Latin American Plays

by Sebastian Doggart

CUCA. You know the answer to that.

  BEBA. One day we’ll do it for real.

  CUCA (interrupting). Without anything going wrong.

  BEBA. Were you surprised you managed to do it?

  CUCA. Everything’s surprising.

  LALO (sobbing). Oh, Beba, Cuca, if only love could do it . . . If only love . . . Because in spite of everything, I love them.

  CUCA (playing with the knife). That’s ridiculous.

  BEBA (to CUCA). Poor little thing, let him be.

  CUCA (to BEBA. Laughing mockingly). Look at him. (To LALO.) That’s how I like to see you.

  BEBA (serious again). All right. Now it’s my turn.

  Curtain.

  INTERVIEW WITH JOSÉ TRIANA

  SD: What was the initial stimulus for Night of the Assassins?

  JT: My two younger sisters and I used to shut ourselves up to invent games in which we acted out scenes from adult life. We dressed up and acted out thousands of strange things. My father earned enough to support us, but we were a poor family. I was always passionate about the games I played with my sisters. Sometimes we did dangerous things. When I was eight, I accidentaly tore off my sister’s fingernail. That engraved itself on my mind. Growing up, I realised that theatre was the game turned into a ritual. When I started writing Night of the Assassins, it had characteristics of the ‘enter Mother, enter Father’ kind of theatre, with lots of characters. But then I turned it into something much more synthetic, and cut it down to a game played by three siblings. There is nothing autobiographical about it because in our house we never tried to kill our parents, who were very sweet. But I recognise it does contain the suggestion that we must all separate ourselves from our parents. We must do what our parents have not done.

  SD: How would you summarise the play in one sentence?

  JT: Let us live without fear. All our acts are weighed down by the terrible weight of fear, but I still want to live without it. I want people to live life as they dream it.

  SD: Isn’t the play as much about love as it is about fear?

  JT: It’s about desperate love, about people who don’t know where to place their love. They talk about hatred, but it is love that lies behind their words. They are ashamed to say the words ‘I love you.’ Like many people, they are not used to saying those words, because they feel they are not allowed to.

  SD: How important is the theme of power?

  JT: I have tried to use family power relations and family games as a way of confronting the theme of power. So there are two games: the generational game, and the game of power. Many people look for someone to resolve their problems, but they should be seeking to be more humble. We all think we’re very important, but we should see ourselves more as leaves in the wind. We should each search to realise the dream of being an averagely perfect man.

  SD: You wrote the play six years after the Cuban Revolution. Does it comment on it at all?

  JT: Yes. I told the Cuban revolution in the play: ‘There are evils in our house. It is getting old and dirty and smelly. We have to tidy it up.’

  SD: What does the play say about the nuclear family?

  JT: It asks whether there are foundations other than the nuclear family on which we can build contemporary society. Why does Lalo want to play the game and then decide not to play any more? Once he has committed the hypothetical crime, he realises that he has failed. He says that it’s not possible any more. But the others insist. They keep acting like their parents. Their game is transformed into the terrible game of their mother and father.

  SD: Do you think that there are aspects of the play which are uniquely Cuban or Latin American?

  JT: The play is definitely Cuban.

  SD: In what way?

  JT: In every way. The characters, how they move, all their gibberish – it is all Cuban. I am a man from the tropics, who gesticulates, who externalises things in a very different way to someone English or French. An actor needs to understand this to seduce the audience. The actor needs to be physically free.

  SD: How would you advise a European performer to understand Cuban physicality?

  JT: He needs to know Cuban music: the danzón, which is the classic Cuban dance music, or the son. He must know Cuban gestures as well. There may be universal themes in the play, but the behaviour of the characters is somehow dislocated, extravagant. The actors’ movement should come from the solar plexus.

  SD: What is the physical relationship between the three performers?

  JT: They seduce each other, they repel each other, as always happens.

  SD: By seduction, do you mean that there is a sexual love between the siblings?

  JT: Sometimes yes, sometimes no. They take hold of each others’ faces and bodies, they caress each other sometimes, protect each other. Because they are alone.

  SD: Is that dangerous?

  JT: Naturally. But incest is also a fundamental thing. Who is not incestuous? What mother, what father, what child is not incestuous? They must be, because love lies between them. If the director manages to give the performers rhythm and grace, the audience will accept that.

  SD: What are the things you have liked and disliked about the productions you have seen of the play?

  JT: I have seen seven different productions. I saw the premiere in Cuba. I saw a scandalous one in England where the acting was extraordinary, but I didn’t like how they transposed a Nazi world into the play. Then I saw one in New York in which the actors were good, but the director did not understand the play. He wanted to turn it into a mass murder. The actors opposed this, as did I. Then I saw something the critic Diana Taylor did with the play. I have also seen two productions from Miami. The most recent one suffered from the most common defect, which is the vulgarisation of the text. There was one scene in which the actress took out her breasts to act out the mother feeding her child. That was not necessary. But it also achieved a mobility which seduced both European and Latin American people in the audience. The silly game of the chair took on a magical dimension on the stage. They were living in an enchanted world in which they really could kill their parents. They set very funny traps for the audience, like the sound of the doorbell made by the actress. All these productions were very different, and I think the play is wide open to interpretation.

  SD: How would you advise a designer to investigate the play?

  JT: Investigate all the artistic associations suggested by the text. Let out the little child inside you. Fill it with all the images you have of when you were a child: hats, a little moon, clay, a feather duster, a flower. They must all become magical when they are in contact with the actors, and that must be communicated to the audience. Nothing repressive, no coarse realism. Everything should be light. The knives can be two sticks. Just things from children’s games. Let the objects be a response to the invisible. All the time the audience should be going in and out of the invisible. Trapping the invisible is what art is all about.

  SD: What kind of music do you associate with the play?

  JT: Cuban music. A batá drum, for example. Or a bolero like Te odio. The actors could just start singing it, and dancing to it. European music could be there too, like some of Piaf’s songs, or Ne me quittes pas, as sung by Nina Simone.

  SD: Does the play have any roots in the Afro-Catholic religion of santería which is so important in Cuba?

  JT: Yes. No one knows that. No one has discovered that before. They are in a room of mysteries, a secret world.

  This was a verbal interview conducted in Spanish, in Paris in December 1993.

  SAYING YES

  by Griselda Gambaro

  Decir Sí was written in 1974 and first performed at the Teatro del Picadero, Buenos Aires in July, 1981, with the following cast:

  PELUQUERO

  Leal Rey

  HOMBRE

  Jorge Petraglia

  Director Jorge Petraglia

  This translation of Saying Yes was first performed at the Gate Theatre, London on January 21, 1996, with the follow
ing cast:

  HAIRDRESSER

  Kevin Colson

  MAN

  Emilio Doorgasingh

  Director Sebastian Doggart

  Inside a hairdresser’s. A window and a door. A hairdresser’s swivel chair, a chair, a little table with scissors, a comb and shaving instruments on it. A big white cloth, and some dirty rags. Two bins on the floor, one big, one small, with lids. A dustpan and brush. A free-standing mirror. The ground around the chair is covered with cut hair. The HAIRDRESSER is sitting on the chair. He leafs through a magazine, waiting for the last customer of the day. He is a big, silent man, who moves slowly. He looks troubled but inscrutable. It is disconcerting not to know what lies behind his look. He never raises his voice, which is sad and servile. The MAN enters. He looks very shy and insecure.

  MAN. Good afternoon.

  HAIRDRESSER (raises his eyes from the magazine, looks at him. After a moment). . . . afternoon . . . (Does not move.)

  The MAN tries a smile, which is met with no reply. Looks at his watch furtively. Waits. The HAIRDRESSER throws the magazine down on the table, and gets up as though he were containing his fury. But instead of looking after his customer, he goes over and looks out the window, his back turned.

  MAN (conciliatory). It’s clouded over. (Waits. Pause.) It’s hot. (No reply. Loosens the knot of his tie, slightly nervous. The HAIRDRESSER turns round and looks at him sternly. The MAN loses his confidence.) Not that hot . . . (Without going nearer, he cranes his neck towards the window.) Not a cloud in the sky . . . Cc . . . cleared up. I was wrong. (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him inscrutably, motionless.) I wanted . . . (Pause. Raises his hand to his head and gestures vaguely.) If . . . if it’s not too late . . . (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him without replying. Then he turns his back on him again and looks out of the window. The MAN is anxious.) Has it clouded over?

  The HAIRDRESSER is motionless for a moment. Then he turns round.

  HAIRDRESSER (brusquely). Shave?

  MAN (quickly). Not, not a shave. (Inscrutable look.) Well . . . I don’t know. I . . . I shave myself. On my own. (The HAIRDRESSER is silent.) I know it’s not convenient, but . . . Well, maybe you can give me a shave. Yes, yes, a shave too. (Goes over to the chair. Puts a foot on the footrest. Looks at the HAIRDRESSER waiting for an invitation, who gives him a faint, obscure gesture. The MAN does not dare sit down. He takes his foot down. Touches the chair timidly.) This chair is strong, solid. Made . . . made of wood. Antique. (The HAIRDRESSER does not reply. He nods and stares intently at the seat of the chair. The MAN follows the HAIRDRESSER’s gaze. He sees cut hair on the seat. Impulsively, he picks it up. Looks at the ground.) May I? . . . (Waits. Slowly, the HAIRDRESSER shakes his head. The MAN is conciliatory.) Sure, that would be filthy. (Realises that the floor is covered with cut hair. Smiles, confused. Looks at the hair in his hand, then at the ground, and finally decides to put the hair in his pocket. The HAIRDRESSER smiles brusquely. The MAN is relieved.) Well . . . a haircut and . . . a shave, yes, a shave. (The HAIRDRESSER, who has stopped smiling suddenly, scrutinises the chair. The MAN does the same. Impulsively, the MAN takes one of the dirty rags and cleans the seat. The HAIRDRESSER leans over and stares sternly at the back of the chair. The MAN looks at him, then follows the direction of his gaze. On another sudden impulse, he cleans the back of the chair. Happy.) There you are. It doesn’t bother me. (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him inscrutably, which disconcerts him.) Lending a hand . . . Isn’t that what we are here for? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I don’t mean that rudely! It’s just a saying . . . silly people have. (Waits. The HAIRDRESSER is silent and motionless.) You . . . must be tired. Lots of customers?

  HAIRDRESSER (laconically). Enough.

  MAN (timidly). May . . . may I sit down? (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him inscrutably.) Well, I don’t have to. Perhaps you’re tired. When I am tired . . . I get in a bad mood . . . But as you were open, I thought . . . You were open, weren’t you?

  HAIRDRESSER. Open.

  MAN (more confidently). May I sit down? (The HAIRDRESSER slowly shakes his head.) All in all, I don’t . . . have to. Maybe you cut hair standing up. I like to eat steak standing up myself. It’s not the same thing, I know, but you feel steadier. If you have good legs! (Laughs. Interrupts himself.) Not everyone has . . . You do!

  The HAIRDRESSER pays no attention to him. He stares at the ground. The MAN follows his gaze. The HAIRDRESSER looks at him as if he were expecting him to act in a particular way. The MAN quickly picks up the gist. He takes the brush and sweeps the cut hair into a pile. Looks at the HAIRDRESSER happily. The HAIRDRESSER turns his head to the dustpan, and makes the slightest hint of a gesture. The MAN is quick to respond. He takes the dustpan and scoops up the hair from the ground, helping with his hands. He blows to sweep up the last of the hair, but scatters the hair already in the dustpan. Worried, he looks around him, sees the bins, opens the bigger one, and says happily.

  Shall I throw it in here? (The HAIRDRESSER shakes his head. The MAN opens the smaller one.) Here? (The HAIRDRESSER nods. The MAN looks encouraged.) There you are. (Big smile.) All done. Nice and clean. Because it’s disgusting if you let that mess pile up. (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him darkly. The MAN loses confidence.) No . . . nooo. I didn’t mean it was dirty. Lots of customers, lots of hair. Lots of cut hair, and bristles too, and then it gets mixed up and . . . Hair grows so fast, doesn’t it? Better for you! (Laughs stupidly.) I say that because . . . If we were all bald, you could sit back and take it easy. (Interrupts himself. Quickly.) I didn’t mean that. You’d find another job.

  HAIRDRESSER (neutrally). I could be a doctor.

  MAN (relieved). Ah! Would you like to be a doctor? Operating, curing people. Pity that we all die, isn’t it? (Cheerfully.) People always die on doctors! Sooner or later. (Laughs and stops with a gesture. The HAIRDRESSER’s face is very dark. The MAN is frightened.) No, they wouldn’t die on you! You would have customers, patients, who were very old. (Inscrutable look.) Ancient. (The HAIRDRESSER continues staring.) We’d live forever. If you were a doctor, we’d live forever.

  HAIRDRESSER (softly and sadly). Nonsense.

  Goes over to the mirror, looks at himself. Gets closer and then moves away, as if he cannot see himself clearly. Then he looks at the MAN, as if he were to blame.)

  MAN. You can’t see. (Impulsively, he takes the rag with which he cleaned the chair and cleans the mirror. The HAIRDRESSER takes the rag out of his hands and gives him a smaller one.) Thank you. (Cleans the mirror diligently. Spits on it and rubs. Happy.) Look yourself. The flies have crapped on it.

  HAIRDRESSER (mournfully). Flies?

  MAN. No, no. Dust.

  HAIRDRESSER (as before). Dust?

  MAN. No, no. Misted up. Misted up by breath. (Quickly.) Mine. (Cleans.) They’re good mirrors. The ones they make today make us look like . . .

  HAIRDRESSER (weakly) Marmots . . .

  MAN (confidently). Yes, marmots! (The HAIRDRESSER, as if he were carrying out a test, looks at himself in the mirror, and then looks at the MAN. The MAN corrects himself quickly.) Not everyone! The ones who are marmots! Me! More of a marmot than me!

  HAIRDRESSER (sadly and weakly). Impossible. (Looks at himself in the mirror. Passes his hand over his cheeks, checking whether he has any stubble. Touches his long hair, pulls the forelocks.)

  MAN. And who cuts your hair? Do you do it yourself? What a problem. It’s like being a dentist. Now that makes me laugh. (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him. He loses confidence.) Opening your mouth and taking your own tooth out . . . Impossible . . . Although a hairdresser could, if he had a mirror . . . (Moves his fingers like scissors over his neck.) Why should I want to stick my face in someone else’s gob. It makes me feel sick. It’s not like hair. Better to be a hairdresser than a dentist. It’s more . . . hygienic. People nowadays don’t have . . . lice. A bit of dandruff, grease. (The HAIRDRESSER parts the hair on his scalp, looks as if he were checking something, then looks at the MAN.) No, not you. No sirree! Me! (Checks.) M
e neither . . . You don’t have to worry about me. (The HAIRDRESSER sits down on the chair. Indicates the shaving instruments. The MAN looks at the instruments and then at the HAIRDRESSER.. He understands the implication. Recoils.) I . . . I can’t. I’ve never . . .

  HAIRDRESSER (weakly). Go on. (Ties the white cloth under his own chin, waits calmly.)

  MAN (determined). Tell me, do you do this to everyone?

  HAIRDRESSER (very sadly). Do what? (Leans right back in the chair.)

  MAN. No, because you don’t have enough faces! (Laughs without conviction.) Once one person has shaved you, anyone else would . . . What would they find? (The HAIRDRESSER indicates the utensils.) Well, if you want, why not? Once, when I was a boy, everyone jumped across a puddle, a smelly, green puddle, and I didn’t want to. ‘I won’t!’, I said. ‘Let those idiots jump across if they want to’.

  HAIRDRESSER (sadly). Did you fall in?

  MAN. Me? No . . . They threw me in, because . . . (shrugs his shoulders) It . . . annoyed them that I didn’t want to . . . risk it. (Cheers up again.) So . . . why not? Jump across the puddle or . . . hey, give someone a shave? You don’t need any particular skill, do you? Even idiots can shave themselves! There’s no special skill in it! Any old fool can be a hairdre . . . ! (Interrupts himself. The HAIRDRESSER looks at him gloomily.) But no. You have to have a good aim, a steady hand, a sharp . . . eye to see . . . the hair . . . I pull out the ingrowing ones with little tweezers. (The HAIRDRESSER sighs deeply.) Alright, alright! Don’t be impatient. (He lathers the HAIRDRESSER’s face.) There. I’ve never met anyone so impatient. It’s exhausting. (Realises what he has said and corrects himself.) No, you are dynamically exhausting. Exhausting to other people. But not to me . . . it doesn’t affect me. I understand. Action is the spice of life and life is action and . . . (His hand trembles, he touches the HAIRDRESSER’s mouth with the soapy brush. The HAIRDRESSER slowly takes a corner of the cloth and wipes himself. Looks at the MAN.) Sorry. (Brings the razor up to the HAIRDRESSER’s face. He stops and looks at the old and rusty razor. In a barely audible voice.) It’s jagged.