Attenberg Page #2

- Do you envy them?

- No.

Why not?

They're too small.

Want to touch them?

To try them out?

Bella, you little slut.

Touch them to be sure.

They don't arouse me.

Am I asexual?

Do men arouse you?

Yes.

You haven't touched one.

- I have.

- When?

- Recently.

- Who?

- Someone.

- You're lying.

I'm not.

You're a sea-urchin. You

don't let anyone touch you.

- I let someone touch me.

- Then why didn't you tell me?

- It's none of your business.

- I'm your friend.

You're a predator.

You're one of those women who can't

stand women.

We women are the wondrous mystery

of the animal kingdom.

You haven't seen the documentaries

of Sir David Attenborough.

You're insufferably pedestrian.

You can't stand women either.

...and ignorant.

- You can't stand them either.

- Yes. But I admire them.

I admire you and you're

insufferably pedestrian.

Don't mimic the way I speak.

Stop repeating what I say, please.

Who is he?

You don't know him.

You haven't got your claws

nto him yet.

Does Spyros know him?

It is Spyros.

You fell for it, didn't you?

You have the hots for my father.

It's as if we were designing ruins.

As if calculating their eventual

collapse...

with mathematical precision.

Bourgeois arrogance.

Especially for a country

that skipped...

the industrial age altogether.

From shepherds to bulldozers,

from bulldozers to mines, and

from mines, straight to...

...petit-bourgeois hysteria.

We built an industrial colony on top

of sheep pens...

and thought we were making

a revolution.

A small revolution.

I like it.

It's soothing, all this uniformity.

Because deep down you're an

optimistic bourgeois modernist.

Bourgeois.

Bonjour, bourgeois.

Bonjour, bourgeois.

Fright.

Flight.

Fight.

Bite.

Bright.

White.

Light.

Night. Sight.

Light.

Shite.

Sh*t.

Sit.

Seat.

Beat.

Bat.

Bet.

Bed.

Bled.

Dead.

Basically, you're eaten by the worms.

They start with the eyes.

They're the softest.

Then they go in through

the nostrils.

They get inside. They burrow.

After a while only

your skeleton is left.

Do we have to talk about this?

It upsets me.

I prefer not to go through it.

Anyway you always told me that

architects would burn in hell.

I'm trying to fend off your macabre

pronouncements with bad jokes.

I'm not ready.

I need your help to escape

the worms.

I hate those f***ing worms.

If we lived somewhere else we

wouldn't be having this discussion.

Here, we have to arrange it through

some kind of provider.

Provider of what?

Alternative funerals.

A funeral home for alternative

Christians who are scared of worms.

Exactly.

The worms devour you. All that

remains are bones.

Then you're dug up. Packed in a

tin box and placed on a shelf.

And then they bury someone else

in your allotted space.

Urban planning for the dead.

Do I have to send you away?

Abroad?

Yes.

And once...

once you're there... what happens next?

What do I do?

They'll send me back to you...

and you'll scatter my ashes in the sea.

Which sea?

This one here.

You've thought of everything.

I'm sorry if I'm shocking you.

What shocks me is that you plan

things without me,

and then announce them in the end.

It's not the end yet.

Right.

Do you like it?

You don't have to constantly

ask me.

Sorry.

Don't say sorry.

Sorry for saying sorry.

I don't exactly know what I'm doing...

but don't show me what to do.

It annoys me when people

show me what to do.

I'm not embarrassed.

You make me feel unembarrassed.

I feel good lying on top of you.

You smell great.

I can feel your cock but it doesn't

bother me.

I always thought that when the time

came, it would bother me.

Until recently I couldn't even say

the word "cock."

You're not hard.

No.

Why?

Interview over?

Yes.

Can you keep quiet for two minutes?

And then?

Kiss me.

Can we turn off the light?

No. I want to be able to see you.

I can't concentrate.

Close your eyes.

I want to look at you.

With the light off, you won't

be able to.

We'll leave the bathroom light on.

Now will you get hard?

Not likely. You're stressing me out.

Sorry.

How about you, got a hard.on?

I think so.

Want to help us out a little?

How?

Stop talking so much.

So...

I purse my lips slightly...

and stick out my tongue.

I beg you, stop describing what

you're doing.

I'll give you a blow job.

No, no, it's okay. Later.

It's moving slightly.

On its own? Or is it you doing it?

They met as five-year-olds...

when they returned to these cliffs

where they had hatched.

While their elders nested,

they joined with groups of others of

their own age, to dance.

As the dance parties proceeded,

the male and the female began to

dance with one another habitually.

After a few weeks of these

courtship games,

the young birds flew off,

back to sea.

During the year that followed, they

cruised the ocean separately,

looking for fish. But the following

year, they were both back.

And here we have a more

modern range.

Oak, walnut, cherry, pine

or mahogany...

Excellent finishes,

clean lines.

The fabric swatches are in

these catalogs.

This one here...

and this one.

All top quality.

It can't be synthetic. He's allergic.

The synthetic fabrics are in a

separate catalog.

And as far as which countries

I can send him to?

Well...

we work with Bulgaria, Monaco and

Germany.

Hamburg, to be exact.

I wouldn't recommend Bulgaria as

your first choice...

It's the cheapest option, if you

don't mind me saying.

They mainly serve people

from the Balkans.

We're Balkan too.

I mean from the former Eastern Bloc.

You know. Atheists.

I propose sending him to Hamburg,

where services are more advanced.

The deceased is sent ahead by air,

you follow on another flight

that day,

you are met by limousine,

and within three hours

of your arrival,

the cremation procedure takes place

in your presence.

We can also book a string quartet

for the ceremony.

Here is a selection of ecclesiastic

music to choose from.

He likes bebop.

I'm afraid pop-pop isn't

an available option...

Bebop.

Be that as it may,

the options are fixed.

And if I don't go with him?

The ashes are sent as

cargo to Athens airport.

We prefer Greek airlines, out of

respect for the deceased.

The urn is delivered

directly into your hands.

Do I pick out the urn here?

Of course.

We are the only undertakers who

offer such a wide range of urns.

I have a few samples here

that I can show you...

That's too fancy for my father.

One moment...

Right, my official consent form.

"I would like to become a member of

the non-profit Committee...

for the Right to Cremation in

Greece, and...

I'd like to receive free pamphlets

published by the Committee."

"Yes/no?"

Yes.

Good to keep abreast of

developments, where I'm going.

The undersigned...

I donate my body to our next

fish soup.

Spyrosoup.

Bouillabaisse.

I've never been to Hamburg.

Are you coming along?

If you want.

Whatever you decide.

I'd rather wait for you here.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes