SEÑORA CARLOTA: And yet, you’ve heard everything; you know everything. And now it’ll start to nag away at you like a little worm gnawing at your heart. ‘Is he really only marrying me because it suits him?’ ‘Is he really in love with her?’ ‘Does he really call her his soldier’s girl when he holds her in his arms?’
(SEÑORA CARLOTA leaves. BELISARIO, who at the beginning of the dialogue between SEÑORA CARLOTA and MAMAE was writing, making notes and throwing papers on the floor, has suddenly become pensive, and has been taking more and more interest in what the two women are saying. He finally goes over to MAMAE’s armchair, where he sits crouching like a child. MAMAE talks to herself as she goes back towards her armchair. She has become an old woman again.)
MAMAE: Did he really tell her I was a sensitive little flower? A little prude who’ll never be able to make him happy like she can? Was he really with her yesterday? Is he with her now? Will he be with her again tomorrow?
(She sits huddled in her chair. BELISARIO is at her feet, listening to her like a little child.)
BELISARIO: So the wicked woman made the young bride terribly jealous.
MAMAE: It was worse than that. She caused her great distress and alarm, and filled her innocent little head with all sorts of monstrous thoughts so that her brain seethed with vipers and vultures.
BELISARIO: What sort of vultures, Mamaé? Turkey buzzards?
MAMAE: (Continuing the story) And the poor young lady, her eyes filled with tears, couldn’t help thinking, ‘So he doesn’t love me for myself but for my name and my family’s position in Tacna. That young man I’m so much in love with is nothing but an unscrupulous scoundrel.’
BELISARIO: But I don’t believe that, Mamaé. Whoever heard of anyone getting married just for a name or a social position! He might have wanted to marry the young lady because she was going to inherit a plantation — now that I can believe, but as for the rest of it …
MAMAE: The story about the plantation wasn’t true. The Chilean officer knew that it had been auctioned off in order to pay the debts of the young lady’s father.
BELISARIO: Now you’re muddling the story up, Mamaé.
MAMAE: You see the Chilean officer had lied to the wicked woman. About the young lady inheriting a plantation. So that the story about marrying for money rather than love would seem more convincing. In fact he wasn’t just deceiving the young lady, he was deceiving Senora Carlota as well.
BELISARIO: Was the wicked woman called Carlota?
MAMAE: Yes. But she had a most unattractive nickname. They used to call her ‘The Soldier’s Woman.’
BELISARIO: What is a soldier’s woman, Mamaé?
MAMAE: Ach, it’s a nasty expression. (Her mind wandering, talking as if to herself) But she wasn’t stupid, she came out with a few home truths. Such as: ‘A woman can only keep her pride if she renounces love.’
BELISARIO: You’re off on your own again, Mamaé. You’ve left me dangling in mid-air.
(He gets to his feet and goes back to his desk, muttering to himself, while MAMAE’s lips keep on moving for a moment, as if she were carrying on with the story. Then she falls asleep.) The wicked woman … No story was ever complete without one. And a very good thing too. There should always be wicked women in romantic stories. Don’t be afraid, Belisario, take a tip from your old Mamaé. Besides, paper doesn’t discriminate, you can write anything you like on it. So fill the story with wicked women, they’re always so much more interesting. There were two of them, weren’t there, Mamaé? Sometimes she was called Carlota and she was a mischievous woman who lived in Tacna at the beginning of the century. And sometimes she was an Indian woman from Camaná, who had been thrashed by a gentleman for some mysterious reason during the twenties. (Starts to write.) They often got mixed up or overlapped, and then there was that mother-of-pearl fan which suddenly started to feature in the stories — the one some romantic poet had scribbled a few hasty lines on.
GRANDMOTHER: (Coming in) Elvira! Elvira! But what have you done? Have you gone quite mad? Your wedding dress! I don’t believe it! All that beautiful lace embroidery, and that veil — so fine and delicate it was almost like foam!
MAMAE: It took half a box of matches and I burnt the ends of my fingers. Eventually I thought of putting a little paraffin on it. It went up all right then.
GRANDMOTHER: (Distressed) But the wedding is tomorrow. We’ve got people coming all the way from Moquegua, Iquique, and Arica. You haven’t had a row with Joaquín? Really, Elvirita, on the day before your wedding. You mean the house has been festooned with lilies and roses all for nothing? And we’ve spent a month preparing sweets and pastries just for the fun of it? They’ve just brought the wedding cake.
MAMAE: Has it got three tiers? Like the one in that novel by Gustave Flaubert? With marzipan columns and almond Cupids? Oh, we simply must eat it even if I don’t get married. That Italian, Máspoli, is bound to have gone to so much trouble, he’s always so sweet to me.
GRANDMOTHER: Well, aren’t you going to tell me what happened? We’ve never had any secrets from each other. Why did you burn your wedding dress?
MAMAE: Because I don’t want to get married any more.
GRANDMOTHER: But why? You and Joaquín seemed so happy together — up until last night anyway. What’s he done to you?
MAMAE: Nothing. I’ve discovered I’m just not interested in marriage. I prefer to remain single.
GRANDMOTHER: How do you mean, you’re just not interested in marriage? You can’t fool me, Elvirita. Every girl wants to marry, it’s her one ambition in life and you’re no exception. We grew up dreaming about the day we’d have our own homes, guessing what our husbands would look like, choosing names for our children. Have you forgotten that already?
MAMAE: Yes, my dear. I’ve forgotten all about it.
GRANDMOTHER: You haven’t. I don’t believe you. (GRANDMOTHER and MAMAE carry on their conversation silently. BELISARIO has stopped writing for a moment. He looks pensive, absorbed in his own thoughts. When he speaks, it is as if he were watching them and listening to what they say.)
BELISARIO: Their houses were both going to be as spotless and tidy as the British Consul’s. They were both going to have maids who would always be impeccably dressed in well-starched pinafores and bonnets; Grandma and Mamaé were going to send them off to catechism and make them say their rosaries along with the family. They would make sure that they always looked beautiful so that their husbands would remain in love with them and not be unfaithful to them. They would bring up their sons like gallant young men and their daughters like eligible young women. Grandmother was going to have four, Mamaé six, eight …
(He starts to write again.)
MAMAE: He doesn’t even know I’m not going to marry him. He was going to Isaiah’s, the tailor, today, to collect his dress uniform for the wedding. He’s going to get quite a surprise when the servants tell him he can’t ever set foot inside this house again.
GRANDMOTHER: (Embarrassed) Is it because you’re frightened, Elvirita? I mean, frightened of … of your wedding night?
(MAMAE shakes her head.)
Then why? Something dreadful must have happened for you to break off your engagement the day before your wedding …