( Doors, gates and windows can be seen on stage. Sounds of locks and doors slamming. At the center of the stage there is a television set playing a program on violence. A man wearing kaki pants and shirt enters holding a piece of bread in his hand)
Doors and windows get locked, mouths get stapled, hearts get sealed. Dark nights no longer exist for anyone of us. It is a decree, it’s been agreed, signed and sealed in all its parts. It is death who feeds all nights. That’s where its moans, its pain and blood are, walking along the streets of a city that once belonged to its men. (SOUNDS OF MOANS, SCREAMING, RUNNING, AMBULANCE SIRENS, VIOLENT KNOCKING ON DOORS) The world disappears from my eyes. (MAN 1 EMBRACES THE TV SET WHILE EATING HIS PIECE OF BREAD) I lock doors and seal windows forever. I lock gates to keep out the night, for all it brings is crime. I don’t want to die. They shoot everything. People say criminals took over the city for good, and that they are more powerful than the State. It’s different at daytime. We have to work to make a living. I don’t want to hear any more moaning. I hear them screaming and I hush in fear. Some day they will break into my house. All locks have to be secured, the city has been entirely taken over by crime and the men who rule it say there is nothing they can do for us. We have to keep our own screaming locked inside our throats and sleep sound all night so they don’t suspect. I lock doors and windows, put on all safes and cry in silence till daylight!
(A SPOTLIGHT ON A MAN WHO WALKS SQUATTING. HIS FACE IS COVERED BY A NYLON STOCKING. ON THE WALL A SLIDE PICTURE OF THE PAINTING “A DEAD MAN IN THE CITY”, BY LEON GOLUB. VERY LOUD MUSIC)
Violent. Yesssss (HE MAKES GESTURES AND SHOWS HIS TONGUE). Way too violent. A hand smashes a face, the teeth are crushed against the lip, cutting it. A fist breaks a bone, a shot blows a brain away form its skull, the skull flies in pieces.
(HE TEARS THE MASK INTO PIECES WITH A KINFE. WALKS TO THE WALL WHERE THE SLIDE PICTURE IS ON).
I look into a certain direction, point my gun straight to the heart of a reasonably good man, I freeze him in a second. From a high point I see him perform his crime. I suffocate my screaming, turn away, wait for the shooting. The victim collapses, I killed him. I coldly took his life. This crime horrifies me. I’ll buy the paper tomorrow, the picture will surely be there. And the story. I’ll read every word.
HOMBRE 1: ( HE SPITS INTO THE AIR. THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MEN WHISPERING AS THEY LOOK AT THE LEON GOLUB SLIDE IN DETAIL).
Violent your screaming. Violent all your silences. Violent your blows, violent all the closed roads. Sealed lips for my open mouth. A kick between my eyes and they pop out. The stuff falls down, gets spread on the sidewalk. Now I’m blind. I’ll sell phone cards, lottery bills that never win, and I’ll curse at everyone as I walk along the streets.
(MAN 2 ENTERS WEARING DIRTY CLOTHES AND SHYNY OVERSIZED PATENT LEATHER SHOES. HE TALKS TO MAN 1)
The minister only smiles at girls. He always appears on TV forecasting bad fortune. He doesn’t look closely at the bitter pain of people dying from starvation and crime. He doesn’t caress that mother crying her son that was killed last night. A sudden blow and it’s a dark night. Somebody hisses a rumor that says young dreams were stabbed. Violent the day, the entire night watching those breathing breasts, stealthy eyes waiting for the victim. Somebody kills, somebody dies. There’s always violence against a hand that is blindly open. Violent the wall. Violent the man hitting against the sky.