— I’m a widow — no compassion for a widow. They write letters to the driver, those reckless runts.
— Thank God nothing happened to you, Marla.
No mention of Sarah, who is in a body cast. Now, what type of friends are they? No manners, no continuity.
— Thank God nothing happened to you, Marla.
And their parents are telling them shoo-shoo away from Sarah, she might sue.
— You should sue. Hospitals will suck you dry. If Marla ran the red light, Marla should be held accountable. That is what insurance policies are for.
— In Oxford nothing like this would happen. Wolves, instead of seeing a beautiful girl, they see blood, meat. Damned Americans, I cannot believe we created this monster.
— Well, as Goya said, the dream of reason creates monsters.
— And science created Frankenstein. How much longer will I be able to stand this bloody country without collapsing? I’m a widow. Often, I often wonder, what would become of her without me.
— I would take care of her.
— And who will take care of you? All she longs for is continuity, friendship. Sarah is half British, her manners — and it is clearly a matter of manners — for we are the makers of manners. Often, I often wonder, how can manners exist in a country without continuity?
— They can’t.
— So that is what you have found, my darling. Instead of appreciating beauty, courage, intelligence, they drool for blood. I must carry her back to her roots. Although she plans to bring the Globe Theater to this cold, callous country where I have rooted myself for an ill-fated roll of the dice. That is what we have in common. We are misplaced. It is all so frightful, so fragile. My darling, how can we live?
— It’s all hanging by a thread.
— By a single thread. How do we bear such burdens?
— Mira, chipi, again, they did it to us again. The red stamp. 15 % gratuities included.
— Why is the tip included on the bill?
— I’m sorry, I thought you were tourists.
— Tell me, where am I from?
— I’m sorry. I really don’t know.
— New York.
— You were speaking Spanish.
— New York speaks Spanish. I want to know what is the criteria for determining who are tourists.
— It’s up to each waiter. We’re bound to offend some people.
— Who? You’re not worried about offending Spanish-speaking people. Everybody gets the red stamp, or nobody. I’ll write to the New York Times about this establishment.
— Our apologies. We’ll return the tip.
— That’s right, missy, no tip because of the discriminatory policies.
— Our apologies. Cognac on the house.
— You’re always yackity-yacking about discrimination and now you’re suddenly at a loss for words?
— Yes, because you’re cheap. It’s discrimination against stinginess. Look how you’re dressed. Tattered jeans and sweat socks. Have a sense of reality. We shared a dish.
— It’s not a matter of money. I’m a very generous tipper.
— At least now we get cognac. You were counting pennies, and I was hiding my face. I don’t have makeup on. What if somebody recognizes me? That’s why I kept quiet. If I were beautiful today, I would have defended you.
— Defended me? I was defending you. It was because of your accent. They discriminate against Hispanics. Face it, you know it exists, but when someone slaps your face, you freeze and fall mute. And when there is no problem, you create one. I thought, so what? It’s true, you don’t like to be on committees.
— But Crespo also told Arnaldo she doesn’t like committees either, but she goes. You see the bias against me. She is allowed to say she doesn’t like them, but she won’t hire me because I don’t like them. If she doesn’t want to be like me, why does she have to say she is like me? I’m good — she says — I don’t like committees, but I have to go so I go. An angel on one shoulder, a devil on the other. Inbetweenies kill me. If I don’t like them, I won’t go.
— You can’t admit that you won’t go.
— Don’t shake my confidence.
— I know you’ll say it wrong.
— Not if you write it down. I’ll read it to Migdalia on the phone.
— How can you talk about the search committee as an outside evaluation when you and Crespo are the search committee?
— Okay, who told you they are the search committee?
— Vox populi. Fuenteovejuna.
— Then you have a case.
— I want a political orgasm. I won’t get it by talking to Migdalia. Let’s whop them one now before they cover their asses. I’ll write a memo to the provost and the president. They’re blatant liars. They said:
— It’s the outside search committee who rejected you. Crespo and I want you, but our hands are tied.
Outside search committee, my ass. They are the search committee, but they want to sound objective.
— Don’t be defensive.
— Who is going to defend me, you?
— Threaten Migdalia:
— But Migdalia, it’s unprofessional of Crespo to spread vicious lies about me at other universities. My first reaction was to file a grievance with the provost, but then I thought, no it couldn’t be, I’ve opened my doors to both of you, invited you into my home. Perhaps Crespo is projecting her own dislike of committees onto me.
— Yes, she said, I don’t like them either, but I go. Bullshit! I’ll tell her:
— You love committees. They make you feel important. Part of a community. Where did you get that defamation? Why do you discriminate against me? Because I make fun of your committees? But I like to come, I tell you that. I love political orgasms. So, yes, I will serve on your committees. If I can get a political orgasm. Why not, ah, why not?
— Multiculturalism is dead; the fact that we teach it in universities is proof enough. What about the GAP adds, featuring Asian, African, gay models. It’s not an African in African garb. It’s just an African model. It’s all GAP. That’s what is killing Europe. Unification in the name of marketing. To think all the great diversity of cheese in France is gone, long gone. Maybe they had 5,000 cheeses, now they have 500 because the specialty brie maker cannot compete, my darling, because in order to survive he must unify with all the other little brie makers to mass-market one cheese to export to all of Europe, and the unification kills diversity of flavors and languages, just like McDonald’s is cutting down the rain forests in Brazil for the sake of raising hamburger meat—50, 80 indigenous languages a day drop off the face of the earth. For the sake of hamburgers. Why go to France if I have to carry a computer that spies on me, blinking e-mail messages throughout the night, telephones, faxes, and computers tracking my every breath.
— You love France.
— We go way back.
— I always thought of France as England’s wife. Germany’s tragedy was that it married Italy instead of Spain. Spain would have been the perfect match for Germany. Anti-Semitism began in Spain.
— My darling, the most racist country in Europe is France. They measured 2,000, 3,000 skulls a day in the name of white supremacy.
— I thought those were the Germans.
— No, my darling, the Germans hurried harm along with statistics.
— And the British?
— We are too careless, my darling, to even balance our checkbooks. We would not trouble ourselves with statistics. Every Frenchman, on the other hand, is an accountant. When I was studying in Paris, my landlord measured the soap with a string and charged me for every millimeter of soap I used. And when the refugees were leaving France, dying of thirst, the French lined up at the borders, offering them glasses of water, but when they were about to drink the water, the bloody bastards charged them. If they had no money, they would have no water. The only thing left in France is the mime.