Kathie Kennety’s ‘little Parisian attic’ is not a caricature: it has that air of permanence and authenticity about it as if it were a real place.
Kathie, a woman with a sense of taste, has furnished her ‘studio’ in an attractive manner, reminiscent of the sort of artist’s garret one finds in pictures, novels, postcards and films; it also has something of the genuine
chambres de bonne
where students and impoverished foreigners congregate on the left bank of the Seine.
Under the sloping ceiling, there are ageing beams; on the walls, posters of the ubiquitous Eiffel Tower, the inevitable Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, some Impressionist paintings, a Picasso, and – one essential detail – a portrait or bust of Victor Hugo. There is nothing of great elegance, nothing superfluous, just what is necessary to give an impression of comfort and warmth: a little retreat where the occupant can feel safe and protected from the turmoil and scrutiny of the outside world, free to conjure up her innermost demons and confront them face to face. There is a thick wooden desk, a broad delapidated sofa, covered all over with rugs, some cushions on the floor, the tape-recorder and the typewriter, a small record-placer, the usual records of Juliette Greco, Léo Ferré, Yves Montand, Georges Brassens, etc. Filing cabinets, notebooks, papers and some books, but not too many, because Kathie’s idea of culture has little to do with literature.
There is nothing special or unusual about what Kathie or Santiago wear. The story takes place some time in the 1960s and this can be indicated in the way they dress. Santiago’s clothes reflect the modest salary and the hectic life of a journalist and lecturer, and it would not be inappropriate for Kathie to dress, when she’s in her little attic, in the Bohemian style of Saint-Germain in the 1950s: black turtle-neck jersey, tight-fitting trousers, stiletto-heeled boots. The costumes Ana and Juan wear need not be so precise. Unlike Kathie and Santiago, who are characters of flesh and blood, contemporaneous with the action, they only live in the minds
and the imaginations of the two protagonists. They exist in so far as they are projections of the protagonists’ memories and fantasies. Their subjective, if not to say perceptual, nature should perhaps be subtly suggested in the way they dress, but any outlandishness or exaggeration should be avoided. One possibility is that, as Ana’s and Juan’s thought-processes, gestures, speech and names fluctuate in accordance with Kathie’s and Santiago’s recollections, so might their dress, if only in small details – such as the acquisition of a hat, a cloak, a pair of spectacles, or a wig – to emphasize the metaphorical, volatile nature of their personalities. The same might happen with Kathie and Santiago when they shed their identities and assume new ones, as a projection of either their own or the other’s fantasy. But none of this should be carried beyond the bounds of credibility; the characters should never seem grotesque or like circus clowns –
Kathie and the Hippopotamus
is not a farce, and should not be performed as such. It is in the subtext, the inner workings of the characters’ minds lying at the root of what they say and do on stage, that we find elements of farce.
The action of the play exceeds the conventional limits of normal life: it takes place not only in the objective world but also in the subjective world of the characters themselves, as if there were no dividing line between the two, and it moves with complete freedom from one to the other. Any exaggerated speech, gesture or movement, any distortion of reality such as we find in slapstick comedy would be counterproductive and out of place here: the play’s intention is not to provoke laughter through any crude stylization of human experience, but, by using the combined techniques of humour, suspense and melodrama, to lead the audience imperceptibly to accept this integration of the visible with the invisible, of fact with fantasy, of present with past, as a separate reality. Objective life becomes suffused with subjectivity, while the subjective life of the individual acquires the physical and temporal tangibility of objective reality. Characters of flesh and blood become to a certain extent creatures of fantasy, while the phantoms that emerge from their imaginations become creatures of flesh and
blood. The deepest concerns of
Kathie and
the
Hippopotamus
are, perhaps, the nature of theatre in particular and fiction in general: not only that which is written and read, but, more importantly, that which human beings practise unwittingly in their everyday lives.
Visual effects can be helpful in the staging of the play, but it is primarily the use of music as a background presence that can evoke most effectively the different atmospheres – Paris, Black Africa, and the Arab world – that is to say the exotic appeal of a good part of the story.
It may not be superfluous to add that in this play I have tried, as I have in my novels, to create an illusion of totality – which should be understood qualitatively rather than quantitatively in this case. The play does not attempt to paint a broad panorama of human experience but seeks to illustrate that experience itself is both objective and subjective, real and imaginary, and that life is made up of both these levels. Man talks, acts, dreams and invents. Life is not just a rational catalogue of events – fantasy and ambition play their part as well. It is not the result of cold planning – but also of spontaneity. Although these two aspects of human experience are not entirely interdependent, neither could do without its counterpart without destroying itself. For a long time we have resorted to fantasy as an escape from reality when it becomes unbearable for us, but this is not just escapism; it is a devious means of gaining the knowledge required for understanding that reality. If we could not distance ourselves from it, it would seem confused and chaotic, little more than a stifling routine. The exploits of the imagination enrich reality and help us better our lives. If we didn’t dream, life would seem irredeemable; if we didn’t allow our imaginations free rein, the world would never change.
Mario Vargas Llosa
This translation of
Kathie and the Hippopotamus
was first performed as a rehearsed reading on 15 April 1989 at the Gate Theatre, Notting Hill. The cast was as follows:
KATHIE KENNETY
| Marian Diamond
|
SANTIAGO ZAVALA
| Thomas Wheatley
|
ANA DE ZAVALA
| Geraldine Fitzgerald
|
JUAN
| Alan Barker
|
Director
| David Graham-Young
|
Life, such as it has been made for men, can only be born with lies.
Simone Weil, ‘Miscellaneous Thoughts about Loving God’
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
T. S. Eliot,
Four Quartets
When the curtain goes up, Parisian music from the 1940s or 1950s can be heard in the background.
SANTIAGO
is dictating into a tape-recorder.
KATHIE
walks round him, going through some notes, recalling her experiences. When their voices become audible, the background music fades into an Arab melody with flutes, hornpipes and drums.
KATHIE: I stood beside the Sphinx until it got dark – then suddenly the lights came on.
SANTIAGO: Oblivious of the advancing night I stand transfixed, gazing up at the Sphinx. All at once, an unearthly glow illuminates her face, and she smiles serenely down at me. There we confront each other – I, the woman of flesh and blood; she with her heart of stone, head aloft, and lion’s claws.
KATHIE: There were masses of stars. It was late and I felt – I don’t know – sort of alone out there amongst all those Egyptian tombs.
SANTIAGO: I meander midst vast pyramidical sepulchres and megalithic colossi of the ancient pharaohs: beneath the canopy of night, an infinity of stars, which floats over Cairo in an indigo sea of opalescent hues.
KATHIE: It was rash of me to have stayed behind. Who would there be to defend me in case of danger? But then I remembered my revolver and didn’t feel afraid any more.
SANTIAGO: Not a living soul in sight – neither man, nor beast, nor plant: hardly aware of my isolation, I muse on that far-off civilization that raised such memorials, a race so perfectly attuned to the supernatural, as fish are to the ocean. I hold silent communion with the Sphinx. Suddenly my illusion is shattered and harsh reality reasserts itself: what am I doing there, alone, exposing myself to a thousand perils – does a hunger-crazed jackal or some ruthless desperado lie in wait? But I am reassured as I remember my small revolver with its mother-of-pearl
handle which accompanies me round the world like a faithful dog.
KATHIE: At that point, the man appeared in front of me. Heaven knows how he’d got there. I couldn’t even shout, I was so frightened. What was he going to do to me?
(
Enter
JUAN.)
SANTIAGO: The figure of a man, in a red cape and white turban, suddenly emerges in front of me, as if conjured from the hot desert air or out of the past. He is tall, slim, with pitch-black eyes and gleaming white teeth. Is he going to attack me? Is he going to violate me? Should I run for help, burst into tears?
KATHIE: (
Addressing herself for the first time to
SANTIAGO) I don’t like that last bit.
SANTIAGO: We’ll rub it out then. Where shall we go back to?
KATHIE: To where the man appears in front of me.
(SANTIAGO
leans over his tape-recorder to rub out the last part of his dictation.
JUAN
moves closer to
KATHIE
. They both undergo a transformation: they are now like two youngsters chatting on the corner of the street.
)
JUAN: ‘Man’? You mean, of course, ‘boyfriend’.
KATHIE: You, my boyfriend? Ha ha, excuse me while I laugh.
JUAN: I’ll excuse you anything you like, Kathie. Except one thing – don’t try and pretend you’re not in love with me.
KATHIE: But I’m not.
JUAN: You will be though.
KATHIE: Don’t you ever get tired of me saying no to you, Johnny?
JUAN: Once I get an idea into my head, there’s no stopping me, Pussikins. I’ll keep on proposing to you till you say yes to me. You’ll be my girlfriend, my fiancée, and we’ll end up getting married, want to bet?
KATHIE: (
dying of laughter
) So I’m going to get married to you now, am I?
JUAN: And who else are you going to marry, if you don’t marry me?
KATHIE: I’ve plenty of admirers, Johnny.
JUAN: You’ll pick the best though.
KATHIE: How conceited you are.
JUAN: I know very well who’s been proposing to you. And why, may I ask, did you send them all packing? Because you’re really nuts about me.
KATHIE: You’re so conceited, Johnny.
JUAN: I’ve every reason to be conceited. Do you want me to tell you why?
KATHIE: Yes, go on, tell me why.
JUAN: Am I or am I not better than Bepo Torres?
KATHIE: How are you better than Bepo Torres?
JUAN: I surf better than him for a start. He can’t even stand on the board. Besides, I’m better looking than he is.
KATHIE: You think you’re the best-looking man around, don’t you?
JUAN: Well, I’m better-looking than Bepo Torres anyway. And Kike Ricketts. Do you really think Kike’s a match for me? Does he surf better than me? Is he better-looking than me?
KATHIE: He’s a better dancer than you.
JUAN: Kike? Ha ha, excuse me while I laugh. Can he do the mambo better than me? (
Does a few steps.
) The cha-cha-cha? (
Another few steps
.) The huaracha? (
Another few steps
.) When I dance at parties, everyone gathers round, as you very well know. Who showed poor old Kike how to dance in the first place? I even showed him how to smooch.
KATHIE: He’s better at the marinera and the creole waltz than you are.
JUAN: The marinera! The creole waltz! I say, how frightfully refined. No one does those fuddy-duddy dances these days, Pussikins.
KATHIE: You’re just dying of jealousy, aren’t you? You’re jealous of Bepo, of Kike, of Gordo …
JUAN: Gordo? Me, jealous of Gordo Rivarola? What’s Gordo got that I haven’t? A chevrolet convertible nineteen fifty. Well, I’ve got a Studebaker convertible nineteen fifty-one. Do me a favour, Pussikins, please. Why should I be jealous of Bepo, or Kike, or Gordo, or Sapo Saldívar, or Harry Santana, or Abel, my brother, or any of the rest
of them who have proposed to you for that matter? They aren’t even in the same league as me, any of them, and you know it …
KATHIE: (
Reflectively – forgetting about
JUAN,
and emerging for a moment from her fantasy world
) Kike, Bepo, Harry, Gordo Rivarola … It seems ages ago now …
JUAN: (
Who hasn’t been listening to her
) And then there’s another reason, of course. Shall I be quite frank with you? Shall I?
KATHIE: (
Returning to her fantasy world
) Yes, Johnny. Be quite frank with me.
JUAN: I’ve got money, Pussikins.
KATHIE: Do you really think that matters to me? My daddy’s got more money than your daddy, silly.
JUAN: Exactly, Pussikins. With me you can be sure it’s you I want – if I marry you it’ll be for no other reason but yourself. You can’t be so sure about that with the others, can you? I heard my old man saying to yours only yesterday: ‘Be careful of those young men who gad about with your daughter. They’re out to land the best deal of their lives.’
KATHIE: (
Confused
) Don’t be so vulgar, Johnny.
JUAN: (
Confused also)
I’m not being vulgar. Marrying for money’s not being vulgar. OK, if I was, I apologize. You see, you’ve gone all quiet. It’s true what I’m telling you, ask your old man. You couldn’t deny it. You see, I’m already starting to convince you. Next time I propose to you, I don’t think you’ll send me packing quite so quickly, eh, Pussikins …
(
As his voice fades
, KATHIE
distances herself from him, physically and mentally.
JUAN
remains on stage. He is like a little boy; he saunters about, whistling, looking idly around with his hands in his pockets.
SANTIAGO
has finished erasing the last part of the dictation on the tape-recorder
.)
SANTIAGO: Ready, it’s all rubbed out. Shall we carry on from your visit to the Sphinx or shall we go on to another chapter, señora?
KATHIE: Why don’t you call me Kathie? ‘Senora’ makes me feel so old.
SANTIAGO: Can I ask you a question? Where did ‘Kathie Kennety’ come from?
KATHIE: Don’t you like the name?
SANTIAGO: It’s pretty. But how did it originate? Why did you choose it?
KATHIE: If I used my real name, no one would take my book seriously. Peruvian names don’t somehow seem right for authors. ‘Kathie Kennety’, on the other hand, has a certain exotic, musical, cosmopolitan ring to it. (
Looks at him reflectively
.) Santiago Zavala doesn’t sound too good either, not for an artist. Why don’t you change it? Yes, yes, let me rechristen you. Let’s see now … I know. Mark. Mark Griffin. May I call you that? We’ll only use it here, in this little attic. You don’t mind?
SANTIAGO: No, señora, I don’t mind.
KATHIE: Do you really find me so old, you can’t call me Kathie?
SANTIAGO: Of course not. But I’ve got to get used to the idea. I’m working for you, remember. I think of you as my boss.
KATHIE: Why not think of me as a colleague? Come on, we mustn’t waste our two hours. Let’s start another chapter. (
Looking at her notes
) The Visit to the Cairo Museum. The Fabulous Treasures of Tutankhamun.
(
Enter
ANA.
Arab music. She shrinks shyly into a corner, and starts to cry.
JUAN
pesters her by grimacing and making obscene gestures.
)
SANTIAGO: I devote the following morning to the enamel helmets, the necklaces of turquoise and lapis lazuli, the coral brooches, and the golden statuettes of King Tutankhamun.
KATHIE: Hidden among masks and hundreds of other beautiful objects, there was a poor helpless blonde girl weeping like a statue of Mary Magdalene.
SANTIAGO: All at once, ‘midst the splendour of crystal urns, palanquins, sedan chairs, sumptuously adorned sarcophagi and shimmering caskets, I spy a ravishing young beauty with honeyed complexion and exquisite features,
sobbing uncontrollably … What can have happened to her?
KATHIE: She was a German tourist. The stupid girl had gone out alone to sight-see in the streets of Cairo in a miniskirt. She’d caused such a commotion that she’d had to go inside the museum to escape the rabble.
SANTIAGO: Fleeing from the licentious looks, the importunate hands, the lascivious gestures, the illicit thoughts, and the extravagant displays of appreciation which her long pale legs provoked in the streets of Cairo, she had come to seek asylum amongst the wonders of Ancient Egypt. She reminded me of the girl Victor Hugo once described as obscene, because she was so innocent. Taking pity on her, I offered her my help.
ANA: (
Sarcastically
) It’s you who should be pitied … Mark Griffin.
SANTIAGO: (
Without looking at her
) Go to hell.
(KATHIE
carries on dictating without seeing
ANA.)
ANA: I went some time ago, Mark Griffin. You sent me there, with a millstone round my neck. Have you forgotten already? Cast your mind back, Mark Griffin, try and remember.
(
As
SANTIAGO
and
ANA
talk
, KATHIE
carries on revising her notes and dictating as if
SANTIAGO
were still at his desk by the tape-recorder.
)
SANTIAGO: (
Getting to his feet
) I can’t go on living in this house a moment longer. As far as I’m concerned, marriage is a totally meaningless institution. It’s how you feel about other people that’s important. I don’t love you any more. I can’t carry on living with a woman I don’t love, my principles won’t allow it. I suppose you’re going to cry, make a scene, threaten me with suicide, do what most middle-class women do when their husbands leave them. Behave like a sensible, grown-up woman with a mind of her own, for a change.
ANA: All right. I won’t make a scene. I won’t force you to stay. But what should I tell the children?
SANTIAGO: So it’s blackmail, is it? You’re going to accuse me
of abandoning the children, is that it? Do you want me to lose my respect for you into the bargain? Stop acting like a woman who’s seen too many soap operas on television. Just because a marriage breaks up it doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world for the children.
ANA: Oh, I dare say they’ll survive. I’m asking you what I should tell them, how I explain to them that their father is not going to live with them any more. I’m not arguing with you or blackmailing you. I’m asking your advice. They’re very young. They’ll be very upset. Just tell me what to say to them so they won’t be so hurt.
SANTIAGO: Tell them the truth. Or do you think it’s preferable to lie to them – to indulge that hypocritical middle-class habit just to spare their feelings a little longer?
ANA: So I tell them the truth, do I? I tell them their father has run off because he’s fallen in love with one of his pupils?
SANTIAGO: Exactly. It could’ve happened to you. It may even happen to them, later. And if they’re at all in touch with their emotions, and don’t grow up into repressed middle-class women, they’ll follow my example – like mature rational beings.