A sketch by Jean-Pierre Martinez
They are sitting on a couch.
Him – Has the post arrived?
Her – Were you expecting a letter?
Him – Not really… But I always hope for a miracle when I open the letterbox. Something telling me I’ve won a competition I never entered. That some long-lost rich aunt I never knew existed has died without an heir. That the Nobel Prize committee has decided to award me one in advance for future work… Every day, opening the letterbox, I’m like a kid at Christmas.
Her – That’s true… We grow out of believing in Santa, but we never stop believing in the postman. And there are similarities, aren’t there… They both wear a uniform. They carry a sack. They deliver mystery packages. And we never actually see either of them…
Him – Well, the postman, you do see him at Christmas. When he comes asking for his tip… I hate Christmas. It smells more and more like pine and death every year… And there are more and more death notices in the mail… But why I wait for the postman like the second coming… who knows. Then again, maybe the father of the messiah was the postman. That whole immaculate conception thing… Come on, let’s not push it, even Santa wouldn’t fall for that one.
Her – If you want to get letters, you have to write some. Most people only get replies. If you never send any, don’t be surprised when you don’t get any. I don’t think I’ve ever received a letter from you…
Him (ironic) – Want us to start writing to each other from time to time?
She looks at him, unsure.
Him – What would we even say? I’d feel like I was writing to myself. In the end, aren’t we always writing to ourselves a little? There are people you can write endless letters to… and then when you see them, you’ve got nothing to say. No, writing is kind of… onanistic.
She pours herself a drink and lights a cigarette.
Him – You smoke now?
Her (surprised) – Yeah… it’s been twenty years. You never noticed?
Pause.
Him – Did you know each cigarette shortens your life by ten minutes? (She says nothing.) How many do you smoke a day, roughly?
Her (ironically) – According to my calculations, I should’ve died six months ago. I don’t get it…
Silence.
Him – Same with mobile phones, right? They’re not great for your health. Apparently, more than fifteen minutes a day and you’re guaranteed a tumour. Better not go over your limit… (Pause) By the way, do you know what your daughter asked me this morning while I was brushing my teeth?
Her – No?
Him – “Where do we go when we die?”
Her – And what did you tell her?
Him – What do you think?
Her – No idea.
Him – That’s exactly what I said.
Her – And?
Him – She said, “But Daddy, when we die, we go to the cemetery!”
Her – And then?
Him – Then she went back to her cornflakes. She seemed quite pleased to have taught me something. And slightly surprised I didn’t know that already, at my age… (Pause) Amazing, isn’t it?
Her – That she asked that?
Him – No, that kids can accept simple answers to simple questions.A philosophy teacher would’ve gone on about metaphysics, immanence, transcendence, the whole mess…Maybe even God, in the worst-case scenario. Kids are way more pragmatic. Actually, they’re natural-born atheists.
Her – They believe in Santa.
Him – Yeah… because their parents tell them he exists and he’ll bring them presents. They wouldn’t have made him up on their own. If someone told you a mysterious benefactor would send you a Christmas bonus every year, you wouldn’t be in a hurry to start questioning his existence either. (Pause) But God? He’s never brought us anything for Christmas. Yet some adults still believe. Do you?
Her – In Santa?
Silence.
Him – What’s also amazing is how unbothered she was by the idea of being buried. Us? It freaks us out. Why isn’t she scared? (Pause) I’ll have to ask her tonight what exactly she meant by “when you die, you go to the cemetery.” (Pause) What do you think she meant?
Her (puzzled) – What?
Him – I mean, what do you think she meant by that?
Her – Well… that.
Him – That what?
Her – That when you die, you go to the cemetery.
He stares at her, stunned.
Him – Wait… you believe that too?
Her – Why, don’t you?
Him – Yes… I mean…
He bursts out laughing.
Him – Come on, don’t tell me you think it’s that simple too!
Her – Well… in a way, yeah.
He gives her a mocking look.
Her – A minute ago you were saying how wonderful it was not to overthink things. To just accept simple answers to simple questions.
Him – Yeah, but… you’re not five years old!
Her – Fine, go ahead. I’ll ask you: where do we go when we die?
He’s caught off guard.
Him – Well… it’s not that simple, is it?
Her – Go on…
Him – I don’t know, it’s… it’s a question of the subject.
She stares at him, waiting for more.
Her – The subject of the question? Or the question of the subject?
He’s lost.
Him (thoughtful) – Where do we go when we die…? (He shrugs.) Nowhere.
Her – Oh, but we do…
Him – Yeah, if you like…
Her – Even if I don’t.
Him – “We go to the cemetery, we go to the cemetery”… That doesn’t mean anything! You can go to a cemetery while you’re still alive, take a walk, and then go grab lunch at a Chinese restaurant. What does “going to the cemetery” even mean? And what if you die and they never find the body? Then what “when you die, you go to the cemetery”? That doesn’t really hold up. See? It’s not that simple.
Her – So if your daughter asks you again, what will you say?
Him – I don’t know… (He thinks.) I’ll say: “When you die, you go to the cemetery… usually. If they find the body. When you’re alive, you can go to the cemetery too… But when you’re dead, it’s for good.”
Her (hiccups) – Hic…
Black.
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A sketch from the collection Him and Her
Link to the collection for free download (PDF)
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