Souls for rent

Destruction in society. Different layers. Heroes of the day – authority, money, plotting, blast and destruction. The intellectuals – on the edge of survival and in search for a living. People of art are hirelings for money and benefits. Their compromises. Young people who come from different layers of society but have a mutual vibration between them – love.

After time, after our time on Earth is over …we strike a balance. Why are our souls given for rent?! We have become material slaves, and we forgot about the Spiritual. Souls only want music, the Cosmic one.
Greed, betrayal, twist – this is what “Souls for rent” is all about. Its message is clear – to open our Souls… And start Hearing.


In the street. In the BUSINESSMAN’S office. Then in prison. Sometime later somewhere there, then somewhere else. In another dimension.

Vivaldi. Noises of people, voices, then suddenly a blast. Explosion. Shock. Blaze. Panic. Shouts. Turmoil. Horror. Then silence. The voice of CHARWOMAN is heard in the silence.

CHARWOMAN: My God! What was that? Somebody got it. The world’s gone crazy… People have gone crazy!…. That’s when you want too much. Don’t ask for more than you’ve been given. That’s written in the big books! Now what, one wants more, still more and more. Greed, aggression, you can’t bring them to an end. They find it only there, inside the fire. In destruction. In razing to the ground. And when do we build? Weren’t we born to give? To give life, to do good? To be human? Who got it? Someone innocent? God, save our children! And why this greed? Where do we go to with it? Even just bread tastes good, if it doesn’t stick in your throat. There’s no joy in life. None… Where have people’s smiles gone?! Where?! On the pillow, in sleep. If we manage to sleep, of course…. The insomnia, the constant full moon, if we snooze and don’t have nightmares while being half-awake, we might even smile… Survival! The daily bread. The morsel for the day. We were not born for a day. We’re not ephemeral… We count life for nothing. It’s easy to take away, but hard to give. We’ve gone crazy. All of us. We have forgotten what human kindness is. Frightened, it’s crouching in the Soul’s knot. Smashed, deprived of faith. We smother all that’s human in this knot. And wail. And kill each other. So there is light. To catch a glimpse of light… I hope there are no casualties. I hope no innocent people have come to grief. Blood money is washed with blood only. With blood… Not accidental, I hope.

MUSICIAN: Vivaldi is food for the soul, not for the pocket. We forget to feed our souls. They are hungry. They are souls for rent. We’ve forgotten them. Play, don’t think aloud. There are so many mad people, I’ll be taken for a madman, too. Not that I’m not one. A musician. Vivaldi. A message.

* * *

(Enter ARTIST.)

ARTIST: Talking to yourself?... Playing…

MUSICIAN: Vivaldi.

ARTIST: Yes, of course. Him. Hard day, eh?

MUSICIAN: Depends.

ARTIST: Damn it! I’m sick and tired of everything. I’m overflowing…

MUSICIAN: I’m listening.

ARTIST: There isn’t much to hear. Drudging and slaving… Once you rent your ass out, you know what follows…

MUSICIAN: I’d rather had souls in mind. As for your ass, if it’s worthwhile, you know…

ARTIST: It’s worth only if you know that what you’re doing is yours and yours only. Like you, for example. What is done is for sale. I sell, having in mind their purses. Do you think I feel good? But I’m under pressure. The one with the purse – he pays. Pays well. Money, money! I need it. I bend my back to him and dance to his pipes… Money – to flow. Money I need!…

MUSICIAN: How about your own soul?

ARTIST: What? My soul? I don’t ask it. Let it wait for the money to pile up. Only then…

MUSICIAN: It can’t wait. It won’t wait. It needs other things, it flies. The soul needs different food.

ARTIST: You what, now? Moralizing? Have a drink. Drink! The pressure is the same.

MUSICIAN: You’ve chosen one thing, I’ve chosen another…

ARTIST: I want. I want. What can I do when I want… A big sitting room, a big house, big tits, big canvases. That’s what I want! I’ve proved that what I want is worthwhile. I like everything to be big.

MUSICIAN: I want what’s big to be here, within myself… That’s why I play Vivaldi… Has anyone of the great ones overeaten?

ARTIST: Who’s overeaten?

MUSICIAN: Anyone of the great ones? Those who go on living on. Those who we listen to, read, who we try to paint like.

ARTIST: I don’t want to cut my ear for a dame, nor to be deaf and compose music… Maybe perhaps I don’t want to be that great either.

MUSICIAN: You can’t, even if you wanted to.

ARTIST: And how do you know? Eh? My paintings are hung in the offices of the high and mighty. Now! Today and tomorrow!

MUSICIAN: The high and mighty today and tomorrow may not remain the same the day after tomorrow. Who knows?… Time has its say.

ARTIST: The canvas remains big. That’s what I know. Big. My paintings feed me. Feed my children too. What more do I need? I need buyers. Rich buyers.

MUSICIAN: So you’ve got the knack of it. You’re doing fine. Sell yourself!

ARTIST: I don’t need you to tell me this, I know it. Yes, I sell myself. The higher the price, the better. I make provisions for the future, for the kids… You count your coins in the hat… Vivaldi doesn’t sell?!

MUSICIAN: You guessed right. I charge my batteries with Vivaldi. What do you charge yours with?

ARTIST: With this… Have a drink… Drink, so I drink too. You don’t want to? OK. But I will have a drink. That’s how I charge myself. I can’t sleep. I start in the morning – to crack, bend. To please. I want them to like me. Those who are paying… Do you sleep well?

MUSICIAN: Yes, I do. When I’ve got the time.

ARTIST: You’re lucky! Sleep runs away from me. More and more often… I fall asleep all at once. Abruptly. Even standing up. Just like that. I sleep like dead, if I can say so, and don’t know how long. I sleep like that then suddenly jump up, I’ve slept my fill. I grab the brush, stand in front of the big canvas and look at the clock. Two o’clock. Night. At two o’clock at night I’m on my feet wide awake, before… Before what?

* * *

Dialogue between the DAUGHTER and SON on the internet.

DAUGHTER: Are you there?

SON: How long shall I wait for you?

DAUGHTER: Here I am! My father promised. Once he promises, he does it. So, I’m leaving for Italy. My dream will come true.

SON: How about ours?

DAUGHTER: We dreamed when we were kids, now we’ve grown up.

SON: Yes. So has my dream. To be with you. I’ve wanted it ever since I was a kid, now even more. I don’t know if you remember… It was so long ago… You were always sparkling – in a new dress, in your father’s car. And me – plain and ungainly, not daring to come around you… You never noticed me, I never noticed myself either. I was – unnoticeable. I wonder how we discovered each other, and not just that- we found each other.

DAUGHTER: We found each other. Right you are. I liked your way of thinking, your being shy and quiet, and so rich.

SON: Me? Rich?

DAUGHTER: Yes! Very much so. Not literally. You are rich with your dreams. With yourself. And I don’t want to lose you. But I’ll go. I want to study in Italy. The bird perches on your shoulder only once…

SON: What about our dream? How many times would the bird perch for us, do you think? It’s you who decides. You’ve already decided, actually. OK, wish you luck!

DAUGHTER: Don’t go! Wait! Not yet… Please! let’s talk.

SON: I’ve heard enough. I understand. You are going away. I’m left behind. And like a damn last outsider, I have to reconsider what to do.

DAUGHTER: I can’t but go. I have the chance, it’s stupid to jeopardize it. I’ve been pestering my father for a year now…

SON: Go! The sooner, the better.

DAUGHTER: Don’t be rude!

SON: I’ll be what I like to be. Money again, money, money, money… It’s money only that will separate us. What binds us together then?

DAUGHTER: You and me.

SON: You are one thing, I’m another. You’re rolling in money, me – in penury. End of story!

(A long pause.)

DAUGHTER: I love you!

SON: I love you too.

DAUGHTER: Don’t let it happen.

SON: It’s already happened.

DAUGHTER: Our life, it’s just beginning.

SON: Sure, for each of us – separately. You chose yours. Mine is predetermined. I’m poor!

DAUGHTER: Don’t say that. You love me, don’t you?

SON: So what? You love me too, don’t you?

DAUGHTER: What should I sacrifice?

SON: You judge. Yourself. I’m happy with just a shack, with newly-mown grass, with internet – so I don’t lose touch with the world, be abreast with time, always in a hurry – or maybe we are lagging behind, or rushing more than necessary. I want bread, salt, pure thoughts, sweet dreams, and a lot of children. I’ll show them the sunrise, the sunset, I’ll teach them how to fish…

MUSICIAN: Give me the key! (He unlocks the clock and finds a stack of credit cards.) Eureka! Quite a fortune, these credit cards! A fat pack… We share and share alike.

MISTRESS: Since when are you so greedy?! You wanted a share, right? Just your share! Now what? If you were freezing in the street, I was pretending to be…

MUSICIAN: Not pretending… You are.

MISTRESS: Don’t try to judge me, you shit. It hasn’t been easy for me… I hated myself, and the more I did the more fiercely I fucked fat rich men. They would leaf through their diaries and tick me off.

MUSICIAN: You’ll make me cry! Stop all of this. You weren’t going to drive a jeep, you weren’t going to own a maisonette, weren’t going to…

MISTRESS: I should have left you in the street. That’s where you belong… To breathe my car’s fumes.

MUSICIAN: You saw something in me, yes?

MISTRESS: I’ve forbidden myself to go back to the beginning. I have neither memories, nor illusions. I am what I am today. I’m playing my game. I’m doing my puzzle. You know what happens to pawns, don’t you?

MUSICIAN: I won’t be pushed overboard. Didn’t you hear me? There isn’t just the violin in my case!

MISTRESS: Only I know the code… Give me the cards and pray that I’ll still remember you tomorrow. Give them!

MUSICIAN: What is the guarantee…

MISTRESS: Don’t make me laugh! What guarantee did I have on you?! None. Risk wins, risk loses… Give me the cards! They are not valid with you.

MUSICIAN: I want us to divide equally.

MISTRESS: You’re wasting my time. You’re getting on my nerves. I’m unsatisfied. And when I’m unsatisfied I’m terribly aggressive. Give them, sucker… As agreed you’ll get your percentage. Tomorrow.

MUSICIAN: You smell like sex! That’s how you drive men crazy! As you drove me crazy! And me into what you call it… this business. You are a bitch on heat, looking for… trouble. Some day you’ll find it…

MISTRESS: A good wish! Come on!… We won’t meet the dawn here… Off we go. The agreement remains the same.

MUSICIAN: Why don’t you make me happy? For a short while? Now? Just for a while?…

The MISTRESS slaps his face.

* * *

Slowly, in the distance, music is heard. Slowly, in the distance, is heard the opening of iron gates, the grating sound of unlocking an iron door. The action transfers to a prison. The BUSINESSMAN has a visitor.)

MISTRESS: You didn’t expect me, did you? Well, I came. To see you. Even here. In prison.

BUSINESSMAN: I’m expecting nobody.

MISTRESS: Of course… I learned about it too late. Really late. About you, about the verdict. I took the plane and here I am… In the prison, after such a long time… But it’s me.

BUSINESSMAN: I can see that. You’ve grown more beautiful. And even wealthier. You’ve been taken care of.

MISTRESS: I take care of myself alone. I run a profitable business – not here, of course. I take pleasure in new men in my life, who I choose myself. I can’t complain. Now, about you. I read the charges against you. You must have been in a shock. Or you acted according to your basic instincts…

BUSINESSMAN: I went berserk! I cracked up! Completely lost my head! You only build, create, and then somebody gives you what’s what and fixes you! It’s impossible…

MISTRESS: You saw it is possible.

BUSINESSMAN: Why did you come?

MISTRESS: To help. You won’t reject my help, will you?

BUSINESSMAN: What kind of help?

MISTRESS: I’ll pay.


MISTRESS: Yes, I will! That’s why I’m here. I’ll get you free on bail. I’ll pay.

* * *

Music. Fluttering of wings. Breathing. A shot. A sigh. A cuckoo chimes the hour. Many hours. A long time. A lot of music.

BUSINESSMAN: This rope is too tight, too tight. It was the end but it seemed like I still saw no beginning. Nobody likes suicides. I had heard that before. But I had no other chance. My chance was the knot. Then I felt quite heavy, I heard the rope tearing, I felt my breath leave me. I strarted looking like… how did my daughter put it? – pop! and no air left… I survived. My Soul is still in the knot. Poor Soul, I’m sorry for it. I’m sorry for my daughter. I blew up all hopes. Was she crying for me or for her plans of a rosy future that collapsed?… And I’m free. Just that… the rope is still… a little too tight…

ARTIST: Along with the flying bird, I too, started flying. Just like that, without thinking… Death by freezing is a good thing. Because of the cold, the alcohol in the blood and the flight I was dreaming about, I suddenly found myself… Suddenly! And it’s warm, yellow, there’s a flight – your own, next to you is the bird, the little one… and it’s so wide, boundless, no frames, no ladies, you fly alone, with the bird… By yourself. As always. Nobody’s seen me off…

PUPPETEER: It didn’t even hurt. It happened so quickly! Amazingly. I only felt surprised. Of the sting. No pain. Just something warm that smeared my expensive suit. Good shot. No slip. Then I felt lost, disoriented, and in the end, as I was rambling, I saw myself laid regally in something white, and everybody around me in black. I heard them talking softly, sobbing… They were talking about me. For the first time it wasn’t me talking or directing things, I was far, far away, and I felt good. I was above that other directed staging. My funeral, my own funeral. I didn’t care. Not then, really. This vanity or whatever you call it, why was it so peculiar to me? To the question what I’d been slaving to I wish to have no answer. The shot! I sobered down! And I flew off. To somewhere else. Where I felt… good.

MUSICIAN: Another scene. I’ll remember it. A real one. To me. To the chords. To music. A day in my life. I don’t know how I opened the case, I pulled the trigger like a chord… the bullet hit the mark. The Puppeteer fell. After the shot I… I was struck dumb. I lost my speech, I lost myself. I lost my Soul. Which was for rent for such a long time. My time. I couldn’t listen, I couldn’t play Vivaldi. I was dumb, I was deaf, I could only conduct. I looked mad. I was mad, indeed. Now, after such a long, long time, I conduct another kind of orchestra, I listen to another kind of music… That other one – the eternal one… The Cosmic one… Can you hear it? Listen to it with your Souls!