PROLOGUE
The Search
Music plays. Then, in full darkness, we hear the loud sound of a metal prison door closing. Shadowy lights slowly come up to reveal two militia men in green uniforms at the Obispo house doing a search. The electricity has been cut off. The men hold flashlights, which they aim at different parts of the room. A Victorian sofa and side table are stage left. A baby grand piano is downstage right. The sound of furniture turning over, glass breaking, objects falling on the floor. One of the men, the Militia Guard, pushes Sofia and goes after María Celia.
| MILITIA GUARD: Tell us whereyou hide them. Tell us where you keep them. | LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Come on, tell us. Come on . . . |
MARÍA CELIA: I don’t know what you’re talking about!
SOFIA: She’s not hiding anything!
MILITIA GUARD: Liar . . . You’re lying. We want all the papers you’re hiding.
SOFIA: She’s not hiding any papers.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Just tell us where you keep them, bitch! Go get your writing.
SOFIA: Don’t hurt her or I’ll hit you with this chair.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Just tell us where you hide them.
MARÍA CELIA: Hide what! Hide what!
| SOFIA: She’s got nothing! She’s got nothing! She’s not hiding anything! | MARÍA CELIA: I don’t have anything. |
MILITIA GUARD: You shut up, bitch!
MARÍA CELIA: I already told you . . .
SOFIA: She already told you . . .
MILITIA GUARD: You shut up, you big mouth, or I’ll cut off your tongue! I’ll cut off your tongue!—Where do you keep your writing?
MARÍA CELIA: I’ve got nothing! . . . I’ve got nothing hidden, compañero!
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Let’s start the inventory, Mena.
MILITIA GUARD: Who does inspection here every week?
MARÍA CELIA: Polita . . . Polita Mirabal.
MILITIA GUARD (To Lieutenant Portuondo): Polita Mirabal . . . Polita Mirabal.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: The girls have had enough.
MILITIA GUARD: Yeah they’ve had enough. A bunch of weaklings. We got two lesbos in here. A writer and a pianist. Which one is the pianist? (Sofia raises her hand) Play something on the piano. I have a headache. (Gives Lieutenant Portuondo a file) See if you can figure out these papers. It’s a bunch of rice and mangoes. (Walks around, inspecting the rest of the house with his flashlight) This is a big house for just two people. Who else you’ve got living here—ghosts?
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: I can’t figure out this shit either.
MILITIA GUARD: We’ll leave it blank. What’s the pianist doing? I told you to play something.
(Sofia goes to the piano.)
Let’s start the inventory. A piano.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Piano. Check.
MILITIA GUARD: A sofa.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Sofa. Check.
MILITIA GUARD: A small oak table.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Oak table. Check.
MILITIA GUARD: A radio.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Radio. Check.
MILITIA GUARD: Brass lamp.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Brass lamp. Check.
(Lights slowly come up on María Celia standing on the rooftop.)
MILITIA GUARD: Rocking chair.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Rocking chair. Check.
MILITIA GUARD: Record player.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Record player. Check.
MILITIA GUARD: Picture of a lady with a fan.
LIEUTENANT PORTUONDO: Picture. Check.
(Lights start to fade on the men. María Celia is in full light now, holding a letter, which she folds and places in her pocket as she speaks to her husband in the distance:)
MARÍA CELIA: “Antonio, my dear husband, I’m standing on top of this roof, wanting to leap into the sky and send you this letter. Almost three months and two weeks now and not a word from you. Today a few militia guards came to search the house. They took inventory of all our things. I don’t know what this means. This is usually done when somebody is leaving the country. Yesterday we heard on the radio about amnesty for political prisoners, so I’m keeping my fingers crossed. I tell Sofie that 1991 is our lucky year. We’ve been allowed back home. At least here we can walk all the way from the kitchen to the living room, and that’s a long distance compared to the size of our cell back in prison. It seems that there are so many things happening out there in the world, my love . . . A new way of thinking . . . Freedom . . . I always tell Sofie how much I love the leader Gorbachev (any man who has a birthmark that looks like an island on his forehead is a blessed man). I’m writing a new story, my love, which I’m sending you a page at a time. It’s what keeps me going. The writing. The man and the woman in my new story, they take me out of this house. Their walks to the sea. I miss you more and more, my love. A big kiss and a hug, María Celia.”
(Allegro piano music is heard. Lights slowly come up on Sofia playing the piano, as lights fade down on María Celia as she climbs down the spiral staircase from the roof.)