Les Poderevyansky
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Linger awhile, thou art so fair.
Dramatis Personae:
- Ivan Opanasovych Kharchenko — literary scholar;
- Hryts Yakovych Varenyk — also a literary scholar;
- The Devil — a transcendental force in the form of a horned jerk in a padded jacket, quilted trousers, and tarpaulin boots;
- Khuna — a female person;
- Salo — food of Ivan Opanasovych and Hryts Yakovych. Fills the space between a pig's skin and meat. White in appearance, greasy in taste;
- Port wine — a drink consumed by Ivan Opanasovych and Hryts Yakovych in the morning, afternoon, evening, and at night.
Act One
A room in a dorm where graduate students live: Ivan Opanasovych, Hryts Yakovych, and salo. In the room are two beds, two nightstands, and a table. Ivan Opanasovych sits at the table eating salo. On the bed lies Hryts Yakovych Varenyk in a state of alcohol poisoning, wrapped head-to-toe in a blanket.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— I really feel like getting a drink, fuck, where can we get some cash? (To Hryts): Hryts, got any money?
Hryts:
— Yeah.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Give me three rubles, I'll pay you back tomorrow morning.
Hryts stays silent.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Why are you silent? Got money?
Hryts:
— Yeah.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Give me three rubles, I'll pay you back tomorrow morning.
Hryts stays silent.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Why are you silent? Got money?
Hryts:
— Yeah.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Give me three rubles, I'll pay you back tomorrow morning, why won't you answer?
Hryts:
— Just feel stingy.
Both remain silent for a while.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Fuck, got an idea! I'll knock out a humorous sketch right now.
Ivan Opanasovych puts down the salo, sits down at a typewriter, and pounds away at the keys:
— I'll churn out such humor right now that everyone will piss themselves laughing. (To Hryts): Have you read Perets magazine?
Hryts:
— Nope.
Ivan:
— Quite a mistake. They have such killer jokes there, you'd piss yourself. Some of my stuff is in there too.
Continues hammering the keys, then rips the paper out and crumples it:
— Ah, to hell with it, better write a story about a collective farm, fuck, for Moloda Gvardiya. (To Hryts): Have you read Moloda Gvardiya?
Hryts:
— Nope.
Ivan:
— Big mistake, they have good jokes there too.
Ivan Opanasovych keeps pounding the keys.
Hryts Yakovych (melancholically):
— I made plans with Khuna today, she should be here any minute.
Ivan Opanasovych continues banging on the typewriter keys, then impulsively rips the paper out of the machine and disappears into the toilet. Khuna enters.
Khuna:
— Am I late?
A repulsive farting sound echoes from the toilet. Khuna pretends not to hear a thing:
— You boys are sitting here, but the weather outside is just so lovely...
Another repulsive farting sound comes from the toilet. Khuna still pretends she hears nothing:
— I swear, I just don't know what spring is doing to me...
Hryts Yakovych maintains a dull silence. Some rustling is heard from the toilet, and a moment later Ivan Opanasovych emerges, buttoning his trousers. He looks flushed and menacing.
Khuna:
— Excuse me, may I go in?
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Ha, merci.
Khuna smiles seductively and disappears into the toilet. Ivan Opanasovych scratches his belly thoughtfully.
Ivan:
— I got so fucked around in the army, Grisha, holy shit...
A bloodcurdling scream comes from the toilet. Khuna dashes out with her mouth twisted in horror, knocks down the Devil who is just walking through the door, and vanishes into the depths of the dorm.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Fuck, what spooked her? Has she never seen shit before?
The Devil peeks into the toilet, wags his tail, and clicks his tongue:
— Damn, Vanya, you sure take massive dumps!
Ivan:
— What's the big deal? So I took a dump...
Devil:
— Well, tell me, how are you doing? How's the wife?
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Ah, fuck her.
Devil (sympathetically):
— What's the matter, Vanya?
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Hasn't had her period in a month, must have gotten knocked up.
Devil:
— But that's good news, Vanya, you should be happy.
Ivan:
— The fuck should I be happy about? I was fucking her for three years like she was an enemy of the people and she never got knocked up. I hate pulling out onto the sheet or belly.
Devil:
— What's the issue then, Vanya?
Ivan:
— Her womb wouldn't hold it. And now the bitch gets pregnant while I'm here in Kyiv and she's back in Lokhvytsia.
Both fall silent. The Devil wags his tail thoughtfully.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— That's not even the point. I wonder who fucked her? She's three times wider than me and wears glasses! An intellectual, damn her. Head of the district education department in Lokhvytsia.
Both fall silent.
Devil (enticingly):
— Want to go whoring today?
Ivan:
— Am I a kid or what? I got so worn out in the army it sickens me to even remember it. I don't get the point of fucking anyway. What's in it: poke-poke-poke... But ask yourself: what for? I'd rather drink some wine...
Devil:
— Bring out the glasses.
The Devil pulls several bottles of cheap port out of his quilted coat. Hryts Yakovych, who until then had been lying quietly as a corpse, begins tossing and turning nervously on his bedsheet, thinking they forgot about him. The Devil pours, Ivan Opanasovych slices the salo.
Devil:
— So what are you going to do next, Vanya?
Ivan:
— What else? I'll knock out my dissertation and buy a house in Brovary for 20,000. I don't get those fucking apartments: buy furniture, invite guests over, sit around talking shit all day while the wife scratches her cunt.
Hryts Yakovych:
— What else is there to do?
Ivan:
— I like having a household, a pig, this and that... That whore got used to running her mouth at the district office, but a pig needs feeding!
Satan continues tempting:
— Vanya, why don't you say to hell with that dissertation, let's go hit up girls at the disco. There are nice chicks there right now, I rented a place in Borshchahivka, we could stay locked in for a week.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Nah, can't do that, the boss will raise hell.
Devil:
— We'll slip some nasty shit into his sandwiches. His wife is jealous, everyone will suspect her.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Well, we could, but I bet those broads have clap.
Satan:
— Well, then let's go to Cafe Lastivka, pick a fight with the Armenians and beat the shit out of them.
Ivan:
— We could, but I bet there are cops around.
Satan:
— We'll beat up the cops too! Then we'll tear over to Dubky and smash everything to pieces!
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Nah, Dubky is too far to walk.
Satan:
— We'll take a cab!
Ivan:
— Nah, that's stupid. I'd rather eat some salo.
Ivan Opanasovych munches on salo and washes it down with port.
Satan (with tears in his voice):
— Vanya, at least smoke some weed. (Reaches hopefully into his pocket) Look, I've got good stuff here, smell how fragrant it is...
Satan sniffs the weed with pleasure and wags his tail:
— Let's get baked and go do something fucked up.
Ivan:
— Fuck smoking that shit! You can't get a hard-on after that.
Satan (weeping):
— Why do you even need a hard-on?
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Hmm... What do you mean why? Piss off!
Hryts Yakovych:
— Damn, where did that Khuna go? Yesterday she promised to move in with me, and now she ran off.
Ivan:
— Who the hell can understand those broads? Here, wine is standing on the table — drink.
All take a drink.
Satan:
— Vanya, what if she comes back, we can do a Swedish setup.
Ivan:
— What Swedish setup?
Satan (alluringly):
— It's when one feeds her waffles, and the other fucks her in the ass! Interesting, isn't it?!
Ivan Opanasovych:
— And what will you do?
Devil:
— Oh, me, I'll just watch.
Ivan:
— Nah, that's no good. She'll tell someone, and we'll all be screwed. They'll say: Ivan Opanasovych Kharchenko, instead of writing his dissertation on Shevchenko, turned his dorm into a den of vice.
Satan:
— She won't say a word — we'll stuff her with waffles, then chop her head off and toss it to the foreign students; everyone will assume it was the Africans.
Ivan:
— Ugh, I can't stand looking at those Africans, black and pushy. Ridin' on the bus reading some book in foreign gibberish, can't make head or tail of it. Just darting their eyes around. And they fuck our girls. And those fools let them, then they leave for Africa together, or some fucking Guiana, and an African doesn't care — fucks her, gets bored, eats her, and that's it. They don't like eating their own as much as ours. Our women sweat less.
Hryts:
— Still, a cunt smells like horse mackerel.
All three fall into thoughtful silence, digesting Hryts Yakovych's piece of information.
Satan:
— Vanya, remember when you were an old man, you begged me, wanted youth so bad you mortgaged your soul?
Ivan:
— Come again? No.
Satan:
— You kept begging: Little Devil, darling, make me younger, give me some money, a piglet, this and that... I'll serve you forever, pledge everything. And you were so gross, drool running from your mouth, no teeth, half a kilo of cotton stuffed in your ears.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Don't remember any of that shit! Never happened.
Satan:
— How didn't it happen, Vanya, when it totally did! You promised: "When I'm young, I won't do stupid shit — joining the police, eating salo and stuff, I will study the three stages of the spirit, so I can cry: 'Linger awhile, thou art so fair!'" Weren't you the one saying that, huh? Who said: "I will read Nietzsche, overcome the wimp inside me, fuck a wild she-wolf at night, and smoke dope in Hong Kong" — wasn't that you? Who promised to drop this fucking salo and eat pineapples with Burgundy wine alongside fashion models in Paris, wasn't that you?
Ivan:
— I wish you'd choke on food and shut the fuck up.
Hryts (joking):
— I'll eat a bowl of soup, you eat a horse's dick, ha-ha-ha (chuckles).
Satan:
— And I'm an idiot too, sitting here with you bastards, eating salo!
The Devil pours cheap rotgut and cuts a piece of salo. Mockingly mimics someone:
— Linger awhile, thou art so fair...
Then he gulps down the rotgut, bites into the salo, and winces.
Hryts Yakovych (sympathetically slaps the Devil on the back):
— What, didn't go down well?
Devil:
— Fuck off, didn't go down well.
Hryts (joking):
— I'm already sitting on one, just dangling my legs.
The Devil angrily spits on the floor.
Devil:
— All you ever learned is how to shit like a hippo. Even the girls run away.
Ivan:
— Not my fault they're idiots.
Devil:
— And what if everyone runs away?
Ivan:
— Let them run, I don't need them.
Devil:
— Fine, sit here with your salo. Fucking hog.
Ivan Opanasovych:
— Look who's Mr. Polite now. Every other word is a curse.
The Devil heads for the door. Suddenly the door swings open and Khuna walks in.
Khuna:
— You boys are sitting here, but the weather outside is just so lovely. I went out on purpose, took a little stroll. I swear, what is spring doing to me? Why are you guys just sitting here?
Hryts Yakovych (joking):
— Waiting for you. To do a Swedish setup.
Khuna:
— What's that?
ABBA quietly starts playing in the background. Everyone, including the Devil, stays silent.
Khuna (naively):
— No, seriously, guys...
Ivan Opanasovych (spitting):
— It's when one feeds you waffles, and the other fucks you in the ass. Interesting! Here, eat some salo.
Khuna, Ivan Opanasovych, and Hryts Yakovych gorge on salo. The Devil peeks into the toilet, flushes, and disappears. The flushed shit, cheerful sounds of ABBA, and a symphony.
CURTAIN.
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