Literature

The Lighthouse Keeper

SCENE 1

A small, dark room; a table in the middle, with a simple chair; a second chair next to a wall. The only light source in the room is a candle, placed in an old wine bottle. Also on the table: two stacks of paper, an inkpot, a writing quill.

An old man enters the room and sits down at the table; the lighthouse keeper. He takes the quill and gets a sheet of paper from one of the stacks, draws a few circles and lines with a shaking hand, puts it to the second stack. Then he takes another sheet of paper and starts writing.

KEEPER: [while writing:] "The – darkness was not a friend to him, not on this day."

He stops for a moment and looks up.

KEEPER: It is so -– quiet here, tonight. The sea can hardly be heard.

He continues writing.

KEEPER: "The waves were beating hard against the small ship, making it hard for him to stay on course. But there was more he might lose in this night than his course, possibly the ship, possibly his life."

He stops for another moment and listens, before he continues writing. Not a sound can be heard.

KEEPER: "The sea was raging."

He gently strokes the wine bottle with his quill for a while, as if thinking what he should write next. Finally he puts the quill down on the table, takes the paper he wrote on, and puts it on the second stack.

KEEPER: I must look after the light.

He stands up and slowly leaves the room. Only after several minutes he returns, takes a new sheet from the first stack, and continues writing.

KEEPER: "It was a night without stars. The waves were beating hard against the small ship. The sea was raging."

He puts the quill aside and places the paper onto the second stack. Then he takes a new sheet and starts folding a boat. Having finished the boat, he places it onto the table and looks at it for a while.

KEEPER: I – I must look after the light.

He stands up again and leaves the room for a few minutes. When he comes back and sits down at the table once more, he appears even more tired, more depressed than before.

KEEPER: It is so quiet out there. The sea is so calm. Like a mirror.

Somebody is knocking at the door. The lighthouse keeper however does not even look up, but draws an imaginary circle around the paper boat on the table.

KEEPER: The light, if it was not for the light, the stars would be visible from down here.

The knocking repeats. The lighthouse keeper pauses, and when a few moments later the door is opened, he freezes completely in his movement. A young man, some thirty, thirty-five years old, enters the room: Jason. He is carrying a box with some food and a bottle of wine.

JASON: Good evening; I am bringing your things. — Not in a mood for talking today, eh? Oh well; I do not know you any different. What could I say – it is quiet out there. Not a cloud in the sky. I tried to count the stars, while I sailed over – there are too many.

He puts the box down on the floor, next to the table, and walks around the table, behind the lighthouse keeper. Then he sees the paper boat and takes it. The lighthouse keeper still shows no reaction.

JASON: A boat; another boat. What for? Every night the same, whether there is a storm, whether the sea is calm. I sail over and you do not talk; not a word of gratitude, not even that. Only boats, boats, and stacks full of paper you have been writing on.

He holds the boat in his left hand and takes with his right the topmost sheet of paper from the second stack, reading it to himself, smiling; then reading it aloud.

JASON: "It was a night without stars. The waves were beating hard against the small ship. The sea was raging." — Every night the same, every night a small ship in a storm, without a chance. If you would once, only once explain to me, what is the meaning behind all this – what is the reason for this. So that I know why I am sailing over every single night.

He puts the paper back – to the wrong stack – and places the boat back to the table, but carelessly, so it topples over.

JASON: It has been three months now, and you have not even talked to me once. How much longer, do you think, can I take this? How much longer, do you think, until I give up just like all those before me? If I remember correctly, nobody could take it for longer than three months. To sail over every night, to a crazy old lighthouse keeper folding paper boats and writing bewildered stories. Whose only friend would be the wine. And not a word from you.

He takes the bottle of wine out of the box and steps closer to the lighthouse keeper from behind – close enough that they must touch – and holds the bottle up in front of him.

JASON: Is this your only pleasure? This, and the night, and the beacon, and the sea, and – paper boats? Why are you not talking? Why are you silent? You are talking to them, I know that; you are talking all the time when you are alone, only I do not seem to deserve it. Well, drink your wine, drink; I will not be disturbing you any longer.

He puts the bottle on the table, on the paper boat, and leaves the room without hesitation. Only after he has been gone for a while, the lighthouse keeper comes back to life; he puts the bottle back into the box, gets the paper boat and puts it back into shape, looks at it for some time and places it back on the table. Then he takes the sheet of paper from the wrong stack and puts it onto the other. For a while he keeps looking at the paper boat.

KEEPER: I must – look after the light.

He stands up and leaves the room. Curtain.


----- to Scene 2

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