SANTIAGO: We both seem to be swimming against the tide: we’re not satisfied with what we’ve got, and we’re always yearning for what we haven’t got.
KATHIE: The worst of it is — I don’t really know what I do want any more. Maybe I’m realizing I’ve lost my illusions. Could it be old age, do you suppose?
SANTIAGO: How gloomy you’re becoming these days! I don’t believe a word you’ve been saying. If you really were that disenchanted with life, you wouldn’t be writing that book about Black Africa and the Far East.
KATHIE: Am I really writing it? Or are you?
SANTIAGO: I’m only your scribe, I put in the full stops and the commas and perhaps the odd adjective here and there. But the book is entirely yours from beginning to end. (The alarm clock rings, indicating that two hours have passed.)
KATHIE: Heavens, our two hours are up, and we’ve hardly done any work at all. Can you stay another half-hour?
SANTIAGO: Of course I can. And I won’t charge you overtime either.
KATHIE: Bah, overtime’s the least of it. A few soles more or less isn’t going to make any difference to Johnny. He won’t go bankrupt. He can surely spend a little bit on art, at least.
SANTIAGO: In that case, I will charge you for the extra half-hour and I’ll take Ana out to the pictures. She’s always complaining I never go out with her.
KATHIE: So your wife is called Ana? You must introduce her to me. Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you for some time now. Don’t you think it’s odd I’ve never invited you to the house outside working hours? SANTIAGO: Not at all. I realize what a hectic life you lead. I read about it in the newspapers. Every day a dance, a drinks party or some reception or other.
KATHIE: They’re Johnny’s engagements. It would look bad if I didn’t go with him. And quite honestly, it’s the least I can do, since he is so good to me. No, that’s not the real reason. You’d get very bored with him. You’re both so different. Johnny has a heart of gold. He’s the kindest man in the world, but he’s also the most philistine.
SANTIAGO: He can’t be that much of a philistine, to have reached his position in life.
KATHIE: He is, he says so himself. As far as Johnny’s concerned, the arts just get in the way of doing good business. ‘Culture, the arts, I leave all that to you, Pussikins, and you leave the practicalities of life to me.’ When you get to know him, you’ll see what a philistine he is.
SANTIAGO: As a matter of fact, I do know him. I’ve met him several times on my way in and out of the house. He always looks at me as if I were some strange animal. Have you told him what sort of work I do for you?
KATHIE: Yes, but I’m sure it went in one ear and out the other.
SANTIAGO: (Returning to the tape-recorder) Shall we carry on then?
KATHIE: (Pensive, doubtful) Yes … On second thoughts, I don’t think I will.
SANTIAGO: You don’t think you will what?
KATHIE: Ask you and your wife here for tea or supper with Johnny and me.
SANTIAGO: As you wish. But you’ve already whetted my curiosity. May one know why?
KATHIE: Don’t take it the wrong way. (Looks tenderly at the little Parisian attic.) But it would be like mixing oil with water. I’m not talking about you and Johnny, though both of you together would be like oil and water too. No, I’m talking about myself. When I come up the little staircase which leads to this terrace, I leave behind San Isidro, Lima, and Peru, and I feel as if I really am entering a Parisian attic, where one only breathes art, culture and fantasy. I leave behind the woman with the busy social life, the banker’s wife. Because here, I am Kathie Kennety — spinster, widow, happily married woman, saint, or mischief-maker — someone who’s experienced everything life has to offer and who only lives to enrich her soul. This little corner of my life in which you play such a vital part makes all the rest bearable. You help make my dreams a reality, and my reality a dream. I don’t want the two to overlap. I don’t want our friendship to go beyond this little room of lies. That’s why it’s better if you don’t meet my husband and that’s why I don’t want to meet your wife. I’d rather they stayed behind down below. You do understand that, don’t you?
SANTIAGO: Of course I do. And I’ll tell you why. Listening to you talk, I think I understand why I never felt like bringing Anita up here.
KATHIE: Have you told her about my little Parisian attic?
SANTIAGO: I told her you’d had a little playroom built on your roof. You know how inquisitive women are, she’s always nagging me to bring her here to see it. It nearly drives me mad. I keep fobbing her off with the excuse you wouldn’t like it, but I don’t think that’s the real reason at all.
KATHIE: What is the real reason?
SANTIAGO: The same as the one you gave me — to stop me meeting your husband and coming to your house — the downstairs one, I mean. Without realizing it, Kathie, I’ve entered into the game myself. After teasing you so mercilessly, I’ve let myself be captivated by this little room too.
KATHIE: I always suspected you were laughing at Kathie Kennety and her little Parisian attic.
SANTIAGO: Of course I was. I thought you were crackers — a middle-class woman with more money than sense, playing a very expensive game. I found you ridiculous. I used to believe it was just for the money you paid me that I came up here for those couple of hours each day. But that’s no longer the case. For some time now, I’ve been enjoying the game myself: these two short hours in which lies become truths, and truths becomes lies, help me tolerate the rest of the day as well.
KATHIE: It does me good to hear you say that. It lifts a weight off my mind. I trusted you from the moment I first saw you. And I’m so glad I did. My instincts didn’t let me down. Thank you, Mark, very much.
SANTIAGO: I’m the one who should be thanking you. When I come up to this little attic, I begin a new life too. I leave behind the journalist who works on La Crónica writing mediocre articles for an even more mediocre salary. And the second-rate little lecturer with his undistinguished pupils — yes, he stays behind as well, for up here Mark Griffin is born — author, intellectual, creative genius, visionary, innovator, arbiter of intelligence, and epitome of good taste. Here, as we work, I can have those love affairs I never really had, I can live through Greek tragedies I hope never actually to experience. And here, thanks to you, I not only travel through the Far East and Black Africa but through many other places no one would ever suspect.
KATHIE: You said mediocre — mediocrity. Isn’t this a very mediocre game as well?
SANTIAGO: Maybe it is, Kathie. But at least we’ve still got our imagination, our ability to dream. We mustn’t let anyone take that little toy away from us because it’s the only one we’ve got.
KATHIE: How well we understand each other. And what good friends we’ve become.
SANTIAGO: Friends and accomplices, Kathie.
KATHIE: Yes, accomplices. That reminds me, shall we start again?
SANTIAGO: Let’s. Whereabouts in Black Africa were we? (He returns to his tape-recorder. We hear some exotic music, a mixture of Arab and African — sensual, seductive and mysterious.)
KATHIE: (Looking through her papers) Let’s see now … On the island of Zanzibar. The small aeroplane landed at dusk.