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.