Scene Three

FAT JORGE goes down to the lobby. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is on TV. The RECEPTIONIST mouths along to “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

RECEPTIONIST:

(seeing FAT JORGE) Oh!

FAT JORGE stares at the RECEPTIONIST.

RECEPTIONIST:

Friday night classics. Channel twelve.

FAT JORGE:

(nodding) Jes jes.

They stare at each other for an awkward moment. The RECEPTIONIST goes back to watching TV.

FAT JORGE looks out the window. The sound of pouring rain. He pulls out a small bottle of rum, the kind you get at airport duty-free shops. He takes a swig.

FLACA has made sure the children are asleep and she comes down the stairs. She approaches FAT JORGE.

FLACA:

How you doing?

FAT JORGE:

(quickly hiding mickey) It rains hard here.

FLACA:

Yeah.

Long pause as they both contemplate the rain out the window.

FLACA:

You’ve lost a lot of weight, Fat Jorge.

FAT JORGE:

Well, the meals weren’t great.

FLACA:

My little big bear.

FAT JORGE:

My Mona Lisa.

Pause.

FLACA:

It was so surreal being on that plane after not seeing you and the kids for so long and not really being able to talk.

FAT JORGE:

We talked.

FLACA:

I mean about the real stuff.

FAT JORGE:

Yeah. My ears were plugged half the time anyway, so I wouldn’t have been able to hear you. There. I made you laugh. At least I still make you laugh. Remember our first date? September 21, 1962. The first day of spring. I took you dancing and did the twist and put my back out and you peed yourself laughing.

FLACA:

That’s when I knew you were the one.

FAT JORGE:

But really. Nobody ever told me that your ears plug on planes.

FLACA:

Or that you fly right through the clouds.

Pause.

FAT JORGE:

It rains really, really hard here.

FLACA:

I’m sorry.

FAT JORGE:

What are you sorry about?

FLACA:

About what happened.

FAT JORGE:

What happened?

FLACA:

Fat Jorge, don’t crack jokes.

FAT JORGE:

I’m being serious. What happened?

FLACA:

I’m sorry you were picked up.

FAT JORGE:

I’m sorry YOU were picked up.

FLACA:

Sometimes it’s the price one pays. But one doesn’t regret it.

They stare out the window again.

FAT JORGE:

Flaca.

FLACA:

Yes.

FAT JORGE:

They were telling the truth, weren’t they?

FLACA:

Who?

FAT JORGE:

The secret police. When they were torturing me. They were telling the truth.

FLACA:

About what?

FAT JORGE:

About you.

FLACA:

That all depends.

FAT JORGE:

On what?

FLACA:

On how they worded it.

FAT JORGE:

“Your wife is a Marxist terrorist who’s on her knees right now sucking her leader’s cock.”

FLACA:

Marxist.

FAT JORGE:

What does that mean?

FLACA:

You know how you always criticize the revolutionary movement?

FAT JORGE:

Well, yes, I used to—

FLACA:

That we’re extremists—

FAT JORGE:

We?

FLACA:

That violence is never the solution, that we should all just sit down and talk things out—

FAT JORGE:

Yes—

FLACA:

I don’t believe that. It would be so nice to believe that. So safe. But so blind. I couldn’t turn a blind eye anymore.

FAT JORGE:

You believe in violence?

FLACA:

I believe in armed struggle.

FAT JORGE:

I see.

FLACA:

I no longer believe you can talk to the enemy. I believe you must fight him.

FAT JORGE:

Uh-huh.

FLACA:

Especially now.

FAT JORGE:

Because of what they did to you.

FLACA:

No. Because of what they’re doing to our country. Because of what they’re doing in Vietnam. Because of what they did in Guatemala.

FAT JORGE:

They said you were sucking your leader’s cock and that you were responsible for a car bomb that killed a businessman from the American Embassy.

FLACA:

Businessman? That gringo’s with the CIA and he came to train torturers. Anyway, that’s not true. None of it is true. I was not involved in that. But I would die for what I believe in. And I would kill for it too.

FAT JORGE:

Right—