Labyrinth Read online

  BETH STEEL

  Labyrinth

  For Rowan

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  First Performance

  Characters

  Epigraph

  Act One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Act Two

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Act Three

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Act Four

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Beth Steel from Faber

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  This is a play about debt and I have accrued many while researching and writing it. I would like to thank:

  Everyone at the Hampstead Theatre, profoundly, for staging my work so spectacularly and for the all the hard work and love that goes into that. Andrew Edwards, Richard Howell and Max Pappenheim for their mighty creative brains. All the very brilliant actors and John Ross for bringing the labyrinth to life. Tariq Ali, Sebastian Budgen, Adam Curtis for research suggestions. The Peggy Ramsay Foundation for a grant. Yaddo and the MacDowell Colony for solitude. Isabella and Luciano Biancardi for Nice. Pawel Wojtasik for New York. Caitlin McLeod, Adam Penford, DinahWood and Steve King for their encouragement. Sebastian Born for his committed championing. Jennie Miller for being the most wonderful agent. Lin and Ken Craig for their generosity. My mum, my dad, Amy and Will for their love and support.

  Greg Ripley-Duggan, producer and pillar, for his utter passion and faith; for getting us here.

  The marvellous Anna Ledwich for being nothing short of a revelation. This play would not be what it is without her gifts.

  Rowan, for enduring all the elation, doubt, and tears; for willing this play into being. I would not be the writer I am without you.

  Introduction

  When you first encounter something, it’s not often apparent that it will change your life.

  There are the small things: I was living on a Greek island when a tourist left a glossy magazine behind and inside was an article about the playwright Sarah Kane. I eventually lost the magazine but not the article. A year later I was living in London and waitressing. With my first week’s wages I bought Sarah Kane’s collected plays.

  And there are the big things: when Lehman Brothers collapsed and the world banking system looked set to follow, I was, for the first time in my life, gripped by a political event. The world outside my own head had never been as vivid, as interesting to me, until that point. (This was not merely an over-extended adolescence or temperament; there were just gaps in my thinking the size of canyons.) But this event fascinated me – it was vast, almost cosmic. All these moving pieces impacting and changing each other.

  I recently discovered that the word history comes from the Ancient Greek istoria and means ‘inquiry’. Such a word has roots so deep that, even after the word itself has been cut away, its meaning continues to grow, and I still feel its phantom branches. At some point I stopped reading about our present financial turmoil and inquired about Marx, Keynes and Freidman; about the New Deal, Gold Standard and Glass Steagall; about Pinochet, Thatcher and Reagan …

  History is a huge landscape to dig into and writing this play has been something of an excavation. I spent a long time wondering just what it is I’m digging out. My first instincts are always wrong when determining what a play might be. I spent six months researching the military Junta in Argentina and behavioural economics, believing I was writing a play about torture and finance.

  When I finally came upon the Latin American debt crisis, the parallels with today weren’t immediately apparent. It took time to digest the event and everything that preceded and followed. But when I said to Edward Hall, with some excitement and incoherence, that I was going to write about a debt crisis that had happened thirty years ago on the other side of the world, his reaction was: ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about – go for it.’ A wonderful leap of faith and exactly what I needed.

  Being inside the research was something I loved – although depending on the day, also abhorred. The daily mental activity of it; the piecing together of the puzzle. But the most confounding part of writing this play was not the research itself but how to bring it to life. How to imaginatively embody the facts, figures and thinking. The clues for which often came to me as images. An example of this was when, months into my titleless and still somewhat directionless play, I saw a lone desk in the middle of the stage, red corridors of light on the floor mapping out a labyrinth, the desk at its centre. Seated behind the desk was a man wearing formal trousers and nothing else – I knew he was a banker. The light began to dim, and as it did, the bare-chested banker mounted the desk and ate a globe. This image does not appear in the play; the visual fragments I think of as offerings, portals that take me closer to what I’m trying to say, as I ask myself: Why did I see that? What exactly does it mean? I wasn’t entirely sure at that stage, but I had my title.

  Writing a play is, for me, a sculptural thing; a summoning of shapes and textures through voices. Hearing them emerge is a really exciting thing. There were characters that walked out of my mind immediately, characters I caught glimpses of and doggedly ran after, characters who only made their entrance long after everyone else had showed up. This was true of Frank – and his appearance changed the fabric of the play.

  The warping fabric of this play was a surprise: euphoric and often debilitating. I have previously written out of sequence, at least in the beginning of a play. This was different. It came in order, but a mental block immediately followed the concluding of each of the acts; I had no idea how I was going to continue it. The play turned into an ice sheet, impenetrable; I was left staring at its surface. Eventually something would give way, a way through would appear. In such moments it felt like the play was ahead of me, as if it knew exactly where it was going, and I had to trust its direction. Of course this is less hocus-pocus than it sounds: it’s relentless conscious graft that opens the door. Nevertheless, there was a feeling the play was working me, not the other way around.

  As a writer who believes a play isn’t mine, this makes perfect sense. Once I’d finished Labyrinth, this feeling intensified. It was as if it had always been there, existing in the dark without me. I am sure this is in part due to the fact that I’m writing from lived events and drawing on the work of many writers, journalists and economists.

  In the first week of rehearsal it was an economist, Dr Ingrid Bleynat, who came into rehearsal along with Dr. Paul Segal to talk about the events of the play with myself, Anna Ledwich and the cast. Among the many interesting things she said was this: economists don’t learn history. They are taught mathematics and models, but not history.

  It was Herodotus, the Ancient Greek historian, who said history is one of the strangest things we humans do, all this asking and searching. To me, however, the opposite is true. In the Greek myth of Theseus and the Minotaur, Theseus made his way out of the labyrinth having been given a ball of thread by Ariadne, allowing him to retrace his path. How are we to find our way out of the labyrinth if we are not given a thread?

  Beth Steel

  August 2016

  Labyrinth was first performed at Hampstead Theatre,

  London, on 1 September 2016. The cast was as follows:

  John Sean Delaney

  Charlie Tom Weston Jones

  Rick Eric Kofi Abrefa

  Frank Philip Bird

  Howard Martin McDougall

  L.B. Holmes Alexia Traverse-Healy

  Philip Matt Whitchurch

  Grace Elena Saurel

  Other parts played by the ensemble:

  Joseph Balderrama, Ryan Ellsworth,

  Abubakar Salim, Christopher Sawalha

  Director Anna Ledwich

  Assistant Director Celine Lowenthal

  Designer Andrew D. Edwards

  Production Manager Alison Ritchie

  Lighting Designer Richard Howell

  Sound Designer Max Pappenheim

  Movement Director John Ross

  Dialect Coach Penny Dyer

  Costume Supervisor Sabrina Cuniberto

  Casting Directors Crowley Poole

  Characters

  John

  Howard

  Charlie

  Rick

  Philip

  Frank

  Grace

  L.B. Holmes

  Banker

  Brazilian Minister

  American Businessman

  Hostess

  Trent

  Bartender

  Security Guard 1

  Security Guard 2

  Mexican Minister

  Figure

  Penguin

  Argentinian Minister

  Character 1

  Character 2

  Treasury

  Banker 1

  Banker 2

  IMF/Fund

 
Beggar

  Pensioner

  Mexican Spectre

  The cast play multiple roles

  When we thought we were at the end,

  we came out again at the beginning.

  Plato

  LABYRINTH

  Act One

  ONE

  New York. The Bank. 1978.

  Howard Richman’s office.

  Howard, fifties, lets loose a red yo-yo or holds it in his hand like an apple.

  John Anderson, early twenties, is wearing a thick wool suit on a hot summer’s day.

  Howard You know what business we’re in?

  John Yes, sir. Banking.

  Howard Optimism. That’s the business we’re in. Take a seat.

  John Thank you, sir.

  Howard Unbutton your jacket.

  John Thank you, sir.

  Howard And tell me why I should hire you.

  Little pause.

  John Well …

  Howard I got guys here from Harvard. Princeton. Bright guys. Degrees, Masters, you name it, they got it. Where’d you go to college, John?

  John (clears throat) It wasn’t Harvard, sir.

  Howard Just as I thought.

  John Mr Richman, I –

  Howard Walter Richman, my great-grandfather, was loading the Union cannon at the age of thirteen. Three years later, the Civil War over, he strikes out on his own in Dakota. Now people believe that the pioneers headed into the Plains, lived tough, bred hard and founded themselves ranch dynasties. The reality: those Plains were like a Bermuda Triangle, many people just disappeared. But not my great-grandfather. With the help of three wives – the first wife died in childbirth, I’m not sure what happened to the other one – he had a dirty brood of kids and raised himself a herd of cattle. Walter Richman died in his saddle.

  Henry Richman, my grandfather, watched the last of that cattle give in to a terrible winter before buying a one-way ticket west saying, ‘Well, it can’t get no worse than this.’ Working down a Utah coal mine convinces him otherwise. Several explosions later and homesick for a saddle, he signs up for the Spanish–American War, saying, ‘Well, it can’t be no worse than this.’ He takes a bullet in the neck, survives, and gets into the life insurance business, where he prospered saying, ‘Well, it can’t get better.’ And it didn’t: Henry Richman died faking his own death.

  George Richman, my father, is sixteen – having lied to the recruiting officer – when he steps into the bloody trenches of Europe’s Western Front. Not one, but two prisoner-of-war camps later, he’s bringing the Sunbeam iron into the hearts and homes of America. A managerial position at General Electric follows before getting into real estate and local politics. George Richman died on a golf course.

  John Those are very inspiring stories, sir.

  Howard Inspiration got nothing to do with it and nor did Harvard. What do you know about Latin America?

  John Latin America?

  Howard You speak Spanish?

  John Un poco.

  Howard stares expressionless.

  No, sir, I don’t. But I’ve always loved Spanish.

  Howard The Latin American division may have an opening for a loan officer …

  John I can be fluent inside of six months.

  Howard idly flicks through a report.

  It’s true I didn’t go to Harvard, sir. Instead, I put myself through grad school at night working two jobs. Nobody wants this opportunity more than me. Nobody works harder than me, nobody can work harder than me: I don’t need sleep. I don’t do lunchbreaks. I am an animal. I am insane.

  Finally Howard looks up.

  Howard Cookie?

  John takes what he’s offered.

  Well, look at that. They’ve had the sense to use cinnamon. My wife’s cookies always have cinnamon.

  John My father said he married my mother for her cookies.

  Howard I married Margie for the sex. (Looks at the file.) You’ve been a credit analyst for …?

  John A year.

  Howard Ten months. (Closes the file.) The job track can be blisteringly fast. I’m going to put you under Charlie Hewitt’s wing, my star loan officer for Latin America.

  John I … I’d be honoured, sir.

  Howard See that smoke over there? In the old days you put a bank where there was smoke. Like old Rockefeller said, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s money.’ That’s how it was for most of this century. Now, and in less than a decade, we’re chasing smoke in seventy countries on every continent of this planet.

  John The expansion’s been truly incredible.

  Howard We didn’t go overseas, son, because we wanted to. We went because we had to. Twenty per cent of American goods and services are now sold overseas. One out of every five American jobs is created by those foreign sales. The corporations, our clients, want us – damn well expect us – to finance their international trade … be it on the edges of the civilised world. Course, every country was once a developing country. To the English bankers of the nineteenth century, America was a country mired in default. Somewhere down the line we’ve all relied on foreign money …

  I suggest you start familiarising yourself with the continent.

  John Yes, sir, I’ll start looking at the WB, IDA, IM …

  Howard has resumed working.

  Thank you, sir.

  John makes to leave.

  Howard John … one more thing. In my experience, a man fond of acronyms is a man set on reducing the world in order to try and make sense out of it. Better to know from now that it’s too big, messy and complicated for that.

  TWO

  The Bank.

  A series of clocks showing local time in Tehran, London, Geneva, New York …

  Bankers on the phone – dialling, redialling, switching languages, and this is constant. In the foreground and on the move:

  Charlie Your job, what do you say your name was?

  John John Anderson.

  Charlie John Anderson is to be my underling because knowing a liability from an asset doesn’t make you a loan officer.

  John But Mr Richman –

  Charlie Put you with me to determine your future and right now, just looking at you, I doubt you have one. (Stops.) Where did you get that suit?

  John I, um … I don’t know.

  Charlie Neither do I. That’s your first mistake. One look and I should be able to price you by the yard, unspool you all the way back to the bolt at Brooks Brothers. Before you can think like a loan officer you’ve got to look like one. And you’re going to have to adjust to the pace. Which division were you in before?

  John Asia Pacific.

  Charlie Total static lending zone. Latin America, hyperkinetic. These last ten days I’ve been to Brazil, Peru, Paraguay. Over there I’m calling on six or seven clients a day, every day, selling them loans. So if you think the life of a loan officer is lounging on a beach in Rio de Janeiro with a fantastic piece of ass, think again, you’re on a redeye over the Andes looking for more loan opportunities in one of the fastest growing areas of the world …

  You’ve been? Latin America.

  John No.

  Charlie The ass is fantastic but they’re all fucking crazy.

  Rick and Philip, sitting side by side, cradling phones between ear and shoulder.

  Rick The last one stabbed him with a fork.

  Charlie I was leaving, she was upset.

  Philip The one before that burnt his passport.

  Charlie Sometimes I miss the Philippines. You get none of that in the Philippines.

  Rick In the Philippines you walk out of the airport and there’s a girl free with the car.

  Philip Always a Jaguar in the Philippines. Bangkok …

  Rick Silver Lincoln.

  Philip Hong Kong.

  Rick Rolls-Royce.

  Philip Saudi Arabia.

  Rick Stretch Mercedes.

  Philip Indonesia.

  Rick Porsche.

  Charlie Between the three of us our portfolios surpass the reach of the Ottoman Empire. That’s Robert Fisher’s office, Vice President of our division. I know what you’re thinking but actually he’s thirty-two and frankly, if you haven’t made Vice President by thirty-two you’re a loser. How old are you, Rick?