literature. At an American university. We’ve discussed this.
COCHOCHO : Why not a local one?
Manuel has no response, is slightly ashamed
.
SANTOS : Pardon me. It’s a very conventional ambition for a bookish young man. Decent. Middle of the road. You had politics?
MANUEL : I did.
(pause)
I still do.
SANTOS : A rabble-rouser. An agitator. He made some people here very angry, and the teachers—and I was leader of this concerned group, if I remember correctly—we collected money among us, to send him away. We didn’t want to see his talent wasted. Nothing destroys our promising youth more than politics. Did he tell you he won a scholarship? Of course. That’s a simpler story. He made his powerful uncle angry, and Raúl refused to pay for his studies. Your grandfather didn’t have the money either. We sent him away for his own good. We thought he’d come back and govern us well. We hoped he might learn something useful. Become an engineer. An architect. A captain of industry.
(sadly)
We expected more. We needed more. There’s no work here. Jaime, for example. What do you do?
JAIME : Sir?
SANTOS
(impatiently):
I said, what do you do?
JAIME : I’m unemployed. I was a bricklayer.
SANTOS : Erick?
ERICK : I’m a tailor.
(to Nelson, brightly, with an optimism that does not match the mood of the table)
At your service, young man!
SANTOS : See? He made me this suit. Local cotton. Adequate work. I’m on a fixed income. Cochocho. He is deputy mayor. You know that now. But did you know this? The money he just spent on our drinks? That is our money. He stole it like he stole the election. He brings his suits from the capital. We don’t say anything about it because that would be rude. And he is, in spite of his questionable ethics, our friend.
COCHOCHO
(appalled):
Profe!
SANTOS : What? What did I say? You’re not our friend? Is that what you’re alleging?
Cochocho, dejected, unable or unwilling to defend himself. Erick and Jaime comfort him. Just then, Elena’s daughter reappears, eyes on Nelson. Television: motel room, naked couple in an acrobatic sexual position, a yogic balancing act for two, a scramble of flesh, such that one can’t discern whose legs belong to whom, whose arms, how his and her sexual organs are connecting or even if they are
.
CELIA : Another round, gentlemen?
MANUEL : I insist—
NELSON : If you’ll allow me—
SANTOS
(stopping them both with a wave, glaring at Cochocho):
So, are you our friend or not? Will you spend our money or keep it for yourself?
(to Nelson)
Unfortunately, this too is tradition.
NELSON : Five hundred years?
SANTOS : Much longer than that, boy.
NELSON : Please. I’d consider it an honor to buy a round.
COCHOCHO
(still angry):
Great idea! Let the foreigner spend his dollars!
At this, Nelson stands and steps toward the startled Celia. He kisses her on the mouth, brazenly, and as they kiss, he takes money from his own pocket, counts it without looking, and places it in her hand. She closes her fist around the money, and it vanishes. It’s unclear whether he’s paying for the drinks or for the kiss itself, but in either case, Celia doesn’t question it. The four local men look on, astounded
.
SANTOS : Imperialism!
COCHOCHO : Opportunism!
JAIME : Money!
ERICK : Sex!
Manuel stares at his son, but says nothing. Takes a drink. Curtain
.
I should be clear about something: it is never the words, but how they are spoken that matters. The intent, the tone. The farcical script quoted above is only an approximation of what actually occurred that evening, after my father challenged me to play Francisco, or a version of him, for this unsuspecting audience. Many other things were said, which I’ve omitted: oblique insults; charmingly ignorant questions; the occasional reference to one or another invented episode of American history. I improvised, using my brother’s letters as a guide, even quoting from them when the situation allowed—the line, for
COCHOCHO : Why not a local one?
Manuel has no response, is slightly ashamed
.
SANTOS : Pardon me. It’s a very conventional ambition for a bookish young man. Decent. Middle of the road. You had politics?
MANUEL : I did.
(pause)
I still do.
SANTOS : A rabble-rouser. An agitator. He made some people here very angry, and the teachers—and I was leader of this concerned group, if I remember correctly—we collected money among us, to send him away. We didn’t want to see his talent wasted. Nothing destroys our promising youth more than politics. Did he tell you he won a scholarship? Of course. That’s a simpler story. He made his powerful uncle angry, and Raúl refused to pay for his studies. Your grandfather didn’t have the money either. We sent him away for his own good. We thought he’d come back and govern us well. We hoped he might learn something useful. Become an engineer. An architect. A captain of industry.
(sadly)
We expected more. We needed more. There’s no work here. Jaime, for example. What do you do?
JAIME : Sir?
SANTOS
(impatiently):
I said, what do you do?
JAIME : I’m unemployed. I was a bricklayer.
SANTOS : Erick?
ERICK : I’m a tailor.
(to Nelson, brightly, with an optimism that does not match the mood of the table)
At your service, young man!
SANTOS : See? He made me this suit. Local cotton. Adequate work. I’m on a fixed income. Cochocho. He is deputy mayor. You know that now. But did you know this? The money he just spent on our drinks? That is our money. He stole it like he stole the election. He brings his suits from the capital. We don’t say anything about it because that would be rude. And he is, in spite of his questionable ethics, our friend.
COCHOCHO
(appalled):
Profe!
SANTOS : What? What did I say? You’re not our friend? Is that what you’re alleging?
Cochocho, dejected, unable or unwilling to defend himself. Erick and Jaime comfort him. Just then, Elena’s daughter reappears, eyes on Nelson. Television: motel room, naked couple in an acrobatic sexual position, a yogic balancing act for two, a scramble of flesh, such that one can’t discern whose legs belong to whom, whose arms, how his and her sexual organs are connecting or even if they are
.
CELIA : Another round, gentlemen?
MANUEL : I insist—
NELSON : If you’ll allow me—
SANTOS
(stopping them both with a wave, glaring at Cochocho):
So, are you our friend or not? Will you spend our money or keep it for yourself?
(to Nelson)
Unfortunately, this too is tradition.
NELSON : Five hundred years?
SANTOS : Much longer than that, boy.
NELSON : Please. I’d consider it an honor to buy a round.
COCHOCHO
(still angry):
Great idea! Let the foreigner spend his dollars!
At this, Nelson stands and steps toward the startled Celia. He kisses her on the mouth, brazenly, and as they kiss, he takes money from his own pocket, counts it without looking, and places it in her hand. She closes her fist around the money, and it vanishes. It’s unclear whether he’s paying for the drinks or for the kiss itself, but in either case, Celia doesn’t question it. The four local men look on, astounded
.
SANTOS : Imperialism!
COCHOCHO : Opportunism!
JAIME : Money!
ERICK : Sex!
Manuel stares at his son, but says nothing. Takes a drink. Curtain
.
I should be clear about something: it is never the words, but how they are spoken that matters. The intent, the tone. The farcical script quoted above is only an approximation of what actually occurred that evening, after my father challenged me to play Francisco, or a version of him, for this unsuspecting audience. Many other things were said, which I’ve omitted: oblique insults; charmingly ignorant questions; the occasional reference to one or another invented episode of American history. I improvised, using my brother’s letters as a guide, even quoting from them when the situation allowed—the line, for
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