House of Many Tongues Read online

  and bring pleasure to the women of Palestine.

  Happy and satisfied will be the women of our enemy.”

  Rivka: You want sex, Alex. That’s healthy. Go find someone your own age and use a condom.

  Alex: I read in Wikipedia that there’s a part of the female body that exists only for the sake of pleasure. Is this true?

  Rivka: It’s called the clitoris.

  Alex: That’s right. (writes) Cli-toris. Is it hard to find?

  Rivka: For most men, yes.

  Alex: Would you show me where it is?

  Rivka: No.

  Alex: You’re my tutor. I trust you. I don’t trust anyone else.

  Rivka: It’s not right.

  Alex: What’s right, Rivka? Is war right? Is learning how to shoot a gun at your enemy right? You’re going to reserve duty in a couple of weeks. Wouldn’t you rather there be peace? To not have to fight?

  Rivka: Of course I want peace. Who doesn’t want peace? But oral sex is not going to stop martyr wackos from blowing up innocent people.

  Alex: How do you know cunnilingus won’t save the Middle East?

  RIVKA affectionately touches ALEX.

  Rivka: You’re sweet, Alex.

  Now. Can we get to your homework?

  You don’t want to fall too far behind.

  Scene 4

  That same afternoon. SHIMON speaks into a tape recorder. Drinking beer.

  Shimon: Now. The General led the campaign of the ’67 War into East Jerusalem. He shot whatever was in his path. He was wild and unstoppable. Did he have regrets? There was no time for regret. It was three nations against one. For six days the General protected his country. He was fearless and bold. That was his genius.

  He was young.

  Beautiful.

  Even the killing was beautiful.

  There was Dan and the General on a hill.

  They were talking and laughing when a bullet went through Dan’s left eye and his skull exploded like an apple.

  Everything is beautiful when you are young.

  Thousands of us marched into East Jerusalem, singing “Yerushalayim of Gold.”

  He had shivers in June.

  He wept at the Wailing Wall.

  The General was wounded in the left shoulder.

  He wandered out of the city in a fever and followed the tracks of the old Palestine railroad.

  There was no one around. It was quiet. Everyone was either celebrating or dead.

  All of a sudden, he was surrounded by silence. The impossibility of space in Jerusalem. And in that space, a house. It appeared before his eyes.

  Tape: A house. It appeared before his eyes.

  A house. It appeared before his eyes.

  SHIMON’s vision, 1967. Lights up on THE HOUSE. SHIMON is wounded.

  The House: Hey you. Got anything to eat?

  Shimon: Are you talking to me?

  The House: No. I’m talking to the leaky faucet. Of course I’m talking to you.

  Shimon: But you’re… a house.

  The House: And you’re a moron. But we can still have a conversation. Amazing, isn’t it? Now. What do you have to eat?

  Shimon: Nothing. I’ve barely eaten in days.

  The House: God. What are you good for?

  Shimon: I can fight.

  The House: That’s not gonna help. Can you eat a fight? Can you sleep on a fight? What else do you got?

  Shimon: Well, it depends on what you want.

  The House: Ah. I sense a negotiation coming. I like a good negotiation. What are your terms?

  Shimon: For what?

  The House: The negotiations.

  Shimon: I don’t know what we’re negotiating.

  The House: We’re negotiating what you’re going to give me.

  Shimon: For what?

  The House: For whatever you want.

  Shimon: Well, I want to come inside.

  The House: That’ll cost you.

  Shimon: How much?

  The House: That remains to be determined.

  Shimon: How do we do that?

  The House: What do you have to offer? A knife. Still sharp. Recently used. And. A ’34 Mauser. Empty cartridge. Ahh… a photograph. Who’s the broad?

  Shimon: My mother.

  The House: That’s no good. Not at all.

  Shimon: What am I doing wrong?

  The House: You’re just not the right type.

  Shimon: The right type of what?

  The House: The right type of person to live here.

  Shimon: Live here?

  The House: That’s what you want, isn’t it?

  Shimon: I didn’t know it was available to live in.

  The House: Well there’s nobody here.

  Shimon: Where’d they all go?

  The House: They just picked up and left.

  Shimon: Just like that?

  The House: Just like that.

  Shimon: So you… could be my house then?

  The House: Ah.

  Shimon: You’re a Jewish house.

  The House: I speak sixty-seven different languages. Hebrew happens to be my favourite.

  Shimon: Well I need a house. I need a home.

  The House: And what do I get?

  Shimon: I promise to take care of you. To be good to you.

  The House: I’m going to need at least one child.

  Shimon: But I have none.

  The House: Then get started.

  Shimon: I have no wife.

  The House: A house demands a child.

  Shimon: And if I don’t provide one?

  The House: You don’t get to keep me.

  Shimon: How long do I get?

  The House: I’ll give you twenty-one years.

  Shimon: That’s a reasonable offer.

  The House: I’m a reasonable house. Oh yes. And when your child is old enough, it must have a child too. In this very residence.

  Shimon: Lineage.

  The House: I’m a sucker for tradition.

  Shimon: I promise. There’ll be a child. There’ll be life.

  The House: You’ll promise in blood.

  Shimon: You are the vision of an entire nation!

  The House: Do you see the leak in my roof? It means I’m crying. I need a garden. I need paint jobs and touch-ups, the smell of cooking and good pipes—

  2003. Enter ABU DALO.

  Abu Dalo: Hello? Hello? Is anybody here?

  SHIMON picks up a beer, takes a swig, then opens the door slightly. ABU DALO, haggard, bearded, looks like he’s crawled out of a sewer.

  Shimon: What do you want?

  Abu Dalo: I’ve come for the room to rent, sir.

  Shimon: There’s no room.

  Abu Dalo: (looking around) This is number six, isn’t it?

  Shimon: I said there’s no room for rent here.

  Abu Dalo: Do you live here?

  Shimon: Yes.

  Abu Dalo: Alone?

  Shimon: No.

  Abu Dalo: So you’re married?

  Shimon: No.

  Abu Dalo: Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?

  Shimon: Of course not.

  Abu Dalo: I don’t seem friendly?

  Shimon: You smell like shit.

  Abu Dalo: But I’m trying to be nice.

  Shimon: Niceness has nothing to do with how you smell.

  Abu Dalo: You’re right. There’s bad smell and there’s bad people.

  Shimon: I like to distinguish between those who smell good and those who smell bad.

  Abu Dalo: That’s a little peculiar.

  Shimon: I don’t see it that way.

  Abu Dalo: What if I was a good person?

  Shimon: I don’t care if you’re a good person. You smell bad. Good day, shit pants. (He slams the door shut.)

  Abu Dalo: Don’t care if I’m a good person? What the hell?

  I like the way I smell. In fact, I choose the way I smell. My smell is my humilit
y. My humanity. I own my smell.

  Shimon: Who is this Arab asshole?

  Abu Dalo: You know you’re not a man.

  Shimon: Fuck off.

  Abu Dalo: A man stops being a man when he no longer has any manners.

  SHIMON opens the door.

  Shimon: Go away. Please. (pulls out the Mauser)

  Abu Dalo: Better. More respect in your tone. At least you sound genuine. Now we could really have a discussion.

  ABU DALO pulls out a piece of paper. Hands it to SHIMON.

  Please. Read it.

  Shimon: No.

  Abu Dalo: We’re going to get nowhere if you say no all the time.

  Shimon: I don’t want to read it.

  Abu Dalo: You’ll notice the official stamp in the bottom right-hand corner.

  Shimon: Screw the official stamp. Get off my property.

  Abu Dalo: Well that’s just it. I’m entitled to this house.

  SHIMON tears up the paper and eats it.

  Now how does this help us?

  Shimon: This is my house.

  Abu Dalo: No it’s not.

  Shimon: You’re a fucking Arab.

  Abu Dalo: Actually I have a name.

  Shimon: I’m not going to let a fucking Arab take my house—

  Abu Dalo: Abu Dalo’s the name. And thirty-five years ago you took this house from me, Mr.—

  Shimon: This house was empty.

  Abu Dalo: We left our things in it.

  Shimon: Yeah, I heard some Arabs camped out some time ago.

  Abu Dalo: Camped out? For ten generations?

  Shimon: I was given this land.

  Abu Dalo: Good God you’re difficult to talk to.

  Shimon: I’m difficult? You should try smelling yourself.

  SHIMON points the gun at ABU DALO.

  Abu Dalo: Put that down already!

  Shimon: This gun is the hope of a nation.

  Abu Dalo: That’s nice. I’m sure you and the gun are very good friends.

  Shimon: Best friends. (SHIMON aims the gun.) We’ve lived here for thirty-five years.

  Abu Dalo: We lived here for three hundred.

  Shimon: We returned after two thousand.

  SHIMON points the gun at ABU DALO’s head and cocks it.

  ABU DALO pulls out a cigarette from behind his ear. Smokes.

  Don’t smoke on my property.

  Abu Dalo: If I don’t smoke, I get nervous. If I get nervous, I pee in my pants. Shit! I already have.

  Shimon: I don’t believe this.

  Abu Dalo: Don’t worry about it. It just adds to the overall smell of myself.

  Shimon: You just pissed yourself?

  Abu Dalo: Happens to the best of us.

  Shimon: You’re revolting.

  Abu Dalo: That’s my intention. To revolt. (a beat) 1967. I was sixteen years old. It was war and we lost. We were terrified. What were you going to do to us?

  There were soldiers. My family ran away to the village down the tracks. We were safe there. But we never gave up this house.

  For thirty-five years I wanted to see her again.

  I dreamt about her, imagined her, promised I’d come back.

  The house speaks to me.

  The House: Abu Dalo, is that you?

  Abu Dalo: (laughing) Habibi, how are you? I missed you so much.

  The House: What a nice… surprise.

  Abu Dalo: How is your cedar toilet seat? (THE HOUSE laughs.) And the fig tree my great-grandfather planted? God, I love that tree.

  SHIMON puts down the gun.

  Ya Habibi, I’ve come back.

  Scene 5

  ALEX upstairs, writing.

  Alex: Melissa raises her skirt

  and her legs shine

  her two fingers point beneath her white underwear.

  She has shaved so a man

  can better understand

  for to see is to understand.

  Melissa: “Clit-oris.”

  Alex: She says.

  Clit-oris? I say.

  What’s it do? I ask.

  Melissa: It does nothing. It is pleasure.

  Alex: You mean something exists only for the sake of pleasure?

  Melissa: Yup.

  Alex: (writing) This is what the Zionists should be fighting for.

  So where is it? I say.

  Melissa: Look close.

  Alex: She says.

  I can’t see it, I say.

  Melissa: Look closer.

  Radio sounds.

  Alex: Houston, this is Alex. We’re ready to establish contact.

  Houston: Copy, Alex. What’s your position?

  Alex: We’ve left the stratosphere and are approaching the clitoris.

  But we’re having trouble finding its precise location.

  Houston: Roger that, Alex. Keep a close eye on things and proceed with caution. And remember what Wikipedia says: start slow, be sensitive and inventive.

  Alex: I look up, I look in.

  It’s really dark in here.

  I can’t see anything.

  Hello? (echo: hello, hello, hello)

  Echo! (echo, echo, echo)

  Is anyone home? (home, home, home)

  Enter MELISSA’S CLITORIS.

  Who are you?

  Melissa’s Clitoris: I’m Melissa’s clitoris.

  Alex: Oh. At last! I found you.

  Is the clitoris always located so deep in outer space?

  Melissa’s Clitoris: It varies from woman to woman.

  Alex: How should I touch you?

  Melissa’s Clitoris: Carefully.

  I’ve got so much passion in me I’m like a bomb ready to go off.

  Alex: Do you know where I can find my mother?

  Scene 6

  THE CAMEL lights up a cigarette, addresses the audience.

  The Camel: I’m a camel. You’ve probably seen pictures of me. I’ve been in my share of movies too. Books, lots of books. Maybe you went on a tour, paid a lot of money to take a ride and watch the sun rise while you laughed at me shitting gumballs in the sand.

  You’re wondering. Why am I talking? What does a camel have to say to you?

  Here in the Middle East a camel is a fly on the wall. Religions, loves, dreams, vows—all pass through the ears and eyes of the camel.

  I know this entire country from top to bottom. I’ve met messed-up prophets, strange birds, crazy houses. I’ve known this house for some time now. There’s something tragic and fucked up about her.

  Kill or be killed. If you stay, that’s what happens. Or you suffer from the fear. That’s what it means to be a house in Jerusalem. To call this place home.

  ABU DALO is outside THE HOUSE, drenched. SHIMON inside, drinking beer.

  Alex: Who’s that out front?

  Shimon: Its name is Abu Dalo. And he’s been standing there all night.

  Alex: In the rain?

  Shimon: He thinks this house is his. Don’t open the door. Don’t speak to him.

  Alex: I’m going to ask him a few questions.

  SHIMON blocks the door.

  Shimon: Hold on, kid.

  We need to know what this moment means.

  Do we shoot the Arab or let him go in peace?

  Is he armed—and if so, with what?

  If we shoot him, there’s blood on our hands—and the front step.

  If we let him go, he could come back to haunt us.

  Kill or be killed.

  Alex. I said no. (ALEX opens the door.)

  Alex: Good morning. Hey, you smell bad. You’re a Palestinian.

  Abu Dalo: Do you want to shoot me too?

  Alex: No, sir. I just want to ask a few questions. Mr. Abu Dalo, are you married?

  Abu Dalo: Yes.

  Enter RIVKA.

  Alex: Hi Rivka. (to ABU DALO) Have you ever given your wife cunnilingus before?

  RIVKA enters THE HOUSE.

  Rivka: Who the hell is Alex talking
to?

  Shimon: The enemy. (SHIMON slams the door shut.)

  Alex: I need you to tell me, sir, if you: a) practise cunnilingus, and b) if you consider yourself good at it.

  Abu Dalo: Yes, I have given cunnilingus, infrequently, but I have never considered whether it was something I was good at. I simply did it.

  Alex: Interesting. And the subject’s response?

  Abu Dalo: Positive, I would say. (ALEX writes down notes, etc.)

  Shimon: What the hell is going on with my son? Why is he talking about oral sex to an Arab?

  Rivka: Well… that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m worried about Alex.

  Shimon: So am I.

  Alex: State your education.

  Abu Dalo: Doctor of Literature.

  Alex: Occupation?

  Abu Dalo: Former professor, Birzeit University. Writer of poetry, plays and articles.

  Alex: Really? I’m a writer too.