Real and Phantom Pains: An Anthology of New Russian Drama. John Freedman
chest.)
GIRL: What’s that? Money?
BOY: Dunno. I haven’t opened it.
GIRL: Why?
BOY: Well, I cried first, then I thought about it, but –
GIRL: Duh. So, are you going to open it now?
BOY: I don’t know. I guess I should.
GIRL: You should. It’s your inheritance.
BOY: Will you pull it out?
GIRL: You don’t want to?
BOY: If you don’t want to – I can. But I want you to.
GIRL (Honored): Well, thank you.
(GIRL pulls the black-plastic-wrapped bag out of the nightstand. She gives it to the boy and looks down at her blood-covered hands.
BOY takes the bag from GIRL and wipes it on his T-shirt, where it leaves a reddish brown stain.
Pause. BOY stands for a time.)
BOY: Fine. Now I’m unwrapping it.
(He does.)
GIRL: This is all your Mom left you?
BOY: I guess nothing else is worth anything.
GIRL: What do mean?
(Beat.)
BOY: Two years ago, all the guys grew up. They started wearing watches. I got into Mom and Dad’s stuff to find a watch for me, and Mom tells me – Dad only has one watch.
(Beat.)
Well, he’s got an alarm clock too, but the thing about that is that if you don’t wind it up all the time it lies.
(Beat.)
Anyhow, my Mom never even got fake pearls, only a chain and her wedding ring.
GIRL: What about your Dad?
BOY: I just told you – he’s got the watch.
GIRL: That’s it?
BOY: No one else in the family had one –
GIRL: This is all they had. They left this for you. What now?
BOY: What?
GIRL: What are you going to do?
BOY: It can chill right there, for now.
GIRL: And later?
BOY: I’ll sell it, I guess. When I grow up. Or I’ll take it to the police.
GIRL: Do the police pay for plunder?
BOY: No. They don’t pay – Why’d you call this plunder?
GIRL: Did your parents make it?
BOY: No. I’d know. For sure. When someone makes moonshine, you can tell.
(BOY weaves a bit.)
And when someone picks up empties from recycling bins, you know he’s poor. So I think if they were making drugs, I’d know. Really. Come on.
GIRL: Who scavenges bottles in our part of the building?
BOY: Well, there’s those goons downstairs. Ivan Mikhailovich and his psycho-chick.
GIRL: Is she the morning squealer?
BOY: Yeah. And he mutters. Mom said they’ve been fucked up so long they see pink spiders.
GIRL: And who makes moonshine?
BOY: Granny Valya Konstantinova used to, but they busted her for fencing stolen gold. Nowadays, I don’t know. They say the police blew up her still, but –
GIRL: Well, this is quite the... place.
BOY: So, this proves that if they were making drugs, I’d know it. And, no, it’s not theirs, but it’s not grift either.
GIRL: You’re sure?
BOY: My mom wouldn’t leave me a snatch-and-grab inheritance.
GIRL: Oh, sure she wouldn’t.
BOY: No, I’m serious. She wouldn’t. Cause that’s a sin.
(A noise at the door.)
5
GIRL: Who’s that?
BOY: Guess is it ain’t my Granny! (Beat.) Quick now! Demons!
(BOY and GIRL pull a chair over to the bookshelves and climb up to open the doors of a narrow storage area close to the ceiling. GIRL climbs up first. BOY follows, pushing the chair away with his foot. They are huddled and quiet.
The door opens. BLACK GUY and POLICE SERGEANT enter.)
BLACK GUY: Why you stumblin’? Ain’t like you pickin’ a lock.
POLICEMAN: This ain’t my place. I never held this key before.
BLACK GUY (Not listening): Sure.
(Looking around.)
Where... Where, where, where, where...
POLICEMAN: My dick if I know where that junkie put it. She coulda poked it anywhere, you know?
BLACK GUY: An addict on the edge of dying like a dog.
POLICEMAN: Yeah, good idea, try and get inside her head.
BLACK GUY: Where was she?
POLICEMAN: Here. On the sofa.
(BLACK GUY pulls the sofa away from the wall. Nothing. He takes his coat off.)
GIRL (In the storage area, motions silently to the boy): “Are they friends?”
BOY (Motions back): “I don’t know.”
(POLICEMAN motions to the gun in BLACK GUY’S belt.)
POLICEMAN: I see you’re packing.
(BLACK GUY moves the gun around to the front of his belt.)
BLACK GUY: Just in case I run out of money.
POLICEMAN: So, Mr. Q. Public, I should take you downtown?
(POLICEMAN grins. BLACK GUY grins and lifts the sofa.)
BLACK GUY: Go ahead. Arrest me, Dick Tracy. Look. Anything under there?
POLICEMAN (Looking): No. What’s the cleaning rag doing there?
BLACK GUY: Where?
POLICEMAN: Here.
(BLACK GUY drops the sofa.)
BLACK GUY: Was it there before?
POLICEMAN: No.
BLACK GUY: Could’ve been the family cleaning up. In Africa they would sell all the personal...effects. Magicians buy the trinkets of the dead men –
POLICEMAN: That’s some kind of inheritance. (Laughs.)
(BLACK GUY twirls the cleaning cloth.)
BLACK GUY: This particular inheritance would bring good money back home.
POLICEMAN: Why’s that?
BLACK GUY: Blood. See the blood? Someone wiped up blood with this.
POLICEMAN: Under the rug?
(POLICEMAN picks up a corner and peers under the rug from one side. BLACK GUY does the same from the other side. There’s nothing under the rug, but bloodstains seeped into the back of the rug near the nightstand. POLICEMAN looks at the nightstand and opens it—blood covered books fall out.)
BLACK GUY: Bingo!
POLICEMAN: Fuck-a-duck! There’s