The family was very prosperous at the time, they could afford to take in homeless little girls. They were landowners, of course.
MAMAE: (Opening her eyes and addressing a little boy she imagines is sitting at her feet) Your great-grandfather Menelao was one of those gentlemen who carried a silver-knobbed cane and wore a watch and chain. He couldn’t stand dirt. The first thing he did when he went into someone’s house was to run his finger over the furniture to see if there was any dust. He only drank water or wine out of rock crystal goblets. ‘It makes all the difference to the taste,’ I remember him saying to us. One evening he went out to a dance with Aunt Amelia all dressed up in white tie and tails; he caught sight of your grandmother Carmen and me eating some quince preserve. ‘Aren’t you girls going to offer me a bite?’ he said. As he was tasting it, a little drop fell on his tailcoat. He stood there staring at the stain. Then, without saying a word, without causing any fuss, he emptied out the whole pot of preserve and smeared it all over his shirt front, tailcoat and trousers. Your great-grandmother used to say: ‘To Menelao, cleanliness is a disease.’
(She smiles and falls asleep again. During her speech, BELISARIO has been listening part of the time to what she’s been saying, but he has also been jotting down notes and reflecting.)
BELISARIO: Your great-grandfather Menelao must have been fascinating, Belisario. Yes, a fascinating old bastard. He’ll do, he’ll do. (Looking up at heaven) You’ll do, you’ll do. You and Amelia my great-grandmother adored Mamaé. You brought her up as your own daughter, treating her exactly the same as Grandmother Carmen, and when she was going to get married to the Chilean officer, you sent away to Europe for the wedding dress and trousseau. Was it Paris? Madrid? London? Where did they order your wedding dress from, Mamaé? Where was the most fashionable place? (Writes frantically.) I like it, Belisario, I love you, Belisario. I’m going to give you a kiss on the forehead, Belisario. (His mind wanders.) How rich the family was then! It’s been on the decline ever since, sliding further and further down the ladder until it finally got to you! One setback after another! (Looks up at heaven.) Whoever told you to marry an infantry captain, Mama? But I’m not in the least bit sorry about your misfortune, Papa. You’ve got to be pretty stupid to play Russian roulette just after you’re married! And you’ve got to be even stupider to go and kill yourself in the process! You’ve got to be pretty daft not to remarry when you’re widowed so young, Mama! Why did you pin so much hope on me? How did you all get it into your heads that by winning lawsuits I’d somehow bring fame and fortune back to the family?
(His voice fades in to the sound of a radio play which GRANDMOTHER is trying to listen to; she is sitting in the living room with her ear glued to the wireless. The announcer is telling us that the daily episode of a radio serial by Pedro Camacho has just finished. The noise of a tram is heard outside. MAMAE opens her eyes, excited. BELISARIO watches her from his desk.)
MAMAE: Carmen! Carmen! Here it comes! Quick! Come over to the window! Look, the Arica train!
GRANDMOTHER: (Stops listening to the wireless and looks at MAMAE, saddened yet amused) I envy you, Mamaé, I really do. You’ve found the perfect means of escaping from all this misery that surrounds us. I’d like to go back to my childhood too, even if it were only in a dream.
MAMAE: Aaah! My eyes! I could tear them out! I can’t even guess what anything is any more. Can you see that? Is it the Arica train? Or is it the one from Locumba?
GRANDMOTHER: Neither. It’s the Chorrillos tram. And we’re not in Tacna, we’re in Lima. You’re not a fifteen-year-old girl any more, Elvira, you’re a doddery old woman of ninety, or thereabouts. And you’re going gaga.
MAMAE: Do you remember the fancy-dress ball?
GRANDMOTHER: Which one? I went to lots of fancy-dress balls when I was a girl.
MAMAE: At the Choral Society. You remember, the one the negro sneaked in on.
(The sound of a party can be heard; people enjoying themselves — rhythmic dance music. Gradually the tune of an old-fashioned waltz starts to predominate.)
GRANDMOTHER: Ah, that one. Of course, I remember. It was at that dance I met Pedro. He’d come from Arequipa to spend carnival in Tacna, with some friends. Who’d have thought I’d marry him! Yes, of course. Was that the time Federico Barreto wrote that poem on your fan? No, it wasn’t, was it? It was one of those 28th of July affairs at the Patriotic Ladies’ Society. The negro, you’re quite right … It was you he was dancing with when they discovered him, wasn’t it?
(BELISARIO gets to his feet. He goes over to MAMAE and bowing in a fin-de-siècle style, he asks her to dance. She accepts, now a gracious, coquettish young woman. They dance.)
MAMAE: Are you Chilean, little domino? Peruvian? From Tacna, little domino? A soldier, perhaps? I know, I’ve got it. You’re a doctor. A lawyer then? Go on, say something to me, give me a clue and I’ll guess what you are, you’ll see, little domino.
(BELISARIO says nothing. He merely shakes his head from time to time, giggling nervously as he does so.)
GRANDMOTHER: (To MAMAE, as if she were still in the armchair) But wasn’t it obvious from the smell? Of course, he probably covered himself with scent, the rascal.
(The couple dance together with great facility and obvious pleasure. As they dance round the room, the imaginary domino BELISARIO is wearing gets caught on some object revealing his bare arm. MAMAE shrinks away from him in fright. BELISARIO runs to his desk and begins to write, a satisfied look on his face.)
MAMAE: (Scared out of her wits) A negro. A negro. The little domino was a negro. Aaah! Aaah! Aaah!
GRANDMOTHER: Stop screaming like that, Elvira. It reminds me of the awful hullabaloo you made that night at the Choral Society Ball. The orchestra stopped playing, people stopped dancing, the spectators all got up from their seats. There was total pandemonium! You had to be taken home with an attack of nerves. And the party came to a shuddering halt, all because of that blessed negro.
MAMAE: (Frightened) Carmen! Carmencita! Look, there, by the bronze fountain in the square. What are they doing to him? Are they beating him?
GRANDMOTHER: It’s true. The gentlemen took him out to the street and started laying into him with their canes. Yes, it was by the bronze fountain. What a memory, Elvira!
MAMAE: Stop beating him! He’s all covered in blood! He didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t even speak to me! Aunt Amelia, they’ll listen to you! Uncle Menelao, stop them! Stop them beating him! (Recovering) Do you think they’ve killed him, Carmencita?
GRANDMOTHER: No, they just gave him a thrashing for being so impertinent. Then they sent him off to the Chilean gaol. The audacity of it, though. Imagine getting all dressed up like that and slinking into the Choral Society Ball. We were really quite shocked. We used to have nightmares — every night we thought he might come after us through the window. It was the only thing we talked about for weeks — months afterwards. The negro from La Mar. (BELISARIO is very excited — he strikes the table. He stops writing and kisses his hand and his pencil.)