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

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.’