(She crosses herself, horrified. BELISARIO has fallen asleep over his papers. His pencil slips out of his hand and falls on to the floor. He starts to snore.)
ACT TWO
As the curtain rises, the GRANDPARENTS are listening to the Sunday Mass on the old wireless set they keep in the small drawing room of their house. The voice of the priest drones on monotonously and GRANDMOTHER and MAMAE genuflect and cross themselves at the appropriate moments. GRANDFATHER listens reluctantly. At intervals we hear the tram passing. AMELIA is laying the table for supper. She moves in and out of the room without paying any attention to the Mass on the wireless. BELISARIO, who has fallen asleep at his desk, slowly wakes up. He yawns, rubs his eyes and reads over something he has written. Suddenly something occurs to him which makes him jump up in great excitement and take hold of the little chair in which he has been sitting. He leans against it like a little old man who can’t walk and starts to make his way slowly across the stage, dragging himself along with little hops and skips (exactly as we will see MAMAE doing later).
BELISARIO: That time Grandfather was robbed, could she still walk then? Could you, Mamaé? Yes, this was how it was, with your little wooden chair, like a child playing gee-gees. From your bedroom to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the armchair, from the armchair to the dining room, and from the dining room back to your bedroom again: the geography of your world. (Reflects; repeats the expression, savouring it.) The geography of your world, Mamaé. I like it, Belisario!
(He runs to his desk and writes something down. Then he starts to chew his pencil, lost in the world of his memories.) Of course you were still walking. You only stopped when Grandfather died. ‘She hasn’t yet realized,’ Mama would say. ‘She doesn’t understand,’ Uncle César and Uncle Agustín would say. (Looks at MAMAE.) Did you really not realize that in that house that was already so full of ghosts, there was now one more to add to its number? Of course you did, Mamaé! (Jots down a few notes on the paper in front of him.) You loved Grandfather very much, didn’t you, Mamaé? Just how much did you love him? And in what way? What about that letter? And that thrashing? And the wicked Indian woman from Camaná? The gentleman always seemed to be linked to that letter and that Indian woman in the stories about the young lady from Tacna. What was behind so mysterious, scandalous, and sinful a story, Mamaé? Mysterious, scandalous, sinful! I like it! I like it!
(He starts to write furiously.)
AMELIA: (Who has already served up the soup) Supper is ready!
(The Mass has finished and a commercial break has begun with an advertisement for Chocolate Sublime. AMELIA turns the wireless off. The GRANDPARENTS go and sit down at the table. GRANDFATHER seems very downcast. MAMAE raises herself laboriously out of her armchair and takes a little step forward. AMELIA runs to help her.)
Do you want to break your leg? Where are you going without your chair, Mamaé?
(She takes MAMAE by the arm and guides her towards the table.)
MAMAE: To church. That’s where I’m going. To pray. I want to go to Mass, to confession. I’m sick of listening to Mass on the wireless. It’s not the same. The priest can say what he likes. It just isn’t. Your mind wanders, you can’t take it seriously.
(MAMAE and AMELIA sit down. They start to eat.)
GRANDMOTHER: Then my husband will have to carry you, Mamaé. It would take you hours to get to the Church of the Fatima with that little chair of yours. (To GRANDFATHER) Remember, Pedro, how you used to carry us across the river when we came to visit you in Camaná? How we used to scream and yell!
(GRANDFATHER nods listlessly.)
AMELIA: What’s the matter, Papa? You haven’t opened your mouth all day.
GRANDMOTHER: I try to talk to you and all you do is nod like one of those giant-headed creatures at Carnival. You make me feel like an idiot. Are you ill?
GRANDFATHER: No, my little funny face, there’s nothing the matter with me. I’m all right. I was just finishing up this … thingumajig, before it gets cold.
AMELIA: Soup, Papa.
GRANDMOTHER: What’s this mania you’ve got for calling everything a thingumajig? If you forget what it is, ask. Can’t you see it’s soup?
MAMAE: A pig’s breakfast, that’s what it is.
GRANDFATHER: (In an effort to speak) No, it’s good. It just needs a little salt perhaps.
BELISARIO: (Looking up from his papers) He thought everything was good; he called everything a thingumajig, and everything needed salt. A man who never complained about anything, except not being able to find work in his old age. Grandmother, in all the fifty years she’d been married to him, never heard him raise his voice once. That’s why the thrashing that Indian woman from Camaná got seemed so inconceivable, Mamaé. In his last few years, salt became an obsession with him. He put salt in his coffee, salt on his pudding. And he thought everything was –
GRANDFATHER: Splendid! Splendid!
(BELISARIO starts to write again.)
GRANDMOTHER: I know what’s wrong with you, Pedro. Before, when you went out for your little walks, you’d go just to make sure the outside world was still there. And when your children stopped you, they took away the one pleasure you had left in life.
AMELIA: You say it, Mama, as if we’d done it deliberately to torment him.
GRANDFATHER: Am I complaining?
GRANDMOTHER: It would be a great deal easier if you did.
GRANDFATHER: Right then, if it’ll make you any happier, I’ll spend the whole day grumbling. I can’t think what about though, my little funny face.
GRANDMOTHER: I’m not getting at you, dear. Do you think I enjoy keeping you cloistered up in here? Look, after lunch we’ll go for a walk round the block. I just hope to God my varicose veins don’t start playing me up again.
(AMELIA gets up and collects the plates.)
AMELIA: You haven’t had your soup, Mamaé.
MAMAE: Soup? A dog’s dinner more like – and a rabid one at that!
AMELIA: (Going out) If you knew what my brothers gave me for the housekeeping, you’d realize I perform miracles just to get you all two square meals a day.
GRANDMOTHER: Those visits to church … Yes, Mamaé, what a consolation they were. We’d go to the Fatima one day, the next to the Carmelites. Do you remember that time we went walking as far as the Parish of Miraflores. We had to stop at every corner, we were so exhausted.
MAMAE: Those negroes singing and dancing in the middle of Mass takes some getting used to. It’s like a party. They’re such heathens!
(AMELIA comes in with the second course. She serves the GRANDPARENTS and MAMAE and sits down.)
AMELIA: Negroes? In the Parish of Miraflores?
MAMAE: In the Parish of La Mar.
AMELIA: Miraflores, Mamaé.
GRANDMOTHER: She’s talking about Tacna, dear. Before you were born. La Mar. A shanty town full of negroes and Indians, on the outskirts of the town. I did some watercolours of La Mar, when I was studying under Maestro Modesto Molina …
AMELIA: Mamaé used to go to Mass in a shanty town full of negroes and Indians?
GRANDMOTHER: We went there several times – on Sundays. There was a little timber chapel with reed matting. After Mamaé broke off her engagement, she got it into her head she’d either go to Mass in La Mar or she wouldn’t go at all. She could be as stubborn as a mule.
MAMAE: (Following her own train of thought) Padre Venancio says it’s not a sin, that it’s all right for them to dance and sing at Mass. He says God forgives them because they don’t know what they’re doing. He’s one of these avant-garde little priests …
GRANDMOTHER: It was wonderful entertainment though, wasn’t it, Mamaé? All those Masses and Novenas, all those Holy Week processions and Stations of the Cross. There was always something to do, thanks to the Church. One was more in touch with life somehow. It’s not the same praying in private, you’re quite right. It was so different fulfilling one’s religious obligations surrounded by ordinary people. These varicose veins …
(Looks at her husband.) To think of all those brash young men who pretend to be atheists, then return to the fold in their old age – well, it’s been quite the reverse with you, dear.
AMELIA: It’s true, Papa. You never used to miss Mass; you never ate meat on Fridays, and you used to take Communion several times a year. What made you change?
GRANDFATHER: I don’t know what you’re talking about, my dear.
GRANDMOTHER: Of course you’ve changed, Pedro. You stopped going to church. And you only went latterly to keep Mamaé and me company. You didn’t even kneel at the Elevation. And, whenever we listen to Mass here on the wireless, you don’t even bother to cross yourself. Don’t you believe in God any more?
GRANDFATHER: Look, I don’t know. It’s strange … but I don’t think about it, I don’t care.
GRANDMOTHER: Don’t you care whether God exists or not? Don’t you care if there’s an afterlife?
GRANDFATHER: (Trying to joke) I must be losing my curiosity in my old age.
GRANDMOTHER: What nonsense you talk, Pedro. A fine consolation it would be if God didn’t exist and there was no afterlife.
GRANDFATHER: All right then, God does exist and there is an afterlife. Don’t let’s argue about something so trivial.
MAMAE: But when it comes to confession he’s the best of the lot! (To GRANDMOTHER, who looks at her surprised.) Father Venancio! What a way he has with words! He captivates you, he hypnotizes you! Father Venancio, I’ve committed a mortal sin, all because of that Indian woman from Camaná and that damned letter.
(She puts her hand in front of her mouth, frightened at what she has said. She looks at the GRANDPARENTS and AMELIA. But they are concentrating on their food, as if they hadn’t heard her. However, BELISARIO has stopped writing. He looks up and we can see from his expression that he is profoundly intrigued.)
BELISARIO: It’s clear that the young lady never had the slightest doubt about the existence of God, or about the true faith: it was Catholic, Apostolic and Roman. There’s no doubt she fulfilled her religious obligations with the unerring simplicity of a star moving around the universe: she went to church, took Communion, said her prayers, and went to confession.
(MAMAE, who has been moving very laboriously over towards BELISARIO, now kneels in front of him as if she is at confession.)
MAMAE: Forgive me, Father Venancio, for I have sinned.
BELISARIO: (Giving her the Benediction) When was the last time you came to confession, my child?
MAMAE: A fortnight ago, father.
BELISARIO: Have you offended against God these last two weeks?
MAMAE: I confess that I gave in to feelings of anger, father.
BELISARIO: How many times?
MAMAE: Twice. The first was last Tuesday. Amelia was cleaning the bathroom. She was taking her time and I was wanting to obey a call of nature. I was too ashamed to ask her to leave. Carmen and Pedro were there and they would have realized that I wanted to go to the lavatory. So I said as casually as I could, ‘Get a move on with the bathroom, would you, Amelia.’ But she just carried on as if there was all the time in the world. Well, I was feeling quite uncomfortable by now, what with the cramp in my stomach, and I was coming out in a cold sweat. So I cursed her, mentally of course. But I felt like shouting, ‘You confounded idiot! You disagreeable slut! You …’
BELISARIO: And the second time, my child?
MAMAE: That treacherous little devil poured away my bottle of eau-de-Cologne. I’d been given it as a present. The family is not well off at the moment, father, so for them it was a lot of money. Amelia and the boys always give me presents for my birthday and at Christmas, and I depend on them. I was pleased with that Cologne. It had a lovely smell. But that little devil opened the bottle and emptied it down the sink. All because I wouldn’t tell him a story, Father Venancio.
BELISARIO: Was I the treacherous little devil, Mamaé?
MAMAE: Yes, father.
BELISARIO: Did you box my ears? Did you spank me?
MAMAE: I never lay a finger on him. Well, he’s not my grandchild, is he? I’m only an aunt, a sort of second fiddle in the orchestra. But when I saw that empty Cologne bottle, father, I was so angry, I locked myself in the bathroom and stood there in front of the mirror, saying rude words.
BELISARIO: What rude words, my child?
MAMAE: I hardly like to say, Father Venancio.
BELISARIO: That may be so. Now don’t be proud.
MAMAE: All right, I’ll try, Father. (Making a big effort) Bugger it all! You shit! You shit! You snotty little shit!
BELISARIO: What other sins, my child?
MAMAE: I confess that I lied three times, father.
BELISARIO: Serious lies?
MAMAE: Well sort of, father.
GRANDMOTHER: (From the table) What are you talking about, Elvira?
MAMAE: We’ve run out of sugar. (To BELISARIO) There was a whole packet, but I hid it. I wanted Carmen to give me some money. So I told another lie.
GRANDMOTHER: And why should you be going to buy sugar? Let Amelia go.
MAMAE: No, no. I’ll go. I want to take some exercise. (To BELISARIO) It wasn’t true, I have great difficulty walking. My knees ache, and I’m not very steady on my feet.
BELISARIO: And why all those lies, my child?
MAMAE: So I could buy myself a bar of chocolate. I’d been longing for some for days. That advertisement on the wireless for Chocolate Sublime made my mouth water.
BELISARIO: Wouldn’t it have been easier to ask Grandfather for five soles?
MAMAE: He’s very hard up at the moment, father. He’s living off his sons and they’re going through a difficult patch. He makes do with the same razor blade for weeks on end, poor man, sharpening it up for goodness knows how long every morning. It’s ages since anyone bought any clothes in the house. We wear what Amelia and the boys hand down to us. How was I going to ask him for money to buy chocolate? So I went to the shop, bought a bar of Sublime, and guzzled it in the street. When I got home, I put the packet of sugar I’d hidden back in the kitchen cupboard. That was the third little piece of deception, father.
BELISARIO: You are too proud, my child.
MAMAE: There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s not a sin to be proud.
(In the course of the conversation the physical relationship between them has gradually been changing. MAMAE is now in the position she habitually adopts when she tells stories to BELISARIO as a young child.)
BELISARIO: I think it is, Mamaé. Brother Leoncio said the other day in the catechism class that pride was the worst sin of all. That it was Lucifer’s favourite.
MAMAE: All right, perhaps it is. But as far as the young lady from Tacna was concerned, it was pride that made her life bearable, you see? It gave her the strength to put up with the disappointments, the loneliness, and all that privation. Without pride she would have suffered a great deal. Besides, it was all she had.
BELISARIO: I don’t know why you rate pride so highly. If she loved her fiancé, and he asked her to forgive him for being unfaithful to her with the wicked woman, wouldn’t she have been better off just to forgive him and marry him? What use was all this pride to her? After all, she ended up an old spinster, didn’t she?
MAMAE: You’re very young and you don’t understand. Pride is the most important thing a person can have in life. It protects you against everything. Once you lose it, whether you’re a man or a woman, the world tramples on you like an old rag.
BELISARIO: But this isn’t a story. It’s more like a sermon, Mamaé. Things have got to happen in stories. And you never give me nearly enough details. For instance, did the young lady have any nasty secret habits?
MAMAE: (Frightened, getting to her feet) No, of course she didn’t. (More frightened still) Nasty … what did you say? (Horrified) Nasty what? Nasty whats?
BELISARIO: (Ashamed) I said nasty secret thoughts, Mamaé. Didn’t the young lady ever have any nasty secret thoughts?
MAMAE: (Sympathetically, as she sl
ips awkwardly back to her armchair) You’re the one whose head is full of nasty secret thoughts, my little one.
(She curls up in her armchair. The GRANDPARENTS and AMELIA, unaware of what’s happening, carry on eating. BELISARIO has started to write again. He talks as he makes notes on his papers.)
BELISARIO: Yes, Mamaé. It’s true. I can’t help thinking that, underneath that unworldly façade, behind that serene expression, there was an infinite source of warmth and passion which would suddenly well up and make demands on the young lady. Or was there really nothing else besides the austere routine of her daily life?
(He stops writing. He turns to look at MAMAE. He addresses her with a certain pathos.)
When I was a child, I never imagined you could ever have been anything other than a little old woman. Even now, when I try to picture you in your youth, I can’t. The young girl you once were always gives way to the old woman with the wrinkled face. In spite of all these stories, I’m still all at sea about the young lady. What happened to her after she burnt her wedding dress and left the Chilean officer in the lurch?
(As BELISARIO finishes his speech, GRANDMOTHER gets up from the table and goes over towards MAMAE. GRANDFATHER and AMELIA carry on eating, unaware of what follows. From time to time GRANDFATHER throws salt over his food in a sort of frenzy.)
GRANDMOTHER: Why haven’t you packed your suitcases, Elvirita? Pedro wants to leave at dawn so that we arrive at the docks before it gets too hot. We don’t want to catch sunstroke, specially you, with that fair skin of yours. (Pause.) You know, deep down, I’m glad we’re leaving. When my mother died after that dreadful illness, it was almost as if Tacna were starting to die too. And now what with my father’s death, I find this town really has quite a disagreeable effect on me. Let’s go and pack your suitcases. I’ll help you.
MAMAE: I’m not going to Arequipa with you, Carmencita.
GRANDMOTHER: And where are you going to live? Who are you going to stay with in Tacna?
MAMAE: I’m not going to be a burden to you all my life.
Three Plays Page 5