Three Plays Page 2

  MAMAE: (Covering her ears) No! No, I don’t!

  (They laugh. MAMAE mellows.)

  Will you be as loving and affectionate as this after we’re married, I wonder? You know what Carmencita said to me on our way back from the walk: ‘You’ve really come up trumps with Joaquín, you know. He’s good-looking, well-mannered, in fact quite the little gentleman in every way.’

  JOAQUIN: Is that what you think too? You mean you don’t mind that I’m a Chilean any more? And you’ve got used to the idea of being one yourself?

  MAMAE: No, I have not. I’m a Peruvian, and that’s the way I’m going to stay. I’ll never forgive those loathsome bullies who won the war. Not till the day I die.

  JOAQUIN: It’s going to be very funny, you know. I mean, when you’re my wife, and I’m posted to the garrison in Santiago or Antofagasta, are you going to spend all day arguing with my fellow officers about the War of the Pacific? Because if you say things like that about the Chileans, you’ll get me court-martialled for high treason.

  MAMAE: I’d never jeopardize your career, Joaquín. Whatever I think of the Chileans, I’ll keep it strictly to myself. I’ll smile and make eyes at your fellow officers.

  JOAQUIN: That’s enough of that! There’ll be no smiling or making eyes at anybody. Don’t you know I’m as jealous as a Turk? Well, with you, I’m going to be even worse.

  MAMAE: You must go now. If my aunt and uncle found you here, they’d be so upset.

  JOAQUIN: Your aunt and uncle. They’ve been the bane of our engagement.

  MAMAE: Don’t say that, not even in fun. Where would I be now if it hadn’t been for Uncle Menelao and Aunt Amelia? I’d have been put in the orphanage in Tarapacá Street. Yes, along with all the bats.

  JOAQUIN: I know how good they’ve been to you. And I’m glad they brought you up like some rare exotic bird. But we have been engaged for a whole year now and I’ve hardly been alone with you once! All right, I know, you’re getting anxious. I’m on my way.

  MAMAE: Till tomorrow then, Joaquín. At the eight o’clock Mass in the Cathedral, same as usual?

  JOAQUIN: Yes, same as usual. Oh, I was forgetting. Here’s that book you lent me. I tried to read Federico Barreto’s poems, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. You read them for me, when you’re tucked up snug in your little bed.

  MAMAE: (Pulling out a hair from her head and offering it to him) I’ll whisper them in your ear one day – then you’ll like them. I’m glad I’m marrying you, Joaquín.

  (Before he leaves, JOAQUIN tries to kiss her on the mouth, but she turns her face away and offers him her cheek. As she goes back towards her armchair, she gradually takes on the characteristics of an old woman again.)

  (Looking at the book of poetry) What would Joaquín do, I wonder, if he knew about the fan? He’d challenge the poor man to a duel – he’d kill him. You’ll have to destroy that fan, Elvira, it’s just not right for you to keep it. (She curls up in her armchair and immediately falls asleep. BELISARIO has looked up from his papers. He now seems very encouraged.)

  BELISARIO: That’s a love story too, Belisario. Of course, of course. How could you be so stupid, so naïve? You can’t set a love story in an age when girls make love before their first Communion and boys prefer marijuana to women. But Tacna, after the War of the Pacific – when the city was still occupied by the Chilean Army: it’s the perfect setting for a romantic story. (Looks at MAMAE.) You were an unrepentant little chauvinist then, weren’t you Mamaé? Tell me, what was the happiest day in the life of the young lady from Tacna?

  MAMAE: (Opening her eyes) The day Tacna became part of Peru again, my little one!

  (She crosses herself, thanking God for such bounteous good fortune, and goes back to sleep again.)

  BELISARIO: (Wistfully) It’s one of those romantic stories that don’t seem to happen any more. People no longer believe in them – yet you used to be so fond of them, didn’t you, old friend? What do you want to write a love story for anyway? For that meagre sense of satisfaction that doesn’t really seem to compensate for anything at all? Are you going to put yourself through all that agonizing humiliation yet again, Belisario, just for that? Yes, you are – for that very reason. To hell with critical conscience! Get away from here, you damned spoilsport! Bugger your critical conscience, Belisario! It’s only good for making you feel constipated, impotent, and frustrated. Get out of here, critical conscience! Get out, you filthy whore, you tyrant queen of constipated writers.

  (He gets up and runs over to where MAMAE is sitting. Without waking her up, he kisses her on the forehead.)

  Welcome back, Mamaé. Forget what I said to you, I’m sorry. Of course, I can use you. You’re just what I need – a woman like you. You’re perfectly capable of being the subject of a beautiful and moving love story. Your life has all the right ingredients, at least to be going on with. (Returning to his desk) The mother dies giving birth to her, and the father not long after, when she was only … (Looks at MAMAE) How old were you when my great-grandparents took you in, Mamaé? Five, six? Had Grandmother Carmen been born yet?

  (He has sat down at his desk; he holds the pencil in his hands; he talks slowly, trying to find the appropriate words so he can start writing.)

  The family was very prosperous at the time, they could afford to take in homeless little girls. They were landowners, of course.

  MAMAE: (Opening her eyes and addressing a little boy she imagines is sitting at her feet) Your great-grandfather Menelao was one of those gentlemen who carried a silver-knobbed cane and wore a watch and chain. He couldn’t stand dirt. The first thing he did when he went into someone’s house was to run his finger over the furniture to see if there was any dust. He only drank water or wine out of rock crystal goblets. ‘It makes all the difference to the taste,’ I remember him saying to us. One evening he went out to a dance with Aunt Amelia all dressed up in white tie and tails; he caught sight of your grandmother Carmen and me eating some quince preserve. ‘Aren’t you girls going to offer me a bite?’ he said. As he was tasting it, a little drop fell on his tailcoat. He stood there staring at the stain. Then, without saying a word, without causing any fuss, he emptied out the whole pot of preserve and smeared it all over his shirt front, tailcoat and trousers. Your great-grandmother used to say: ‘To Menelao, cleanliness is a disease.’

  (She smiles and falls asleep again. During her speech, BELISARIO has been listening part of the time to what she’s been saying, but he has also been jotting down notes and reflecting.)

  BELISARIO: Your great-grandfather Menelao must have been fascinating, Belisario. Yes, a fascinating old bastard. He’ll do, he’ll do. (Looking up at heaven) You’ll do, you’ll do. You and Amelia my great-grandmother adored Mamaé. You brought her up as your own daughter, treating her exactly the same as Grandmother Carmen, and when she was going to get married to the Chilean officer, you sent away to Europe for the wedding dress and trousseau. Was it Paris? Madrid? London? Where did they order your wedding dress from, Mamaé? Where was the most fashionable place? (Writes frantically.) I like it, Belisario, I love you, Belisario. I’m going to give you a kiss on the forehead, Belisario. (His mind wanders.) How rich the family was then! It’s been on the decline ever since, sliding further and further down the ladder until it finally got to you! One setback after another! (Looks up at heaven.) Whoever told you to marry an infantry captain, Mama? But I’m not in the least bit sorry about your misfortune, Papa. You’ve got to be pretty stupid to play Russian roulette just after you’re married! And you’ve got to be even stupider to go and kill yourself in the process! You’ve got to be pretty daft not to remarry when you’re widowed so young, Mama! Why did you pin so much hope on me? How did you all get it into your heads that by winning lawsuits I’d somehow bring fame and fortune back to the family?

  (His voice fades in to the sound of a radio play which GRANDMOTHER is trying to listen to; she is sitting in the living room with her ear glued to the wireless. The announcer is telling us that the daily episode o
f a radio serial by Pedro Camacho has just finished. The noise of a tram is heard outside. MAMAE opens her eyes, excited. BELISARIO watches her from his desk.)

  MAMAE: Carmen! Carmen! Here it comes! Quick! Come over to the window! Look, the Arica train!

  GRANDMOTHER: (Stops listening to the wireless and looks at MAMAE, saddened yet amused) I envy you, Mamaé, I really do. You’ve found the perfect means of escaping from all this misery that surrounds us. I’d like to go back to my childhood too, even if it were only in a dream.

  MAMAE: Aaah! My eyes! I could tear them out! I can’t even guess what anything is any more. Can you see that? Is it the Arica train? Or is it the one from Locumba?

  GRANDMOTHER: Neither. It’s the Chorrillos tram. And we’re not in Tacna, we’re in Lima. You’re not a fifteen-year-old girl any more, Elvira, you’re a doddery old woman of ninety, or thereabouts. And you’re going gaga.

  MAMAE: Do you remember the fancy-dress ball?

  GRANDMOTHER: Which one? I went to lots of fancy-dress balls when I was a girl.

  MAMAE: At the Choral Society. You remember, the one the negro sneaked in on.

  (The sound of a party can be heard; people enjoying themselves – rhythmic dance music. Gradually the tune of an old-fashioned waltz starts to predominate.)

  GRANDMOTHER: Ah, that one. Of course, I remember. It was at that dance I met Pedro. He’d come from Arequipa to spend carnival in Tacna, with some friends. Who’d have thought I’d marry him! Yes, of course. Was that the time Federico Barreto wrote that poem on your fan? No, it wasn’t, was it? It was one of those 28th of July affairs at the Patriotic Ladies’ Society. The negro, you’re quite right … It was you he was dancing with when they discovered him, wasn’t it?

  (BELISARIO gets to his feet. He goes over to MAMAE and bowing in a fin-de-siècle style, he asks her to dance. She accepts, now a gracious, coquettish young woman. They dance.)

  MAMAE: Are you Chilean, little domino? Peruvian? From Tacna, little domino? A soldier, perhaps? I know, I’ve got it. You’re a doctor. A lawyer then? Go on, say something to me, give me a clue and I’ll guess what you are, you’ll see, little domino.

  (BELISARIO says nothing. He merely shakes his head from time to time, giggling nervously as he does so.)

  GRANDMOTHER: (To MAMAE, as if she were still in the armchair) But wasn’t it obvious from the smell? Of course, he probably covered himself with scent, the rascal.

  (The couple dance together with great facility and obvious pleasure. As they dance round the room, the imaginary domino BELISARIO is wearing gets caught on some object revealing his bare arm. MAMAE shrinks away from him in fright. BELISARIO runs to his desk and begins to write, a satisfied look on his face.)

  MAMAE: (Scared out of her wits) A negro. A negro. The little domino was a negro. Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!

  GRANDMOTHER: Stop screaming like that, Elvira. It reminds me of the awful hullabaloo you made that night at the Choral Society Ball. The orchestra stopped playing, people stopped dancing, the spectators all got up from their seats. There was total pandemonium! You had to be taken home with an attack of nerves. And the party came to a shuddering halt, all because of that blessed negro.

  MAMAE: (Frightened) Carmen! Carmencita! Look, there, by the bronze fountain in the square. What are they doing to him? Are they beating him?

  GRANDMOTHER: It’s true. The gentlemen took him out to the street and started laying into him with their canes. Yes, it was by the bronze fountain. What a memory, Elvira!

  MAMAE: Stop beating him! He’s all covered in blood! He didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t even speak to me! Aunt Amelia, they’ll listen to you! Uncle Menelao, stop them! Stop them beating him! (Recovering) Do you think they’ve killed him, Carmencita?

  GRANDMOTHER: No, they just gave him a thrashing for being so impertinent. Then they sent him off to the Chilean gaol. The audacity of it, though. Imagine getting all dressed up like that and slinking into the Choral Society Ball. We were really quite shocked. We used to have nightmares – every night we thought he might come after us through the window. It was the only thing we talked about for weeks – months afterwards. The negro from La Mar. (BELISARIO is very excited — he strikes the table. He stops writing and kisses his hand and his pencil.)

  BELISARIO: The negro from La Mar! He’s taking shape, he’s moving, he’s walking!

  MAMAE: He’s not from La Mar. He’s one of the slaves from the Moquegua estate.

  GRANDMOTHER: What nonsense, Elvira. There weren’t any slaves left in Peru at that time.

  MAMAE: Of course there were. My father had three.

  BELISARIO: (Interrupting his work for a moment) The Mandingos!

  MAMAE: They used to ferry me across the Caplina; they’d make a seat with their arms and carry me across from bank to bank.

  BELISARIO: (Writing) They slept in the byre with their ankles tethered so they couldn’t run away.

  MAMAE: I didn’t see his face, but there was something about the way he moved, something about his eyes, that made me recognize him. I’m convinced he was one of them. A Mandingo on the run …

  (The street door opens and GRANDFATHER comes in, panting. His hair is ruffled, and his clothing rumpled. He is poorly dressed. The minute she sees him, MAMAE acknowledges him with a gracious little bow as if she were greeting some unknown dignitary, and retires into her own imaginary world once again. Enter AMELIA.)

  AMELIA: (Who has clearly been busy in the kitchen) Papa … What on earth has happened?

  GRANDMOTHER: (Getting up) Your hat, Pedro? And your walking stick?

  GRANDFATHER: They’ve been stolen.

  GRANDMOTHER: Gracious me, how did it happen? (AMELIA and GRANDMOTHER take GRANDFATHER to the armchair and sit him down.)

  GRANDFATHER: As I was getting off the tram. One of those vagrants that loaf around the streets of Lima. Threw me to the ground. He also snatched my … (Searching for the word) my thingumajig.

  GRANDMOTHER: Your watch? Oh, Pedro, they didn’t steal your watch as well!

  AMELIA: You see we’re right, Papa. You’re not to go out alone, catching buses and getting on to trams. Why won’t you listen? I’ve told you so many times not to go out in the street, I’m quite hoarse.

  GRANDMOTHER: Besides, you’re not well. What if you have another blackout? I don’t know how you haven’t learnt your lesson after such an awful shock. Don’t you remember? You were wandering about for hours trying to find the house.

  GRANDFATHER: I’m not spending the rest of my life cooped up here, waiting to be carted off feet first, my dear. I’m not going to let this country do away with me just like that …

  GRANDMOTHER: Did you hurt yourself? Where did you get hit?

  GRANDFATHER: Because people who want to work are wasted here in Peru. It’s not like that anywhere else in the world. Here, it’s a crime to be old. In civilized countries. Like Germany. Or England. It’s quite the reverse. Elderly people are consulted, their experience is put to good use. Here they’re just tossed on the rubbish tip. Well, I don’t hold with it because I know I could do a better job of work than anyone half my age.

  (BELISARIO stops writing.)

  BELISARIO: (Lost in recollection) Always rabbiting on about the same old thing; it really got under your skin, didn’t it, Grandpa? It was something you never forgot.

  (He tries to carry on with his writing but after scribbling a few lines, his mind starts to wander and he becomes increasingly interested in what is going on in his grandparents’ house.)

  AMELIA: You won’t solve anything by getting so worked up. You’ll only ruin your nerves.

  GRANDMOTHER: You’ve got a weak head, Pedro dear. Do try to understand. The doctor’s warned you, if you don’t take things more calmly you’ll have another attack.

  GRANDFATHER: My head’s perfectly all right now. I promise you it is. I haven’t been feeling the slightest bit dizzy lately. (With a mournful expression) I don’t care about the hat and the … the thingumajig. But I do about the watch. I’d had it
for more than fifteen years and it never went wrong once. Anyway, let’s change the subject. Did you listen to the eight o’clock serial?

  GRANDMOTHER: I heard it, yes. Amelia missed it though because she was doing the ironing for our budding little lawyer here. Imagine, Sister Fatima has left the convent to marry the composer.

  AMELIA: Oh look, you’ve got a cut on your wrist.

  GRANDMOTHER: Attacking an old man, really, what a cowardly thing to do.

  GRANDFATHER: He came up behind me and caught me off guard. If he’d come at me from the front, it would have been a different story. I may be old, but I’ve got my pride and I know how to look after myself. (Smiles.) I was always good at fighting. At the Jesuit School, in Arequipa, they used to call me ‘Sparky’, because I’d challenge anyone at the slightest provocation. No one dared trample on my heels.

  MAMAE: (Turning towards them in alarm) What’s that you said, Pedro? You’re going to challenge Federico Barreto for writing that poem? Don’t! Don’t be so hot-headed. He was only being gallant; he didn’t mean any harm. Anyway, you’d better not chance it, he’s supposed to be an excellent swordsman.

  GRANDFATHER: Oh, is he indeed? All right, then I won’t. Besides, it was a very inspired piece of poetry. You know you’ve got to hand it to him, that poet Barreto certainly had good taste. (To GRANDMOTHER) He used to flirt with you too, the dirty old man!

  GRANDMOTHER: That Elvira, really, the things she comes up with … Come, I’m going to put some mercurochrome on you, so you won’t get infected.

  AMELIA: Let it be a lesson to you, Papa. I’m warning you, I won’t ever let you go out alone again – my brothers have strictly forbidden it. At least, not at night. Go for your walks during the day, if you must, but don’t go too far, just round the block. Or wait until I can go with you, or Belisario.

  GRANDFATHER: (Getting up) Very well, Amelia. (To GRANDMOTHER) You realize, Carmen, the country must be in a pretty poor state for people to rob an old beggar like me? Fancy risking prison for a rickety old walking stick and a moth-eaten hat that’s going yellow round the edges.