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Scene One
A barstool centre stage. A spotlight lights on MILA, a pretty young woman in her late twenties. She is wearing a tight masculine striped shirt, a necktie and a pair of black trousers.
MARKO, a man about the same age, enters quietly. MILA doesn’t notice him.
MILA. Good evening. It’s such a thrill to see so many of you here tonight. I’ve been away a long time and I must say I was a little nervous back in the dressing room. I thought, what if I go out there and the hall is empty. My ex-flatmates and some of those people that won the tickets when they bought an extra packet of tampons.
MARKO laughs quietly. She doesn’t notice him.
I’d like to dedicate this first song tonight to all my student years of dreaming and dreaming in this city.
MILA sings. It’s a slow bluesy song. She notices MARKO and stops singing.
I thought I was alone.
MARKO. You are good.
MILA. Yeah, well . . .
She’s embarrassed. Therefore defensive.
MARKO. And you’re funny.
MILA. You think? Oh, good.
MARKO. No, I mean it was funny. The joke about tickets.
MILA. Yeah, tampon jokes, I don’t know . . . We are not open yet.
MARKO. I know. I wanted to speak to your boss.
MILA. Michi? You a friend of his?
MARKO. Not really. I’m looking for a job.
MILA. Oh. Well, we can always use a bouncer.
MARKO. I was hoping for something less . . . rough.
MILA. Yeah, well, weren’t we all. No, I’m joking, it’s not that rough. It’s just sometimes, usually the Serbs, get drunk and emotional and, well, what’s a better way to show emotions than pick a fight or smash a mirror.
MARKO. I’m a Serb.
Beat.
MILA. Super, ja sam iz Hrvatske. [Great. I’m from Croatia.]
MARKO (cheerfully). Sestro! [Sister!]
MILA (coldly). Easy.
MARKO. Ja sam Marko. [I’m Marko.]
MILA. Mila.
MARKO. Are you? [a play on words – Mila means ‘dear’ or ‘kind’]
MILA. Cute.
MARKO. Otkad si tu? [How long have you been here?]
MILA. Look, I prefer English.
MARKO. Zašto? [Why?]
MILA. Because: a) you need to practise, you don’t want your accent to precede you.
MARKO. What?
MILA. Precede. Bolje ti je da odma ne skuže po naglasku. [Don’t want them to see through your accent right away.]
MARKO. Aha. Okay.
MILA. b) you don’t wanna get stuck with your community. There’s no moving forward there.
MARKO. Right. Is that why you work in this place?
MILA. That’s temporary.
MICHI walks in. He turns the lights on. They reveal a bar to the left. This place is not a complete dump but it is one of those underground clubs that can never be properly aired and hosts people from countries where non-smokers are not to be trusted.
MICHI is a stubby, rough-looking man. He is essentially rude and uncultured, but has adopted certain manners of the rich western world that he can apply if he sees fit. He is the kind of man that leaves the impression of never listening to what other people are saying, but in fact has the memory of an elephant.
MICHI. What is that? We open in half one hour. Go dress yourself.
MILA. I’m dressed.
MICHI. What, this?
MILA. Yeah, something wrong?
MICHI. No, it’s beautiful. For a funeral.
MILA. Oh, please –
MICHI. How many times do I tell you – a little breast, a little thigh.
MILA. I’m not a chicken.
MICHI. You’re not funny either.
MILA. Less is more, even you should know that.
MICHI. Yes, less dress, more skin.
MILA. I’m not trying to turn this into a concert hall. But a touch of, you know, class –
MICHI. Mila, you are performer. Like . . . plumber. Or . . . bricklayer. I am architect. You are bricklayer.
MILA. You should count your blessings to have a proper singer here.
MICHI. I light a candle every Sunday – thank you Lord for Mila. My clients is complaining. Too serious for them. People come here, they want to have fun. Fun is what makes money. If you want them cry, play their music so they cry for their mother, bottle of vodka, for their childhood, bottle of finest Merlot . . . You know our people. Eastern European soul, always bloody bleeding. You p...
