Latin American Plays

by Sebastian Doggart

  DOLORES. María Félix.

  MARIA freezes, then trembles with gratitude. She turns around. She stops looking at herself in the mirror. She looks at DOLORES, lying down, her eyes covered. She goes over to her.

  MARIA. Really? Do you believe that? (DOLORES nods.) You’re not kidding me? You’re not flattering me? (DOLORES shakes her head.) For you, am I . . . her? (DOLORES stands up, her eyes blinded like a female Oedipus. She stretches her hands out in a gesture of blessing. MARIA throws herself into her arms. The cotton wool continues to blind DOLORES.)

  MARIA. The very beautiful María Félix?

  DOLORES strokes MARIA’s face.

  DOLORES. The youngest and most beautiful dead bride in the world, a dead bride on horseback, in the arms of her lover the dashing, strong horseman, galloping towards the peak of dead souls.

  MARIA. Remember the terror of the open plain, the ravishing and awesome Doña Bárbara?

  DOLORES. ‘They say she’s a terrible woman, captain of a band of bandits, ready to kill anyone who stands in her way.’

  MARIA (standing up, abandoning DOLORES’ blind embrace). I the man eater, I the bandit woman, I the warrior nun, I the old crock, I the devil’s own cunt.

  DOLORES. The soulless woman. You were a few pounds over-weight then.

  MARIA approaches DOLORES and snatches away the cotton wool from her eyes.

  MARIA. Look. Look closely. A goddess does not get old.

  DOLORES. Not even the kneeling goddess.

  MARIA. No. When I’m ninety, I’ll go out into the street dressed exactly the same as you see me now, very neat, all dressed up and serious. And when the children see me they’ll say. ‘It’s her! It’s her’ and I’ll scatter them like this, with my stick. You nasty little brats, you peeping Toms! What are you staring at?

  She stops as if making a bold statement. DOLORES takes advantage of the pause to say hurriedly:

  DOLORES. Tell me, tell me everything I was in Hollywood, bird of paradise, Carmen . . . (Now it is MARIA who remains obstinately silent.) Madame du Barry . . . (MARIA returns to her mirror.) Ramona.

  MARIA. Ah yes, I saw that as a girl in Guadalajara.

  She looks at herself in the mirror.

  DOLORES. You saw me?

  MARIA. I saw her. Yes. I saw her.

  Long pause. She stops looking at herself in the mirror, with a sigh.

  MARIA. I think after all I will get changed for the funeral of your ex-lover, if he can be called that.

  DOLORES. Who? Who was he?

  MARIA disappears behind the folding screens again.

  MARIA. How should I know? All that happened before I was born. Mamá told me. Ask her.

  DOLORES. Shhh! Don’t let her hear you. You already know . . .

  MARIA. Ha! She told me about it with pride, the big idiot.

  DOLORES. María! She’s our mother.

  MARIA. She made an example of you. How has Lolita kept herself so well, so young, so appetising?

  DOLORES. Our creator . . .

  MARIA. Because no-one has touched her.

  DOLORES. The author of our days.

  MARIA. Not that she’s a virgin, no . . . (DOLORES hugs herself in anguish and continues imitating the acts being described by MARIA, who is dressing out of sight of the audience.) . . . but nobody’s ever touched her breasts, that’s why they look like a fifteen year old’s, all bouncy, with happy pink nipples. Nobody’s groped her. Nobody has ever lain on top of her. She’s never felt eighty kilos of macho on top of her. No. Everything always delicate. Always sideways like this . . .

  MARIA appears dressed totally in black, clothes which are exaggeratedly tragic and old- fashioned: a long skirt, a blouse buttoned to the ears and veils. She is adjusting a pearl necklace around her neck. On seeing her, DOLORES freezes.

  MARIA. La Señora has no children, she’s never given birth. Her belly doesn’t wobble like jelly and her buttocks aren’t like Zamoran buns. La Señora is simply perfect, a dark, silky Venus, la Señora . . . la Señora made our eyes pop out of our heads. (She points to herself.) Like this.

  DOLORES. What do you know about those things? You have no idea what Hollywood was, what it was like to be a Latina in Hollywood, fighting first against prejudice, then against advancing age. Why do you laugh about age? Age is the climbing vine, age is the actress’ visible leprosy and an actress who had children had to hide or deny them and hated them and beat them. An actress betrayed by her children was like a goddess, not just a kneeling goddess, but humiliated, forced to run errands and come back loaded with tins, steaks, oranges and cauliflowers . . . I wanted to be weightless, winged, a dark flame.

  MARIA. Nothing hurt Dolores.

  DOLORES. I think a lot about her. She shone brighter than anyone. When her light goes out, the world shall be night.

  MARIA watches her scornfully.

  MARIA. You stole that from one of my movies.

  DOLORES (resigned). Probably. God wrote our destinies but not, unfortunately, our scripts.

  MARIA. And the directors we had!

  DOLORES. Apart from Buñuel and Welles.

  MARIA. Who used us as furniture.

  DOLORES. No. He used me as an animal. I was the leopard woman in Journey into Fear.

  She snarls, amused.

  MARIA. Darling, at least a panther has a history . . .

  DOLORES. Leopard.

  MARIA. Panther, leopard, they’re both cats, aren’t they? At least you know how to imitate them. But what about those directors who told me: ‘Come on, María, give me lots of Ummmm, eh? Come on, lots of Ummmm.’ ‘What’s that, señor?’ ‘What I said, Ummmm.’

  DOLORES. Ummmm.

  MARIA. Ummmmmm.

  They both start a parodic game of ummms, improvising scenes and dramatic situations until, still ummming, in crescendo, they embrace and kiss. From love they pass to hate. Pretending to claw at each other, they fall over and roll around on the floor, and the ummms no longer designate either fury or laughter, but a constant interplay between the two. MARIA is the first to stand up, shaking off the dust from her black clothes, replacing the veils over her face, composing herself in front of the mirror.

  MARIA. When I’m ninety, I’ll go out into the street dressed exactly the same as you see me now, very neat, and I’ll scatter the gaupers with my stick. What are you staring at? What are you staring at?

  DOLORES. You repeat yourself, darling.

  Angry and weeping, MARIA starts to break down.

  MARIA. What are you staring at? Am I not desirable any more? Am I no longer María Bonita, the piece of ass who excited your parents and grandparents? Am I no longer the cutest sex kitten you ever had the good fortune to lay your sad eyes on? No longer? Is there no-one left to write boleros for me, to send a hydroplane out to me on Lake Patzcuaro with orchids and paté? Is there not a bullfighter who will dedicate a bull to me, a cowboy who will ride me senseless?

  From the floor, DOLORES has been watching her with growing scepticism, shaking her head.

  DOLORES. No, no, no. She’d never have said those things.

  MARIA. You think so?

  DOLORES. Of course not. It’s like if I said: I’m no longer the little girl who went to the Convent of the Sacred Bleeding Heart and learnt to write in a spider’s scrawl; I’m no longer the adolescent who married a Mexican aristocrat at seventeen and then scandalised my family by dumping him at nineteen to become a moviestar.

  MARIA. But it’s true.

  DOLORES. Ah, it’s true. Then you admit I am Dolores del Río?

  MARIA. Don’t put words into my mouth. I said it was true for her life, not for yours, Lolita, because you’re not her.

  DOLORES. I don’t like to insist, my love, but I want you to understand that we both live only on the screen, in the image of Doña Barbara and María Candelaria, not in anyone’s private biography.

  MARIA. You said I was María. You admitted it.

  DOLORES. And you didn’t reciprocate. Sorry for my lie. I praise your sincerity.<
br />
  The two women watch each other for a moment.

  MARIA. Have you read today’s paper?

  DOLORES. No. You beat me to it. That’s how you found out about his death before I did, remember?

  MARIA. That was in yesterday’s paper.

  DOLORES. But his funeral . . .

  MARIA. It’s already been. Yesterday.

  DOLORES. Then you lied to me.

  MARIA. Why would I do that, sweetheart.

  DOLORES. You’re all dressed in black.

  MARIA. Sorry. I thought we were going to the cemetery today to pay our respects to the deceased, who was buried yesterday. Do you want me to go dressed for a carnival like you?

  DOLORES now comes out of her languour on the floor, stands up and occupies the place in front of her mirror as if the news of the death had aroused something more than flirtatiousness.

  DOLORES. Dolores. My pains I carry in my heart, not in my clothes.

  MARIA. Ah, Dolores is Dolores, Dolores is her pains, not her rags.

  DOLORES carelessly rearranges her hairdo and dress, singing softly.

  DOLORES. ‘Son de la loma, cantan en llano.’8

  MARIA (singing softly). ‘Ya no estás más a mi lado, corazón.’

  DOLORES (singing softly). ‘Corazón, tu dirás lo que hacemos, lo que resolvemos.’

  MARIA (abruptly interrupting the stream of consciousness). That’s enough. We’re talking about clothes, threads, rags.

  DOLORES. Simplicity is the sign of a wealthy cradle.

  MARIA. No, señora. If you’re a fat cat, then you should dress as a fat cat and show the plebs you’re a fat cat. And if not, why sweat if you’re going to end up with all your millions dressed like a wild flower, a humble peasant girl.

  DOLORES. You wouldn’t understand.

  MARIA. Why?

  DOLORES. Because it cost you to make it. Because you desperately need to stand out from them.

  MARIA. From whom?

  DOLORES. From the herd, from the masses. Because in a word, darling, you lack breeding.

  MARIA. So I should go around dressed like a little ranch hand, like you.

  DOLORES. You could never understand. These are things you’re born with.

  MARIA. What? Sure, I understand you wanting to dress up as the most beautiful flower on the hacienda. That way they might forgive you. I understand that.

  DOLORES. Nobody’s threatening me.

  MARIA. They’re threatening us. And even if you doll yourself up, they’ll still uncover you. Or do you think the Commies will hang the bankers and respect those of us who make more money than a banker?

  DOLORES. We are national treasures.

  MARIA. Tell that to your friend Madame du Barry.

  DOLORES. Anyway, Mexico is a long way away. There’s not going to be a revolution here.

  MARIA. Here. In Venice? Did I say it right this time?

  DOLORES. Here. In Venecia.

  MARIA. Where we’ve retired with our sacks full of the gold we earnt in the Mexican cinema.

  DOLORES. We brought money back to the country. We’re evens. Anyway, Madame du Barry was like you, baby, not me.

  MARIA. What? Are we living in life or the movies? You are Madame du Barry because your idol played her on the silver screen. Biographies don’t count. What counts is La Belle Otero: who she is, who she is and who I am. And Madame du Barry counts. Who she is, who she is and who you are. Ça va?

  DOLORES. Except that I am Dolores del Río.

  MARIA. Have you read today’s paper?

  DOLORES (Alarmed). What does it say?

  MARIA. Listen to this. There are reports that María Félix flew to France yesterday to attend the Grand Prix at Deauville where one of her horses is running.

  DOLORES. That doesn’t surprise me. It’s well known that woman likes the sport of kings.

  MARIA. Just a moment. It then says that Dolores del Río has accepted the part of an old Seminole Indian whose grandson is being played by Marlon Brando, in a production by Metro . . .

  DOLORES. Me? Marlon Brando’s grandmother? That’s a lie. I’d never sign a contract like that. Marlon Brando’s old enough to be my father. Those women are imposters! They’re impersonating us.

  MARIA. When I say they’re threatening us . . .

  DOLORES. Alright. We must join forces, forget our quarrels, our different roots . . .

  MARIA. Shhhh! Don’t let Mamá hear.

  DOLORES. You’re right. Secrecy. She doesn’t understand we’re grown up now and can make our own decisions.

  MARIA. No. What she wouldn’t understand is what you said about our different roots.

  DOLORES. Bah, fathers can be different.

  MARIA. Yes, little sister.

  DOLORES. Shhhh! Don’t let them hear us . . .

  MARIA. Mamá?

  DOLORES. No, silly, the Fourth Estate, the gossip columnists. What would they say?

  MARIA. That it’s time for tea.

  DOLORES. To psyche ourselves up and deal with the stresses of the day. It’s a cute English tradition.

  MARIA. It’s also drunk in France, you know.

  DOLORES. Are we going to start again?

  MARIA. To each her spiritual motherland.

  DOLORES. Well, I only speak English at teatime.

  MARIA. And I only speak French.

  MARIA sits down beside the walnut Mexican table. DOLORES, standing up, prepares the two cups and picks up the teapot.

  DOLORES (in Queen’s English). How do you like your tea, with lemon or with milk?

  MARIA (in a French accent). I preefur eet vizout limon and vizout meelk.

  DOLORES (English accent). I’m seau sorry. We deaun’t have it with neither lemon nor milk . . .

  MARIA (French accent). Alors, just vizout ze zugar, pleez.

  DOLORES pours the tea into MARIA’s cup.

  DOLORES (English accent). Without white sugar or without brown sugar.

  MARIA (French accent). Non. I preefur eet hottur.

  DOLORES pours herself a cup of tea. She drinks it. MARIA watches her with her own cup on her knees. DOLORES spits out the tea violently. MARIA covers her mouth like a naughty little girl. DOLORES wipes her mouth.

  DOLORES. Ash, ash . . .

  She takes the lid off the teapot, puts her hand inside and takes out MARIA’s wet cigar. MARIA has moved down-stage. She stops at the edge of the stage. She makes a movement with her hand and arm as if she were drawing back a curtain and she looks out into the distance.

  MARIA. Venice . . .

  DOLORES (with hysterical anger). I’m talking to you! You dropped your cigar in my tea!

  MARIA. What am I looking at? The Campanile of San Marco or an oil derrick?

  DOLORES. You put a cigar stub in my brew.

  MARIA. On what cupolas is the sun shining? Santa Maria Maggiore or Howard Johnson’s motel?

  DOLORES. I hate you! Ash in my breakfast! That’s what you are! Ash dressed up as flame!

  MARIA. Where are we, in Venezia or in Venice? Are we looking out on the Grand Canal or Centinela Boulevard?

  Both possibilities frighten DOLORES, who pours herself another cup of tea and drinks it with an expression of bitter nausea.

  DOLORES (with disgust). It’s all right. We’re in Venecia, on the Grand Canal. Can’t you hear the gondoliers singing? ‘Bandera rossa, color’ del vin . . . ’9

  MARIA (with cold insistence). Finish your breakfast. You must build up your strength.

  DOLORES (swallows with her eyes closed, as if she were drinking a purge. She screws up her lips. She starts singing softly again.) ‘Chi non lavora, non mangierá, viva el communismo e la libertá’.

  DOLORES screws up her lips again.

  MARIA. Very good, Lolita. I thought I heard another song wafting through the open window. (Sings softly) ‘When orchids bloom in the moonlight, and lovers vow to be true . . . ’10

  DOLORES (makes an abrupt but smooth gesture, recognising she is in MARIA’s power). All right. It’s still all r
ight . . .

  MARIA (stepping back from the balcony). All right. Now we’ve built up our strength, what are we going to do with those imposters?

  DOLORES. Report them.

  MARIA. What for?

  DOLORES. They . . . they . . . you know . . . they are . . .

  MARIA. Say it. They are us.

  DOLORES. You say it, you say it.

  MARIA (as a serious joke). Shhhh . . . Don’t let Mamá find out.

  DOLORES shudders. MARIA arranges her black veils in front of the mirror. DOLORES’ gaze wanders around the apartment. She goes toward the paper flowers and strokes them. She picks up a clay piggy bank and sits on the floor downstage holding it in her arms like a peasant in a village market.

  DOLORES (to the piggy). Shhhh . . . Don’t let Mamá find out.

  MARIA. Don’t worry! I make the newspapers disappear every day.

  DOLORES. What do you do with them? That’s not true. You leave them lying about. I told you to flush them down the toilet.

  MARIA. Don’t worry. I don’t collect them. She doesn’t see them. She doesn’t know who’s been dying.

  DOLORES. That’s good. It would make her so sad to read about the deaths of her contemporaries.

  MARIA. No, it’s not that. It’s to stop her reading about the people who die younger than her. It’s to make her suffer not knowing there are younger people dying the whole time.

  DOLORES. But surely you’d only make her suffer if you also let her know there are people dying of her own age?

  MARIA. I think she’ll really suffer not knowing that people are dying and then finding out one day that there’s nobody left in the world except her: Mamá, alone.

  DOLORES (afraid). Nobody? Not even us?

  MARIA starts playing with her black veils, dancing like a funereal Salome.

  MARIA. Nobody. Our revenge will be to die before she does.

  DOLORES. But . . . but don’t you think she already treats us like we’re dead?

  MARIA (raising her eyebrow melodramatically). She’s not the only one who’s done that, baby. Or else what have we been talking about all this time?

  MARIA has become a whirlwind of black veils.