CUCA (as policeman 1). This kid is quite something.
BEBA. It was bloodcurdling.
CUCA (as policeman 1). Come on, pull yourself together. (To LALO, disdainfully.) You’re a . . . You make me want to . . . (To BEBA.) Let’s draw up the charges.
BEBA. What? But he hasn’t confessed yet.
CUCA (as policeman 1). It’s not necessary.
BEBA. I think it will be.
CUCA (as policeman 1). We’ve got enough evidence.
BEBA. We should at least try . . . (Going up to LALO.) Lalo, you must tell us. You must talk. Why? Why, Lalo?
CUCA (as policeman 1). Don’t let up on him now.
BEBA. (To LALO, almost begging.) Don’t you understand, it’s a formality. We need a confession. Say whatever you like, whatever comes into your head, even if it’s illogical or absurd. Please say something. (LALO remains impenetrable.)
CUCA (as policeman 1). Let’s get back to the station. The charges. The report.
BEBA walks gravely over to the table and sits down. From this moment on, the stage should take on a new dimension, an eerie strangeness. The elements used are vocal sounds, beating on the table, and rhythmic foot-tapping, first by BEBA and then by both BEBA and CUCA.
CUCA (dictating, automatically). In the neighbourhood of this police station, and being the fifth day . . .
BEBA (moving her hands over the table, automatically). Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . in the presence of the duty officer, we the undersigned, Officer 421 Cuco and Officer 842 Bebo, brought in for questioning an individual claiming to be called . . .
BEBA. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac. (CUCA moves her lips as if she were still dictating.)
CUCA. The officers affirm that finding themselves in the area corresponding to their assigned patrol . . .
BEBA (beating her hands on the table with great sense of rhythm). Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac- tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . heard raised voices and a public disturbance . . .
BEBA. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . arguing and fighting . . .
BEBA. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . and having heard a cry for help . . .
BEBA. (Beating her hands on the table and tapping her feet rhythmically and automatically.) Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . and upon entering the aforementioned house . . .
BEBA. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . discovered two bodies . . .
BEBA. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA. . . . with contusions and first-degree injuries . . .
BEBA. Tac-tac-tac-tac. Tac-tac-tac-tac.
CUCA starts to beat on the table and to tap her feet like BEBA. The scene reaches a delirious climax which lasts a moment. Pause. BEBA and CUCA seem to return to normality. CUCA shows a piece of paper to LALO.
CUCA (authoritatively). Sign here.
Pause. LALO looks at the piece of paper. Looks at CUCA. Takes the paper with contempt and studies it closely.
LALO (furiously, firmly, defiantly). I don’t accept. Do you understand? This is all rubbish. It’s disgraceful. (Pause. Almost mockingly.) I think it’s splendid, terrific, that you should try and interrogate me using these appalling techniques. It’s so logical. Almost . . . normal, natural. But what do you want? Do you think I’m going to sign this shitty piece of paper? You call this the law? You call this justice? (Shouting. Tears up the piece of paper.) Crap, crap, crap. This is the dignified thing to do. This is the exemplary thing to do. This is the respectable thing to do. (Angrily stamps on the torn-up paper. Pause. Smiling bitterly, almost crying.) How nice, how dignified, how exemplary it would be if you were just to say: guilty. And be done with it. Next case, please. But to do what you’re doing now . . . (To CUCA.) Are you not satisfied with what has happened? Why are you trying to feed me with a pile of fictions? Do you think I’m a moron? (Mockingly.) Or do you think I’m trembling with fear. Well, let me say it loud and clear: no. I am not afraid. (BEBA hits the table with the gavel.) I’m guilty. Yes, guilty. So judge me. Do what you like. I’m entirely in your hands. (BEBA bangs the gavel again. LALO’s tone of voice becomes less violent, although he still acts arrogantly.) If your Honour will allow me . . .
BEBA (as judge). The public will remain silent, or the court will be cleared and this hearing will proceed in camera. (To CUCA.) Prosecution may proceed.
CUCA (to BEBA). Thank you very much, your Honour. (To LALO.) The accused is aware of the difficulties we have encountered in our attempts to clarify the circumstances surrounding the events which took place on that ill-fated morning . . . of . . . (BEBA bangs the gavel.)
BEBA (as judge). I must ask the prosecution to be more specific and clear in the formulation of his questions.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Excuse me, your Honour, but . . .
BEBA (moving her gavel). I must ask the prosecution to attend exclusively to his cross-examination.
CUCA (as public prosecutor. To BEBA). Your Honour, throughout all previous questioning, the accused has been exceptionally evasive, which has made it impossible to reach any . . .
BEBA (as judge. To CUCA. Bangs the table hard). Keep to the point.
CUCA (as public prosecutor. Solemnly). Your Honour, let me repeat that the accused has systematically obstructed all attempts to arrive at the truth. For this reason, I submit for the consideration of the court the following questions: is he permitted to make fun of the Law? Should he make fun of the Law? Is not the Law, the Law? If we are permitted to make fun of the Law, does the Law stop being the Law? If we should make fun of the Law, is the Law something other than the Law? In short, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do we all have to become mind readers?
BEBA (as judge. Implacable, hammering the table). I insist that the prosecution does not stray beyond its remit.
CUCA (as public prosecutor, showing off her theatrical abilities). Ah, ladies and gentlemen, the accused, like every guilty man, fears the weight of Justice . . .
LALO (furiously, but containing himself). You’re trying to trap me. I can see you coming. You’re trying to destroy me, I won’t let you.
CUCA (as public prosecutor. Solemnly and furiously. To BEBA). Your Honour, the accused is behaving in contempt of court. In the name of the Law, I request that correct procedure be followed. What is the accused trying to do? Is he trying to disrupt proceedings? If that is his objective, we have to rule him publicly out of court. The processes of Law and Justice must remain logical. Nobody can complain about their methods. They were made to suit mankind. But it appears that the accused either does not understand, or does not want to understand, or perhaps he suffers from mental disorder . . . Or maybe he prefers to hide himself, to take cover behind a smokescreen of stupidity and aggression. I must ask every single member of this jury and the court in general to examine his attitude carefully and, at the appropriate time, to deliver a verdict which is both balanced and implacable. Ladies and gentlemen, on the one hand, the accused openly declares his guilt, that is, he admits that he has killed. This regrettable deed lies beyond the limits of normal behaviour and represents an intolerable threat to everyone who walks the streets of this city. On the other hand, the accused denies everything, in an indirect way of course, and seeks to muddle up the chain of events through a cunning combination of sophistries, contradictions, banalities, and absurdities. Phrases like: ‘I don’t know’; ‘possibly’; ‘maybe’; ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Are these answers? Note also the frequent resort to: if I had a clear memory of events . . . Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is all inadmissible. (Comes forward until he is centre-stage, with great theatrical effect.) The Law cannot stand idly by in the face of such a case, where degradation, malice, and cruelty are combined so horrifically. Standing before you, ladies and gentleman, you see the most repulsive assassin in all of history. Look at him. Could anyone fail to feel revul
sion at this scum, this nauseating rat, this pool of phlegm? Doesn’t he make you want to be sick, to curse him? Can the Law just stand by and watch? Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, ladies and gentlemen of the court, can we allow such an individual to share our hopes and ideals at a time when humanity, or rather our society is marching on the resplendent path of progress, heading towards a golden dawn? (LALO tries to say something, but the torrent of CUCA’s oratory blocks any act, gesture or word from him.) Look at him. Indifferent. Relaxed. Immune to any feeling of tenderness, understanding, or pity. Look at that face. (Loudly.) The cool face of a killer. An assassin. The accused denies committing the murder for money, either in order to steal or to inherit his parents’ meagre pension. Why did he kill then? We cannot be certain about any of his motives. May we conclude that he did it out of hatred? Revenge? Or was it simple sadism? (Pause. LALO moves impatiently in his chair. CUCA continues in a measured tone of voice.) Can the Law allow a son to kill his parents?
LALO (to BEBA). Your Honour . . . I want . . . I should like . . .
CUCA (as public prosecutor). No, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. No, ladies and gentlemen of the court. A thousand times no. The Law cannot accept such contempt. The Law has created order. The Law is eternally vigilant. The Law demands good manners. The Law protects man from primitive and corrupt instincts. Can we have pity on a creature who violates the principles of natural law? I ask the ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask the ladies and gentlemen of the court: can we allow ourselves the indulgence of pity? (Pause.) Our entire city rises up in anger. A city of proud and silent men comes forward determined to claim for Justice the body of this monster . . . demanding that he be exposed to the fury of true human beings whose only desires are for peace and harmony. (Grandly.) And so, I demand that the accused help us establish the true course of events. (To LALO.) Why did you kill your parents?
LALO. I wanted a life.
CUCA (as public prosecutor, violently). That’s not an answer. (Rapidly.) How did you do it? Did you give them some concoction, some poison? Or did you smother them with their pillows as they lay helplessly in bed? Where do the syringes and pills come in? Or are they just red herrings? Explain, prisoner at the bar. (Pause.) Did you kill them in cold blood? Was it planned step by step? Or was it a crime of passion? You tell us. Did you only use this knife? (Exhausted.) And finally, prisoner at the bar, why did you kill them?
LALO. I felt they were persecuting me, harassing me.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Persecuting you? How? Harassing you? How?
LALO. They never let me alone.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). But the witnesses testify that . . .
LALO. The witnesses are lying . . .
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Are you contesting the statements made by the witnesses?
LALO (Firmly). There was nobody there that night.
BEBA (as judge. To LALO). The accused must be more precise in his answers. This is absolutely necessary. Are you sure you mean what you’ve just said? The Court demands both truth and precision. The Court expects the accused to observe, without prejudice, these articles of procedure . . . The prosecution may proceed.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Let us now turn to your close relatives. Your grandmother, for example, your aunts and uncles, all your nearest and dearest. Did you see each other often? What kind of relationship did you have with them?
LALO. None.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Why?
LALO. Mum hated Dad’s family and Dad didn’t get along with Mum’s family.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Aren’t you exaggerating?
LALO. None of our relations visited us . . . Mum didn’t want them to come round. She said they were jealous and hypocritical. Dad said the same thing about Mum’s relations. And they wouldn’t let us visit them either . . .
CUCA (as public prosecutor). This doesn’t seem to have much basis in fact to me. Why . . . ?
LALO. They kept on telling us that we were better people, that they were all common, that they had no class . . .
CUCA (as public prosecutor). And you never tried to make contact with them?
LALO. I tried once, but it didn’t work.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Do you know the witness Mrs. Angelita . . . ? (To the audience.) Her surname, please. Thank you. The witness Angela Martínez.
LALO. Yes.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Did she go to your house, either before or after the incident in question?
LALO. She did. Before. (Pause.) At around 6pm.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). In her statement, she insists that you were all playing a strange game. What was the game that you played at home? (Pause.) Wasn’t it a bit . . . unhealthy? (Pause.) Answer. Wasn’t it a deviant game?
LALO (firmly). I don’t know.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Your parents, according to my understanding, complained about you.
LALO. All my life, as long as I can remember, I’ve been hearing the same complaints, the same sermons, the same nagging.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). They must have had some reason for complaining.
LALO. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn’t . . . When a reason is hammered home over and over again, it stops being reasonable.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Were your parents really so demanding?
LALO. I don’t understand.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). The question is this: what kind of relationship did you have with your parents?
LALO. I’m sure I’ve told you already. They questioned me. They made demands on me. They spied on me.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). What questions did they ask? What demands did they make? Why were they spying?
LALO (desperate). I don’t know. I don’t know. (Repeating in a mechanical voice.) Wash the dishes, wash the tablecloths, wash the shirts. Clean the vase, clean the bathroom, clean the floors. Don’t sleep, don’t dream, don’t read. You’re useless.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, ladies and gentlemen of the court, do you believe these are motives strong enough to drive an individual to commit a murder?
LALO (stammering). I wanted . . .
CUCA (as public prosecutor). What did you want? (Pause.) Answer.
LALO (sincerely). A life.
CUCA (as public prosecutor. Sarcastically). And did your parents take your life away from you? (To the audience.) Objection, m’lud, the accused is evading the question.
LALO (passionately). I wanted, I longed, I desperately longed to do things for myself.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). And did your parents stop you?
LALO (confidently). Yes.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). How?
LALO. They said I was a fool, a slob, a no-hoper.
CUCA (as public prosecutor. With great patience). And what were the things you wanted to do? Would the accused care to elaborate?
LALO (tormented, making a great effort, a little confused). It’s very hard . . . I don’t know. Things. You know? Things. How can I put it? I know they exist, that they’re out there . . . I just can’t at the moment. (CUCA smiles maliciously.) Look . . . I know it’s something else, it’s just that . . . (Confidently.) I tried every way I could to please them . . . I caught pneumonia once and I . . . No, I can’t tell you about that . . . I just . . . Things always went wrong for me. I didn’t want it to be that way but I couldn’t do anything else; and then . . .
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Then what?
LALO. They shouted at me, they hit me, they punished me, endless hours locked in my room. They told me a thousand and one times I was better off dead, that they wanted to see me leave home to see how I coped and whether I would die of starvation.
CUCA (with a cynical smile). Are you sure about what you’re saying?
LALO. Yes.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Go on, go on.
LALO. I was very unhappy.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Why?
LALO. It felt like the house was caving in on me.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). I don’t understand? Exactly what do you mean?
LALO. The walls, the carpets, the curtains, the lamps, the sofa where Dad took his siesta, and the bed, and the wardrobes, and the sheets . . . the whole lot, I hated them, I wanted them to go away.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). You hated the whole lot. And your parents? You hated your parents as well, didn’t you?
LALO (distracted). Maybe I should have just run away. Gone anywhere: to hell or Timbuktu.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, ladies and gentlemen of the court . . .
LALO (continuing, as if hypnotised). One day, when I was playing with my sisters, I suddenly discovered . . . (Pause.)
CUCA (as public prosecutor). What did you discover?
LALO (in the same tone of voice as before). We were in the living room; no, I lie . . . We were in the back room. We were playing . . . Or rather, we were acting . . . (Smiles foolishly.) You might think it silly but . . . I was the father. No, that’s not true. I think at that moment I was the mother. It was just a game . . . But there, right at that moment, I had this idea . . . (Smiles foolishly again.)
CUCA (as public prosecutor). What idea?
LALO (smiling as before). It’s very simple, but it gets complicated. You never know whether you’re saying what you feel. I . . . (Moves his hands as if he were trying to explain things with this movement.) I knew what my folks were offering me wasn’t life, and could never be life. So I said to myself: ‘If you want to live you have to . . . ’ (Stops and makes a stabbing gesture or clenches his fists as if tearing something apart.)
CUCA (as public prosecutor). What did you feel at that moment?
LALO. I don’t know. You tell me.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). Were you afraid?
LALO. I think I was, just for a second.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). And then?
LALO. Then I wasn’t.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). You got used to the idea?
LALO. I got used to it.
CUCA (as public prosecutor). What? (Banging the table.) Ladies and gentlemen, this is unprecedented.
Latin American Plays Page 10