HAIRDRESSER (mournfully). Impeccable.
MAN. It’s impeccable. (On a desperate impulse.) Old, rusty, and blunt, but impeccable! (Laughs hysterically.) Don’t say anything! I believe you, and you wouldn’t say one thing and mean another. Why would you do that? It’s your face, isn’t it? (Brusquely.) Don’t you have a strop, a sharpening stone? (The HAIRDRESSER snorts sadly, which discourages the MAN.) A . . . knife? (Makes a sharpening gesture.) Well, I have my character and . . . on we go! I’m made that way! (Makes a pushing gesture with his finger.) I am what I am! I can fly! (Shaves. Stops.) Did I cut you? (The HAIRDRESSER shakes his head mournfully. Encouraged, the MAN shaves.) Aahh! (Dries him hurriedly with the cloth.) Don’t panic. (Exaggerated.) Blood! No, a scratch! I’m . . . very nervous. I’ll put a little onion skin on it. Do you have any . . . onions? (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him darkly.) Wait! (Goes through his pockets anxiously. Pleased, he pulls out a sticking plaster.) I . . . I always carry one with me. In case my feet hurt, I walk a lot, and it gets hot . . . a blister here, and another . . . there. (Puts the plaster on him.) Perfect! Anyone would have thought I was a professional! (The HAIRDRESSER takes off the rest of the soap from his face, putting an end to the shave. Without getting up from the chair, he leans forward towards the mirror, looks at himself, pulls off the plaster, and throws it to the ground. The MAN picks it up, tries to straighten it out, and puts it in his pocket.) I’ll keep it . . . it’s almost new . . . it might be useful for another . . . shave . . .
HAIRDRESSER (points to a flask, weakly). Cologne.
MAN. Oh, yes! Cologne. (Opens the bottle, smells it.) What a lovely smell! (Gags at the nauseating smell. Disgusted, he pours some cologne into his hands and slaps it on to the HAIRDRESSER’s face. Rubs his hands to get rid of the smell. Puts one hand to his nose to check whether the smell has disappeared, pulls it away quickly, on the verge of vomiting.)
HAIRDRESSER (sweeping his hair back with his hand. Weakly). Haircut.
MAN. A haircut as well? I . . . I can’t. I really can’t do that.
HAIRDRESSER (as before). Haircut.
MAN. Look, sir. I came here to have my hair cut. I came to have my hair cut! I have never had to deal with a situation as . . . extraordinary as this. Unusual . . . but if you want . . . I . . . (Takes the scissors, looks at them with disgust.) I’m a determined man . . . in everything. Everything! Because my mother taught me that . . . and life . . .
HAIRDRESSER (gloomily). Chit-chat. (Sighs.) Why don’t you concentrate?
MAN. What for? And who wants to stop me from chit-chatting? (Waves the scissors.) Who would dare? You see what happens to anyone who dares? (Dark look from the HAIRDRESSER.) Do you want me to shut up? As you like. You! You’ll be the one responsible! Don’t blame me if . . . Right now I could do anything I felt like!
HAIRDRESSER. Haircut.
MAN (tenderly and persuasively). Please no, not the hair, better not to mess around with your hair . . . what’s the point? It really suits you long . . . it’s modern. Hip . . .
HAIRDRESSER (mournfully and inexorably). Haircut.
MAN. Oh, yes? A haircut, is it? Come on then! You’re hard-headed, aren’t you? But mine is harder! (Points to his head.) I have a rock up here. (Laughs like someone condemned to death.) I’m not easily persuaded! No, sir! I won’t tell you about those who’ve tried. There’s no need! And when I like something, nobody gets in my way. Nobody! And I can assure you that . . . there is nothing I like more than . . . cutting hair! I . . . I’m crazy about it! (Excitedly, brusquely.) I have a blister on my hand! I can’t cut your hair! (Puts the scissors down. Happy.) It hurts.
HAIRDRESSER. Hair – cut.
MAN (takes hold of the scissors, beaten). You’re the boss.
HAIRDRESSER. Sing.
MAN. What me? Sing? (Laughs stupidly.) Not on your life . . . Never! (The HAIRDRESSER half sits up in his chair, and looks at him. The MAN speaks very faintly.) Sing what? (The HAIRDRESSER replies by shrugging his shoulders sadly. He reclines again in his seat. The MAN sings in a barely audible voice.) Fígaro! . . . Fígaro . . . qua, Fígaro là . . . !
(Starts to cut.)
HAIRDRESSER (weakly, wearily). Sing better. I don’t like it.
MAN. Fígaro! (Increases the volume.) Fígaro, Fígaro! (Lets out a terrible squeak.)
HAIRDRESSER (as before). Shut up.
MAN. You’re the boss. The customer is always right! Although the customer . . . is me . . . (The HAIRDRESSER stares at him) is you . . . (Cuts his hair terribly. Tries to improve the situation, but makes it worse, becoming more and more nervous.) If I don’t sing, I can concentrate . . . better. (Clenching his teeth.) I’ll just think about this, about cutting, (cuts) and . . . (With hatred) Take that! (Cuts off a big clump. Horrified at what he has done. Steps back, holding the clump of hair in his hand. Then he tries to stick it back on the HAIRDRESSER’s head. He wets the clump of hair with some saliva. Keeps trying. Cannot do it. Smiles falsely.) No, no, no. Don’t panic. I cut off a long bit, but . . . no harm done. Hair is my speciality. I take some off and then make it all even. (He surreptitiously drops the clump of hair and kicks it away. Cuts.) Very good! (The HAIRDRESSER is looking at himself in the mirror.) Head down a bit! (Tries to lower his head, the HAIRDRESSER lifts it up.) Don’t you want to? (Tries again.) Come on, come on, you’re being difficult . . . Isn’t the mirror misty? (Tries to mist it up with his breath.) It doesn’t show you how you really are, you know! (Looks at the HAIRDRESSER. He is petrified by the HAIRDRESSER’s smiling face, but tries again.) When the girls see you . . . they’ll say: ‘Who cut that gentleman’s hair?’ (He hardly cuts, just snipping the top. Without conviction.)A hairdresser . . . from France . . . (Desolate.) But no. It was me . . .
HAIRDRESSER (raises his hand slowly. Sadly.). Enough. (Goes up to the mirror, realises he looks a mess, but does not reveal any obvious fury).
MAN. I can carry on. (The HAIRDRESSER continues looking at himself.) Give me another chance! I haven’t finished. I’ll take a little off here, and the sideburns, I’ve still got the sideburns to do! And the moustache. You don’t have one. Why don’t you let your moustache grow? I can leave mine to grow as well, and that way we can be like brothers! (Laughs anxiously. The HAIRDRESSER flattens the hair over his temples. The MAN perks up.) Yes, yes, it suits you smoothed down like that. Just right. Oh, I like it. (The HAIRDRESSER gets up from the chair. The MAN recoils.) That was . . . an interesting experience. How much do I owe you? No you should owe me, shouldn’t you? I mean, normally. But it’s not an abnormal situation either. It’s . . . funny. That’s it: funny. (Exaggerated.) Ha, ha, ha! (Humbly.) No, it’s not that funny. Do you . . . do you like how . . . (The HAIRDRESSER looks at him inscrutably.) . . . I cut it? Considering I’m a . . . beginner . . . (The HAIRDRESSER pulls at the hair on the back of his neck.) We could be partners . . . No, no! I don’t want to interfere in your business! I know you have many customers, I don’t want to take them away from you! They are all yours! They belong to you! Every little hair in here is yours! Don’t get me wrong. I could work for free. Me! Please! (Almost crying.) I told you I didn’t know how to! You made me! I can’t say no when people ask me for something . . . so nicely! And what does it matter? I didn’t cut your arm off! If you’d lost your arm, you could have complained. Or lost a leg! But to worry about your hair! What an idiot! No! Not, an idiot! Hair grows! In a week’s time, you . . . Well! Down to the ground! (The HAIRDRESSER points to the chair. The MAN reacts incredulously to the offer, and his eyes light up.) Is it my turn? (Looks behind him as if searching for someone.) Good, good! At last, we understand each other! All things come to him who waits! (Sits down, arranges himself happily.) A haircut and a shave, please! (The HAIRDRESSER ties the cloth under the MAN’s chin. Swivels the chair round. Takes the razor and smiles. The MAN lifts his head.) Cut well. Nice and even.
The HAIRDRESSER plunges the razor into the MAN. A big scream. Swivels the chair again. The white cloth is drenched in blood which trickles to the floor. He take
s the small cloth and dries it delicately. He lets out a deep, weary, good-natured sigh. He stops cleaning. Picks up the magazine and sits down. Lifts his hand to his head, and pulls off a wig. Throws it on to the MAN’s head. Opens the magazine and starts to whistle sweetly.
Curtain.
INTERVIEW WITH GRISELDA GAMBARO
SD: What led you to write Saying Yes?
GG: I wanted to express metaphorically an individual and social identity. Using humour and a specific medium, the theatre, I told a story of different types of conduct – passivity, indiscriminate assent, pusillanimity – which were taken to the limit, in order to stimulate reflection about daily behaviour.
SD. In what ways have you seen Saying Yes produced?
GG: I have only seen two productions of Saying Yes. As a principle, I only attend the premieres of my plays and some functions related to that premiere. From time to time I break this rule because of special circumstances, such as a director who particularly interests me, or the promise of an exceptional performance. I saw the premiere of Saying Yes in Buenos Aires in 1982, as part of a programme called Open Theatre (Teatro Abierto), made up of short plays by different writers produced in a spirit of solidarity by the best directors, actors and designers, as a protest to the military dictatorship. Then, years later, I saw a production in New Hampshire, USA, where the Man greatly resembled Woody Allen, both physically and in his acting. In that staging, Saying Yes took on a local character. Yet even in another language I saw that the situations retained the same resonance. It was a stimulating interpretation, both for its scenic effectiveness and for the reception it provoked from the audience, who reacted in an immediate way to the comedy of the text. I noticed that the audience did not place itself imaginatively in another country in order to understand the play, but did so in its own.
SD: How do you fit into the tradition of the ‘grotesque’ in Argentine theatre?
GG: The grotesque has been very important in Argentina, particularly as a result of the great playwright Armando Discépolo (1887-1971). Taking the model of Pirandello’s grotesque he created an autonomous product with its own characteristics. In this way the grotesque had a great impact on the Argentine stage, and with distinct variations it influenced many Argentine playwrights for more than half a century. Although I do not consider myself to be a playwright belonging to that genre, its way of observing has influenced me, as has both its sudden alternations between humour and the dramatic, and its treatment of the ridiculous.
SD: What role does naturalism have in your work?
GG: I would not define my theatre as ‘naturalistic’ nor do I think that it contains elements of naturalism. I have not been interested in following that line. In my theatre there is a tension which breaks with the notion of ‘the natural’. Situations and the use of language are accentuated in a way that does not correspond to naturalism.
SD: What relationship, if any, does your theatre have to Antonin Artaud’s ‘theatre of cruelty’?
GG: I have taken on the transgressive impulses of the ‘theatre of cruelty’, and I am grateful to Artaud for warning us about empty forms and the disadvantages of psychological and analytical theatre. I do not share Artaud’s other views, or I use them selectively, since many of his hypotheses are reactions to a sophisticated society and the rational, discursive French theatre of his age. This has not been, nor is, the situation of Latin American society and theatre.
SD: In what ways do you think your theatre is specifically Argentine?
GG: My theatre is specifically Argentine, because it could not be anything else. I was born in Argentina; I use and recreate its language; and I feed off its historical, social and political reality. I work with the sediment and the resulting product is a culture which is mestizo, a hybrid of the little-known indigenous culture on one hand, and the immigrant culture on the other. I believe I carry forward the old indigenous gesture of putting the ear to the ground and writing and narrating, through the novel or the theatre, what the earth dictates to me.
SD: Which writers have influenced you as a playwright?
GG: I have been influenced by many playwrights, especially Shakespeare, Chekhov, Pirandello, O’Neill, Armando Discépolo, Francisco Defilippis Novoa (1892-1930) and Roberto Arlt (1900-1942). I have also been influenced by poets and novelists, who have broadened my horizons.
SD: What kind of theatre do you enjoy going to?
GG: The only thing which matters to me is the quality of each theatrical experience, and I have no preference for any particular genre or aesthetic trend. I do remember some magnificent productions: one I saw in Argentina in 1995 of Heiner Müller’s Hamlet Machine, by a group called The Ring-Road of Objects (El Periférico de Objetos) who work with puppets in an entirely original approach. From Europe, I particularly remember the Oresteia, directed by Peter Stein; Le Récit de la servante Zerline by Klaus-Michel Grüber; and Une femme douce by Robert Wilson.
SD: Have you been able to earn a living by writing?
GG: Yes. I receive performance and publication royalties, both from novels and the theatre, and I earn fees from conferences and jury panels.
SD: How important to your writing and your identity as a writer is the fact that you are a woman?
GG: We write what we are, and I cannot write outside my gender, which has marked me biologically, socially and culturally. Writing, identity and gender for me make up one single package.
SD: Is there a feminist dimension to the plays you write?
GG: I am principally concerned about writing good plays and I absolutely do not force myself to include a feminist dimension in them. However, in plays like Bad Blood (La Mala Sangre, 1983), From the Rising Sun (Del Sol Naciente, 1984), and Minor Concerns (Penas sin Importancia, 1990), although I would not say there was a feminist dimension, the focus does centre more on the female. Their protagonists are women and those plays reveal a commitment to and an identification with women which is more explicit and obvious than in other works.
SD: Do you think your gender has helped or hindered your career as a playwright, both in Latin America and outside?
GG: The fact I am a woman may have helped, in some circumstances, to publicise my plays in Latin America, the USA and Europe. But this remains in the realm of speculation. I prefer to think that interest has been due to the fact that the plays were good.
SD: One of the most common explanations for the small number of women playwrights in Latin America is that male chauvinism has blocked women playwrights, not only from having their works staged, translated or published, but by discouraging them from writing or thinking about writing in the first place. Would you agree with this?
GG: I think that has been the case, although the situation has been reversed in recent times. The theatre has a direct connection with society, and as standards have changed in society and women have won over areas previously reserved for men, so women have also conquered the area of play writing. Of course, at the beginning of the century it was unthinkable for a woman to be given incentives to write drama – although some did. Today, not only are the incentives there, but there are also greater possibilities of production, translation and publication. Nevertheless, there are still areas which have not been conquered at all, and where the smaller presence of women is very evident, for example in every kind of anthology, and in the composition of jury panels. This has not been because there is a general lack of female playwrights and writers, but because if the events are organised by men, automatic discrimination persists in the selection process.
SD: As a leading female playwright, do you think you have any social or political role to encourage women to write plays?
GG: I do have an influence on young people, and I think that in my case, for ethical and political reasons, that influence goes beyond the purely theatrical. It reveals itself particularly strongly in women because of an obvious identification, although it is also acknowledged by male authors. In Argentina, there have always been isolated examples of female pla
ywrights, but I am the first female playwright with an extensive body of work. My plays have now been performed regularly for thirty years, and have had a great impact, both with the critics and with the public. Inevitably, this has opened doors to the generations that follow me; and in Argentina today we see what can be called the first generation of female playwrights, a group of female authors born around 1960, who are still not translated but who do have a body of work that has been performed and published.
SD: How have audiences from different cultures varied in their reception of your plays?
GG: A play can have a multiplicity of meanings which change according to each audience. Naturally, my first audience is the Argentine public who share the same culture. But every play has at least two meanings: one for the here-and-now, and another for different geographies and different times. In Stuttgart, when The Siamese Twins premiered in 1993, the audience identified with the play through what was happening in Germany at that moment, principally xenophobia and a lack of solidarity. In Medellín, Colombia, a parable of excessive authority was seen in Saying Yes, which referred both to the power of women within the home, and to male chauvinism which, paradoxically, also exists in that society. As for the 1992 London production of Bad Blood, directed by Kate Rowland, I got the impression from reading the critics that the play’s violence had a greater impact on the English spectator than it did in Argentina. Perhaps these situations were not so significant for us because we have lived through them. I also noticed that, owing to the lack of clear conventions, the critics were somewhat bewildered when they tried to determine the aesthetic of the play. On the other hand, the British production of The Walls, directed by Rachel Kavanaugh in 1993, seemed to have received a clearer reading, perhaps because it is a more ‘classical’ work in its structure and situations. But in general, European audiences come to see an Argentine play with certain preconceptions, which lead to a reductionist vision, still confined to the tango or to the sad folklore of torture and repression.
Latin American Plays Page 13