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• Life with Mother : ACT ONE

Life with Mother, translated by Camilla Van Erkelens

ACT ONE

Context:

This excerpt is entitled ‘The Pram’.

Sample text

The mother appears dragging an old black pram.  She stops in the middle of the stage and hurriedly starts pulling out bags of groceries, which she chaotically drops all over the floor.  The daughter looks at her mother’s actions unperturbed. After a time, the Mother stops taking out the packets of groceries.

MOTHER:

What this pram needs is a bit of a polish

DAUGHTER: (Mocking.)

Some metal polish, for instance. Silvo would do the job. Thanks to Silvo the candelabras in this house never cease to shine.

MOTHER:

It’s luminous work looking after the candelabras.

DAUGHTER:

The only thing you’ve done with your life is tirelessly rubbing them with that metal polish.

MOTHER:

There comes a time when you yearn for other kinds of luminosity. A constellation.

DAUGHTER:

But what you’re dealing with is Silvo, and then you want to cram the pram with your bloody metal polish.

MOTHER:

You’re just jealous. You spent the first five years of your life in the pram and now you want it all to yourself.

DAUGHTER:

So much time without getting out of the pram, without getting out into life?

MOTHER:

There was no need for you to get out. You were immensely happy inside it.

DAUGHTER:

My first years cloistered in a baby’s pram and still without being able to walk, run (Kicks the pram: ostentatiously takes out more bags of groceries) ... crawl ... Didn’t they, early on, have me down as a cripple?

MOTHER: (Observes her critically.)

That initial period of inactivity could have led to your clumsiness now, how painfully slow ...

DAUGHTER:

That’s why you’ve never wanted to separate yourself from the pram. And now you want to anoint it with Silvo so that it shines like one of your polished candelabras. That old pram gives you security. You’re constantly reminding yourself of how slow my movements are, of my lack of grace. And that’s because the heaviness of my body has not allowed me to distance myself from your domestic empire, from your sedentary evil. Sometimes my body is swollen like a hard-boiled egg that’s cooking, eternally, in some little furnace that’s surrendered to ruin.

MOTHER: (Launching the pram towards the daughter like a violent sport.)

Don’t go on. You’re physically very defenceless. The pram can still balance itself on top of you, whack you and even make you bleed.

DAUGHTER: (Sending the pram back to the mother with equal force.)

The pram is you.

MOTHER:

You’re wrong. I take the little carriage to the supermarket so that Leo, in the middle of that intense traffic of shopping trolleys, can sometimes recognise it.

DAUGHTER:

Leo? Another one of the visitors you wait for?

MOTHER:

I wish he would come back to push the pram. If only for a few brief minutes. You would be so happy again ...

DAUGHTER:

But was I ever happy? Don’t you have to own a wedding dress before you can be happy?

MOTHER:

Your love life started incredibly well, thanks to Leo. He kept you in the pram.

DAUGHTER:

Was he one of your first visitors?

MOTHER:

Leo was a diner.

DAUGHTER:

He continually had lunch and dinner in hotels and restaurants?

MOTHER:

He was someone who appreciated familiarity, intimacy, the love all around him at mealtimes, more than the quality of the food.

DAUGHTER:

A diner who in these days of abandoning the family home and divorce, doesn’t have to be in hardship to consume a mouthful ...

MOTHER:

When I knew him, between great guffaws Leo would say to me: ‘I’ve just arrived to the country as a third class passenger.’ But in the German ship there would have been a fourth class, Leo would definitely come in fourth class.

DAUGHTER:

Did he start working at once to be able to afford himself more luxurious journeys?

MOTHER:

Leo never went hungry. So he started singing and made you happy.

DAUGHTER:

I stayed in the pram and Leo sang to me.

MOTHER:

Exactly. But I can’t count the number of times he took you in his arms too. Leo was carrying you and singing to you until you were five years old.

DAUGHTER:

I blame my clumsiness on those arms and those songs.

MOTHER:

You have nothing to blame yourself for. With such a good man singing to you and carrying you around all day, it’s natural that you haven’t had the slightest interest in learning to walk.

DAUGHTER:

What songs did he sing?

MOTHER:

All the ones that were heard on the gramophone.

DAUGHTER: (Slightly disappointed.)

Only those ones?

MOTHER:

There were times when he sang lovely old Russian songs to you.

DAUGHTER:

Leo was obviously a very warm man.

MOTHER:

With the force and fieriness of the ships he travelled on.

DAUGHTER:

Anyway, it’s awkward moving so many packets of Royal jelly around in the pram ...

MOTHER:

A visit from Leo is essential.

DAUGHTER:

After he stopped rocking the pram, did you hear anything of him?

MOTHER:

For a long time he lived on just his songs, his great attraction, and a pair of two tone shoes. Then, in a stroke of luck, he managed to get a woman of the godarria brand of conservatism to marry him.

DAUGHTER:

Did he go on singing?

MOTHER:

Possibly. Leo was always ready to learn new songs.

(Pause.  Brief darkness, followed by a softer light.)

The mother appears standing, with her back to the audience, cleaning the candelabra on top of the chest of drawers very meticulously with Silvo and a kitchen cloth. The daughter, squatting down, also appears very busy rubbing the wheels of the pram with Silvo and a kitchen cloth.

Mother and daughter do not exchange words.  Their work is a ritual, a ceremony.

Copyright

The above sample taken from the translation Life with Mother by Camilla Van Erkelens is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

Entry written by Gwendolen Mackeith. Last updated on 13 April 2012.

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