Latin American Plays

by Sebastian Doggart

  MARIA (struggling, defensive). Macho . . . you disgusting macho . . .

  DOLORES (her eyes covered). No more, that’s enough!

  MARIA. Doesn’t a man open his legs too? Doesn’t a man suck and get sucked? Doesn’t a man screw and get screwed? Isn’t he screwed when he screws?

  DOLORES (in supreme self defence, sings softly to transform reality). ‘No me platiques ya, déjame imaginar que no existe el pasado y que nacimos el mismo instante en que nos conocimos.’15

  MARIA (to the FAN). So only you can be master of your own body, you macho bastard? A woman can’t? (Screams) A woman can’t?!

  She throws the FAN to the floor. Kicks him. The movie ends; the projector stops giving out light. The loose end of the film turns round and round on the reel.

  MARIA. I’m going to castrate you, faggot.

  FAN (from the floor). Dyke!

  MARIA. I would be if all men were like you. (She gives him a final, spectacular kick.) I may be a woman, but I’m more macho than you. I may be an old woman, but I still excite you. Eunuch!

  DOLORES stands up and puts herself between MARIA and the FAN.

  DOLORES. No more. Forgive him.

  MARIA (shrugs). You’re right. This nobody isn’t good enough to be my errandboy.

  DOLORES (strangely conciliatory). Anyway. We owe him something very important, you know.

  MARIA. Sure, I know. He recognised us. But at what a price.

  DOLORES. What we’ve dreamed of all our lives.

  MARIA. Since we were little girls. Since we went together to the double bill at the Balmori cinema: Doña Bárbara and María Candelaria. Popcorn, chewing gum, chocolates.

  DOLORES. Yes, ever since then.

  MARIA. And you think today we finally triumphed?

  DOLORES (forcing herself). Yes. Thanks to him.

  Slightly disconcerted, MARIA prefers to look contemptuously at the FAN lying on the floor.

  MARIA. What do you want, worm?

  FAN. Can I get up?

  MARIA mimics his good education.

  MARIA. Make yourself at home, tramp.

  The FAN gets up painfully, shaking the dust off his knees and shoulders, adjusting his bowtie. He does something unexpected: he takes DOLORES’ hand.

  FAN. I want her to come with me.

  Diverse, conflicting feelings appear on DOLORES’ face. Incredulity, disgust, resignation, the will to sacrifice herself. She opts for the comic attitude of a young virgin.

  DOLORES. Me?

  MARIA (to the FAN). What do you need, a nanny or a nurse?

  FAN. No. I want her for myself.

  MARIA. I warn you. She can’t sew and she has no dowry.

  DOLORES (faking a trance). Me?

  FAN (to MARIA). I want to marry her.

  DOLORES (looking at the FAN with delight). You?

  At this moment, DOLORES seems to have been persuaded by her own dramatics. MARIA corrects her with incredulity and ridicule.

  MARIA (to the FAN). Oye, don’t ask me for permission. La señora is a grown woman now.

  FAN (to DOLORES). Yes? Since The Jungle of Fire, directed by Fernando de Fuentes starring Arturo de Córdova?

  MARIA (jokily, but with a defensive humour). Go on, Lolita, don’t forget he’ll write your obituary. You’d better suck up to him.

  DOLORES (confused). Oh God!

  MARIA. He is nigh.

  DOLORES (hands to her temples). What am I thinking of? This dick came here to insult you . . . to dishonour both of us with his filth . . . his canned trash . . .

  MARIA (increasingly sure of what is about to happen, claps her hands and chants like a soccer chant). Lola . . . Lola . . .

  DOLORES adopts her most accentuatedly melodramatic attitude.

  DOLORES (to the FAN). Out! Get out of here, sir! Have respect for our age and our artistic status! (Points to MARIA.) This woman and I . . . we’re queens.

  FAN (calmly). Well, one of you will be deposed when I release that short film of Popeye and Olive Oyl that I just showed you.

  DOLORES (hands on her hips). Bah. It sat for half a century in an archive and nobody was interested . . .

  MARIA. Because nobody knew it was her.

  DOLORES. Nobody will recognise her.

  FAN. As soon as they’re told it’s her, everyone will say it’s her, even if they don’t recognise her. They’ll want to recognise her. That’s the way people are.

  DOLORES. Don’t get fresh with me.

  FAN. That’s cool. But I’ve completed that woman’s filmography. They thought it was complete and it wasn’t. I’m like Champollion: now the public can know what the mummies were saying . . . (Pause.) I mean. what the mummies were doing, when they were little girls. (Laughs vulgarly.)

  DOLORES (decisively). All right. How much do you want for the reel?

  FAN. Huh? There are lots of them, I warn you.

  DOLORES. We’ll buy them all. Won’t we, María?

  FAN. No. It’s you or nothing.

  DOLORES (with a flash of flirtatiousness). Me?

  MARIA (to DOLORES). You. You or nothing.

  FAN. You or nothing. It’s that simple. Easier than spelling Zbigniew Brzezinski. (Pause.) You.

  DOLORES is disconcerted. Silence. DOLORES goes over to her little altar. Like in the classic Mexican movies, she kneels down to ask advice from the Virgin Mary.

  DOLORES. Hail Mary.

  MARIA (conceitedly and seriously). Conceived in sin . . .

  DOLORES. Full of Grace, the Lord is with you . . .

  MARIA (smiles). Because if we women didn’t conceive in sin, what fun would we have?

  DOLORES. Blessed art thou amongst women . . .

  MARIA. The Lord is with thee but only to conceive in sin the son of misfortune . . .

  DOLORES (her arms open). Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

  MARIA (her arms crossed). I don’t repent. Did you all hear me? I don’t repent anything. Certainly not!

  DOLORES crosses herself. She gets up. She picks up her piggy bank. She strokes it sadly. MARIA lights her black cigar.

  MARIA. Don’t torment yourself over me, honey. (DOLORES raises her head, awkwardly hopeful.) I want to say something to you: this is your decision and yours alone. For me, a little scandal makes me . . . it’s like the wind in Columbus’ sails.

  DOLORES (murmurs). Chores.

  MARIA. The top dog.

  DOLORES. What I’ve been to you for years.

  MARIA. Division of labour. I took you out for walks, remember?

  DOLORES. A man to do chores for . . . iron his shirts . . . sew his buttons on . . . cook his beans. I’ve never done it before. There was always a butler in the house.

  MARIA. Then here’s your break, my swallow.

  DOLORES (trembling). No, María, no, how can you think . . . ?

  MARIA. That you could leave me? Oye, the same way I’d leave you.

  DOLORES. You . . . me?

  MARIA. Sure. Not for this blind toad, but for a poet-musician, for a singing cowboy, even for a well-hung mariachi, why not?

  DOLORES (inquisitive, reflective). Because she had them . . . because that was part of her life, so you could lead your life imitating her life.

  MARIA. No. As far as I know, no. That would be a novelty. You were too decent.

  The FAN intervenes to hurry things up, also hiding considerable alarm.

  FAN. Right, make up your minds. It’s almost three o’clock. I have to get back to the newspaper. My corpses await me.

  MARIA. Can nobody die without you, slimeball.

  FAN. No, nobody important, no.

  MARIA. Ah.

  Impulsively, DOLORES kneels down in front of MARIA, hugs her legs and presses her cheek against MARIA’s knees.

  DOLORES. You don’t get upset by scandal, but I do, I do . . . (She looks imploringly at MARIA, her eyes filled with tears.) We’re queens, both of us, if one stumbles the other falls, if one’s wounded the other dies, don’t you see?

  MARIA. But only through the publ
ic, remember Lolita. You only love yourself and me through the public. (She looks at the FAN. She introduces him with an elegant flourish as if he were Prince Charming out of a fairy tale. The FAN adjusts his bowtie and takes his jacket.) And there is your public.

  DOLORES. Do you love me?

  MARIA. Nobody, not even yourself, loves you more, because nobody, not even yourself, loves you alone, without your public, except me . . .

  DOLORES. So?

  MARIA. So you decide, litle sister.

  DOLORES (imprisoned by doubts). Doña, Doña, Doña . . . 16

  She covers her head with the shawl. She strokes the piggy. The FAN puts on his jacket. DOLORES speaks in the accent of an Indian girl.17

  DOLORES. Ay, our piggy. Remember Lorenzo Rafaíl, don’t let them take our piggy away . . . it’s the only thing we have . . . (She puts it back in its place. Looks at MARIA.) Don’t leave me alone. I won’t do anything bad. It’s better to kill our piggy. Kill the pig. (She changes her tone, feigning haughtiness. She stretches her hand out to the FAN, who takes it eagerly. DOLORES turns round to MARIA again.) It’s true, my love. I know you won’t stop loving me because of this. (Shrugs her shoulders.) After all . . . a man . . . I was one less for all the others. I’ll be one more for him.

  The FAN has opened the door with a faint sound of creaking hinges. The FAN and DOLORES exit quickly, leaving the door open. For a few seconds, MARIA stares at the door. Once again she drops her black cigar into the teapot. Then she throws herself at the door and closes it. The same prison-like, metallic sounds are heard as when the FAN came in. MARIA leans against the closed door and stifles a sob, biting her knuckles. She runs over to DOLORES’ altar, picks up the piggy bank and looks at it disdainfully.

  MARIA (mimicking). ‘We don’t have anything else in the world, Lorenzo Rafaíl.’

  Violently, she smashes the clay object on the ground. She gasps. She composes herself. She goes over to the telephone. She dials a number nervously.

  MARIA. Hello? The Luz del Día Restaurant? This is Lupe Vélez18 . . . No, not the usual, thank you . . . What? No, not the usual lunchbox, no, listen to me. This is a special occasion. I want to order . . . Yes, get your thing out . . . No, not that thing, your pencil, don’t be a jerk. You dirty old man, as if anyone was interested in that Toltec ruin. Look, I want to talk to the boss. Yes, to Don Pancho Cáceres, and quick . . . Hello. . . ? Hey, patroncito! Look, this is a very special occasion . . . Yes, I know . . . But you know what? I’ve been left all alone, don Panchito, and I’m hungry . . . Ay, I know, patroncito, you were sent to me from heaven above. Look: for starters, your soup with herb tea and baby chilis, then your mushroom and cheese tortillas, two of them, yes, and two with pumpkin flowers . . . Ah, wonderful. Yes, lettuce sliced very fine and juicy, I don’t want those shrivelled up things you send me sometimes – they’re like eating old gloves . . . No, hold on, I’ve only just begun . . . Then eggs, very well seasoned, and a side helping of almond sauce, not too heavy, I don’t want to die of indigestion . . . Live to the full, si señor. Let’s have the tacos then, very fine and smooth, the tortillas cooked gently but please not fried, you know I can’t stand greasy food . . . Stuffed chillis, sure, as long as the pomegranates are good, I want them to really crack between my teeth, you know? Last time you sent them all watery, ah, how could you do that to me, my little merchant, aren’t I your best client? Let me see: some green enchiladas, only the green ones, so I know the filling is fresh. And now for the main course. What can you recommend? Mole, no . . . or, I don’t know, maybe, yes . . . but I want it in a marinated oriental sauce. Have you got that marinated oriental sauce, with onion and green peppers, which I can feel melting on my tongue, which doesn’t even touch my palate. Ay, patroncito, you know what nostalgia for our country is. How could you not know it? You came to California twenty-five years ago to pick lemons and stayed to feed all us Chicanos. Just look, patroncito! No, no don’t go over the top, a tamal at this stage . . . you’ll kill me with love . . . I want something to wash down the banquet. Is the pulque fresh? . . . ‘Oh land of the sun, I long to see you!’ . . . Some hot fudge, just a spoonful. And lots of fruit. All the holy Mexican Republic in the colours of its fruits for my banquet: yellow mangos and pink papayas and dark zapotes and ochre mameys and white custard apples and black quinces and green pears and red pomegranates. And tequila, patroncito, lots of tequila, with lots of salt, lots of lemon and blood of the widow, blood of Jalisco . . . What? No it’s not a party, it’s for me, boss, I’m all alone . . . I’m free. Don’t let me down Don Panchito, if you let me down today, you’ve let me down for ever, I swear to you on your holy mother’s head. Thank you. You’re a good man. She hangs up the telephone. Motionless for a moment. She stretches. She hurries over to her personal altar. She opens a drawer. She takes out a medicine bottle. It must be understood from the size and the colour of the bottle and the pills that they are sleeping pills. MARIA takes out a pill, another and another and another, up to a dozen, and puts them in her mouth as if they were sweets. She stops. A moment of alarm. She tries to hear or feel something. Nothing happens. She walks over to the folding screen. She takes down the Cleopatra costume. She walks downstage centre with it in her hands. A white curtain falls behind her to hide the slight change of scenery upstage. The music of the bolero ‘María Bonita’ is heard. On the white curtain can be seen a montage of films in which close-ups of María Félix and Dolores del Río alternate: movies of all ages and all costumes, but always the alternating faces of the two women: two eternal faces and two faces which in some way are one. Slowly, MARIA picks up Cleopatra’s ceremonial baton. When she finishes doing this, the song and the images also stop. The initial trumpet call of the mariachi ‘La Negra’ is heard. The curtain which had served as a screen opens. The original set, without losing any of the details which we know – it is still DOLORES and MARIA’s apartment in Venice, California – now takes on a harmony from the absence of the folding screens and the pile of clothes in the centre. Instead, the central space is occupied by a banqueting table heaped with dishes and Mexican antojos, barrels of pulque and bottles of tequila, clay pots, plates overflowing with fruit. There is a great ceremonial Pharaonic chair in the middle of the table, behind which the Mariachi band is playing. The NUBIAN SLAVE GIRLS appear, two beautiful girls dressed like Aida in Verdi’s opera, with large fans in their hands, half-naked, with no shoes on, singing the verses of the zarzuela ‘The Court of Pharaoh’ in counterpoint to the MARIACHIS who are now playing ‘Las Olas de la Laguna’:

  NUBIAN SLAVES (singing). Ay Ba, ay Ba, ay Babilonio que marea, Ay Va, Ay Va, Ay Vámonos para Judea . . .

  MARIA walks serenely to her throne, followed by the slaves who fan her and then leave the fans to move back the throne while MARIA takes her place. Next one of the NUBIAN SLAVE GIRLS crowns MARIA with the ostentatious headdress of the Egyptian queen and another one offers her the Ptolemaic insignias which MARIA places over her breast. The NUBIAN SLAVE GIRLS start serving the meal to MARIA. They feed her as if she were a child. Her lips become smeared with black chili sauce, her chin with beans, but MARIA does not lose her hieratic, imperial composure. In her eyes, however, a mortal terror appears. She sits up with an air of desperation.

  MARIA. Thank you, my people. Thank you for accompanying me in my solitude. You have understood our sacrifice.

  The NUBIAN SLAVE GIRLS, like cybernetically synchronised automatons, hum the aria from La Traviata, ‘Conosca il Sacrifizio’. MARIA raises her cup of pulque.

  MARIA. If they had seen us, defending them from blackmail! If they had seen Dolores telling that pig: ‘How much, how much for the copies?’ In the name of them, loyal to them, to their movies, because without them we have no way of returning there, to the land that we lost, Dolores . . . (The MARIACHIS play and the NUBIAN SLAVE GIRLS sing the ‘Méjico lindo y querido, si muero lejos de ti’.19 MARIA drops the cup and slumps heavily into the chair, sick.) Oh land of the sun, I long to see you, now I live so far from light, from love, a
nd seeing myself so alone and sad, like a leaf in the wind, I want to cry, I want to die of feeling!20 We left the land of the sun to come and live in the dark cave of the north. Ay, Dolores! And the condition was that we would never part. The two beasts never part. When one man eater goes out in search of food the other accompanies her. It’s not possible to part . . . That’s the condition for living. Do you understand? Alone, each one of us returns to the jungle of fire, not to God but to the jungle: all the dead in the world are younger than God, don’t forget that. Don’t forget me, oh my land of the sun, I yearn for you . . . 21