Patrick White - The Eye of the Storm

Sir Basil Hunter laughed; it sounded fatty, he thought. But what the hell! He had the money, and money cannot let you down.

He ordered himself another teenzy bottle of Scotch, and sat waiting, hands plaited over his paunch (always lose it before the production, just as you can throw off the grog if you have the willpower).

Oh he would confound them all, the Jackas and Aaronsons, along with the legions of contemptuous youth, by having another go at Lear, and fully clothed. Before it had completely left him, he would dredge up enough of that sensibility which sees, and smells, and knows by instinct. There is a moment, he liked to think, when you can look back and catch the light off the vanishing dew, before the soul has been irrevocably seared. Was that a bit too much? But he had suffered, hadn’t he? his poor forked animal; not least at the hands of his old dying mother and his sister Dorothy Cahoots. And could now look forward to the years of his maturity.

He tried himself out sotto voce in this unappreciative aeroplane, projecting his voice forward into the cavern of his mouth, rolling the words around to extract the utmost in timbre. The results pleased him. Yes, he had matured.

What the smell it is a sealed attic the russet scent of leftover apples the live ones rolling bumping if you touch them off the shelf the rotten splurge brown obscene making a graveyard of the boards these apples are Mummy’s darling I’ve put them here for a purpose what purpose you don’t ask because half the time a person doesn’t know my fruit my darling you have your play haven’t you I shouldn’t dream of interfering with the play like hell she will save it up she will drag out her voice it had got buried under the wrinkles the sheets what is its title in turn her little boy doesn’t want to tell least of all his mum it is I think because this is a collaboration with everyone including what are called my privates my or ‘our’ Year by Year with Lear by Bas Hunter Mitty Jacka Sol P, Aaronson and A. Perv Audience the old is only laughing she is holding something in reserve under her lilac wig it is your call to get into the drag the wig the crown they have made it of Plasticine not to be conformist and Plasticine will suffer more on the road to Dover the ugly daughters can dong it better Histryl and Moan we have engaged Enid and Shiela to give it greater significance hope you know best Mitty I am the actor king who can’t be bothered except with the psyche before the performance limber it up to expose on that tree with only a fool audience to grovel for the bits which fall putrescent lucky for theatre I’m not the soundest fish last call Sir Basil wet the whistle twice for luck and a third before you go on you may never taste another time Sir Bazill that would be Enid she was all ills and isses and a sharp elbow recognize it anywhere Sir Basil’s entrance only project project whoever said attend the lords of France and Burgundy Gloster meantime we shall express our darker purpose COURTIERS laugh the bang-on boys without their jockstraps the jiggle-joggle Bangkok mares everybody’s in the cast a real benefit performance knock you down too soon if they don’t take care Gloster’s a baby that’s how they want it today renewed fanfares of juvenile laughter with a pizzicato on the testicles shake all you maracas audience laughs THIRD ATTENDANT hits herself in the eye with an independent nork it isn’t any laughing matter then DOROTHY CORNWALL aren’t I the legitimate sister? JACKA cracks her whip yes yes everybody’s in it and everyone is everyone that is the absurd point doesn’t life outpanto panto but DOROTHY insists this is my real panto-brother-sister oh shit my beard is full of birds the audience is loving it the young trolls are lining up together with their liquescent warlocks to build this tunnel thing bet it wasn’t improvised ENTER A BEARDLESS KING in real crown (stuff the panto) in lilac wig in ghastly gash BODIES make stairs for REAL KING to descend begad it’s Esmé Berenger or Judith Somesuch come to bury a leading man little Shiely Albanesi moans there’s too much earth on her hands too many sister-daughters but don’t you see this is total knockabout LILAC KING opens her legs go on Bas on all fours natch it’s the womb stint you’ve got to expect in living theatre well it happens doesn’t it they pull you through beneath the lilac pubics ATTENDANTS writhing and lithing some of them jolly appetizing fruit if you had the time if somebody’s heel hadn’t put out your eye if you hadn’t choked on somebody’s parts at least you are born at last MITTY blacktights JACKA He is born our King of Kings (crack) forward Basssll well folks here I am this is my real role your fool (jingle bells little soft shoe here) the audience is loving it as for the OLD KING she yawns she is above it she wants to get out from under and into her coffin SISTER-DAUGHTERS simmer as FOOL hogs the scene their bearded king of a crypto brother how now where’s that mongrel? anyone Dorothy is at liberty at a pinch to pinch a line she takes a fancy to and FOOL has all the plums I’ll to bed at noonlight with my sister Dorothy will kill you for this to say nothing of Enid Histryl Shiely Moan and all the others only Cordelia the almoner the one who matters who might care is absent she always was whoever played the part ought to cut it Mitty

oh the intervals of time the oiled oceans patent leather jungles glass mountains white airports streamlined nembutal the audience is coming back too soon as always the sweat doesn’t dry discovering motives don’t you realize he is as he is because he’s arterio-sclerotic I’ve worked it out everybody is clever today

CURTAIN UP or would be if there was

so why not cut Cordelia Mitty yes we’ll cut her at future performances LILAC KING (yawning smiling) all these daughters bore the pants their lives are one long menopause it’s my fool-son I’ll choose to lie with in my coffin as if DOROTHY CORNWALL will allow I am the one must kill our fool-brother-son-king silence in the total audience then FOOL oh Dorothy yours is the kindness which exchanges cap for crown and incidentally pray you undo this button a great roaring of participation DOROTHY CORNWALL oh oh buttons are obscene (silence ALL as she uproots penis) PLASTICINE KING then I am free if only you take my tongue too and perhaps uvula for good measure no more an actor AUDIENCE surges down aisles meeting WHOLE CAST halfway to become involved with one another when finished return C. to stamp KING into coffin.

The LILAC OTHER has evaporated in the sun which burns too bright.

‘Sir Basil Hunter!’

‘Yairs. Yes ?’

‘We’re landing in fifteen minutes.’

‘For God’s sake, where?’

‘Amsterdam.’ Like all air hostesses she is smiling for an invalid, in this case, an unsavoury old man.

‘Well, wasn’t it a short hop!’ Still the FOOL.

He must tie his tie, button his collar. If he hadn’t more than undone it: he had torn the damn button off.

Compose a wire then, to the Jacka, if he could get his tongue round the significant word, (FOOL: You can’t throw a stroke at my age, can you? FOOL’S RATIONAL SISTER: Don’t be silly! Young children are known to have had them.)

If dreams were reality you mightn’t have done a murder, slept with your sister, or contemplated what amounts to professional suicide, (MITTY JACKA: You ought to realize by now — if you are in any way creative — that the creative act remains the great suicide risk.)

The dreams oh the wet between the legs.

Persuade this vivandiere to remember charity and bring out another little bottle of Scotch.