Three Plays: The Young Lady from Tacna, Kathie and the Hippopotamus, La Chunga by Mario Vargas Llosa

regulations, this law and that law – I loathe all those things we’re made to learn at the faculty. I memorize them for the exams, but then I forget them again immediately. They just go in one ear and out the other. I promise you. And I couldn’t be a diplomat either, Uncle. I’m sorry, I know it’ll come as a disappointment to Mother – and to you, not to mention Grandma and Grandpa. But I can’t help it, Uncle, I’m just not cut out for that kind of thing. There’s something else. I haven’t told anyone about it yet.
    AGUSTIN: And what do you think you are cut out for, Belisario?
    BELISARIO: I want to be a poet, Uncle.
    AGUSTIN: ( Laughs. ) I’m not laughing at you, old son, don’t be cross. I’m laughing at myself. I thought you were going to tell me you were a nancy boy. Or that you wanted to go into the priesthood. But a poet, that’s altogether less serious. ( Goes back towards the dining room and addresses AMELIA.) We must face facts, Amelia, Belisario isn’t going to pull us out of the mire. Why don’t you do as I suggested and send the boy out to work for once in his life?
    (BELISARIO has gone back to the desk and listens to them from there. )
    AMELIA: If things were different, I wouldn’t mind him doing whatever he wanted to do. But he’s going to die of starvation, Agustín, just like the rest of us. Only he’ll be worse off still. A poet, indeed! What sort of a profession is that, I ask you. And I had such high hopes for him. His father would shoot himself all over again, if he knew his only son was turning out to be a poet.
    (BELISARIO, exultant, laughs and mimes shooting himself. )
    MAMAE: Poet? Are you talking about Federico Barreto? Don’t let Uncle Menelao hear you. He won’t even let his name be mentioned in the house, not since he wrote me that poem.
    (MAMAE smiles at them all, as if they were strangers, bowing politely. BELISARIO, leaving his desk, has placed his hands on either side of his forehead so they look like two horns. He starts to charge about, cannoning into the furniture and other objects in the room, including his grandparents, his mother and his two uncles .)
    GRANDMOTHER: Why are you so surprised he wants to be a poet? He takes after his great-grandfather. Pedro’s father used to write poetry. And Belisario has always been fairly fanciful, ever since he was so high. Don’t you remember in Bolivia with the little nanny goat?
    BELISARIO: It’s the devil, Grandma. I swear it is. It’s on the picture cards, in the Catechism – Brother Leoncio said that he appears in the form of a black billy goat. ( Swearing and kissing his fingers in the form of a cross ) You’ve got to believe me, Grandma!
    AMELIA: But it’s not a billy goat, it’s only a little nanny goat, dear.
    GRANDMOTHER: Besides, it’s a present from your grandpa, for Independence Day. Do you really think your grandfather would send us a present of the devil?
    BELISARIO: ( Snivelling ) It’s Beelzebub, Grandma! It is, it is! You’ve got to believe me! I swear it is! I did the holy-water
test on him. I poured it all over him and he took fright, I promise you.
    AGUSTIN: I expect the water wasn’t properly blessed, old son. (BELISARIO goes over to Mamaé’s armchair, weeping. )
    MAMAE: Don’t make fun of him, poor little man. I’m listening to you, my precious, come over here.
    BELISARIO: ( Affectionately cuddling an imaginary MAMAE) If only you knew, Mamaé, I still have nightmares about the little nanny goat from Bolivia. She seemed so big. How scared you were of her, Belisario. A billy goat, the devil. Is that what you call a love story?
    AMELIA: Why are you so quiet, Papa? Are you feeling ill? Papa, Papa!
    GRANDFATHER: ( His head in his hands ) Just a little dizziness, my dear. In my thingumajig. I keep getting it in my thingumajig.
    (GRANDMOTHER, CESAR, AGUSTIN, and AMELIA in a great state of alarm all throng round GRANDFATHER who has half fainted. )
    CESAR: We must call a doctor! Quick!
    AGUSTIN: