Detta manus är en översättning till engelska av Bengt Ahlfors pjäs Hissvägraren. Översättning av Henning Koch år 2009.
He’s a lonely man, born on the 12th November 1929. He comes in with the
manuscript in his hand, leafs through it, looks at the audience for a few
moments, and then says:
The problem with monologues is that you have to imagine there’s someone you’re
playing to. Who’s not there. Someone who’s listening but not saying anything. Why
else would you be talking? Obviously I’m talking to you now, but you’re not in my
story. So who am I actually talking to?
1. THE DOG
I used to talk to a dog, Kafka. A smooth-haired terrier, not with a fine
pedigree but good-tempered and intelligent.
He was very good at listening, and understanding me. Shall we go for a
walk in the park? Of course, wagged the tail. Fancy a bit of liver pate?
Would I ever, wagged the whole dog.
Obviously when I told him about films I’d seen or books I’d read the
odd nuance might have escaped him, but it never got in the way of our
conversations. He always gave me his undivided attention regardless.
Sometimes I actually read out aloud to him. He was especially fond of
poems, as long as they weren’t too long; preferably they had to rhyme.
When you have a dog you meet other people who also have dogs, and
you can talk to them, in the park for instance. First you say something about
the dogs and then after that you can say anything you like. If you don’t have
a dog it’s harder to get a conversation off the ground with strangers,
misunderstandings can arise, it’s embarrassing.
When Kafka turned eleven he started going a bit deaf. But it was just
the same talking to him, he understood me just like he used to, even though
he couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t hear the cars either, one day he ran
right across Mechelingatan against a red light and… I’d let him off the leash
in the churchyard, I was walking along in my own world and I never
noticed until... I’ll never forgive myself. He died in my arms right there in
that street, and I promised him I’d never get another dog. That was 16 years
Since then I don’t really know who to tell about things that have
happened to me. Talking to a dead dog is impossible. A dead wife might be
all right for that, but I don’t have one. I never married, it just turned out that
way… And I’m not the type who can talk to houseplants, maybe that’s more
of a female habit, I don’t know. Anyway I don’t have any houseplants.
But I’m still talking even though I don’t know who I’m talking to.
Maybe I’m talking to Enok.
Rättigheter och kontaktuppgifter:
Rättigheterna handhas av dramatikern, som nås på bengt.ahlfors(at)comedia.inet.fi