BAZAAR
by
DAVID PLANELL
translated by John Clifford
David Planell was born in Madrid in 1967. He studied Cinema and Television at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid and has been a script writer for television since 1990. In 1995 he took part in the Royal Court International Summer School where his play Prime Time was given a workshop directed by Roxana Silbert. Bazaar is his first play to be produced. It is the winner of the Comedias Hogar de Teatro prize and premiered in Puerto Santa Maria (Cádiz) in August 1997 followed by a tour throughout Spain. Bazaar had its British premiere as part of the New European Writers’ Season at the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs in November, 1997. He also co-translated Rebecca Prichard’s Essex Girls as part of Nueva Dramaturgia Británica in December, 1987.
Bazaar (Bazar) was first performed in English as a rehearsed reading in the Voices from Spain season in the Theatre Upstairs on 10 April 1997 with the following cast:
HUSSEIN | Henry Goodman |
RASHID | Chand Martinez |
ANTON | Andy Serkis |
Director Roxana Silbert
Translator John Clifford
The British premiere was staged at the Royal Court Theatre Upstairs as part of the New European Writers’ Season, first performance on 25 November 1997 with the following cast:
HUSSEIN | Nicholas Woodeson |
RASHID | Nitzan Sharron |
ANTON | Adrian Edmondson |
Director Roxana Silbert
Translator John Clifford
Designer Simon Vincenzi
Lighting Chahine Yavroyan
Sound Fergus O’Hare
Characters
HASSAN
RASHID, his nephew
ANTON, a guy from the neighbourhood
Setting: the backroom of a Moroccan shop in the city centre.
Act I: 16 August, 7pm.
Act II: next day, 8.30 pm.
ACT ONE
Heaps of boxes in disorder in the room at the back of the shop. Boxes of different sizes containing different kinds of merchandise: radio cassettes, small electrical appliances, cheap novelties, watches, brightly stamped teeshirts hanging on heaped up hangers, and loads of other things that we’ll never get to see because boxes fill all the available space.
Not much furniture. A small table. There’s a door leading to the shop, and a window looking out on the street. No other exits.
ANTON has his arm in plaster. The plaster is all scabby and covered with pictures and signatures. RASHID is putting prices on boxes with a gun that puts on sticky labels.
ANTON. So. Do you want the job?
RASHID. I’ve got a job.
ANTON. No I didn’t mean that.
RASHID. It’s struck eight. I’ve got to put prices on all this stuff.
ANTON. No. You don’t understand. That’s not a job. That’s work. And work is work. And a job is a job. And you work because you’ve got to. Usually because you got to eat. Or pay your rent. You just have to. End of story. But a job… a job is something you do because you want to, and you do it well, because you like doing it. Do you get it? A job is rock and roll, but work… Work is fish fingers . . .
RASHID. I see.
ANTON. Fish fingers in the fullest sense of the word. And another thing. When you do a job, you get the profit. When you work, some other bugger does. Like Hassan. Whether he’s your uncle or not. And don’t get me wrong. Your uncle, as far as I’m concerned, is a great guy. His shit comes out his backside. But. Think about it. And it’s not just something I’m saying. It’s the truth. It’s the real world. Such as it is. Hassan has a job. You work. And that’s the difference between you. It’s easy to see. Fancy a joint?
RASHID. Well…
ANTON. What?
RASHID. Yes.
ANTON. Roll one for us.
RASHID. You’ll roll one better.
ANTON. How do you expect me to roll a joint? With this stump?
RASHID. Oh yeah. Your arm. I didn’t think.
ANTON. I’ve had it on for almost three weeks. It’s got more graffiti than a shithouse wall. I’m telling you, with your arm in plaster you’re on a different fucking planet. My right arm, too. It’s the fucking limit. You can’t imagine what a fucking drag it is after fifteen years, having to learn to wank left handed. Still. With a bit of luck they’ll take it off me next week. OK, where is it?
RASHID. Where’s what?
ANTON. This joint.
RASHID. I don’t know. Still. OK. But make it a quick one.
ANTON. What?
RASHID. Give me.
ANTON. Give you what?
RASHID. The shit.
ANTON. I don’t have any.
RASHID. You don’t have any?
ANTON. Didn’t you tell me you had a joint?
RASHID. No I don’t have one. I want one.
ANTON. For fuck’s sake. I asked you if you had one.
RASHID. I thought you asked me if I wanted one.
ANTON. What a disaster.
Long pause. It looks as though they’re not going to get their smoke. All of a sudden, ANTON brings out a lump of hash.
ANTON. There. But make it a small one.
RASHID. Oh. So you do have shit.
ANTON. Yes, fuck it, but hardly any. Make it a small one. Take it.
RASHID. I don’t know.
ANTON. Now what’s wrong?
RASHID. My uncle doesn’t like it.
ANTON. So what if your uncle doesn’t like it? He’s not going to throw you out for smoking a joint.
RASHID. He doesn’t like it. It’s against the law.
ANTON. Smoking a joint is against the law. What a joke. But your uncle’s a moor. A moor from Marrakech. What are you on about?
RASHID. He’s not from Marrakech, he doesn’t smoke joints, and he doesn’t like people who do.
ANTON. Look just make up your mind. Roll a joint or don’t roll a joint. But stop farting around.
RASHID. He’ll be here in a minute.
ANTON. Look I’m begging you. Even if it is just a short one. Even if he’s just outside the fucking window! Roll me a joint. I can’t roll it with my arm in plaster. And I want a joint! I want a fucking joint!
RASHID. Have you hurt yourself?
ANTON. No. Not at all. This pissy plaster. I want it to disappear.
RASHID. Give me.
ANTON. Thanks. Here. Papers.
Pause. RASHID starts burning the hash.
RASHID. It smells good.
ANTON. It tastes even better. It’s so strong it knocks your head off.
Pause.
So. What do you think. About this job. Interested?
RASHID. I can’t do it now. Hassan’ll be here soon. He’s tense.
ANTON. What’s his problem?
RASHID. It’s just he wants to make the shop bigger. Rent the place next door.
ANTON. So business is good.
RASHID. He still needs money. And planning permission. Loads of money.
ANTON. The same old story. Money. Fucking money. Working your arse off to earn a fucking peseta. That’s why I told you about this job.
ANTON. What job?
ANTON. Rashid, I told you yesterday.
RASHID. I didn’t really understand.
ANTON. You pretend your camera’s been stolen, you go to the police and you report it. And then you claim the insurance. And if you do it well, you make so much money you can wipe your arse with it.
RASHID. So . . . ?
ANTON. For fuck’s sake. It’s so hard to talk to you. You report the theft of your camera and you get half a million from the insurance company.
RASHID. So someone has to steal your camera.
ANTON. A camera or whatever. Something valuable.
RASHID. But first you need a camera. Or something.
ANTON. OK listen. You go on a trip . . .
RASHID. Here. It’s ready.
He gives him the rolled joint.
ANTON. What a joint. What a fucking joint! Christ man you know how to ...