St Nicholas (NHB Modern Plays)

Conor McPherson

• Éditeur: Nick Hern Books
• Année: 2015
• ISBN:
  9781780014371
• Sujet: Literature
• Sous-sujet: Drama

An eccentric, teasing yarn of a play from the multi-award winning author of The Weir.

A cynical and jaded drama critic falls for a beautiful young actress. In pursuing her, he meets a group of modern-day vampires who offer him eternal life - his part of the bargain is to feed their bloodlust.

'a delectably droll celebration of storytelling as striptease. McPherson's ear for detail is devastating' New York Times

ST NICHOLAS

For Paddy Breathnach and Robert Walpole

St Nicholas was first performed at the Bush Theatre, London, on 19 February 1997.

Performer Brian Cox

Director Conor McPherson

Lighting Designer Paul Russell

The play was written while Conor McPherson was attached to the Bush Theatre under the Pearson Television Theatre Writers’ Scheme.

A MAN, late fifties

A bare stage

Part One

When I was a boy, I was afraid of the dark . . . What was there.

And maybe one of the things I thought was there was vampires.

I don’t know. I can’t remember now.

But like all of us, whatever idea I did have about them, it was probably all the superstitious bullshit we get in books. And fiction. But that was nothing like the real thing. Like anything, the real thing is a lot more ordinary.

It’s a ‘matter of fact’. Matter of fact.

And that’s far more frightening than anything you can make up.

Because it’s real.

It’s just there. Casual as everything else. Just waiting to be dealt with.

And there are practical things to be learned. Yes indeed.

Back in those days I was a fat bastard.

And I had a big red mush from drinking.

This is back before 1 met the vampires.

Before I knew what power was and what evil was.

But back then I thought I knew everything.

And I had lots of what I thought power was.

Because I was a theatre critic.

I was a journalist. I was a lucky bastard. I was blessed, or cursed, whichever, with the ability to string words together. I could string words together.

And that’s all it was.

I mean, I was intelligent, but I had no real thoughts about things.

I’d never taken the care to form an opinion. I just had them.

And only one care in the world, when I think back on it now, me.

I wanted . . . everything.

Love, I suppose. Respect. Esteem.

But I didn’t deserve it. No, I don’t think I deserved any respect. But I got it.

Oh yeah. I got it. Because people were afraid of me. I loved it. Going to big productions. Big names.

Careers spanning tens of glittering years.

And everyone afraid of what I’d write?

Of what I ‘liked’?

And I hardly really liked anything.

And even when I did like something, mostly what I felt was . . . jealous.

I had tried writing.

Tried to convey the feelings I had.

That I genuinely fucking had – for people.

I loved people. I loved the stupid bastards.

But. I had no ideas.

No ideas for a story.

I wanted to let my compassion seep out across the stage.

Handicapped people in love.

Queers and lesbians absolving each other.

A liberal, fucking, all-encompassing . . . you know.

But nothing came.

Nothing ever came.

I could only write about what there was already. I was a hack. And I was drunk. I was at gallery openings, milling free glasses of wine. I was in the bar after the premiere of plays.

I was the educated friend of the masses who read me. Protecting them from these artistic charlatans who were trying to rob their money.

And I could feel this . . . light. Going out. I could feel it.

It was panic I suppose.

Getting older, nothing done yet.

I started rows with directors in pubs.

I walked out of plays ten minutes before the end. I was on the telly.

I had all this drive, going nowhere. It was putting me in the ground.

And I’d get a fright you see. And I’d drink. And when I drank I always got vicious hangovers. And I’d be useless. Couldn’t do a thing. Just do it again.

And you see, my life was quite conducive to that. There wasn’t a problem.

I only needed to get about one solid hour done in a day. And then I was free.

I rehashed columns.

I usually had reviews written before the show was finished.

I could leaf through a current affairs magazine, see something, half an hour, I’d have a thousand words.

Tide me over.

And I was probably in the top-five highest-paid in the paper. You know? Editors licked the hole off me.

I was a character.

Famous in all the wrong ways. Nobody went without.

Not my fat tracksuit wife.

She didn’t want anything.

She was happy enough to get a half-bottle of gin into her.

And the days just slipped through her thick fingers.

Big house in the right place.

The cars and the cash. We were a pair of fat fuckers rolling around in the mud.

And our kids.

My girl was at college.

I loved her. I loved her in that way I couldn’t look her in the eye, you know? I couldn’t find the words.

It was too late. I just left money on the kitchen table every week.

Apparently she was a brilliant student and I suspected she was a writer but I don’t think I could have faced it if she was. You know? I avoided her.

I sat in my study with Milton and Chaucer, nice and cosy. And I’d finish a bottle and hit the sack at two or three.

And then I’d hear my boy come in.

He did nothing and I supported it.

All I knew was he stank of deodorant and he had some fruitless ambition to be a musician. Plinking away at that hour of the night.

He didn’t want anything to do with me. And even now my face is burning when I think about my children.

And my stomach is like a brick wall.

Well I’d be too drunk to hear my wife snoring for long and I’d lie in the dark with morning coming.

She knew better than to try and touch me. And I would remember that I loved her once, when we were young. We used to sit in her house and everything outside was made for us. All we had to do was keep holding hands. And I couldn’t even do that.

No, what I could do was sit in those yellow bars. With the journalists. Men falling in their pints. There was a breed of us, you see, and we weren’t mere reporters.

We had columns.

There’d be a gang.

Men and women.

The women just on the verge of going to seed. Just on the brink, you understand.

And I was a big shot in those places. I could’ve had my pick.

I knew I could.

Those women with buckles on their shoes and their bows all done wrong.

They had each other, those journalists. There were one or two you...