Three Plays: The Young Lady from Tacna, Kathie and the Hippopotamus, La Chunga Read Free Page A

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    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