GRANDMOTHER: Don’t talk nonsense, Elvira. My husband is perfectly happy for you to come with us. You know that. After all, we are practically sisters, aren’t we? Well, you’ll be a sister to Pedro too. Come on, let’s go and pack your suitcases.
MAMAE: Ever since you were married, I’ve been waiting for this moment. Every night, lying awake, thinking, until morning came with the sound of the bugle at the Chilean barracks. I can’t live with you and Pedro. He married you. He didn’t bargain for your cousin Elvira as well.
GRANDMOTHER: You’re coming to live with us and that’s that. There’s no more to be said on the subject.
MAMAE: You’d find it a bore in the long run. A whole source of problems. You’d argue because of me. Sooner or later Pedro would throw it back at you that you’d saddled him with a hanger-on for the rest of his life.
GRANDMOTHER: But it won’t be for the rest of his life, because soon you’ll forget what happened with Joaquín, you’ll fall in love and you’ll get married. Please, Elvira, we’re going to have to get up at crack of dawn. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.
BELISARIO: (Delighted with what he’s discovered, jumping up in his seat) Long, very tedious and extremely complicated. Train from Tacna to Arica. Boat from Arica. Then two days sailing as far as Mollendo. Going ashore there, was like something out of a circus, wasn’t it, Grandma? They lowered the ladies off the boat into the launch in hampers, didn’t they, Mamaé? Just like cattle. And then there was that three-day ride across the mountains on horseback to Arequipa – with the additional hazard of being attacked by bandits on the way. (Starts to write enthusiastically.) Ah, Belisario, that’s what you used to criticize the regionalist writers so much for: their use of local colour and extravagant effects.
GRANDMOTHER: Are you afraid of bandits, Elvira? I am, but at the same time I find them quite delightful. These are the sort of things you should be thinking about, instead of all this nonsense.
MAMAE: It’s not nonsense, Carmencita.
GRANDMOTHER: You know very well you can’t stay in Tacna. We’ve nothing left here now. Not even the house – the new owners are moving in tomorrow.
MAMAE: I’ll stay with María Murga.
GRANDMOTHER: That old nanny you once had? Really, Elvira, the things you come up with!
MAMAE: She’s a good-hearted woman. She’s offered me a room in her house, in La Mar. I could share with her youngest son, my godchild. I’ll help out with the housekeeping. Then there’s always my embroidery. I’ll make tablecloths, veils, lace mantillas. And sweets and cakes too. I’ll take them to Máspoli, the confectioner’s. That nice Italian will sell them and give me a commission.
GRANDMOTHER: Like something out of a novelette by Xavier de Montepin … I can just see you living in a Tacna slum, surrounded by Indians and negroes. You, who are always so squeamish about everything; you, the finicky little filly, as father used to call you.
MAMAE: I may be finicky, but I’ve never felt rich. I’ll learn to live like a pauper, since that’s what I am. At least María Murga’s little house is clean.
GRANDMOTHER: Are you going completely out of your mind, Elvira? Stay here and live in La Mar! What’s got into you? What’s all this about La Mar? First you want to go to Mass there, then it’s sunsets you want to look at, and now you’re going to live there with María Murga. Has some Negro put a jinx on you? It’s getting very late and I’m tired of arguing. I’m going to pack your suitcases and tomorrow Pedro will put you on the Arica train, by force if necessary.
(GRANDMOTHER goes back to the dining room. She sits down and resumes her meal.)
MAMAE: What difference does it make whether I stay here or go to María Murga’s? Isn’t this miserable hole quite as squalid as any shack in La Mar? (Pause.) All right, there the people walk about barefoot and we wear shoes. There they all have lice in their hair, as Uncle Menelao keeps reminding us, and we … (Puts her hand up to her head.) Who knows, that’s probably why I’m scratching.
(GRANDFATHER stands up and goes forward towards MAMAE. GRANDMOTHER and AMELIA carry on with their meal.)
GRANDFATHER: Good afternoon, Elvira. I’ve been looking for you. I’d just like to have a few words with you if I may.
(MAMAE looks at him for a moment. Then she looks up to heaven as she says:)
MAMAE: It’s so hard to understand you, dear God. You seem to prefer rogues and lunatics to ordinary decent folk. Why, if Pedro was always so fair and so honest, did you give him such a miserable life?
(BELISARIO gets up from his desk and goes forward towards MAMAE.)
BELISARIO: Wasn’t it a sin for the young lady to reproach God like that, Mamaé? He knows what he’s doing and if he gave the gentleman such a hard time, there must have been some good reason for it surely. Perhaps he was going to make up for it by giving him a nice big reward in heaven.
GRANDFATHER: You’re like a sister to Carmen, and I think of you as my sister too. You’ll never be a stranger in my house. I’m telling you, we’re not leaving Tacna without you.
MAMAE: That may be so, my little one. But the young lady couldn’t understand it. She worked herself up into a fever thinking, ‘Dear God in Heaven, was it because of the Indian woman in the letter that you put the gentleman through so much misery? Was it all for that one little indiscretion that you made the cotton in Camaná get frosted the very year he was going to get rich?’
BELISARIO: (Sitting at MAMAE’s feet, adopting his customary position while listening to stories) Had the gentleman committed a sin? You never told me about that, Mamaé.
GRANDFATHER: I know how much help you’ve been to Carmen, both as a friend and a confidante and I’m very grateful to you. You’ll always be part of the family. Do you know I’ve left my job at the Casa Gibson? I joined when I was fifteen, after my father died. I’d like to have been a lawyer, like him, but it just wasn’t possible. Now I’m going to manage the Saíds’ estate in Camaná. We’re going to plant cotton. Who knows? In a few years’ time, I might be able to branch out on my own, buy a little land. Carmen will have to spend lengthy periods in Arequipa. You’ll be able to keep her company. You see, you won’t be a burden in the house, you’ll be an asset.
MAMAE: There was just one little sin, yes, in a life that was otherwise so pure and noble. But only one, which is nothing really. And it wasn’t the gentleman’s fault either – he was led astray by a depraved woman. The young lady couldn’t understand the injustice of it. (Looks up to heaven.) Was it because of the Indian woman in the letter that you made the cotton fields in Santa Cruz get blighted as well? Is that why you made him accept the prefecture so that he ended up even poorer than he was before?
BELISARIO: But, Mamaé, I know that the young lady was always worried because he had so much bad luck. But I don’t care about the young lady now. Tell me about the gentleman. What did he do that was such a sin?
GRANDFATHER: You’ll like the house I’ve rented in Arequipa. It’s in a new district, El Vallecito, beside the river Chilina. You can hear the sound of the water, rippling over the pebbles. And your room looks out over the three volcanoes.
MAMAE: (Still looking up to heaven) Was it because of the Indian woman that you stopped him from ever getting another job after leaving the prefecture?
BELISARIO: I’m going to get cross with you, Mamaé. I’m going to throw up my lunch, my dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast as well in a minute. To hell with the young lady from Tacna! Tell me about the gentleman! Did he steal something? Did he kill the Indian woman?
GRANDFATHER: It’s large, with five bedrooms and a garden where we’ll plant trees. Our room and yours are already furnished. But we’ll do the others up too for our future family – God willing – with the help of Providence and the Camaná cotton fields. I’m hopeful about my new job, Elvira. The field tests we’ve done are most encouraging. The cotton plants are thriving – the climate seems to suit them. With determination and a little bit of luck, I’ll come out on top, you’ll see.
MAMAE: He di
dn’t kill or rob anybody. He let himself be bamboozled by a she-devil. But it wasn’t that serious: God wouldn’t have had him begging for a job no one would give him, just for that. He wouldn’t have had him living on charity when he was still compos mentis and in good health.
(At the beginning of the speech she has been talking to BELISARIO, however her mind has started to wander and she now talks to herself.)
He wouldn’t have let him feel like a reprobate and he wouldn’t have let him live in such a constant state of anguish that he finally became unhinged and even forgot where he was living …
(BELISARIO stands up and returns to his desk by the proscenium.)
BELISARIO: (Writing very quickly) I’m going to tell you something, Mamaé. The young lady from Tacna was in love with that gentleman. It’s quite obvious, although she may not have realized it herself, and it never came out in your stories. But it’s certainly going to come out in mine.
GRANDFATHER: I beg you, Elvira. Come and live with us. For ever. Or, rather, for as long as you want. I know it won’t be for ever. You’re young and attractive, the young men of Arequipa will go crazy about you. Sooner or later, you’ll fall for one of them and you’ll get married.
MAMAE: (Getting up) You’re wrong there, Pedro. I’ll never marry. But I’m very touched by what you’ve said. I thank you with all my heart.
(GRANDMOTHER has got up from the table and goes towards them.)
GRANDMOTHER: Right, Elvira, your suitcases are all ready. There’s just your travelling bag. You’ll have to pack it yourself with whatever you want to take by hand. The trunk will go with the rest of the luggage. And please, from now on, stop being so formal with each other. Loosen up a bit. We’re all family, after all, aren’t we?
(She makes them embrace each other. The GRANDPARENTS lead MAMAE towards the table where they each return to their places. They resume the meal. During the conversation between MAMAE and the GRANDPARENTS, BELISARIO has been writing very enthusiastically, he suddenly stops working, an expression of dismay on his face.)
BELISARIO: Is this a love story? Weren’t you going to write a love story? (Hits himself on the head.) You always spoil everything, you keep going off at tangents, Belisario. By the time you get round to writing what you really want to write, you’ll be dead. Look, there may be an explanation. (Noting down) A writer is someone who writes, not what he wants – that’s what the normal person does – but what his demons want him to.
(He looks at the elderly group of people who carry on eating) Are you my demons? I owe you everything, yet now that I’m old and you’re all dead, you still keep coming to my rescue and helping me out, and so I become even more indebted to you.
(He gathers his papers together and gets up; he seems impatient and exasperated; he goes towards the dining room where the family carry on eating impassively.)
Why don’t you give me some real help then? Explain things to me, put me in the picture, give me some clarification? Who was that perverse Indian woman who suddenly found her way into the stories about the gentleman and the young lady from Tacna? It must have been someone, there must have been something that touched on a sensitive nerve in the family history, mustn’t there, Mamaé? You were obsessed by her, weren’t you, Mamaé? She’d been given a thrashing, she was mentioned in some letter or other, and you hated her with such venom that you even used to mix her up with Señora Carlota. (Walking round the table, shouting) What happened? What happened? I need to know what happened! I know, the three of you got on marvellously together. But was it like that for all the forty or fifty years you shared under the same roof? Didn’t the gentleman ever clasp the young lady surreptitiously by the hand? Did he never make advances to her? Did he never kiss her? Didn’t any of those things happen, that normally happen? Or did you control your instincts through the strength of your moral convictions, and quash temptation by sheer force of will? (By now on his way back to his desk, feeling dejected) Things like that only happen in stories, Mamaé.
(While BELISARIO is soliloquizing, the doorbell rings. CESAR and AGUSTIN come in. They kiss the GRANDPARENTS and MAMAE.)
AGUSTIN: How are you feeling, Papa?
GRANDFATHER: I’m fine, absolutely fine, old son.
GRANDMOTHER: No, he’s not, Agustín. I don’t know what’s got into your father, but he gets more and more depressed every day. He walks round the house like some sort of ghost.
AGUSTIN: I’m going to give you some news that’ll cheer you up. I had a call from the police and guess what! They’ve caught the thief.
GRANDFATHER: (Without knowing what it’s all about) Have they really? Oh good. Good.
AMELIA: The man that attacked you when you were getting off the tram, Papa.
AGUSTIN: And what’s more, they’ve found your watch; it was amongst a whole lot of stolen goods. The man was keeping them in a little cache near Surquillo.
GRANDFATHER: Well, well. That is good news. (Dubiously, to GRANDMOTHER) Had they stolen a watch?
CESAR: They identified it by the date engraved on the back: Piura, October 1946.
(Their voices gradually fade until they are nothing more than a distant murmur. BELISARIO stops writing and sits fiddling thoughtfully with his pencil.)
BELISARIO: Piura, October 1946 … There they are, the High Court Judges, presenting him with a watch; and there’s Grandfather thanking them for it at that banquet they gave for him at the Club Grau. And there’s little Belisario, as pleased as Punch, because he’s the Governor’s grandson. (Looks round at his family.) Was that the final moment of glory? Was it, Grandpa, Grandma, Mama? Was it, Uncle Agustín, Uncle César? Was it, Mamaé? Because after that the calamities fairly started to deluge down on you: no work, no money, bad health and impending dementia. Yet in Piura you looked back nostagically to when you were in Bolivia: there, life had been far better … And in Bolivia you looked back to Arequipa: there, life had been far better …
(At the table, the GRANDPARENTS carry on chatting with their sons and daughter.)
Was that the golden age, in Arequipa, when Grandfather used to travel back and forth from Camaná?
GRANDFATHER: (Youthful, smiling and optimistic) We’ve made it at last. We’re finally going to reap the rewards after ten whole years of waiting. The cotton is doing marvellously. The plants are larger than we ever dared hope for. The Saíds were in Camaná last week. They brought an expert out from Lima, a string of letters after his name. He was quite amazed when he saw the cotton fields. He just couldn’t believe it, Carmencita.
GRANDMOTHER: You really do deserve it, Pedro. After all you’ve sacrificed, burying yourself away in that wilderness for so long.
GRANDFATHER: The expert said that if the water doesn’t let us down, and there’s no reason why it should, because the river is higher than ever – we’ll have a better harvest this year than the richest plantations in Ica.
AGUSTIN: Are you going to buy me that doctor’s outfit then, Papa? Because I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be a famous lawyer like Grandfather any more. I am going to be a famous surgeon.
(GRANDFATHER nods.)
CESAR: And you will buy me that scout’s uniform, won’t you, Papa?
(GRANDFATHER nods.)
AMELIA: (Sitting on GRANDFATHER’s knee) And the chocolate doll in the window of Ibérica for me, Papakins.
GRANDFATHER: It’ll already have been sold by the end of the harvest, nitwit. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll have a special doll made just for you – it’ll be the biggest in Arequipa.
(Pointing to GRANDMOTHER) And what about this jolie little laide? What are we going to give her if the harvest. turns out as we hope?
MAMAE: Can’t you think? Hats, of course! Lots and lots of hats! Large ones, coloured ones, with ribbons and muslin, birds and flowers.
(They all laugh. BELISARIO, who has started to write, laughs too as he carries on writing.)
AMELIA: Why do you like hats so much, Mama?
GRANDMOTHER: They’re all the rage in Argentin
a, dear. Why do you think I’ve taken out a subscription with Para Ti and Leoplán? I’m putting Arequipa on the map with my hats. You should wear them too; they’d really do something for you.
MAMAE: Who knows? You might even land yourself a lawyer. (To GRANDFATHER) If you want a legal genius in the family, you’re going to have to settle for one as a son-in-law, since neither Agustin nor César seem particularly interested in the bar.
AGUSTIN: And what about Mamaé? What are you going to give her if it’s a good harvest, Papa?
GRANDFATHER: What’s all this about Mamaé? You keep calling Elvira Mamaé. Why?
AMELIA: I’ll tell you, Papakins. It’s short for Mama Elvira, Mama-é, the E is for Elvira, see? I made it up.
CESAR: Lies, it was my idea.
AGUSTIN: It was mine, you dirty cheats. It was my idea, wasn’t it, Mamaé?
GRANDMOTHER: Either call her Mama or Elvira, but not Mamaé — it’s so unattractive.
AMELIA: But you’re Mama. How can we have two mamas?
AGUSTIN: She can be an honorary Mama then. (Goes towards MAMAE.) What do you want Papa to give you after the cotton harvest, Mamaé?
MAMAE: Half a pound of tuppenny rice!
CESAR: Come on, Mamaé, seriously, what would you like?
MAMAE: (an old woman again) Some Locumba damsons and a glass of unfermented wine – the kind the Negroes make.
(AGUSTIN, CESAR and AMELIA, adults again, all look at each other, intrigued.)
AGUSTIN: Locumba damsons? Unfermented wine? What are you talking about, Mamaé?
CESAR: Something she’ll have heard in one of those radio plays by Pedro Camacho, no doubt.
GRANDMOTHER: Childhood memories, as usual. There were some orchards in Locumba when we were children, and they used to carry baskets full of damsons from them to Tacna. Large, sweet, juicy ones. And there was that muscatel wine. My father used to let us taste it. He’d give us each a teaspoonful — just to try it. There were Negroes working on the plantations then. Mamaé says that when she was born there were still slaves. But there weren’t really, were there?
Three Plays Page 6