“Ivan Davydov”: RUSSIAN WARSHIP–Act 1
это пьеса одного современного русского писателя, скажем так, не последнего десятка. сегодня первое действие. перевод черновой и ознакомительный
RUSSIAN WARSHIP
The performance scenario in two acts [1] by Ivan Davydov
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
LANA, aged 28
ARTYOM, aged 33
The rest of the cast is onscreen.
ACT 1
The high-rise apartment building basement, lit by a dim lightbulb. LANA with a submachine gun clutched to her chest runs in, followed by ARTYOM, the Russian army captain, with a pistol in his hand.
ARTYOM: Stop, you cunt! I’ll shoot you! stand still, bitch!
LANA reaches the wall, presses her back to it, and clumsily points her weapon at ARTYOM.
LANA: Don’t come near me!
ARTYOM (diving behind a concrete pillar, shouting from his hiding place): Drop it, you daft fool! Drop or I’ll fucking blow you the fuck apart! I count to three! One!
LANA hastily checks her weapon, presses the trigger, and there is no shot. She finds a safety catch, moves it, and presses the trigger again. The shot rings out, and the bullet flies somewhere off to the side, and LANA drops the gun but picks it up quick enough. She runs sideways to a concrete partition parallel to the wall, and hides behind it.
ARTYOM: You’re fucking nuts? Give me the gun, and I’ll let you go, I don’t fucking need you.
LANA: Get out of here! Get out or I’ll shoot you!
ARTYOM: I saw you shooting. Some shooter you are. Why the fuck did you grab the gun? The others are fucking normal, they looted the store but you had to—
LANA: Did you loot it, too?
ARTYOM: I was controlling you bitches so that you didn’t kill each other! You fell upon it all wild! And they call us looters!
LANA: They blew the store up, and the people were hungry!
ARTYOM: So you’d better grabbed the grub, not the machine-gun, you moron! Why the fuck?
LANA: To kill you, imbecile!
ARTYOM: Are you a Banderite or what? You fucking louse, I put the gun away for just a moment— Where did you come from at all?
LANA: I live here! Where did you come from, you fascist bastard, you occupying invader?
ARTYOM: Are you fucking insane, you fool? Who the fuck are we occupying? We’ve come to liberate you, we don’t touch the civilian population if they don’t ask for it, and who are you? Aren’t you Russian? Why the fuck did you grab my gun, I’m asking you?
LANA: To defend myself!
ARTYOM: Who from? (A pause.) Give me the gun. It’s registered in my name, do you get it or not? Losing a service weapon means a tribunal. I promise, you give it back, I’ll go. Throw it right here.
LANA: Go fuck yourself, Russian warship!
ARTYOM: So you learnt the joke, you daft cow? No, really, you speak Russian smooth, your whole city is Russian so what the fuck are you doing? Who’re you gonna fight here?
LANA: You, say!
ARTYOM: You fucking nuts, miss? I’m just as Russian as you are!
LANA: Did they invite you here? Did they ask you to come?
ARTYOM: Did I come to some foreign folks? I’ve come to my own people!
LANA: Who’s your people here? What do you want with us?
ARTYOM: You need us! To live normally together with us, with Russia!
LANA: We’d been living normally here without you!
ARTYOM: Oh had you? And weren’t your Nazis killing and torturing people here?
LANA: Right here, sure thing, by hundreds! Your government’s all jumpy with annoyance, how come we try so hard, jailing people, poisoning them, legally torturing them, beating them on their heads in the streets, sticking broomsticks up their asses, but we have a right to do it, and who are they? No, we won’t allow just anyone to humiliate our people — we’ll come and humiliate them ourselves!
ARTYOM: Just look how sarcastic we are! You learnt it from the Ukes no doubt, all them Uke women are sarcastic. Ok, enough chinwag here with you, give me the gun, and I’ll be going.
LANA: Come and get it then!
ARTYOM (peeking out): You hid yourself, viper. How old are you?
LANA: All those years are mine.
ARTYOM: You look like a grown-up person but sound fucking mental.
LANA: Enough cursing already! And you call yourself an officer. Although I heard you people speak, your entire army are muck-spouts.
ARTYOM: And yours is not, right? Pardon, geben sie mir bitte? Or have you all switched to the American, like your whipmasters? Do you know how Coca-Cola sound in Russian letters? Suck salt! You’re all suckers here, that’s who you are! (A pause.) Will you give me my gun? (LANA doesn’t answer him.) Alright, then listen here. I’m calling my reinforcements. We have our mine-sweeping unit, they’ll take their armored shields and throw a grenade at you, and you’re fucked, see? Your meat will stick to the wall in crumbles.
LANA: It’ll break your gun.
ARTYOM: I don’t give a fuck. I’ll tell them it was broken in combat. So, shall I call them?
LANA: Go ahead, I’ll train my accuracy.
ARTYOM: You won’t hit them, I told you, they’d have their shields and fucking blow you to shit.
LANA: I’ve asked you not to swear!
ARTYOM: You’ll be teaching your granny! When your comrades die in front of you, d’you think you could do without swearing? We don’t have other words anymore!
LANA: Comrades? So your comrades died, didn’t they? My sister was blown by the shell! Right before my eyes! You bastards, you animals, you brutes, I hate you! and her daughter, Annie, was wounded almost to her death! She’s only six, what did she do to you? Six years old! So that’s how you liberated my sister, eh? You liberated Annie like this? You want to liberate everyone just by killing them?
ARTYOM: Did I shoot your sister myself? Your own Nazis kick the fucking shit out of your own city! They bomb it every which way, butchering people, and blame us for that!
LANA: Just look at him justifying himself! You know what? It doesn’t really matter who killed my sister, your bunch or ours. Ours could’ve made a mistake. No, it does matter, I don’t say it right but that’s what I mean—if you didn’t come nothing would’ve happened, nothing at all! Everyone would’ve been alive!
ARTYOM: Yeah, right. Or the Banderites would’ve buried you all here!
LANA: What Banderites? I’ve never seen one here, they’re all in the west but you had to come to us!
ARTYOM: If we didn’t, they’d’ve hung you all on streetlamps tomorrow! To reach the west, we need to secure the east! Can’t you get it? (A pause.) It’s your call now. Will you give the gun back or I call for my reinforcements? (A pause.) What’s your name?
LANA: Oh, a guy suddenly is a real fucking gentleman!
ARTYOM: Here you go, swearing yourself. Alright then. We’ve screamed and shouted enough, one can understand the nerves, it’s a war after all—
LANA: You’ll be jailed for that word. It’s not ‘a war’, it’s ‘the special operation.’
ARTYOM: Being sarcy again?— So? Peace on Earth? You can’t really be a Banderite, you’re Russian like myself.
LANA: So what? A maniac catches me in the street and says, I’m Russian, you’re Russian, don’t struggle, let me rape you in an orderly way. Is that it? On the national solidarity principle, right?
ARTYOM: You’re being funny again, you’re good. Mine’s Artyom, and the last name is simple and nice, Gromov. Be mutually polite, tell me your name.
LANA: Go away!
She sticks the gun barrel out and shoots.
ARTYOM: Stop it, stupid! The concrete walls are all around, you may be hit by a ricochet yourself! There must be a reason in what the people say that all of you are zombies here— For how long are we going to stand here like that? You’ll peek out sooner or later, and that’d be the end of you.
LANA: You, too. You’ll hide until you starve. And if you get out, I’ll shoot you. (A pause.) I told you, get out.
ARTYOM: Some logic you have. You told me yourself you’d shoot me if I get out.
LANA: As if I care. I won’t touch you if you go away.
ARTYOM: Alright. You don’t leave me much choice. (He takes his phone out, brings it to his ear.) Nikita? Hello? I can’t hear you! Not a f— I don’t understand you, where are you? Hello? Didn’t get it, come again? Which side? Hello? Can’t hear you! (Bringing the phone down. A pause.) Agreed, I’m leaving. But don’t you even try— I’ll bury you if you only stick out!
Saying this, ARTYOM retreats covered by the pillar, having his pistol at the ready. He reaches the opposite wall and prepares to dash out. There is a whistling howl of an approaching shell, and a deafening roar of an explosion. Everything falls apart. It’s a complete darkness.
The silence is long and ringing.
There is a cough. It’s LANA.
LANA switches her torch on. She hangs it on wire hook and slowly approaches ARTYOM who just lies there half-buried in rubble. She nudges him with the barrel of her gun, ARTYOM raises himself, crawls away, and sits up with his back against the wall. He points his pistol at LANA. She ducks behind the pillar.
ARTYOM (reaching for his leg): Damn—
LANA: Were you hit?
ARTYOM: Got scratched by something— to the bone, it looks like.
LANA: And your face—
ARTYOM: What?
LANA: There’s blood there. (ARTYOM feels his face and looks at his fingers.) I have some bandages, some disinfectant, and painkillers. You need it?
ARTYOM: I do.
LANA steps from behind the pillar but quickly jumps back.)
LANA: Won’t you shoot me?
ARTYOM: Am I stupid?
LANA: Then take your pistol away.
ARTYOM (putting the pistol down nearby): And you take away the gun.
LANA: Oh how slicky you are. You’re a soldier, you can handle guns. You’ll grab it, but I won’t have time. Give it to me, throw it.
ARTYOM: Like hell.
LANA: Then you won’t get anything.
ARTYOM: I’ll do without.
LANA: Push it further from you, at least.
ARTYOM: And you put the gun away.
LANA: I won’t. I don’t trust you.
ARTYOM thinks a little and pushes his pistol away.
LANA goes to the wall watching ARTYOM all the while. She pulls off a sheet of plastic revealing boxes, bags, packages, and a heap of other stuff, including packets of food. LANA rummages in one bag, finds some bandage, a bottle of water, and some pills and puts them in a separate plastic bag. Then she goes back and throws it to ARTYOM. She approaches the wall and picks up a second torch. The one on the hook highlights ARTYOM, and LANA goes with hers to the exit blocked with rubble. Meanwhile ARTYOM bandages his leg, wipes his face, and drinks some water.
LANA: We’re buried here. No way out.
ARTYOM: They’ll dig us out.
LANA: Who will?
ARTYOM: Our guys.
LANA: Like they care about you. They won’t be here soon, our guys will kick them out.
ARTYOM: Who do you call ‘ours guys’? The Nazis?
LANA: My sister’s husband defends the city, he’s not a Nazi. He revenges his wife.
ARTYOM: His revenge is up the wrong tree. (He winces.) Shit— (He takes out a package of pills.) Aspirin. Like ours.
LANA: Aspirin is Aspirin even in Africa. (She circles the basement, looking at ARTYOM now and then.) Buried completely. There was only one door.
ARTYOM: You look capable, as I see it. Do you live here or what?
LANA: I’ve been living here almost for a week.
ARTYOM: Why didn’t you leave?
LANA: Didn’t have enough time.
ARTYOM (wincing): Do you have anything else, apart from the Aspirin? Like. More serious? (LANA rummages in her things, finding a syringe in a box. She comes to ARTYOM and throws it to him.) What’s that?
LANA: You asked for something serious.
ARTYOM: It’s not in Russian. It can be a poison.
LANA: Like, yes, as if they’d keep poison here. One stab and the lights out.
ARTYOM takes the syringe out, inspects and even smells it. He sticks the needle into his thigh and pushes the plunger. He feels better almost immediately.
ARTYOM: Feels like it helps. (He takes his phone and tries to put a call through. No luck.) Does your phone get the network?
LANA: It may.
ARTYOM: Check it, will you?
LANA (taking her phone out, checking it): No signal.
A pause.
ARTYOM: So what’s your name?
LANA: Lana.
ARTYOM: What’s your full name?
LANA: It’s full, Lana. (After a pause.) I used to be Svetlana but everyone called me Lana. When I changed my passport, I registered it as Lana.
LANA goes to the wall where there are come electronic devices, a laptop, a router box, some batteries, etc. LANA takes an LCD TV from a cardboard box and puts it on an old kitchen table. She opens her laptop and waits for it to load.
ARTYOM: I see you have all conveniences here. What does it work on?
LANA: The batteries. (She turns a lamp on the wall near her, and we can see her face for the first time.)
ARTYOM: You’re a looker, it turns out. Even a beauty.
LANA: I know.
ARTYOM: And so young. Are you a student?
LANA: It’s the lighting. I’m 28.
ARTYOM: I’m a bit older, 33. Well, what’s up? Do we have the internet access?
LANA: Nope, something’s— (She inspects wires on all devices.) Something got hit and broken.
ARTYOM: Let me see, I know something about it.
LANA: Me too.
A pause. ARTYOM listens.
ARTYOM: It’s so silent— Not a sound. How many floors are there in the building?
LANA: Nine.
ARTYOM stands up, holding on to the wall. LANA picks the submachine gun up.
ARTYOM: Enough of this crap already! Well, if you shoot me, will you sit here with a dead body and die?
LANA: Why die? I’ll live.
ARTYOM: Look. We’re buried good here. I think all nine floors are on us. There’s no air intake. Have you noticed it’s now harder to breathe?
LANA: It’s always been like that. We’re in a cellar.
ARTYOM: We won’t have any more air in a couple of days. We’ll suffocate, see? Both of us. I doubt they would dig us out; they have other things to do. What’s the bottom-line then? We have to dig ourselves out, look for some exit. There should be some vents in the foundation, we must find them. In short, if you wanna live, let’s get to work. Together. If you’re afraid, here, look. (He takes a large fragment of debris and puts it on his pistol. Then he steps from it.) That’s it. I’m disarmed now. Do you remember where the vents were?
LANA: It seemed to be over there, a hole in the wall. A cat went through it.
ARTYOM goes there and starts removing stones and rubble.
LANA joins him after her unsuccessful attempts to set up the communication. At first, she works further away, clearing the space with one hand, and holding the gun with the other. Then she puts the gun away.
Both focus on their work.
ARTYOM pulls out a long piece of an electric cable and inspects it. Suddenly, he attacks LANA, tying her up with the cable. There is a fight, with indistinct sounds. ARTYOM wins, tying LANA’s hands and feet up. With one end of the cable, he ties her to some piece of metal that sticks out from the wall.
Then he sits apart from her, inspecting his leg. The blood seeps from the bandage. ARTYOM stands up and limps to the spot where he had been before. He bandages his leg over the old bandage, then takes his pistol from under the fragment and pushes it into his holster. He picks the submachine gun, carries it away, takes the magazine out and hides it in the rubble.
LANA: So, what’s next?
ARTYOM: I’ll dig myself out and hand you in as a terrorist.
LANA: They’ll give you a reward.
ARTYOM: No, they won’t, not for you. Don’t fret, I won’t hand you in. I just don’t like it when someone breathes down my neck. You’re clearly a looney, you might shoot just for fun. So have some rest there. It’ll be more reliable for me. I might just as well look what you have here. (ARTYOM goes to LANA’s devices, fumbles with them when he sees some food.) Mind if I take a bite?
LANA: It’s all yours now, pig out.
ARTYOM: Thank you just the same.
He munches some bread, gnaws on some hard sausage, crunches on a cucumber, washing it down with some soda water. All those sounds seem very loud in the silent basement. He fumbles on with the devices. The TV monitor lights up.
ARTYOM: What channels do you have here?
LANA: No channels.
ARTYOM: Used it just to watch movies, right? (He uses the remote to link up the laptop and the TV, and then he opens folders seen on the laptop desktop. A collection of films is in one of them. ARTYOM selects one and starts watching[2].) I used to like it, too. (He turns the movie off and looks in other folders. In one, he finds the recording of the concert rally at the Luzhniki Stadium in Moscow, on March 18, 2022. He watches it with pleasure.) Someone right must’ve taped it. It means not all of you are Nazies. So powerful, eh? Look how many people! Mighty! Handsome! The entire nation is with us and for us! Your Banderites should’ve thought who they are getting mixed with! The great fucking nation offered you a helping hand so that you could become great together with us! So that the punky West couldn’t even think about raising a hand against us! (Singing along to one of the songs.)
LANA: Turn it off! Together with yourself!
ARTYOM (pumping the volume up): Enjoy it, you fool! I wonder who could’ve twisted your brains.
LANA: The brute! The fascist!
ARTYOM: You could’ve gotten it good for calling me a fascist if you weren’t tied up. And lying down. I don’t hit lying girls. I do other things to them. And they like it! Doesn’t it turn you on? Eh? (He turns the volume to the max and goes to LANA. He starts dancing in front of her, awkwardly but energetically. Then he leans of his wounded leg, grabs it and limps to the wall. He starts clearing the debris there.) It’s nicer to work with the music! And if someone hears it from the outside, it’s a bonus!
LANA: Turn it off, please! It drives me insane!
The song is over. The stands are enraptured. Someone starts a speech. Then there comes another song. LANA rolls on the floor helplessly. ARTYOM chuckles, picks up the remote, and switches the sound off. Now we see only the silent pictures of the celebration on screen. ARTYOM approaches LANA and squats in front of her.
ARTYOM: So tell me, why are you against your own people?
LANA: What my people, what are you talking about?
ARTYOM: The Russians, your motherland.
LANA: Why are you?
ARTYOM: I what?
LANA: Why are you against the Russians and the motherland?
ARTYOM: Whoops, what an interesting turn!
LANA: Here’s whoops for you. The Russians and the motherland will only have it worse because of what you’re doing here.
ARTYOM: Maybe. For a while. When we conquered Fascism in the Great Patriotic War, we lived in hardships, too. But we saved the world.
LANA: Did you pick it up from your TV?
ARTYOM: Where did you? From the State Department?
LANA: You make me sick. Like I’m on a frigging talk-show. All right, I’ll explain, Mr. Anchor Wanker. No, the question first. What is the purpose of any war?
ARTYOM: Don’t call me names, that’s the first thing. The purpose is simple, to triumph over the enemy.
LANA: What does it mean, to triumph over the enemy?
ARTYOM: Why are you showing off, it’s clear enough!
LANA: Not to me, I’m stupid this way.
ARTYOM: Well— To disarm them. To harm them to the hilt, so that they didn’t even jerk.
LANA: Excellent! Then I should inform you, Mr. Anchor, that the national traitors are not we but you and your masters! Traitors and enemies! For you have already triumphed over your own country because you had harmed it to the hilt! So that it can’t even jerk! There was the worst possible way to destroy and humiliate the country, and you chose it!
ARTYOM: Quite a roll you’re on! I feel you’re not of simple folk. What’s your job, smartass?
LANA: I’m an educator. A teacher.
ARTYOM: Are you? and what do you teach your kids? That there are no moms and dads now but there are parent one and parent two? (LANA wants to contradict him but he raises his hand.) Shush, it’s my turn now.
LANA: You’re watching the Time program!
ARTYOM: My head works without programs. My mom, she had her higher education, by the way, she’s a process engineer at a factory, so she says, We used to live a little meagerly in the USSR, that’s true, but we had our friendship. We had our joy, full of soul. We used to live morally. And the West corrupted us.
LANA: That’s true.
ARTYOM: Do you really agree with it?
LANA: Of course. They spread that democracy, when every shithead wants to feel human! Now they want their elections, equal rights, freedom of speech, what a boorish lot!
ARTYOM: Oh, I see, you stung me to death! Now that’s what I want to tell you. Here’s the war. But we don’t have the war only now, if you haven’t got it into your leaky cauldron yet, we’ve always had it. Here it goes. An attack, a battle, there’s no way to conduct them without a commander. So here it starts, let’s elect this one guy, let’s argue about it, but first you feed us all with Sneakers or we won’t go into battle at all, and my sexual orientation is different, I don’t want to go to war at all! Do you catch my drift? Everyone fights us, but why? We’re building our own world, and it gets on your fucking nerves! We’ve got the territory, the resources, we’ve got everything, and so your West is chokes down with its own spit. Vladimir Vladimirovich asked them nicely not to expand the NATO but they did, the cunts! We didn’t attack you, we made a preemptive strike!
LANA: Alright. You want to live the way you want to live. Right?
ARTYOM: Yeah.
LANA: And Ukraine wants to live the way she wants to live. Can’t she do it?
ARTYOM: Not the way she wants it but the way she’s forced to!
LANA: So now you’re going to force it, right?
ARTYOM: Why don’t we. Here’s another example from the military life for you. I have soldiers under my command. They’re not angels, there are different kinds. If a soldier has a brain I’ll explain everything to him, and he understands. But if he’s lazy or retarded, if you tell him and he doesn’t get it, if he doesn’t serve right and is not friendly with his comrades, I have to explain it to him physically. So that he is reformed. It’s called coercion to goodness.
LANA: Does it mean that Russia is like the barracks, they can’t live without coercion? This is why they killed all opposition off, or jailed it? (ARTYOM wants to protest but LANA warns him off.) It’s my turn now. Have you seen the lists of those who support the war and who oppose it?
ARTYOM: I’m not interested in this shit.
LANA: But I did, and I studied them. You won’t like the conclusion. Almost everyone who has brains and talent, those who are honest, they are against the war. Those who are dumb and obedient, those who are dull or corrupt, they all are for it!
ARTYOM: Do you mean the intellectuals? They are all traitors! Most people support it, right? I’ve asked you a question.
LANA: Right.
ARTYOM: So where are your intellectuals now? They’ve parted ways with the people! They deserted the nation!
LANA: Ok. I admit it. This happened before as well. Goebbels, if you remember who that was, was also pissed that the German intellectuals don’t want to stand with the united Fascist people that follows their beloved Fascist Fuhrer! And this war of yours, Mr. TV, is not with Ukraine of the West, it’s the war that the leader of all stupid, talentless dull and corrupted unleashed against all those who are honest and talented. And for his victory he’s prepared to blow the entire world to smithereens, that is why everyone is praying morning to night for him to kick the bucket at last!
ARTYOM (standing up, he kicks LANA): Shut up, you bitch! For these words I’ll— No, I see it! You don’t like that he doesn’t give a fuck about all the world? He just fucks it, no? No? You can’t say anything. We’re stupid for her, see? 75 per cent support it, are they all stupid? Is the whole nation stupid? I’ve come here to risk my life, am I stupid?
LANA: Of course.
ARTYOM: You’re— Just so that you knew, I’ve done tests, my IQ is close to 140, I’m practically a genius!
LANA: Psychos can be geniuses.
ARTYOM: D’you mean to say that whole Russia has gone mad?
LANA: It also happened before. Remember what happened under Stalin, will you? Or Fascist Germany for that matter, before the war—
ARTYOM: Shut up, you slut! If you compare us to Fascists again—
LANA: I won’t even dream of it! They at least had discipline, and you have a mess. Their generals never stole from their troops. They were brave, even though they were beasts of course. And what about you? Take you, let’s say, hiding behind that pillar, pissing himself with fright. Of whom? A girls can’t shoot straight, you can run right onto her gun, she’d miss you, but no. Your precious ass is more valuable to you, oh moral one! You’re just a pisspants, get it? Like your president who had also hid himself, shaking with fear! In all his twenty plus years, has he met anyone who is against him, face to face? When there were elections, did he come out to a debate, just once? No! Because he’s yellow, like a snotty kid, because any reasonable man will crush him with his argument! No, he may only hold forth from his rostrum, from afar, reaching from behind others’ backs, drowning everything in his loo with other people’s hands!
ARTYOM (taking out his pistol): Either you shut up—or I’ll shut you up! I won’t allow anyone to speak about my president disrespectfully, see?
LANA: Oh, you won’t believe me but I have some respect for him. I hate him but I respect him. Because he’s just as good as his word. But you— You tell me now that we’re your enemies, but you don’t believe it yourself! They destroy enemies, they don’t see them as human, for you’re on the right side, no? and if you’re on the right side, go for it! Kill everyone you see, rape all women! But no, you don’t do it. Is it because you’re kind? You take pity on us? No! It’s because you don’t believe in your truth yourselves! And, of course, you’re afraid that there would be a retaliation. I see how you lick me all over with your eyes, wishing you could screw me! Why not, I’m your plunder, your trophy, for you’re the winner! Dare you do it? You’re a shithead, not a winner, you’re a nerd with shoulder straps. Some fucking warriors you are! I saw Putin declaring to your warriors, that security council of yours, that he’s starting the war! They just shat themselves! They sat there like dead. All grown-up men, not all of them agreed to it but they all kept mum! Not even one raised an objection, not a squeak. Shameful, stinking rot! And they are for the fucking truth! Do you want me to tell you why you wage war so fucking disgracefully? It’s all because you, comrade captain, don’t think about how to be victorious—you just think how to survive yourself, and how to lie to your bosses elegantly, to some colonel! You’re scared of the colonel, the colonel is scared of his general, the general is scared of your commander-in-chief who’s not a military commander a bit, he can only put fires in barns out, and the commander is scared of Putin. That’s all your might and truth, captain. You’re not afraid of the Ukrainians, nor the Nazis, nor the Banderites. You’re afraid of each other!
A pause.
ARTYOM: Is that it?
LANA: Enough for you.
ARTYOM: So you’re provoking me, right? They’d warned us before that the Nazis would expose themselves like you do here, so that to tell everyone later that they are destroyed. Just bear in mind, beautу— (A phone rings. ARTYOM runs to the pile of devices, limping, fumbles for the phone.) Yes? Hello? Damn— (He walks around the basement, looking for a spot to catch the signal. He looks around.) The signal came through, it means there’s a hole somewhere. Is it yours? (LANA doesn’t answer. ARTYOM puts the phone down and notices a purse. He picks it up, rummages in it, producing some documents, including the passport. He opens it, looks at LANA. He approaches her with the passport and the purse in his hands.) What an interesting turn! You’re not only Russian, you’re also from Moscow. Lana Zakharova. Aren’t you related by any chance—
LANA: We don’t even share the last name.
ARTYOM: So why the hell did you have to pose as a local? What are you doing here at all?
LANA: I visited my sister.
ARTYOM (producing another document): A teacher, hey?
LANA: By training, yes. But I’m a working journalist. So what?
ARTYOM: So this is why you’re so good with your tongue. A Russian journalist infiltrated Ukraine—why? To send false information?
LANA: A journalist can’t simply come visit her relatives?
ARTYOM: Why are you so embarrassed all of a sudden? You’ve even grown pale. Are you scared, you poor thing? So who is pisspants now, eh? It means you’ve come here to spy against your own country, no? That was why you grabbed the gun? You were afraid to get caught and revealed? You wanted to hide here, right? Answer me when you’re asked a question! (He strikes LANA on the cheek with her passport.) Do you know where you’re right? That we take pity on you. We are humane with you. But you— Have you seen your Nazis torturing our war prisoners? Killing them, humiliating them, shooting them in the feet? Have you? (He grabs the phone, finds a video in it, and shows it to LANA. We see this on the TV monitor, too. The footage is horrifying indeed, with prone prisoners who are being shot at, screaming—) Watch it, don’t turn your mug away! Watch, I say! (The video is over.) Are they not the beasts? And they film it without shame. Boasting it, to demonstrate how they work for America!
LANA: They don’t work for America. They work for the war. And Putin.
ARTYOM: Are you fucking insane?
LANA: There was a wise man who said that the war is an epidemic, a contagion. Everyone is sick. But the guilty party is the one that was the first to infect the rest. Intentionally.
ARTYOM: You were the ones who spread the infection! (Looking LANA all over.) You’re beautiful all the same. Maybe I should screw you indeed. You were the first to suggest it.
LANA: Listen—
ARTYOM: Enough listening! My pals are dying there because of the ones like you. You were right to say it, to kill and to rape. Alright. Let’s go for it.
He untwists the cable from LANA’s feet and pulls the jeans from her.
LANA: No logic, Artyom. You screw me, and I’ll enjoy it. And this is wrong, to satisfy your enemy.
ARTYOM: No worries, I’ll try to make it painful.
LANA: Please do.
ARTYOM unzips his pants but suddenly hears something.
ARTYOM: Did you hear it?
LANA: No.
Both listen in. There’s a sound of explosion somewhere on the surface, and the plaster and dust fall from the ceiling. At one side, there appears a hole in the foundation wall, and a thin ray of light bursts in, shining right into ARTYOM’s eyes. He zips his pants hastily again and comes to the source of the light. He climbs the heap of rubble, removing some stones. Something caves in, and the ray of light disappears. ARTYOM falls on his back, screaming with pain. He’s upside down on the heap of rubble, with his head down the slope, and his leg jammed at the top.
ARTYOM: Motherfucking hell, you bitch! The same leg! (He jerks, trying to free it.) I’m fucked, it’s dead stuck. It hurts as fuck! (A pause.) Will you help me?
LANA: How? I’m tied.
ARTYOM: Try to free yourself.
LANA pulls at the cable with all her body. Then she rolls over and sets her feet against the wall.
LANA: Can’t do it.
ARTYOM: Can you untie your hands?
LANA: No.
ARTYOM: Come a bit closer to me. (LANA moves as close as she can, the cable permitting. ARTYOM stretches his arms to her, reaching out.) Just a little bit more. Shift closer, will you?
LANA: I can’t!
ARTYOM: Dammit! Try to bite through the cable.
LANA: Are you serious?
ARTYOM: Then we’ll die here, both of us! (LANA bites the cable and shakes her head.) That’s right, try to break it. It’s aluminum inside, it’ll break, and you’ll tear the isolation with your teeth. Well?
LANA: I can’t! It’s too thick!
ARTYOM: Rest a bit and try again. (A pause.) Looks like my leg’s broken. And I’m bleeding. I’ll bleed to my fucking death here.
LANA: Aren’t you tired of swearing? I’m already sick of it.
ARTYOM: All right, I’ll stop.
LANA: I’m serious. Let’s not use any more swear words. While we’re alive.
ARTYOM: Do you think we’re screwed? It’s not a swear word.
A pause.
LANA: Where are you from? Where were you born?
ARTYOM: Near Voronezh. I went to the military college after school.
LANA: Did you want to ne a soldier?
ARTYOM: That, too— My mother raised me alone, the dad— it doesn’t matter. Then my kid sister was born, but she turned out to be sick. In the college, everything was GI, that was a plus. When I started my service, the pay started to come, and they paid extra for assignments— It was enough for Olya’s medicines. My sister’s name is Olya. Ollie— You know, it’s a pity for she’s so beautiful. Her face is like model’s. She’s even more beautiful than you are. But the rest of her is sick, she usually stays half a day in bed— Such a nice girl— almost a woman now, she looks like a princess but— And she doesn’t have a boyfriend— We’ve been waiting for her surgery for two years, our turn will come soon. It’s not free, of course.
LANA: Does it mean you fight the war for her? Like, making money?
ARTYOM: Among other things. The combat pay. The filed pay, it all turns out OK.
LANA: If they don’t kill you.
ARTYOM: There’s risk in everything.
LANA: Are you married?
ARTYOM: Divorced.
LANA: Why’s that?
ARTYOM: Well— it’s complicated. You?
LANA: Was in a relationship. It’s complicated.
They laugh, and ARTYOM shouts out in pain. He reaches down with his hand.
ARTYOM: Such an idiot I am! (He takes his pistol out.)
LANA: First me then yourself? Not to suffer much? I don’t agree to that. Do yourself first then me.
ARTYOM: Don’t make me laugh. Don’t move. (He takes aim.) I’ll try to break the cable with the bullet. Hold it tight.
LANA pulls the cable taut, ARTYOM aims and fires. He misses. Then he fires again and hits the cable.
ARTYOM: Yank it. (LANA does that and the cable breaks.) Gotcha! Come here, I’ll untie you. (LANA moves closer and ARTYOM untwists the cable. Her hands are free now, she throws the cable on the floor and grabs the pistol ARTYOM had put down when he untied her.) Don’t touch it! (LANA picks her jeans up, puts them on, sticks the pistol into her pocket and goes to her supplies. She takes two bottles of water, drinks from one and takes the other one to ARTYOM. He gulps the water avidly.) I wish I could have another shot. It went well the last time. (LANA goes to fetch the syringe and puts it close to ARTYOM without approaching. ARTYOM tears the package, takes the syringe out and shoots himself with the med.) Now look for a stick or some piece of metal, the metal’s better, you’ll make a lever. Then stick it in and try to lift it. There’s a beam there or something.
LANA: We’ll have time for that. You showed me how they torture your people. Now watch this.
She comes up to the TV, turns it on and shows him the footage of bombings, devastation, killed people, weeping mothers and children.
ARTYOM: I got it, enough! Well, have your revenge, kill me! Go on, what are you waiting for! (LANA turns the TV off, goes around the basement looking, and finds a rusty angle bar. She comes up to ARTYOM, stands still and looks at him.) What’s the matter? Enjoying my suffering?
LANA: It’s funny. Some dreams come true.
ARTYOM: What dreams?
LANA: I have a recurrent dream. From real life. I’ve tried to get to Putin’s press conference, twice. No dice, they let only their people there. Or those clowns who pose as an opposition. And no-one asks him anything serious, of course, the real questions, see? So, I wanted to get there so badly that I started dreaming about it, that I’m there. And they give me a mike so I can say whatever I like. But I just stand there like dumb and don’t say anything. In my dream, I scream to myself, go on, ask him! But no. As if I’m suddenly mute.
ARTYOM: You’ll tell me your dreams later, OK? I need to go to the bathroom.
LANA: You’ll have time for that, Vladimir Vladimirovich. You endure it for five hours at your press conferences, and that always made me wonder. Do you wear Pampers or what?
ARTYOM: Are you f— are you completely nuts? I’m not your—
LANA: But you’re here for him, right. So you must answer.
ARTYOM: No, I won’t!
LANA: As you wish. By the way, bathroom would be nice.
She retreats behind the partition. Some time later, she reappears.
ARTYOM: OK, ask away. Make it quick though.
LANA stands in front of him, silent. She stands like that for a long time.
LANA: Damn— That dream again. A million questions but I want something— Most important— (Suddenly, she moves to the front of the stage and addresses the audience.) Will you help me out here? No, the show will go on, the story’s not over yet— even more so because it’s almost the real-life story. But we’ll have a kinda interruption. There are things concerning everybody. And everyone has their own opinion of them. Imagine there’s Putin in front of you. You may ask any question. Or not. It’s clear that there would be no decent answer, even if Putin himself were here. Remember, he always evaded questions. Let’s do it this way. What do you think is the greatest Putin’s guilt? Towards Ukraine. Towards Russia. Towards the entire world. Or, maybe, someone doesn’t think he’s guilty at all? Maybe there was no other way? Who’s gonna try it? (She sees some raised hands.) Please, go ahead!
One by one, members of the audience stand up and put forward their accusations. Or they may find justifications to his actions. (It is possible that at this time, the TV monitor features Putin’s face—or they prepare a collection of his typical elusive answers that could fit the questions.) Five or ten minutes later, LANA raises her hands.
LANA: Thank you! It’s all fair. It’s all like this. But you know, I have an idea. I mean, the author has an idea, and I’ll just say it aloud. The idea is this. How nice it is to feel right and righteous! It’s nice for you, and it’s dangerous for others. For the main thing that man had— it’s weird to call him a man but yes, he was the man, too— The main thing was his worship of himself and his rightness. His rightness was total, indestructible, made of the reinforced concrete! He was ready to do anything to prove that rightness of his! His terrible readiness. His joy with the humiliation of those who were not right his way. His anger at them, to the degree of wanting to murder them. So, I do not want to offend anyone here but each of us has a little Putin inside. The one who enjoys his rightness. I’m not trying to discredit anything you’ve just said. You said right things. But just think of what I said. I thought I was just an actress (she says her real name). I thought of many things. Like, what is the most terrible thing in this world. (And the actress herself speaks of those things she considers the most terrible in the world. After a pause:) But— we’ll continue.
She returns to ARTYOM, and at that very moment, there sounds the artillery shell whine, with maximally admissible volume.
An explosion.
A total darkness.
[1] It is not necessary to divide the performance into acts.
[2] The film selection may be determined by the director.
