Harold Pinter Plays 2 by Harold Pinter Page B

neat.
    MARK: No turn-ups.
    LEN: I can see that. Why didn’t you have turn-ups?
    MARK: It’s smarter without turn-ups.
    LEN: Of course it’s smarter without turn-ups.
    MARK: I didn’t want it double-breasted.
    LEN: Double-breasted? Of course you couldn’t have it double-breasted.
    MARK: What do you think of the cloth?
    LEN: The cloth? [ He examines it , gasps and whistles through his teeth. At a great pace. ]What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth. What a piece of cloth.
    What a piece of cloth.
    MARK: You like the cloth?
    LEN: W HAT A PIECE OF CLOTH!
    MARK: What do you think of the cut?
    LEN: What do I think of the cut? The cut? The cut? What a cut!
    What a cut! I’ve never seen such a cut! [ Pause. ][ He sits and groans. ]
    MARK [ combing his hair and sitting ]:Do you know where I’ve just been?
    LEN: Where?
    MARK: Earls Court.
    LEN: Uuuuhh! What were you doing there? That’s beside the point.
    MARK: What’s the matter with Earl’s Court?
    LEN: It’s a mortuary without a corpse. [ Pause. ]There’s a time and place for everything …
    MARK: You’re right there.
    LEN: What do you mean by that?
    MARK: There’s a time and place for everything.
    LEN: You’re right there. [ Puts glasses on, rises to Mark. ]Who have you been with? Actors and actresses? What’s it like when you act? Docs it please you? Does it please anyone else?
    MARK: What’s wrong with acting?
    LEN: It’s a time-honoured profession—it’s time-honoured. [ Pause. ]But what does it do? Does it please you when you walk onto a stage and everybody looks up and watches you? Maybe they don’t want to watch you at all. Maybe they’d prefer to watch someone else. Have you ever asked them? [ MARK chuckles. ]You should follow my example and take up mathematics. [ Shouting him open book. ]Look! All last night I was working at mechanics and determinants. There’s nothing like a bit of calculus to cheer you up.
    Pause.
    MARK: I’ll think about it.
    LEN: Have you got a telephone here?
    MARK: It’s your house.
    LEN: Yes. What are you doing here? What do you want here?
    MARK: I thought you might give me some bread and honey.
    LEN: I don’t want you to become too curious in this room. There’s no place for curiosities here. Keep a sense of proportion. That’s all I ask.
    MARK: That’s all.
    LEN: I’ve got enough on my plate with this room as it is.
    MARK: What’s the matter with it?
    LEN: The rooms we live in … open and shut. [ Pause. ]Can’t you see? They change shape at their own will. I wouldn’t grumble if only they would keep to some consistency. But they don’t. And I can’t tell the limits, the boundaries, which I’ve been led to believe are natural. I’m all for the natural behaviour of rooms, doors, staircases, the lot. But I can’t rely on them. When, for example, I look through a train window, at night, and see the yellow lights, very clearly, I can see what they are, and I see that they’re still. But they’re only still because I’m moving. I know that they do move along with me, and when we go round a bend, they bump off. But I know that they are still, just the same. They are, after all, stuck on poles which are rooted to the earth. So they must be still, in their own right, insofar as the earth itself is still, which of course it isn’t. The point is, in a nutshell, that I can only appreciate such facts when I’m moving. When I’m still, nothing around me follows a natural course of conduct. I’m not saying I’m any criterion, I wouldn’t say that. After all, when I’m on the train I’m not really moving at all. That’s obvious. I’m in the corner seat. I’m still. I am perhaps being moved, but I do not move. Neither do the yellow lights. The train moves, granted, but what’s a train got to do with it?
    MARK: Nothing.
    LEN: You’re frightened.
    MARK: Am I?
    LEN: You’re frightened that any moment I’m liable to put a red hot burning coal in your mouth.
    MARK: Am I?
    LEN: But when