Three Plays: The Young Lady from Tacna, Kathie and the Hippopotamus, La Chunga

INTRODUCTION

Lies that tell the truth

Although generally one might say that The Young Lady from Tacna explores such themes as old age, pride, and individual destiny, there is one underlying and pervasive idea encompassing all the others, which has turned out to be, I believe, the backbone of this play: it is the question of how and why stories come into being. I don’t mean how and why they are written, for although Belisario is a writer, literature is only one area of the vast field of story-telling, present in every culture, including those that have no written language.

It is as fundamental an activity for the individual as it is for societies as a whole — it is in fact an essential part of human existence, a means of enduring the burden of life. But why does man need to tell stories? Why does he need to be told them? Perhaps because, through helping him contend with death and failure, as it did Mamaé, it gives him an illusory sense of permanence and relief. It is a means of retrieving, through a system controlled by the memory with the help of the imagination, a past that, when it was actually being lived, had all the appearance of chaos. Story-telling, fiction, thrives on what real life — in all its bewildering complexity and unpredictability — inevitably lacks: a sense of order, of coherence, of perspective, a period of time in isolation in which a hierarchy of facts and events can be determined, the relative importance of the characters, causes and effects, and the links between the actions. In order to understand what we are, as individuals and as nations, our only recourse is to come out of ourselves, and, with the help of memory and imagination, throw ourselves into the world of fiction in which we are portrayed paradoxically as something similar to, yet different from, what we really are. Fiction is the ‘complete’ man, a perfect blend of truth and falsehood.

Stories are seldom faithful to what they appear to be relating, at least in any quantitive sense: the word, whether spoken or written, is an entity in itself and distorts what it is supposedly trying to communicate. Memory is deceptive, selective and partial. The gaps it leaves, which are generally not accidental, are filled by the imagination: every story therefore has some elements added to it. These are never arbitrary or fortuitous, because they are governed by that strange force which is not the logic of reason but that of dark unreason. Creativity is often little more than a form of retaliation against a life we find hard to live: we perfect it, or debase it in accordance with our own cravings and feelings of bitterness; we rework the original experience, modify what actually happened in order to satisfy the demands of our frustrated desires, our broken dreams, our feelings of joy or anger. In this way, the art of telling lies, which is the art of story-telling, is also, surprisingly, the art of communicating a deep-seated hidden truth about humanity. An imperceptible mixture of authentic and concocted events, of real and imaginary experiences, story-telling is one of the few forms — perhaps the only one — capable of depicting man in his entirety, both in his everyday life and in his fantasies, as he is and as he would like to be.

‘The criterion of truth is to have invented it oneself,’ wrote Giambattista Vico, who maintained, in an age when scientific cant was rife, that man was only really capable of understanding what he himself created: that is to say, the history of humanity rather than the physical world of nature and the universe. I don’t know if that is true or not, but his principle is a marvellous vindication of the truth in story-telling, the truth in literature. This truth doesn’t lie in any similarity or slavish adherence of the spoken or written word (what is created) to a higher ‘objective’ reality, but in itself, as something created from the raw material of truth and falsehood which make up the ambiguous totality of human experience.

I’ve always been fascinated by that strange process: the birth of a work of fiction. I’ve been writing now for quite a number of years, and it has never ceased to intrigue and surprise me, that slippery and unpredictable path, along which the mind travels, as it probes memories, calling up the most secret desires, impulses, whims, in order to ‘invent’ a story. While I was writing this play, I was sure I was going to re-create (taking quite a few liberties on the way) the story of a familiar character, who was connected with my childhood, but I never suspected that under this pretext I was in fact attempting to tell the story of that elusive, transitory, changeable yet eternal process through which stories themselves come into being.

Mario Vargas Llosa

CHARACTERS

MAMAE, an old lady of about a hundred

GRANDMOTHER CARMEN, her cousin, somewhat younger and better preserved

GRANDFATHER PEDRO, Carmen’s husband

AGUSTIN, their elder son, in his fifties

CESAR, their other son, somewhat younger than his brother

AMELIA, their daughter, younger than César, and in her forties

BELISARIO, Amelia’s son

JOAQUIN, a Chilean officer, young, handsome and dapper

SEÑORA CARLOTA, elegant and beautiful, in her thirties

SET AND COSTUME

The stage is divided into two sets: the grandparents’ house in Lima during the 1950s, and Belisario’s study, which can be anywhere in the world in 1980.

The majority of the action takes place in the grandparents’ house: the living room cum dining room of a modest middle-class flat. There are two doors, one leading on to the street, the other to the inner part of the house. The furniture reflects the family’s financial straits, which are verging on the desperate. The essential pieces of furniture are the old armchair where Mamaé has spent the best part of her latter years, the little wooden chair, which she uses as a walking aid, an old wireless set, and the table where the family supper takes place in Act Two. There is a window on to the street, through which trams can be heard going past.

The set should not be realistic. It is as Belisario remembers it. It is a figment of his imagination and so objects and characters should take on a reality separate from their real-life counterparts. Besides, in the course of the action, the same set is used to represent various different locations: a drawing room in the house in Tacna where Grandmother and Mamaé lived when they were young; the dining room of the house in Arequipa, when Grandfather was managing the Camaná cotton plantation in the twenties; the house in Bolivia where Mamaé told Belisario stories during the 1940s, and Pedro’s lodgings in Camaná where he wrote his wife the letter Mamaé read in secret. The set has also to represent locations that are purely imaginary, such as Padre Venancio’s confessional. So it is appropriate for it to have a certain indeterminate quality which facilitates (or at any rate doesn’t hinder) these transformations.

Belisario’s study consists of a plain wooden table covered in papers, notebooks, pencils, and perhaps a portable typewriter. However simple it is, it is important that it should reflect a man whose life revolves round his writing, who spends most of his time there; it is the place where, apart from writing, sleeping and eating, he delves into his past life, confronts himself with it and speaks to his phantoms. Belisario may be between forty and fifty, or even older. Either way, he has had considerable experience as a writer, and what happens to him in the course of this story will almost certainly have happened to him on previous occasions. Judging by his clothes and general appearance, he is a man without resources, disorganized and careless.

The dividing line between the two different sets may be apparent or not as required by the production.

The costumes should perhaps be realistic, as one method of signalling the time changes from one scene to another could be in the way the characters dress. The Chilean Officer should wear a uniform from the beginning of the century, with gold buttons, belt and sword, and Senora Carlota a dress of the same period. The grandparents and Mamaé should dress modestly in clothes that place them firmly in the 1950s. As for Belisario, he is a character of today and his clothes, hair, etc., should reflect this,

This translation of The Young Lady from Tacna was first performed as a rehearsed reading on 8 April 1989 at the Gate Theatre, Notting Hill. The cast was as follows:

MAMAE Sheila Grant BELISARIO Geoffrey Collins GRANDFATHER PEDRO John Burgess GRANDMOTHER CARMEN Diana Bishop SEÑORA CARLOTA Anna Gilbert JOAQUIN Alan Barker AMELIA Anna Gilbert CESAR Colin Bruce AGUSTIN William Haden Director David Graham-Young

ACT ONE

The stage is in darkness. A voice can be heard. It is MAMAE. She sounds anxious, distressed and agitated. The lights come up, revealing that unforgettable face of hers: a mass of wrinkles.

MAMAE: The rivers, the rivers are overflowing … Water, little drops of water, foam, everything’s being drenched by the rain, it’s coming in waves, the whole world’s being swamped, it’s the flood, the waters are seeping through, they’re bursting out, escaping everywhere. Cataracts are forming, bubbling, it’s the deluge, little drops of water, the river … Ahhh!

(Lights come up on the whole stage. MAMAE is sitting huddled in her old armchair and there is a little puddle at her feet. BELISARIO is at his desk, writing furiously. His eyes are lit up, and as he writes, his lips move as if he were dictating something to himself.)

AMELIA: (Coming in) Oh, for heaven’s sake Mamaé, you haven’t peed again on the sitting-room floor already, have you? Why don’t you ever ask? Then at least we could take you to the bathroom. The amount of times you’ve been told. I suppose you think I enjoy it? Well, I’m fed up with you and your filthy habits! (Sniffs.) I hope you haven’t done something else as well.

(A gesture of irritation from AMELIA which MAMAE responds to with a smile and a little bow. She falls asleep almost immediately. AMELIA mops up the mess with a cloth. As AMELIA has been talking, BELISARIO’s attention has gradually been wandering, as if his mind has been taken off his writing by some sudden extraneous idea. He puts his pencil down. He looks discouraged. He talks to himself, in a mumble to begin with.)

BELISARIO: What are you doing here, Mamaé, in the middle of a love story? A little old woman who used to wet and dirty her knickers, who had to be put to bed, dressed, undressed and cleaned up, because her hands and feet no longer did what she wanted them to do — what can a person like that be doing in a love story? (Hurls his pencil on the floor in a sudden fit of anger.) Well, are you going to write a love story or what, Belisario? Am I going to write something or what? (Laughs at himself, becomes depressed.) It’s always worst at the beginning, it’s the most difficult part of all, when all those doubts and feelings of inadequacy are at their most crippling. (Looks at MAMAE.) Every time I start something new, I feel like you, Mamaé, I feel like an old man of eighty, or a hundred, and my thoughts dart about like grasshoppers, just like yours did, when you were that complicated, helpless little creature we all laughed at, felt sorry for and were even a little afraid of. (Gets up, goes over towards MAMAE and slowly walks round her, with the pencil he has picked up from the floor between his lips.) But your mind was still a hive of activity, wasn’t it? Had you lost your teeth by then? Of course you had. And you couldn’t wear those false ones Uncle Agustín and Uncle César gave you because they scratched your gums. What on earth are you doing here? Who invited you? Don’t you realize you’re stopping me from working? (Smiles and returns to his desk, spurred on by a new idea.) Mamaé … Mamaé … Didn’t somebody once call you Elvira? No, it wasn’t Grandma, or Grandpa, or Mama, or my uncles either. (Sits at his desk and starts to write on the sheets of paper in front of him, slowly at first, then becoming more fluent.) The name sounded so strange to people outside the family. ‘Why do you call her that? What does it mean, where did it originate?’ Yet they all ended up calling her Mamaé too.

(Exit AMELIA, who has finished cleaning the floor. As BELISARIO reaches the end of his speech, JOAQUIN, the Chilean officer, comes in. His uniform is of the style worn at the turn of the century; it is brightly coloured with silver or gold braid. BELISARIO will carry on writing throughout the whole of the following scene; he spends most of his time absorbed in his papers, but pauses occasionally, putting the end of his pencil to his mouth and chewing it, as some new idea comes to him or he recalls some incident from the past. By way of light relief, he turns round at odd moments to watch MAMAE and JOAQUIN, and takes a passing interest in what they say. Then he returns to his papers to write or read over what he has written. The expression on his face is constantly changing.)

JOAQUIN: (Whispering, as if leaning over a wrought-iron grille or balcony) Elvira … Elvira … Elvira …

(MAMAE opens her eyes. She listens; smiles mischievously and looks around; she is flustered and excited. Her movements and speech are now those of a young woman.)

MAMAE: Joaquín! But he’s out of his mind. At this hour! Uncle and Aunt are going to hear him.

JOAQUIN: I know you’re there, I know you can hear me. Come out, just for a second, Elvira. I’ve got something important to say to you. You know what it is, don’t you? You’re beautiful, I love you, and I want you. I can hardly wait till Sunday — I’m literally counting the hours.

(MAMAE sits up. Although clearly delighted, she remains demure and reticent. She goes over to the wrought-iron grille.)

MAMAE: Whatever do you mean by coming here at this hour, Joaquín? Didn’t anyone see you? You’re going to ruin my reputation. Here in Tacna the walls have ears.

JOAQUIN: (voraciously kissing MAMAE’s hands) I was already in bed, my love. When suddenly I had this feeling, right here in my breast; it was like an order from a general, which I had to obey: ‘If you hurry, you’ll find her still awake,’ it seemed to say. ‘Make haste, fly to her house.’ It’s true, Elvira. I had to see you. And touch you. (He eagerly tries to grasp her round the waist, but she shies away from him.)

If I hadn’t been able to see you, I wouldn’t have slept a wink all night …

MAMAE: But we spent all afternoon together, Joaquín! What a lovely walk we had in the garden with my cousin! When I heard you, I was just thinking about all those pomegranates and pear trees, quinces and peaches. And the river, wasn’t it looking lovely too? How I’d like to go plunging into the Caplina again sometime, just as I used to when I was a little girl.

JOAQUIN: This summer, if we’re still in Tacna, I’ll take you to the Caplina. We’ll go at night. When no one will see us. To that same pool we had tea at this afternoon. We’ll take off all our clothes …

MAMAE: Oh hush, Joaquín, don’t start …!

JOAQUIN: … and bathe together naked. We’ll play in the water. I’ll chase you and when I catch you …

MAMAE: Please, Joaquín! Don’t be so uncouth.

JOAQUIN: But we’re getting married on Sunday.

MAMAE: I won’t have you being discourteous to me when I’m your wife either.

JOAQUIN: But I respect you more than anything in the world, Elvira. I even respect you more than my uniform. And you know what a uniform means to a soldier, don’t you? Look, I couldn’t be discourteous to you, even if I wanted to. I’m making you annoyed, I know. I do it deliberately. Because I like it when you’re like this.

MAMAE: When I’m like what?

JOAQUIN: You’re such a sensitive little flower. Everything seems to shock you, you’re so easily intimidated, and you blush at the least provocation.

MAMAE: Isn’t that how well-brought-up young women should behave?

JOAQUIN: Of course it is, Elvira, my love. You can’t imagine how I ache for Sunday. The thought of having you all to myself, without any chaperons. To know that you depend on me for the slightest thing. What fun I’m going to have with you when we’re alone together: I’ll sit you on my knee and make you scratch me in the dark like a little kitten. Oh, and I’ll win that bet. I’ll count every hair on your head; there’ll be more than five thousand, you’ll see.

MAMAE: Are you going to count them on our wedding night?

JOAQUIN: Not on our wedding night, no. Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you on our wedding night?

MAMAE: (Covering her ears) No! No, I don’t!

(They laugh. MAMAE mellows.)

Will you be as loving and affectionate as this after we’re married, I wonder? You know what Carmencita said to me on our way back from the walk: ‘You’ve really come up trumps with Joaquín, you know. He’s good-looking, well-mannered, in fact quite the little gentleman in every way.’

JOAQUIN: Is that what you think too? You mean you don’t mind that I’m a Chilean any more? And you’ve got used to the idea of being one yourself?

MAMAE: No, I have not. I’m a Peruvian, and that’s the way I’m going to stay. I’ll never forgive those loathsome bullies who won the war. Not till the day I die.

JOAQUIN: It’s going to be very funny, you know. I mean, when you’re my wife, and I’m posted to the garrison in Santiago or Antofagasta, are you going to spend all day arguing with my fellow officers about the War of the Pacific? Because if you say things like that about the Chileans, you’ll get me court-martialled for high treason.

MAMAE: I’d never jeopardize your career, Joaquín. Whatever I think of the Chileans, I’ll keep it strictly to myself. I’ll smile and make eyes at your fellow officers.

JOAQUIN: That’s enough of that! There’ll be no smiling or making eyes at anybody. Don’t you know I’m as jealous as a Turk? Well, with you, I’m going to be even worse.

MAMAE: You must go now. If my aunt and uncle found you here, they’d be so upset.

JOAQUIN: Your aunt and uncle. They’ve been the bane of our engagement.

MAMAE: Don’t say that, not even in fun. Where would I be now if it hadn’t been for Uncle Menelao and Aunt Amelia? I’d have been put in the orphanage in Tarapacá Street. Yes, along with all the bats.

JOAQUIN: I know how good they’ve been to you. And I’m glad they brought you up like some rare exotic bird. But we have been engaged for a whole year now and I’ve hardly been alone with you once! All right, I know, you’re getting anxious. I’m on my way.

MAMAE: Till tomorrow then, Joaquín. At the eight o’clock Mass in the Cathedral, same as usual?

JOAQUIN: Yes, same as usual. Oh, I was forgetting. Here’s that book you lent me. I tried to read Federico Barreto’s poems, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open. You read them for me, when you’re tucked up snug in your little bed.

MAMAE: (Pulling out a hair from her head and offering it to him) I’ll whisper them in your ear one day — then you’ll like them. I’m glad I’m marrying you, Joaquín.

(Before he leaves, JOAQUIN tries to kiss her on the mouth, but she turns her face away and offers him her cheek. As she goes back towards her armchair, she gradually takes on the characteristics of an old woman again.)

(Looking at the book of poetry) What would Joaquín do, I wonder, if he knew about the fan? He’d challenge the poor man to a duel — he’d kill him. You’ll have to destroy that fan, Elvira, it’s just not right for you to keep it. (She curls up in her armchair and immediately falls asleep. BELISARIO has looked up from his papers. He now seems very encouraged.)

BELISARIO: That’s a love story too, Belisario. Of course, of course. How could you be so stupid, so naïve? You can’t set a love story in an age when girls make love before their first Communion and boys prefer marijuana to women. But Tacna, after the War of the Pacific — when the city was still occupied by the Chilean Army: it’s the perfect setting for a romantic story. (Looks at MAMAE.) You were an unrepentant little chauvinist then, weren’t you Mamaé? Tell me, what was the happiest day in the life of the young lady from Tacna?

MAMAE: (Opening her eyes) The day Tacna became part of Peru again, my little one!

(She crosses herself, thanking God for such bounteous good fortune, and goes back to sleep again.)

BELISARIO: (Wistfully) It’s one of those romantic stories that don’t seem to happen any more. People no longer believe in them — yet you used to be so fond of them, didn’t you, old friend? What do you want to write a love story for anyway? For that meagre sense of satisfaction that doesn’t really seem to compensate for anything at all? Are you going to put yourself through all that agonizing humiliation yet again, Belisario, just for that? Yes, you are — for that very reason. To hell with critical conscience! Get away from here, you damned spoilsport! Bugger your critical conscience, Belisario! It’s only good for making you feel constipated, impotent, and frustrated. Get out of here, critical conscience! Get out, you filthy whore, you tyrant queen of constipated writers.

(He gets up and runs over to where MAMAE is sitting. Without waking her up, he kisses her on the forehead.)

Welcome back, Mamaé. Forget what I said to you, I’m sorry. Of course, I can use you. You’re just what I need — a woman like you. You’re perfectly capable of being the subject of a beautiful and moving love story. Your life has all the right ingredients, at least to be going on with. (Returning to his desk) The mother dies giving birth to her, and the father not long after, when she was only … (Looks at MAMAE) How old were you when my great-grandparents took you in, Mamaé? Five, six? Had Grandmother Carmen been born yet?

(He has sat down at his desk; he holds the pencil in his hands; he talks slowly, trying to find the appropriate words so he can start writing.)

The family was very prosperous at the time, they could afford to take in homeless little girls. They were landowners, of course.

MAMAE: (Opening her eyes and addressing a little boy she imagines is sitting at her feet) Your great-grandfather Menelao was one of those gentlemen who carried a silver-knobbed cane and wore a watch and chain. He couldn’t stand dirt. The first thing he did when he went into someone’s house was to run his finger over the furniture to see if there was any dust. He only drank water or wine out of rock crystal goblets. ‘It makes all the difference to the taste,’ I remember him saying to us. One evening he went out to a dance with Aunt Amelia all dressed up in white tie and tails; he caught sight of your grandmother Carmen and me eating some quince preserve. ‘Aren’t you girls going to offer me a bite?’ he said. As he was tasting it, a little drop fell on his tailcoat. He stood there staring at the stain. Then, without saying a word, without causing any fuss, he emptied out the whole pot of preserve and smeared it all over his shirt front, tailcoat and trousers. Your great-grandmother used to say: ‘To Menelao, cleanliness is a disease.’

(She smiles and falls asleep again. During her speech, BELISARIO has been listening part of the time to what she’s been saying, but he has also been jotting down notes and reflecting.)

BELISARIO: Your great-grandfather Menelao must have been fascinating, Belisario. Yes, a fascinating old bastard. He’ll do, he’ll do. (Looking up at heaven) You’ll do, you’ll do. You and Amelia my great-grandmother adored Mamaé. You brought her up as your own daughter, treating her exactly the same as Grandmother Carmen, and when she was going to get married to the Chilean officer, you sent away to Europe for the wedding dress and trousseau. Was it Paris? Madrid? London? Where did they order your wedding dress from, Mamaé? Where was the most fashionable place? (Writes frantically.) I like it, Belisario, I love you, Belisario. I’m going to give you a kiss on the forehead, Belisario. (His mind wanders.) How rich the family was then! It’s been on the decline ever since, sliding further and further down the ladder until it finally got to you! One setback after another! (Looks up at heaven.) Whoever told you to marry an infantry captain, Mama? But I’m not in the least bit sorry about your misfortune, Papa. You’ve got to be pretty stupid to play Russian roulette just after you’re married! And you’ve got to be even stupider to go and kill yourself in the process! You’ve got to be pretty daft not to remarry when you’re widowed so young, Mama! Why did you pin so much hope on me? How did you all get it into your heads that by winning lawsuits I’d somehow bring fame and fortune back to the family?

(His voice fades in to the sound of a radio play which GRANDMOTHER is trying to listen to; she is sitting in the living room with her ear glued to the wireless. The announcer is telling us that the daily episode of a radio serial by Pedro Camacho has just finished. The noise of a tram is heard outside. MAMAE opens her eyes, excited. BELISARIO watches her from his desk.)

MAMAE: Carmen! Carmen! Here it comes! Quick! Come over to the window! Look, the Arica train!

GRANDMOTHER: (Stops listening to the wireless and looks at MAMAE, saddened yet amused) I envy you, Mamaé, I really do. You’ve found the perfect means of escaping from all this misery that surrounds us. I’d like to go back to my childhood too, even if it were only in a dream.

MAMAE: Aaah! My eyes! I could tear them out! I can’t even guess what anything is any more. Can you see that? Is it the Arica train? Or is it the one from Locumba?

GRANDMOTHER: Neither. It’s the Chorrillos tram. And we’re not in Tacna, we’re in Lima. You’re not a fifteen-year-old girl any more, Elvira, you’re a doddery old woman of ninety, or thereabouts. And you’re going gaga.

MAMAE: Do you remember the fancy-dress ball?

GRANDMOTHER: Which one? I went to lots of fancy-dress balls when I was a girl.

MAMAE: At the Choral Society. You remember, the one the negro sneaked in on.

(The sound of a party can be heard; people enjoying themselves — rhythmic dance music. Gradually the tune of an old-fashioned waltz starts to predominate.)

GRANDMOTHER: Ah, that one. Of course, I remember. It was at that dance I met Pedro. He’d come from Arequipa to spend carnival in Tacna, with some friends. Who’d have thought I’d marry him! Yes, of course. Was that the time Federico Barreto wrote that poem on your fan? No, it wasn’t, was it? It was one of those 28th of July affairs at the Patriotic Ladies’ Society. The negro, you’re quite right … It was you he was dancing with when they discovered him, wasn’t it?

(BELISARIO gets to his feet. He goes over to MAMAE and bowing in a fin-de-siècle style, he asks her to dance. She accepts, now a gracious, coquettish young woman. They dance.)

MAMAE: Are you Chilean, little domino? Peruvian? From Tacna, little domino? A soldier, perhaps? I know, I’ve got it. You’re a doctor. A lawyer then? Go on, say something to me, give me a clue and I’ll guess what you are, you’ll see, little domino.

(BELISARIO says nothing. He merely shakes his head from time to time, giggling nervously as he does so.)

GRANDMOTHER: (To MAMAE, as if she were still in the armchair) But wasn’t it obvious from the smell? Of course, he probably covered himself with scent, the rascal.

(The couple dance together with great facility and obvious pleasure. As they dance round the room, the imaginary domino BELISARIO is wearing gets caught on some object revealing his bare arm. MAMAE shrinks away from him in fright. BELISARIO runs to his desk and begins to write, a satisfied look on his face.)

MAMAE: (Scared out of her wits) A negro. A negro. The little domino was a negro. Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!

GRANDMOTHER: Stop screaming like that, Elvira. It reminds me of the awful hullabaloo you made that night at the Choral Society Ball. The orchestra stopped playing, people stopped dancing, the spectators all got up from their seats. There was total pandemonium! You had to be taken home with an attack of nerves. And the party came to a shuddering halt, all because of that blessed negro.

MAMAE: (Frightened) Carmen! Carmencita! Look, there, by the bronze fountain in the square. What are they doing to him? Are they beating him?

GRANDMOTHER: It’s true. The gentlemen took him out to the street and started laying into him with their canes. Yes, it was by the bronze fountain. What a memory, Elvira!

MAMAE: Stop beating him! He’s all covered in blood! He didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t even speak to me! Aunt Amelia, they’ll listen to you! Uncle Menelao, stop them! Stop them beating him! (Recovering) Do you think they’ve killed him, Carmencita?

GRANDMOTHER: No, they just gave him a thrashing for being so impertinent. Then they sent him off to the Chilean gaol. The audacity of it, though. Imagine getting all dressed up like that and slinking into the Choral Society Ball. We were really quite shocked. We used to have nightmares — every night we thought he might come after us through the window. It was the only thing we talked about for weeks — months afterwards. The negro from La Mar. (BELISARIO is very excited — he strikes the table. He stops writing and kisses his hand and his pencil.)

BELISARIO: The negro from La Mar! He’s taking shape, he’s moving, he’s walking!

MAMAE: He’s not from La Mar. He’s one of the slaves from the Moquegua estate.

GRANDMOTHER: What nonsense, Elvira. There weren’t any slaves left in Peru at that time.

MAMAE: Of course there were. My father had three.

BELISARIO: (Interrupting his work for a moment) The Mandingos!

MAMAE: They used to ferry me across the Caplina; they’d make a seat with their arms and carry me across from bank to bank.

BELISARIO: (Writing) They slept in the byre with their ankles tethered so they couldn’t run away.

MAMAE: I didn’t see his face, but there was something about the way he moved, something about his eyes, that made me recognize him. I’m convinced he was one of them. A Mandingo on the run …

(The street door opens and GRANDFATHER comes in, panting. His hair is ruffled, and his clothing rumpled. He is poorly dressed. The minute she sees him, MAMAE acknowledges him with a gracious little bow as if she were greeting some unknown dignitary, and retires into her own imaginary world once again. Enter AMELIA.)

AMELIA: (Who has clearly been busy in the kitchen) Papa … What on earth has happened?

GRANDMOTHER: (Getting up) Your hat, Pedro? And your walking stick?

GRANDFATHER: They’ve been stolen.

GRANDMOTHER: Gracious me, how did it happen? (AMELIA and GRANDMOTHER take GRANDFATHER to the armchair and sit him down.)

GRANDFATHER: As I was getting off the tram. One of those vagrants that loaf around the streets of Lima. Threw me to the ground. He also snatched my … (Searching for the word) my thingumajig.

GRANDMOTHER: Your watch? Oh, Pedro, they didn’t steal your watch as well!

AMELIA: You see we’re right, Papa. You’re not to go out alone, catching buses and getting on to trams. Why won’t you listen? I’ve told you so many times not to go out in the street, I’m quite hoarse.

GRANDMOTHER: Besides, you’re not well. What if you have another blackout? I don’t know how you haven’t learnt your lesson after such an awful shock. Don’t you remember? You were wandering about for hours trying to find the house.

GRANDFATHER: I’m not spending the rest of my life cooped up here, waiting to be carted off feet first, my dear. I’m not going to let this country do away with me just like that …

GRANDMOTHER: Did you hurt yourself? Where did you get hit?

GRANDFATHER: Because people who want to work are wasted here in Peru. It’s not like that anywhere else in the world. Here, it’s a crime to be old. In civilized countries. Like Germany. Or England. It’s quite the reverse. Elderly people are consulted, their experience is put to good use. Here they’re just tossed on the rubbish tip. Well, I don’t hold with it because I know I could do a better job of work than anyone half my age.

(BELISARIO stops writing.)

BELISARIO: (Lost in recollection) Always rabbiting on about the same old thing; it really got under your skin, didn’t it, Grandpa? It was something you never forgot.

(He tries to carry on with his writing but after scribbling a few lines, his mind starts to wander and he becomes increasingly interested in what is going on in his grandparents’ house.)

AMELIA: You won’t solve anything by getting so worked up. You’ll only ruin your nerves.

GRANDMOTHER: You’ve got a weak head, Pedro dear. Do try to understand. The doctor’s warned you, if you don’t take things more calmly you’ll have another attack.

GRANDFATHER: My head’s perfectly all right now. I promise you it is. I haven’t been feeling the slightest bit dizzy lately. (With a mournful expression) I don’t care about the hat and the … the thingumajig. But I do about the watch. I’d had it for more than fifteen years and it never went wrong once. Anyway, let’s change the subject. Did you listen to the eight o’clock serial?

GRANDMOTHER: I heard it, yes. Amelia missed it though because she was doing the ironing for our budding little lawyer here. Imagine, Sister Fatima has left the convent to marry the composer.

AMELIA: Oh look, you’ve got a cut on your wrist.

GRANDMOTHER: Attacking an old man, really, what a cowardly thing to do.

GRANDFATHER: He came up behind me and caught me off guard. If he’d come at me from the front, it would have been a different story. I may be old, but I’ve got my pride and I know how to look after myself. (Smiles.) I was always good at fighting. At the Jesuit School, in Arequipa, they used to call me ‘Sparky’, because I’d challenge anyone at the slightest provocation. No one dared trample on my heels.

MAMAE: (Turning towards them in alarm) What’s that you said, Pedro? You’re going to challenge Federico Barreto for writing that poem? Don’t! Don’t be so hot-headed. He was only being gallant; he didn’t mean any harm. Anyway, you’d better not chance it, he’s supposed to be an excellent swordsman.

GRANDFATHER: Oh, is he indeed? All right, then I won’t. Besides, it was a very inspired piece of poetry. You know you’ve got to hand it to him, that poet Barreto certainly had good taste. (To GRANDMOTHER) He used to flirt with you too, the dirty old man!

GRANDMOTHER: That Elvira, really, the things she comes up with … Come, I’m going to put some mercurochrome on you, so you won’t get infected.

AMELIA: Let it be a lesson to you, Papa. I’m warning you, I won’t ever let you go out alone again — my brothers have strictly forbidden it. At least, not at night. Go for your walks during the day, if you must, but don’t go too far, just round the block. Or wait until I can go with you, or Belisario.

GRANDFATHER: (Getting up) Very well, Amelia. (To GRANDMOTHER) You realize, Carmen, the country must be in a pretty poor state for people to rob an old beggar like me? Fancy risking prison for a rickety old walking stick and a moth-eaten hat that’s going yellow round the edges.

GRANDMOTHER: (Taking him to the inner part of the house) You were given that watch by the High Court Judges in Piura, when you were Governor there. What a shame, it was such a lovely memento! Oh well, I expect your grandson, Belisario, will give you another one, when he wins his first lawsuit …

(They leave, followed by AMELIA. The stage goes dark.)

BELISARIO: My first lawsuit … You too, Grandma, used to have these flights of fancy. (Flying into a rage) And what, may I ask, is Grandmother doing here? And are you seriously going to put Grandfather Pedro into a love story when there hasn’t even been a kiss yet? You couldn’t write it, Belisario. You can’t write. You’ve spent your whole life writing and it gets worse each time. Why is that, Grandpa? A doctor can remove fifty appendixes, cut out two hundred tonsils, trepan a thousand craniums, and then do all these things practically blindfold, isn’t that so? Why, then, after writing fifty or a hundred stories is it still just as difficult, just as impossible as it was the first time? Even worse than the first time! A thousand times more difficult than the first time! Grandfather, Grandma: just disappear, will you! Stop distracting me, stop interrupting me, get out of my way. To hell with the pair of you! Let me write my love story! (Becoming pensive) Grandfather might have been a character in a novel. One of the lives of the century: from gradual ruin to irrevocable decline. Governor of Piura in Bustamente’s Constitutional Government. Former cotton entrepreneur in Santa Cruz de la Sierra, in Bolivia. Before that, an agricultural administrator in Camaná. And before that, an employee of a British firm in Arequipa. But you’d have liked to have been a lawyer and a poet, wouldn’t you, Grandpa? And you might have been too, if your father hadn’t died when you were fifteen. That’s why you were destined for the bar, Belisario, to carry on the family legal tradition.

(From the expression on his face, it is clear that a new idea has started to form in his mind — in connection with what he is writing. He picks up his pencil, turns it round, adjusts his papers.)

Yes, it might work. Come back here, Grandpa, I’m sorry I told you to go to hell. I love you very much, you know

I do, you’re an obvious fictional character. That’s why you always featured in Mamaé’s stories. You were the prototype of all those splendid specimens she was so fond of, those magnificent, improbable creatures akin to unicorns and centaurs: gentlemen. (Writes now with great enthusiasm.) But there was nothing mythical about Grandfather’s life. He had to work like a mule, because he not only had his own children to feed, but also those people who Grandmother Carmencita — surely the most charitable woman ever born — kept bringing in from all over the place. Whether they were the children of nincompoops who’d blown out their brains playing Russian roulette to win some bet or other, or eligible young ladies with no father or mother, such as Mamaé.

(As the lights come up, we find SEÑORA CARLOTA on stage. MAMAE, from her armchair, looks her over respectfully. She gets up — a young woman once again — and goes towards her.)

MAMAE: Good afternoon, Senora Carlota, what a surprise. My aunt and uncle are out at the moment; so is Carmencita. Do sit down, please. May I offer you a cup of tea?

SEÑORA CARLOTA: ‘Just as if she’d stepped out of a watercolour by Maestro Modesto Molina.’ I heard somebody saying that about you at the Alameda, at the open air concert. It’s true, you’re just like that.

MAMAE: You’re very kind, Senora Carlota.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: Raven hair, porcelain skin. Manicured hands, and such dainty feet. Yes, the perfect little doll.

MAMAE: For goodness’ sake, Señora, you’re making me blush. Won’t you sit down? Uncle and Aunt won’t be long. They went to express their condolences to …

SEÑORA CARLOTA: Young, pretty and, besides, a considerable inheritance in the offing, am I right? It is true, isn’t it, that the plantation your father had in Moquegua is being held in trust for you until you come of age?

MAMAE: Why are you saying all these things to me? And why that tone of voice? You’re talking as if you were angry with me for some reason.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: Anger isn’t quite the word, my sensitive little flower. I’m not angry with you. I hate you. I hate you with all my power and all my mind. All year I’ve been willing on you the worst possible disasters. That you’d get run over by a train. That your face would be eaten away by smallpox. That your lungs would be racked with tuberculosis. That the devil would take you!

MAMAE: But what have I ever done to you, Senora Carlota? I hardly even know you. Why are you saying such dreadful things to me? And here was I thinking you were coming to give me a wedding present.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: I’ve come to tell you that Joaquín doesn’t love you. He loves me. You may be younger. You may be a virgin, you may still be unmarried! But he doesn’t like delicate little ornaments that blow over in the wind. He likes me. Because I know something young ladies like you will never learn. I know how to love. I know what passion is. I know how to give pleasure and how to receive it. Yes, it’s a naughty word for you, isn’t it? Pleasure.

MAMAE: You’ve taken leave of your senses, Senora Carlota. You’re forgetting …

SEÑORA CARLOTA: That I’m married and I’ve got three children? I haven’t forgotten. I don’t give a damn! Not for my husband, my children, Tacna society, the Church — they can say what they like — I don’t give a damn! That’s love, you see. I’m prepared to do anything, rather than lose the man I love.

MAMAE: If it is as you say, if Joaquín does love you, why has he asked me to marry him?

SEÑORA CARLOTA: For your name, for the plantation you’re going to inherit, because an officer has to safeguard his future. But, above all, because he can’t marry the woman he loves. He’s marrying you because it’s convenient. He’s resigned himself to marrying you. Did you hear that? He’s re-signed to it. He’s told me so himself, hundreds of times. Only today in fact — not two hours ago. Yes, I’ve just come from being with Joaquín. I can still hear the sound of his voice echoing in my ears: ‘You’re the only one who can really give me pleasure, my soldier’s girl.’ That’s what he calls me, you see, when I abandon myself to him: his soldier’s girl, his little soldier’s girl.

MAMAE: Señora Carlota, you’ve gone quite far enough. Please, I beg you …

SEÑORA CARLOTA: I’m shocking you, I know. But I don’t care. I’ve come to make it quite clear to you that I’m not going to give Joaquín up, even if he does marry you. And he won’t give me up either. We’re going to carry on seeing each other behind your back. I’ve come to tell you what your life will be like, after you’re married. Every morning, every afternoon, wondering if your husband’s really gone to the barracks — or if he’s making love with me instead.

MAMAE: I’m calling the servants to show you to the door, Señora Carlota.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: And if Joaquín is transferred, I’ll leave my husband and my children and I’ll follow him. So all your doubts and torments will continue. I’ve come just so that you know how far a woman in love is prepared to go. Do you see?

MAMAE: Yes, señora. I see. Maybe it is true what you say. I’d never be capable of behaving like that myself. For me, love could never be a disease. I can’t understand you. You’re beautiful, elegant, and your husband such a distinguished man — the whole of Tacna respects him. And such lovely little children too. What more can anyone want in life?

SEÑORA CARLOTA: All right, maybe that’s how you see it. But all these things you seem to hanker after, I’d gladly sacrifice the lot, just for one word from Joaquín. I’d risk hell if that’s the price I have to pay to go on seeing him.

MAMAE: I’m sure God will be listening to you, Senora Carlota.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: Then he’ll know I’m telling the truth. When Joaquín holds me in his arms, when he hugs me and subjects me to his little whims, nothing else in the world seems to exist any more: not my husband, my children, my reputation, or even God. Only him. And you’re not going to take that away from me.

MAMAE: How long have you been Joaquín’s … Joaquín’s lady-friend?

SEÑORA CARLOTA: His mistress? Two years. And I’m going to tell you something else. We see each other every week in a little hut in La Mar. At sunset. When the negroes return singing from the plantations. We always hear them. We know all their songs by heart we’ve heard them so often. What else would you like to know?

MAMAE: Nothing, señora. I’d be grateful if you’d leave now.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: You could never live with Joaquín. You’re too pure for such a hot-blooded man. He says so himself. Go and find yourself some tepid youth somewhere. You could never be a soldier’s girl — not to Joaquín or to anyone. You’re too insipid, you’re not flirtatious enough, you haven’t got the imagination.

MAMAE: You must go this instant! My aunt and uncle will be back at any moment, señora!

SEÑORA CARLOTA: Let them see me, for all I care. Let the scandal break out once and for all.

MAMAE: It won’t be my fault if it does. I’ve heard nothing; I know nothing, and I don’t want to know anything either.

SEÑORA CARLOTA: And yet, you’ve heard everything; you know everything. And now it’ll start to nag away at you like a little worm gnawing at your heart. ‘Is he really only marrying me because it suits him?’ ‘Is he really in love with her?’ ‘Does he really call her his soldier’s girl when he holds her in his arms?’

(SEÑORA CARLOTA leaves. BELISARIO, who at the beginning of the dialogue between SEÑORA CARLOTA and MAMAE was writing, making notes and throwing papers on the floor, has suddenly become pensive, and has been taking more and more interest in what the two women are saying. He finally goes over to MAMAE’s armchair, where he sits crouching like a child. MAMAE talks to herself as she goes back towards her armchair. She has become an old woman again.)

MAMAE: Did he really tell her I was a sensitive little flower? A little prude who’ll never be able to make him happy like she can? Was he really with her yesterday? Is he with her now? Will he be with her again tomorrow?

(She sits huddled in her chair. BELISARIO is at her feet, listening to her like a little child.)

BELISARIO: So the wicked woman made the young bride terribly jealous.

MAMAE: It was worse than that. She caused her great distress and alarm, and filled her innocent little head with all sorts of monstrous thoughts so that her brain seethed with vipers and vultures.

BELISARIO: What sort of vultures, Mamaé? Turkey buzzards?

MAMAE: (Continuing the story) And the poor young lady, her eyes filled with tears, couldn’t help thinking, ‘So he doesn’t love me for myself but for my name and my family’s position in Tacna. That young man I’m so much in love with is nothing but an unscrupulous scoundrel.’

BELISARIO: But I don’t believe that, Mamaé. Whoever heard of anyone getting married just for a name or a social position! He might have wanted to marry the young lady because she was going to inherit a plantation — now that I can believe, but as for the rest of it …

MAMAE: The story about the plantation wasn’t true. The Chilean officer knew that it had been auctioned off in order to pay the debts of the young lady’s father.

BELISARIO: Now you’re muddling the story up, Mamaé.

MAMAE: You see the Chilean officer had lied to the wicked woman. About the young lady inheriting a plantation. So that the story about marrying for money rather than love would seem more convincing. In fact he wasn’t just deceiving the young lady, he was deceiving Senora Carlota as well.

BELISARIO: Was the wicked woman called Carlota?

MAMAE: Yes. But she had a most unattractive nickname. They used to call her ‘The Soldier’s Woman.’

BELISARIO: What is a soldier’s woman, Mamaé?

MAMAE: Ach, it’s a nasty expression. (Her mind wandering, talking as if to herself) But she wasn’t stupid, she came out with a few home truths. Such as: ‘A woman can only keep her pride if she renounces love.’

BELISARIO: You’re off on your own again, Mamaé. You’ve left me dangling in mid-air.

(He gets to his feet and goes back to his desk, muttering to himself, while MAMAE’s lips keep on moving for a moment, as if she were carrying on with the story. Then she falls asleep.) The wicked woman … No story was ever complete without one. And a very good thing too. There should always be wicked women in romantic stories. Don’t be afraid, Belisario, take a tip from your old Mamaé. Besides, paper doesn’t discriminate, you can write anything you like on it. So fill the story with wicked women, they’re always so much more interesting. There were two of them, weren’t there, Mamaé? Sometimes she was called Carlota and she was a mischievous woman who lived in Tacna at the beginning of the century. And sometimes she was an Indian woman from Camaná, who had been thrashed by a gentleman for some mysterious reason during the twenties. (Starts to write.) They often got mixed up or overlapped, and then there was that mother-of-pearl fan which suddenly started to feature in the stories — the one some romantic poet had scribbled a few hasty lines on.

GRANDMOTHER: (Coming in) Elvira! Elvira! But what have you done? Have you gone quite mad? Your wedding dress! I don’t believe it! All that beautiful lace embroidery, and that veil — so fine and delicate it was almost like foam!

MAMAE: It took half a box of matches and I burnt the ends of my fingers. Eventually I thought of putting a little paraffin on it. It went up all right then.

GRANDMOTHER: (Distressed) But the wedding is tomorrow. We’ve got people coming all the way from Moquegua, Iquique, and Arica. You haven’t had a row with Joaquín? Really, Elvirita, on the day before your wedding. You mean the house has been festooned with lilies and roses all for nothing? And we’ve spent a month preparing sweets and pastries just for the fun of it? They’ve just brought the wedding cake.

MAMAE: Has it got three tiers? Like the one in that novel by Gustave Flaubert? With marzipan columns and almond Cupids? Oh, we simply must eat it even if I don’t get married. That Italian, Máspoli, is bound to have gone to so much trouble, he’s always so sweet to me.

GRANDMOTHER: Well, aren’t you going to tell me what happened? We’ve never had any secrets from each other. Why did you burn your wedding dress?

MAMAE: Because I don’t want to get married any more.

GRANDMOTHER: But why? You and Joaquín seemed so happy together — up until last night anyway. What’s he done to you?

MAMAE: Nothing. I’ve discovered I’m just not interested in marriage. I prefer to remain single.

GRANDMOTHER: How do you mean, you’re just not interested in marriage? You can’t fool me, Elvirita. Every girl wants to marry, it’s her one ambition in life and you’re no exception. We grew up dreaming about the day we’d have our own homes, guessing what our husbands would look like, choosing names for our children. Have you forgotten that already?

MAMAE: Yes, my dear. I’ve forgotten all about it.

GRANDMOTHER: You haven’t. I don’t believe you. (GRANDMOTHER and MAMAE carry on their conversation silently. BELISARIO has stopped writing for a moment. He looks pensive, absorbed in his own thoughts. When he speaks, it is as if he were watching them and listening to what they say.)

BELISARIO: Their houses were both going to be as spotless and tidy as the British Consul’s. They were both going to have maids who would always be impeccably dressed in well-starched pinafores and bonnets; Grandma and Mamaé were going to send them off to catechism and make them say their rosaries along with the family. They would make sure that they always looked beautiful so that their husbands would remain in love with them and not be unfaithful to them. They would bring up their sons like gallant young men and their daughters like eligible young women. Grandmother was going to have four, Mamaé six, eight …

(He starts to write again.)

MAMAE: He doesn’t even know I’m not going to marry him. He was going to Isaiah’s, the tailor, today, to collect his dress uniform for the wedding. He’s going to get quite a surprise when the servants tell him he can’t ever set foot inside this house again.

GRANDMOTHER: (Embarrassed) Is it because you’re frightened, Elvirita? I mean, frightened of … of your wedding night?

(MAMAE shakes her head.)

Then why? Something dreadful must have happened for you to break off your engagement the day before your wedding …

MAMAE: I’ve already told you. I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to get married. Not to Joaquín or anyone else.

GRANDMOTHER: Is it God then? Is that it? Are you going into the convent?

MAMAE: No, I’ve no vocation to be a nun. I’m not getting married and I’m not going into the convent either. I’m going to carry on as I have done up to now. Single and unattached.

GRANDMOTHER: You’re hiding something important from me, Elvira. Remain single indeed! But it’s the most dreadful thing that can happen to a girl. Look at Aunt Hilaria. You say yourself that she makes your hair stand on end, she’s so lonely. No husband, no home of her own, no children, and half mad. Do you really want to end up like her, and have to face old age like a soul in torment?

MAMAE: Better to live alone than with the wrong person, Carmencita. The only thing I’m sorry about is the anxiety I’m going to cause Aunt Amelia and Uncle Menelao.

(GRANDMOTHER nods.)

Did they see the dress burning? They’re so sensitive and sweet. They haven’t even come to ask me why I set fire to it. And they went to such trouble so I could have a wedding to end all weddings. They’ve certainly earned their place in heaven, they’re so kind …

GRANDMOTHER: (Giving her a kiss on the cheek) You’ll never be left alone like Aunt Hilaria. Because when I get married, that is if any gentleman cares to have me, you’ll come and live with us.

MAMAE: You’re so good to me, my dear.

(They are both overcome with emotion and kiss each other. BELISARIO gets to his feet and walks across the stage with a pile of papers in his hand. He seems restless.)

BELISARIO: Well, it won’t be a love story, but it’s certainly romantic. That much is clear. As far back as you can remember, and as far back as my mother could remember, you were both as thick as thieves. But all those years of living in the same house, wasn’t there ever any friction, any jealousy between them? They shared their lives, but didn’t they ever feel envious of each other? (He looks sardonically at them both.) Well, I don’t suppose you actually shared Grandfather. But you certainly shared the children, didn’t you?

(He walks round GRANDMOTHER and MAMAE, looking at them carefully.

That is to say, you produced them, Grandma, but it was you, Mamaé, who had all the anxiety and the sleepless nights. You gave them their bottles and changed their nappies and watched over their cradles, and it was you who stayed at home so that Grandmother and Grandfather could go to the theatre or the cinema, or to parties, when they were still able to afford such luxuries.

(He goes towards the desk, where he leaves his papers and pencils. He rolls up his trousers, like a child about to wade across a stream, and suddenly starts to skip and jump about, as if he were spinning a top or playing hopscotch.)

But there was someone else you were even more patient with, Mamaé — infinitely patient with in fact — and that was that budding little lawyer, over in Bolivia — yes, the future saviour of the family.

(During BELISARIO’s speech, AGUSTIN and CESAR have come in from the street. They kiss GRANDMOTHER and their sister, AMELIA, and go up to greet MAMAE, who smiles politely and bows when she sees them coming. They embrace her. She lets them, but suddenly shouts out:)

MAMAE: Long live Herod! Long live Herod! Ahhh!

(As MAMAE shouts, BELISARIO carries on writing. He seems to be enjoying himself very much. In fact he is so delighted he can hardly sit still. He stops working from time to time to observe MAMAE. He imitates her gestures and expression — she raises his hand to his throat as if he were attempting to throttle someone.)

GRANDMOTHER: Quiet, Elvira, stop shouting like a maniac. What’s this stupid habit you’ve got of shrieking ‘Long live Herod!’ whenever Agustín and César appear? (To AGUSTIN and CESAR) Dear oh dear, what with Mamaé who lives in a world of her own, and my husband who doesn’t remember anything from one moment to the next, I don’t know what’s to become of me, I really don’t. I’m just going to see if Pedro’s awake. He went to have a little rest.

(She goes out. AMELIA, AGUSTIN and CESAR gather round MAMAE.)

MAMAE: Of all the characters in history, he’s quite my favourite. He had every one of the little blighters killed. I’d do the same — I’d do away with the lot of them. I wouldn’t leave a single one, not even as a specimen.

CESAR: (To his brother) And there were you wanting me to get the children out of the car so they could say hello to Mama and Papa.

MAMAE: Because I loathe them! And do you know why? Because of all those thousands and thousands of dirty nappies.

AGUSTIN: (Stroking her hair) You’ve spent your life looking after other people’s children, and now it turns out you detest the little mites.

MAMAE: Because of those millions of bibs they’re sick over, they’re always about to burst into tears — they’re always drooling, their noses need wiping, and their knees are always dirty and covered in scabs. And they won’t even let the grown-ups have their meals in peace, what with their bad table manners and naughty little pranks.

(MAMAE talks to them calmly, smiling and bowing, but she gives the impression that she neither hears nor understands a word of what they say.)

AMELIA: And to think that when Belisario had chickenpox, she was the one who threw me out of the room so that she could sleep beside him.

MAMAE: Because they shout and throw tantrums; everything gets broken, mucked up, or ruined.

BELISARIO: (Interrupting his work) You’d spend the day covering me with that ghastly black ointment. Every little spot, one by one. Then you’d take me by the hands and tell me stories to take my mind off it so I wouldn’t scratch. But even that didn’t stop me looking a sight, Mamaé!

MAMAE: They’re selfish little brutes, they don’t care about anyone. They’re like sultans, you’ve got to pander to all their stupid little fads. So, like Herod, every single one of them. Like so, and like so!

CESAR: What about that time in Arequipa, Mamaé, when I’d invite my schoolmates home? You used to make tea for all thirty of us, remember? So you can swear you hate children till you’re blue in the face, I just don’t believe it.

(AMELIA signals to AGUSTIN and they both move aside a few steps. BELISARIO is sitting at his desk. He looks on intrigued, as AMELIA and AGUSTIN talk.)

AMELIA: I want to have a word with you, Agustín.

AGUSTIN: Yes, Amelia.

AMELIA: I’ve been meaning to tell you, I … I can’t go on like this any more.

(When CESAR hears her, he goes up to them. MAMAE falls asleep.)

CESAR: What’s the matter, Amelia?

AMELIA: I’m quite exhausted. You’ll just have to take on a maid.

AGUSTIN: We’d have done that some time ago if it had been at all possible. I thought we agreed that César and I would help Belisario finish his course at university and you would look after the house.

AMELIA: Yes, I know. But I can’t go on like this, Agustín. It’s too much work for one person. And besides I’m slowly going out of my mind in this crazy household. What with Father and Mother and Mamaé — they’re all getting so old now. And Father doesn’t remember a single thing. I give him his lunch, he eats it, and five minutes later he asks for it all over again. And if I don’t do exactly as he wants, Mother bursts into tears.

CESAR: Don’t talk so loud, Amelia. Mamaé will hear you.

AMELIA: Let her hear me; she doesn’t understand. Her mind’s completely gone, César. (Looks at MAMAE.) Not to mention her body. God knows I’m patient, and I’m very fond of her. But there are limits. Can’t you see she’s like a child? Washing her knickers and her dirty nighties has become a nightmare. Then there’s the cooking, the cleaning, the ironing, the beds to be made and the dishes to be washed. I just can’t cope any more.

CESAR: (To AGUSTIN) Perhaps we really should consider taking on a maid, after all.

AGUSTIN: Oh, that’s brilliant, César. Yes, why don’t we? You’d be paying for her, I suppose.

CESAR: There’s no need to be sarcastic, Agustín. You know I’m hard up at the moment.

AGUSTIN: Then don’t talk about taking on a maid. Have you any idea what it costs to run this house? Has it ever occurred to you to pick up a pencil and work it out? Well, there’s the rent, the housekeeping, the water rates, the electricity, dustmen, doctor’s bills, medicine, not to mention the three thousand for Amelia. Do you know how much it all comes to? Fourteen or fifteen thousand soles a month. And what do you contribute apart from belly-aching the whole time? Two thousand soles.

(JOAQUIN comes in, as discreetly as a ghost, dressed in the same uniform he was wearing at the beginning of the play. He sits down next to MAMAE.)

CESAR: It’s hard enough for me to manage the two thousand. I don’t even earn enough to cover my own expenses. I’m in constant debt, as you well know … I’ve got four children, Agustín. I’ve had to put the two younger ones into a state school this year, along with all the mestizos and the negroes …

MAMAE: (Opening her eyes) The mestizos … Yes, it was there, every evening, just when the labourers were returning from the plantations. In the suburb, where the mestizos and the negroes live. In the shanties of La Mar.

AMELIA: You don’t imagine I spend those three thousand soles you give me on myself, do you, Agustín? Every cent goes on Belisario’s education. I can’t even buy myself a handkerchief. I’ve even given up smoking, to save you any more expense.

BELISARIO: (Looking at the audience, exaggerating) Me, get a job? No, mother, it’s out of the question. What about the statutory regulations? What about the civil code? The constitutions? The laws of contract? Written law? Common law? I thought you wanted me to become famous so I’d be able to help you all out one day? Well, you’ve got to give me more money for books then! How cynical you could be at times, Belisario.

AGUSTIN: But Belisario could always get a part-time job, Amelia. Hundreds of university students do. You know I’ve always supported your son — and you, ever since your husband killed himself in that stupid way. But things have become very tough recently, and Belisario is quite grown up now. Let me look for a job for him.

CESAR: No, Agustín, Amelia’s right. He must be allowed to finish at the university first. Or he’ll go the same way as I did. I gave up studying to start a job and look at the result. But he was always top of the class. He’s bound to go far. He needs a degree though, because nowadays … (His voice fades down to a whisper, as MAMAE’s voice comes to the fore.)

MAMAE: I’ve often been past those shanties. With Uncle Menelao and Aunt Amelia, on the way to the sea. Negroes, mestizos and Indians would come up to us, begging. They’d put their hands right inside the carriage and I remember Uncle Menelao saying: ‘What revolting nails they have.’ I used to be so frightened of them. La Mar looks pretty from a distance with its thatched huts and sandy streets. But when you’re there, you can see that it’s poor, dirty and smelly and it’s full of savage dogs. So it was there you used to meet her.

JOAQUIN: Yes. There. In La Mar. Every evening. We’d meet and watch the sun going down.

(The conversation between AGUSTIN, AMELIA and CESAR now comes to the fore.)

AGUSTIN: Everyone has his reasons, of course. Well, I’ve got mine too. You see, I could say I was fed up with living in lodgings, travelling by bus, and not being able to get married. Ever since the day I started work, over half my salary has been going towards helping Mother and Father, not to mention Amelia and my nephew. I could say I was fed up never being able to go to a good restaurant, never having any holidays, and always having to have my suits repaired. And because I’m fed up, from now on I’m only going to contribute two thousand soles a month towards the upkeep of this house. The same as you. What then would happen to Father and Mother and Mamaé — and what would happen to our future legal genius?

AMELIA: Don’t be so scornful, Agustín. My son will be a great lawyer one day, you’ll see, he’ll have masses of clients and he’ll earn a fortune. I’m not sending him out to work until he finishes his studies. He won’t be a failure and a mediocrity.

AGUSTIN: Like me, you mean.

MAMAE: So every evening, after your guard duty, as I waited for you, saying rosary after rosary to make the time pass more quickly, you were already on your way to her, to La Mar, where you’d talk passionately to her for hours.

JOAQUIN: My little soldier’s girl, my love, your hands — they’re so strong — and yet so soft and gentle. Hold my head here, at the temples, I’ve been riding all morning and my body is throbbing. Press a little harder. It’s so soothing. That’s right. Ah yes, I feel as if my head were sinking into a bed of jasmine.

BELISARIO: You saw straight through me, didn’t you, Uncle Agustín?

CESAR: No. Please, don’t start up again. It’s the same thing day after day. Hasn’t it caused enough bad blood as it is? Instead of arguing, why don’t you think seriously about what I suggested?

AMELIA: I have, César. I’m ready to go along with it. I was against it at first, but I’ve changed my mind.

CESAR: Of course, Amelia. It’s the only sensible thing to do.

(Looks at MAMAE.) She’s already living in another world; she won’t even notice the change. You’ll be more relaxed; you’ll have more time for Mother and Father. They’ll live more comfortably. And it’s even quite likely that Mamaé will be happier, too.

(JOAQUIN has taken hold of MAMAE’s hands; he kisses them passionately.)

JOAQUIN: But there’s something else about you, Carlota, something I like even more than your hands.

MAMAE: (Frightened) What? What else was it you liked about that woman?

AGUSTIN: So we put Mamaé into a home, do we? I see. Do you really think that’s going to solve things. Of course it’s very easy. Especially when you’re all no doubt thinking of that private place, San Isidro, where Aunt Augusta was. I’m sure Mamaé would be fine there. It’s so clean, and they’ve got nurses looking after the old people day and night, they take them out for walks in the gardens. They even show them a film once a week, don’t they? (Sarcastically) Have you any idea how much that place costs?

JOAQUIN: Your neck. Let me kiss it, let me smell your sweetness. Yes. Yes, that’s right. Now I want to kiss your ears, put my tongue into those snug little lairs, nibble those pink little lobes. That’s why I love you, my little soldier’s girl. You know how to give me pleasure. You’re not like Elvira, that passionless dummy. She thinks love is all about reading poetry by an idiot who calls himself Federico Barreto.

AGUSTIN: Mamaé wouldn’t go to San Isidro. She’d go to the Beneficencia, which is free. You don’t know about that place, do you? But I’ve taken the trouble to go and see it. The old people there all live on top of each other in the most filthy conditions. They hardly even have any clothes to wear. They’re eaten alive by lice, and they sleep on the floor on sacks. What’s more, it’s in Santo Cristo next to the cemetery so that the old people spend all day watching funerals. Do you really want to send Mamaé there?

MAMAE: (Very distressed, almost in tears) We weren’t yet married, Joaquín. I couldn’t let you lose respect for me. It would have lowered me in your eyes. It was for you I did it, for you. So that you would have a wife you wouldn’t be ashamed of.

CESAR: And do you really think Mamaé lives well here? Have you lost all sense of smell, Agustín. You say yourself that every time you have to have a cup of milk in this house, it practically turns your stomach. You must understand I’m not suggesting the home out of spite or anything, but to save you expense. I love her as much as you do.

MAMAE: And what was so wrong about the poetry? That’s how things were in those days. When a woman was in love she read poetry. That’s what young ladies and gentlemen did, Joaquín. Federico Barreto was certainly no fool. He was a great poet. All the girls in Tacna were dying of envy when he wrote those lines on my fan.

AMELIA: (To AGUSTIN) Do you think I’ve no feelings? I’m the one who baths her, puts her to bed, dresses her; I’m the one who feeds her, don’t forget. But … you’re right. We can’t send Mamaé there. Besides, it’s true — Mother would never agree to it.

JOAQUIN: What a wonderful couple we’d have made, my little soldier’s girl. Such a pity you’re married! When I think of that frigid little saint … I ask myself, will she be capable of satisfying me, when I feel those waves of passion welling up inside me as I do now, ready to break at any moment? (Speaking in her ear) Shall I tell you what I’m going to do to Elvira when she’s my wife?

MAMAE: (Covering her ears) No! No! I don’t want to know.

CESAR: All right. Then I’m sorry I even spoke. Let’s forget about the home. I’m only trying to help, to throw out a few ideas. And all you do is to make me feel worthless.

JOAQUIN: With these hands … I’ll undress her. I’ll take off her bridal veil, her dress, her petticoat, her bodice. Her shoes. Her stockings. Slowly, watching her blush, not knowing what to say, what to do, where to look. A young girl overcome with shyness and fear is an exciting prospect.

AGUSTIN: Come down to earth, César. You’re not going to solve the problem with brainless suggestions. If, instead of all these far-fetched schemes, you were to give me another five hundred soles towards the running of this house, you really would be helping.

(Throughout the scene, BELISARIO has been writing at his desk. He has also been listening and observing his family, MAMAE and JOAQUIN. He now starts to yawn. He works more and more reluctantly.)

JOAQUIN: And when her skin starts to quiver with fear, as I gradually uncover it, I’ll lean over, and smell it, taste it, cover it with feverish kisses. Are you jealous my little soldier’s girl? Can you see me running my hands, my eyes, my lips over that tender little body? Can you see her trembling, her eyes closed. Are you jealous? I want you to be jealous, Carlota.

MAMAE: I’m not listening to you. I’m covering my ears, I’m shutting you out. I’m closing my eyes, I don’t want to see you either. You can’t insult me however hard you try, you’re not going to drag me down to your common level. Oh, this crazy little head …

(She hits her head as if punishing it for giving her these hallucinations.)

AMELIA: Quiet now, Father’s coming.

(Enter GRANDFATHER and GRANDMOTHER. AGUSTIN and CESAR come forward to kiss their father. BELISARIO has put down his pen. He rests for a moment, his head on his arm.)

BELISARIO: (Yawning) The world won’t come to an end because you can’t finish a story, Belisario. Go on, have a little nap.

GRANDFATHER: You got all worked up about nothing. I’m perfectly all right. That … that brigand didn’t do me any harm. But at least it’s got them to pay us a visit. They haven’t been here for weeks.

CESAR: But we were here all yesterday afternoon, Father.

JOAQUIN: And then, when she’s surrendered herself totally to me, and her body’s all wet with my kisses, I’ll make her take all my clothes off too. Just as you do. I’ll teach her obedience. I’ll train her like my horse: so that she’ll only allow me to handle her. And while she’s undressing me, I’ll be thinking about you. About all those things only you know how to do to me. I’ll feel my blood getting hotter. I’ll put off making love to her till the very last moment, then when I do, I’ll be thinking all the time I’m with you, Carlota.

(He caresses MAMAE’s breasts.)

MAMAE: No. No. Go away, get out of here. I won’t let you, not even in my wildest dreams, not even when I’m your wife. Aunt Amelia! Uncle Menelao! Carmencita! Ahhh! Ahhh!

(JOAQUIN disappears, smiling. AMELIA, AGUSTIN, CESAR, and the GRANDPARENTS turn to look at MAMAE when they hear her shouting.)

GRANDMOTHER: What’s the matter, Mamaé? Why do you shout the whole time like a maniac?

MAMAE: (Suffocating, embarrassed) I dreamt my fiancé was trying to touch my breasts, Carmencita. These Chileans are so forward! They even take liberties with you in your sleep! These Chileans, really!

(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 slips 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.

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 didn’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 Argentina, 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?

CESAR: You and your fantasies, Mamaé. Like those stories you used to tell us. Now you live them all in your head, don’t you, old darling?

AMELIA: (bitterly) That’s true enough. You’re probably responsible for what’s happening to my son. All this making him learn poetry by heart, Mamaé.

BELISARIO: (Putting down his pencil and looking up) No, that’s not true, Mama. It was Grandfather, more like — he was the poetry fanatic. Mamaé only made me learn one. That sonnet, remember? We used to recite it, a verse each. It had been written for the young lady by some long-haired poet, on the back of a mother-of-pearl fan … (Addressing AGUSTIN) I’ve got something to tell you, Uncle Agustín. But promise me you’ll keep it a secret. Not a word to anyone, mind. And specially not to Mama.

AGUSTIN: Of course not, old son, don’t worry. I won’t breathe a word, if you don’t want me to. What is it?

BELISARIO: I don’t want to be a lawyer, Uncle. I loathe all those statutes, and regulations, this law and that law — I loathe all those things we’re made to learn at the faculty. I memorize them for the exams, but then I forget them again immediately. They just go in one ear and out the other. I promise you. And I couldn’t be a diplomat either, Uncle. I’m sorry, I know it’ll come as a disappointment to Mother — and to you, not to mention Grandma and Grandpa. But I can’t help it, Uncle, I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. There’s something else. I haven’t told anyone about it yet.

AGUSTIN: And what do you think you are cut out for, Belisario?

BELISARIO: I want to be a poet, Uncle.

AGUSTIN: (Laughs.) I’m not laughing at you, old son, don’t be cross. I’m laughing at myself. I thought you were going to tell me you were a nancy boy. Or that you wanted to go into the priesthood. But a poet, that’s altogether less serious. (Goes back towards the dining room and addresses AMELIA.) We must face facts, Amelia, Belisario isn’t going to pull us out of the mire. Why don’t you do as I suggested and send the boy out to work for once in his life?

(BELISARIO has gone back to the desk and listens to them from there.)

AMELIA: If things were different, I wouldn’t mind him doing whatever he wanted to do. But he’s going to die of starvation, Agustín, just like the rest of us. Only he’ll be worse off still. A poet, indeed! What sort of a profession is that, I ask you. And I had such high hopes for him. His father would shoot himself all over again, if he knew his only son was turning out to be a poet.

(BELISARIO, exultant, laughs and mimes shooting himself.)

MAMAE: Poet? Are you talking about Federico Barreto? Don’t let Uncle Menelao hear you. He won’t even let his name be mentioned in the house, not since he wrote me that poem.

(MAMAE smiles at them all, as if they were strangers, bowing politely. BELISARIO, leaving his desk, has placed his hands on either side of his forehead so they look like two horns. He starts to charge about, cannoning into the furniture and other objects in the room, including his grandparents, his mother and his two uncles.)

GRANDMOTHER: Why are you so surprised he wants to be a poet? He takes after his great-grandfather. Pedro’s father used to write poetry. And Belisario has always been fairly fanciful, ever since he was so high. Don’t you remember in Bolivia with the little nanny goat?

BELISARIO: It’s the devil, Grandma. I swear it is. It’s on the picture cards, in the Catechism — Brother Leoncio said that he appears in the form of a black billy goat. (Swearing and kissing his fingers in the form of a cross) You’ve got to believe me, Grandma!

AMELIA: But it’s not a billy goat, it’s only a little nanny goat, dear.

GRANDMOTHER: Besides, it’s a present from your grandpa, for Independence Day. Do you really think your grandfather would send us a present of the devil?

BELISARIO: (Snivelling) It’s Beelzebub, Grandma! It is, it is! You’ve got to believe me! I swear it is! I did the holy-water test on him. I poured it all over him and he took fright, I promise you.

AGUSTIN: I expect the water wasn’t properly blessed, old son. (BELISARIO goes over to Mamaé’s armchair, weeping.)

MAMAE: Don’t make fun of him, poor little man. I’m listening to you, my precious, come over here.

BELISARIO: (Affectionately cuddling an imaginary MAMAE) If only you knew, Mamaé, I still have nightmares about the little nanny goat from Bolivia. She seemed so big. How scared you were of her, Belisario. A billy goat, the devil. Is that what you call a love story?

AMELIA: Why are you so quiet, Papa? Are you feeling ill? Papa, Papa!

GRANDFATHER: (His head in his hands) Just a little dizziness, my dear. In my thingumajig. I keep getting it in my thingumajig.

(GRANDMOTHER, CESAR, AGUSTIN, and AMELIA in a great state of alarm all throng round GRANDFATHER who has half fainted.)

CESAR: We must call a doctor! Quick!

AGUSTIN: Wait. Let’s take him to his bedroom first. (Amid cries of anxiety, all four of them carry GRANDFATHER to the inner part of the house. MAMAE looks on without moving.)

MAMAE: (Looking up to heaven) Was it because of the Indian woman? Was it because of that youthful little misdemeanour?

(She gets up with great difficulty. She takes hold of the little wooden chair she uses as a walking aid and, grasping the back, starts out on the slow awkward journey back to her armchair. BELISARIO, very serious and resolute now, is waiting for her at the foot of the armchair in the position he habitually adopts for listening to the stories.)

BELISARIO: Having got so far, I simply have to know now, Mamaé. What was that little misdemeanour?

MAMAE: (Moving slowly back towards her armchair with some difficulty) Something dreadful that happened to the young lady, my little one. It was the only time in her entire life. All because of that letter. Because of that wicked woman. (Stops to gather strength.) Poor young lady! They caused her to sin in her thoughts!

BELISARIO: What letter, Mamaé? Tell me the whole story from the beginning.

MAMAE: A letter the gentleman wrote to his wife. His wife was an intimate friend of the young lady from Tacna. They lived together because they were so very fond of each other. They were almost like sisters and that’s why, when her friend got married, she took the young lady in to live with her.

BELISARIO: In Arequipa?

(MAMAE has finally reached her armchair and lets herself fall into it. BELISARIO rests his head on her knees.)

MAMAE: Times were good. It looked as though there was going to be a bumper cotton harvest that year and that the gentleman was going to earn a lot of money and buy a plantation of his own. Because, at that time, the gentleman managed other people’s land.

BELISARIO: The plantation in Camaná, the one that belonged to the Saíds. I know all that already. But what about the letter, Mamaé, what about the Indian woman?

(GRANDFATHER appears at the back of the stage. He sits down. Enter SEÑORA CARLOTA, with a broom and a feather duster. She is dressed as in the first act, only here she appears to be carrying out the duties of a servant girl. As she sweeps and dusts, she moves back and forth in front of GRANDFATHER, suggestively. GRANDFATHER, despite himself, starts to follow her with his gaze.)

MAMAE: Camaná was in the back of beyond. A little village without roads or even a church. The gentleman wouldn’t allow his wife to bury herself in a wasteland like that. So he left her in Arequipa, with the young lady, so she could have some sort of social life. He had to spend months away from his family. But he was a very good man; he had always treated the labourers and servants at the plantation with the utmost consideration. Until one day …

GRANDFATHER: (Reciting) ‘My beloved wife, my treasure: I write to you, my soul worn to tatters with remorse. On our wedding night we made an oath of undying love and fidelity. We swore we’d be totally frank with each other. These last five years, I’ve kept scrupulously to that oath, as I know you have too, you saint among saints.’

(SEÑORA CARLOTA, emboldened by the looks GRANDFATHER is giving her, takes off her blouse, as if it were very hot. The brassière she is wearing underneath barely covers her breasts.)

BELISARIO: (With restrained anguish) Was it a letter the gentleman wrote to the young lady?

MAMAE: No, to his wife. The letter arrived in Arequipa, and when the gentleman’s wife read it, she turned as white as snow. The young lady had to give her valerian drops and sponge her brow. Then the gentleman’s wife shut herself up in her room and the young lady heard her weeping with sighs that rent the soul. Her curiosity was too great for her. So that afternoon, she searched the room. And do you know where the letter was? It was hidden inside a hat. Because the gentleman’s wife loved hats. And, unluckily for her, the young lady read it.

(GRANDFATHER stretches out his hand and takes hold of SEÑORA CARLOTA, as she brushes past him. She pretends to be surprised and get annoyed, but after a brief, silent struggle, she gives in to him. GRANDFATHER sits her on his knees, caresses her, as he continues to recite the letter.)

GRANDFATHER: ‘I’d sooner cause you pain than lie to you, my love. I could never live at peace in the knowledge that I’d deceived you. Yesterday, for the first time in five years, I was unfaithful to you. Forgive me, I beg you, on my bended knee. It was too strong for me. I was overwhelmed by an emotion which swept away all my principles, all my vows, like a hurricane rooting up everything in its path. I have decided to tell you this, although you may curse me. Your absence is to blame. Dreaming of you at night, here in Camaná, has been nothing but a torture to me, and still is. My blood starts to race at the very thought of you. I’m beset by notions of abandoning everything, jumping on my horse and galloping to Arequipa, to your side, where I can hold your beautiful body in my arms again, and carry you to the bedroom …’

(His voice slowly fades away.)

MAMAE: The young lady suddenly felt as if everything was starting to go round. The bathroom, where she was reading the letter, seemed to be turning into an enormous top that spun round and round — the house, Arequipa, the whole world became a giant wheel off which the young lady was falling, falling … as if from a precipice. She thought her heart and her head were going to burst. And her face was burning with shame.

BELISARIO: (Very seriously) Did she feel ashamed because she’d read about the gentleman beating a servant girl?

(GRANDFATHER and SEÑORA CARLOTA have now slid on to the floor.)

MAMAE: (Shaking) Yes, she did, very. She couldn’t imagine how the gentleman could so much as lay a finger on a woman. Not even a perverse Indian.

BELISARIO: (Very moved) Had she never read any novels in which men beat women?

MAMAE: She was a well brought-up young lady and there were certain things she did not read, my little one. But this was worse than reading about them in a book, because she knew the author of the letter. She read it over and over again, but still she couldn’t believe that the gentleman would have done such a thing.

GRANDFATHER: ‘Her name is not important. She was beneath contempt, one of those Indians who clean out hostels, a mere animal, an object almost. I wasn’t blinded by her charms, Carmen. It was you, the memory of you, your charms, your body — that was the reason for my nostalgia. Thinking about you, longing for you, that was what made me give in to such madness and make love to the Indian woman. On the floor, like a beast. Yes, you must know everything.’

BELISARIO: (Also trembling, now pronouncing the words as if they were burning him) So the gentleman’s wife went as white as snow, all because of a few lashes he happened to give the servant. Is that why the young lady felt the world was coming to an end? You’re not hiding anything from me, are you? The gentleman didn’t by any chance go too far, did he, and do the Indian woman in, Mamaé?

MAMAE: Suddenly, the young lady started to feel something else. Something worse than dizziness. Her whole body started to shake and she had to sit down on the bath. The letter was so very explicit that she felt as if she were receiving the thrashing that the gentleman gave the wicked woman.

GRANDFATHER: ‘And there in my arms, the little whelp lay whimpering with pleasure. But it wasn’t her I was making love to. It was you, my angel. Because I had my eyes closed, it was you I was seeing — and it wasn’t her smell, it was yours, that sweet rose-scented fragrance of your skin which intoxicated me so …’

BELISARIO: But in what way did that letter make the young lady sin in her thoughts, Mamaé?

MAMAE: (Distraught) She imagined that instead of thrashing Señora Carlota, the gentleman was thrashing her.

GRANDFATHER: ‘When it was all over and I opened my eyes, it wasn’t you I was looking at with your drowsy blue eyes, but that unfamiliar face with its coarse strange features … That was my punishment. Forgive me, forgive me, I know I’ve been weak, but it was all because of you, thinking about you, wanting you, that I finally failed you.

BELISARIO: So the young lady imagined that the gentleman was thrashing her. Where’s the sin in that? That wasn’t a sin, Mamaé. That was plain stupidity. And anyway, which Senora Carlota are you talking about? I thought she was the wicked woman from Tacna?

MAMAE: Of course it was a sin. Isn’t it a sin to hurt your neighbour? If the young lady fancied the gentleman was ill-treating her, then she must have wanted the gentleman to offend against God. Don’t you realize?

(GRANDFATHER gets up. With a gesture of disgust he dismisses SEÑORA CARLOTA, who goes away, casting a sardonic glance at MAMAE. GRANDFATHER passes his hand over his face, straightens his clothes.)

GRANDFATHER: ‘When I come to Arequipa, I’ll throw myself at your feet until you forgive me. I’ll demand from you a penance even harsher than my sin. Be generous, be understanding, my angel. I love you and adore you and want to kiss you more than ever. Your ever loving husband, Pedro.’

(He goes out.)

MAMAE: That evil thought was her punishment for reading other people’s letters. So be warned. Never pry into what doesn’t concern you.

BELISARIO: There are things that don’t make sense. Why did the gentleman beat the Indian woman? You said it was she who was the perverse one and he was goodness itself, and yet in the story he gives her a thrashing. Whatever had she done?

MAMAE: It must have been something dreadful for the poor gentleman to fly off the handle the way he did. She must have been one of those women who talk about passion and pleasure and nasty things like that.

BELISARIO: Did the young lady of Tacna go and confess her evil thoughts?

MAMAE: The terrible thing is, Father Venancio, as I was reading that letter I felt something I can’t explain. A sort of elation, an inquisitiveness, which made my whole body tingle. Then suddenly, envy for the victim of what was described in the letter. I had evil thoughts, father.

BELISARIO: The Devil is always on the lookout — he never misses an opportunity to tempt Eve, like in the beginning …

MAMAE: It had never happened to me before, father. I’d had a few warped ideas, vengeful feelings, I’d been envious and angry. But I’d never had thoughts like this before! Least of all about someone I respect so much. The master of the house I live in, my cousin’s husband, the very person who gave me a home. Ahhh! Ahhh!

BELISARIO: (Getting up, going towards his desk, starting to write) Look, young lady from Tacna, I’m going to give you Brother Leoncio’s remedy for evil thoughts. The moment they strike, go down on your knees, wherever you are, and ask the Virgin for help. Out loud, if necessary. (Imitating Brother Leoncio) ‘Mary, keep temptation away, like water keeps a cat at bay.’

(BELISARIO carries on writing.)

MAMAE: (To an imaginary BELISARIO still at her feet) When your Grandma Carmen and I were children together in Tacna, we went through a phase of being very pious. We did penances severer than the ones imposed at confessional. And when your Grandmother Carmen’s mother — my aunt Amelia — fell ill, we made a vow, so that God would save her. Do you know what it was? To have a cold bath each day. (Laughs.) At that time, it was considered madness to have a bath every day. That habit came in later when the foreigners arrived. It was quite a performance. The servants heated up pails of water, the doors and windows were all bolted, the bath was spiced with salts, and when you got out of the tub, you went straight to bed so you didn’t catch your death of cold. So in our efforts to save Aunt Amelia, we were ahead of our time. Every morning for a whole month, we got up as quietly as mice and plunged into icy cold water. We’d come out, our skin all covered in goosepimples, and our lips purple. Aunt Amelia recovered and we believed that it was all because of that vow we made. But a couple of years later she fell ill again and was in the most agonizing pain for months on end. She finally went out of her mind with all the suffering. It’s hard sometimes to understand God, my little one. Take your Grandpa Pedro, for example. Was it fair that everything should have turned out so badly for him, when he’d always been so upright and so good?

(BELISARIO stops writing and looks up.)

BELISARIO: And, you, Mamaé? Why didn’t everything turn out well for you in life? What youthful little misdemeanour were you punished for? Was it for reading that letter? Did the young lady from Tacna read that letter? Did that letter actually exist?

(MAMAE has taken from among her old clothes, an exquisite mother-of-pearl fan, dating from the beginning of the century. After fanning herself for a moment, she lifts it up towards her eyes, and reads something that is written on it. She looks apprehensively to right and left in case anyone is listening to her. She is going to recite, in a voice full of emotion, the poem on the fan, when BELISARIO gets in ahead of her and says the first line.)

BELISARIO: ‘There’s none more beautiful than thee, Elvira …’

MAMAE: (Continuing reciting) ‘Standing here before thee, oft I wonder …’

BELISARIO: ‘Art thou angel? Art thou goddess?’

MAMAE: ‘Thou’rt so modest, virtuous, sweet and humble …’

BELISARIO: ‘Fortune smile upon thee, sweet deserver …’

MAMAE: ‘A thousand times more fortunate be he …’

BELISARIO: ‘Who finally may call thee wife.’

MAMAE: ‘For I am but a humble bard of Tacna …’

BELISARIO: ‘Who with heavy heart doth end my weary life …’

MAMAE: ‘And deem myself too small for such an honour.’

BELISARIO: ‘Mistrust me, therefore, not, when I thee flatter:’

MAMAE: ‘Since I cannot, sweet Elvira, be thy master …’

BELISARIO: ‘Let me, leastwise, be thy servant and thy slave.’

(He starts to write again. As he says the last line of the poem AMELIA enters from the inner part of the house, sobbing. She leans against a chair, dries her eyes. MAMAE remains in her chair, as if asleep, only her eyes are open — a melancholy smile fixed on her face. CESAR enters from the inner part of the house, an expression of remorse on his face.)

AMELIA: She’s dead, isn’t she?

(CESAR nods and AMELIA leans her head on his shoulder and cries. He lets out a little sob too. Enter AGUSTIN, also from the inner part of the house.)

AGUSTIN: Come on, cheer up. It’s Mama we ought to be thinking about now. It’s particularly dreadful for her.

CESAR: We’ll have to put her on tranquillizers until she’s got over the shock.

AMELIA: I feel so miserable, César.

CESAR: It’s as if the whole family were falling apart …

BELISARIO: (Looking towards the audience) Has Mamaé died?

AGUSTIN: She got weaker and weaker until finally, like a little flame, she flickered out altogether. First it was her hearing, then her legs, her hands, her bones. Today it was her heart.

BELISARIO: (Still in the same position) Mother, is it true that Mamaé’s died?

AMELIA: Yes, dear, it is. She’s gone away to heaven, the poor darling.

CESAR: But you’re not going to cry, Belisario, are you?

BELISARIO: (Crying) Of course I’m not. Why should I? We all have to die sometime, don’t we, Uncle César? Men don’t cry, do they, Uncle Agustín?

CESAR: Choke back those tears, son, and let’s see you behave like a brave little man, eh?

BELISARIO: (Still at his desk, facing the audience) Like that famous lawyer I am going to be one day, uncle?

(Making an effort to stifle the emotion that has got the better of him, BELISARIO starts to write again.)

AMELIA: That’s right, like the famous lawyer you’re going to be one day.

AGUSTIN: Go and join Mama, Amelia. We’ve got to talk about the funeral arrangements.

(AMELIA nods and goes out, towards the inner part of the house. AGUSTIN moves towards CESAR.)

And funerals, as you know, cost money. We’ll give her the simplest there is. But even so: it still costs money.

CESAR: All right, Agustín. I’ll do what I can. I am more hard up than you are. But I’ll help you out all the same.

AGUSTIN: It’s not me you’re helping, but Mamaé. After all, she was as much your Mamaé as she was mine. You’ll also have to help me with the legal proceedings, that trying district council, the cemetery and so on …

(CESAR and AGUSTIN go out towards the street. MAMAE remains still, huddled in her armchair. BELISARIO has just finished writing. On his face we can detect a mixture of feelings: satisfaction, certainly, for having completed what he wanted to relate, and at the same time emptiness and nostalgia for something which is over, which he has lost.)

BELISARIO: It’s not a love story, it’s not a romantic story. So what is it, then? (Shrugs his shoulders.) You’ll never cease marvelling at the strange way stories are born, will you, Belisario? They get embellished with things one believes to be long forgotten — the most unlikely events are retrieved from the memory only to be distorted by the imagination. (Looks at MAMAE.) My only recollections of you were that final image: a shadow of a woman, huddled up in her armchair, who wet her knickers. (Gets up and goes towards MAMAE.) You were very good to me, Mamaé. Of course you were. But you had no alternative, had you? Why did it occur to me to write your story? Well, you should know that instead of becoming a lawyer, a diplomat or a poet, I ended up by devoting myself to a craft I probably learnt from you: that of telling stories. Yes, that may be the reason: to pay off a debt. As I didn’t know the real story, I’ve had to add to the things I remembered, bits which I made up or borrowed from here and there. Like you did in your stories about the young lady from Tacna, didn’t you, Mamaé?

(He closes her eyes and kisses her on the forehead. As he moves away towards one of the wings, the curtain falls.)