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

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