alive. Money too, although that’s just paper. I’m not a greedy person – not business-greedy – not my thing. Like this guy, he didn’t just give us a ride, he wants us to go to the cops in return. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, and I’ll make people believe that’s the way it’s working cos that’s how I’ll sell stuff. And then the ads start appearing everywhere. When there didn’t exist before. Before you worked for the people around you. Now it’s for the house, the car, the cash. Travel. I used to see myself walking, camping, seeing the world that way. Now I want a beach resort in the Maldives. This guy’s probably been in the sea a hundred times. I’ve been once. In Riga. In the winter.

OKSANA. And that time my period was late. Please don’t let me be pregnant. They say if you have one abortion you’ll never have kids. He still wouldn’t marry me, even if I was pregnant. Literature class, in the fifth grade, room fourteen on the second floor. My legs felt sticky. And I saw blood on my legs, and my dress, and the chair. The teacher took me to the toilet, gave me a pad, sent me home. And none of the class made fun of me as like they were scared, because this was a new thing. I was the first. Nobody knew what this thing was.

ANDREW. We got out of the car and he drove off. Not a word. Not even a goodbye. Even the car was quiet, like it was sneaking away.

OKSANA. Didn’t tell us anything about the life of a businessman. Didn’t want to talk to mere mortals, apparently. I was ashamed of how I looked. Like I’d slept in a dumpster. Some kind of beggar princess.

ANDREW. It’s like a picture postcard. River here, bridge there, forest on the left, mountain on the right and on top of it, an old church, which was a primary school, then a vocational college, and now is a church again. Shops and a club. This band Stalker played there once. Andrey Derzhavin. Good gig.

OKSANA. Of course the village was a shit hole. The club was an actual building I guess. Trailers instead of shops.

ANDREW. I showed her the police station. The old wooden building and the new brick one. The wooden one’s been there since 1937 when the two previous villages were amalgamated. There was a drunk tank that the drunks used to tunnel out of. They’d catch them straight away. Nowhere to hide around here.

OKSANA. We stopped by the police station and sitting behind the security bars there’s this fat kid with glasses who was in Andrew’s class. They forgot about the old men in the car wreck straight away, and started talking about some guy called Sashka Tugarinov who’d hanged himself in a woodshed while he was wasted.

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