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.
GRANDMOTHER: (Taking him to the inner part of the house) You were given that watch by the High Court Judges in Piura, when you were Governor there. What a shame, it was such a lovely memento! Oh well, I expect your grandson, Belisario, will give you another one, when he wins his first lawsuit …
(They leave, followed by AMELIA. The stage goes dark.)
BELISARIO: My first lawsuit … You too, Grandma, used to have these flights of fancy. (Flying into a rage) And what, may I ask, is Grandmother doing here? And are you seriously going to put Grandfather Pedro into a love story when there hasn’t even been a kiss yet? You couldn’t write it, Belisario. You can’t write. You’ve spent your whole life writing and it gets worse each time. Why is that, Grandpa? A doctor can remove fifty appendixes, cut out two hundred tonsils, trepan a thousand craniums, and then do all these things practically blindfold, isn’t that so? Why, then, after writing fifty or a hundred stories is it still just as difficult, just as impossible as it was the first time? Even worse than the first time! A thousand times more difficult than the first time! Grandfather, Grandma: just disappear, will you! Stop distracting me, stop interrupting me, get out of my way. To hell with the pair of you! Let me write my love story! (Becoming pensive) Grandfather might have been a character in a novel. One of the lives of the century: from gradual ruin to irrevocable decline. Governor of Piura in Bustamente’s Constitutional Government. Former cotton entrepreneur in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, in Bolivia. Before that, an agricultural administrator in Camaná. And before that, an employee of a British firm in Arequipa. But you’d have liked to have been a lawyer and a poet, wouldn’t you, Grandpa? And you might have been too, if your father hadn’t died when you were fifteen. That’s why you were destined for the bar, Belisario, to carry on the family legal tradition.
(From the expression on his face, it is clear that a new idea has started to form in his mind — in connection with what he is writing. He picks up his pencil, turns it round, adjusts his papers.)
Yes, it might work. Come back here, Grandpa, I’m sorry I told you to go to hell. I love you very much, you know
I do, you’re an obvious fictional character. That’s why you always featured in Mamaé’s stories. You were the prototype of all those splendid specimens she was so fond of, those magnificent, improbable creatures akin to unicorns and centaurs: gentlemen. (Writes now with great enthusiasm.) But there was nothing mythical about Grandfather’s life. He had to work like a mule, because he not only had his own children to feed, but also those people who Grandmother Carmencita – surely the most charitable woman ever born – kept bringing in from all over the place. Whether they were the children of nincompoops who’d blown out their brains playing Russian roulette to win some bet or other, or eligible young ladies with no father or mother, such as Mamaé.
(As the lights come up, we find SEÑORA CARLOTA on stage. MAMAE, from her armchair, looks her over respectfully. She gets up — a young woman once again — and goes towards her.)
MAMAE: Good afternoon, Senora Carlota, what a surprise. My aunt and uncle are out at the moment; so is Carmencita. Do sit down, please. May I offer you a cup of tea?
SEÑORA CARLOTA: ‘Just as if she’d stepped out of a watercolour by Maestro Modesto Molina.’ I heard somebody saying that about you at the Alameda, at the open air concert. It’s true, you’re just like that.
MAMAE: You’re very kind, Senora Carlota.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: Raven hair, porcelain skin. Manicured hands, and such dainty feet. Yes, the perfect little doll.
MAMAE: For goodness’ sake, Señora, you’re making me blush. Won’t you sit down? Uncle and Aunt won’t be long. They went to express their condolences to …
SEÑORA CARLOTA: Young, pretty and, besides, a considerable inheritance in the offing, am I right? It is true, isn’t it, that the plantation your father had in Moquegua is being held in trust for you until you come of age?
MAMAE: Why are you saying all these things to me? And why that tone of voice? You’re talking as if you were angry with me for some reason.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: Anger isn’t quite the word, my sensitive little flower. I’m not angry with you. I hate you. I hate you with all my power and all my mind. All year I’ve been willing on you the worst possible disasters. That you’d get run over by a train. That your face would be eaten away by smallpox. That your lungs would be racked with tuberculosis. That the devil would take you!
MAMAE: But what have I ever done to you, Senora Carlota? I hardly even know you. Why are you saying such dreadful things to me? And here was I thinking you were coming to give me a wedding present.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: I’ve come to tell you that Joaquín doesn’t love you. He loves me. You may be younger. You may be a virgin, you may still be unmarried! But he doesn’t like delicate little ornaments that blow over in the wind. He likes me. Because I know something young ladies like you will never learn. I know how to love. I know what passion is. I know how to give pleasure and how to receive it. Yes, it’s a naughty word for you, isn’t it? Pleasure.
MAMAE: You’ve taken leave of your senses, Senora Carlota. You’re forgetting …
SEÑORA CARLOTA: That I’m married and I’ve got three children? I haven’t forgotten. I don’t give a damn! Not for my husband, my children, Tacna society, the Church – they can say what they like — I don’t give a damn! That’s love, you see. I’m prepared to do anything, rather than lose the man I love.
MAMAE: If it is as you say, if Joaquín does love you, why has he asked me to marry him?
SEÑORA CARLOTA: For your name, for the plantation you’re going to inherit, because an officer has to safeguard his future. But, above all, because he can’t marry the woman he loves. He’s marrying you because it’s convenient. He’s resigned himself to marrying you. Did you hear that? He’s re-signed to it. He’s told me so himself, hundreds of times. Only today in fact – not two hours ago. Yes, I’ve just come from being with Joaquín. I can still hear the sound of his voice echoing in my ears: ‘You’re the only one who can really give me pleasure, my soldier’s girl.’ That’s what he calls me, you see, when I abandon myself to him: his soldier’s girl, his little soldier’s girl.
MAMAE: Señora Carlota, you’ve gone quite far enough. Please, I beg you …
SEÑORA CARLOTA: I’m shocking you, I know. But I don’t care. I’ve come to make it quite clear to you that I’m not going to give Joaquín up, even if he does marry you. And he won’t give me up either. We’re going to carry on seeing each other behind your back. I’ve come to tell you what your life will be like, after you’re married. Every morning, every afternoon, wondering if your husband’s really gone to the barracks – or if he’s making love with me instead.
MAMAE: I’m calling the servants to show you to the door, Señora Carlota.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: And if Joaquín is transferred, I’ll leave my husband and my children and I’ll follow him. So all your doubts and torments will continue. I’ve come just so that you know how far a woman in love is prepared to go. Do you see?
MAMAE: Yes, señora. I see. Maybe it is true what you say. I’d never be capable of behaving like that myself. For me, love could never be a disease. I can’t understand you. You’re beautiful, elegant, and your husband such a distinguished man – the whole of Tacna respects him. And such lovely little children too. What more can anyone want in life?
SEÑORA CARLOTA: All right, maybe that’s how you see it. But all these things you seem to hanker after, I’d gladly sacrifice the lot, just for one word from Joaquín. I’d risk hell if that’s the price I have to pay to go on seeing him.
MAMAE: I’m sure God will be listening to you, Senora Carlota.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: Then he’ll know I’m tel
ling the truth. When Joaquín holds me in his arms, when he hugs me and subjects me to his little whims, nothing else in the world seems to exist any more: not my husband, my children, my reputation, or even God. Only him. And you’re not going to take that away from me.
MAMAE: How long have you been Joaquín’s … Joaquín’s lady-friend?
SEÑORA CARLOTA: His mistress? Two years. And I’m going to tell you something else. We see each other every week in a little hut in La Mar. At sunset. When the negroes return singing from the plantations. We always hear them. We know all their songs by heart we’ve heard them so often. What else would you like to know?
MAMAE: Nothing, señora. I’d be grateful if you’d leave now.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: You could never live with Joaquín. You’re too pure for such a hot-blooded man. He says so himself. Go and find yourself some tepid youth somewhere. You could never be a soldier’s girl – not to Joaquín or to anyone. You’re too insipid, you’re not flirtatious enough, you haven’t got the imagination.
MAMAE: You must go this instant! My aunt and uncle will be back at any moment, señora!
SEÑORA CARLOTA: Let them see me, for all I care. Let the scandal break out once and for all.
MAMAE: It won’t be my fault if it does. I’ve heard nothing; I know nothing, and I don’t want to know anything either.
SEÑORA CARLOTA: And yet, you’ve heard everything; you know everything. And now it’ll start to nag away at you like a little worm gnawing at your heart. ‘Is he really only marrying me because it suits him?’ ‘Is he really in love with her?’ ‘Does he really call her his soldier’s girl when he holds her in his arms?’
(SEÑORA CARLOTA leaves. BELISARIO, who at the beginning of the dialogue between SEÑORA CARLOTA and MAMAE was writing, making notes and throwing papers on the floor, has suddenly become pensive, and has been taking more and more interest in what the two women are saying. He finally goes over to MAMAE’s armchair, where he sits crouching like a child. MAMAE talks to herself as she goes back towards her armchair. She has become an old woman again.)
MAMAE: Did he really tell her I was a sensitive little flower? A little prude who’ll never be able to make him happy like she can? Was he really with her yesterday? Is he with her now? Will he be with her again tomorrow?
(She sits huddled in her chair. BELISARIO is at her feet, listening to her like a little child.)
BELISARIO: So the wicked woman made the young bride terribly jealous.
MAMAE: It was worse than that. She caused her great distress and alarm, and filled her innocent little head with all sorts of monstrous thoughts so that her brain seethed with vipers and vultures.
BELISARIO: What sort of vultures, Mamaé? Turkey buzzards?
MAMAE: (Continuing the story) And the poor young lady, her eyes filled with tears, couldn’t help thinking, ‘So he doesn’t love me for myself but for my name and my family’s position in Tacna. That young man I’m so much in love with is nothing but an unscrupulous scoundrel.’
BELISARIO: But I don’t believe that, Mamaé. Whoever heard of anyone getting married just for a name or a social position! He might have wanted to marry the young lady because she was going to inherit a plantation – now that I can believe, but as for the rest of it …
MAMAE: The story about the plantation wasn’t true. The Chilean officer knew that it had been auctioned off in order to pay the debts of the young lady’s father.
BELISARIO: Now you’re muddling the story up, Mamaé.
MAMAE: You see the Chilean officer had lied to the wicked woman. About the young lady inheriting a plantation. So that the story about marrying for money rather than love would seem more convincing. In fact he wasn’t just deceiving the young lady, he was deceiving Senora Carlota as well.
BELISARIO: Was the wicked woman called Carlota?
MAMAE: Yes. But she had a most unattractive nickname. They used to call her ‘The Soldier’s Woman.’
BELISARIO: What is a soldier’s woman, Mamaé?
MAMAE: Ach, it’s a nasty expression. (Her mind wandering, talking as if to herself) But she wasn’t stupid, she came out with a few home truths. Such as: ‘A woman can only keep her pride if she renounces love.’
BELISARIO: You’re off on your own again, Mamaé. You’ve left me dangling in mid-air.
(He gets to his feet and goes back to his desk, muttering to himself, while MAMAE’s lips keep on moving for a moment, as if she were carrying on with the story. Then she falls asleep.) The wicked woman … No story was ever complete without one. And a very good thing too. There should always be wicked women in romantic stories. Don’t be afraid, Belisario, take a tip from your old Mamaé. Besides, paper doesn’t discriminate, you can write anything you like on it. So fill the story with wicked women, they’re always so much more interesting. There were two of them, weren’t there, Mamaé? Sometimes she was called Carlota and she was a mischievous woman who lived in Tacna at the beginning of the century. And sometimes she was an Indian woman from Camaná, who had been thrashed by a gentleman for some mysterious reason during the twenties. (Starts to write.) They often got mixed up or overlapped, and then there was that mother-of-pearl fan which suddenly started to feature in the stories – the one some romantic poet had scribbled a few hasty lines on.
GRANDMOTHER: (Coming in) Elvira! Elvira! But what have you done? Have you gone quite mad? Your wedding dress! I don’t believe it! All that beautiful lace embroidery, and that veil – so fine and delicate it was almost like foam!
MAMAE: It took half a box of matches and I burnt the ends of my fingers. Eventually I thought of putting a little paraffin on it. It went up all right then.
GRANDMOTHER: (Distressed) But the wedding is tomorrow. We’ve got people coming all the way from Moquegua, Iquique, and Arica. You haven’t had a row with Joaquín? Really, Elvirita, on the day before your wedding. You mean the house has been festooned with lilies and roses all for nothing? And we’ve spent a month preparing sweets and pastries just for the fun of it? They’ve just brought the wedding cake.
MAMAE: Has it got three tiers? Like the one in that novel by Gustave Flaubert? With marzipan columns and almond Cupids? Oh, we simply must eat it even if I don’t get married. That Italian, Máspoli, is bound to have gone to so much trouble, he’s always so sweet to me.
GRANDMOTHER: Well, aren’t you going to tell me what happened? We’ve never had any secrets from each other. Why did you burn your wedding dress?
MAMAE: Because I don’t want to get married any more.
GRANDMOTHER: But why? You and Joaquín seemed so happy together – up until last night anyway. What’s he done to you?
MAMAE: Nothing. I’ve discovered I’m just not interested in marriage. I prefer to remain single.
GRANDMOTHER: How do you mean, you’re just not interested in marriage? You can’t fool me, Elvirita. Every girl wants to marry, it’s her one ambition in life and you’re no exception. We grew up dreaming about the day we’d have our own homes, guessing what our husbands would look like, choosing names for our children. Have you forgotten that already?
MAMAE: Yes, my dear. I’ve forgotten all about it.
GRANDMOTHER: You haven’t. I don’t believe you. (GRANDMOTHER and MAMAE carry on their conversation silently. BELISARIO has stopped writing for a moment. He looks pensive, absorbed in his own thoughts. When he speaks, it is as if he were watching them and listening to what they say.)
BELISARIO: Their houses were both going to be as spotless and tidy as the British Consul’s. They were both going to have maids who would always be impeccably dressed in well-starched pinafores and bonnets; Grandma and Mamaé were going to send them off to catechism and make them say their rosaries along with the family. They would make sure that they always looked beautiful so that their husbands would remain in love with them and not be unfaithful to them. They would bring up their sons like gallant young men and their daughters like eligible young women. Grandmother was going to have four, Mamaé six, eight …
&nbs
p; (He starts to write again.)
MAMAE: He doesn’t even know I’m not going to marry him. He was going to Isaiah’s, the tailor, today, to collect his dress uniform for the wedding. He’s going to get quite a surprise when the servants tell him he can’t ever set foot inside this house again.
GRANDMOTHER: (Embarrassed) Is it because you’re frightened, Elvirita? I mean, frightened of … of your wedding night?
(MAMAE shakes her head.)
Then why? Something dreadful must have happened for you to break off your engagement the day before your wedding …
MAMAE: I’ve already told you. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to get married. Not to Joaquín or anyone else.
GRANDMOTHER: Is it God then? Is that it? Are you going into the convent?
MAMAE: No, I’ve no vocation to be a nun. I’m not getting married and I’m not going into the convent either. I’m going to carry on as I have done up to now. Single and unattached.
GRANDMOTHER: You’re hiding something important from me, Elvira. Remain single indeed! But it’s the most dreadful thing that can happen to a girl. Look at Aunt Hilaria. You say yourself that she makes your hair stand on end, she’s so lonely. No husband, no home of her own, no children, and half mad. Do you really want to end up like her, and have to face old age like a soul in torment?
MAMAE: Better to live alone than with the wrong person, Carmencita. The only thing I’m sorry about is the anxiety I’m going to cause Aunt Amelia and Uncle Menelao.
(GRANDMOTHER nods.)
Did they see the dress burning? They’re so sensitive and sweet. They haven’t even come to ask me why I set fire to it. And they went to such trouble so I could have a wedding to end all weddings. They’ve certainly earned their place in heaven, they’re so kind …
GRANDMOTHER: (Giving her a kiss on the cheek) You’ll never be left alone like Aunt Hilaria. Because when I get married, that is if any gentleman cares to have me, you’ll come and live with us.
MAMAE: You’re so good to me, my dear.
(They are both overcome with emotion and kiss each other. BELISARIO gets to his feet and walks across the stage with a pile of papers in his hand. He seems restless.)
Three Plays: The Young Lady from Tacna, Kathie and the Hippopotamus, La Chunga Page 3