[en construcción*]
Monólogo de un Sonámbulo
Por Ben GaVarre
Este trabajo ha sido publicado para su difusión libre y abierta, aunque todos los derechos de propiedad intelectual están reservados. El uso público de esta obra requiere el permiso del autor y para obtener la autorización correspondiente comuníquese con bengavarre@gmail.com o gavarreunam@gmail.com (Reg. Prop. Int. Expte. Bandeja de entrada)
(Seguido de dos versiones en prosa)
¿No te gustó?
(Una sola luz tenue ilumina a la FIGURA, de pie frente a un espejo, con la boca casi incrustada en el cristal. Habla en un tono ahogado, casi un susurro.)
(Se recorre los labios con la yema de los dedos, como si la superficie del espejo le abrasara.)
Mi boca, prensada contra el espejo. El cristal está gélido. ¿Es mi aliento el que empaña la superficie, o el calor de otro? (Da un paso atrás.) ¿Eres tú? (Se acerca de nuevo, escudriñando su reflejo.) Mis ojos... ¿son míos? Son inmensos. Demasiado inmensos. ¿Es por la cercanía? ¿O es que han sido testigos de lo que hago en la noche...? (Una risa seca) Lo que hago en la noche... Como si ellos vieran algo que yo no alcanzo a ver... ¿Qué es lo que ves?
(Se aleja, yendo a una esquina del escenario.)
La radio... (Gesticula, como si intentara acallar un ruido en el aire). Ese shu shu garaluz. Habla... Háblame... ¿A mí? ¿A quién? No. No, no lo entiendes. Estos ojos nublados... me perturban. Mis pupilas, dilatadas. Tengo frío. Un frío que cala los huesos... ¿De dónde viene? No es el aire... (Se toca el pecho.) Nace desde adentro.
(Regresa al espejo. Tras una mirada intensa, acciona un interruptor imaginario, sumiendo la escena en la oscuridad.)
La luz... se ha ido. Y la pupila, Dios, se inunda... es devorada por un vacío negro. Acciono el interruptor... (Mime el acto de encender la luz de nuevo.) Y ahí estás. (Toca el espejo una vez más.) Un rostro yermo de lágrimas. Ni una sola. Yo... no lloro. Y tú tampoco. Somos incapaces de ello.
[El Sonambulismo]
(El personaje comienza a caminar lentamente, como en trance. Se detiene ante una maceta imaginaria.)
Aquí... es aquí. (Se desabotona los pantalones.) El excusado de los sueños. El que está hecho de hojas. (Su voz es grave, pastosa por el sueño.) La tierra blanda... como un colchón. (Mima el acto de orinar y luego se abrocha.) A la cama. Pero no... no estoy en la cama. ¿Estoy aquí? (Se mira los pies.) Y mis hermanos me cargan. Sí, me llevan en brazos. Me acuestan... Dicen que estaba en la sala. Viendo la televisión. Vi la pantalla que brillaba en la ventana. Y me dijeron que estaba dormido. No lo recuerdo. Pero tengo los pies fríos.
(Se levanta y camina hacia un rincón donde hay un cesto de ropa imaginario.)
Busco... busco algo. El olor... su olor. Huele a ropa limpia. A suavizante. Busco su camiseta. La de mi amante. ¿Mi amante? (Se detiene, cuestionándose.) El armario... (Avanza hacia él, abriendo la puerta imaginaria.) La ropa en el cesto. No está. No te encuentro. Pero sé que me esperas. ¿Cómo buscarte, si no existes?
(Se detiene y toma una hogaza de pan imaginaria de una mesa.)
Hambre. Es pan. (Muerde y mastica lentamente.) Pan dulce. Dulce como... la cajeta. Pero está agrio. Ácido. (Camina de nuevo, sin rumbo fijo.) Me lo llevo. A la cama. Para ti. (Se acuesta en el suelo, sosteniendo el pan imaginario, observándolo con perplejidad.) Lo dejaré aquí... para cuando despierte. Pero... ¿cuándo despierto?
(El personaje se pone de pie, con una energía más agitada, más confusa.)
¿Dónde estaba? ¡Dios, los semáforos! ¿Por qué la lluvia es verde? (Tiene destellos de escenas anteriores.)
La mesera... no me entiende. Se lo explico. ¡Con dos cucharas! No sirve de nada. Me voy.
Voy a encender otro cigarro. Quisiera un sombrero. Entro al cine. Última fila. Un tipo se acerca. Me toma la mano... tira de ella... Me voy. La película no tiene título. ¿Es alemana? Me voy. No puedo verle la cara. Me vine. Qué puta mierda de película. Me voy. Todo está húmedo, una oscuridad que sólo retrocede ante los faros de los coches que pasan.
[El Regreso]
(Regresa a su "hogar". La iluminación se torna más gélida. Deja la puerta imaginaria entreabierta.)
No. No voy a cerrar. Que se enoje. ¿Quién? La casa está vacía. Vacía de tu presencia. (Grita al aire.) ¡Gato de mierda! ¡Largo! (Se aprieta la pierna, como si le doliera un arañazo reciente.) Así está mejor.
Comida. Sí. (Abre un refrigerador imaginario.) Mermelada pegajosa... cajeta dura como piedra... pan sudando en el celofán... (Habla con náuseas.) Agrio. Todo está agrio. Tendré que comprar más.
(Se sienta, inmóvil, la mirada perdida en el vacío.)
Debería dormir. (Bosteza, pero sin apartar la vista.) O... ¿debería esperarlo? (Se levanta y mira hacia el fondo del escenario, donde una sombra podría ser su propio reflejo.)
¿A quién espero? ¿A ti? ¿A tu otro yo? ¿Acaso vives una vida secreta, una de la que ni yo mismo sé nada? Tú lo sabes. Estoy seguro de que lo sabes.
¿No te gustó?
(Versión en Prosa - Segundo Borrador)
Mientras aprieto mi boca contra el espejo, el cristal gélido me enfría los labios. ¿Soy yo quien mira, o el que es observado? La radio insiste con su estribillo distorsionado, ese shu shu garaluz, un idioma ya olvidado. Mis ojos... ¿son de verdad mías estas ventanas oscuras y redondas? Apago la luz y mis pupilas, dilatándose hasta doler, son tragadas por una negrura viscosa, un pozo sin fondo. Enciendo la lámpara. El resplandor amarillo me golpea, revelando el rostro de un extraño. No asoma ni una lágrima. ¿Por qué soy incapaz de llorar?
Salgo a la calle, arrastrado por un impulso ciego. Olvidé mi sombrero. ¿Pero acaso tengo sombrero? No... aunque a veces... sí. O alguien lo tiene. El aire frío muerde mi piel; un escalofrío que nada tiene que ver con el clima. Mis ojos... ¿por qué están tan turbios, como si mirara a través de un cristal sucio? ¡Qué semáforos tan estridentes! Danzan con luces violetas y naranjas, pero... ¿por qué esa mancha verde lo impregna todo? ¿Por qué la lluvia incipiente tiene un brillo de esmeralda y huele a metal oxidado?
Entro al café. La mesera me lanza una mirada extraña. No la entiendo; su voz se deforma, como si brotara desde el fondo del agua. Golpeo la mesa con dos cucharas. No, esto no es lo que quiero. Nada de esto funciona. Me voy. ¿A dónde? No lo sé. Mis pies me guían por su propia voluntad.
Voy a encender otro cigarro, pero mis dedos torpes no encuentran el encendedor. ¿Por qué tiemblan tanto? Me gustaría un sombrero. Uno de ala ancha, que me oculte del mundo. Me meto en el cine. Está casi vacío. La última fila. El terciopelo rojo del asiento se siente húmedo y gélido bajo mi mano. Un hombre se acerca. No le veo la cara, sólo una sombra que se cierne sobre mí. Siento su mano apoderarse de la mía, forzándola contra su entrepierna. Un temblor de asco y confusión me recorre. Me agarra. ¿Por qué mi propia mano lo permite? Me voy. La película parpadea en la pantalla, un borrón de imágenes sin título. No entiendo el idioma... alemán, quizá. Me voy. Llego al clímax. Una oleada de desapego me inunda. Me voy. Siento una liberación, pero sólo en las entrañas. Todo es confuso.
No voy a cerrar la puerta. ¿Por qué habría de hacerlo? Que entre quien quiera. No me importa si se enojan. ¿Quién podría enojarse? La casa está vacía... ¿o no? Siento una presencia en la penumbra. El maldito gato. Sus ojos amarillos brillan como ascuas en la oscuridad. Siento sus garras clavándose en mi pierna. Lárgate. Es mejor así. Silencio.
Comida. Bien. Me rugen las tripas. Abro el refrigerador. ¿Qué es lo que guarda este cerdo? Mermelada de fresa que apesta a rosas marchitas, cajeta dura como una roca, pan envuelto en un celofán húmedo, leche agria. Todo. Tendré que comprar más.
Debería dormir ya. Un cansancio profundo me pesa en los párpados. O... ¿debería esperarlo? ¿Al otro? Una sombra se agita al final del pasillo. ¿Y de qué hablaríamos?
¿No te gustó?
(Versión en Prosa - Primer Borrador)
Boca pegada al espejo. Escuchando la radio. shu shu garaluz. Mis ojos, tan grandes. Apago la luz y la pupila se inunda, enorme. Enciendo la lámpara. Ni una lágrima. Yo...
Salgo. Olvidé el sombrero. No, no uso. Ojos nublados. Tengo frío. Esos semáforos. ¿Por qué la lluvia es verde? La mesera no entiende. Le muestro: dos cucharas. Inútil. Me voy.
Voy a encender otro cigarro. Quisiera un sombrero. Entro al cine. Última fila. Un tipo se acerca. Me agarra. Me la jala. Me voy. Película sin título. Alemana, quizá. Me voy. No le veo la cara. Me vine. Me voy. Qué puta mierda de película.
No cierro la puerta, no me importa si se enoja. Maldito gato me araña la pierna; lárgate, mejor así. Comida, bien. ¿Y este cabrón qué guarda? Mermelada, cajeta, pan en celofán, leche. Casi todo se acaba. Que compre más él. Mejor me duermo ya. O... ¿lo espero?
¿No te gustó?
Relato segunda versión
Mientras tengo la boca pegada en el espejo, siento el frío del cristal calándome los labios. ¿Soy yo el que mira o el que es mirado? El radio sigue con su cantinela confusa, ese shu shu garaluz que parece hablar en un idioma olvidado. Mis ojos, ¿son realmente míos estas ventanas redondas y oscuras? Apago la luz y la pupila, dilatándose hasta doler, se inunda de una negrura espesa, como un pozo sin fondo. Prendo la lámpara y la luz amarilla me golpea, revelando un rostro ajeno en el espejo. Ni una lágrima resbala. ¿Por qué no puedo llorar?
Salgo a la calle. Un impulso ciego me arrastra. Olvidé el sombrero. ¿Pero yo uso sombrero? No... o sí... a veces. ¿Quién lo usa entonces? Siento el aire frío mordiéndome la piel, un escalofrío que no viene de la temperatura. Mis ojos... ¿por qué los siento tan turbios, como si mirara a través de un vaso sucio? ¡Qué semáforos tan estridentes! Bailan con luces violetas y naranjas, pero... ¿por qué esa mancha verde que lo cubre todo? ¿Por qué la lluvia que empieza a caer tiene un brillo esmeralda y huele a metal oxidado?
Entro al café. La mesera me mira con extrañeza. No entiendo lo que dice, su voz llega distorsionada, como si hablara bajo el agua. Con dos cucharadas golpeo la mesa. No, esto no es lo que quiero. Nada de esto me sirve. Me voy. ¿Adónde? No lo sé. Mis pies me guían solos.
Voy a prender otro cigarro. Mis dedos torpes no atinan a encontrar el encendedor. ¿Por qué tiemblan tanto? Me gustaría un sombrero. Uno grande, que me cubra del mundo. Voy a entrar al cine. La sala está casi vacía. Ultima butaca. El terciopelo rojo del asiento se siente húmedo y frío bajo mis manos. Un tipo se acerca. No le veo la cara, solo una sombra que se cierne sobre mí. Siento su mano agarrando la mía, llevándola a su entrepierna. Un escalofrío de asco y confusión me recorre. Me agarra. ¿Por qué lo permite mi mano? Me voy. La película parpadea en la pantalla, imágenes borrosas sin títulos. No entiendo alemán o lo que sea que hablen. Me voy. Me vine. Una punzada de extrañeza. Me voy. Me siento liberado pero solo del vientre. Todo es confuso.
No voy a cerrar la puerta. ¿Por qué debería? Que entre quien quiera. Y no me importa que se enoje. ¿Quién se enojaría? La casa está vacía... o no. Siento una presencia en la oscuridad. Maldito gato. Sus ojos amarillos brillan como brasas en la penumbra. Siento sus uñas clavándose en mi pierna. Lárgate. Así está mejor. Silencio.
Comida. Eso está bien. Mi estómago ruge. Abro el refrigerador. ¿Qué tiene este irresponsable guardado aquí? Mermelada de fresa que huele a rosas muertas, cajeta dura como piedra, pan envuelto en celofán pegajoso, leche agria. Todo. Que vuelva a comprar.
Mejor ya me duermo. El cansancio me pesa en los párpados. O qué. ¿Lo espero? Una sombra al final del pasillo. ¿Y de qué vamos a hablar?
¿No te gustó?
Primera versión.
¿No te gustó? Mientras tengo la boca pegada en el espejo escucho el radio shu shu garaluz Mis ojos grandes. Apago la luz y la pupila abierta enorme se inunda. Prendo la lámpara. Ni una lágrima. Yo*
Salgo a la calle. Olvidé el sombrero. No yo no uso. Mis ojos turbios. Tengo frío. ¡Qué semáforos! ¿Por qué la lluvia es verde? La mesera no me entiende. Con dos cucharadas, le digo. No me sirve nada. Me voy *
Voy a prender otro cigarro. Me gustaría ponerme un sombrero. Voy a entrar al cine. Ultima butaca. Un tipo se acerca me la agarra, me masturba, me voy, película sin títulos, no sé alemán, me voy, no veo la cara del tipo, me vine, me voy, qué asco de película *
No voy a cerrar la puerta y no me importa que se enoje. Maldito gato, me araña la pierna; lárgate, así está mejor. Comida, eso está bien. Qué tiene este irresponsable. Mermelada, cajeta, pan en celofán, leche. Todo a punto de acabarse. Que vuelva a comprar. Mejor ya me duermo; o qué, ¿lo espero?
Didn't you like it?
Sleepwalking monologue.
By Ben GAVARRE
Didn't you like it?
(A dim light is turned on on the figure, who is standing in front of a mirror, his mouth almost pressed against it. He speaks in a low voice, almost whispering.)
(He touches his lips with his fingertips, as if the mirror were burning him.)
My mouth is pressed against the mirror. The glass is frozen. Is it my breath fogging up this surface, or someone else's heat? (He takes a step back.) Is that you? (He moves closer again, inspecting his reflection.) My eyes... are they mine? They're big. Too big. Is it because they're so close? Or do they notice something that happens to me at night... Ha ha, it happens to me at night... As if they see something I don't... what do you see?
(He walks away, goes to a corner of the stage).
The radio… (gesturing with his hand as if trying to silence a noise in the air). The shu shu garaluz. Speak… Speak to me… Me? To whom? No. No, you don't understand. My cloudy eyes are disturbing me. My pupils are dilated. I'm cold. It's so cold… Where does so much cold come from? It doesn't come from the air… (He touches his chest). It's from inside.
(He returns to the mirror. He looks at it intensely, and in an impulsive act, turns off the light with an imaginary switch.)
The light… went out. And the pupil, God!, is flooded… is flooded with blackness. A void. I turn on the lamp… (turns the imaginary light back on). And there you are. (Touches the mirror again). A face without tears. Not a single one. I… don't cry. Neither do you. We can't.
[Sleepwalking scenes]
(The character begins to walk slowly, as if in a trance, across the stage. He stops in front of an imaginary flowerpot.)
Here… here it is. (He unbuttons his imaginary pants.) The toilet… the one from dreams. The one with the leaves. (He speaks in a low, almost sleepy voice.) The soft earth… like a mattress. (He “urinates” in the imaginary flowerpot and then buttons up.) I'm going to bed. But no… I'm not in bed. Am I here? (He looks at his feet.) And my brothers take me. They take me, yes. They lay me down… and they tell me I was in the living room. That I was watching television. I saw the screen that was on the window. And they told me I was asleep. I don't remember. But my feet are cold.
(He gets up and walks to a corner of the stage where there is an imaginary laundry basket.)
I'm looking... I'm looking for something. The smell... of him. It smells like clean laundry. Fabric softener. I'm looking for his T-shirt. For my lover. My lover? (He stops, as if asking himself.) The closet... (He moves toward it, opening the imaginary door.) The clothes in the hamper. They're not there. I can't find you. But you're waiting for me. Where do I look for you, if you don't exist?
(He stops and picks up an imaginary loaf of bread from a table.)
I'm hungry. It's bread. (He bites into it and chews slowly.) Sweet bread. Sweet like… cajeta. But sour. Sour. (He walks again, no longer heading for the laundry basket, but somewhere else.) I'm taking it. To bed. To you. (He lies down on the floor, holding the imaginary bread, and looks at it with a puzzled expression.) I'm going to leave it here… for when I wake up. But… when do I wake up?
(The character stands up, with a more agitated and confused energy.)
Where was I? What traffic lights! Why is the rain green? (Returns to previous scenes.)
The waitress… doesn't understand me. With two spoonfuls… I tell her! It won't do me any good. I'm leaving.
I'm going to light another cigarette. I'd like a hat. I'm going into the theater. Last seat. A guy approaches. He grabs my hand... he pulls it... I leave. Movie without titles. Is it in German? I leave. I can't see the guy's face. I came. What a lousy movie. I leave. Everything is damp, darkness that the car headlights drive away.
[The outcome]
(He returns to his "home". The light on the stage changes to a colder one. He leaves the imaginary door open.)
No. I'm not going to close the door. Let him get angry. Who? The house is empty. Empty of you. (Screams into the air.) Damn cat! Go away! (He touches his leg with one hand, as if a scratch hurts.) That's better.
Food. Yeah, yeah. (Opens an imaginary refrigerator.) Jam... caramel... bread in cellophane... (Speaks in an annoyed voice, as if repulsed by it.) Sour. Everything is sour. Let me buy more.
(He sits down, remains still, almost motionless, staring into space.)
I'd better go to sleep now. (Yawns, but still stares.) Or... should I wait for him? (He gets up and looks toward the back of the stage, where there's a shadow that could be his reflection.)
Who am I waiting for, you? You? Do you have a secret life that even I don't know about? You know it, I'm sure.
Didn't you like it?
Story second version
As I press my mouth against the mirror, I feel the cold glass chilling my lips. Am I the one looking or the one being looked at? The radio continues its confused refrain, that shu shu garaluz that seems to speak in a forgotten language. My eyes, are these round, dark windows really mine? I turn off the light, and my pupils, dilating to the point of pain, are flooded with a thick blackness, like a bottomless pit. I turn on the lamp, and the yellow light hits me, revealing a strange face in the mirror. Not a tear sheds. Why can't I cry?
I step outside. A blind impulse drags me. I forgot my hat. But do I wear a hat? No... or do I... sometimes. Who does, then? I feel the cold air biting my skin, a chill that doesn't come from the temperature. My eyes... why do they feel so cloudy, as if I were looking through a dirty glass? Such strident traffic lights! They dance with violet and orange lights, but... why is there that green stain covering everything? Why does the rain that's beginning to fall have an emerald sheen and smell of rusty metal?
I walk into the café. The waitress looks at me strangely. I don't understand what she's saying; her voice is distorted, as if she's speaking underwater. I bang two spoons on the table. No, this isn't what I want. None of this works for me. I'm leaving. Where? I don't know. My feet guide me on their own.
I'm going to light another cigarette. My clumsy fingers can't find the lighter. Why are they trembling so much? I'd like a hat. A big one, to shield me from the world. I'm going into the cinema. The theater is almost empty. Last seat. The red velvet of the seat feels damp and cold beneath my hands. A guy is approaching. I can't see his face, only a shadow looming over me. I feel his hand grabbing mine, bringing it to his crotch. A shiver of disgust and confusion runs through me. He grabs me. Why does my hand allow this? I'm leaving. The movie flickers on the screen, blurry images without titles. I don't understand German or whatever they're speaking. I'm leaving. I came. A pang of strangeness. I'm leaving. I feel liberated, but only in my gut. Everything is confusing.
I'm not going to close the door. Why should I? Let whoever wants to come in. And I don't care if they get angry. Who would be angry? The house is empty... or not. I feel a presence in the darkness. Damn cat. Its yellow eyes glow like embers in the gloom. I feel its claws digging into my leg. Go away. It's better that way. Silence.
Food. That's good. My stomach growls. I open the refrigerator. What does this irresponsible person have in here? Strawberry jam that smells like dead roses, rock-hard cajeta, bread wrapped in sticky cellophane, sour milk. Everything. Let me buy more.
I'd better go to sleep now. Fatigue weighs on my eyelids. Or what? Should I wait for him? A shadow at the end of the hall. And what are we going to talk about?
Didn't you like it?
First version.
Didn't you like it? While I have my mouth glued to the mirror I listen to the radio shu shu garaluz My big eyes. I turn off the light and the enormous open pupil floods. I turn on the lamp. Not a tear. I*
I go out into the street. I forgot my hat. No, I don't wear one. My eyes are cloudy. I'm cold. What traffic lights! Why is rain green? The waitress doesn't understand me. I tell her, with two spoonfuls. It won't do me any good. I'm leaving.
I'm going to light another cigarette. I'd like to put on a hat. I'm going into the cinema. Last seat. A guy comes up to me, grabs me, masturbates me, I leave, movie without titles, I don't speak German, I leave, I can't see the guy's face, I came, I leave, what a lousy movie *
I'm not going to close the door, and I don't care if he gets angry. Damn cat, he's scratching my leg; go away, it's better that way. Food, that's good. What does this irresponsible guy have? Jam, caramel, bread in cellophane, milk. Everything is about to run out. Let him go buy more. I'd better go to sleep now; or what, should I wait for him?
¨¨¨¨¨¨
A Sleepwalker’s Monologue
By Ben Gavarre
(Followed by two prose versions)
Didn’t You Like It?
(A single, dim light illuminates the FIGURE, who stands before a mirror, his mouth nearly pressed against the glass. He speaks in a low, hushed tone.)
(He traces his lips with his fingertips, as if the mirror’s surface sears him.)
My mouth, pressed to the mirror. The glass is ice-cold. Is it my own breath that clouds the surface, or the heat of another? (He takes a step back.) Is that you? (He leans in again, scrutinizing his reflection.) My eyes… are they mine? They’re vast. Too vast. Is it the proximity? Or have they witnessed things I do in the night…? (A dry laugh) Things I do in the night… As if they see something I cannot… What is it you see?
(He moves away, crossing to a corner of the stage.)
The radio… (He gestures, as if trying to quiet a noise in the air). That shu shu garaluz. Speak… Speak to me… Me? To whom? No. No, you don’t understand. These clouded eyes… they disturb me. My pupils, dilated. I’m cold. A bone-deep chill… Where does it come from? It’s not the air… (He touches his chest.) It comes from within.
(He returns to the mirror. After an intense stare, he impulsively flicks an imaginary switch, plunging the scene into darkness.)
The light… gone. And the pupil, God, it floods… swallowed by a black void. I flip the switch… (He mimes turning the light back on.) And there you are. (He touches the mirror again.) A face barren of tears. Not a single one. I… don’t cry. And neither do you. We are incapable of it.
[The Somnambulism]
(The character begins to walk slowly, as if in a trance. He stops before an imaginary flowerpot.)
Here… this is it. (He mimes unbuttoning his trousers.) The dream-toilet. The one made of leaves. (His voice is low, heavy with sleep.) The soft earth… like a mattress. (He mimes urinating into the pot, then fastens his trousers.) Time for bed. But no… I am not in bed. Am I here? (He looks down at his feet.) And my brothers carry me. Yes, they carry me. They lay me down… They tell me I was in the living room. Watching television. I saw the screen glowing in the window. And they told me I was asleep. I don’t remember. But my feet are cold.
(He rises and walks to a corner where an imaginary laundry hamper sits.)
Searching… I’m searching for something. The scent… his scent. It smells of clean linen. Fabric softener. I’m looking for his T-shirt. My lover’s shirt. My lover? (He pauses, questioning himself.) The closet… (He moves toward it, miming opening the door.) The clothes in the hamper. Not here. I can’t find you. But you are waiting for me. How can I search for you, if you don’t exist?
(He stops and picks up an imaginary loaf of bread from a table.)
Hunger. This is bread. (He bites and chews slowly.) Sweet bread. Sweet like… cajeta. But it’s sour. Sour. (He walks again, not toward the hamper, but aimlessly.) I’m taking it. To bed. To you. (He lies on the floor, holding the imaginary bread, staring at it, puzzled.) I’ll leave it here… for when I wake. But… when do I wake?
(The character gets up, his energy now more agitated, confused.)
Where was I? God, the traffic lights! Why is the rain green? (He flashes back to previous scenes.)
The waitress… she doesn't understand. I show her. Two spoons. Two. It’s no use. I’m leaving.
I’ll light another cigarette. I wish I had a hat. I go into the cinema. The back row. A man approaches. He grabs my hand… pulls it… I leave. The film has no title. Is it German? I leave. I can’t see the man’s face. I came. What a shit movie. I leave. Everything is damp, a darkness pushed back only by the headlights of passing cars.
[The Return]
(He returns to his “home.” The stage lighting shifts, becoming colder. He leaves the imaginary door ajar.)
No. I won’t close the door. Let him be angry. Who? The house is empty. Empty of your presence. (He screams into the air.) Damn cat! Get out! (He clutches his leg, as if from a fresh scratch.) That’s better.
Food. Yes. (He opens an imaginary refrigerator.) Sticky jam… rock-hard caramel… bread sweating in cellophane… (He speaks with disgust.) Sour. Everything is sour. I’ll have to buy more.
(He sits, becoming still, almost motionless, staring at nothing.)
I should just sleep. (He yawns, but his gaze remains fixed.) Or… should I wait for him? (He stands and looks toward the back of the stage, where a shadow might be his own reflection.)
Who am I waiting for? You? The other you? Are you living a secret life, one that even I know nothing about? You know. I’m certain you do.
Didn’t You Like It?
(Prose Version - Second Draft)
As I press my mouth to the mirror, the cold glass chills my lips. Am I the one looking, or the one being seen? The radio drones on with its garbled refrain, that shu shu garaluz, a language long forgotten. My eyes—are these dark, round windows truly mine? I kill the light, and my pupils, dilating until it aches, are swallowed by a viscous blackness, a bottomless pit. I turn on the lamp. The yellow glare strikes me, revealing a stranger’s face. Not a single tear falls. Why am I unable to cry?
I step outside, dragged by a blind impulse. I forgot my hat. But do I even own a hat? No… though sometimes… I do. Or someone does. The cold air bites at my skin, a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. My eyes… why are they so clouded, as if I’m peering through filthy glass? The traffic lights are so garish. They dance in violet and orange, but… why is that green stain bleeding over everything? Why does the rain, just beginning to fall, have an emerald sheen and the smell of rusted metal?
I enter the café. The waitress gives me a strange look. I can’t understand her; her voice is warped, as if bubbling up from underwater. I rap two spoons against the table. No, this isn’t what I want. None of this is right. I’m leaving. To where? I don’t know. My feet move of their own accord.
I’m going to light another cigarette, but my clumsy fingers can’t find the lighter. Why are they shaking? I’d like a hat. A wide-brimmed one, to hide me from the world. I slip into the cinema. It’s nearly empty. The last row. The red velvet of the seat is damp and cold beneath my hand. A man approaches. I can’t see his face, only a shadow looming over me. I feel his hand seize mine, forcing it to his groin. A tremor of disgust and confusion ripples through me. He grabs me. Why does my own hand allow this? I leave. The movie flickers on screen, a blur of untitled images. I don’t understand the language—German, maybe. I leave. I climax. A wave of detachment washes over me. I leave. I feel a release, but only in my gut. Everything is a blur.
I won’t close the door. Why should I? Let anyone who wants to come in. I don’t care if they get angry. Who is there to be angry? The house is empty… or is it? I sense a presence in the shadows. That damned cat. Its yellow eyes glow like embers in the gloom. I feel its claws dig into my leg. Go away. It’s better this way. Silence.
Food. Good. My stomach is growling. I open the refrigerator. What has this slob left in here? Strawberry jam that stinks of wilted roses, caramel as hard as a rock, bread wrapped in clammy cellophane, sour milk. Everything. I’ll have to buy more.
I should sleep now. A deep fatigue presses on my eyelids. Or… should I wait for him? For the other one? A shadow stirs at the end of the hall. And what would we even talk about?
Didn’t You Like It?
(Prose Version - First Draft)
Mouth glued to the mirror. Listening to the radio. shu shu garaluz. My eyes, so wide. I kill the light and the pupil floods open, enormous. I turn on the lamp. Not a tear. I…
Go out. Forgot my hat. No, I don’t wear one. My eyes are clouded. I’m cold. Those traffic lights. Why is the rain green? The waitress doesn’t understand me. I show her: two spoons. Useless. I leave.
I’ll light another cigarette. I’d like a hat. I go into the cinema. Back row. A guy approaches. Grabs me. Jerks me off. I leave. Movie has no title. German, maybe. I leave. Can’t see his face. I came. I leave. What a shit movie.
I’m not closing the door, don’t care if he gets angry. Damn cat scratches my leg; go away, better this way. Food, good. What’s this slob got? Jam, caramel, bread in cellophane, milk. Everything’s almost gone. Let him buy more. I should sleep now. Or… should I wait for him?
A Sleepwalker’s Monologue
By Ben GaVarre
(Followed by two prose versions)
Didn’t You Like It?
(A single, dim light illuminates the FIGURE, who stands before a mirror, his mouth nearly pressed against the glass. He speaks in a low, hushed tone.)
(He traces his lips with his fingertips, as if the mirror’s surface sears him.)
My mouth, pressed to the mirror. The glass is ice-cold. Is it my own breath that clouds the surface, or the heat of another? (He takes a step back.) Is that you? (He leans in again, scrutinizing his reflection.) My eyes… are they mine? They’re vast. Too vast. Is it the proximity? Or have they witnessed things I do in the night…? (A dry laugh) Things I do in the night… As if they see something I cannot… What is it you see?
(He moves away, crossing to a corner of the stage.)
The radio… (He gestures, as if trying to quiet a noise in the air). That shu shu garaluz. Speak… Speak to me… Me? To whom? No. No, you don’t understand. These clouded eyes… they disturb me. My pupils, dilated. I’m cold. A bone-deep chill… Where does it come from? It’s not the air… (He touches his chest.) It comes from within.
(He returns to the mirror. After an intense stare, he impulsively flicks an imaginary switch, plunging the scene into darkness.)
The light… gone. And the pupil, God, it floods… swallowed by a black void. I flip the switch… (He mimes turning the light back on.) And there you are. (He touches the mirror again.) A face barren of tears. Not a single one. I… don’t cry. And neither do you. We are incapable of it.
[The Somnambulism]
(The character begins to walk slowly, as if in a trance. He stops before an imaginary flowerpot.)
Here… this is it. (He mimes unbuttoning his trousers.) The dream-toilet. The one made of leaves. (His voice is low, heavy with sleep.) The soft earth… like a mattress. (He mimes urinating into the pot, then fastens his trousers.) Time for bed. But no… I am not in bed. Am I here? (He looks down at his feet.) And my brothers carry me. Yes, they carry me. They lay me down… They tell me I was in the living room. Watching television. I saw the screen glowing in the window. And they told me I was asleep. I don’t remember. But my feet are cold.
(He rises and walks to a corner where an imaginary laundry hamper sits.)
Searching… I’m searching for something. The scent… his scent. It smells of clean linen. Fabric softener. I’m looking for his T-shirt. My lover’s shirt. My lover? (He pauses, questioning himself.) The closet… (He moves toward it, miming opening the door.) The clothes in the hamper. Not here. I can’t find you. But you are waiting for me. How can I search for you, if you don’t exist?
(He stops and picks up an imaginary loaf of bread from a table.)
Hunger. This is bread. (He bites and chews slowly.) Sweet bread. Sweet like… cajeta. But it’s sour. Sour. (He walks again, not toward the hamper, but aimlessly.) I’m taking it. To bed. To you. (He lies on the floor, holding the imaginary bread, staring at it, puzzled.) I’ll leave it here… for when I wake. But… when do I wake?
(The character gets up, his energy now more agitated, confused.)
Where was I? God, the traffic lights! Why is the rain green? (He flashes back to previous scenes.)
The waitress… she doesn't understand. I show her. Two spoons. Two. It’s no use. I’m leaving.
I’ll light another cigarette. I wish I had a hat. I go into the cinema. The back row. A man approaches. He grabs my hand… pulls it… I leave. The film has no title. Is it German? I leave. I can’t see the man’s face. I came. What a shit movie. I leave. Everything is damp, a darkness pushed back only by the headlights of passing cars.
[The Return]
(He returns to his “home.” The stage lighting shifts, becoming colder. He leaves the imaginary door ajar.)
No. I won’t close the door. Let him be angry. Who? The house is empty. Empty of your presence. (He screams into the air.) Damn cat! Get out! (He clutches his leg, as if from a fresh scratch.) That’s better.
Food. Yes. (He opens an imaginary refrigerator.) Sticky jam… rock-hard caramel… bread sweating in cellophane… (He speaks with disgust.) Sour. Everything is sour. I’ll have to buy more.
(He sits, becoming still, almost motionless, staring at nothing.)
I should just sleep. (He yawns, but his gaze remains fixed.) Or… should I wait for him? (He stands and looks toward the back of the stage, where a shadow might be his own reflection.)
Who am I waiting for? You? The other you? Are you living a secret life, one that even I know nothing about? You know. I’m certain you do.
Didn’t You Like It?
(Prose Version - Second Draft)
As I press my mouth to the mirror, the cold glass chills my lips. Am I the one looking, or the one being seen? The radio drones on with its garbled refrain, that shu shu garaluz, a language long forgotten. My eyes—are these dark, round windows truly mine? I kill the light, and my pupils, dilating until it aches, are swallowed by a viscous blackness, a bottomless pit. I turn on the lamp. The yellow glare strikes me, revealing a stranger’s face. Not a single tear falls. Why am I unable to cry?
I step outside, dragged by a blind impulse. I forgot my hat. But do I even own a hat? No… though sometimes… I do. Or someone does. The cold air bites at my skin, a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. My eyes… why are they so clouded, as if I’m peering through filthy glass? The traffic lights are so garish. They dance in violet and orange, but… why is that green stain bleeding over everything? Why does the rain, just beginning to fall, have an emerald sheen and the smell of rusted metal?
I enter the café. The waitress gives me a strange look. I can’t understand her; her voice is warped, as if bubbling up from underwater. I rap two spoons against the table. No, this isn’t what I want. None of this is right. I’m leaving. To where? I don’t know. My feet move of their own accord.
I’m going to light another cigarette, but my clumsy fingers can’t find the lighter. Why are they shaking? I’d like a hat. A wide-brimmed one, to hide me from the world. I slip into the cinema. It’s nearly empty. The last row. The red velvet of the seat is damp and cold beneath my hand. A man approaches. I can’t see his face, only a shadow looming over me. I feel his hand seize mine, forcing it to his groin. A tremor of disgust and confusion ripples through me. He grabs me. Why does my own hand allow this? I leave. The movie flickers on screen, a blur of untitled images. I don’t understand the language—German, maybe. I leave. I climax. A wave of detachment washes over me. I leave. I feel a release, but only in my gut. Everything is a blur.
I won’t close the door. Why should I? Let anyone who wants to come in. I don’t care if they get angry. Who is there to be angry? The house is empty… or is it? I sense a presence in the shadows. That damned cat. Its yellow eyes glow like embers in the gloom. I feel its claws dig into my leg. Go away. It’s better this way. Silence.
Food. Good. My stomach is growling. I open the refrigerator. What has this slob left in here? Strawberry jam that stinks of wilted roses, caramel as hard as a rock, bread wrapped in clammy cellophane, sour milk. Everything. I’ll have to buy more.
I should sleep now. A deep fatigue presses on my eyelids. Or… should I wait for him? For the other one? A shadow stirs at the end of the hall. And what would we even talk about?
Didn’t You Like It?
(Prose Version - First Draft)
Mouth glued to the mirror. Listening to the radio. shu shu garaluz. My eyes, so wide. I kill the light and the pupil floods open, enormous. I turn on the lamp. Not a tear. I…
Go out. Forgot my hat. No, I don’t wear one. My eyes are clouded. I’m cold. Those traffic lights. Why is the rain green? The waitress doesn’t understand me. I show her: two spoons. Useless. I leave.
I’ll light another cigarette. I’d like a hat. I go into the cinema. Back row. A guy approaches. Grabs me. Jerks me off. I leave. Movie has no title. German, maybe. I leave. Can’t see his face. I came. I leave. What a shit movie.
I’m not closing the door, don’t care if he gets angry. Damn cat scratches my leg; go away, better this way. Food, good. What’s this slob got? Jam, caramel, bread in cellophane, milk. Everything’s almost gone. Let him buy more. I should sleep now. Or… should I wait for him?
contact. bengavarre@gmail.com
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