Old Bridge E-Book

Igor Memic

• Herausgeber: Nick Hern Books
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: NHB Modern Plays
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 106

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

'One day all you care about is music, fashion and boys. The next day there's no food. Piece by piece your world starts to change so you change with it.' Mostar, Yugoslavia, 1988. Mili, a boy from out of town, dives from the famous Old Bridge. Mina, a local girl, watches. As he falls, she begins falling for him. Mostar, Bosnia, 1992. In a town of growing divisions, Mina and Mili never doubt that their future lies together. But nor can they imagine the dangers that future will bring. Winner of the 2020 Papatango New Writing Prize, Igor Memic's play Old Bridge is an epic love story exploring the impact of a war that Europe forgot, and the love and loss of those who lived through it. It was first produced by Papatango at the Bush Theatre, London, in 2021, directed by Selma Dimitrijevic. Memic went on to win the Most Promising Playwright Award at the 2022 Offies (Off West End Awards), and was also named Most Promising Playwright (jointly with Zadie Smith) at the 2022 Critics' Circle Awards. Old Bridge won the Outstanding Achievement in Affiliate Theatre Award at the 2022 Olivier Awards.

Leseprobe

Igor Memic

OLD BRIDGE

NICK HERN BOOKS

London

www.nickhernbooks.co.uk

Contents

Original Production Details

Thanks

Dedication

Characters

Old Bridge

About the Author

Copyright and Performing Rights Information

Old Bridge was first produced by Papatango Theatre Company at the Bush Theatre, London, on 21 October. The cast was as follows:

EMINA

Susan Lawson-Reynolds

MILI

Dino Kelly

MINA

Saffron Coomber

LEILA

Rosie Gray

SASHA

Emilio Iannucci

Director

Selma Dimitrijevic

Movement Director

Georgina Lamb

Set Designer

Oli Townsend

Costume Designer

Natalie Pryce

Lighting Designer

Aideen Malone

Sound Designer

Max Pappenheim

Intimacy Director

Yarit Dor

Dramaturg

George Turvey

Producer

Chris Foxon

Associate Lighting Designer

Simisola Majekodunmi

Production Manager

Tabitha Piggott for eStage

Stage Manager

Lois Sime

Assistant Producer

Robyn Bennett

Programmer

Matthew Carnazza

With thanks to

George Turvey and Chris Foxon for your unwavering faith in this story. You made a dream come true.

Deirdre O’Halloran and everyone at the Bush. There is love and radiance in that building and it shines from each of you.

Saffron, Dino, Emilio, Rosie, and Susan. Thank you for your bravery, your generosity and your kindness. Two days in and you felt like family.

Adam, Adrian, Cat, Claudia, Edmir, Hannah, Kati and Tim. My guiding lights. I would be lost without you.

To Selma Dimitrijevic, Lois Sime, and every artist who helped make this dream a reality.

To Daisy, I simply wouldn’t have made it through this without you.

To Teo, you’re more than ‘like a brother to me.’ You are a brother to me.

To Joanna, for making lockdown unforgettable.

To Jadran, for counting the steps.

To Selma and Almir for your endless love and support.

To Leo, for helping me see the future.

And lastly…

This play is dedicated to my mum and to my grandmother. These were your stories. All I did was listen x

Characters

EMINA, fifty

MINA, from eighteen

MILI, from twenty

LEILA, from eighteen

SASHA, from twenty

Notes on Performance

Old Bridge is set across two interweaving and overlapping timelines: the past, and the present. Both are designed to flow seamlessly in and out of one another as one fluid narrative.

Notes on the Text

Dialogue written [in square brackets] is spoken by the characters but not heard by the audience.

A dash (–) at the end of a line is interrupted by the next.

Accents and Pronunciation

Mostar, our characters’ home town, has a short ‘o’. The first syllable rhymes with cost, not with coast.

Depictions of prayer in Arabic are written phonetically.

The rest will be guided through where necessary.

The characters’ accents should reflect the place where this play is being performed. Any words or phrases written in a London dialect can be changed to accommodate this.

This text went to press before the end of rehearsals and so may differ slightly from the play as performed.

PART ONE – Girls Just Want to Have Fun

1.1

Darkness.

From the minaret of a nearby mosque, the Adhan is heard. As the muezzin calls Muslims to prayer, his voice is joined by the ringing of church bells.

They sound in perfect harmony.

Enter EMINA (fifty), wearing a headscarf.

She opens the curtains. Daylight illuminates the modest living room and kitchenette of a small flat adorned in traditional Bosnian decor: one part Ottoman, one part Austro-Hungarian, and one part Mediterranean.

On the stove sits a copper džezva [jez-va] in which her coffee gently cooks. She approaches it and peers inside, stirring its contents patiently. When it’s ready, she turns off the heat and places it on a beautifully embossed copper tray. The care and ritual with which she prepares it suggests a lifetime’s tradition.

She sits at the table and pours herself a cup. The smell of fresh coffee and warm copper enriches the air. It overwhelms you.

EMINA. She looks as though she were built by Nature, not by men.

As though Nature herself laid her eyes upon the two halves of this town, carved apart by the very river she placed here millennia ago, and knew at once that these two lands should be united once again… so she grew a bridge. A bridge of stone and vine and iron, which sprouted from the cliffs like the roots of a great tree. Reaching out towards each other slowly, over centuries, until those hands were locked together in an everlasting grip.

Farmers, merchants, kings and emperors, master stonemasons from Rome, Dalmatia and Athens – people came from every corner of the land to cast their eyes on what they thought could never be possible: a bridge of stone across the river Neretva. Each stood dumbstruck by her grandeur, for to see her was to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that men could not have built such a thing, this… colossus of stone, stretching out into the sky; slender and elegant, yet as firm and everlasting as the mountains around her.

And even though she was the only bridge in town, the only bridge for a hundred miles, the name they gave her… was Old Bridge. Because they knew that she had been here precisely since forever, and would be here, still, until the end of time.

Old Bridge… Stari Most… Mostar was born that day. And with it a thousand poems, paintings, novels, countless love songs, first dates, first kisses. There’s not a story told here that doesn’t start with the words ‘by Old Bridge’ or ‘near Old Bridge’ or ‘you’ll never guess who I saw on Old Bridge today.’

And I guess this story isn’t any different.

It was the day before the jump. We knew some of the boys would be on the waterfront practising and that’s exactly where we were headed. Tourists cling to her railings as they try to cross, staring down at the gaps and imperfections of ancient hands as me and Leila just glide across in heels, making it look easy. Like running up the stairs of your own home; you don’t have to look.

Through the market, down the cobble steps, all the way to the river. We take a seat near the water’s edge; find that perfect spot where Old Bridge blocks the sun. That summertime buzz of a hundred clamouring voices fills the air until…

Silence. Everyone stops… Everyone looks up.

On her summit stands a silhouette in cruciform. Head up, chest out, arms wide: Lasta, we call it… the technique they’ve used for centuries. All eyes are fixed on him. Not a whisper as he waits… breathes in slowly…

He leans his body forward, flicks his toes, throws his arms out to the side and flies, tearing the clear blue sky in half.

Her eyes follow him as he falls: Five… Four… Three… Two… One…

Not a splash… The most perfect Lasta I had ever seen.

But no one claps. Not yet. It’s not the jump that kills you it’s the river. It looks tame on the surface but the undercurrent’s vicious: if it grabs you by the ankle and you weren’t raised on this river then your body’s getting washed up on the coast somewhere. We’ve seen it happen.

Silence… He should be up by now.

A group of tourists smile in ignorant anticipation but the locals just stay quiet. If the silence was uncomfortable before, it’s painful now. I’m holding my breath. This boy’s either dead or has lungs like a dolphin. And just as Leila grabs my arm and starts to squeeze… a head emerges. I breathe out.

The tourists start clapping but the locals just roll their eyes. The boy looks around expecting a fanfare but there isn’t one. Just Leila, cupping her hands around her mouth: ‘You swim like you were taught in a bathtub!’ Everyone looks over as we burst out laughing. He looks over too. Starts swimming right towards us and we’re screaming now, dying of laughter but the more we try to stop the more we can’t!

He gets to the riverbank… Every muscle in his body tenses as he pulls himself out of the water, and those smiles get wiped right off our faces.

She walk over to the stereo and presses play. ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’ by Cyndi Lauper blares out loud and fabulous as the apartment disappears, and we’re transported to:

1.2

Waterfront, 1988.

MINA and LEILA (both eighteen) are sat on the riverbank. MINA wears a bright white dress.

MILI (twenty) is stood in front of them. Swimming trunks. Wet.

The music stops abruptly.

MILI. Well? What do you think?

MINA. Excuse me?

MILI.…My jump. What do you think?

MINA. Oh… it was alright I guess. Wasn’t really paying attention.

MILI. What’s your name?

MINA.…Mina. This is my friend Leila.

MILI. Hey. That’s quite a voice you’ve got.

LEILA. Oh… that wasn’t… no, they were… those guys left.

Silence.

MILI (to MINA). I like your dress.

MINA. Thanks, it’s Italian.

LEILA. Yeah my mum made it for her.

MINA stares at her, unimpressed.

MINA.…So it was like in this copy of Vogue my auntie sent from England… and she made it like exactly the same so it’s still… you know it’s still… Italian.

Silence.

LEILA. Where are you from?

MILI. How do you know I’m not from here?

LEILA. Because you can’t swim.

Giggling.

MILI. … Dubrovnik.

MINA. Oh yeah? And what’s a Dalmatian boy doing in Mostar?

MILI. Enjoying the view. You watching the jump tomorrow?

MINA. Maybe… Haven’t decided yet.

MILI. Cool well, I’m third to jump, so…

LEILA. You’re jumping tomorrow?

MILI.…That a problem?

MINA. Depends. You gonna jump like that again?

Giggling.

MILI. I thought you weren’t paying attention…

MINA. I wasn’t.

MILI. My mistake.

LEILA. It’s gonna be windy tomorrow; you sure you know what you’re doing?

MILI. A little breeze never hurt anyone.

MINA. You haven’t been here long at all, have you?

MILI. Long enough.

MINA. I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.

MILI. I guess we will…

MINA. If we can make it.

MILI. Well… maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.

MINA. Maybe you will.

Silence.

Exit MILI.

The girls exhale as though they’ve been holding their breath.

LEILA. Oh. My. God!

MILI (off). Mina?

The girls retake their not-so-demure pose.

Enter MILI, towel in hand, drying his hair.

MINA. … Yes?

MILI. If I win tomorrow, will you marry me?

The girls burst out laughing.

Silence.

Well?

MINA.…If you survive tomorrow I’ll let you buy me a coffee.

MILI. Deal.

Exit MILI.

1.3

Apartment, present.

EMINA sits, drinking her coffee.

EMINA. The day of the jump.

If this were any other day I could tell you exactly who, from my street to the riverbank, would be sat where and doing what; you could set your watch by them. But not today. Today the streets are empty and that suits me just fine; I’m running late, and this is the one and only day in the entire year that my neighbour Mrs Hasanović won’t talk at me for twenty minutes and insist I stop for lunch.

I get to Leila’s block, heels in hand and out of breath. Find her sat round the back between two buckled railings in the fence, eyebrow raised, staring at her watch; she gave up telling me off a long time ago.

The whole of the waterfront had been cordoned off, and if you weren’t there queuing from the break of dawn then love nor money wouldn’t get you through… But you don’t grow up in a town like this without learning one or two little secrets.

She stubs her cigarette out. Ties her hair back as we climb through the fence. Feet sideways down the gorge, shoes in one hand, clutch bags in the other.

Stone Plateau, 1988.

SASHA (twenty) waits impatiently. A pack of beer bottles under his arm.

SASHA. Alright, dickheads. What took you so long?

Enter MINA and LEILA.

MINA. Sorry, Leila took about ten hours to get ready.

LEILA. ME?! Are you actually serious?

SASHA. Yeah okay, Mina, if that’s true then how come she still looks like shit?

LEILA.…I will push you and make it look like an accident.

SASHA. I’m joking. You look fine.

LEILA. Fine? I look fine? Are you serious? Oh my God thank you so much.

She takes a beer from under his arm and holds the neck out. SASHA opens it.

SASHA. Drink fast, you’re prickly when you’re sober.

LEILA. I’m gonna do it. I’m actually gonna kill him.

Beneath them a crowd of ten thousand spectators goes wild.

SASHA. Can’t hear, it’s too loud! Was that ‘thanks for sorting the beer, Sasha’?

MINA. Guys, they’re starting.

LEILA. I said they’ll never find your body!

SASHA. You’re welcome, any time!

MINA. Guys!

They take a seat on the plateau’s edge.

EMINA. On the beaches beneath us, all life is here: ten thousand smiling faces packed on to the waterfront.