It was quite late, as I’ve said, about midnight, that I heard Nelson’s wife’s voice, loud and shrill, saying: ‘OK, OK, I know what’s coming next. You’re not going to write that script. So why waste your time on Nelson, Bill?’ (Bill was the big aggressive husband of the tiny tactful mothering blonde.) She went on, to Bill, who looked determinedly good-humoured: ‘He’s going to talk and talk again for months, but he’ll turn you down at the end of it, and waste his time on another masterpiece that never gets itself on the stage …’ Then she laughed, a laugh full of apology, but wild and hysterical. Then Nelson, grabbing the stage, so to speak, before Bill could shield him, which he was ready to do: ‘That’s right, that’s my wife, her husband wastes time writing masterpieces — well, did I have a play on Broadway, or didn’t I?’ He shrieked this last at her, shrieking like a woman, his face black with hate of her, and a naked, panicking fear. And they all began laughing, the roomful of people began to laugh and joke, to cover the dangerous moment, and Bill said: ‘How do y’know I won’t turn Nelson down, it might come to that, it might be my turn to write the masterpiece, I can feel it coming on.’ (With a look at his pretty blonde wife which said: Don’t worry, honey, you know I’m just covering up, don’t you?) But it was no good their covering up, the group-self-protection was not strong enough for the moment of violence. Nelson and his wife were alone, forgetting all of us, standing at the other side of the room, locked in hatred for each other, and a desperate yearning plea to each other; they were not conscious of us any longer; yet in spite of everything, they were using the deadly, hysterical, self-punishing humour. The wisecrack:

NELSON: Yeah. Hear that, baby? Bill’s going to write the Death of a Salesman for our time, he’s going to beat me to it, and whose fault will that be — my ever-loving wife’s fault, who else?

SHE (shrill and laughing, her eyes frantic with anxiety, moving in her face uncontrolled, like small black molluscs, writhing under a knife): Oh, it’s my fault, of course, who else’s could it be? That’s what I’m for, isn’t it?

NELSON: Yes, of course that’s what you are for. You cover up for me, I know it. And I love you for it. But did I or did I not have that play on Broadway? And all those fine notices? Or did I just imagine it?

SHE: Twelve years ago. Oh, you were a fine American citizen then, no blacklists in sight. And what have you been doing since?

HE: OK, so they’ve beaten me. Do you imagine I don’t know it? Do you have to rub it in? I tell you, they don’t need firing squads and prison to beat people. It’s much easier than that … well, about me. Yeah, about me…