Trumpets sound, announcing the arrival of the Players and the start of the Dumb Show.
Enter stage left Player Cloud in Trousers, the metal taps on the soles of his shoes proclaiming his arrival. He wears a loose-fitting white blouse with a radish in a buttonhole and heraldic black tights. A bare bodkin dangles from his belt. He is accompanied by Player Muse, the Lady Lilya Yuryevna, dressed in a Schiaparelli dress with a bodice cut so low it reveals more of her bosom than it conceals. Player Cloud in Trousers stands on one foot, polishing the toe of a shoe on the back of his heraldic tights as he lovingly contemplates Player Muse. She kneels and makes a show of protestation unto him, pressing her lips to his fly front to signify that there are no limits to her museship. He takes her up and, declining his head against her neck, permits the back of his left hand to graze the nipple of her right breast. Presently he lays himself down upon a bank of flowers. Seeing he is asleep, Player Muse exits stage right. Anon comes in Player Chort, dressed in the uniform of a Red Army general. A leather naval holster dangles from his belt. He kneels beside the sleeping Player Cloud in Trousers, takes off his crown, kisses it, then draws a large bore revolver from the holster. He produces a single bullet from a pocket, polishes the snub nose of the bullet on his sleeve before inserting it into the revolver’s chamber, then carefully positions the chamber so that the bullet is directly under the firing pin. He thrusts the barrel of the revolver into the ear of the poet and, for an instant, it appears as if he is going to murder him in his sleep. Smiling cruelly to indicate he has a better idea and is well pleased with it, Player Chort places the revolver in the hand of the sleeping Player Cloud in Trousers.
Cut to the Dramatis personae attending the Dumb Show
LADY BRIK: What means this, my Lord?
MAYAKOVSKY: Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief.
COURT JEW PASTERNAK: Belike this dumb show imports the argument of the action that follows.
Enter stage left Player Veronica Vitoldovna, dit Nora. She leans over Player Cloud in Trousers and rouses him with a kiss on the lips. Startled, he sits up. Catching sight of the revolver in his hand, she recoils in fear. They argue. He presses rose petals into spitballs and flings them at her. She backs away, her eyes wide in terror. Player Chort converses urgently with Player Cloud in Trousers, encouraging him into distemper. Gripping Player Cloud in Trouser’s wrist, he helps him raise the revolver until it is pointing at the poet’s heart, then carefully folds the joint of the poet’s index finger around the trigger. Player Cloud in Trousers, unable to cough up the lump from the back of his throat, checks to be sure the single bullet is under the firing pin, shuts his eyes and trips the trigger. Player Nora covers her ears with her hands to drown out the sound of the explosion. Player Cloud in Trousers falls back dead, blood staining his white blouse where his heart would have been if he had a heart. Enter stage right Player Muse. Discovering Player Cloud in Trousers dead and Player Veronica Vitoldovna, dit Nora, hysterically administering mouth-to-penis resuscitation, she makes passionate action. Players Rosencrantz and Guildenstern enter stage right and drag Player Veronica Vitoldovna, dit Nora, away from the body. Enter stage left Players Tatiana Yakovleva and Elisabeta Petrovna and Player Child Yelena Vladimirovna Mayakovskaya. Player Veronica Vitoldovna, dit Nora, joins the two Ladies in Waiting and Player Child kneels beside the body of the poet. All caterwaul in grief. Player Chort seems to condole with Player Muse, who is standing off to the side observing the lamentation with disquiet. Players Rosencrantz and Guildenstern carry off the poet’s dead body. Player Chort woos Player Muse with a demonstration of physical strength, gripping a table by one of its legs and raising it over his head. He offers Player Muse gifts, insignias, and military decorations torn from his uniform jacket: She seems harsh awhile, but in the end accepts his gifts and his love.
Exeunt.
Cut to the Dramatis personae attending the Dumb Show
LADY BRIK: Alas, alas, alas, alack, none wed the second but who killed the first.
CONSTABLE AGRANOV: Murder most foul shall not unpunish’d go.
COURT JESTER BRIK: (seeing Mayakovsky leap angrily to his feet to confront the Players) How fares my lord the King?
MAYAKOVSKY: (temper tantrum) Give me some light. Away!
COURT JEW PASTERNAK: (urgently) Give o’er the play. Lights. Lights. Lights!
MAYAKOVSKY: Fuck.
Fade to black.
Moments before the houselights come up, two unambiguous words fill the silver screen:
The end
POSTLUDE BIS
The Supper at Meyerhold’s
The cablegrams that Mayakovsky exchanged with Nora, scrawled on scraps of cardboard and flung across the table, were collected by Vsevolod Meyerhold and, after the death of the Poet in 1930, glued onto a stretch of canvas and hung on the wall over his desk at the Moscow Art Theater. As the messages were not numbered, it was left to Meyerhold to put them into some kind of coherent order.
Come live with me and be my love
You’re embarrassing me
I ask you to save me Norochka
I order you to save me
I must save myself
From what
From you asshole
Speaking of asses
you have a great one
So does Tatiana in Paris
So does Elly in New York
So does Lilya in London
So do you in Moscow
Fuck you Vladimir
I am being fucked
by the State Publishing House
Do you love me
Not yet
Not yet is the story of my life
Tatiana said the same thing
when I put the question to her
What did you reply
I told her
I tell you
No matter
We shall proceed as if you do
Get it into your thick skull
I like fucking you
but I love
fucking my husband
Husbands are disposable
I have no intention
of disposing of my
husband
or my career
Love is the heart of everything
without it
your marriage
your career
my poetry
withers
Love is not a prison sentence
you dumb prick
Tell me honestly
do you consider me a great poet
You are a decent enough poet
and a reasonably good lover
You’re saying I’m not a great lover
At the risk of shocking you
you are an ordinary man
Only ordinary
Everything I do I do well
which makes me extraordinary
You’re an ordinary man
who is extraordinary
at some things
Name names
At revolution
at poster making
at film making
at poetry
when it’s not agitprop
at poker
at guessing the number of
tics on a dog’s ear
at seduction
you are a tireless seducer
whose biggest asset
happens to be
Happens to be
an incurable weakness for women
Happens to be
beautiful teeth
They are the teeth of a dead man
Lilya bought them for me
I lost mine to malnutrition
during 367 days
of solitary confinement
You’re also extraordinary
at R. roulette
you played twice
and survived both times
Who told you about that
The night you wrestled
with Boris Leonidovitch
Lilya Yuryevna
> confided it to me
What grudge do you hold against me
I’m tired of this parlor game
It’s not a game
it’s a conversation
You don’t answer
Answer!
They’re all watching us
It will give them something to talk about
when they recount
the last supper
of the poet Mayakovsky
Identify the grudge you hold against me
I begrudge you your
infidelity
Look who’s talking about infidelity!
You fuck your husband
for God’s sake
Fucking one’s husband
is usually described as
fidelity
Listen
unlike you
I haven’t been unfaithful
since we began sleeping together
which is a first for me
And that female who
fawned over you when
you read at the
Kauchuk Factory Club
That doesn’t count
She was a one-night stand
that didn’t last the night
And the prostitutes in
Paris
That doesn’t count
They were professionals
paid for services rendered
You don’t comprehend
fidelity
You are unfaithful to
Tatiana
when you fuck me
She refused to marry me
which set me free
If they had given you
an exit visa
you would have raced off
to Paris and married her
Only if she agreed to
come back to Moscow
And if she agreed
to marry you
on condition you
stayed in Paris
In your wildest imagination
do you see Mayakovsky
as an external émigré
hobnobbing with White Russians
Russia is more than my home
It’s my life’s blood
Beside which I had you here
Holy fuck
I wondered when you’d
get around to me
What do you want from me
that I haven’t given you
I want to be a forethought
not an afterthought
You are my only thought
Stop the bullshittery Vladimir
You are fitted
with two brains
one in your head
one in your prick
Right now you’re thinking
with your prick
Life is a death sentence
Erections provide a stay of execution
Which explains the influence
of erections in a man’s life
Erections don’t influence
a man’s life
They fucking run it
Name names
erections determine how
you relate to women
You see them
as repositories for your seed
not as companions
not as equals
not as sharers of troubles
Since when have you become
an insufferable suffragette
Holy shit
it’s not about voting
It’s about being in charge
Of what
Of my mouth
my cunt
my asshole
my life
You realize you’re condemning me
to the 7th circle of Dante’s hell
filled with poets and philosophers
who in Pasternak’s cruel phrase
stepped on the throat of their song
Standing room only
At least you’ll have
plenty of company
Contrary to popular belief
misery shuns company
Describe the 7th circle
I imagine us crowded onto a narrow ledge
jostling each other
to keep from being clawed by monsters
with the bodies of voluptuous women
and the wings of giant birds
Name names
There’s a Greek lyric poet
from the island of Paros
name of Archilochus
There’s Socrates
Dante condemned
Socrates to the 1st circle
not the 7th
He got demoted
By whom
By me
for refusing to flee
and avoid suicide
Given the choice
of suicide or flight
would you flee
That’s a trick question
How can I flee if Socrates didn’t
Go ahead
kill yourself
I don’t give a fuck
Who else is on your ledge
Seneca the Younger
the Roman poet Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
the Argentine poet Francisco Lôpez Merino
the Rumanian poet Veronica Micle
the Bulgarian poet Peyo Yavorov
and our great Russian poet Sergei Yesenin
Who wrote his suicide
note in his own blood
I shall use Waterman ink
Now you are frightening
me
The person I’m frightening
is me
Oh dear
our celebrated poet
is feeling sorry for
himself
I feel sorry for myself every time
I look in the mirror and notice
I’m one day older than the day before
Turgenev said
being over 50
is the greatest crime
I will pay attention
not to commit it
That still leaves you 13
reasonably good years
Time running through my fingers
like sand in an hourglass
13 not enough and too much
Be careful Vlad
Growing older
is not for the weak of
heart
Heart’s okay
but I have a lump
You’re trying to scare me
again
What lump
Where
In my throat
Ouffff
It’s undoubtedly anxiety
It’s undoubtedly mortality
I discovered poetry
I became a poet
to cough up the lump from my throat
Did it work
Worked for years
Now the bitch is back again
What are you afraid of
Answer for fuck sake
I thought
it would never end
Thought what would
never end
Hamlet’s Mousetrap
kissing the bald spot on Osya’s head
the adrenaline of revolution
innocence
eating shitting masturbating
seduction sex
a big love to save me
a muse willing to swallow more than her pride
poetry
applause
adulation
I thought it would go on until
the end of time
It can
if you slow time down
Impossible to slow time down
without a muse
Put an ad in Pravda
Wanted
One muse for resuscitation
and fornication
Virgins need not apply
Some women would think it an honor
to devote their life to a poet
so the poet can devote his life
to lost causes
Name names
Identify your lost causes
Erections
Poetry
Revolution
You list them
in order of importance
I list them alphabetically
Haven’t figured out
order of importance
Listen
It doesn’t matter who or what
breaks your heart
a woman or a revolution
your heart remains broken
for everything life has to offer
You are deliriously
quixotic
Funny you should say that
When I was a kid
I fashioned a wooden sword
cardboard armor
and attacked a windmill
to rescue a lady from a demon
Who won
The windmill
every time
with the demon looking on
laughing
Do you love me
Answer damn it
Your silence is earsplitting
I must have your answer
to understand my question
ALSO BY ROBERT LITTELL
FICTION
A Nasty Piece of Work
Young Philby
The Stalin Epigram
Vicious Circle
Legends