MAMAE: (Sympathetically, as she slips awkwardly back to her armchair) You’re the one whose head is full of nasty secret thoughts, my little one.
(She curls up in her armchair. The GRANDPARENTS and AMELIA, unaware of what’s happening, carry on eating. BELISARIO has started to write again. He talks as he makes notes on his papers.)
BELISARIO: Yes, Mamaé. It’s true. I can’t help thinking that, underneath that unworldly façade, behind that serene expression, there was an infinite source of warmth and passion which would suddenly well up and make demands on the young lady. Or was there really nothing else besides the austere routine of her daily life?
(He stops writing. He turns to look at MAMAE. He addresses her with a certain pathos.)
When I was a child, I never imagined you could ever have been anything other than a little old woman. Even now, when I try to picture you in your youth, I can’t. The young girl you once were always gives way to the old woman with the wrinkled face. In spite of all these stories, I’m still all at sea about the young lady. What happened to her after she burnt her wedding dress and left the Chilean officer in the lurch?
(As BELISARIO finishes his speech, GRANDMOTHER gets up from the table and goes over towards MAMAE. GRANDFATHER and AMELIA carry on eating, unaware of what follows. From time to time GRANDFATHER throws salt over his food in a sort of frenzy.)
GRANDMOTHER: Why haven’t you packed your suitcases, Elvirita? Pedro wants to leave at dawn so that we arrive at the docks before it gets too hot. We don’t want to catch sunstroke, specially you, with that fair skin of yours. (Pause.) You know, deep down, I’m glad we’re leaving. When my mother died after that dreadful illness, it was almost as if Tacna were starting to die too. And now what with my father’s death, I find this town really has quite a disagreeable effect on me. Let’s go and pack your suitcases. I’ll help you.
MAMAE: I’m not going to Arequipa with you, Carmencita.
GRANDMOTHER: And where are you going to live? Who are you going to stay with in Tacna?
MAMAE: I’m not going to be a burden to you all my life.
GRANDMOTHER: Don’t talk nonsense, Elvira. My husband is perfectly happy for you to come with us. You know that. After all, we are practically sisters, aren’t we? Well, you’ll be a sister to Pedro too. Come on, let’s go and pack your suitcases.
MAMAE: Ever since you were married, I’ve been waiting for this moment. Every night, lying awake, thinking, until morning came with the sound of the bugle at the Chilean barracks. I can’t live with you and Pedro. He married you. He didn’t bargain for your cousin Elvira as well.
GRANDMOTHER: You’re coming to live with us and that’s that. There’s no more to be said on the subject.
MAMAE: You’d find it a bore in the long run. A whole source of problems. You’d argue because of me. Sooner or later Pedro would throw it back at you that you’d saddled him with a hanger-on for the rest of his life.
GRANDMOTHER: But it won’t be for the rest of his life, because soon you’ll forget what happened with Joaquín, you’ll fall in love and you’ll get married. Please, Elvira, we’re going to have to get up at crack of dawn. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.
BELISARIO: (Delighted with what he’s discovered, jumping up in his seat) Long, very tedious and extremely complicated. Train from Tacna to Arica. Boat from Arica. Then two days sailing as far as Mollendo. Going ashore there, was like something out of a circus, wasn’t it, Grandma? They lowered the ladies off the boat into the launch in hampers, didn’t they, Mamaé? Just like cattle. And then there was that three-day ride across the mountains on horseback to Arequipa — with the additional hazard of being attacked by bandits on the way. (Starts to write enthusiastically.) Ah, Belisario, that’s what you used to criticize the regionalist writers so much for: their use of local colour and extravagant effects.
GRANDMOTHER: Are you afraid of bandits, Elvira? I am, but at the same time I find them quite delightful. These are the sort of things you should be thinking about, instead of all this nonsense.
MAMAE: It’s not nonsense, Carmencita.
GRANDMOTHER: You know very well you can’t stay in Tacna. We’ve nothing left here now. Not even the house — the new owners are moving in tomorrow.
MAMAE: I’ll stay with María Murga.
GRANDMOTHER: That old nanny you once had? Really, Elvira, the things you come up with!
MAMAE: She’s a good-hearted woman. She’s offered me a room in her house, in La Mar. I could share with her youngest son, my godchild. I’ll help out with the housekeeping. Then there’s always my embroidery. I’ll make tablecloths, veils, lace mantillas. And sweets and cakes too. I’ll take them to Máspoli, the confectioner’s. That nice Italian will sell them and give me a commission.
GRANDMOTHER: Like something out of a novelette by Xavier de Montepin … I can just see you living in a Tacna slum, surrounded by Indians and negroes. You, who are always so squeamish about everything; you, the finicky little filly, as father used to call you.
MAMAE: I may be finicky, but I’ve never felt rich. I’ll learn to live like a pauper, since that’s what I am. At least María Murga’s little house is clean.
GRANDMOTHER: Are you going completely out of your mind, Elvira? Stay here and live in La Mar! What’s got into you? What’s all this about La Mar? First you want to go to Mass there, then it’s sunsets you want to look at, and now you’re going to live there with María Murga. Has some Negro put a jinx on you? It’s getting very late and I’m tired of arguing. I’m going to pack your suitcases and tomorrow Pedro will put you on the Arica train, by force if necessary.
(GRANDMOTHER goes back to the dining room. She sits down and resumes her meal.)
MAMAE: What difference does it make whether I stay here or go to María Murga’s? Isn’t this miserable hole quite as squalid as any shack in La Mar? (Pause.) All right, there the people walk about barefoot and we wear shoes. There they all have lice in their hair, as Uncle Menelao keeps reminding us, and we … (Puts her hand up to her head.) Who knows, that’s probably why I’m scratching.
(GRANDFATHER stands up and goes forward towards MAMAE. GRANDMOTHER and AMELIA carry on with their meal.)
GRANDFATHER: Good afternoon, Elvira. I’ve been looking for you. I’d just like to have a few words with you if I may.
(MAMAE looks at him for a moment. Then she looks up to heaven as she says:)
MAMAE: It’s so hard to understand you, dear God. You seem to prefer rogues and lunatics to ordinary decent folk. Why, if Pedro was always so fair and so honest, did you give him such a miserable life?
(BELISARIO gets up from his desk and goes forward towards MAMAE.)
BELISARIO: Wasn’t it a sin for the young lady to reproach God like that, Mamaé? He knows what he’s doing and if he gave the gentleman such a hard time, there must have been some good reason for it surely. Perhaps he was going to make up for it by giving him a nice big reward in heaven.
GRANDFATHER: You’re like a sister to Carmen, and I think of you as my sister too. You’ll never be a stranger in my house. I’m telling you, we’re not leaving Tacna without you.
MAMAE: That may be so, my little one. But the young lady couldn’t understand it. She worked herself up into a fever thinking, ‘Dear God in Heaven, was it because of the Indian woman in the letter that you put the gentleman through so much misery? Was it all for that one little indiscretion that you made the cotton in Camaná get frosted the very year he was going to get rich?’