The Dwarfs

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Authors: Harold Pinter
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light, elusive, descending; dissolved into laughter, high-circling, lower; dwindled to a stone murmur. Shoes scraped and stopped, whispering, above him. Trapped under the stairslope, he, frowning, whispers; they, girls, above the stairhead, urged softly on, laughing, murmuring. Edging, a clicked shoe, metaltipped, sounded down upon stone, clicking unseen on the downward stone, turned, halted. A sigh between voices, low, a juggled cackle. Back against the wallface, Pete heard quick warring whispers, rubbing murmurs wrapped in the stone. One voice now, slid down undeciphered, sliding into the crannied ear, trod on a filament in the grained wall, parcelled, down under echo; its own sound. One voice, leaning, shoes grating a step, stoneslapping, abovehim, in a husk and pace, heard, unheard; one ceasing, allowing, listening. Pete leaned on the murmured wall, turned his face to the lightglut, listened, allowed. Steps skidded down upon stone, rang the laughter, loud, open, wordless. A door banged.
Gone. Sweetness. Light. Things rank. Things gross. The kingdom.
    He climbed the stairs and entered the office.
    - Oh Mr Cox, there’s someone on the phone for you.
    - What, now?
    - Yes. Just rung.
    All ears open. Eyes.
    - Hullo?
    - Mr Cox?
    - Yes. Who’s that?
    - I’ve phoned up to say that my client is not satisfied with your work on the ceiling.
    - What?
    - Don’t forget you gave my client a guarantee. He’s willing to take sixty percent for the castoffs but he can’t stand drips. You fulfil your obligations and he’ll do the same with his. My client’s willing to give you -
    - Len, not now, I’m busy. When shall I see you?
    - You don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation, Mr Pox, I mean Cox. The plumbing’s out of order and the meter’s clogging up. The grand piano’s probably beyond repair. If you make a bargain it’s up to you to keep it. My client -
    - Righty-o then. If you’re near here, meet me after work.
    - This is unheard of.
    - Cheerio.
    - Don’t forget to bring the sauerkraut.

Ten
    - I’m here, Len said, wiping his feet on the hallmat. It’s not raining.
    He unhooked the hallmirror from the wall and carried it down the stairs.
    - Put it back, Mark said, following him into the room.
    - This is the best piece of furniture you’ve got in the house. Did you know that? It’s Spanish. No, Portuguese. You’re Portuguese, aren’t you?
    - Put it back.
    Len screwed his nose and stared.
    - I don’t understand you, he said.
    - Put it back.
    - Look in this mirror. Look at your face in this mirror. Look! It’s a farce. Your liver’s wrapped up in your kidneys. Where are your features? You haven’t got any features. You’ve got a nose here, an ear there. You’ve been deceiving yourself for years. What’s this supposed to be, a face? You look ready for Broadmoor. I don’t know why I associate with you.
    - Take that mirror back, Len.
    - I saw Pete today. I met him after work. You didn’t know that. This mirror? What have you got against it? What’s the matter with it? I think I’ll have to call in your male nurse.
    He walked up the stairs and hooked the mirror back on the wall. Mark sat down in an armchair and watched him return and pause in the doorway.
    - I wonder about you. I often wonder about you, Len murmured. But I must keep pedalling. I must. There’s a time limit.
    - Is there?
    - Yes.
    He smiled and looked about the room.
    - Who have you got hiding here? What? You’re not alone here.
    - You’re quite right.
    - Hmn. How are you getting on with your Esperanto? Don’t forget, anything over two ounces goes up a penny.
    - Thanks for the tip, Mark said.
    - Yes, but what tips can you give me? None. I’ll go. I’m rusty. I can’t do it. What do you care? You don’t know. But I’ll tell you. Do you know where I’ve just been?
    - No.
    - I’ve been to the Conway Hall. I’ve just heard the Grosse Fuge. I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s not musical. It’s physical. It’s

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