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.
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 regulations, this law and that law — I loathe all those things we’re made to learn at the faculty. I memorize them for the exams, but then I forget them again immediately. They just go in one ear and out the other. I promise you. And I couldn’t be a diplomat either, Uncle. I’m sorry, I know it’ll come as a disappointment to Mother — and to you, not to mention Grandma and Grandpa. But I can’t help it, Uncle, I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. There’s something else. I haven’t told anyone about it yet.
AGUSTIN: And what do you think you are cut out for, Belisario?