The Seafarer (NHB Modern Plays)

Conor McPherson

• Éditeur: Nick Hern Books
• Année: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781780012810
• Sujet: Literatur
• Sous-sujet: Drama

A breathtaking supernatural play from the author of The Weir.

It's Christmas Eve and Sharky has returned to Dublin to look after his irascible, ageing brother who's recently gone blind. Old drinking buddies Ivan and Nicky are holed up at the house too, hoping to play some cards. But with the arrival of a stranger from the distant past, the stakes are raised ever higher. In fact, Sharky may be playing for his very soul.

'a blistering emotional punch... The Seafarer first ambushes you and then haunts you for days afterwards' - Time Out

'sparkling and suspenseful... McPherson is a born yarn-spinner' - Guardian

'McPherson's new play is one of his most succinct and startling, and the funniest to date... what he creates is apparently simple, but daring and memorable. He sends his characters off on benders, and they bump into the infinite' - Observer

'a realistic fantasy, a wide-awake nightmare. The writing is poetic, brutal, athletic, hilarious' - Sunday Times

ACT TWO: MUSIC IN THE SUN

It is many hours later. The room is darker, seemingly lit only by a few lamps, candles and the glow from the stove. The wind is howling outside as a storm lashes the coast. The card game is in progress. RICHARD sits in his armchair which has been pulled nearer to the centre of the room, closer to the table. He has a big box of chocolates nearby and munches one from time to time. To his left sits IVAN, who is at the edge of the table where he can play but also turn easily away from the others to consult strategy with RICHARD. SHARKY sits to IVAN’s left and NICKY sits to SHARKY’s left. LOCKHART sits at the far end of the table. They are coming to the end of a round of heavy betting. The biggest piles of money are in front of IVAN and LOCKHART. A lot of drink has been consumed; bottles, cans and empty plates are strewn around. IVAN’s intoxication is constant, he coasts along, veering neither up into euphoria nor down into depression. It is his efficient life-state, removed, yet heavily present. NICKY, on the other hand, is a euphoric drunk. His genuine love for friends and comrades is freed. While he plays cards he wears wraparound mirror shades like a poker pro. When not playing he sits them on his head. RICHARD, as we have seen, can lurch from sentimentality to vicious insults within seconds. But while all inhibitions may be gone, he remains alert, quick-witted and deeply interested in what goes on around him. LOCKHART is a philosophical drunk, yet prone to deeper maudlin feelings. SHARKY has thus far managed to remain sober…

IVAN. Nicky…

NICKY. I’m thinking. I’m thinking.

RICHARD. I know. I can hear your brain crunching in your head from over here.

NICKY. Yeah, well, don’t be rushing me. What is it again?

RICHARD. Mr Lockhart raised it twenty. We’re in. Sharky’s bailed.

IVAN. You have to put in forty.

NICKY (takes a long sharp inhalation and thinks). Yeah, well, you’re bluffing ’cause I saw Richard telling you…

RICHARD. Would you go on out of that!

NICKY. Mr Lockhart is being cautious, he raised it twenty, but he’s on a roll anyway so he’s battering us from a position of strength. (To IVAN.) You have nothing.

IVAN (ironically). That’s right.

NICKY. You have nothing! So stop with the… If you didn’t have that pile in front of you, I’d have your guts for garters.

RICHARD. Why, what have we got?

NICKY. You’ve about two hundred and fifty fucking euros in front of you there, Dick.

RICHARD. Yo ho! Santy’s come early!

IVAN (playing down their success). We’re doing alright. We’re doing nicely.

NICKY. And half of that is mine. (With sudden confidence.) You have fuck-all there, Ivan.

IVAN. Well, why don’t you make sure?

NICKY. Mr Lockhart has two pair or something.

RICHARD. Well, come on then!

NICKY. I am! (Seeing and raising.) Here’s your forty. And twenty now to show yous a statement of intent.

RICHARD. Oh ho…

NICKY. Now, that shook yous.

IVAN. Mr Lockhart?

LOCKHART. I’ll stick around.

He sees NICKY’s twenty.

IVAN. And we’ll have a look.

He sees it too. Pause. NICKY’s courage seems to wane.

NICKY (to IVAN). What do you have?

IVAN (to NICKY). What do you have?

RICHARD. What do we have?

IVAN (to NICKY). What do you have?

NICKY (to LOCKHART). What do you have?

LOCKHART. Threes.

NICKY. Threes of what?

LOCKHART (shows his hand). Three nines.

NICKY. Three nines! You stuck it out with three nines?!

LOCKHART. I enjoy playing. Isn’t it worth a go?

NICKY bursts out laughing.

RICHARD. What have you got, Nicky?

NICKY. Christmas present. Full house. (Shows his hand.) Fives and kings.

IVAN (showing his hand). Kings and sevens.

NICKY. Bollocks!

RICHARD whoops.

Ah, that’s fucking…

LOCKHART. Hard luck, Nicky…

NICKY (to LOCKHART). What were you doing driving the pot up the wazoo with three nines?! These lads are cleaning me out here!

RICHARD. Ah, Nicky…

NICKY. Look at me! I’m like Sharky here. I’ve about thirty-five euros to me name. This is to do me all through January.

NICKY gets up and walks over to the stove, restlessly.

IVAN (counting his winnings). Well, Sharky had the right idea. He bailed. He knew.

RICHARD. He has no money!

IVAN. Do you want a stout, Rich?

RICHARD. Sure! Hey! You know what I have in there of course, beside the boiler? There’s a drop of Brigid Blake’s famous Antrim poitín in there.

IVAN. Oh ho!

RICHARD. Do you ever take a drop, Mr Lockhart?

IVAN heads towards the kitchen.

LOCKHART. I will! Why not? Sure I might as well be shit-faced as the way I am!

IVAN (on his way into the kitchen). Yo ho!

RICHARD. Good man!

NICKY. Yeah, well, leave me out of it… Grab us a Miller there, Ivan, would you?

IVAN (off). Yeah!

NICKY. Ah, well… it’s only a game. It’s only money, that right, Rich?

RICHARD. Yeah… Your money!

NICKY sighs heavily, looking to LOCKHART in a silent appeal for understanding.

NICKY. So, Sharky! You’re back! (Drunkenly placing a hand on SHARKY’s shoulder.) We’ve missed you! D’you know that?

He turns to LOCKHART, pointing at SHARKY meaninglessly then turns back to SHARKY.

RICHARD (insincerely). Yeah… we’ve all missed you…

NICKY. So tell us! Where’s this you were working?

SHARKY. Ah, down in Lahinch, County Clare.

NICKY. On the trawlers?

SHARKY. No.

NICKY (surprised). No?

SHARKY. No, I was eh… (Glancing at LOCKHART, who is smiling at him broadly.) I was doing a bit of driving for a fella down there.

NICKY. Lahinch? Was I reading somewhere or where was it? That Lahinch is the gay pick-up capital of Europe?

SHARKY. What?

NICKY. So I believe…

IVAN returns with a whiskey bottle full of clear liquid.

SHARKY. No…

RICHARD. Ah, Nicky, Lahinch is only a small town, how could it possibly be the gay capital of Europe?

NICKY. Well, I don’t know...