LALO. It’s true. I got used to it. (As LALO progresses through the monologue, he becomes transformed). It sounds terrible, but . . . It’s not how I wanted it, but the idea kept on buzzing around in my head. At first, I wanted it to go away. Do you know what I mean? But it kept on telling me: ‘Kill your parents. Kill your parents.’ I thought I was going crazy, I swear. I jumped into bed. I started getting the shivers . . . I had a temperature. I thought I would pop like a balloon. I thought the devil was beckoning to me. I lay trembling under the blankets . . . You should have seen me . . . I couldn’t sleep. Not a wink night after night. It was dreadful. I saw death creeping up on me from behind the bed, from between the curtains, from inside the wardrobe. It became my shadow and whispered to me from inside the pillows: ‘Assassin.’ And then, as if by magic, it disappeared. And I sat in front of the mirror and saw my mother lying dead in her coffin and my father hanging by his neck laughing and shouting at me. And at night I felt my mother’s hands in the pillows, scratching my face. (Pause.) Every morning I woke up in pain. It was as if I were rising from the dead, clasped by two corpses which had been chasing me in my dreams. There were moments when I was tempted . . . but no . . . no . . . Leave home? No way! I knew what I was up against . . . I would always come back and then I would promise never to do it again. By then I was determined never again to embark on that crazy adventure. Anything but that! Then I had the idea of arranging the house in my own way, of running things myself . . . The living room is not the living room, I said to myself. The living room is the kitchen. The bedroom is not the bedroom. The bedroom is the bathroom. (Short pause.) What else could I do? If I didn’t do that, I would end up destroying everything. Everything. Because everything was complicit, everything was plotting against me; everything knew my every thought. If I sat down in a chair, the chair wasn’t the chair but my father’s corpse. If I picked up a glass of water, I felt that what I had in my hands was my dead mother’s damp neck. If I played with a vase, an enormous knife would suddenly fall out of it. If I cleaned the carpets, I could never finish the job because they turned into an enormous clot of blood. (Pause.) Haven’t you ever felt like that? I was suffocating, suffocating. I didn’t know where I was or what it was all about. And who could I talk to? Was there anyone I could trust? I was stuck in a deep hole and there was no way out . . . (Pause.) But I had a strange idea that I could save myself . . . I don’t know what from . . . Anyway, it’s just an expression . . . You try to explain the whole thing and you almost . . . usually you can’t . . . Perhaps I wanted to save myself from the suffocating, from being shut in . . . Soon after, without knowing why, things began to change. I heard a voice one day, but I didn’t know where it was coming from . . . And then I heard my sisters laughing and joking all round the house. And mixed in with their laughter I heard thousands of voices repeating in unison: ‘Kill them. Kill them.’ No, I’m not just making it up. I swear it’s true. (As if inspired.) From then on I knew what I had to do. Gradually I realised that everything, the carpets, the bed, the wardrobes, the mirror, the vases, the glasses, the spoons and my own shadow, they were all murmuring, telling me: ‘Kill your parents.’ (He says it in an almost musical ecstasy.) ‘Kill your parents.’ The whole house, everything, everything was pushing me towards this heroic act. (Pause.)
CUCA (violently). I’m leaving. You’re cheating.
LALO. We’ve got to see it through to the end.
CUCA. I can’t let you . . .
LALO. You’ve tried to make it go your way as well.
CUCA. I can’t believe you’re doing this. We each have a part; we agreed.
LALO. Is that so? All right then . . .
BEBA (as judge, banging her gavel). Order! Silence in court!
CUCA (as mother. To BEBA). Officer, forgive my interruption; but I must ask for a thorough investigation of this case, right from the beginning. I demand a retrial. That’s why I’m here. I want to make a statement. My son is making himself out to be a victim, but that’s the complete opposite of the truth. I demand that justice be done. (BEBA starts to repeat the tac-tac of the typewriter. Exaggerating.) If you knew what this beast has done to our lives. It’s so dreadful, so . . .
BEBA (as officer. To CUCA). Go on . . .
LALO (almost out of part). But Mum, I . . . (LALO feels cornered.) I . . . I swear . . .
CUCA (as mother). Don’t you swear at me. You want to come across as a fool, but I know your tricks, your games. I know them because I gave birth to you. Nine months of dizziness, vomiting, aches, and pains. And they were just the warnings of your arrival. Are you trying to confuse me? Why are you swearing these things to me? Do you think you’ve won over your audience? Do you think you can save yourself? Well tell me, save yourself from what? (Roars with laughter.) What planet are you living on, sonny? (Mockingly.) Oh, my little angel, I’m so sorry for you. You really are, well, I won’t say what you are . . . (To BEBA.) Do you know something, officer? One day he got it into his head that we should rearrange the whole house the way he wanted it . . . As soon as I heard this ridiculous idea, I refused to listen to another word on the subject. His father hit the roof. You can’t imagine what it looked like . . . The ashtray on the chair. The vase lying on the floor. Awful! And then he started singing at the top of his voice, running all round the house: ‘The living room is not the living room. The living room is the kitchen.’ When that happened I pretended not to hear, as if I were listening to the rain. (To LALO.) You’ve only told the bits which interest you. Why don’t you tell the rest of the story? (Mockingly.) You’ve told them about your martyrdom, now tell them about ours, your father’s and mine. Let me refresh your memory. (To BEBA, transformed.) Your Honour, if you knew the tears I have shed, the humiliation I have suffered, the hours of anguish, the sacrifices . . . Just look at these hands . . . It makes me sick to look at them. (On the verge of tears.) My hands . . . If you had seen them before I got married . . . Now I’ve lost everything: my youth, my happiness, all my little pleasures. I’ve sacrificed everything for this animal. (To LALO.) Aren’t you ashamed? Do you still think you’ve done something heroic? (Disgusted.) You wretch. I don’t know how I could have carried you for so long in my belly. I don’t know why I didn’t drown you at birth. (BEBA bangs her gavel.)
LALO. Mum, I . . .
CUCA (as mother). Shut up. Just shut up. You’re not worth the bread we put on your plate. You’re not worth one of the contractions I had giving birth to you. Because you, you are the guilty one. And no-one else.
LALO (Violently). Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.
CUCA (as mother. Violently). I’m getting old. Think about that and make some sacrifices. Do you think I don’t have a right to live? Do you think I’m going to spend my whole life in perpetual agony? Your father doesn’t care about me and neither do you. Where will I end up? Yes, I know you’re waiting for me to die, but I won’t give you that satisfaction. I’ll shout to the neighbours, to everyone in the street. You’ll see. That will be my revenge. (Shouting.) Help! Help! They’re killing me. (Bursts into tears.) I’m a poor old woman dying of loneliness. (BEBA bangs her gavel.) Yes, your Honour, I’m imprisoned by these four dirty walls. I never see the light of day. My children don’t care. I’m withered, wilting . . . (As if she were looking at herself in a mirror. Starts stroking her face and ends up slapping it.) Look at this skin. Look at these wrinkles. (Pointing to her wrinkles with rancour and disgust. To LALO.) You’ll get them one day. All I want is for you to go through the same as I have. (Haughtily.) Your Honour, I have always been an honest woman.
LALO (slightly mockingly). Are you sure? Think carefully, Mum.
CUCA (as mother). What do you mean? What are you suggesting?
LALO (sarcastically). I mean, I know you’re lying. I mean, you once accused me of . . .
CUCA (as mother. Indignantly, interrupting him with a cry.) Lalo! (Pause. Gently.) Lalo, are you trying to say . . . ? (Pause. Takes a few steps. She looks annoyed again.) This is just the limit! Your Hon
our . . . (Almost sobbing.) Oh, Lalo . . . (Wiping her tears away.) You say I . . . ? (With obvious doubt.) Is that possible? (With a faint smile.) Oh, I’m sorry, your Honour . . . I could have done it . . . But it was just a silly mistake. (Laughs crudely.) I got completely hooked on this red taffeta dress I saw in the window of the New Bazaar. It was so divine. My husband was earning a pittance. You can’t imagine . . . I had to perform miracles every month just to make ends meet. So, as I was saying, your Honour, I was mad about that dress. I had to have it. I had dreams about it. I even saw it in my soup. At last, one day I decided to buy the dress with the housekeeping money. So I made up a story.
BEBA (as judge). What kind of story?
CUCA (as mother. With great self-confidence). When Albert got home, drunk as usual, I said to him: look, dear, will you have a word with your son . . . (Goes up to BEBA to whisper in her ear.) Because I think he’s stolen some money from us.
BEBA (as judge). Why did you do it?
CUCA (as mother. Vulgarly). I don’t know . . . It was easier that way . . . (She finishes the story with a flourish.) So Albert took off his belt and beat poor little Lalo . . . Oh, I hate to think how many times he beat him . . . In fact, he was completely innocent, but . . . I wanted that red dress so much! (Going up to LALO.) Do you forgive me, my son?
LALO (hard). There’s nothing to forgive.
CUCA (as mother. Slightly hysterical). Have some respect, Lalo. (In a dramatic tone of voice.) I’ve changed. I’m fat and ugly now . . . Ah, this body!
LALO. Don’t think about it.
CUCA (as mother. With authority). Show some respect, I said.
LALO. I was only playing around.
CUCA (as mother. Hard and imperious). Well, don’t play with me. Your father is an old fool who’s chasing something which doesn’t exist. So are you. Let him be a lesson to you . . . He thinks he’s Superman, but actually he’s a nobody. He’s always been a failure. He’s always been all talk, and he thinks he can carry on like that. Sometimes I wish he’d lie down and die. Why did I have to get hitched to a man who couldn’t offer me a better life than this? (Pause.) Come on. (Pause.) If it wasn’t for me, your Honour, this house wouldn’t even be standing . . . It was all me . . .
LALO (as father. In an assured, almost frightening voice). She’s lying, your Honour.
CUCA (as mother. To LALO). How dare you?
LALO (as father. To BEBA). It’s true. She’s trying to paint everything black. She sees only the motes in the eyes of others, not the beam in her own. I have been at fault at times as a parent. And so has she. (In a more assured tone of voice.) Like all parents we’ve done some things which have been unfair and other things which have been unforgivable.
CUCA (as mother). You used to come home with lipstick on your collar.
LALO (as father). Shut up. You don’t want me to tell the truth.
CUCA (as mother). Your honour, he was always drinking, he used to bring his friends over at all hours of the night . . .
LALO (as father). Who wears the trousers in our house?
CUCA (as mother). I’m in charge of the house.
LALO (as father). There. ‘I’m in charge of the house.’ Yes, you, you’re in charge all right. That’s all your life comes down to. You’ve made fun of me. You’ve humiliated me. That’s the truth. Domination. (Short pause.) I’ve been an idiot, a complete asshole, if you’ll excuse my French.
CUCA (as mother). Well done. At least you admit it.
LALO (as father). What’s the point of denying it? (Pause. Ordering his thoughts.) I went into marriage with few illusions. If I said I was pinning all my hopes on marriage, I’d be both exaggerating and lying. I went into it like most people, thinking that it would sort out a few problems: clothes, food, stability . . . some company and . . . well . . . a few little liberties. (Kicking himself inside.) Idiot! You idiot! (Pause.) I never thought it would turn out like it did.
CUCA (as mother). You never thought, full stop. ‘You take the low road and I’ll take the high road.’ That’s what a lot of people think. But I was different.
LALO (as father). She’s right there. She certainly was very different. The problems started a few days before the wedding: the church wasn’t smart enough, the train on your dress wasn’t long enough. And your sisters said this, and your mother said that, and your cousin said the other, and your aunt said something else, and your friends didn’t agree at all, and your granny thought we should have invited the so-and-sos, and that the cake should have been ten rather than nine tiers high, and that your friends should come from better backgrounds . . .
CUCA (as mother). Go on, go on. Spit it all out, get it all out of your system. At last I can see that you hate me.
LALO (as father). Yes, I do. And I don’t know why. But I know I do. When we were just going out you went to bed with me because you knew that was the only way you could catch me. And that’s the truth.
CUCA (as mother). Carry on, carry on. Don’t stop.
LALO (as father). You didn’t want kids. You hated them. But no way could you stay single. No way. You had to catch a husband. It didn’t matter who. Having one was all that mattered.
CUCA (as mother. Going up to him furiously). I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
LALO (as father). A husband made you feel secure. A husband made you respectable. (Ironically.) Respectable . . . (Pause.) I can’t quite explain . . . Anyway, life is like that, so if you want to . . .
CUCA (as mother). Lies, lies, lies.
LALO (as father). Will you let me finish?
CUCA (out of part). You’re cheating again.
LALO (as father). You don’t want people to know the truth.
CUCA (out of part). I’m talking about something else.
LALO (as father). You’re scared of seeing it through to the end.
CUCA (out of part). You’re trying to crush me.
LALO (as father). And you? What have you been doing? Tell me. What have you done to me? And to them? (Mocking.) ‘I’m growing ugly, Albert. I’m in the family way. We can’t bring them up on your salary.’ (Pause.) And I didn’t know the reasons, the real reasons. And today, I say to you: ‘Put your hand on your heart and answer this question: Did you ever love me?’ (Pause.) Oh well, don’t say anything. I can see clearly now. It’s taken years to sink in. ‘Albert, those children . . . I can’t handle them. You take care of them.’ As time passed, your demands grew greater, and your selfishness grew with them. (Pause.) And me, in the office, with my figures, and the gossip and the friends who came up to me and said: ‘How long are you going to put up with this, mate?’
CUCA starts singing: ‘The living room is not the living room, the living room is the kitchen. The bedroom is not the bedroom, the bedroom is the bathroom.’ CUCA’s singing and LALO’s words should proceed in counterpoint. BEBA starts singing, first as a growl and then gradually becoming a sweet, simple, almost naive song.
LALO (continues, mockingly). And you? ‘Your sister called today. She’s so nosey. Oh, these children. Look at my hands: the washing up did this. I’m losing my mind, Albert, I wish I were dead.’ And then came your tears and the children started screaming and I thought I was going mad and everything started spinning . . . I used to escape from the house, sometimes at midnight, and go for a few drinks, and I felt like I was drowning, drowning. (Pause. Without taking a breath.) And other women were there and I didn’t dare think about them . . . And I felt a terrible urge to leave, to fly away, to break with everything. (Pause.) But I was afraid, and fear paralysed me and I couldn’t make up my mind and I got stuck between two stools. I thought one thing and I did another. It’s terrible to have to admit it. And only to realise at the end. (Pause.) I couldn’t do it. (To the audience.) Lalo, if you want to do it, you can. (Pause.) Now I ask myself why I didn’t live out all my thoughts, all my desires. And I have to reply: because I was afraid, afraid, afraid.
CUCA (as mother. Sarcastically). Well, honey, you can’t blame me for that. (Pause, defiantly.
) And what did you want me to do? Those children were a nightmare. They turned my house into a pigsty. Lalo ripped the curtains and smashed the crockery. Beba wasn’t content with tearing apart the pillows . . . And you expected to come home and find everything tickety-boo. Do you remember when Lalo peed all over the living room? You threw a fit and said. ‘That never happened in my home.’ Was that my fault as well? Eh? I used to put a chair here. (Moves a chair.) And I would find it over here. (Moves the chair to another place.) What was I supposed to do?
LALO (as father. Beaten). The house had to be cleaned. (BEBA stops singing.) Yes . . . The furniture had to be changed . . . (Pause. With great melancholy.) We really should have found a new house. (Pause. Slowly.) But we’re old now and we can’t. We are dead. (Long pause. Violently.) You always thought you were better than me.
CUCA (as mother). I’ve wasted my life away on you.
LALO (as father. Vengefully). You can’t escape, love. Carry on. Carry on. Carry on.
CUCA (as mother. Sobbing). You pathetic pen-pusher. I wish you were dead.
BEBA (as LALO. Shouting and moving in circles around the stage). Throw out the carpets. Pull down the curtains. The living room is not the living room. The living room is the kitchen. The bedroom is not the bedroom. The bedroom is the bathroom. (BEBA and LALO are at opposite ends of the stage with their backs to the audience. LALO doubles up slowly with a piercing scream.) Ayyyyyy! (Sobbing.) I can see my dead mother. I can see my father with his throat cut. Tear this house down.
Long pause.
LALO. Open the door.
LALO falls to his knees. CUCA slowly gets up, walks over to the door upstage and opens it. Pause. Goes over to the table and picks up the knife.
BEBA (in a normal tone of voice). How do you feel?
CUCA (in a normal tone of voice). Stronger.
BEBA. Satisfied?
CUCA. Yes.
BEBA. Really?
CUCA. Really.
BEBA. Are you ready to do it again?
Latin American Plays Page 11