
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8859964.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Threepenny_Opera_-_Simon_Stephens, Die_Dreigroschenoper_|_Threepenny
      Opera_-_Brecht/Weill, Second_Anglo-Afghan_War_RPF, The_Begger's_Opera_-
      John_Gay
  Relationship:
      Jackie_"Tiger"_Brown/Macheath_|_Mackie_Messer_|_Mack_the_Knife
  Character:
      Jackie_"Tiger"_Brown, Macheath_|_Mackie_Messer_|_Mack_the_Knife, John
      Watson, Malalai_of_Maiwand
  Additional Tags:
      Theatre
  Collections:
      Yuletide_2016
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-12-15 Words: 3506
****** The Bugger's Opera ******
by the_alchemist
Summary
     1950. A playwright is fascinated by a decidedly camp photograph of a
     theatrical group for British soldiers during the Siege of Kandahar,
     1880. He tracks down an old man who claims to be one of them. Who
     claims to be a lot of things.
     There's a story to tell. A story of the Victorian gay underworld
     extending to the farthest reaches of empire. A story of two deeply
     amoral men in finding the possibility of what ... tenderness? in a
     hellish situation.
     And there's a right way to tell it. (Plays! Plays within plays. Plays
     about plays. The vigorous and satisfying penetration of the fourth
     wall. Distancing. You might want to call it Brechtian, but it's also
     Gay to the core.)
     And there's a right time too. That's the problem.
Notes
     Content notes
     - The 'underage' is between one participant who isn't quite sure
     whether he's 15 or 16 and another a few years older.
     - I warned for graphic depictions of violence to be on the safe side,
     but they're occasional.
     - There is a lot of swearing, and a few racial, homophobic and sexist
     slurs.
     - Please forgive any inaccuracy in terms of canon. I only saw the
     production once, and am going from what I remember.
     Thanks
     To my beta readers R and S.
See the end of the work for more notes
It starts with an old group photograph. The Victorian handwriting difficult to
read: Theatrical Group – or maybe it's 'Troup' [sic], I can't tell – Kandahar.
His fingers are crabbed with arthritis, and I see their faces between his grimy
fingernails as he points them out, while his old, cracked voice intones names
you'll never see on any war memorial.
"We called him Dirty Gertie," he says, pointing to a crouching man in a big
fake beard. "He was a sapper in the 2nd Bombay Company. Buried alive then
crushed by one of his own tunnels."
He starts coughing, and I push the glass of water toward him, but he takes the
gin instead. His finger moves across the row of faces: some in costume, some in
uniform.
"Silly Milly, Tawdry Audrey. Hercules and Hylas. Dolly and Edna." The finger
lands on a gaunt face, coyly hidden behind a huge fan. "We called him the
Memsaab. Would have dressed like that all day every fucking day if they'd let
him." 'Like that' was in something resembling the costume of an Afghan Begum.
"And him on the end, that's Myrna the Turner. Boasted he could turn any man
queer. But a good man, kind. Taught me to read, and got me out of more than a
few scrapes. He fought at Maiwand and crawled back wounded: begged me to put
him out of his misery, but I was only a kid, didn't have the guts. So it was
Tiger who did it, then made me keep watch while he went through the pockets.
Tiger kept the gold watch, gave me the pocket knife."
"And you were ... what? Sixteen?"
"I told them I was sixteen," he says, "but I don't know I was even fifteen."
"I can't imagine how horrible it must have been."
"Yeah." The old man grins, showing a few blackish teeth and one gold one. "I
swore that next time I'd be the one to slit the throat and get the watch."
 
     "So it's a love story between two men?" said the Artistic Director.
     "Set during the Second Afghan War?
     It was over twenty years since I talked to Mack, but his story had
     stayed with me. "More of an ensemble piece," I said. And I talked
     about the Stonewall riots and The Boys in the Band, which was still
     playing in New York. "It's time," I said. "It's a new decade. The
     1970s are going to be our decade."
     "This isn't America," he said.
     "It's London," I said. "The London of Oscar Wilde, and Rochester, and
     Lord Byron. The London of James I – of Christopher Marlowe, for God's
     sake. Edward II was four hundred fucking years ago. Have we really
     gone so far backwards?"
     He sighed and stared down at the script. "You'll have to change the
     name," he said.
 
"The Beggar's Opera," Mack says. "That was my first. The other lads said not to
go – they're a nest of queers , they said. But I didn't care one way or the
other. Back in London I'd envied the girls for being able to earn a warm bed
and a few pennies lying on their backs: easier than begging, I thought, and
less risky than picking pockets. I joined the army because getting shot at in
the desert seemed preferable to spending another winter on the streets; I
joined the Theatrics because getting fucked was better than getting shot. They
said the Memsaab fixed it so 'his boys' stayed safe, you see."
"In the end there was as much acting as there was fucking. Some of them took it
real serious. Dolly had been on the stage before he joined up – only the music
hall, but he fancied himself a classical actor – Shakespeare and all that.
"He said I was a pretty thing, said I should play Ophelia when he 'played the
Dane' next year. And I said I'd have to learn to read first. (I'd got it into
my head that reading and writing and sums was how you got on in life.) So Myrna
said he'd teach me. And he did. And do you know what? He didn't even try
anything on. Which was disappointing, since Myrna was a lovely looking man –
perfect cheekbones, and classy.
"So in the end I started, you know, fluttering my eyelashes and all that. And
he laughed and said I was too young for him, and maybe in five years. So I said
I'd keep him to that and he said I should.
"Anyway. The Beggar's Opera. I was playing a whore, and I didn't have many
lines, but I did have lots of kissing, mostly with Dolly, who was playing a
highwayman called Macheath. And Edna was jealous, though he shouldn't have been
because Dolly loved him like it was fucking Romeo and Juliet.
"'What's Mackie short for anyway?' Dolly asked one day.
"'Macbeth,' I said. Edna had told me to say that, said it would be funny, and I
didn't know then he had it in for me.
"Dolly went pale and yelled and me and said I should know better, in a place
like this, with Afghan shells coming at us every day and told me to get out.
"And I had no fucking idea what he was on about, but I squared up for a fight,
because that's all I knew – that or run, and there weren't nowhere to run to.
"So Myrna stood up and got between us and said I didn't mean anything by it,
and besides it weren't really a theatre we were in, and anyway, didn't I need a
stage name, and did I look more like a Betty or a Mavis?
"So the others were laughing, and shouting out names; only Dolly and Edna
weren't, and Dolly had turned on Edna because he saw straight away who had put
me up to it.
"I went up to Dolly, swaying my hips like a girl, and said 'Mrs Macheath'
seemed like a good name to me. And Myrna shoved me away and said don't be an
idiot, but somehow it stuck. I never got a stage name, other than Mackie, and
when I got back to London, I was Macheath.
"The next day, Dolly was late for rehearsal, which wasn't like him, and the
Memsaab sent me to go and find out where he was.
"He was in the hospital. He'd been shot in the guts by an Afghan sniper the
night before, and there weren't nothing anyone could do. Edna didn't even see
me there, thank God; he was weeping like a baby, and Dolly was trying to sit up
and say something. I thought it might have been 'the show must go on', though
Edna said it was 'the rest is silence'. Anyway, whatever it was, he didn't say
anything more, because then a big clot of blood and stuff came out of his mouth
and he slumped back dead.
"The show did go on, though Edna never came back to the Theatrics, and the part
of Macheath was taken by Tiger, who was a better actor – and a better kisser –
than Dolly ever was. But I'm going to need more gin if you want to know any
more than that."
 
     "Because he thinks he's Bertolt fucking Brecht, that's why," said
     Johnnie.
     "Who?" said Jim.
     The theatre I eventually found wasn't even off West End. It was
     barely off off West End.
     "It's a good story," said George. "I just don't see why we need all
     of this fucking about with plays within plays within plays. It
     doesn't even make any sense, and it takes away from the emotion, you
     know?"
     "That's the whole point," I said. "And if anything, I think I'm Gay."
     That got me a room full of blank looks. I told myself they were the
     right actors for these roles, but dear God I missed Cambridge.
     "Let's take it from the top," I said.
     Johnnie sighed. "You are about to listen to an opera for buggers," he
     said.
 
"By the time we opened, Myrna was dead," Mack continues. He gestures to the
photograph. "A quarter of them died at Maiwand, and Tiger was there too. He
says they were winning until some girl turned up on the battlefield. She ripped
off her veil and started waving it and singing, and the ragheads rallied like
she was Joan of fucking Arc. Tiger shot that bitch in the head.
"We were under siege too. Some said we should give up, but the Memsaab said the
show must go on. It would be just the thing for morale, he said.
"Well, there wasn't much food around for the first night party, but by then
Tiger and me had a sort of understanding with the quartermasters, and Myrna's
gold watch somehow turned itself into ham and pickled eggs and a bottle of
brandy. It's what he would have wanted.
"While the others were busy, me and Tiger went to the costume store. I said I
needed help with my frock, but when we were there, I grabbed his wrist and
started kissing him. Not like I did on stage, but hungrily, to let him know
what I wanted. He fumbled with the laces on my bodice, and then gave up, pushed
me down onto the ottoman, and threw my skirts up over my head.
"He whistled and said I had the prettiest arse he'd ever seen on man or woman,
and I was to tell him what I wanted him to do with it.
"I said to fuck it, of course. I'd been desperate for someone to for weeks,
what with all the bawdy dressing room talk, and he was always my first choice.
"That's Tiger there." He points to a dark mustachioed face. "He wasn't even
blacked up – Tiger was a mulatto, and it was to his advantage out in the
desert. The rest of us were red and peeling from the sun, but he stayed a
lovely golden brown. And God, his body was perfect. I was too young to have put
on much muscle, and most of the rest were getting skinny because of the short
rations and being holed up in the city, but not Tiger. He did his physical
jerks every morning, and although the others laughed, by God it showed.
"And his lips! Every time I saw him, I thought about those lips round my cock.
I still do.
"Anyway. As I said. I told him to fuck me.  I was maybe sixteen by then, maybe
not quite that, but I was green as fucking grass. So when he reached over and
pulled a gobbet of lard out of Tawdry Audrey's make-up box I didn't know what
the he was about, but I didn't say anything because I wanted to pretend I'd
done it before.
"At first his fingers felt cold and kind of weird inside me, but then he found
the right place, and I made I don't know what noise, grunting like a pig.
"'Are you all right?' he said. 'Tell me if it hurts!'
"'Of course it fucking hurts,' I said, 'but by God I'll kill you if you stop
now.'
"And his fingers came out, and I thought 'this is like having a really good
shit, only better.'"
Mack pauses and looks up at me. "Is this turning you on?" he says. "Is that why
you're asking me about all the queer shit? Only you can wank if you want to, I
won't be offended, but I'll have to charge you more."
I feel myself blushing. "Er ... no thank you," I say. "It's for a play. I'm
researching a play based on the photograph, and some of my grandfather's
letters."
He shrugs. "Well, it's all the same to me. Let me know if you change your mind.
I might have to charge extra if you want me to go on with the sexy stuff
anyway."
"Sure," I say, and put another fiver on the table.
He grins and pockets it. "Well, then it was the main event, if you know what I
mean. He goes in really slow at first and I'm shouting 'harder, harder', and I
grab my own cock, which was a mistake, because I come too quickly, and although
it's like heaven at the time, afterwards, waiting for him to finish, it doesn't
feel so good any more. And I wouldn't have said anything, but then he notices,
and pulls out, and I finish him off with my hand.
"He was a real gent, was Tiger. There's not many like him."
 
     "In case you hadn't noticed," I said. "There was a little something
     called the Theatres Act 1968, which abolished all stage censorship.
     And that was ten years ago – ten years incidentally being how long
     I've taken to persuade someone to put on the blasted thing and get it
     as far as rehearsals."
     "In case you hadn't noticed," said the Artistic Director. "There is
     another little thing called the National Viewers' and Listeners'
     Association, and they're already making my life hell." He sighed.
     "I'm sorry, I really am. It's a good play – it would maybe turn out
     to be a great one – but we just can't put it on. Not here, and not
     now. I'll pay you for the rehearsals so far, of course, but we can't
     go on with it."
     "I'll change it," I said. "I'll change the title. I'll change the
     content. The queer stuff could be a subplot – I've got lots of ideas
     for a main plot."
     "Go on then." He looked at his watch.
     "All right," I said, thinking on my feet. "Did you know Doctor Watson
     – from Sherlock Holmes, I mean – was supposed to be in Kandahar at
     that time. We'll make it a mystery. 'Watson's first mystery' – not
     even Mary fucking Whitehouse could object to that. It's before he met
     Sherlock, of course, but he's already interested in crime and ... and
     ... OK, so there are these theatrical types and one of them dies in
     suspicious circumstances and he investigates."
 
Mack downs the rest of his gin, but he still doesn't seem particularly drunk.
"All right," he says. "So then there was a voice: 'Disgusting', it says, and I
look behind me, and it's Edna, with this horrible grin on his face. 'I know a
certain Brigadier who's going to be very interested to hear about this,' he
says.
"'Fuck you,' says Tiger. But we both know what'll happen if he does tell. The
Brigadier had his own little crusade against 'immorality' you see, and had been
gunning to catch the Theatrics in the act for months.
"So Edna just shrugs and walks off.
"We look at each other, and Tiger does up his trousers, and I go through my own
clothes, and get Myrna's flick-knife, and we follow.
"Anyway, it was a dark night, and no-one was around who wasn't on watch – the
short rations meant everyone was conserving their energy. We followed him
around the city walls. I suppose he heard us, but didn't care.
"We were catching up with Edna, but it took me by surprise when Tiger leapt,
pounced like his namesake, and wrestled him to the ground. Before I knew it,
Tiger had his knee in his stomach, and had smashed his head down onto the
stone, knocking him senseless.
"'Is he dead?' I breathed.
"'Of course not,' hissed Tiger. 'Where's that knife?'
"I grasped it, but Tiger shook his head. 'Not the throat – the wrists – make it
look like suicide. No. Let me do it.
"But I'd sworn to myself after Myrna never to be such a coward again. 'No,' I
said. 'It's me he hated. This is my job.'
"'Hurry up then. Nice deep cuts from the elbow down to the hand. Right in the
middle ..."
"Now, you might have heard that in later years I got a bit of a reputation for
my knife work, but that was my first time, and it weren't easy. There was more
resistance than I thought as the knife cut through muscle, the sinew, and the
pulsing arteries, and finally hit bone. I remember the ripping sound as I
dragged the knife along, and I remember thinking 'this is it, then', and it
wasn't a good feeling.
"'We should run,' I said, once I was done. I felt the knife in my hand, warm
and sticky with his blood, and I was still thinking 'this is it, then', but now
it was thrilling.
"'No. I've seen men survive worse than this . We need to watch him die.'
"I nodded, and watched with fascination as he bled out. Once, his eyes
fluttered open, and his lip curled as if to say something, but he couldn't
manage it. And then his breathing slowed and stopped, and then so did his
heart."
"Later, it made me blush with shame to think how easily we could have been
caught, though we did our best to hide the bloody footprints, and burned our
costumes. Tiger told the Memsaab this was an overreaction to a sexual mishap.
"The surgeon – Doctor Watson – examined the body and said looked like suicide,
and asked the Memsaab whether Edna had been out of sorts of late. The Memsaab
said he hadn't been the same since his 'friend' had died. Doctor Watson blushed
and hemmed and excused himself, and wrote 'suicide' on the death certificate.
 
     "Frankly?" said the Artistic Director. "It's shit. Utter tripe. It
     only comes to life when you've got minor characters buggering one
     another, and that's starting to feel very dated."
     "Buggery never goes out of fashion," I said. But as I said it, I
     realised it wasn't that simple.
     "Gay is good," he said. "Gay and gloomy is better. But it has to be
     about AIDS, or maybe Nazis. No-one cares about the Second Afghan War
     any more. No-one's even heard of it. I don't see why you're
     bothering. With your reputation, you can attract big money, but not
     unless you let go of 'Watson's First Mystery'. Dear God, even the
     title puts me to sleep."
     "Well, maybe I can go back to an older version," I said. "Get rid of
     the Watson stuff, concentrate on the minor characters."
     He shook his head. "No. Apart from anything else, where are the
     Afghans in it? Where are the women? If you're writing about Empire
     nowadays, it needs to be about Empire, and not just white men's
     experience of it. Not campy shenanigans. Not even homophobia and
     poverty and social class."
     Now, that drew me up short. It got me thinking, and it got me phoning
     my friend Aziza, who'd been a playwright back in Afghanistan before
     she had to leave.
 
"You know what my last memory of Afghanistan is?" says Mack. "After the siege
had been lifted, we were sent to Maiwand, me and Tiger – the last survivors
from that photo of yours – and there was this grave, with a red cloth draped
over it, and flowers, and stones with those weird squiggles they have instead
of writing over there.
"Our guide told us it was that girl – the one from Maiwand, the one Tiger
killed (if he was telling the truth). The locals saw her as a sort of martyr
and treated her grave like a shrine. He translated the song she sang on the
battlefield for us:
With a drop of my sweetheart's blood,
Shed in defence of the Motherland,
Will I put a beauty spot on my forehead,
Such as would put to shame the rose in the garden!
"And me and Tiger looked at each other and laughed, because that's not love, is
it? Fuck all motherlands, fuck all fatherlands. There's not much I've cared
about in my life – well, other than to go on living it, and in as much comfort
as possible – but what I had with him was as good as it got. Anyone cares more
about the British Empire than a good fuck with a good friend is a fool. And
that's all I have to say on the matter."
 
     Malalai of Maiwand is credited as being by three authors. Aziza -
     quite rightly - gets top billing, and there's me, and there's 'M'.
     People ask us who he is, and we just smile. Aziza says she wishes she
     could have met him. I suppose he must be long dead, though I can't
     help feeling he would have cheated death just like he cheated
     everyone else. And on the first night, there was an old man in the
     back row, and the reviewer from the Financial Times got her bag
     stolen and ... but I'm an old man too now, with an old man's foolish
     romanticism. Too old to pay any heed to reviews, or at least to admit
     that I do.
     "Pure genius."
     "Incoherent and obscene."
     "The weirdest fucking shit I've ever seen in my life."
     I suppose I'll have to find something else to write about now.
     And that is all I have to say on the matter.
End Notes
     Historical notes
     - The photograph is real, and you can find it here: https://
     www.wdl.org/en/item/11505/ The members of the 'Theatrics' are based
     on some of the people in the photograph in appearance only - no
     aspersions on their character intended.
     - Malalai of Maiwand is also real: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/
     Malalai_of_Maiwand
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