Ideal, page 16
FINK: [Languidly, without moving] Childish escapism, my dear.
FANNY: The heroics is all very well, but I’m so damn sick of standing up to make speeches about global problems and worrying all the time whether the comrades can see the runs in my stockings!
FINK: Why don’t you mend them?
FANNY: Save it, sweetheart! Save the brilliant sarcasm for the magazine editors—maybe it will sell an article for you someday.
FINK: That was uncalled for, Fanny.
FANNY: Well, it’s no use fooling yourself. There’s a name for people like us. At least, for one of us, I’m sure. Know it? Does your brilliant vocabulary include it? Failure’s the word.
FINK: A relative conception, my love.
FANNY: Sure. What’s rent money compared to infinity? [Flings a pile of clothing into a carton] Do you know it’s number five, by the way?
FINK: Number five what?
FANNY: Eviction number five for us, Socrates! I’ve counted them. Five times in three years. All we’ve ever done is paid the first month and waited for the sheriff.
FINK: That’s the way most people live in Hollywood.
FANNY: You might pretend to be worried—just out of decency.
FINK: My dear, why waste one’s emotional reserves in blaming oneself for what is the irrevocable result of an inadequate social system?
FANNY: You could at least refrain from plagiarism.
FINK: Plagiarism?
FANNY: You lifted that out of my article.
FINK: Oh, yes. The article. I beg your pardon.
FANNY: Well, at least it was published.
FINK: So it was. Six years ago.
FANNY: [Carrying an armful of old shoes] Got any acceptance checks to show since then? [Dumps her load into a carton] Now what? Where in hell are we going to go tomorrow?
FINK: With thousands homeless and jobless—why worry about an individual case?
FANNY: [Is about to answer angrily, then shrugs, and turning away stumbles over some boxes in the semidarkness] Goddamn it! It’s enough that they’re throwing us out. They didn’t have to turn off the electricity!
FINK: [Shrugging] Private ownership of utilities.
FANNY: I wish there was a kerosene that didn’t stink.
FINK: Kerosene is the commodity of the poor. But I understand they’ve invented a new, odorless kind in Russia.
FANNY: Sure. Nothing stinks in Russia. [Takes from a shelf a box full of large brown envelopes] What do you want to do with these?
FINK: What’s in there?
FANNY: [Reading from the envelopes] Your files as trustee of the Clark Institute of Social Research . . . Correspondence as Consultant to the Vocational School for Subnormal Children . . . Secretary to the Free Night Classes of Dialectic Materialism . . . Adviser to the Workers’ Theater . . .
FINK: Throw the Workers’ Theater out. I’m through with them. They wouldn’t put my name on their letterheads.
FANNY: [Flings one envelope aside] What do you want me to do with the rest? Pack it or will you carry it yourself?
FINK: Certainly I’ll carry it myself. It might get lost. Wrap them up for me, will you?
FANNY: [Picks up some newspapers, starts wrapping the files, stops, attracted by an item in a paper, glances at it] You know, it’s funny, this business about Kay Gonda.
FINK: What business?
FANNY: In this morning’s paper. About the murder.
FINK: Oh, that? Rubbish. She had nothing to do with it. Yellow press gossip.
FANNY: [Wrapping up the files] That Sayers guy sure had the dough.
FINK: Used to have. Not anymore. I know from that time when I helped to picket Sayers Oil last year that the big shot was going by the board even then.
FANNY: It says here that Sayers Oil was beginning to pick up.
FINK: Oh, well, one plutocrat less. So much the better for the heirs.
FANNY: [Picks up a pile of books] Twenty-five copies of Oppress the Oppressors—[Adds with a bow]—by Chuck Fink! . . . What the hell are we going to do with them?
FINK: [Sharply] What do you think we’re going to do with them?
FANNY: God! Lugging all that extra weight around! Do you think there are twenty-five people in the United States who bought one copy each of your great masterpiece?
FINK: The number of sales is no proof of a book’s merit.
FANNY: No, but it sure does help!
FINK: Would you like to see me pandering to the middle-class rabble, like the scribbling lackeys of capitalism? You’re weakening, Fanny. You’re turning petty bourgeois.
FANNY: [Furiously] Who’s turning petty bourgeois? I’ve done more than you’ll ever hope to do! I don’t go running with manuscripts to third-rate publishers. I’ve had an article printed in The Nation! Yes, in The Nation! If I didn’t bury myself with you in this mudhole of a . . .
FINK: It’s in the mudholes of the slums that the vanguard trenches of social reform are dug, Fanny.
FANNY: Oh, Lord, Chuck, what’s the use? Look at the others. Look at Miranda Lumkin. A column in the Courier and a villa at Palm Springs! And she couldn’t hold a candle to me in college! Everybody always said I was an advanced thinker. [Points at the room] This is what one gets for being an advanced thinker.
FINK: [Softly] I know, dear. You’re tired. You’re frightened. I can’t blame you. But, you see, in our work one must give up everything. All thought of personal gain or comfort. I’ve done it. I have no private ego left. All I want is that millions of men hear the name of Chuck Fink and come to regard it as that of their leader!
FANNY: [Softening] I know. You mean it all right. You’re real, Chuck. There aren’t many unselfish men in the world.
FINK: [Dreamily] Perhaps, five hundred years from now, someone will write my biography and call it Chuck Fink the Selfless.
FANNY: And it will seem so silly, then, that here we were worried about some piddling California landlord!
FINK: Precisely. One must know how to take a long view on things. And . . .
FANNY: [Listening to some sound outside, suddenly] Sh-sh! I think there’s someone at the door.
FINK: Who? No one’ll come here. They’ve deserted us. They’ve left us to . . . [There is a knock at the door. They look at each other. FINK walks to the door] Who’s there? [There is no answer. The knock is repeated. He throws the door open angrily] What do you . . . [He stops short as KAY GONDA enters; she is dressed as in the preceding scene. He gasps] Oh! . . . [He stares at her, half frightened, half incredulous. FANNY makes a step forward and stops. They can’t make a sound]
KAY GONDA: Mr. Fink?
FINK: [Nodding frantically] Yes. Chuck Fink. In person. . . . But you . . . you’re Kay Gonda, aren’t you?
KAY GONDA: Yes. I am hiding. From the police. I have no place to go. Will you let me stay here for the night?
FINK: Well, I’ll be damned! . . . Oh, excuse me!
FANNY: You want us to hide you here?
KAY GONDA: Yes. If you are not afraid of it.
FANNY: But why on earth did you pick . . .
KAY GONDA: Because no one would find me here. And because I read Mr. Fink’s letter.
FINK: [Quite recovering himself] But of course! My letter. I knew you’d notice it among the thousands. Pretty good, wasn’t it?
FANNY: I helped him with it.
FINK: [Laughing] What a glorious coincidence! I had no idea when I wrote it, that . . . But how wonderfully things work out!
KAY GONDA: [Looking at him] I am wanted for murder.
FINK: Oh, don’t worry about that. We don’t mind. We’re broad-minded.
FANNY: [Hastily pulling down the window shade] You’ll be perfectly safe here. You’ll excuse the . . . informal appearance of things, won’t you? We were considering moving out of here.
FINK: Please sit down, Miss Gonda.
KAY GONDA: [Sitting down, removing her hat] Thank you.
FINK: I’ve dreamt of a chance to talk to you like this. There are so many things I’ve always wanted to ask you.
KAY GONDA: There are many things I’ve always wanted to be asked.
FINK: Is it true, what they say about Granton Sayers? You ought to know. They say he was a regular pervert and what he didn’t do to women . . .
FANNY: Chuck! That’s entirely irrelevant and . . .
KAY GONDA: [With a faint smile at her] No. It isn’t true.
FINK: Of course, I’m not one to censure anything. I despise morality. Then there’s another thing I wanted to ask you: I’ve always been interested, as a sociologist, in the influence of the economic factor on the individual. How much does a movie star actually get?
KAY GONDA: Fifteen or twenty thousand a week on my new contract—I don’t remember.
[FANNY and FINK exchange startled glances]
FINK: What an opportunity for social good! I’ve always believed that you were a great humanitarian.
KAY GONDA: Am I? Well, perhaps I am. I hate humanity.
FINK: You don’t mean that, Miss Gonda!
KAY GONDA: There are some men with a purpose in life. Not many, but there are. And there are also some with a purpose—and with integrity. These are very rare. I like them.
FINK: But one must be tolerant! One must consider the pressure of the economic factor. Now, for instance, take the question of a star’s salary . . .
KAY GONDA: [Sharply] I do not want to talk about it. [With a note that sounds almost like pleading in her voice] Have you nothing to ask me about my work?
FINK: Oh, God, so much! . . . [Suddenly earnest] No. Nothing. [KAY GONDA looks at him closely, with a faint smile. He adds, suddenly simple, sincere for the first time:] Your work . . . one shouldn’t talk about it. I can’t. [Adds] I’ve never looked upon you as a movie star. No one does. It’s not like looking at Joan Tudor or Sally Sweeney, or the rest of them. And it’s not the trashy stories you make—you’ll excuse me, but they are trash. It’s something else.
KAY GONDA: [Looking at him] What?
FINK: The way you move, and the sound of your voice, and your eyes. Your eyes.
FANNY: [Suddenly eager] It’s as if you were not a human being at all, not the kind we see around us.
FINK: We all dream of the perfect being that man could be. But no one has ever seen it. You have. And you’re showing it to us. As if you knew a great secret, lost by the world, a great secret and a great hope. Man washed clean. Man at his highest possibility.
FANNY: When I look at you on the screen, it makes me feel guilty, but it also makes me feel young, new and proud. Somehow, I want to raise my arms like this. . . . [Raises her arms over her head in a triumphant, ecstatic gesture; then, embarrassed:] You must forgive us. We’re being perfectly childish.
FINK: Perhaps we are. But in our drab lives, we have to grasp at any ray of light, anywhere, even in the movies. Why not in the movies, the great narcotic of mankind? You’ve done more for the damned than any philanthropist ever could. How do you do it?
KAY GONDA: [Without looking at him] One can do it just so long. One can keep going on one’s own power, and wring dry every drop of hope—but then one has to find help. One has to find an answering voice, an answering hymn, an echo. I am very grateful to you. [There is a knock at the door. They look at one another. FINK walks to the door resolutely]
FINK: Who’s there?
WOMAN’S VOICE: [Offstage] Say, Chuck, could I borrow a bit of cream?
FINK: [Angrily] Go to hell! We haven’t any cream. You got your nerve disturbing people at this hour! [A muffled oath and retreating steps are heard offstage. He returns to the others] God, I thought it was the police!
FANNY: We mustn’t let anyone in tonight. Any of those starving bums around here would be only too glad to turn you in for a—[Her voice changes suddenly, strangely, as if the last word had dropped out accidentally]—a reward.
KAY GONDA: Do you realize what chance you are taking if they find me here?
FINK: They’ll get you out of here over my dead body.
KAY GONDA: You don’t know what danger . . .
FINK: We don’t have to know. We know what your work means to us. Don’t we, Fanny?
FANNY: [She has been standing aside, lost in thought] What?
FINK: We know what Miss Gonda’s work means to us, don’t we?
FANNY: [In a flat voice] Oh, yes . . . yes . . .
KAY GONDA: [Looking at FINK intently] And that which means to you . . . you will not betray it?
FINK: One doesn’t betray the best in one’s soul.
KAY GONDA: No. One doesn’t.
FINK: [Noticing FANNY’s abstraction] Fanny!
FANNY: [With a jerk] Yes? What?
FINK: Will you tell Miss Gonda how we’ve always . . .
FANNY: Miss Gonda must be tired. We should really allow her to go to bed.
KAY GONDA: Yes. I am very tired.
FANNY: [With brisk energy] You can have our bedroom. . . . Oh, yes, please don’t protest. We’ll be very comfortable here, on the couch. We’ll stay here on guard, so that no one will try to enter.
KAY GONDA: [Rising] It is very kind of you.
FANNY: [Taking the lamp] Please excuse this inconvenience. We’re having a little trouble with our electricity. [Leading the way to the bedroom] This way, please. You’ll be comfortable and safe.
FINK: Good night, Miss Gonda. Don’t worry. We’ll stand by you.
KAY GONDA: Thank you. Good night. [She exits with FANNY into the bedroom. FINK lifts the window shade. A broad band of moonlight falls across the room. He starts clearing the couch of its load of junk. FANNY returns into the room, closing the door behind her]
FANNY: [In a low voice] Well, what do you think of that? [He stretches his arms wide, shrugging] And they say miracles don’t happen!
FINK: We’d better keep quiet. She may hear us. . . . [The band of light goes out in the crack of the bedroom door] How about the packing?
FANNY: Never mind the packing now. [He fishes for sheets and blankets in the cartons, throwing their contents out again. FANNY stands aside, by the window, watching him silently. Then, in a low voice:] Chuck . . .
FINK: Yes?
FANNY: In a few days, I’m going on trial. Me and eleven of the kids.
FINK: [Looking at her, surprised] Yeah.
FANNY: It’s no use fooling ourselves. They’ll send us all up.
FINK: I know they will.
FANNY: Unless we can get money to fight it.
FINK: Yeah. But we can’t. No use thinking about it. [A short silence. He continues with his work]
FANNY: [In a whisper] Chuck . . . do you think she can hear us?
FINK: [Looking at the bedroom door] No.
FANNY: It’s a murder that she’s committed.
FINK: Yeah.
FANNY: It’s a millionaire that she’s killed.
FINK: Right.
FANNY: I suppose his family would like to know where she is.
FINK: [Raising his head, looking at her] What are you talking about?
FANNY: I was thinking that if his family were told where she’s hiding, they’d be glad to pay a reward.
FINK: [Stepping menacingly toward her] You lousy . . . what are you trying to . . .
FANNY: [Without moving] Five thousand dollars, probably.
FINK: [Stopping] Huh?
FANNY: Five thousand dollars, probably.
FINK: You lousy bitch! Shut up before I kill you! [Silence. He starts to undress. Then:] Fanny . . .
FANNY: Yes?
FINK: Think they’d—hand over five thousand?
FANNY: Sure they would. People pay more than that for ordinary kidnappers.
FINK: Oh, shut up! [Silence. He continues to undress]
FANNY: It’s jail for me, Chuck. Months, maybe years in jail.
FINK: Yeah . . .
FANNY: And for the others, too. Bud, and Pinky, and Mary, and the rest. Your friends. Your comrades. [He stops his undressing] You need them. The cause needs them. Twelve of our vanguard.
FINK: Yes . . .
FANNY: With five thousand, we’d get the best lawyer from New York. He’d beat the case. . . . And we wouldn’t have to move out of here. We wouldn’t have to worry. You could continue your great work. . . . [He does not answer] Think of all the poor and helpless who need you. . . . [He does not answer] Think of twelve human beings you’re sending to jail . . . twelve to one, Chuck. . . . [He does not answer] Think of your duty to millions of your brothers. Millions to one. [Silence]
FINK: Fanny . . .
FANNY: Yes?
FINK: How would we go about it?
FANNY: Easy. We get out while she’s asleep. We run to the police station. Come back with the cops. Easy.
FINK: What if she hears?
FANNY: She won’t hear. But we got to hurry. [She moves to the door. He stops her]
FINK: [In a whisper] She’ll hear the door opening. [Points to the open window] This way . . .
[They slip out through the window. The room is empty for a brief moment. Then the bedroom door opens. KAY GONDA stands on the threshold. She stands still for a moment, then walks across the room to the entrance door and goes out, leaving the door open]
CURTAIN
SCENE 3
The screen unrolls a letter written in a bold, aggressive handwriting:
Dear Miss Gonda,
I am an unknown artist. But I know to what heights I shall rise, for I carry a sacred banner which cannot fail—and which is you. I have painted nothing that was not you. You stand as a goddess on every canvas I’ve done. I have never seen you in person. I do not need to. I can draw your face with my eyes closed. For my spirit is but a mirror of yours.
Someday you shall hear men speak of me. Until then, this is only a first tribute from your devoted priest—
Dwight Langley
. . . Normandie Avenue
Los Angeles, California
Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals studio of DWIGHT LANGLEY. It is a large room, flashy, dramatic, and disreputable. Center back, large window showing the dark sky and the shadows of treetops; entrance door center Left; door into next room upstage Right. A profusion of paintings and sketches on the walls, on the easels, on the floor; all are of KAY GONDA; heads, full figures, in modern clothes, in flowering drapes, naked.
