KATHIE: At that point, the man appeared in front of me. Heaven knows how he’d got there. I couldn’t even shout, I was so frightened. What was he going to do to me?
(Enter JUAN.)
SANTIAGO: The figure of a man, in a red cape and white turban, suddenly emerges in front of me, as if conjured from the hot desert air or out of the past. He is tall, slim, with pitch-black eyes and gleaming white teeth. Is he going to attack me? Is he going to violate me? Should I run for help, burst into tears?
KATHIE: (Addressing herself for the first time to SANTIAGO) I don’t like that last bit.
SANTIAGO: We’ll rub it out then. Where shall we go back to?
KATHIE: To where the man appears in front of me.
(SANTIAGO leans over his tape-recorder to rub out the last part of his dictation. JUAN moves closer to KATHIE. They both undergo a transformation: they are now like two youngsters chatting on the corner of the street.)
JUAN: ‘Man’? You mean, of course, ‘boyfriend’.
KATHIE: You, my boyfriend? Ha ha, excuse me while I laugh.
JUAN: I’ll excuse you anything you like, Kathie. Except one thing — don’t try and pretend you’re not in love with me.
KATHIE: But I’m not.
JUAN: You will be though.
KATHIE: Don’t you ever get tired of me saying no to you, Johnny?
JUAN: Once I get an idea into my head, there’s no stopping me, Pussikins. I’ll keep on proposing to you till you say yes to me. You’ll be my girlfriend, my fiancée, and we’ll end up getting married, want to bet?
KATHIE: (dying of laughter) So I’m going to get married to you now, am I?
JUAN: And who else are you going to marry, if you don’t marry me?
KATHIE: I’ve plenty of admirers, Johnny.
JUAN: You’ll pick the best though.
KATHIE: How conceited you are.
JUAN: I know very well who’s been proposing to you. And why, may I ask, did you send them all packing? Because you’re really nuts about me.
KATHIE: You’re so conceited, Johnny.
JUAN: I’ve every reason to be conceited. Do you want me to tell you why?
KATHIE: Yes, go on, tell me why.
JUAN: Am I or am I not better than Bepo Torres?
KATHIE: How are you better than Bepo Torres?
JUAN: I surf better than him for a start. He can’t even stand on the board. Besides, I’m better looking than he is.
KATHIE: You think you’re the best-looking man around, don’t you?
JUAN: Well, I’m better-looking than Bepo Torres anyway. And Kike Ricketts. Do you really think Kike’s a match for me? Does he surf better than me? Is he better-looking than me?
KATHIE: He’s a better dancer than you.
JUAN: Kike? Ha ha, excuse me while I laugh. Can he do the mambo better than me? (Does a few steps.) The cha-cha-cha? (Another few steps.) The huaracha? (Another few steps.) When I dance at parties, everyone gathers round, as you very well know. Who showed poor old Kike how to dance in the first place? I even showed him how to smooch.
KATHIE: He’s better at the marinera and the creole waltz than you are.
JUAN: The marinera! The creole waltz! I say, how frightfully refined. No one does those fuddy-duddy dances these days, Pussikins.
KATHIE: You’re just dying of jealousy, aren’t you? You’re jealous of Bepo, of Kike, of Gordo …
JUAN: Gordo? Me, jealous of Gordo Rivarola? What’s Gordo got that I haven’t? A chevrolet convertible nineteen fifty. Well, I’ve got a Studebaker convertible nineteen fifty-one. Do me a favour, Pussikins, please. Why should I be jealous of Bepo, or Kike, or Gordo, or Sapo Saldívar, or Harry Santana, or Abel, my brother, or any of the rest of them who have proposed to you for that matter? They aren’t even in the same league as me, any of them, and you know it …
KATHIE: (Reflectively — forgetting about JUAN, and emerging for a moment from her fantasy world) Kike, Bepo, Harry, Gordo Rivarola … It seems ages ago now …
JUAN: (Who hasn’t been listening to her) And then there’s another reason, of course. Shall I be quite frank with you? Shall I?
KATHIE: (Returning to her fantasy world) Yes, Johnny. Be quite frank with me.
JUAN: I’ve got money, Pussikins.
KATHIE: Do you really think that matters to me? My daddy’s got more money than your daddy, silly.
JUAN: Exactly, Pussikins. With me you can be sure it’s you I want — if I marry you it’ll be for no other reason but yourself. You can’t be so sure about that with the others, can you? I heard my old man saying to yours only yesterday: ‘Be careful of those young men who gad about with your daughter. They’re out to land the best deal of their lives.’
KATHIE: (Confused) Don’t be so vulgar, Johnny.
JUAN: (Confused also) I’m not being vulgar. Marrying for money’s not being vulgar. OK, if I was, I apologize. You see, you’ve gone all quiet. It’s true what I’m telling you, ask your old man. You couldn’t deny it. You see, I’m already starting to convince you. Next time I propose to you, I don’t think you’ll send me packing quite so quickly, eh, Pussikins …
(As his voice fades, KATHIE distances herself from him, physically and mentally. JUAN remains on stage. He is like a little boy; he saunters about, whistling, looking idly around with his hands in his pockets. SANTIAGO has finished erasing the last part of the dictation on the tape-recorder.)
SANTIAGO: Ready, it’s all rubbed out. Shall we carry on from your visit to the Sphinx or shall we go on to another chapter, señora?
KATHIE: Why don’t you call me Kathie? ‘Senora’ makes me feel so old.
SANTIAGO: Can I ask you a question? Where did ‘Kathie Kennety’ come from?
KATHIE: Don’t you like the name?
SANTIAGO: It’s pretty. But how did it originate? Why did you choose it?
KATHIE: If I used my real name, no one would take my book seriously. Peruvian names don’t somehow seem right for authors. ‘Kathie Kennety’, on the other hand, has a certain exotic, musical, cosmopolitan ring to it. (Looks at him reflectively.) Santiago Zavala doesn’t sound too good either, not for an artist. Why don’t you change it? Yes, yes, let me rechristen you. Let’s see now … I know. Mark. Mark Griffin. May I call you that? We’ll only use it here, in this little attic. You don’t mind?
SANTIAGO: No, señora, I don’t mind.
KATHIE: Do you really find me so old, you can’t call me Kathie?
SANTIAGO: Of course not. But I’ve got to get used to the idea. I’m working for you, remember. I think of you as my boss.
KATHIE: Why not think of me as a colleague? Come on, we mustn’t waste our two hours. Let’s start another chapter. (Looking at her notes) The Visit to the Cairo Museum. The Fabulous Treasures of Tutankhamun.
(Enter ANA. Arab music. She shrinks shyly into a corner, and starts to cry. JUAN pesters her by grimacing and making obscene gestures.)