We squeeze in. I think fire trap. Then it sounds as if the back row of seats falls off the stands in the dark. I don't hear screams, so everyone lives, or everyone dies quickly and unnoticed.
The sounds of feet and breathing, of bodies running crashing into each other. A man who moves like a spider sticks his head in a bucket of water. A man in a suit rolls out a wheelbarrow of soil and shovels it on to the stage while the Greek alphabet is recited. Sound. The man in a suit beats a woman in handcuffs until another woman stands in for her and he beats her. We watch her skin turn red and we are quiet. A topless woman on a stand in a fringe skirt. Projections on the wall of cockpit film from American aerial attacks. A man in an Al Ghraib hood. A burqa from under which a man crawls, kneels in the earth, shakes, calls out the names of places of conflict. An open fire. A mirror: there we are.
Three encores and no smiles. After, people smoke.