Latin American Plays

by Sebastian Doggart

  MARIA. You’ve fallen into the hands of a scummy little taxi driver . . .

  DOLORES. He gives special rates to Newport . . .

  MARIA. A road hog . . .

  DOLORES. . . . to see the fairy lights on the beach . . .

  MARIA. . . . a Genghis Khan of the freeways.

  DOLORES. He wants to meet you.

  MARIA. What for? To give me multiple orgasms looking for the exits on the Pasadena Freeway? What does your taxi driver smell like? What does his joystick smell like?

  DOLORES. It’s a Mercedes! He’s coming in a Mercedes!

  MARIA. An old banger, I bet. A rust bucket, a total mess, with a rubber Mickey Mouse hanging over the dashboard, and a little altar to the Virgin, and a ball autographed by Pelé. I can see it now and I wish I were blind.

  Fists hammer on the door. MARIA moves assertively towards the folding screens.

  MARIA. You were born to be carried in a litter by Ethiopian slaves . . . (She pulls a Cleopatra costume out of the wardrobe and holds it up to herself.) You, who should have been carried by barge down the Nile. You, woman: age cannot wither you, nor custom stale your infinite variety . . . 14

  DOLORES (dreamily). ‘I will praise any man that will praise me.’

  MARIA. Woman, divine woman . . .

  She throws the Cleopatra costume on the folding screen. The knuckles rap again.

  MARIA. There’s your cut-price Mark Anthony.

  DOLORES. No. I swear. It wasn’t his phone number.

  MARIA. What do you mean?

  DOLORES. It was another number, not his.

  MARIA. Another number?

  DOLORES. A random number. The first one that came into my head. I swear on this . . .

  She makes the sign of the cross with her forefinger and kisses it. MARIA moves away from DOLORES.

  MARIA. Then . . . it could be anyone knocking at the door. The first one that came into your head, you dickhead . . .

  DOLORES. How could he know. . . ? I didn’t give him the address . . . He couldn’t have found out . . .

  MARIA. Do you know what promiscuity is, Cleopatra?

  DOLORES. Yes, yes, but I didn’t give him our address. You heard me, I didn’t.

  MARIA. Listen: you can call the police and trace the number of someone who’s just called and then put an address to that number, even a name . . .

  DOLORES. But why would this man go to the trouble of looking for two women he doesn’t even know?

  MARIA. Two old Chicanas languishing in a Venetian suburb of a Hollywood which does not exist . . .

  DOLORES. Which never existed. Ay!

  MARIA. Two retired lunatics. Two stars which are burning out.

  DOLORES. Oh, we’re not that. Don’t say that. Our movies live on, they don’t burn out, Madame du Barry, Bird of Paradise. You said so . . .

  Decisively, MARIA interrupts DOLORES and marches over to the door. Her courage seems to falter for a moment. She takes a deep breath, stretches out her hand and opens the door. A slim bespectacled young man stands holding a bouquet of flowers in the same hand with which he was about to knock again. He is dressed like a respectable young man of the 1940s: striped shirt, bowtie, a double-breasted Prince of Wales suit, a diamond-patterned sweater underneath, black shoes and a hat with the brim raised in the style of a 1940s reporter. It is the only thing which reveals him. In fact, he is an unnerving mixture of Harold Lloyd and James Cagney. Under his arm he carries a canned film reel and in his hand he holds a cinema projector. MARIA and DOLORES look at him in astonishment. They look at each other. MARIA asking by moving her head whether he might be DOLORES’ taxi-driver boyfriend, DOLORES shaking her head, indicating that she has never seen him before and enquiring whether, on the contrary, he might be one of MARIA’s secret lovers. The young visitor does not have enough arms to protect the flowers – a bouquet of forget-me-nots – as well as holding the movie can under his arm, the projector and now the newspaper that he picks up with the bouquet hand and puts under his chin. He has still not entered or been invited to enter.

  FAN. Sorry. I don’t have enough hands.

  He offers the flowers to DOLORES but the newspaper slips from his chin and falls to the floor. The FAN is most concerned about his canned reel, guarding it from any possible damage. He puts the projector on the floor and finally takes off his hat. DOLORES nervously stoops to pick up the paper. The FAN stoops as well and they bang their heads. MARIA stops DOLORES from picking up the paper by stepping on her hand. DOLORES stifles a cry. The FAN tries to help her and drops his hat. He keeps a firm hold of the reel.

  MARIA (to DOLORES). Don’t be so curious. Go and look after your driver friend who takes people from one place to another for a modest fee.

  The FAN picks up and shakes his hat.

  DOLORES (nursing her trampled hand). I wanted to find out. I wanted to read about his death. (Looks at their visitor) Anyway, it isn’t him.

  FAN. Sorry?

  MARIA. It isn’t him? But he’s giving you flowers. Go on, take them.

  But before DOLORES can touch them, even before she has timidly put her hand out, MARIA stops her. DOLORES stands up.

  MARIA (to the FAN). Where did you park your car, young man. Because if you’re parked in front of the neighbours’ garage, we’ll get into big trouble.

  FAN. Sorry . . . I came by bus . . .

  MARIA. Ah, your day off . . .

  FAN. Sorry, I don’t understand you.

  MARIA. Don’t fool around. I know everything. She . . . (half-winks at DOLORES conspiratorially) . . . has told me everything. She’s never been able to keep her mouth shut.

  DOLORES. I have the right! I have the right to my own lover. (MARIA looks at her scornfully.) I don’t have to spend my whole life going to the supermarket on the corner of Rialto and Pacific or traipsing all the way to Olvera to look for your favourite snacks. You’re not a man eater, you’re a taco eater, a tortilla-chip eater.

  MARIA takes no notice of her. She turns to the FAN.

  DOLORES. I have a right to my own secrets.

  MARIA. Go on, señor, give her the weeds before they dry up.

  FAN. They’re forget-me-nots. (He hands the bouquet to DOLORES and blushes.) Ever since I saw you in The Jungle of Fire, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind, ma’am.

  DOLORES (ecstatically). A fan!

  MARIA. A fan?

  DOLORES. A fanatic, you idiot. An enthusiast, a supporter, an admirer . . . (She sniffs the flowers primly.) A dedicated follower of my artistic labours.

  FAN. That’s right, ma’am. At your service. I’ve seen every movie you’ve made, except one.

  DOLORES (flirting). Well you’ve seen more than I have . . .

  Come in, come in. Make yourself at home.

  The FAN comes centre-stage.

  FAN. I didn’t expect anything less from your proverbial hospitality. When in The Little House you invite Roberto Cañedo to visit you in . . .

  DOLORES (to MARIA, authoritatively). Girl, will you please close the door?

  FAN. Exquisite! That’s like how you treat your Indian maid in Bougainvillea.

  Unruffled, MARIA closes the door. The noise of it closing is metallic, like that of a prison. We hear a clang and even the hint of locks and chains. MARIA leans against the door, her hands joined behind her back. But nothing distracts DOLORES and the FAN from their courtship rituals of courtesies and reminiscences.

  DOLORES. And what might that gap in your education be?

  FAN (bewildered). I beg your pardon?

  DOLORES. I mean the movie I made which you still haven’t . . . admired.

  FAN. Ah! Well, I’m talking there about Carmen, directed by Raoul Walsh in 1926, based on Mérimée’s homonymous novel and Bizet’s famous opera. (Draws breath) The only surviving copy is in the archives of the Film Library in Prague, capital of Czechoslovakia.

  DOLORES (grinning). Aaaaah!

  She pulls a flower out from the bouquet and puts it between her teeth. We hear the ‘S
eguidilla’ from Bizet’s opera. The actress imitates the vibrant ferocity of Dolores del Río playing Carmen: her hair down and dishevelled, thrown forward to cover her face, then flung back to reveal it: she moves like a wild tiger until, exhausted, she plants herself like a bullfighter centre-stage. The music reaches a triumphant climax with the ‘Toreador Song’ and the FAN shouts:

  FAN. Olé! Olé!

  Still leaning against the door, MARIA makes the sign used during the Roman Empire to indicate the death sentence: the right thumb pointing downwards. But nothing can dampen the enthusiasm with which DOLORES and the FAN have infected each other.

  FAN. Ramona, 1927.

  DOLORES wraps herself in an Andalusian shawl walking with the dainty steps of a virgin girl from a Catholic town. Music: the song ‘Ramona’.

  FAN. Bird of Paradise, 1932.

  DOLORES hangs a lei around her neck and dances the hula-hula to Hawaiian music.

  FAN. Flying down to Río, 1933.

  Music: the tango ‘Orchids in the Moonlight’. DOLORES starts to dance it alone. She sees MARIA and stops. She runs over and hugs her. She tries to draw her away from the door, almost sobbing.

  DOLORES. I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .

  The two women take each other in their arms and adopt the stylised but motionless stance of tango dancers. The FAN watches them entranced, without ever letting go of the can.

  DOLORES. I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .

  MARIA holds DOLORES firmly. The music ends.

  MARIA. What for?

  DOLORES. You know . . .

  MARIA. You flatter me. I don’t get it at all.

  DOLORES (looking flirtatiously towards the FAN). I’m still remembered. I still have a fan in the world. He . . . came looking for me. (Looks compassionately at MARIA.) While you, lovely Mariquita.

  Slowly and deliberately, MARIA steps away from DOLORES, picks up the newspaper from the floor and starts to flick through it. The FAN feels he is responsible for the tension and tries to ease it.

  FAN. Caramba! Please forgive me . . . I didn’t know you . . . two . . . of all people . . . like lived here together.

  MARIA (sighs as she picks up the newspaper). The odd couple, in its original version.

  FAN (laughing) The Odd Couple? In an L.A. suburb . . .

  MARIA. The Venuses of Venice, sí señor.

  FAN. Had I known, I would not have neglected to bring you flowers too, ma’am . . .

  Pretending to be taken aback, MARIA stops reading the newspaper.

  MARIA. How very kind of you . . . señor. (To DOLORES.) You see. You’ve found an admirer. But we’ve both gained an audience.

  FAN (to MARIA). Believe me, there’s also a very exclusive club of your admirers, your true fans.

  MARIA. How exclusive? More than two members?

  FAN. Not many, it’s true, but select.

  MARIA. Die-hards, eh?

  With these words she dismisses the FAN and walks over to DOLORES holding the newspaper open.

  MARIA. You should know, baby, that obituaries are prepared well in advance. As soon as you stand out in an activity – as a politician, a banker, a gangster, an au pair girl, a child prodigy, a medium, a matricide – the newspaper opens a file with all the facts of your life in case you suddenly kick the bucket. If you’re not lucky enough to die young, the facts just keep piling up. Dates, prizes, film titles, the years in Alcatraz, the gossip, the photographic proofs that you’re no longer the same and can only blame yourself . . . your self.

  DOLORES, listening to MARIA, has again taken the elaborate rococo-framed handmirror identical to the one she used in the movie Madame du Barry and stares at herself in it. The FAN cannot stop himself from exclaiming.

  FAN. Madame du Barry, 1934!

  DOLORES (looking at herself in the mirror). After reaching forty, we’re all responsible for our own face.

  MARIA. Marcel Proust, 1913. (Sighs) The end of the Belle Epoque! Who was preparing the obituary for a whole era?

  FAN (with less enthusiasm). La Belle Otéro, 1952, no?

  MARIA. Thank you, young man. Thank you for being my cheerleader. The point is that before we were only responsible for the mask we saw in our own mirror. There was no other proof that we were who we were.

  FAN. Unless you were lucky enough to be painted by Rubens or Titian.

  MARIA. Ay! That was like winning the lottery, pal. But if that didn’t happen to you, tell me what mask you’d leave? I’ll tell you. None. The mask of millions and millions of women who died leaving nothing to be remembered by . . .

  FAN. They left no trace of their faces.

  MARIA. That’s right. Now we’re not just responsible for the face we see in our own mirror . . .

  DOLORES (gazing into her mirror). . . . but also to our public who know our face better than we do because we’ve all been photographed . . .

  MARIA. And a movie star more than anyone, and photographed in motion, from the past and for the future.

  DOLORES. Eternal phantom and passing flesh. Ah!

  MARIA. A dirty trick, Lolita, a dirty trick. Think about what I’m saying when we’re both pushing up daisies.

  Awkward silence. The FAN breaks it.

  FAN. The Arabs say the face is the portrait of the soul. (Gulps and adds) That’s why they don’t let themselves be photographed.

  MARIA. Nor do the Yaquí Indians. So what?

  FAN. The first men didn’t need to talk and certainly didn’t represent themselves in drawings. They just looked at each other, without talking, without painting.

  DOLORES is still looking at herself in the rococo mirror.

  DOLORES (to MARIA). Diego Rivera told us not to worry about age because we had beautiful skulls. Do you remember?

  FAN. What I’m saying is that the first men lived in lands of the sun and could look at each other. It was their gestures which mattered. Friend or foe. Peace or danger. A simple gesture.

  MARIA (impatiently). And the first women?

  FAN. I include them in the generic, ma’am. (Smiles) In the credits, you know?

  MARIA. I’m glad to hear it. (To DOLORES) You and I are very different. You know why? You only love me and you only love yourself through the public.

  FAN. But the South became hotter and hotter . . . An inferno.

  DOLORES (without taking her eyes off her reflection). Don’t tell me the only reason you don’t love yourself more is because the public adores you . . . sorry, adored you.

  FAN. And the North became cooler. Men, women and children migrated.

  MARIA (ignoring the FAN). Yes. But I love you for yourself, not for the public. (Pause) I’m the only person who’s loved you for yourself, and that includes yourself.

  FAN (obsequiously). Excuse me . . . I hate to contradict you . . . but . . . I . . .

  Now MARIA does concentrate her attention on the FAN.

  MARIA. You are the public, popcorn boy! You’re the pale reflection of what you see in a dark cinema. Just look at yourself, paleface. (She advances threateningly towards the FAN.) You’re like an asshole: the sun never shines on you.

  FAN. In the North the nights are longer and the light is weaker . . .

  MARIA. You kill a bullfighter in the sun, the real sun, howling, swearing, throwing bottles at him.

  FAN. There wasn’t enough light, so men and women couldn’t see themselves or communicate in gestures any more.

  MARIA. You murder a lover under cover of the night, the real night, using the weapons of the flesh and deception and tender words and the weary sleep of heroes . . .

  FAN. Since there was no light, they had to speak.

  MARIA. But this love and this crime of the public, in the artifical darkness, in the false night of a cinema . . .

  FAN. Since they couldn’t see each other any more, they had to speak.

  MARIA. In the artificial darkness, in the false night of a cinema . . .

  She stops, looking for words that she does not find. DOLORES lowers the mirror like a fencer loweri
ng her guard.

  MARIA (to DOLORES). I love you for yourself, little sister, not because you’re a star and have a public.

  DOLORES is on the verge of getting up and kissing MARIA. But the FAN rapidly intervenes to stop her.

  FAN (to DOLORES). Don’t listen to these spiteful arguments. I . . .

  MARIA (to the FAN, furiously). You? Who the hell are you? How did you get here? Who gave you our address?

  The FAN is physically attacked by MARIA.

  FAN (fending off MARIA’s anger) I’m sorry. It was an accident.

  MARIA. An accident? An accident is to be born or to die. You don’t even deserve a sympathy fuck.

  FAN. I’m her fan. You don’t offend me.

  MARIA. Listen, Mister unoffendable, I asked you a polite question. How did you manage to . . . dig us up?

  FAN (flattered that they are paying attention to him again). This morning when I settled down in front of my desk and my files to begin my daily tasks . . .

  MARIA (ironically). You were going to work.

  FAN. Correct. Alexander Graham Bell’s great invention rang in my office . . .

  MARIA. The telefunken.

  DOLORES. Ah, Hollywood, Hollywood, you’ve invented everything. Spencer Tracy discovered electric light, Greer Garson the radio, Don Ameche the telephone and Paul Muni pasteurised milk.

  FAN. That’s right. The phone rang and I picked it up. I was fortunate. It’s the public telephone in the company where I lend my services and anyone could have . . .

  MARIA. We understand.

  FAN (in adoration of her style). It was her. (He turns to DOLORES and walks over to her.) It was her. Saying: ‘Hello . . . ’

  The FAN and DOLORES now talk in a duet, holding imaginary telephones.

  DOLORES and FAN. ‘Hello? Who do I have the pleasure of . . . ? Ah, I see . . . May I speak to . . . ?’

  DOLORES falls silent.

  FAN. Silence. Then she hung up. But how could I not recognise her voice, the voice of What Price Glory . . .

  MARIA. Don’t be a jerk. That was a silent movie.

  FAN. The voice of La Otra, Pensativa and Evangeline . . .

  DOLORES (dazed). My love . . .

  MARIA. Careful. Get him to tell us what profession he practises.

  FAN (to MARIA). I don’t understand your fancy way of talking. I must be living in a different age.