Three Plays

by Mario Vargas Llosa

  (His consternation becomes anger, his incredulity fear.)

  JUAN: Do you want me to smash your face in? Do you want me to kill you? What are you trying to do?

  KATHIE: Then there was Kike Ricketts, the one who was mad about cars. In 1960, in Hawaii, there was your friend Rivarola, who used to go skin-diving. The following year, in South Africa, there was that German we met on safari, the one who took us to the ostrich farm in Wildemes. Hans, whatever his name was, remember? And then last year, there was Sapito Saldívar.

  (He puts his hand over her mouth. He seems about to strangle her.)

  JUAN: Are you telling me the truth, you bitch?

  KATHIE: (Offering no resistance) Don’t you want to know who the other two are?

  (He hesitates, releases her. He is sweaty, panting and exhausted.)

  JUAN: Yes.

  KATHIE: Harry Santana. And … Abel.

  JUAN: (Nearly out of his mind) Abel?

  KATHIE: Your brother Abel. He’s the one that hurts most, isn’t he? That makes eight. (Looks at him hard.) Who’s jealous now?

  (JUAN is completely destroyed. He looks at KATHIE, stupefied.)

  JUAN: Things can’t go on like this, you’ll pay for this, you’ll be sorry. And those swine are going to be even more sorry still. No, this won’t do, it just won’t do.

  (He sobs. He buries his face in his hands as he weeps. KATHIE looks on indifferently.)

  Why did you do this to me?

  KATHIE: (Deeply depressed) To get my own back for all those pretty girls you took to bed with you under my very nose. Because I was bored, I wanted somehow to fill the emptiness in my life. And also because I was hoping to find someone worth while, someone I could fall in love with, who could add colour to my life …

  JUAN: You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to blow your brains out.

  KATHIE: You don’t have to do that, Johnny darling. It’s a bit extreme. One bullet in the heart will do the trick, provided you shoot straight. I probably told you all this for that very reason. I’m sick of myself too.

  JUAN: And your children? What about them?

  KATHIE: Yes, I’m sick of them as well. They didn’t change anything. And I’m not even interested in watching them grow up, in waiting to see what they’re going to do in life. I know perfectly well already. They’re going to turn into idiots, like you and me.

  JUAN: You’ve got no feelings at all; you really are a monster.

  KATHIE: I wasn’t when I married you, Johnny darling. You see, I wasn’t just a pretty girl. I was restless, and curious too. I wasn’t just rich, I also wanted to learn, to improve myself, to do things in life. Admittedly I was rather ignorant and frivolous. But I still had time to change. You put paid to that, though. Living with you made me become like you. (Turns towards SANTIAGO.) I should have met you when I was young, Mark.

  (Throughout the following scene, JUAN gradually gets drunk.)

  SANTIAGO: Can you imagine what I was like as a young man, Kathie?

  KATHIE: As clearly as if I were seeing it now.

  SANTIAGO: (In eager anticipation) What was I like, Kathie? Tell me, please.

  KATHIE: You were born in the dirty, disorderly world of the suburbs, you were an orphan and you went to a state school. You eked out a living by working as a shoeshine boy, minding cars, selling lottery tickets and newspapers.

  ANA: (Stroking his head sympathethically) In fact you went to the Salesian Fathers. Your parents weren’t poor, they just weren’t very well off. Yet you didn’t get a job till you were twenty.

  KATHIE: You didn’t go to the Catholic University, you didn’t have the money, and besides, you were an atheist. So you went to the National one, to San Marcos. You were a brilliant student from the very first day. Always the first to arrive at the faculty and the last to leave. How many hours did you spend in the libraries, Mark?

  SANTIAGO: A great many, a great many.

  ANA: And how many playing pool in the bars on Azángaro Street? Did you ever get to the lectures on philosophy? Or Ancient History? Because you were a terrible lazybones, Mark Griffin.

  KATHIE: How many books a week did Victor Hugo read? Two, three, sometimes one a day.

  ANA: But you never really did much work; you’d neither the patience nor the perseverance. Did you understand Heidegger? Did you ever get round to translating a single line of Latin verse? Did you learn a foreign language?

  KATHIE: As you were poor, you couldn’t afford the luxuries the boys from Miraflores or San Isidro had: you’d no car, you couldn’t buy yourself clothes, or become a member of the Waikiki, or go surfing, or even let your hair down on Saturdays.

  ANA: And what about those beer-drinking sessions at the Patio or the Bar Palermo. Didn’t that count as letting your hair down? And those visits to Señora Nanette’s brothel on the Avenida Grau, which preyed so relentlessly on your socialist conscience?

  KATHIE: But what did the gay social whirl of Miraflores, or the petty snobberies of San Isidro matter to Victor Hugo? His days and nights were devoted to deeper, higher things: assimilating the ideas of the great so as later to achieve greatness himself.

  ANA: Why then did you abandon your studies? Why did you cheat in the exams? Why didn’t you do the work? Why did you miss lectures?

  KATHIE: What did you care about the feats of a few surfers on the Pacific Ocean? For you, all that existed was the spirit, culture and the revolution. For you also devoted your life to stamping out social injustice, didn’t you, Karl Marx?

  SANTIAGO: (Entranced) It’s true. Those Marxist study groups …

  ANA: … which bored the pants off you. Did you understand Das Kapital? Did you ever read Das Kapital? Did you finish The Dialectic on Nature? And what was the name of that other book – the one with the unpronounceable title? Materialism and Empirio something or rather?

  Empirioclassicism? Empiriocriticism? Empiriocretinism? Oh, how absurd.

  SANTIAGO: (With a melancholy smile) And then there were the Party militants – there weren’t many of us, but we were real diehards.

  KATHIE: The militants, yes, of course. Teaching the poor to read, forming charities, distributing alms, organizing bazaars, strikes, revolutions, planting bombs.

  ANA: You mean gossiping ad nauseam in university corridors, or seedy little cafés in the centre of town. Accusing Maoists of being Trotskyites, Leninists of being Stalinists, socialists of being revisionists, and anyone who didn’t agree with you of being Fascists, Nazis or secret police.

  KATHIE: (Exultant) This was life, Victor Hugo! This was youth, Karl Marx! Culture, politics, books, charities, prisons, revolutions, executions. Never a dull moment! You didn’t feel empty for a single second, did you?

  SANTIAGO: I’d no time for that, Kathie.

  KATHIE: (Taking him by the hand) And all those girlfriends you had …

  SANTIAGO: ‘Girlfriend’ is a petit-bourgeois expression. It’s quite inappropriate. Those of us in the Party involved in the struggle call them comrades.

  KATHIE: (Eager, hopeful) And your comrades, who followed you, copied your manuscripts for you, brought you meals in prison, supported you and co-operated with you, simply because they were your comrades – they too became affected and enriched by that wonderfully varied life you led, did they not?

  ANA: (Still affectionate and sympathetic) No, they didn’t. Well, they didn’t, did they, Mark Griffin?

  KATHIE: When you lead such a life when you’re young, you go on to do great things.

  (A doubt crosses her mind. She looks at SANTIAGO suddenly, disconcerted.)

  And yet …

  ANA: And yet, Mr Mark Griffin, Mr Victor Hugo, Mr Karl Marx, you still haven’t done any of those great things. Why not?

  SANTIAGO: (Distressed) Why, after all that preparation for doing great things …

  ANA: … you only succeeded in doing paltry little things …

  SANTIAGO: What happened to all those books you were going to write?

  ANA: What happened to those politi
cal parties you were going to join?

  SANTIAGO: What happened to all those strikes you were going to organize, those revolutions you were going to mastermind and incite?

  ANA: What happened to those women you were always dreaming about, those affairs you were going to have, that life of luxury you were going to lead?

  SANTIAGO: What happened to those intellectual, social and sexual tours de force you were going to bring off?

  KATHIE: What happened, Victor Hugo?

  ANA: What happened, Karl Marx?

  KATHIE: What happened, Mark Griffin?

  (SANTIAGO looks to right and left, searching desperately to find an answer.)

  SANTIAGO: I married the wrong woman. She was no help to me, she never understood me. She dragged me down by her ignorance, pettiness and stupidity. That’s what happened! I married a miserable idiot who thwarted me, ruined me, and finally emasculated me.

  KATHIE: (Radiantly, embracing him) I knew it. I knew it. So it happened to you as well. We’re so alike, we’ve so much in common. Neither of us knew how to choose. Our lives would have been so different, if we hadn’t married the way we did. But isn’t it wonderful we know each other, that we’ve so much in common, Mark?

  SANTIAGO: (Embracing her as well) You’re the comrade I should have had. You’d have understood me, you’d have been my stimulus, my strength, and my spur. I needed someone to believe in me, someone to be my bulwark against apathy and despair, someone to …

  (A little laugh from ANA forces SANTIAGO to look at her.) And I didn’t just make a mistake the first time! I made one the second time too. Adèle was no help to me either, she demanded things I didn’t have, or couldn’t give. She upset all my values, caused havoc in my life, she humiliated me …

  ANA: (Pulling a face at him) Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

  SANTIAGO: That’s what happened. My wife administered the poison, and my lover delivered the coup de grâce.

  KATHIE: That’s exactly what happened to me with Bepo, Ken, Kike, Rivarola, Hans, Sapito Saldívar, Harry and Abel. We didn’t choose our lovers very well either, did we! None of them understood us, none of them stimulated us, inspired us or spurred us on. All they did was thwart us, ruin us and emasculate us.

  SANTIAGO: (Looking into her eyes, full of excitement) Ah, isn’t it wonderful we know each other, that we’ve so much in common, Kathie?

  KATHIE: Then you’ll rescue me from the skating rink, the barbecues and the parties, you’ll deliver me from that infernal surfing.

  SANTIAGO: With me, you’ll read books, you’ll see every exhibition, and attend every concert.

  KATHIE: I’ll bring food to you in prison, I’ll copy out your manuscripts – for you, I’ll learn to plant bombs, to kill.

  SANTIAGO: We’ll criticize novels, poetry and drama. You’ll be my strength, my inspiration, the antidote to all my doubts. I’ll read you whatever I write and you’ll give me ideas, words and subjects for theses.

  ANA: And who’ll wash the dishes, scrub the floors and change the nappies? Who’ll do the cooking?

  KATHIE: Together we’ll learn Chinese, Greek, and German …

  SANTIAGO: … Russian, Japanese.

  ANA: And will your cock crow every two months? Three months? Six months?

  KATHIE: A life of love and art …

  SANTIAGO: Revolution, and ecstasy.

  KATHIE: Ah! Ah!

  SANTIAGO: And when I hold you in my arms naked, we’ll be like emperors in paradise.

  ANA: Isn’t that one of Victor Hugo’s expressions?

  KATHIE: I love you, I love you. Oh Mark, say you love me too.

  SANTIAGO: I do, I do. And tonight my cock will crow nine times, Adèle.

  (He kisses her passionately. ANA laughs, but her laugh is stifled by the voice of JUAN, who is going back home, drunk as a lord, with a pistol in his hand.)

  JUAN: I’ll kill all nine of them. First the eight samurai, then you. Then myself. Christ Almighty! Things can’t go on like this. (Catches sight of his reflection.) What are you looking at, you cuckold? Cuckold, cuckold, cuckold. Because that’s what you are, Johnny darling! A bloody great cuckold with horns like a billy-goat. A cuckold! (His voice breaks off into a sob.) How can I go on living? What have I ever done to you to make you behave like this, you bitch? Was it because I was a surfer? Did it exasperate you that much? And yet you have the nerve to call me a fool. Do I do anyone any harm with my surfing? What’s wrong with liking the sport? Or is it preferable to get plastered, or to smoke pot, or give oneself a fix? I’m a pretty wholesome guy in case you hadn’t realized. You think I’m a drunk? I drink just enough to have a good time. You think I’m a junkie? Well, I’m not. I smoke the odd fag. I roll myself a joint at times to give myself a lift. But you’d rather I was a drunk, or a drug addict or even a queer – anything but a surfer, wouldn’t you, you bitch? You were envious of me, you couldn’t stand the success I had, in Lima, Hawaii, South Africa, Australia. Yes, you bitch! I was riding waves nine feet, twelve feet, twenty feet high, while you were busy having it off behind my back. So you even did it with Abel. You thought I’d be really cut up about that, didn’t you? Well, you’re wrong, he’s the one I’m least worried about, because at least with him it stays in the family. I’d have had his wife years ago if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t, because she’s got hair under her arms and I can’t stand women who don’t shave under their arms – ugh, they make me throw up! Things can’t go on like this! Dear, oh dear. (His voice breaks into another sob, as he gradually becomes more and more fuddled.) You’ll never be able to look people in the face again, Johnny darling. How are you going to walk down the street, you great cuckold, with those enormous antlers crashing into the walls and knocking people over? The weight of them will drag you to the bottom of the ocean. You can win all the championships you like now, Johnny, you can ride the most treacherous waves. But what good will it do? You’re a marked man. And you’ll never live this down till the day you die, even after you’re dead, people will still be talking about it. Johnny. Johnny? Which Johnny do you mean? Ah yes, him. The one whose wife was always deceiving him. It’s worse than original sin, worse than cancer. I’d sooner go blind, catch leprosy, or syphilis. I’d sooner burn in hell. Eight times, Johnny! What a whore! What a whore! (Sobs.) What if she lied to you? What if it’s all a story, just to make your life a misery? She hates you, Johnny, she hates you. And do you know why? Because she’s got no charm, whereas you’re simpático, you’re a real darling, you’re everybody’s favourite, and women go crazy about you. Why do you hate me so much, you whore? Is it because I didn’t spend my life in the bank, like my old man and Abel? What on earth for? Just to make more money? What do I need more money for? I prefer to make the most of life, while it lasts. If people want to work, let them. Let them go on coining it in, wearing themselves out. When the old man dies, I’ll blow every last cent he leaves me. Just like that – in next to no time. Do you want me to waste my life, slogging my guts out so I can die a millionaire? And leave a fortune to my children – when they aren’t even my children anyway? (Sobs.) Or are you going to try and tell me they are now, you whore! How could you, how could you! What a daft, what an idiotic thing to do – sleeping around like that just because you’re jealous of my prick. None of those women ever meant anything to me, anyone would have seen that except you. I just did it to pass the time of day, I often did it out of politeness, out of consideration, I didn’t want to appear rude or ungracious. You ought to feel proud of me not jealous, you bitch.

  (He’s come to the end, tottering to where KATHIE is standing.) I want to know right now, if my children really are my children or if in fact they belong to the eight samurai. (KATHIE looks at him impassively, without showing the least bit of concern about Johnny’s revolver.)

  KATHIE: Alexandra is yours, there’s no question about that. As for little Johnny, I’m not so sure. He could be Ken the Australian’s. I’ve always had my doubts about him. Now that’s something we’ll share.

  JUAN: (Tottering abo
ut, exhausted) You’re lying. Now you really are bluffing, you must be. It’s all been an elaborate hoax, a joke in bad taste. All that about little Johnny and the eight samurai. You made it all up, didn’t you? You invented it, just to get a rise out of me? (His voice breaks off. He falls to his knees, imploring.) Darling, Pussikins, for the love of God, I beg you, tell me it’s not true you were unfaithful to me, tell me little Johnny is my son. I ask you on my knees, I beseech you, I’ll kiss your feet. (Drags himself along, groaning.) Even if it is true, just say it was a lie. So at least I can go on living, Kathie.

  KATHIE: (Looking him slowly up and down) Everything I told you is absolutely true, Johnny darling. That’s something you’re going to have to live with from now on. The worst of it is, I don’t feel in the least bit remorseful, even when I see you in a state like this. I’m too bitter for that. Maybe I am a monster – I must be, I suppose. Because I’m not at all sorry for you, I’ve no pity left.

  JUAN: (Getting up with his revolver in his hand) You’ll pay for this, you bitch.

  KATHIE: Aim straight. Here, at the heart. You’re shaking, come closer so you don’t miss. You see I won’t run away, I’m not frightened. My life came to an end some time ago now. You saw to that. Do you think I mind dying? Go on, finish the job off.

  (But JUAN doesn’t manage to fire. His hand shakes, his body shakes. He collapses at KATHIE’s feet. He puts the revolver to his own temple and shuts his eyes. He is sweating, and trembling like a leaf. He still can’t bring himself to fire. KATHIE now seems sympathetic.)

  If you can’t kill me, with all that hatred you must have for me inside you, you certainly won’t be able to kill yourself. It’s harder to commit suicide than to murder someone. It takes more courage than it does to ride twenty-five-foot waves. It requires nobility of character, a sense of style, a flair for the tragic, and a romantic soul. You haven’t got any of these things, Johnny darling.