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In a European family (seen in a wider context as the urban Europe, and - wider still - as the urban America) a young urban girl mourns for her boyfriend, who fell victim during the occupation of Sarajevo. Along with the girl, her entire family mourns, gathered around the coffin in which the young man rests. The mourning takes place in a European city, let's say in Zagreb, the day prior to the young man's funeral.


YEAR OF PRODUCTION:

CHARACTERS: 2 males, 6 females

TRANSLATED BY: Vedrana Zupanič & Vera Jovanović

COPYRIGHT: full copyright


Note

The play has no pauses. I have deliberately left enough room for different applications of music as director or directress wish. I have only provided basic guidelines. It is also possible to place a small band at the right back side of the stage, under the big screen, which could perform anything from the European musical heritage. Otherwise music is played from tapes, LP records, or CDs, and it is also possible to use a mix of some sort or even a partial soundtrack for parts of the play. The director or directress may use anthems how they wish, except where I have defined the place and time where a certain anthem is to be used. I have also left enough room for additional selection and arrangement of filmed and video materials to be shown on a large screen. A large white see-through canvas can be used instead of the screen, through which the play can be viewed. If the directors or directresses do not wish to use these above-mentioned freedoms, they should leave all as it was written.


CHARACTERS

URBAN GIRL

BIG MAMA

VETERAN OF WAR

DIRECTRESS

AUTHOR

FIRST MAJORETTE

SECOND MAJORETTE

THIRD MAJORETTE


 

In silence and half-light, on a big screen at the back of the stage, large red letters say: ALL STORIES ARE TRUE. In the middle of the stage there is only an ordinary wooden coffin placed horizontally, parallel with the audience. Urban Girl is sitting on the black coffin. In the left corner of the stage, more towards the proscenium, Author is sitting at a small writing desk. There is a computer on the desk and some papers next to it, onto which Author scribbles something every now and then. Directress is sitting in the front row of the auditorium, and Veteran of War is standing far on the right side of the stage, next to a chair.

DIRECTRESS gets up from a chair in the front row

A bit of pink light on Urban Girl, please. And some green also. Shed a little blue on the Author. I am a woman, I am freedom and I want a woman’s touch to finally be seen around this house. A little tidiness can’t hurt, can it, my dear author?

AUTHOR raising his head in midst of blue light

Madam Agata, I’ll faint, I’ll have a heart attack. This is the first time in centuries that a directress has consulted me on any matter. Off course, I agree. I personally wrote, in plain and simple language, that a little tidiness couldn’t hurt. This is the very reason I suggested Naked Europe be directed by a woman. Listen, I’m a sensitive man. I write for the theatre in order to understand the world inside myself. My mother was against it, but I told her somebody had to do that as well. She also said my father always had inclinations towards the circus, poor fellow. Then she continued making tomato salad. (On the big screen, a woman, a tomato, and a knife.)

DIRECTRESS

I thank you for the info, mister author. (Turns to the girl.) Go on, proceed Urban Girl! And remember, all stories are true. (She sits down.)

URBAN GIRL

I’m a truly happy urban girl. Global village is only my excuse. I don’t like going into global. I like truth and asphalt. When I was a kid I adored true stories, Tarzan, chocolate, and Mick Jagger. (On the screen Tarzan, chocolate, and Mick Jagger.) I never knew much about depression, although I often felt dispirited. Especially in high school, whenever there was a full moon (On the screen, a full moon.) and during the now ever more popular PMS. (On the screen, Urban Girl shouting at the full moon: P-M-S, P-M-S, and then: I love the premenstrual syndrome.) Every now and then I write poetry. Nothing special, just urban elegies. I’m semi-happy now. That’s why I’m tippling out of this bottle. A little brandy is always better than a lot of sedatives. My boyfriend, knock on wood (She knocks on wood three times with her free hand.), always loved me passionately and clearly uncompromisingly. Before he went to war he told me he’d always love me, even if he died. It came true. He died and here he is, in a coffin, and I know he loves me. The funeral is tomorrow. I feel like the night never ends and the whole continent wakes with me. He died, and two days before he died I got his letter. (She takes out a crumpled letter out of the pocket of her chequered cowboy-shirt, takes a large mouthful of brandy and reads.) “My dear Elizabeta. A day like any other. The shelling continues and the body count is getting higher and higher. They bury them on the soccer-field, as there’s no more room in the cemeteries. (On the screen film-footage or photos of wartime Sarajevo, particularly of the mentioned soccer-field cemetery.) My friend from Holland, we call him Fat Man because he’s really fat, he says this is nothing. He says it’ll end, as all wars do, and we’ll be home once again, eating big greasy apple strudels and kissing our plump fiancées. He also said that what he likes most is Sarajevo Blues, a sad song about love. (Folk music of some Bosnian oriental-style love song.) He’s a music professor, you know, and I believe him. Dear Elizabeta, I think of you so much and of the disco club Aquarius where we last danced till morning. When I return, which could be in a month or two, we’ll dance all through the night. Sorry, but I gotta go out on patrol now. My armoured-car is called Elza. I love you and think of you and your cherry-strudel. Your Robert.” (The girl puts the note into her pocket, takes a long sip from the bottle and takes the candle on a candlestick, from the coffin.) Oh, dear Robert. Yes, I’m an urban girl and I grieve for my boyfriend my own way. I love good rock ’n’ roll, but most of all Folk and New Age. Now I’ll light this candle and hold it a while, for Robert. Listen to music and sip some brandy every now and then. I’m sure he’d do the same if he were in my place and I in his. Tomorrow I’ll bury him and the day after tomorrow I’ll return to work. (On the screen scenes from the funeral. Urban Girl wearing black. Her mother holding her up.) I’m an urban girl, but also a bank clerk. Even if someone dies business must go on as usual, as one European proverb says. Robert is forever in me and I’m sad, but yesterday we got a fax from Geneva that all counters must be painted red. And where’s that rock ’n’ roll? I could use at least a good New Age piece.

DIRECTRESS shouts

Rock 'n' roll. New Age. Maybe Enya, she’s good. Put on The Memory of Trees. Turn up the base. Turn down the volume on the cheerful parts, if there are any. But I think there are none. (Music fills the stage. On the screen disco club Aquarius. Young people from around Europe dancing.)

AUTHOR shouts

Madam Agata, in my script we have one passage of Mozart’s Requiem before rock ’n’ roll, and then Veteran of War recites that sad poem Madness in Amsterdam. Remember?! If not, take a look at that script you have.

VETERAN OF WAR in military uniform, from the right corner, standing at attention

I can do that later, gentlemen.

DIRECTRESS calmly but with authority

Mister author, I am the directress and this is a director’s theatre, not author’s. OK?! (Short pause.) Oh, well, I’ll make a small compromise. Veteran of War can recite the poem, but accompanied by Enya. Enya stays and Schluß. And anyway, she’s so quiet and Veteran of War has a deep husky voice like Tom Waits.

AUTHOR sighs

All right, OK. I only wonder, for goodness sake, if anyone will ever stage a play the way I wrote it? I’d just like to see one of my visions. Do I really have to become a director on top of everything? Is it too much to ask from life just wanting to see my vision?

DIRECTRESS does not pay attention to his words

OK, go on. You’re Veteran of War and I expect prompt obedience. Do recite the Madness in Amsterdam.

VETERAN OF WAR recites in a strong experienced tone of subordination

Madness to Amsterdam comes

from southern parts. The night is

like made for Amsterdam.

People lying down at Schiphol airport

and drinking cold Heineken beer.

(On the screen images of Amsterdam.)

Loves take place at museums.

VINCENT VAN GOGH is the best

for quick romance without future.

Skinheads with lovely yellow tulips

beating homosexuals,

because they themselves are the same

only slightly different. Compensation

is the mother of history.

(On the screen Skinheads gently tapping homosexuals, who are self-sacrificingly performing fellatio on them, on their heads with yellow tulips. With their eyes closed, they all look happy, enraptured.)

Oh, boy, you must one day experience

Amsterdam madness.

The night is like made for Amsterdam.

Stars falling on universities,

parents watching television, and cows

without exception giving milk.

(On the screen cows grazing.)

Oh, girl, you must one day experience

Amsterdam madness.

It’s a city where milk

never dies.

Every white drop is young.

(On the screen white drops slowly slide down the faces of exhausted girls.)

Long live Amsterdam madness!

(Veteran of War bows gently.)

DIRECTRESS calmly explains

I kicked that poem of yours out, mister author, because it slows down the action. Naked Europe must truly be naked, and not enveloped in poetry, lies, fog, videotapes, et cetera. Right? (Pause.) But now I see it all works well after all. Excellent job, sir. I admit.

AUTHOR benevolently

Thank you, madam Agata. You really are co-operative.

URBAN GIRL

And I really love Aquarius. I feel delicate. I tipple the brandy but I’m not drunk. The crotch of my jeans is a bit tight. The candle slowly burns in memory of my Robert while I think of him. (She puts down the candle, unbuttons her black jeans, slips her hand down her panties and caresses herself concentrating deeply.)Peacefully I wait for the funeral, masturbating as much as I need to. Tomorrow morning, at eleven o’clock, I’ll bury him with all the honours. (On the screen images of the funeral. A military platoon performs an honorary salvo.) I definitely won’t have a new boyfriend for at least three months. It would be morbid if I had one any sooner. If anyone tries to flirt with me over the counter, I’ll tell them I’m in mourning. I’ll tell them they should wait three months. Parents say it’s best for a girl to get married before she turns 26. I agree, for a simple reason: I want kids. (On the screen children playing in the sandbox of a nursery school.) And how will I have kids if I don’t get married? Whew, how stupid can I get?! I don’t have to get married for that. I’m an urban girl. They call me Elza. I have a friend at the bank, a beautiful girl called Rose. She’ll help me get through the three months. Ah, my dear Rose… (On the screen Elza and Rose in an intimate embrace. Gentle caressing between uniformed clerks of some well-known European bank.)

VETERAN OF WAR

You speak beautifully, urban girl called Elza. The smells of asphalt and television breed chaos in you. Oh, Elizabeta, you’re wrong thinking Robert loved only you. Robert also loved his war comrades. He also visited brothels. And he didn’t think of you all the time. (On the screen Robert showering with his fellow soldiers, a licentious scene of cheerful young men. Then, Robert among prostitutes. Another licentious scene. One of the prostitutes is kissing his genitals while he raises his hands high up giving a victory sign.) I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been warring a whole century now and I’ve been through all the wars. Russian prostitutes are the best. They’ve danced belly dances in the centre of Berlin, Paris, Zagreb, Sarajevo, Belgrade… (On the screen images of brothels and the mentioned cities.) In Saint-Denis, a Paris suburb, I saw one who could, while lying down, pour champagne from one glass into another solely by contracting her stomach muscles. (On the screen a naked woman with two glasses on her belly.) We all applauded and paid 200 francs extra to see it again. Then we too danced with them and kissed them for 500 francs extra. They were artists, not just prostitutes. I know that. I’ve spent a whole century in and out of wars which provided those who survived with a peaceful life and good pensions, and made new wars possible for those who wanted to war on. (On the screen banknotes stuck with sellotape to the barrel of a cannon.) And I like wars. They are very exciting. Not so much the killing as everything else around it. Now I go fishing every day, waiting for a new call to go to some ongoing war. You see this fishing rod? (He picks up a fishing rod, which is leaning against the chair.) Yesterday I caught a big fish with it, for my whole family. We all ate the fish and drank Riesling with it. That’s a fine wine. Later on my son told some jokes. He usually gets them from the Internet. My wife and I laughed our heads off. There was one I especially liked. I’ll tell it to you, urban girl, so you can get a sniff of the atmosphere in my home. It’s called What are WIFE and BITCH. Here’s how it goes. (He tells the joke, which simultaneously appears whole on the screen.) "Three guys and a lady were sitting at the bar talking about their professions. The first guy says, "I'm a Y.U.P.P.I.E, you know… Young, Urban, Professional, Peaceful, Intelligent, Ecologist". The second guy says, "I'm a D.I.N.K., you know… Double Income, No Kids". The third guy says, "I'm a R.U.B., you know… Rich, Urban, Biker". They turn to the woman and ask her, "What are you?" She replies, "I'm a WIFE, you know… Wash, Iron, Fuck, Etc." (Veteran of War laughs holding his stomach. Urban Girl takes a gulp of brandy still masturbating.) There’s more, it’s really good. My wife celebrated, I was a bit sad. "So, just exactly what is a BITCH? B-BABE, I-IN, T-TOTAL,C-CONTROL of, H-HERSELF." Eh, Elza, how about that? (Urban Girl brings her masturbation to the climax. She breathes more rapidly and intermittently, and finally lets out a small cry. She then takes her hand out of her jeans and buttons them up, fixes her hair, and takes another sip.) Then we watched the soccer game. Arsenal: Real Madrid. 2:2. (On the screen a soccer game and goals.) I like soccer. I always cheer for the winners. But, what’s that noise?

Enya’s music, The Memory of Trees, as from a distance, is replaced by the music of some march, possiblyRadetzky March. The music is getting closer. As the music grows louder three majorettes appear on the stage, in a triangular form – one in front, two behind, side by side. They duly march, whirling their batons. They are dressed in short, low-cut, black evening dresses. They march towards Urban Girl who is once again sitting relaxed on the coffin with the brandy bottle in one hand while with the other she touches the candlestick. The candle burns serenely. Big Mama enters behind the majorettes with dignity, a woman in a high-stage of pregnancy, on the brink of giving birth. After marching, majorettes – swaying rhythmically while standing in one place - sing the German, British, French and Croatian anthems. They only sing one verse of each anthem.

THREE MAJORETTES sing proudly

Deutschlandlied

Eingkeit und Recht und Freiheit,

Für das deutsche Vaterland!

Danach lasst uns alle streben,

Brüederlich mit Herz und Hand!

Einigkeit und Recht und Freiheit

Sind des Glückes Unterpfand.

Blüh’ im Glanze dieses Glückes,

Blühe deutsches Vaterland!

***

God Save the Queen

God save our gracious Queen,

Long live our noble Queen,

God save the Queen!

Send her victorious,

Haooy and glorious,

Long to reign over us;

God save the Queen!

****

La Marseillaise

Allons enfants da la Patrie,

Le jour de glorie est arrivé!

Contre nous de la tyrannie

L'étendard sanglant est levé!

(repeat)

***

Lijepa naša domovino

Lijepa naša domovino,

Oj junačka zemljo mila,

Stare slave djedovino,

Da bi vazda sretna bila!

Translation

Our Beautiful Homeland

Beautiful is our homeland,

O so fearless, o so gracious,

Our fathers' ancient glory,

May God bless you, live forever!

EVERYONE applauds and shouts excitedly except the Directress.

DIRECTRESS puts down the text, pulls her hair and shouts angrily

Stand directly behind the Urban Girl! I’ve told you that a hundred times during rehearsals.

BIG MAMA AND THREE MAJORETTES standing at attention, simultaneously

Yes, sir!

AUTHOR disapprovingly

But, madam Agata, in my text I wrote, "Yes, sir, that's my baby." This "that's my baby" is extremely important for the understanding of the European tragedy. It implicitly includes the braindrain to America, the emigration of young intellectuals across the Atlantic. Why do you mind it so much?

DIRECTRESS strictly

I cut it out because it slows down the action of this cheerful tragedy. A tragedy mustn’t be sad. At least not to those who watch it from their sofa. Melodrama serves that purpose. (To Big Mama.) Start, Kristina! You know the tone. That intensely grandiose, one-hundred-percent-convincing one.

BIG MAMA grandiosely

I am Big Mama. To all of you (With a wide gesture she points both to the ensemble and the audience.), to all of you I gave birth, in great labour pains (On the screen images from the maternity ward.). I nurtured you and raised you, put you on your feet. Every morning you ate croissants and drank white coffee for breakfast.(Images of breakfast.) And look at you now! So pathetic and bourgeois. And that’s the thank you I get for all my troubles, you scoundrels! (Specifying theatrically, she points with her hand contemptuously to persons she enumerates.) This one here, Milko, with the lovely name of milk, unfortunately became a writer with a title of author, huh. I told him this while I was making tomato salad one day. Agata became a directress and, what’s more, she boasts with it. Elizabeta became a bank clerk with a strong inclination to alcoholism, debauchery, and candles (Urban Girl takes a big gulp. On the screen a succession of images in accordance with the monologue.), and Robert became a dead man like so many others. Ah, and he had such a nice job in an excellent car factory. And these right here, they became just ordinary high-class majorettes. No matter who is in power, liberals, dictators, or democrats, they march in their black erotic uniforms. Politics and black evening dresses go together since the beginning of time. (On the screen black evening dresses and politicians.) When I ask them what their batons are for, they say it’s for their own and everybody else’s pleasure. Yuck! And you, you became an audience, mere voyeurs of your own misery. You think you’re great men if you’ve got three million dollars in Swiss banks. Albert Einstein, in Zurich, never had more than 10.000 franks in his pocket, and he was stronger, smarter and more beautiful than any of you. And this one here!(She points at Veteran of War.) I gave birth to him as well, and just look at him! He became my husband, for Christ’s sake! Isn’t that blasphemous? While I was having kids, he was off gallivanting around in wars. He was always either gone to war or returning from a war, or working day in day out in the weapons factory. I was always alone with the kids, except for Easter, Christmas, and New Year. On those days I shared a bed with him and we made children. On other days I washed and ironed to exhaustion, et cetera. You know… Wash, Iron, Fuck, Etc. On the rare days when we were in bed together, meaning during the holidays, he smelled of gunpowder, beer, and illiterate whores.

VETERAN OF WAR with indignation

They were no ordinary whores. They were prostitutes, artists of their trade. They could fill an empty glass from a full one on their own naked belly. Aha! Let’s see you try doing that, my dear!

BIG MAMA

Shut up, you wretch! All you can think of are weapons, bullets and whores. (Big Mama opening her arms wide.) Oh, God, what have I done to you to deserve such a huge cross to bear? More than a cross, a whole chapel! (In a conciliatory manner and with a relative motherly mildness.) Oh, well, I forgive you all, because I’m Big Mama and I have a big heart. (On the screen a big heart beating time. There are two time-hands on it. It’s five to twelve.) I have a big heart and I forgive you all. I’m a great free woman, a mother with good taste, a person with a sense for slow unification, flower arrangements, and impressive Goblin tapestries. In addition, I adore garden architecture and honest feminism. I fight against male and female domination in the work place and at home. I’m for unification and domination of taste. People let a hundred plants bloom! And now, each of you will say something to Big Mama. (On the screen a night-school classroom. All the students are adults. A professor, who looks very much like Freud, is standing in front of the lectern and explaining something, mildly and sternly at the same time.) I’ll ask each of you one or more questions, and you’ll answer. Then, accompanied by quiet or loud music, we’ll talk, drink, dance, unify and merge. Tomorrow’s the funeral of my son and my once son-in-law-to-be, may he rest in peace in our European ground, so I want a little sophisticated yet sincere sorrow. Clear? And now, the questions. (Pause.) You, my dear Milko, my author, tell me, have you had a hard childhood and are now reliving your childhood traumas? Do you have nightmares? Do you dream tendentiously like doctor Freud?

AUTHOR readily

No mother, to all your questions I have a negative answer. I had a lovely childhood with lots of cakes. You beat me only once. It was springtime, right before my first communion. I fell into some mud in front of our house, and soiled my white shorts. Later the minister asked me why I had a black eye. I told him I had been naughty and God had punished me. He just said: “Oh, Milko, Milko, always troubles with you. Do you remember that time when you blasphemed at Sunday school? You said there was no way that Jonah could have lived inside the whale for more than a minute. Oh, Milko, Milko. But God loves black sheep. You have been returned to the flock, my son." Then he laid the host on my mildly protruding tongue and said, "Corpus Christi". I responded "Amen." (On the screen a minister giving the host to a boy at first communion.) From all the excitement of once again belonging to the communion of God and man, I crushed the Host with my teeth instead of letting Christ, or the body of Christ, slowly melt or drown in me. And that’s why I never had any severe traumas originating from a hard childhood. And to the second question the answer is also no. No, I don’t have nightmares. (On the screen only blue sea, sunny beaches, and beautiful girls in mini bikinis.) And, no, I don’t dream tendentiously. I only dream of simple things like bread, milk, and an honest girl in a silk nightie, and naked Europe without borders, passports, cars, and radioactive waste in suburbs. (On the screen borderless Europe. In the bottom right corner a crossed out passport, in the bottom left corner a crossed out car, and above them, midscreen, a crossed out symbol of uranium.) And if you really want to know who deserves credit for such nice dreams, I can tell you that it’s primarily you, mother, and then (On the screen photographs or portraits of mother and the people to be mentioned.) Hugo, Hegel, Hölderlin, Hofmannsthal, Heine, little green Heinrich, Hemingway, Hasek, Hardy, Huxley, Huges, Homer, Hamsum, Herodot, Herder, Hoffman, Horace, Hauptmann, Hesse, Hesiod, little Helena from Flower Street, and also… (Now on the screen, written in pink letters appears: DO YOU SUFFER FROM A BORDERLINE SYNDROME?)

BIG MAMA interrupting him angrily

Enough, you idiot! You talk nineteen to the dozen. No pocket money for you today. You can scrounge the money for vanilla ice cream from that fat varicose-veined wife of yours. (On the screen a big cone of vanilla ice cream and a fat woman.) No wonder you became what you are. Pshaw! Writers and poets. It would’ve been better had you become an honest politician, which is impossible, but maybe attainable in nice dreams such as you boast about. (She turns to First Majorette.) And you, my daughter, are you OK? Do you go to school regularly, and are you content with the general state of society?

FIRST MAJORETTE readily

Mother, I’m OK. Everything’s cool. School is cool. I’m very satisfied with the general state of society I’m surrounded by. I don’t give a damn about Bosnia and Herzegovina. (On the screen images of wartime Sarajevo.) The food is good at your place, and the music’s not half bad either. I like Laibach and Iron Maiden, and I support social democrats in shadow. (On the screen the mentioned groups and a group of social democrats in the shadow of tall lime-trees in the garden of a restaurant.) I think they’re, like, way cool, you know!

BIG MAMA pleased

Good, darling. Not bad, I thought you’d be worse. (She takes out her wallet from the pocket of a big dressing gown covered with large flowery designs.) Here’s some money. Go and buy yourself those trainers, the Nike ones that you’ve been pining for these last few weeks. You’ll have enough left for a cake as well. (On the screen trainers, and cake. Big Mama turns to Second Majorette.) And you, daughter, tell me, have you had sexual intercourse before New Year’s Eve?

SECOND MAJORETTE with indignation

But mother! Oh, all right, Albert tried. On New Year’s Eve, at Marija’s party. (On the screen Marija’s party.) I only allowed him to kiss me fiercely and, after two Cokes and three Jägermeisters, I let him touch and massage my breasts a little. And that’s all. I told him to finish University first and find a job. Albert cried, kneeled, and begged, but I kept my legs crossed while my heart was breaking from desire to help him. I yelled, “Nothing before marriage, nothing before marriage!” and all the girls, even Marija, laughed at my mature chastity. And it’s understandable as not one of them is a virgin anymore, even though they’re only fifteen and a half. They said that many girls already have babies at fifteen and a half, and I said that you’d be very displeased if I were to start having sex before New Year’s.

BIG MAMA pleased

You did well, my daughter. (She takes out her wallet again.) Here’s some money. Go at once and buy yourself twenty-thirty-forty packs of condoms. Do it today. Durex is the best or blue Lifestyle. (On the screen a mountain of condoms above which is written: AIDS - NO PASARAN?) New Year’s is behind us. You can give Albert your undefiled virginity, but for starters only with use of condoms. Give it to him, and he’ll be very happy. Maybe he’ll finish university sooner. I remember I also did much better when I wasn’t abstaining. (On the screen graffiti on a university building’s wall, written in white chalk: FUCK IS GOOD, FUCK IS FUNNY, ALL THE PEOPLE FUCK FOR MONEY.) But be careful! If I don’t see you at every Sunday mass you’ll get penalty points. Love must have some boundaries, even if it is boundless. At least for the first three months. (She turns to the Third Majorette.) And you, daughter, how are things with you? Any news?

THIRD MAJORETTE relaxed

Ah, listen mum, I don’t think so. I ride my bike every day, as usual, and shower three times a day. At length and thoroughly, if you know what I mean. (On the screen a girl riding a bike, and then taking a long, long shower. She points the spray of the shower to that especially provocative place of every female being.) It gives me great pleasure. In the evening I attend rehearsals. I dance and practice a lot. Yesterday we rehearsed Radetzky March and then the English, German, French, and Croatian anthems. We also rehearsed the American anthem, just in case or to be sure, as our conductor says. (On the screen flags of the mentioned countries.) You know, we have to learn to stand still and march in place to all European anthems, and now to the American also. And marching helps us a lot to practise the discipline of even movements. In my free time I study mechanical engineering. It’s a very demanding college and I’m very happy. Guys at college are jealous ‘cause I pass all my exams regularly. Even the hardest ones.

BIG MAMA pleased

Excellent, my dear, excellent. I think you’ll become the best mechanical engineer in Europe. (She takes her wallet out again.) Here’s some money. Buy yourself a new shower. The bike’s still OK, but the shower is already falling apart from so much use. I also shower three times a day. (On the screen Big Mama taking a shower. A blissful face of the mother as she handles the shower.) Sometimes even more often, because I’m older and it’s good for my circulation. (She laughs voluptuously, lustfully, and then turns to the Veteran of War.) And you, my son, my husband, my veteran of war, my companion, tell me what you do when you’re not off in a war, or at the weapons factory, or gone fishing?

VETERAN OF WAR militarily self-possessed

Well, mother, woman and wife, my companion, you know, I wait for a new call to go to war. The Balkans is always interesting. Kosovo isn’t quieting down, and Montenegro wants independence. Yugoslavia, that is Serbia, doesn’t want to grant independence to that cute little state which has sea access to the Adriatic. They need that sea access very much. And I like Montenegro. We spent our summer there in 1987, remember! Maybe I’ll help them a bit, too. But not until Christmas. You’ll have the baby in a week and I have to be there. But then, after a month or two of recuperation, so you have time to get your act together, I’ll have to make you another baby before I leave to free Montenegro. (On the screen making of a baby.) We’ll be done by Easter or Christmas, and I’ll be coming back. If I don’t get killed, of course. But even if I do, I’ll be returning anyway. Just as this one here. (He points to the coffin.) But I’m not worried about you much, though. I see that our old family friend, mister Rudi, has had his eye on your abundant beauty for quite some time now. And if I survive, which is also one of the options, on Christmas we’ll be making another baby. But after Christmas they’ll already call me again. As usual, it’ll be the hardest in Serbia. Radio-Belgrade will play some beautiful song like Lili Marlen again, but the dictatorship will nevertheless fall. (The melody of the mentioned song can be heard, while on the screen a fall of a dictatorship is taking place, very reminiscent of the fall of dictatorship in Romania.) Not even the prettiest of songs can save a dictatorship, and I’ll be back home again by the following Christmas. We’ll go to midnight mass again, eat a lot and drink a lot, and make another baby till morning comes. (On the screen a midnight mass and the two of them in church. Then they eat and drink a lot, and then they make a baby.) If the one from the previous Christmas is a boy, we’ll call him Božidar, and if it’s a girl, she’ll be Božidarka. And the ones to come can be Ivan, or Ivana. And if they turn out to be twins we’ll come to some sort of an agreement. Is that OK?

BIG MAMA pleased

Oh, very much so. I like the part about making babies. It’s a legitimate activity. But wars, they’re strange. Them I can hardly grasp. The politics of giving birth I can understand, but the politics of killing not as easily as that. Anyway, here’s some money. Go and buy yourself 5 pairs of new underpants. You know, those boxer shorts. I like those very much. I like them on you, but more than that I like the way it turns me on while you take them off. Then they arouse my erotic little ego. The rest of the money you can spend at Oktoberfest in Munich, as many other Croats will do, not to mention immigrants from other countries at work in Germany.(On the screen Oktoberfest.) Have some fun and think of your wife while looking at those full-bosomed Bavarian barmaids, who can carry five one-litre beer-mugs full of beer in one hand. (Then she turns to theDirectress.) And you, my Agata, how’s work? I’m referring to the boards that mean life, the theatre as such.

DIRECTRESS angrily

Firstly, I told you yesterday at rehearsal to say this last line in a raised tone, a bit theatrically, definitely exaltedly. And secondly, it has to be obvious that you have stepped back from your role, that you are Kristina, a famous actress playing Big Mama. It has to be unmistakably obvious, perfectly visible. Clear!

BIG MAMA

Oh, OK. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Here, I’ll try at once as you said: "And you, my Agata, how’s work? I’m referring to the boards that mean life, to theatre as such. "

DIRECTRESS tired, exhausted

Don’t even ask. I work hard. Mostly I direct a classic repertoire. Cyrano De Bergerac, Hamletmachine, Shakespeare, comedies in general. (On the screen a classic repertoire.) It’s not bad, but there’s no sign of a true tragedy, the way I like it. Well, there wasn’t till now. This play satisfies me outstandingly. When Milko offered me Naked Europe I shivered with desire to direct. This is the first true tragedy from ancient times to this day.

AUTHOR humbly

Second. Six Characters in Search of an Author is the first. (On the screen six people looking for something.)

DIRECTRESS

I don’t agree. That piece is a tragedy as well as tragicomedy with addition of farce on the sides. Naked Europe at the same time possesses that true tragic intensity, because the heroes – and that’s all of us – die outside of theatre in the end, and they can’t help themselves in any way and can’t ever change that fateful fact. (On the screen strikes, a mass of people carrying many slogans, shouting, protesting, demanding something, and probably asking for a pay-raise.) Death is their destiny and they relentlessly go headlong towards it.

AUTHOR coughs, as if protesting

BIG MAMA calming the children down

No fighting, kids, please. We can discuss that at the theatre club, after the show. (She takes out her wallet again turning toward the Directress.) Here’s some money. Buy yourself some kiwi-fruit. Directors and directresses need a lot of vitamins. Just as everybody who works with people. Vitamins strengthen the nerves. (She turns to Urban Girl.) And you, my poor darling, what will you do without your boyfriend, without your once husband-to-be Robert? The funeral is tomorrow and please dress more respectably. You can’t go to a funeral wearing jeans. (Pause.) Tell me, darling, do you still write poetry when times are difficult?

URBAN GIRL slightly intoxicated by alcohol, masturbation, and the smoke of the candle

Mother, it’s hard, I admit. But life must go on. Washing machines must go on washing dirty laundry, and hairdryers must blow dandruff across our blue seas like white ashes of death. My dandruff, for instance, adores the Adriatic Sea. (On the screen a map of the Adriatic Sea.) Particularly the parts around Opatija and the islands of Brač and Hvar, and around Dubrovnik. (She touches the candle again, takes a gulp of brandy, sits up on the coffin and looks earnestly at Big Mama.) When Dubrovnik was burning in 1991, I went into the streets and protested against the war in Croatia. (On the screen video-footage of the shelling of Dubrovnik.)During the air raids in Zagreb I ran to the bomb-shelter 59 times. You covered me with a blanket so I wouldn’t get cold. There was a lady with a little dog, her favourite pet, who wouldn’t go to the shelter. They didn’t allow dogs inside, so she preferred to stay outside. (On the screen a lady with a dog while sirens are wailing.) But, thank God, that’s all over now. (Pause.) I feel sorry for Robert. If he were alive we’d be dancing at Aquarius now. But things being as they are, in his memory I’ll now recite two poems I wrote this morning sitting on the coffin. Yes, I write poetry when times are difficult. I believe everybody does; only they’re not aware of it. I’m an urban girl and I write urban elegies. (She gets up and takes a notepad from the back pocket of her jeans. She takes a gulp of brandy, puts the bottle down on the coffin, wipes her mouth with the back of her free hand and begins to recite.) Listen to this, mother! Perhaps it’s not better than Rilke, but I like it. The first urban elegy is called Buses are Unsafe, and the other one is Eclipse of the Zucchini.

On one side of the screen two girls playing flutes in the street. Passers-by throw change into a small box in front of the girls. Everybody on stage listen carefully to Urban Girl recite. Music of the flutes in the background. Dimmed lights, a stream of red light on her. It is recommended to accompany the poem with video-footage on the other side of the screen.

URBAN GIRL clears her throat and then recites slowly, quietly but powerfully, without pathos

Buses are Unsafe

acquaintances discern me from the night

because I’m agile.

It’s hard to avoid a metaphor

and stay alive.

I wear black jeans, black shoes.

a black bag, black T-shirt,

black panties, black stockings,

and a black belt without mercy.

in the air of daytime I’m

an irremovable stain of warning.

being unhappy is distasteful.

but tastes differ.

were taken over by hypocrisy

even the countryside prostitutes

in the city-centre of Zagreb.

I’m not sad.

I don’t have time.

I only have time to warm up

my everyday meal of darkness in solitude.

I notice that indifference

blooms best in cheerful company.

my outer self,

the black coral reef,

I adorn with my long hair

the colour of fresh asphalt.

should anyone dare,

getting shipwrecked is unavoidable.

can I at all

avoid the distance

and melt the ice from the surface

of my urbanised flesh?

today I sat on a bus.

nobody looked at me

for longer than a second.

everyone's afraid of the dark,

of my adorned Africa,

my porous wilderness.

I mean: I also have a right

to prose, plays, and poetry,

to a rising sun.

to prayer and curses against heaven.

somebody whispered in my ear:

nobody can stop

the innocence of angels

if it finally appears.

and indeed, a mad creature in a white shirt

enters on bus stop seven.

gods follow him at a distance.

with due respect

they light his pupils.

he comes straight towards me.

I sense he’s the wonderment of the world

fighting for existence.

he bends down into my night and says:

tie this narrow colourful little band

around my left wrist.

I do it, a sister of mercy

full of internal emigration.

he sits behind me

enveloped with secrecy and silence.

he knew straight away that I love

gold and wisdom, symbols of emptiness.

it’s the first time in a hundred years’ solitude

that somebody understood me so quickly.

I’m so moved!

am I going soft?

even buses aren’t safe anymore.

planes are better after all.

nobody can steal rides,

especially not angels.

only pilots and bad poets

visit the heavens for free.

but those that have paid the fare

better see the whiteness and those damn

playful wings of self-confident

sea gulls that fly outside

aeroplanes.

I sense, inside me there’s masochism

of escape. I’ll be leaving in a few days

to my friend in London. I’ll avoid

buses, get away from

everything that is nothing.

although I already know:

the pleasure of escape is costly.

and useless.

URBAN GIRL bows, everybody applauds.

URBAN GIRL thanking with a smile and bow

And now I will recite for you Eclipse of the Zucchini…

BIG MAMA interrupting her

Wait a minute, sweetheart. We said we’d debate a bit, drink and maybe even dance to some quiet or noisy music. And then you can recite that poem. Depression and sorrow should not be overindulged in. Come on, let’s see some cheer! It’s not every day that a man dies. And Robert was such a cheerful man. (Horrible industrial music fills the stage, accompanied by thunder of cannons.)

DIRECTRESS shouts decisively

No discussion is possible while this industrial music and cannon thunder are blaring. Turn down that music dictatorship. Put something soft on, something pleasant. The Blue Danube, for example. (The industrial music, maybe Kraftwerk or Test Department, is replaced by the previously mentioned, very pleasant waltz.)OK, and now, Big Mama can start the discussion. Hey, mister author, bring us lots of food and drink. (Authorexits several times and returns with two or three platters too full of with food and a basket filled with fine bottles of various wines. Everybody eats and drinks self-indulgently.)

BIG MAMA, chewing a piece of chicken, warmly

Thank you, madam Agata. We can, for instance, discuss the situation, which is somewhat exhibitionistic. I’m referring to Croatian Telecom.

VETERAN OF WAR happily chewing a large piece of roast

Don’t make me laugh. Dear woman, mother, wife, you really exaggerate sometimes. You know very well that Deutsche Telecom bought quite a lot of those Croatian Telecom shares. Or was it that Scandinavian company?

FIRST MAJORETTE eating and sipping casually

As if it matters. What has it to do with me? I just want to be unique, organised, and loved. I like walking the streets of Zagreb without a mobile phone constantly talking at me . (On the screen she walks the streets of Zagreb. Waltz music in the background. A hurdy-gurdy can also be heard.)

SECOND MAJORETTE placidly chews roast meat, tearing off pieces of meat with her teeth

Nicely put. I threw my cell phone into the trash-bin. I’m interested in a united communication between two sane beings. I also like to stroll around carefree.  Particularly when the sky is blue and sprinkled with many yellow stars. (On the screen she throws the cell phone into a trash-bin, and the sky is sprinkled with yellow stars.)

THIRD MAJORETTE eating and drinking cheerfully

I bet you’re referring to the flag of European Union in creation. Still, no offence, but I like the American flag more. And besides, it has many more stars. They make good poetry. Just like the one our Urban Girl writes…(On the screen European and American flags.)

AUTHOR still chewing interrupts her impatiently

Excuse me, but I wrote beautiful and not good poetry. (Author tapping on the computer, writing something down on a piece of paper with his right hand.)

BIG MAMA takes a big gulp from the bottle while quieting down the discussion

OK, kids. I see the discussion’s going in the right direction and I’m pleased. We can rest a while and continue tomorrow. Urban Girl can recite something for us again. Why not that, yes, that Eclipse of the Zucchini. But first she should get naked so we can see her better, understand her better while she recites.(On the screen images of European bars. Music is sentimental, partially imbued with industrial sounds of steel-mills and ironworks.)

URBAN GIRL shyly

I’m ashamed to show my interesting body unless I’m at a nudist beach. So I’ll only remove my jeans and shirt while I recite. I’ll stay in my black panties, black bra, and black stockings with black garters that are back in fashion now. A few signs of healthy underwear garments should remain. At least Croatia has a well-developed underwear textile industry. Oh, well, if I become bolder I’ll remove the rest of my clothes. To be honest, I like being naked and free. (Urban Girl starts seductively taking off her jeans and shirt, climbing onto the coffin in which her Robert rests. At the same time she slowly starts to recite Eclipse of the Zucchini. On the screen a disco-club and images of a city before dawn. Music of urban hip-hop phonies, and then of rap maniacs. The Croatian rappers Bolesna braća (Sick Rhyme Sayazz) are also there. Street cleaners are hosing down the over-garbaged streets with strong jets of water till the very end of her recital.)

DIRECTRESS encourages the girl

Bravo, bravo! Show us naked Europe! Show us the truth of history! Recite the Eclipse of the Zucchini for us!

EVERYONE encourages the girl

Show us naked Europe! Show us eclipse!

URBAN GIRL recites gently while slowly taking off the rest of her clothes

Eclipse of the Zucchini

(On the screen appropriate video materials accompany the poem.)

Europe is naked, beautiful and ugly.

but anyone can have

crepuscular moments.

that’s good for psychiatrists.

they live from and for twilight.

from eclipse to eclipse

they write books about it in sunlight.

I say, it can happen to anyone.

there is a man

who came on Wednesday.

he brought zucchini.

disrupted the privacy of

the hard black corals.

I gave that city cowboy

a piece of my mind.

the dark rings under my eyes

spoke of my anger.

I didn’t want to play.

I am a coral and I occupy myself

with love of myself.

I said to him:

go and sin no more.

in his eyes

an astonished moon covered

the pale-yellow zucchini.

I knew

in time he too will

get used to the eclipse.

he’ll realise that corals

aren’t communicative and that

they rarely go to the supermarket.

bread, drugs and love for themselves

they find within.

night again is dripping.

God’s tap is broken.

once again I’ll put silver on my eyelids.

I am urban Salome.

I wish I were African wool.

again I’ll dance alone

in a black see-through nightdress.

all the veils have long ago fallen

from my eyes.

Oh God, it’s because I’ve had to

dance with ants.

yes, once again I’ll put silver on my eyelids.

what a crazy day!

a man with books and zucchini.

pure comedy of errors.

not even Borges could come up with that.

do books and zucchini even go together?

it is not my birthday today.

if by chance it is, as a present I crave

an impressive work of art.

a story, for instance, which would at least

hint at my existence,

corals and algae in the spacious

yet cramped room of my childhood.

but this is an urban fireplace.

has this town even got a man

who doesn’t bestow mediocrity,

routine gifts of chaos

before falling asleep

in the big death or ‘la petite mort’.

if I ever meet him I’ll say to him:

come! I am now the immense joy.

approach! my name is sinner.

enter! I am dancer and sin.

Urban Girl bowing lightly starts to dance. Everybody on stage follows her example. Everybody dances. New Age with sounds of industrial noises, warplanes, thunder of cannons, screams of victims of war and victims of hard work – work for bare survival. Complete chaos on stage; every actor dancing his own dance. The whole screen is covered with sky-blue and several hundred yellow stars shoot around the screen in various directions like subatomic particles in a subatomic world of modern physics. This all lasts a few minutes, and then Urban Girl raises her hand and stops the music and dancing. All actors freeze in motion and stay motionless. On the screen everything stays as it was, blue sky and yellow stars in frantic motion. In dead silence First Majorette says a few words and then sings the American anthem. After that, also in complete silence, Urban Girl starts her closing monologue, standing once again on the coffin of her deceased boyfriend.

FIRST MAJORETTE

After this shocking poem, let’s take a breather. Can’t you see that Urban Girl, our little Elza, is exhausted? Here’s a little rest, some peace and quiet for you. I’ll sing you the American anthem, to be on the safe side and just in case, as our conductor says. And then, I’m sure Urban Girl will tell us something nice. And then we’ll go to bed. The funeral is tomorrow. Silence, please! Silence is necessary if you want a quality rest. Robert wants a rest, too. (She points to the coffin.) He’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t tired of it all. Listen to me carefully! (She spreads her arms, looks enraptured towards an imaginary horizon and sings the American anthem. On the screen the anthem is accompanied by video-footage of important events and recognizable signs from the New Continent’s history.)

The Star-Spangled Banner

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,

O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,

In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:

'Tis the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vautingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,

A home and a country should leave us no more?

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

O thus be it ever when free-men shall stand

Between their lov'd home and the war's desolation;

Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land

Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us a nation!

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,

And this be our motto: "In God is our trust!"

And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

EVERYONE applauds, and then they chant “Urban Girl, Urban Girl!” and “Elizabeta, Elizabeta!” and “Elza, Elza!” Silence again.

URBAN GIRL standing relaxed on the coffin, calmly, collected and in a voice full of sadness makes her final monologue. (On the screen video-footage accompanies the monologue.)

I’m an urban girl. I feel constructive. I know there exists a blue chaos in which my ego vibrates its short-lived music. I know I’ll soon again be behind the counter in the bank, daydreaming of Robert for some three months. Will things change in our world, in Croatia, France, Britain, Germany, in Venice or Zagreb? Will the Adriatic Sea still be blue? I don’t know. I told mum I’d get married and have kids. Is that the right decision? Can Europe bear two more kids? I don’t know. I’m a bank clerk full of vivid imagination, with a blurred outlook of the world. When I was in Switzerland I noticed that the grass over there is no greener than in Croatia. They say it’s the same in America. I don’t know. I know nothing of grass. I’m an urban girl who notices trash on the streets of many European cities and towns. Only Dubrovnik is entirely clean. In Dubrovnik I feel as a complete woman. Although the funeral of my boyfriend, who died thinking of my cherry-strudels and me, is very soon, I still cannot think of it for too long. I am a sensitive person, I’m a true woman and I desire a lot of consorting, merging. I want to unite with the blue sky and vibrate my womanhood, my quiet yet passionate sensibility. I want to be a limitless girl; I want to be blue and to carry in my eyes all the stars of this world. I love all that is beautiful, especially myself. Especially when I’m naked. I’m an urban naked girl and I love myself. I also love apples. In them, too, I see the blue colour of a ripe sky. Yes, I love apples. Yes, I love apples…

A characteristic funeral tune can be heard, and then a funeral march. It lasts a few moments and then fades and slowly dies down. From afar sounds of church bells. It gets closer and closer. Suddenly it stops. Only one bell can be heard now. The one that tolls for every Robert and every Roberta. Then complete silence again. Fadeout. Darkness. The only light comes from the screen, which is blue, filled with numerous yellow stars that are now completely motionless. After about ten seconds on that blue and yellow background appears a sentence written in large red letters: ALL STORIES ARE TRUE.


MOONLIGHT

Moonlight is the integral part of Naked Europe and an additional source of useful possibilities. The director or directress can use it freely in accordance with their own vision of western civilisation’s decadence. Decadence is always amiably obliging. It is written into nature as beautiful light of night that shines during death hour, death hour in which all stories are true.


DIRECTRESS I (WITH AUTHOR)

With the scene of directing the funeral feast (DIRECTRESS II)

DIRECTRESS fixes her hair and dress, proudly lifts her head up, speaks calmly, suggestively, as if talking to dying patients.

I am a directress. My name is Agata. My job is not simple. I must organise the house and every show so that a woman’s touch can be seen. Today I told my husband to leave me alone as I have to get ready for the rehearsal of Naked Europe. He played dumb pretending he didn’t get the point. He mumbled and mumbled so I had to spell it out for him. Listen, I told him, no sex ten days before the opening night. I’d told you this a hundred and twenty years ago, at midnight at our wedding, when I changed from my wedding dress into a skin-coloured leotard and a red and white chequered apron. Flirtatiously fixes her dress and hair. You loved me then, love, you must love me now, too. After I have finished this cheerful tragedy, we’ll have sex all day and all night till summer solstice comes, when I start directing again. That’s what I told him. Remember, I added in conclusion, remember the time when I directed The Sorrows of Young Werther. I was so sensitive before the opening night that I couldn’t even give you a simple everyday domestic kiss, let alone open my legs to take you into my little warm, wet clam. Sweetheart, remember how I directed that wonderful scene when Werther touches for the first time an honest woman, that feigned little slut Lota, who in the end led him to a suicidal death. Enraptured, fiery, as romantically as humanly possible. Yes, yes… Ach, wie mir das durch alle Adern läuft, wenn mein Finger unversehens den ihrigen berührt, wenn unsere Füße sich unter dem Tische begegnen! Ich ziehe zurück, wie vom Feuer, und eine geheime Kraft zieht mich wieder vorwärts – mir wird´s so schwindlich vor allen Sinnen – Oh! und ihre Unschuld, ihre unbefangene Seele fühlt nicht, wie sehr mich die kleinen Vertraulichkeiten peinigen. – Wenn sie gar im Gespräch ihre Hand auf die meinige legt und im Interesse der Unterredung näher zu mir rückt, daß der himmliche Atem ihres Mundes meine Lippen erreichen kann. – Ich glaube zu versinken, wie vom Wetter gerührt. – Und, Wilhelm! Wenn ich mich jemals unterstehe, diesen Himmel, dieses Vertrauen - ! Du verstehst mich. Nein, mein Hertz ist so verderbt nicht! Schwach! Schwach genug! – Und ist das nicht Verderben? Takes a breath. Enraptured sips, and drools, fixing her hair at the same time. Sie ist mir heilig. Alle Begier schweigt in ihrer Gegenwart. Ich weiß nie, wie mir ist, wenn ich bei ihr bin; es ist, als wenn die Seele sich mir in allen Nerven umkehrte. – Sie hat eine Melodie, die sie auf dem Klavier spielt mit der Kraft eines Engels, so simpel und so geistvoll! Es ist ihr Leiblied, und mich stellt es von aller Pein, Verwirrung und Grillen her, wenn sie nur die erste Note davon greift. Oh yes, yes, my friend. Kein Wort von der alten Zauberkraft der Musi kist mir unwahrscheinlich, wie mich der einfache Gesang angreift. Und wie sie ihn anzubringen weiß, oft zur Zeit, wo ich mir eine Kugel vor den Kopf schießen möchte! Die Irrung und Finsternis meiner Seele zerstreut sich, und ich atmewieder freier.Proudly, slightly arrogantly and disdainfully, self-confidently and irrevocably. Yes, yes, I am a directress with over a hundred work-years under my belt. I support director’s theatre and my colleagues in myself: Stanislavski, Craig, and Reinhardt. I also root for director’s film. I love black grapes and directorial absolutism. Points with her hand to the stage and circles with her eyes as if looking at the whole world, at all villages and cities. I invite you all, especially the audience, to unify and take part in the cheerful downfall of old Europe. I like a militant approach to stew and theatre. If you want a good culinary delicacy and a good piece of art on stage, must be a dictator during the preparation of such excellent meals. Isn’t that so, mister author? Isn’t that so, mister Valent?

AUTHOR pensively and bellicosely

Let there be light, madam! And there was light. Let there be living theatre, and there was living theatre. At least where, we workers of Naked Europe are in question. Otherwise, dead recycled drama carcasses have flooded theatres all over Europe. Zagreb is an exception because it has us. We are completely different from others. We drink hot garden-sage, gurgling it in our mouths, so curing our centennial pathology of colds, toothache and inter-stellar wars on star treks. Aside from that, we look forward to working on the play. Naked Europe must be dictatorially naked. I’m glad, Agata, you have realised that.

DIRECTRESS proudly lifts her head up and continues the victory monologue, looking disdainfully at something in the distance, as if kind of “lost in space”.

When I was still the unsurpassable Leni Riefenstahl, I directed all over Germany. On the screen Leni directing a film. Hitler looked at me questioningly but with approval. You can imagine how pleased he was with my directing when he used my work for his propaganda. To this day I believe that any successful directress must be somewhat strong leader-inclined in this job of directing. That is why even today I feel as strong as Interpol. I have a similar power with which I will infect actresses, actors, all people and all animals. Hey, people, I am the law not only when I’m at the open market buying vegetables for a hearty beef soup, but also now, directing here in the theatre. I am a multidimensional housewife. A brilliant idea came to me. An idea to condense the central scene of this poor funeral feast taking place so glamorously in honour of the perished Robert. Naked Europe must be a mad, playful, singing, intoxicating spectacle full of cheerful tragedy. Urban Girl must burst with passion overflowing with asphalt, masturbation and menstruation. BigMama must show a superiority of an exceptionally envisioned mother and parent of this world. Majorettes must celebrate the marching of feet on all the streets around the world, and the thundering singing of hymns of sex. And Veteran of War must be as monumental as the Roman Empire was. So help me God, but by the opening night this fall-of-western-civilisation-paranoia in the blue city of Zagreb must be brought to paroxysm of despair of the whole continent that is in the retirement home of old Europe and the increasingly older America. I am freedom and strength. I am a woman; I am a directress with a strong arm; I am the iron freedom of necessity; I am the serial killer of all human flaws. Man, I am pure Interpol, and everyone must obey me. These are the foundations of good theatre. Oh, yes… Exaltedly; proudly; shockingly beautifully and impressively; running wilder and wilder in the middle of the stage, in a wonderful contralto voice, pointing to the black coffin, Yes, yes, my dearest people, I am crazy today and I am as strong as the secret state police… Yes, yes. That’s how it is, there’s no other way. I agree with Author when he picturesquely says that the secret state police had influenced all post-war directresses and directors worldwide. I also agree with his absolutely accurate remark that the funeral feast in dead Robert’s honour is the key scene of new dramaturgy. Fuck theatre that doesn’t show death in a clear form of a corpse or coffin. After every dead man the sun rises again.  And now, children… Points with her hand to actors gathered around the coffin. …and now, let’s grill this horror of an unfortunate Naked Europe. Please, switch off your cellphones! I don’t want to hear the moronic telecommunications melodies. I want to see acting sweat dripping everywhere. Come on, Urban Girl, start! And remember, all stories are true. Also remember that nobody can act sad if they are truly sad. A fucking good observation by our author, our new Lope de Vega, the Zagreb man, the man who grasped the European zoo.

AUTHOR smiling benevolently in directress’ direction

Thank you for the compliment, madam Agata. When I was still Lope de Vega, I went through many ordeals because of envious people. And, much later, Lope was my role model from elementary school on. He had a way with women and theatre. In that order. He was a good and caring worker. He had the stage at his fingertips and he drank coffee in enormously large amounts. He smoked monumentally every day. Strange that he didn’t die of lung cancer. Maybe he went for walks with his dog. I’m sorry my folks, I got carried away a little. Go on, start all together. Listen to Directress and you will have it good on Earth. Kiss your fellow men on the mouth. Fellow men are your stage design, which you cannot avoid if you move through nature and society. Deep thoughts are rare. Floods are damp. Europe no longer has room for waiting. Godot was and is our illusion of hope, an illusion without which we can no longer even go to the toilet. Everyone thinks they will wake up again tomorrow. Wrong. Incorrect. Only a few ever wake up. We can mark them as survivors. They are the ones who survive the hell of naked Europe with songs, recreation and jokes. They sing hymns in thunderous voices, because lifesaving orgasms live in them. The rest is silence: glitter and squalor of the illiterate. Illiterate yet armed. Horror, horror.

***

DIRECTRESS II (WITH AUTHOR)

This scene precedes the one where Directress tells Urban Girl to start, pointing out that “all stories are true”

DIRECTRESS fixes her hair; walks about like a cat around hot porridge; directs the funeral feast dynamically. The whole ensemble is gathered around the coffin.

Ja, das ist ausgezeichnet! Noch einmal, bitte. But this time more passionately, with more warmth. The prayer must touch people, first of all those who are praying. Children, remember, this is a funeral feast. And a funeral feast is a feast in honour of the deceased. Less a spiritual feast, more a food feast. But still, we have to do the spiritual first. Later on we’ll all drink and stuff ourselves with food. Everyone smiles delightedly and joyfully. One more thing. After each verse of the prayer you all look at the coffin and keep your eyes fixed on it for three seconds. The audience must think that the funeral feast is in honour of Robert even though we know it is also for Europe that is practically already comatose, even though it pretends to be alive. And, of course, the feast is also for America; the younger sister that is in intensive care, on substantial oil-therapy, already deceased although it still vivaciously leads wars and produces death. Let’s go now! Hey, Danijela, stand up straight! Forget your private situation. You’re not the only one to have her husband involved in a car-crash. Straighten up! You are Urban Girl, for Christ’s sake! You’re not Mother Theresa from Calcutta, are you? Come on, everyone! Even during prayer Naked Europe must be a mad, intoxicating spectacle of horror. Of horror filled with cheerful tragedy. On the screen a packed church during Sunday mass and noise of fighter planes. Milko, you join in, too. I hate it when somebody keeps looking over my shoulder spying on me. I am the directress. I am God of new order in this circus. I am something like the president of America and the neighbourhood global-policeman. Let’s pray, hearts up!

Everyone stands as if in church, praying with their hands folded, accompanied by a section of Mozart’sRequiem. Author and Directress, too.

Our Father, Who art in heaven,

Hallowed be Thy Name.

Thy Kingdom come.

Thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread.

And forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil.

Amen.

Hail Mary,

Full of Grace,

The Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou among women,

and blessed is the fruit

of thy womb, Jesus.

Holy Mary,

Mother of God,

pray for us sinners now,

and at the hour of death.

Amen.

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

Amen.

Everyone raises their voice. They say the following verses in an enraptured songlike shouting way in the direction of the coffin. On the screen images of apparitions and various pilgrimages.

Lord, Lord, do not abandon us

on the streets, in trams or in a supermarket!

Lord, Lord, do not abandon us

in Europe. Lord, pay our electricity, water, Internet and

telephone bills. Lord, make it so and your soul will be healed.

Lord, Lord, say hello to Jesus and tell him

to drop round these merry sinful parts again

where wars blossom, and heroin and religious tourism. Yes, Lord,

religious tourism, prompted by mental patients to whom

non-existent ladies appear and spurred on by priests who

wholeheartedly support those virtual women.

Lord, say hello to little Jesus

and tell him we have seen his mother in the cliffs of Middle-earth

communicating interactively with the poor intellectual class

and all people of good will.

Lord, Lord,

do not abandon us for too long with Robert and this black coffin.

Lord, Lord, bless Robert and grant him entrance

into the heavenly kingdom.

May his soul rest in peace, may he rest in peace

and eternal light shine upon him forever.

And may eternal light shine upon us, too.

May he rest in peace.

May we rest in peace.

Amen.

DIRECTRESS fixes her hair, pleased

Bravo, bravo! Sehr gut. Well, Milko, are you pleased with the prayer?

AUTHOR satisfied, proudly and slowly runs his fingers through his hair

Perfect! Superb! Bravo, Agata! Prayer invigorates Europe, retirement homes in general. A cruelly simple prayer should be introduced into every single event in the world as a healing ritual, as a mantra for the idiots with no goals. Crime is everywhere around us; most criminals are free. On the screen members of parliament during a discussion. A red-beaked swan was butchered in the Zagreb Zoo in Maksimir. Intellectual dishonesty is spreading at the speed of light through neon streetlights and school lights. On the political stage wretches employ wretched women with well-groomed pussies and empty gazes. Mediocrities play tennis with jerks and even laugh for no good reason. On the screen smiling people playing tennis. The IQ has dropped to an unbearable 23.4 %. Veal is too expensive, macrobiotic meat unknown. Beauty contests are disastrous. For example, every beauty contest – Miss Pešćenica, Miss Zagreb, Miss Croatia, Miss Europe, Miss World, and Miss Universe – every contest is full of oversights, depression and lack of humour, not to mention the betraying cellulite on inner thighs. Company takeovers, bank mergers and the privatisation of INA happen intensely like stagecoach robbery. On the screen the INA building and the stagecoach from the movie of the same title. The populace is in eternal overdraft. Credit cards and checking cards are drenched in salty tears and stinking sweat of survival. On the screen tears rolling down credit cards. Those truly in need of seawater bathe in rusty yellow bathtubs. People eat McDonald’s slop, drink Coca-Cola and snigger moronically. Fast food creates spawns slow death. Breast cancer reigns. Men are afraid to touch female breasts and feminists accuse them of cowardice. Vladimir and Estragon water the tree that bears stooping imitators of their father with green banknotes in their eyes. Vladimir and Estragon are optimists. They think people will understand their watering of one tree as a metaphor and start watering forests on a massive scale. Of course they won’t. People are stupid. They can’t see the forest from the trees, so they insist on a single tree. Psychiatric occupational therapists take their patients for walks and show them nature. On the screen people out for a stroll in Maksimir, the biggest park in Zagreb. People hardly believe that grass still exists outside of TV. It is a cabaret situation, processes of decomposition are comical, and psychiatrists are the hit of every season. Agata, continue directing this chaos. We must get a compact image of death. This isn’t the Silk Road, this is the road of cruel and cheerful diagnosis. Perhaps there’ll be a fucking enlightenment in theatre as well, not just in ecological associations. On the screen a flutteringGreenpeace banner. Agata, go to work.

DIRECTRESS imposingly, energetically and with superiority

You heard Author. Everyone in theirs places. I want utmost concentration. This is the dress rehearsal. Tomislav, be careful how you hold your crutch. Hold the rifle carelessly like an American marine with sea in his eyes. You are, after all, a Veteran of War. I hope you know the song by heart.

TOMISLAV femininely enters his role

Oh, Agata, of course I do. I am a professional, right? Only, I find it a bit hard to hold the crutch and the rifle at the same time. Anyway, I hate weapons and blood-shedding confrontations in general. I prefer unsparing love encounters. If you get what I mean!

DIRECTRESS directs briskly

Sehr gut, sweetie. But I don’t care what you do or don’t like outside of theatre. Now I want to see Veteran of War in action and Schluβ. She turns to Author. And, Milko, you already know, you walk around this cemetery of lost illusions, nod wisely, scratch your head and scribble something down every now and then.

AUTHOR

Don’t worry Agata. It’s been written since the book of Genesis. Everyone, including me, has a job description that they must not neglect if they want their pocket money. True, until Gutenberg came along I pissed blood. It’s a bit easier now.

DIRECTRESS

Danijela, you concentrate on the candles and jeans. Urban Girl mourns fairly fatalistically and without feelings, but with a lot of passion oozing from her body.

DANIJELA goes to her place, with a sad face, on the verge of crying

OK, give me a moment to forget his eyes at that hospital at the end of town and I’ll be ready. I told you what he said. He told me to kiss the girls if he dies. It’s not easy for me either since my husband’s been in a car crash. What will I do if I become a widow and a single mother? How will I become a star then? How will I…

DIRECTRESS

Calm down. Stop wailing. From now on you are Urban Girl, not an urban single mother. To your place! Right now! OK!? She turns to Kristina. OK, darling, let’s see you today. You know that dignified figure of a universal eternal pregnant woman. Big Mama is the mother of this world.

KRISTINA goes slowly to her place gently holding her belly

Don’t worry, Agata. I know my job. At home milk may boil over, apple strudel may burn, anything can happen. My household may be displeased with my roles of an aunt, lover, mother, wife, grandmother, cook; it may rain cats and dogs outside and governments may fall, but I am always prepared for this sacred calling to which I have sacrificed everything, including throwing snowballs, going skiing and going skating.

DIRECTRESS

I know, darling. I know I can rely on you. You’re the good ghost of this theatre. She turns lively to Majorettes. Girls, to work! Joyfully and boldly. After all, you do have something to flaunt. Feminists say you are unbribable, honest and full of personality. They say you are cunts of tomorrow.

BERNARDA gloomily

I know, you mean those they call Ambitious bitches and Loathsome girls. I don’t want to be a cunt of tomorrow. I’m interested in this Here and Now. All right, for this occasion I’ll try.

BLANKA nervously

Oh, come on, emphasising your chastity again. Come to my party on Wednesday so I can see you in action. Anyway, I like you, you know. Back from Academy. So what, why couldn’t we be cunts of tomorrow outside ofNaked Europe as well!? I like being a majorette.

ZVJEZDANA readily

Me, too. I will succeed as a model. This is good practice. I will succeed in life. I will trample over corpses, over fruit and vegetables. I will even trample over beggars if necessary. I am definitely a star of tomorrow. My genitals may be of no significance in such a context.

NIKOLINA

Oh, really. My dear, without your genitals you can forget any major success. Genitals are a part of great success. Don’t play dumb. Like you haven’t heard of the Hollywood couch where exhausted girls sleep on their way to stardom. I think feminists are cool. I dig the Ambitious bitches. And they are right in saying that majorettes are cunts of tomorrow. That’s really great. I feel that way even outside of this role. She shouts simply and joyfully. I am a cunt of tomorrow, I am a cunt of tomorrow, I am a cunt of tomorrow.

DIRECTRESS hurrying the majorettes

OK, we know that. Actually, we’re all cunts of tomorrow. But enough talk now, girls. We’re not at the market. Start towards that portal. Be quiet there until it’s your turn to come on stage. Let’s go everybody! She talks to the whole ensemble. The funeral feast continues. We’re all involved. At first everything is a bit sad, and when majorettes come we must be more cheerful, we must all go slightly mad. And finally, we end the show in an orgy of food, drinks and sexual coupling as a living volcano. Etna is our destiny. OK?! Let’s go! You’re all great. This is the best dress rehearsal in the last several centuries.

***

AUTHOR

This scene can be placed anywhere, perhaps at the beginning of the show

AUTHOR circles the stage with a steady gaze, the world in general, and aware of the great responsibility goes through his hair with his hand.

I am an author. My name is Valent. Milko Valent. I am a man who makes the plot of the world. I am a man who makes vivid actions in which nobody is innocent. I am actually a builder in the best sense of the word. It is a job like any other and there is no need to additionally mystify it. But nevertheless, in order to endure such a job you need a certain quantity of narcissism equal to the quantity of oil used up daily worldwide. For example, I watch this naked Europe and I quiver with disgust. Today when I was buying provisions in the supermarket – bread, milk, Valium, Apaurin, Xanax and cigarettes – in one intense moment I decided to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. I immediately told the cashier I hated her pretending that everything was all right, and how I would never support her opinion that this world of ours is the best of all possible worlds. Then I told her that, that… getting more excited… that occasional reciting of lyrical poetry in her free time cannot cover the misery of her obviously uncreative work; that sporadic Sunday outings into nature cannot hide the rot of her boring marriage… enraptured… that her frantic attendance of Sunday mass cannot conceal the fact that afterwards she has to prepare lunch; that her prayers to Saint Anthony of Padua won’t refresh the wilted half-orgasms she gets from her legal house-idiot; that her pleading with Virgin Mary won’t resurrect her first experience of the refreshing core of Coca Cola. Yes, yes…calmer… yes, yes, that’s how it is today ladies and gentlemen. I told her everything, and she indifferently continued turning over money, credit cards, cheques, papers… What I’m saying is she masterfully handled the world’s emptiness despite our supermarket skirmish. In distant and old blue antic times such a skirmish was impossible. When I was Sophocles, captured slaves worked silently in the basements of democracy cleaning dust from appropriate everyday Gods. Women didn't have the right to vote, and buying as a consumer fever had not yet taken over the populace. Ah, those were the times for playwrights! I wrote normal tragedies and everything was all right. Women normally gave birth to not normal European children and nobody protested. The presence of idiots on Earth was, so to speak, a large-scale phenomenon and none of the wise men were seriously bothered. Ah, but today when everyone has the right to vote… starts to shout waving his arms… mothers, urban girls, veterans of war, majorettes and other abortions of naked Europe, today I must write cheerful tragedies in which individualism is absolutely natural. I am an author and I work hard. Today my job is risky. Everything has gone bad. It used to be better. Authors used to live carefree counting successes and drinking black coffee with their wives in the warm kitchen atmosphere. When I was Shakespeare, I did not have to be careful to be politically correct. I could use sky, tomato, figs and curses without causing any offence. I could freely say, “Up yours!”, and continue writing fragile biographies of the current tragic lunatics or defeating diagnosis of spoilt spiritual invalids of royal courts, such as Hamlet, for example. And even later on, when Krleža for instance, I could allow myself some degree of relaxation over a French cognac. I wrote about the whims of middle class degenerates, small philistine tycoons, and sipped alcohol in small quantities. That’s how it used to be. Things have intensified to the point of unrecognisability. Today chaos has the colour of an endless sky sprinkled with confused little stars. As Milko Valent today I must pay attention to smallest details. Today when it is clear that Europe has gone to hell, I must write cheerful tragedies. My pupil, the rugged neighbour student Anica, told me on Friday I looked terrible. She said I looked like Prometheus that has been properly worked over by an eagle. And I am a contemporary Prometheus. Several decades ago I bought a liver at the butcher’s and went into a fight against global illiteracy. Gods punished me instantly for my futile mission, sentencing me to life-long writing of tragedies about western civilisation. I tapped at my computer, begged and cursed, wrote steamy passages about majorettes and cursed the fate of a European intellectual who is bloody bothered by everything, even by illiterate whores, even by the misuse of Ujević’s verse in the poem “Do not be afraid, you are not alone...” I even cursed ads with spelling mistakes that can be seen all over Europe, and especially in Croatia. I am an author and that says it all. I must endure the hideous nakedness of Europe that wants to unite based on a few yellow stars and shared little papers with numbers and letters on them, on which the mystique of numbers is completely fucked and the metaphysics of words is ruined. And as an author, as construction worker of stage, all I desire is a smidge of human warmth when I gently undress naked Europe. My message to mankind is crystal clear. Majestically spreads his arms and declaims. People, audiences of all countries, subjects of administration, believe in something, even in god if you like. Play dumb and sing with all your heart every possible hymn as a sound-background to physical love. Fuck in that lusty, old-fashioned, ecological way that I wrote so much about when I was still Kamov or the arrested big cleaning of Croatian and world literature. But let’s forget about ads. Let’s enjoy ourselves a little longer before the final pupils-pollution. People, night has fallen. Love is everywhere. It’s snowing. Thermoses filled with tea, toasted sandwiches and a small amount of cleverly dosed truth can cause an adrenalin rush. Thus spoke the author. Thus spoke Milko Valent. Thus spoke a man with a sense of life experience in a circus. That’s the experience you gather as messenger of love and faith in one’s self while simultaneously carrying a couple of true theatre planks using them to occasionally hit on the head anyone who dares look at the everyday stage filled with the primary colour of blood and ripe tomatoes. I am an author and I’m sorry to say that naked Europe is in a difficult and cheerful position.

***

FOURTH MAJORETTE

It is possible to introduce a Fourth Majorette, in which case this scene is inserted after Third Majorettewhen Big Mama does her role-call

BIG MAMA laughs licentiously, lustfully. Then turns to Fourth Majorette

And you my daughter tell me, have you had an ultrasound? How’s your health in general? How do you feel, my devilish little smidgen? You can tell your mother everything.

FOURTH MAJORETTE fidgety, in an obviously good mood

Huh, mama, I feel so good as always. Just like a devilish little smidgen. I never turn off my walkman, I listen to popular songs and go around town left and right, up and down, it’s unbelievable how excited I am. I feel like a fast fly. Medically, my body is in harmony, you could say super and high. Come on mother, I had an ultrasound and everything is OK. My tits are great and healthy. Look! She takes her breasts into her hands and squeezes them proudly. You and your paranoia that the bumps in my breasts must be sick! Here is the test result. Listen mother, to the voice of your daughter. And don't be shocked by the semi-literate language of European doctors. She takes out a paper from the upper part of her costume. She reads it boastfully. The screen shows a girl having a breast ultrasound. Then she reads unintelligibly.The skin looks healthy, no signs of sup.Pause Huh, if only I knew what sup stands for! Oh, never mind, what is important is that the test result is OK, right mother? Your devilish little smidgen is healthy and has the best ecological breasts in Europe. She takes her breasts into her hands again and squeezes them joyfully, proudly, a little devilishly, looking at Big Mama while doing so.

BIG MAMA melting with joy

Great, my devilish little smidgen. You are a real cutie-patotie. You could advertise healthy ecological breasts on mega-posters, couldn't you darling? I admit I made a mistake when I made you take that ultrasound so young. She takes out her purse. Here is some money and buy yourself some good transportable radio or some fine walkman so you can have better fun in town. Then she turns to Veteran of War. And, you, my son, my husband, my war veteran, my companion, tell me what you do when you are not at war or in the weapon factory or fishing?

***

FOURTH MAJORETTE

Put in after Third Majorette in the food and drink scene

FOURTH MAJORETTE nicely chews a chicken leg and shakes her unruly, short hair

Milko, Milko, why are you foaming at the mouth for no reason? Why on Earth do you pay attention to the minimal difference in adjectives? All is well that ends well. Besides, poetry lives everywhere and not only in the stars. What shines best in them is the fight for survival. But actually, we are talking about mobile phones. I always turn mine off before I enter some institution, association, political party. I communicate by telepathy, fast and skilfully. I exercise my brain and think positive. I eat chocolate with ice filling and listen to my walkman. The majority of work I do in one second gives them a good reason to call me a devilish little smidgen. But regardless of the crumbs I eat big slices of bread and enjoy every day like a pig. I am simple and at the same time a glamorous girl. The screen shows bread and crumbs and a bag that says Devilish little smidgen. It is possible to make a short cartoon about devilish little smidgens.

***

MAJORETTES - RAP VERSION OF A STRANGE CLASSICAL CHOIR

This scene follows the singing of the hymns, and before the singing of the American anthem

MAJORETTES together

We are majorettes, embodied self-inflammable sex marionettes.

We are politics and sex, and in the end only sex, sex and only sex.

Our names are concrete, a little sticky, a little secrete.

Zvjezdana. Nikolina. Bernarda. Blanka.

There are no sorrows among our rows. There are no declines among our lines.

Only one force keeps us going: we want to swallow all the juice, all that is flowing.

We are flesh, we are political sexual sweat, we are paradise on this Earthly set.

FIRST MAJORETTE

We respect our man, club president, music and even God himself. We are tired of imbeciles or frigid demagogues on a shelf. I am ex Ophelia filled with magnesium, steel and helium.

MAJORETTES together

We are majorettes, and they are flawless girls, which everyone knows.

We are bent politics on the road when the sun shows.

We strengthen the rhythm of dishonour, nepotism, corruption and quasi-democracy in the middle of naked Europe, Germany, Italy, Portugal, America and Croatie (French pronunciation).

Our vibrations are meat and a bough. We spin a man's brain, win at contests. We are pure sexual plough. The word goes around we are easy game. Show us anyone else who can say the same.

We are majorettes and we fuck shattering your ego to ground zero where hope, wishes, fancy and card castles built by scum are struck.

We are flesh, we are political sexual sweat, we are paradise on this Earthly set.

SECOND MAJORETTE

Be the best, fuck the rest. Lift your legs high, turn on their zest.

If you are cold around the heart, don’t build a rampart? I hate those that just whine, spread depression and fuck swine. I am ex Mirandoline, a marriageable girl without any flaws and polite fraulein.

MAJORETTES together

We are majorettes, happy neat flesh. We are a real shaky scenery, colourful birds, and full of strong edible seeds.

We are political entertainers, an ecstasy of grease that rules,

In our free time we are a sexual ballade

that rules with no fade. Our warm slimes ooze onto the asphalt like a good blues. She is from this world at large, she is a vagabond discharge.

We are flesh, we are political sexual sweat, and we are paradise on this Earthly set.

THIRD MAJORETTE

When you hear the drum, when the drum hits your plexus, you spin your stick and importantly stamp. The male population is already drooling and is damp.

It is a big discovery when you understand that you are an excellent inspiring hand. I am ex Cordelia, the daughter of a crazy father, pure psychedelia.

MAJORETTES together

We are majorettes and we have normal mothers and normal pets. We march proudly to the original music of orgasms. Everyone in town wonders: are they worried, do they like the appearance and work of Comrade Tito? We don’t like bulimia, anorexia or a mild dorks. We like pork have no shame with fart in the street. Masochists kiss our batons and drink destiny from a cup.

We are flesh, we are political sexual sweat, we are paradise on this Earthly set.

FOURTH MAJORETTE

How many times must I repeat I finished school, I am serious and however much uncool I will marry the first idiot that comes with a silver credit card. I am ex Antigone. I buried my sick brothers like mere prejudices that are shamelessly offered.

MAJORETTES together

We are majorettes. We despise weak peasants, urban administration clerks and all those that loudly spread around town that they took us only as a passing story. We eat white flakes, in white milk we look for being that is not shallow. We order pizzas by telephone and admire every open zip. We throw banal stories into the sewer. In wild dance formations we inspire communication.

We are flesh, we are sportive sexual sweat, and we are heaven on this earth.

***

THE SPACE OF BLISSFUL BANALITY, LIFE AS SUCH

This scene can stand at the beginning of the show, but also in the middle, depending on the director

About 10 minutes before the main rehearsal. A relaxed mood. The actors relax in the atmosphere of creative insanity that covered the ensemble before the nearing premiere of Naked Europe. The actors' privacy is imbued by the show even while resting. The actors normally have a busy life. They are icons of night life and daily disagreements. Their lives are full of various stresses, professionally and privately. They come to rehearsals in sunglasses. Some take their sunglasses off immediately, others don't. Some are happy, others unhappy, some semi-happy, others semi-unhappy. They drink black coffee, cappuccino or tea. Some smoke. Talk. They make sense at first, but later each person delves into his own thoughts, not loosing the Other from sight though they are loosely connected. Even in the „real“, „realistic“ world, life shows an excess that is hard to follow. Even in Big Naked Europe (the whole show) and in Small Naked Europe (the main rehearsal that is actually the largest part of the show) this excess of reality is difficult to control even with the dramaturgy of a strictly controlled chaos that is just at work. This „excess of life“, even in the „banal“, shows the beauty of our desire to explore it at any cost. From moment to moment, from show to show, even though we know it is impossible to explore this excess completely and understand it.

KRISTINA the great theatre star, in the show Big Mama, is sitting elegantly on a microwave oven and drinking cappuccino. She is addressing smokers in general, and especially the actress that plays Directress, in a slightly affected way

Agata, you really smoke a lot. Here, I stopped thirteen days ago and I feel fine. OK, I shiver a bit because of my abstinence crisis, but cough less and less. You cough a lot, you know, honey. But, no one is perfect.

AGATA adjusting his costume, shakes off the ashes into a small plate that serves as an ashtray

I know, I know, Kristina. But I am in a stressful situation. Definitely. Listen, it is all because of Naked Europe. The Theatre Managers are against me. They always give me the toughest things because they know I am the greatest actress north of Rio Grande and south of Pecos, not to mention this impossible situation Danube- Sava- Danube. You know that. I’m having a rough time. You know I am awfully sensitive, touchy and I have to play the fierce directress with dictator, Nazi, authority. Huh, huh… you know. Besides, we have been on stage for thirty years. I am glad you sopped smoking. When the opening night passes, so will I. Look, I will give up this shit on Monday. I want to feel pure health without smoke as well.

TOMISLAV in the show Veteran of War, privately homosexual, stands leaning on the fridge or walks, with an incredibly feminised affected demeanour, smokes with a flourish, holds the cigarette in a way typical for women from high society

Smoking, smoking… I like it so, huh. If only you knew how interesting it was. My darling told me last night… Hm, it's not important… But yes, he also said he felt, listen to this, that he feels my role in Naked Europedignified him. People, my dear boy is so crazy, charming and has no spots. Last night, in the most critical moment… Takes a breath, turns, shakes his hips. …he says I am a human being that pronounces words like „dick, asshole, cunt“ in the nicest way and begs me to keep repeating them because it turns him on. Oh yes, and he also says I am the best veteran of war that he possessed till now. Hear this, possessed! Isn't he dear?

BLANKA in the show Fourth Majorette, privately a lesbian with a man's/boy's face and moves, seemingly cold but insecure and therefore icy and neurotic, anxious, hypochondriac, seemingly indifferent, in plain words all fucked up; now drinking and smoking a cigarette in a cigarette-holder

Possessed, possessed. Tomislav, I don't understand you. How can you use such ambivalent vocabulary? Instead of possessed, isn't it nicer to say „that he speeded up to the climax penetrating into him with his trembling, stiff sexual organ“? Or... well you all know I like girls... Or, wouldn't it be better to say what I say when I squeeze my girl fiercely in tribady... „My love, my love, now! Now, now give me all your dampness, you little pig“!

NIKOLINA in the show Third Majorette, privately a little gloomy, rude, masculine; now drinking coffee and rebelliously holding her legs wide open with her right hand on her right thigh

Why are you so stiff, Tom? You too, Blanka. Fuck, just gays and lesbians around me. You little pig, you little pig, ha, ha... OK, I have nothing against you, we are old friends, but you must admit the European theatre is full of actors-homosexuals. Fuck, I can't believe it. I am straight and I don't give a fuck. I fuck normally and listen to old punk music, and not this shit, shit plus shit - bullshit, that is played by punks all around the world. Since I became part of Naked Europe I have been turned on one hundred percent, I swear.

TOMISLAV affectedly

Nikolina, you are so rude. My darling would criticize you immediately if he heard you were against homosexuals in the theatre. Is it possible you have something against homosexual communities in our field of work? As far as I know you're a rather advanced person. Besides, I am not stiff...

BLANKA bitingly and a little contemptuously

Yes Nikolina, why are you showing off? We know your history. At the Academy it was another story while you were in love with Goran. You were gentle and soft as cotton. Don’t give us this shit now, stiffness and punk.

ZVJEZDANA in the show Second Majorette, apart from that arrogant, stuck up, career seeker; holds her leg on the microwave, in her hand holds a plastic cup with water; tilts her head, runs her hand through her hair

She is right Nikolina. Sometimes you need to be tough. And this with homosexuals must be used. It is well known the theatre is overfilled with hm, mh, a little bit kinky people... I will even be a lesbian if it will help my career, let's say one heavy and gloomy night. And then I will lightly dump her, when I get the part... Yes, yes, you have to be tough, through thorns to the stars. The one who wants to reach the starry dust must walk all over bodies. Oh, yes...

BERNARDA in the show First Majorette, privately peaceful, in fear of God, innocent, altruistic, ‘’nun’’; sipping cappuccino, sitting innocently, politely holding her legs

It is unbelievable how banal you are. When I listen to you I remember my mother that I never saw in a rude situation. I want to be like that myself. My future husband will be from a fine house, and I will be the perfect wife. Full of understanding and full of compassion for the weaker.

KRISTINA dignified, lightly affectedly, holding a cup of cappuccino

No panic now. Remember Marilyn Monroe. She was so chic, she was so cool. Girls and boys, look at me, always dignified and beautiful. Tomorrow is a new day. You are all potential stars. That is what you will become. Just like me now. We only have to try hard. Get the grip. It is so nice to work on Naked Europe. We are a great crew. Maybe this is the beginning of a long, long, great friendship.

NIKOLINA

Anarchy rules in this valley of tears. The blue sky tells me there is no mercy when the Sisters of Mercy rule.

BERNARDA

There is mercy. My sister cures drug addicts and helps parents overcome the heroin addiction of their own children. God sees all. He is merciful. He was never on cocaine or in combat with ethics. He hangs out with the angels that support macrobiotic concept of the universe.

BLANKA manipulating the cigarette holder irresistibly

My little girl is a vegetarian. She stands plants well and is meaty in all the right places. I insist on it. In the right places.

ZVJEZDANA

I also insist on good looks. A bath in the morning, exercises and a shower. Head up. Fierce walk. Resolute sentences, if possible empty and penetrating. I see each human being as a rival, especially women and girls. This is why I carry icy dresses of contempt.

TOMISLAV

I also insist on good looks. Or maybe not, ha? Come on Zvjezdana, don't be so intolerably important. The sky allows differences? Huh… this uniform is a bit tight.  God, I love you all so much. Yes, yes and most of all, you all know, my dear little Oscar…

KRISTINA

I like it when the love of two people I like blossoms. You should never be hungry for love, but full of it. In the beginning of my career I said the fatal sentence ‘’So help me God, I will never be hungry again!“ Really, it functions. It works. All the rest is silence.

BERNARDA

And little macrobiotic angels.

KRISTINA

Leave the Angels alone. Naked Europe is waiting for us, full of down to earth mafia, criminals, whores and confused marvels. People love pork lard. I will give macrobiotics a thought after a general check up. I will think about it tomorrow.

ZVJEZDANA

I must call Cosmopolitan. I will be wearing those spring models. I will startle the whole Cosmo. Maybe that funny small Armani's associate notices me. I will give him a call after the premiere. Let him wait. I am the person that is coming down the mountain to treat the people with my rich appearance. Bow, you spineless people! Not you. I am talking about those drooling people from show business, those that have fat wives with varicose veins at home. I will get killed for Naked Europe if necessary. At least that is clear.

TOMISLAV

Me too, me too… Mah, you know… the thing about the blue sky really turns me on. I have to be concentrated on this Veteran of War miracle. Oh God, and after a difficult job at the theatre I will meet my little Oscar…

NIKOLINA

What the fuck is wrong with you? Cool it a bit. Oscar this, Oscar that. How can you be so in love?

BERNARDA

God will forgive, but will people? After the premiere I am going to mass. And then to the market. I must buy tangerines and bacon. The fridge may never suffer emptiness like people do.

***

VETERAN OF WAR

This monologue should be placed before the first Veteran of War's replica

VETERAN OF WAR

I am a veteran of war. I love my job. My job is killing people. Whether in defence or in an attack. It is much more difficult than slaughtering cattle, for instance, cause people keep yelling and complaining while death is approaching. Cattle only squeak like thoroughbred. That is why we can say I am an artist in my work, because I skilfully kill people and they suffer less. I love wars. Not the killing so much as everything else about them. You know, healthy meals in the open, fresh air, beautiful girls, brothels, and smoky sexual places, tents, plundered summer houses at the sea and so on. I am extremely successful in my line of work that is proven by the fact that I am still alive. My life motto is „Enjoy and sleep well!“ This is in accordance with the definition of a successful man as Bob Dylan sees it. He says a successful man is a person that gets up in the morning, lies down in the evening and in the meantime does what he really likes doing. I have been at war for thousands and thousands of years and it is a miracle I am still alive. I have been wounded 132 times. It was worst during the blockade of Stalingrad when I almost died of hunger. I ate snow mixed with low calorie grass. I ate chopped wood from cabinets and some glue. It’s pretty awful for a gourmet like me. It was also difficult in the Gaelic wars. Speaking of which, Julius Caesar has owed me 7300 sestertii for over two thousand years, which is, converted into American money a nice sum, now about 14.000 USD. My lawyer says the debt has expired. Never mind, I have made up for the debt in a way. After we beat the Egyptian army Caesar appointed Cleopatra’s cousin Stratocastra to me to enjoy while the army rested. Yes, yes I love my job a lot. I never have anything personal against my enemies. I am indifferent towards them. I see them only as a hindrance on my way to success, triumph and glory, just like the people that train some martial art. I am always amazed yet again when I see blood spilt, it is so strange. In the early days of war, while I was still rather inexperienced, I once ate an enemy’s heart burnt on the fire and was awfully astonished. It’s strange, strange. This man was still alive an hour ago, teased with girls, watched majorettes, ran around and looked forward to the weekend, and then, there he was, dead prepared as a meal for my whole antiterrorist unit. We barbecued him like an ox on a spit. It took much shorter than an ox. The spilling of blood looked so innocent. The line between life and death is so fragile. On the other side, it is better to eat young pheasant meat than the chewy meat of a veteran. Those were wars, and not these modern wars with tinned food and McDonald's products that have no identity, no real ego. Food with no egoism is tasteless.

***

ROBERT

First part of the letter to Elizabeta (Urban Girl)

Dear Elza,

first some serious words, because I am feeling strangely blue. It is not so surprising if you consider the fact that these fucking shells keep falling around us. As I have serious intentions towards your being, and I told this to your Big Mama over the telephone, I want you to know everything about me.  Elza, lets not kid ourselves, I am an urban young man. I am an average young man and I am not ashamed to take you to the altar of the historical catholic church in the Upper town in Zagreb. To take you in the grand style while the town church bells are ringing and losers are playing in garages around the metropolis. I am not ashamed to lay you down on the white sheet while the boys are grooving groove, and plunge into your plump body that trembles like a prepared sexual jelly. Yes, Elza, I am an urban young man. I am the child of asphalt, a human being that was created in the village-town, town-village opposition. I am a boy from the street that understands drugs, philosophy, fighting, music and football. For centuries I have been smoking grass holding a good book in my left hand while touching telephone dials with the right in order to hear nice female voices. I am an urban young man. They call me Robert. Among other things I am a born dead man, I am appreciated canon meat from the times when Pericles recruited boys from cafes and shops in Athens. I was drafted over a thousand times. This time for Sarajevo was the 1043rd time. It was worst in Munich during Hitler. I walked down the street with my girl in front of Rathaus and we just fell in love that morning, when here came a guy with a list which said Robert. What should I do, I just fell in love half an hour ago? I asked the guy what fucking destination it was, where Hitler was sending me? He said: Africa, Casablanca. There was nothing I could do but serve my country. I went to Casablanca and told the guy „Play it, Sam!“ and that was that. Then I went on killing other urban young men for several years in that town desert, men who were secret agents. Elza, I am an urban young man. I love my job. My job is to kill people and be killed. The possibilities to advance in my job are great. If I stay alive long enough I will advance to the title of a veteran of war, and if I die I get the honourable status of a dead man who died for his country and such things, you see? I am an urban young man from the asphalt, I am a confused, detached man that always had controversial feelings, happy and unhappy childhood. When there was no asphalt I loved the stone roads and stone sidewalks. Together with the other boys I watched girls and future grandmothers in the centre of Athens, Rome, Split, Paris and Zagreb. I grew up uncontrollably with the pastoral rock 'n' roll music, classical music, heavy metal and punk. It all grew crazier when I met you, Elsie, in the blue town of Zagreb. I became a romantic though as an urban boy, realist, I knew they would call me again into one of the patriot wars. One morning I went straight to the bank. I wanted to take out some money that I urgently needed for the green grass of home. Your first sentence was: „You have overdrafted“. I responded with my first banal but serious sentence: „I am no longer in overdraft, as I met you!'' You laughed. I laughed. And it has been like that for centuries. I remember Juliet from Verona. She sighed and sighed begging me to change my name and love her legally and with no danger. She kept saying these sentences: “Oh, be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet.” I was called Romeo at that time and I was foreseen for an honourable death in some war, and then what, I died under suspicious circumstances of denial of love in some urban conditions near a balcony. Then I resurrected and even though Shakespeare wrote I was definitely dead, I continued my thorny way of the urban young man. But to return to you, Elza. After meeting you in that well known bank, I gave you a call that very same evening. You invited me for pancakes with chocolate. Love flamed, sperm dropped. But I am an urban young man and for two and a half thousand years I cannot decide about my own love’s destiny. They invited me into another urban war. This time into Sarajevo. OK, I said, I am an urban young man who is mentally ready to die for any patriotic war. And all wars are patriotic. I was totally ready. I took 7 ham and cheese sandwiches, that my mother wrapped into aluminium foil, and a fat piece of your cherry strudel and appeared in Sarajevo. Other urban young men were already there, young men that cheer for other football teams. The fight could begin. The football field was big enough for all of us.

***

BIG MAMA (CONFLICT WITH AUTHOR)

Insert in the existing monologue in the beginning. Monologue is always a dialogue.

BIG MAMA majestically

I am Big Mama. I love my job. I love my job a lot. My job is to make the world full of busy crowds of various people. My job is to bear children of all kinds. With a wide gesture she shows towards the ensemble and audience. I make everything dead and alive, from idiots to genius, from ordinary children and philosophers to clones, hobbits, dwarfs and gnomes. My provocative attractive stretch marks can be seen from a helicopter, and I am proud of these fighting biological lines. In the early difficult times, in the days when there was no elemental gynaecology, I saw all the damn stars, so these few stars can’t impress me. She points to the European Union flag. It was most difficult with whores, saints, scholars and stubborn agriculturalists from Croatian Zagorje. It was the same with Amazon girls, Držić, Ramses II, Tituš Brezovački and Napoleon. These girls and boys all had to come out of my blessed stomach through a caesarean. Yes, it is not easy to give birth but it is honourable. Many of my children died at birth, but I had them again after two or three tries. The theory of reincarnation makes it very difficult to do my job, because I have to give birth overtime. I have to give birth to those that believe in this imbecile theory. Giving birth, giving birth, my God… Giving birth was never easy. Yes, I am Big Mama. To all of you... With a wide gesture she points both to the ensemble and the audience.... to all of you I gave birth, in great labour pains. On the screen images from the maternity ward. I nurtured you and raised you, put you on your feet. Every morning you ate croissants and drank white coffee for breakfast. Images of breakfast. And look at you now! So pathetic and bourgeois. And that’s the thanks I get for all my troubles, you scoundrels! Specifying theatrically, she points with her hand contemptuously to persons she enumerates. This one here, Milko, with the lovely name of milk, unfortunately became a writer with a title of author, huh. I told him this while I was making tomato salad one day.

AUTHOR

Stop showing off. Rather go and see a doctor and check your bile stone. You never stop criticising. Your PMS never ends, or you have been going through a middle age crisis for centuries, or you forgot to wash your face with cold water this morning and concentrate well. Mother dear, the fact that you gave birth to me means nothing in the light of the fact that I wrote you. Admit this humbly and continue your motherly monologue through centuries.

BIG MAMA

I’m telling you a story about Jack and Dory. If I had not given birth to you, you could not write me. If I had not taken you to school, you would still be in nursery school and write a-b-c-d and the other letters with no order. And most importantly, I gave birth to you, you idiot. If I had not given birth to you, you could not go to school or learn how to write, get it! Not to mention how I sharpened your beginners wooden pencils every morning. And this is the thanks I get.

AUTHOR

And if I hadn’t written you, you could not say what you just said. You would remain just a mere historical fact of sexual love among the sexes that takes place every day. Here, at this moment, in this second, on our planet seven thousand crazy slimy couples are copulating at the same time. If I had not written you…

BIG MAMA

Shut up, you ungrateful son from my dark velvet pussy! The culture of writing is young and uneducated, and the culture of giving birth has been going on for millions of years. And cut out giving me all these kinds of Sphinx riddles, chicken-egg, and egg-chicken. Just look at yourself. You are all grumbling. A wide gesture with her hand. Look at yourselves! Pathetic and bourgeois. You became my disgrace. Turns to Agata. This person for example with a strange occupation, Agata. Agata became a directress and even brags with it.

***

BIG MAMA

Dialogue with Author after his enumerating of different names of authors that begin with the letter “h” inBig Mama’s roll call

BIG MAMA interrupting him crossly

Enough, you idiot! You talk nineteen to the dozen. Must I calm you at your age with those bed time songs from the Middle Ages “chikiti-pakiti-pokiti-puk, chikiti-pakiti, pokiti-puk”? You really don’t know how to stop. No pocket money for you today. You can scrounge money for vanilla ice cream from that fat varicose-veined wife of yours. On the screen a big cone of vanilla ice cream and a fat woman. No wonder you became what you are. Pshaw! Writers and poets. It would’ve been better had you become an honest politician, which is impossible, but maybe attainable in nice dreams such as you boast about. It would be better if you became…

AUTOR interrupts her angrily

Shut up, for God’s sake! Shut up, mother, you got all puffed up! I can send you to the home for retarded parents or a base on the Moon with one stroke of the pen, so you continue giving birth to those funny astronauts together with their complete space equipment. I will repeat once again: even though you gave birth to me, I still wrote you.

BIG MAMA

But I still gave birth to you, aha… Besides, you would never learn how to write if I hadn’t held your hand with the pen until your third grade. And more importantly, I gave birth to you, aha…

AUTHOR

But I still wrote you, aha… Shut up you never ending fertile woman, because I will speak about family secrets out loud. I will talk about the Sierra Madre treasure. I will speak about the family silver secret.

BIG MAMA

Go ahead you idiot. I can add some about how you shamelessly peed and shit in your pants, and what shameless politics you lead in the first several years of your existence squeezing my breasts and greedily pumping enormous quantities of milk out of me. God, as if I was some overbearing milk factory. I do not speak of these things for pedagogical reasons.

AUTHOR

I also skip, for pedagogical reasons, your scratching, tickling and wooing during the daily breastfeeding and sucking of your big nipples. But there you are, you fertile creature, I will breach the law of silence and let that mafia of your uncles and godfathers finish me in the underground with a bullet in the back of my head. Yes, just so you know, for your information I never suffered from the infamous Oedipus complex for longer than ten minutes, therefore, exactly as much as is needed for a sharp course of raw brutal passions during which I made love to you, to slimy you in the soft bed. Aha, aha chikiti-pakiti-pokiti-puk.

BIG MAMA

And you think that I, when I was Iocasta, didn’t know you were my son. Ts, ts, ts… Of course I knew, you foolish boy, I only pretended not to so the joy would be bigger. Yes, my smart boy, and it was not ten minutes. You are under the influence of superficial and fast American films. I am much stronger than my contemporary variant shaped like Sharon Stone. Complex or not, but our famous even embraces lasted several days. Remember how long it took to make Antigone, the future rebellious girl. Six months, six full months, baby, chikiti-pakiti-pokiti-puk.

AUTHOR

Antigone, Antigone… He, he… The rebellious girl, the Lolita of my classical youth. Blond hair, light brown freckles on the face… When I only remember that historical walk of ours near the warriors cemetery. Yum, yum. Chikiti-pakiti-pokiti-puk.

BIG MAMA

Shut up you old satire. Chikiti-pakiti-pokiti-puk. You would make love to dead fat whores at the main railway station every day, when your ego and friendly monster rise. Shut up now, I have to talk to my other children.Turns to the First Majorette. And you, my daughter, are you OK? Do you go to school regularly, and are you content with the general state of the society?



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