Three Plays: The Young Lady from Tacna, Kathie and the Hippopotamus, La Chunga

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  JUAN: (Sobbing, the revolver at his temple) But you have. Help me, Pussikins, help me. After what you’ve done, after what you’ve told me, I can’t go on living, knowing what I do. Help me, help me.

  (With his free hand, he makes KATHIE put her hand on top of his, over the trigger.)

  Go on, squeeze. Get your own back for all those things you say I’ve done to you. Get your own back for the surfing, for Waikiki, for all the emptiness. Now’s your chance, go on, free yourself …

  (With a sudden decisive gesture, KATHIE squeezes the finger JUAN is holding over the trigger. The shot rings out loud, and JUAN rolls on the floor. Everything freezes for a few moments.)

  SANTIAGO: What do you do with yourself here in Paris, Kathie, when you’re not writing your book on the Far East and Black Africa?

  KATHIE: (Tired and discouraged) I go to the Louvre, the Jeu de Paume, the Orangerie, the Grand Palais, the Museum of Modern Art, or the galleries on the rue de Seine. I walk for hours, I stand for hours, I get very tired and my feet swell up. I try to make up for lost time.

  SANTIAGO: (To ANA) She tries to make up for lost time. While you carry on just the same as when I first met you.

  ANA: I never had time to improve or be any different. We couldn’t afford a servant, what with the pittance you got from La Crónica. And when you landed yourself that teaching contract at the university, you said, ‘I’m sorry, Anita, we can’t possibly have servants, my principles won’t allow it.’ They didn’t seem to balk at your wife becoming one though, did they? You’re right, I carry on just the same. But what about you? Have you changed much? Yes, I do believe you have. Are you sure it’s for the better though?

  (She helps JUAN get up and the two of them exit, arm in arm, as if they were ghosts.)

  KATHIE: It’s just that … all that about it never being too late to learn – I don’t believe it. Sometimes it is too late for certain things. One has to learn to recognize them, and enjoy them while there’s still time.

  SANTIAGO: Do you mean modern art? Modern music? Avant-garde literature?

  KATHIE: I mean classical art, classical music, and reactionary literature as well. I get bored. I don’t understand. I’ve no critical judgement. I can’t tell if a painting is good or bad. And it’s the same with music, plays and poetry. It’s the truth, Mark. I know one should never admit it to anyone but it’s true none the less.

  SANTIAGO: Modern art is very obscure. You can’t see the wood for the trees. We all get lost in that particular jungle, I assure you.

  KATHIE: I’m going to let you into another secret. You know that frivolous, meaningless world I used to inhabit? Well, I always used to crave for something different – something I felt I was missing, a life full of things that would satisfy the mind. I wanted to immerse myself in the world of the intellect, the arts, and literature. But now when I make the effort to read or to go to exhibitions, concerts, and lectures, I get so bored, I wonder if the artistic world isn’t basically as false and meaningless as the one I left.

  SANTIAGO: We both seem to be swimming against the tide: we’re not satisfied with what we’ve got, and we’re always yearning for what we haven’t got.

  KATHIE: The worst of it is — I don’t really know what I do want any more. Maybe I’m realizing I’ve lost my illusions. Could it be old age, do you suppose?

  SANTIAGO: How gloomy you’re becoming these days! I don’t believe a word you’ve been saying. If you really were that disenchanted with life, you wouldn’t be writing that book about Black Africa and the Far East.

  KATHIE: Am I really writing it? Or are you?

  SANTIAGO: I’m only your scribe, I put in the full stops and the commas and perhaps the odd adjective here and there. But the book is entirely yours from beginning to end. (The alarm clock rings, indicating that two hours have passed.)

  KATHIE: Heavens, our two hours are up, and we’ve hardly done any work at all. Can you stay another half-hour?

  SANTIAGO: Of course I can. And I won’t charge you overtime either.

  KATHIE: Bah, overtime’s the least of it. A few soles more or less isn’t going to make any difference to Johnny. He won’t go bankrupt. He can surely spend a little bit on art, at least.

  SANTIAGO: In that case, I will charge you for the extra half-hour and I’ll take Ana out to the pictures. She’s always complaining I never go out with her.

  KATHIE: So your wife is called Ana? You must introduce her to me. Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for some time now. Don’t you think it’s odd I’ve never invited you to the house outside working hours? SANTIAGO: Not at all. I realize what a hectic life you lead. I read about it in the newspapers. Every day a dance, a drinks party or some reception or other.

  KATHIE: They’re Johnny’s engagements. It would look bad if I didn’t go with him. And quite honestly, it’s the least I can do, since he is so good to me. No, that’s not the real reason. You’d get very bored with him. You’re both so different. Johnny has a heart of gold. He’s the kindest man in the world, but he’s also the most philistine.

  SANTIAGO: He can’t be that much of a philistine, to have reached his position in life.

  KATHIE: He is, he says so himself. As far as Johnny’s concerned, the arts just get in the way of doing good business. ‘Culture, the arts, I leave all that to you, Pussikins, and you leave the practicalities of life to me.’ When you get to know him, you’ll see what a philistine he is.

  SANTIAGO: As a matter of fact, I do know him. I’ve met him several times on my way in and out of the house. He always looks at me as if I were some strange animal. Have you told him what sort of work I do for you?

  KATHIE: Yes, but I’m sure it went in one ear and out the other.

  SANTIAGO: (Returning to the tape-recorder) Shall we carry on then?

  KATHIE: (Pensive, doubtful) Yes … On second thoughts, I don’t think I will.

  SANTIAGO: You don’t think you will what?

  KATHIE: Ask you and your wife here for tea or supper with Johnny and me.

  SANTIAGO: As you wish. But you’ve already whetted my curiosity. May one know why?

  KATHIE: Don’t take it the wrong way. (Looks tenderly at the little Parisian attic.) But it would be like mixing oil with water. I’m not talking about you and Johnny, though both of you together would be like oil and water too. No, I’m talking about myself. When I come up the little staircase which leads to this terrace, I leave behind San Isidro, Lima, and Peru, and I feel as if I really am entering a Parisian attic, where one only breathes art, culture and fantasy. I leave behind the woman with the busy social life, the banker’s wife. Because here, I am Kathie Kennety – spinster, widow, happily married woman, saint, or mischief-maker — someone who’s experienced everything life has to offer and who only lives to enrich her soul. This little corner of my life in which you play such a vital part makes all the rest bearable. You help make my dreams a reality, and my reality a dream. I don’t want the two to overlap. I don’t want our friendship to go beyond this little room of lies. That’s why it’s better if you don’t meet my husband and that’s why I don’t want to meet your wife. I’d rather they stayed behind down below. You do understand that, don’t you?

  SANTIAGO: Of course I do. And I’ll tell you why. Listening to you talk, I think I understand why I never felt like bringing Anita up here.

  KATHIE: Have you told her about my little Parisian attic?

  SANTIAGO: I told her you’d had a little playroom built on your roof. You know how inquisitive women are, she’s always nagging me to bring her here to see it. It nearly drives me mad. I keep fobbing her off with the excuse you wouldn’t like it, but I don’t think that’s the real reason at all.

  KATHIE: What is the real reason?

  SANTIAGO: The same as the one you gave me – to stop me meeting your husband and coming to your house – the downstairs one, I mean. Without realizing it, Kathie, I’ve entered into the game myself. After teasing you so mercilessly, I’ve let myself be capt
ivated by this little room too.

  KATHIE: I always suspected you were laughing at Kathie Kennety and her little Parisian attic.

  SANTIAGO: Of course I was. I thought you were crackers – a middle-class woman with more money than sense, playing a very expensive game. I found you ridiculous. I used to believe it was just for the money you paid me that I came up here for those couple of hours each day. But that’s no longer the case. For some time now, I’ve been enjoying the game myself: these two short hours in which lies become truths, and truths becomes lies, help me tolerate the rest of the day as well.

  KATHIE: It does me good to hear you say that. It lifts a weight off my mind. I trusted you from the moment I first saw you. And I’m so glad I did. My instincts didn’t let me down. Thank you, Mark, very much.

  SANTIAGO: I’m the one who should be thanking you. When I come up to this little attic, I begin a new life too. I leave behind the journalist who works on La Crónica writing mediocre articles for an even more mediocre salary. And the second-rate little lecturer with his undistinguished pupils – yes, he stays behind as well, for up here Mark Griffin is born – author, intellectual, creative genius, visionary, innovator, arbiter of intelligence, and epitome of good taste. Here, as we work, I can have those love affairs I never really had, I can live through Greek tragedies I hope never actually to experience. And here, thanks to you, I not only travel through the Far East and Black Africa but through many other places no one would ever suspect.

  KATHIE: You said mediocre – mediocrity. Isn’t this a very mediocre game as well?

  SANTIAGO: Maybe it is, Kathie. But at least we’ve still got our imagination, our ability to dream. We mustn’t let anyone take that little toy away from us because it’s the only one we’ve got.

  KATHIE: How well we understand each other. And what good friends we’ve become.

  SANTIAGO: Friends and accomplices, Kathie.

  KATHIE: Yes, accomplices. That reminds me, shall we start again?

  SANTIAGO: Let’s. Whereabouts in Black Africa were we? (He returns to his tape-recorder. We hear some exotic music, a mixture of Arab and African – sensual, seductive and mysterious.)

  KATHIE: (Looking through her papers) Let’s see now … On the island of Zanzibar. The small aeroplane landed at dusk.

  SANTIAGO: The shadows are falling, as I alight from the little aircraft midst shrubs and coconut palms which murmur with the sounds of the island of Zanzibar, confluence of every race, language and religion, the land of a thousand adventures.

  KATHIE: The small hotel where I had a room booked was a ramshackle old house full of flies and Arabs.

  SANTIAGO: The mystical aura of palaces, minarets and whitewashed fortresses gradually takes hold of me, as a coolie trots slowly through half-empty streets, pushing the rickshaw which bears me to my lodgings – a lofty Islamic tower which stands watch over the city.

  KATHIE: I asked for a cup of tea which I gulped down, then I did a quick change, and though the proprietress advised me not to, I dashed out to explore the city. Its name sounded like something out of a film.

  SANTIAGO: Swarthy Swahili-speaking servants, who practise animism, offer me a herbal potion and my exhaustion vanishes. My strength and courage return after a Turkish bath and a massage from native women with deft hands and pert little breasts. Though they warn me that robbery and rape are rife, and tell me of every sort of crime that befall lone women in the Zanzibar night, out I go regardless to explore the city.

  KATHIE: The streets were very narrow, there was a smell of animals and plants. Natives in local costumes were passing by. I walked on and on until I eventually arrived at a building that looked like a palace …

  SANTIAGO: I lose myself in a labyrinth of narrow little lanes, an interminable maze of steps, terraces, balconies and stone pediments. Wild horses whinnying in the woods serenade me, and the scent of the clove tree drives me wild with desire. What is this building with its lattice windows of finely carved tracery, bronze studded gates and dancing columns? It’s the sultan’s palace! But I don’t even pause – I carry on forward midst beturbaned Muhammadans, wailing beggars, hissing whores as shrill as piccolos and ebony-skinned youths with dazzling smiles undressing me hungrily with their eyes, until I reach a little square, where I have a funny feeling the slave market once was …

  LA CHUNGA

  To Patricia Pinilla

  INTRODUCTION

  The plot of this play can be summed up in a few sentences.

  The action takes place in Piura, a city surrounded by desert in the north of Peru. In the district of the sports stadium, there is a small bar frequented by a poor and dubious clientele and run by a woman known as La Chunga. One night, Josefino, one of the regulars, comes in with his latest conquest, Meche, a slim and very attractive young woman. La Chunga is instantly captivated. Josefino, in order to amuse himself and his friends – a group of layabouts who call themselves the superstuds – goads Meche into provoking La Chunga. In the course of the night josefino loses all his money playing dice. So that he can carry on playing, he hires out Meche to La Chunga, and the two women spend the rest of the night together in La Chunga’s little room, next to the bar. After that night, Meche disappeared and has never been heard of since. What has happened between them?

  The play begins some time after this event. At that same table in the bar, the superstuds, who still play dice, try in vain to find out the truth from La Chunga. They don’t succeed. So they invent it. The scenes which they each dream up are brought to life on stage and maybe there is some element of fleeting truth in them. But they are, above all, secret, private truths which lie hidden in each one of them. In La Chunga’s house, truth and falsehood, past and present, co-exist, as in the human soul.

  The various themes the play develops or touches upon shouldn’t give rise to confusion: they are love, desire, taboos, the relationship between men and women, the habits and customs of a certain milieu, the status of women in a primitive, male-dominated society, and the way in which these objective factors are reflected in the sphere of fantasy. It is clear in the play, I think, that objective reality does not condition or subdue man’s desires – on the contrary, thanks to his imagination and his ambitions, even the most unsophisticated of human beings can momentarily at least break out of the prison in which he is trapped.

  As in my two earlier plays, The Young Lady from Tacna and Kathie and the Hippopotamus, I have tried in La Chunga to convey through dramatic fiction the totality of human experience: actions and dreams, deeds and fantasies. The characters in the play all have two sides to them: they are both themselves and their phantom selves – creatures of flesh and blood whose destinies are conditioned by the limitations of their lives, such as poverty, marginality, ignorance, etc. – and spiritual beings who, despite the crudity and monotony of their existence, always have access to relative freedom, through recourse to fantasy – the human attribute par excellence.

  I use the expression ‘totality of human experience’ to emphasize the obvious fact that a man’s actions are quite inseparable from his desires and ambitions; also because the indivisibility of these two aspects of human experience should be apparent in performance, where the audience should be confronted with an integrated world in which what the characters say and what is going on in their imaginations – what actually happens and what is imagined to happen – are one continuous stream, rather like a reversible garment that can be worn either way round, so that it is impossible to tell which way round is which.

  I do not see why theatre should not be a suitable medium for showing this synthesis of objective and subjective human experience, or rather, such experience in the process of synthesis. Through stubborn prejudice, however, people are inclined to think that the ambiguous, evanescent world of subtle shades and sudden arbitrary shifts, unrelated to time – the work of the imagination spurred on by desire, cannot co-exist on stage with objective reality, without creating insurmountable difficulties for the director. I do not believe th
ere is any explanation for this scepticism other than idleness, and a fear of taking risks, without which all creative enterprise is hampered.

  It is simply a question of finding a form of theatre that capitalizes on what is unique to the theatre, man’s talent for pretending, for play-acting, for putting himself into situations and projecting himself into characters different from his own. In the scenes in which they act out their fantasies, the characters should be indulgent to themselves, love themselves, as they play these extensions of their own personalities, dividing themselves, as actors do when they go on stage, or as men and women do mentally when they call on their imaginations to enrich their lives, illusorily acting out those roles which are either denied them in real life, or which they seldom have a chance to play.

  Finding a technique for theatrical expression – a means of realizing this practice so universally shared, that of enriching life through the creation of images and the telling of stories — ought to be a stimulating challenge for those who want a new kind of theatre or who want to explore new avenues, rather than painfully pursuing those three archetypes of modern theatre which are already starting to show signs of ossification from over-use: the epic didacticism of Brecht; the pure entertainment value of the theatre of the absurd; and the affected spontaneity of the happening and other variations on the improvised show. The theatre and the images it can create are, I’m sure, an ideal medium for the expression of that tangled and disturbing world of angels, demons and wonders which lie at the heart of our desires.

  Mario Vargas Llosa

  CHARACTERS

  LA CHUNGA

  MECHE