The Refugee Hotel
Page 4
FAT JORGE:
Don’t spit on the memory of the martyrs, comrade; I won’t allow it!
CRISTINA:
I’m not talking about the martyrs! I’m talking about the rest of the country that sits around and turns the other way when their neighbours are being taken away in broad daylight!
FAT JORGE:
Nobody’s turning away! Who’s turning away?
CRISTINA:
The whole goddamned country is turning away! Comrade Allende starts the day by giving his life for the country, and most people, what do they do? Nothing!
FLACA:
That’s ’cause they don’t have arms to fight with, sister!
JUAN:
It’s true: all I had was a slingshot my cockeyed cousin gave me and that was it—
CRISTINA:
I don’t care!
JUAN:
La Chueca stole her great-grandfather’s pistol from the War of the Pacific, but it didn’t work—
CRISTINA:
I don’t care!
FLACA:
Terror paralyzes, Cristina. Terror eats away like cancer—
JUAN:
There’s nothing worse than fear. Fear is the mind-killer.
CRISTINA:
I don’t care! If you’re sitting in your house and you see your neighbours being taken away, beaten, burnt, the house ransacked, do you sit there and shake like a goddamn leaf? When the day before you shared a cup of tea with that very neighbour? Do you?
MANUELITA:
My grandma attacked the military with her broom!
FLACA:
And almost got herself killed! You cannot fight their machinery with brooms or rocks or Molotov cocktails!
CRISTINA:
We did! The Mapuches did! And we had nothing when the Spaniards arrived! We fought them, with whatever we had, and they did not beat us!
FLACA:
These are different times, comrade; you know the gringos are involved—
CRISTINA:
Of course I know the gringos are involved!
FLACA:
What you’re saying is that we should declare war on the military, and that’s what I’m saying too, comrade, but to fight a war you need arms, you need people, you need to get organized—
CRISTINA:
I’m saying that if your neighbours are being taken away in front of your face you grab whatever you can, whatever’s at hand—an ax, a knife, a piece of furniture, a broom—and if every last person in the neighbourhood does it and storms the soldiers every single time they do it, what’s happening in Chile right now wouldn’t be happening!
FAT JORGE:
But then you’re assuming that everyone in the neighbourhood is unified as one, and, as we now see, there were traitors amongst us all along, all along—
JUAN:
True. True. Turns out La Chueca’s uncle twice-removed was an informer.
CRISTINA:
Who can you trust? Who?
BILL:
Me not know.
CRISTINA:
How could they just sit and watch? How?
JOSELITO:
Who?
CRISTINA:
They just sat and watched my parents being taken away. Nobody helped; they just sat and watched like they were watching TV—
JOSELITO:
(confused) TV?
CRISTINA:
My parents. They took them away and the neighbours, all of them, the very ones that saw me being born just sat and watched. I was at the craft market, trying to sell some pottery, that’s all—
CALLADITA is slowly rocking.
MANUELITA:
What’s she doing, Mommy?
FLACA:
Nothing. She’s just comforting herself.
FAT JORGE is drinking. A lot.
FAT JORGE:
I refuse to believe that Chile’s done for. I refuse, I don’t care if I have to go sneak back in tomorrow, I don’t care about the fucking blacklist—
CALLADITA keeps rocking.
FLACA:
(getting up) Fat Jorge, you’re drunk.
FAT JORGE:
I see it clearly now! Thank you, comrade Cristina, for the clarity! I see it so well! Here we are, in a hotel, a HOTEL—that’s just too fucking ironic—in a goddamn hotel, in the heart of the monster, as refugees, REFUGEES, do you hear me? Since when do refugees stay in hotels and watch TV and learn English? I see it now! This is all a set-up! That’s what it is! Exiles, my ass. If we had balls, we’d be there, we’d be living in the underground, helping out. I’m leaving. Come on! Get up! All of you! You too, comrade Bill! We’re leaving this place right now!
FLACA:
We are doing no such thing! Fat Jorge, for the last time, sit down and shut up or I’ll have to slap you! You’re scaring the kids and the old gringo’s gonna kick us out. In fact, kids, I want you to go upstairs to bed—
FAT JORGE:
No! You two kids stay right here and listen to all this! Keep your eyes open. Keep your ears open. Look. Listen. Very carefully. This is life. And you’ve gotta be present for it. You’ve gotta be.
CRISTINA:
This is life? This hotel?
FLACA:
We’ll be out of here in no time. In no time. You’ll see. Come on. We’re all going to bed. Fat Jorge, you first. Let’s go.
FAT JORGE:
I can’t stay here, Flaquita. I can’t. Everything smells the same here. They spray everything. (to CRISTINA) And you! You call our people cowards? What about you? If you’re so goddamn brave, then why did you leave? Why?
CRISTINA:
They killed my parents.
FAT JORGE:
So you leave? Just like that?
CRISTINA:
No! Not just like that!
FLACA:
Fat Jorge, don’t.
FAT JORGE:
Why didn’t you stay and join the underground?
CRISTINA:
You white-ass fuck! You live your cushy life in downtown Santiago and now all of a sudden ’cause you found out there’s a fence that divides the rich from the poor, now all of a sudden ’cause you decided to jump to the side of the fence that the rest of us have always been on, now all of a sudden you can look me in the eye with no shame whatsoever and ask me why I love life so much that I decided to live it?! Fuck you.
FAT JORGE:
Answer the question.
FLACA:
Leave her alone, Fat Jorge. Can’t you see she’s a kid?
CRISTINA:
(to FAT JORGE) ’Cause I’m scared. Okay? You satisfied now? ’Cause I’m so scared that I haven’t slept or eaten for months and I was afraid of myself. Afraid of what I might do. I was afraid of turning into a traitor. From sheer fear. So when I saw the opportunity to run, I ran, okay? Satisfied? Now, you may know a little bit about fear, comrade. But I know a lot about it. I am a Mapuche. We’ve lived in fear for 450 years. And I’ve seen what fear can do. It can turn you into a traitor or into a hero.
MANUELITA:
What’s a traitor?
FLACA:
It’s when you give away your friends to the enemy because your spirit breaks.
MANUELITA:
Oh.
FAT JORGE:
(to CRISTINA) You did the right thing, comrade.
CRISTINA:
Do you think my spirit is broken?
CALLADITA shakes her head no.
CRISTINA:
Maybe I should just kill myself.
FLACA:
Don’t talk like that, comrade. If you kill yourself it will mean you have surrendered to the enemy.
CRISTINA:
But fleeing means I’ve surrendered to the enemy.
FLACA:
You chose life over death.
CALLADITA nods.
FAT JORGE:
She’s not a traitor. But I am, Flaquita. I am. I’m here when I could be there. Oh my God. (running helplessly around the room) I’m stuck here
. I’m stuck here. I’m stuck here …
FAT JORGE keeps running around the room. BILL and JUAN physically restrain him. FAT JORGE holds on to his gut so he won’t puke.
FLACA:
(leading the kids up the stairs) Come on, kids, let’s go. Quickly!
BILL and JUAN lead FAT JORGE up the stairs.
FLACA:
Cristina, Calladita, let’s go. No more talking. Let’s go.
BILL, JUAN, FAT JORGE, FLACA, JOSELITO, and MANUELITA end up in the family’s room. CRISTINA goes to her room and paces. The RECEPTIONIST downs the remainder of his pisco and exits.
MANUEL:
Is it possible to have lived too long at the age of seventeen? Santiago in the spring, that first kiss on that bench in the Quinta Normal, the school trip to Antofagasta, my mother
slaving away at the RCA Victor factory. I remember the day Allende won, the march with my school, down the Alameda, to La Moneda Palace, Comrade Allende, the people united will never be defeated! ¡El pueblo unido jamás será vencido! And now I’m here. And I can’t breathe. Or think. Or see. And enough is enough. Enough is enough. ¡Ya basta ya! Basta. My mother used to say, nothing belongs to us, Manuel. Absolutely nothing. Not even our bodies. We come from the dirt and when we die we go back to the dirt.
MANUEL jumps. He flies by the family’s window, in slow motion, free-falling. They all stare, stupefied, unable to move, in a state of shock. CALLADITA and JUAN also see him fly by.
FAT JORGE:
That was Manuel! That crazy bastard just killed himself!
FAT JORGE and BILL run out of the room. The kids start to follow. FLACA holds them back. JUAN and CALLADITA run after FAT JORGE and BILL.
FLACA:
No! We’re staying here!
FLACA embraces the children. They all stand in silence. Holding on to each other.
JOSELITO:
Why did he do that mommy?
FLACA:
Sometimes sadness overtakes you, like a flood.
MANUELITA:
Is he dead?
FLACA:
I don’t know, Manuelita. I don’t know.
The three of them continue to embrace. Lights go down on their room, and come up on CRISTINA’s. She is pacing in her kitchenette.
CRISTINA:
Is it possible to feel too much? I want to kill them all. If I could only make a Molotov cocktail right now and kill all those fucking sons of bitches. Where’s my mommy? Where’s my daddy? Are you here with me? God help me. You fucking asshole. If you existed, God, I wouldn’t be here right now, north of the Equator, without my mommy and daddy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not there to take flowers to your graves. I’m sorry I’m here in this place full of barf-coloured rugs. Dear God, I think I’m going to die. Mommy. Daddy. Remember me? The squishy little girl with the fuzzy braids and skinned knees? I need you now. Is it possible to have lived too long at the age of eighteen? I think it is.
CRISTINA turns the oven on full blast and sticks her head in.
Lights come up on FLACA, MANUELITA, and JOSELITO . FAT JORGE returns.
FAT JORGE:
He’s not dead. He’s alive. He fell three storeys and the lucky son of a bitch is alive.
FLACA:
What?
FAT JORGE:
He fell inside a huge rectangular garbage can full of pink cotton—
FLACA:
Have you lost your mind?
MANUELITA:
He’s in heaven!
FAT JORGE:
No! He fell inside this huge square garbage can! And inside it is this pink cotton stuff, like cotton candy! He fell inside it! Didn’t even break a nail!
FLACA:
Jesus Christ. He must feel like an idiot.
MANUELITA:
He’s in heaven!
FAT JORGE:
No! He’s in the street!
FLACA:
Let’s go help him—
MANUELITA:
Mommy, what’s that smell?
FLACA:
What smell?
JOSELITO:
Something’s burning—
FAT JORGE:
He’s right. Something’s burning.
FLACA:
It’s hair. It’s burning hair.
CRISTINA still has her head stuck in the oven. Smoke is all around her. FAT JORGE, FLACA, MANUELITA, and JOSELITO run out into the hallway.
MANUELITA:
It’s coming from here!
JOSELITO:
Yeah! It’s from Auntie Cristina’s room!
FAT JORGE walks right into the room. Everyone follows. They see CRISTINA with her head in the oven, surrounded by smoke.
FAT JORGE:
Holy shit.
They run to her and pull her out. Her hair is burnt. Her face is black.
FAT JORGE:
Woman! If you’re gonna commit suicide like that, at least make sure it’s a gas oven!
JOSELITO:
Yeah! This is electric!
MANUELITA:
Your hair’s burnt.
JOSELITO:
And your face is all black!
FLACA:
Would everybody just shut up and take pity on the poor girl?
CRISTINA:
Shit. This is an electric oven?
FLACA:
Yeah.
CRISTINA:
How the hell was I supposed to know that?
FAT JORGE:
Don’t worry, comrade. Manuel just tried to kill himself, too. You’re not alone.
MANUEL enters, escorted by BILL, CALLADITA, and JUAN.
FAT JORGE:
Here’s your comrade in the struggle!
CRISTINA:
You just tried to kill yourself too?
MANUEL:
Yeah.
CRISTINA:
At the precise moment when I was trying to kill myself?
MANUEL:
Yeah.
FAT JORGE:
Hey! We’ll have to call you Condor Passes! Flying by our window like that like the King of the Andes. And you! Wanting to bake your head like that! We’ll just have to call you Cakehead!
MANUEL starts to laugh. They all laugh.
FAT JORGE:
You lonely fuckers. You lonely fuckers.
They all stand in a circle and laugh. FAT JORGE breaks the circle. Everyone continues laughing. FAT JORGE is in his own world.
ACT TWO
Scene One
The next day. “Pollera colorada” plays, mixed in with a soundscape of wind. FLACA, FAT JORGE, and JOSELITO are frozen in a tableau in the lobby. ADULT MANUELITA enters and walks around, taking them in. She joins the tableau and we are in the past again.
FAT JORGE takes FLACA by the hands and starts dancing with her. The kids dance with each other. Music fades out.
FAT JORGE:
(creating “pollera colorada” music with his voice) Come on, Flaquita, move those hips! (continues to create “pollera colorada” music with his voice)
FLACA:
(crying) I can’t, Fat Jorge, I can’t—
JOSELITO:
(dancing with MANUELITA) Why’s Mommy crying, Dad?
FAT JORGE:
(still dancing with FLACA, who allows herself to be lead) She’s sad today, Joselito. Just sad. Sadness overtakes everything sometimes, and you just gotta keep dancing till it passes, kids. Dancing till it passes. And it will pass.
MANUELITA:
(dancing with JOSELITO) I’m hungry.
FLACA:
(crying uncontrollably) I’ll make breakfast. Fry you an egg and make you some tea with condensed milk, like your grandma used to back in Chile … (weeping, still dancing with FAT JORGE) Remember? Remember Grandma with her wood stove and the smell of fresh bread and the vineyard giving grapes this fat—
MANUELITA:
Yeah, and the peach kuchen—
JOSELITO:
Mmm!
FAT JORGE:
(running towards kids and
dancing with them too) Flaca! You’re gonna make me and the kids cry too! Jesus! We held it together with the suicide attempts last night but all this talk of food and beverage will do us in! Come on! Everybody dance together!
The four of them dance. The kids giggle as FAT JORGE dances over-the-top cumbia and FLACA dances and laughs through her tears.
FAT JORGE:
(still dancing) If we’d only thought of bringing “The Greatest Cumbias of All Time.”
MANUELITA:
I told you to bring all your records!
FAT JORGE:
And I should have listened to you, you precious princess you! I guess we’ll just have to form our own cumbia band so we can dance dance dance!
MANUELITA:
Can I be in the cumbia band?
The CUECA DANCER appears with a record of Inti-Illimani. FAT JORGE takes it from him.
FAT JORGE:
(showing off the record) Why form a band when we’ve got this?
The whole family gasps.
Scene Two
JUAN, CONDOR PASSES, CALLADITA, and CAKEHEAD appear in the lobby. The RECEPTIONIST is vacuuming. FAT JORGE holds the Inti-Illimani record.
FAT JORGE:
Excuse me! Excuse me!
The RECEPTIONIST continues vacuuming.
FAT JORGE:
(standing in front of the RECEPTIONIST, waving his arms around) Excuse me!
RECEPTIONIST:
(turning off vacuum cleaner) What is it this time?
He sees the whole group standing there, smiling expectantly.
FAT JORGE:
(showing record) Uh, we were wondering if you have a record player for us to listen to this—
RECEPTIONIST:
I don’t understand what you’re saying!
FAT JORGE:
This is a beautiful record of gorgeous Andean music with outstanding revolutionary lyrics by one of Chile’s top folk groups, which is now completely banned in our homeland, and it has miraculously fallen from the sky into my hands. This record is a symbol of resistance. The fact that this record is here, at the refugee hotel, just sitting here, shaking in my hands, is enough to move the masses of the world because we want to listen to a song by Víctor Jara, that holy martyr who was brutally murdered by the regime for the simple yet indisputable fact that Víctor Jara was a poor man who wrote lyrics that spoke to the people, that were of the people, that gave dignity to the working man. And this record, this record means so much to us, the fact that it’s here, and that so many are not. So I stand here, with this humble yet noble record in my hands, I stand here in this new country and I ask you if you will please lend us a record player—don’t worry, we won’t break it—so we can listen to “El Aparecido,” tribute to Che Guevara, written by Víctor Jara, both of whom are now dead, dead in the hands of traitors, of fascists, of right-wing pigs who destroy life in the name of profit. Please, let us listen to “El Aparecido.”