In
Your Shoes… DAD
A
Tragic Farce about the Spanish Transition
by GAVARRE BENJAMIN
® BENJAMIN GAVARRE SILVA
BENGAVARRE@GMAIL.COM
Scene
I: The Loafer Manifesto
Spring,
1978.
MANOLO
is supposed to be doing the monthly balance sheet, but he is spellbound,
listening to CURRO, who is fiercely sanding a shoe heel with revolutionary
rage. AMPARO smokes a cigarette on the sly, perched on top of a stack of
knee-high boot boxes. She wears a miniskirt that she has put on hidden from the
owners.
CURRO: I’m sick of it,
Manolo. My future should be freedom. I can't see myself living in Madrid for
more than two years, working—if you'll excuse the word—in this prison of
shelves, packed with boxes and boxes and boxes… Neither of you should have this
future, even if you are the owner’s son… I’ve seen you drifting off into
daydreams, I’ve seen you stopping that tedious balance sheet to look at distant
horizons, talking to God knows what girl, or what guys… And look, speaking of
cool blokes who could change our lives, I’ve seen some footage of Woodstock and
the gardens of San Francisco, full of flowers, full of people kissing and
making love, you know, not war. The spirit of freedom, Manolo… Let’s go there,
let’s go to San Francisco. That’s a place of dreams.
AMPARO: (Sitting in her
little niche, smoking and nodding happily all the while). Curro is right.
We should leave, all three of us. What’s stopping us? We’re young, we’re not
tied down to anything, and we feel like this world belongs to us… That’s just
how it is.
MANOLO: But what are you two
talking about, you pair of little Don Quixotes? What do you mean we’re not tied
down to anything? What about my parents? And the business, the tradition, the
shoes? We’ve been making shoes since '98, since 1898… back when loafers were
the symbol of political transition… We made the ultimate elegant shoes in the
fabulous 20s… and we’d better not talk about '36 because we had to close down
for a year… Ah, but we bounced back; even if it was boots, mass-produced boots
we made, even if we didn’t like it… and here we are, still sticking to the
classic models: the ankle boots, the pointed toes, and the convent-style shoes
for the nuns, of course…
CURRO: Hail Mary, most pure…
Well, all that nun and general business doesn’t just displease me—to be honest,
it gives me a bloody rash.
MANOLO: We deserve a medal
for putting shoes on half of Madrid for so long.
AMPARO: That’s what I say! At
least I like medals, though to be completely honest… we don’t really deserve
one. You do, Manolete… You came into this world with your shoes already on. I
can just picture your poor mother… “Oh, I think I felt a kick! The kick of a
footballer! Heaven help me!”.
MANOLO: For as long as I can
remember, my life has been bound to shoes. My father says that one day…
CURRO: You shall inherit the
earth!… Well, I’d rather they told me, "Hey, Curro: you shall inherit the
wind… And you shall walk barefoot through the gardens of Eden… Or at least San
Francisco…". But if I stay here much longer, I think I’ll suffocate and,
like I said, end up buried under a pile of shoes.
AMPARO: Well, count me in for
the crusade! Let’s go join the hippie foreigners… I’ve already got my miniskirt
and my jeans, and I already know how to say Yesterday and I want to
kiss you…
MANOLO: Those sound like
songs to me. What do they mean?
CURRO: They mean that
opportunities only come once in a lifetime, and then… they vanish. You think
about it: a slave to the family business… A free, lonely soul like you, who
would finally stop feeling sad and out of place in this society that reeks of
being so stale… Come on, Manolo, live a little! Live! Come with us.
MANOLO
stands frozen; the sirens' voices have pierced deep into his soul… He looks at
them, deeply moved, and is just about to say something when the shop bell rings
at that very moment… Time to welcome the customers. With a gesture, he signals
to AMPARO and CURRO that they must do their duty.
MANOLO: Amparo, Curro, enough
chatting… We have to serve the customers.
At
that moment, as if emerging from the depths of the shadows, GERVASIO and PURITA
arrive—two old, hunchbacked vultures with deathly pale skin and a slow,
deliberate stride. They look at AMPARO and CURRO with disdain, and smile
ironically at young MANOLO.
GERVASIO: There will be no need
for you to send them, young Manolo.
PURITA: (Completing the
thoughts of her vulture-like partner). It’s almost lunchtime, but we’ve
already had ours. Go on, go along, the two of you; we’ll take care of it.
The
three young people look at the old employees with astonishment and vexation.
They know their conversation has been overheard, and not by the gentlest of
souls.
Scene
II: The Lunch of the Deaf
The
dining room of the family home, located just above the shoe shop. A crucifix
hangs on the wall, alongside a portrait of the Pope currently in office. A
strong aroma of Madrid-style tripe stew ("callos a la madrileña")
fills the room.
Sitting
at the table are DON MANUEL, DOÑA ASUNCIÓN, and her sister, the uncomfortable
aunt, DOÑA ENRIQUETA. The family meal is a whirlwind of overlapping voices; a
choral chaos. No one wants to listen to anyone else—it’s as if they are only
talking to themselves. Each character projects their own frustrations and
ambitions onto the son, like a machine grinding him down. GERVASIO and PURITA,
the persistence of Evil, now act as subservient waiters, moving like the maids
and lackeys of olden times.
DON
MANUEL: This tripe brings back fond memories of El Retiro park in my youth.
It’s softer than a maiden's cheek…
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: Big talker! If it weren't for the fact that you were unable to even
sweet-talk a young girl... You used to treat them all like high ladies, and
they would die laughing watching you slouch around like a little priest. Lucky
for you I showed up and took the initiative.
DON
MANUEL: (Changing the subject. To Manolo). Ahem… Look up, Manuelillo.
You look like you’ve drifted off to the moon.
DOÑA
ENRIQUETA: I am certain that Manolo is in contact with the angels. Look at his
sweet face, so distracted... It’s as if the Virgin Mary herself is whispering
loving words to him. You should take the vows, my boy.
DON
MANUEL: That sounds like a nun's business, Doña Queta… And frankly, I wouldn’t
want my son to stray down that path… The idea of becoming a priest!…
GERVASIO: (Incisive and
servile). Would the master... ahem, care to refresh himself with a cold
cider?…
PURITA: (Maliciously,
anticipating the betrayal with an allegory). I fear to mention, if I may,
that unfortunately the only remaining bottle of cider has spoiled. It seems
someone opened it and left the cap off.
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: We can live without the cider, and thank you for informing us so
opportunely; I detest things that go to waste.
DON
MANUEL: (Picking up his train of thought). It’s important what I’m about
to tell you, Manuel. I’ve been thinking that you should take an advanced course
in accounting and administration, over at the University of Alcalá de
Henares—they say it has been completely renovated. It would do you good to lean
more toward business and less toward your dream worlds.
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: I believe what the boy needs is to integrate himself into high society.
It would do you good, son, to sign up for the Youth Section of the National
Movement… This Monday I shall speak with the Magistrate Solomillo's wife. From
what I hear, she has a marriageable daughter: very pious and from a very good
family.
DOÑA ENRIQUETA: No, no, she’s not pious. Her name is Pía, but
that doesn't mean she’s devout. Though taking the vows would certainly do my
nephew good, since he hasn't married and we haven't seen him with a girlfriend
yet…
DON
MANUEL: What on earth are you on about now? You’re just talking nonsense,
without rhyme, reason, or a head on your shoulders.
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: That’s not how you say it…
DOÑA
ENRIQUETA: Well, honestly! Are you two both going to gang up on me now?
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: I meant that’s not how the proverb goes.
MANOLO: (Speaking up to
protest in his own way through the commentary). "To foolish words, a
merchant's ears."
DON
MANUEL: And what on earth has bitten you?
MANOLO: (Insisting on his
random comments just to annoy them). "Water that you shall not drink,
let it flow away."
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: My goodness, what are you saying! The tripe must have gone to his head.
MANOLO: "Shoemaker,
stick to your shoes."
DON
MANUEL: Now that’s what I’m talking about! That is my favorite saying; it’s the
one that represents our family.
DOÑA
ENRIQUETA: (Joining in the dynamic, but with completely absurd sayings).
"To the squeals of a pig, a bartender's ears! Better late than never,
green sleeves, for the donkey is already dead and the barley is at its
tail!"
DON
MANUEL: And what does that have to do with anything, Doña Enriqueta, for
heaven's sake…
MANOLO: Dear family, I am
leaving.
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: My boy, don't be rude. And don't get angry, you’re the one who started
all this chatter.
MANOLO: I am not angry, I’m
just giving you notice… Mother, father, aunt… It is imperative that I go to the
Indies to do as I please.
(MANOLO
tries to get up, but his father cuts him off).
DON
MANUEL: (Banging the table with his fork). What's the rush, son? I will
not tolerate such insolence! Too much reading has addled your brain, just like
the One-Handed Man of Lepanto…
DOÑA
ENRIQUETA: (Speaking boldly despite still having a mouthful of tripe). I
knew him, he was quite the gentleman…
DON
MANUEL: You knew Cervantes, you say? Or the Knight of the Sorrowful
Countenance?
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: Let’s stop this nonsense, Enriqueta. You go wash the dishes and the
stove.
MANOLO: (Suffocating,
finally fed up, stands up, knocks over his chair and screams). I said I’m
leaving! Is that not clear?! I don’t want to be a shoemaker for the rest of my
life, I don’t want a marriage, and I don’t want a cassock… I’m telling you
right now: I’m going to San Francisco with Curro and Amparo to start a
commune!".
(A
deathly silence. The plates turn cold instantly).
Scene
III: The Reactionary's Tragedy
Space:
Don Manuel’s office inside the shoe shop.
GERVASIO
and PURITA hand Don Manuel some magazines they found in Curro’s locker, which
talk about the "wonderful liberation of the hippie world."
DON
MANUEL: Wonderful liberation my foot… Gervasio, tell me why you kept this from
me until now…
GERVASIO: We thought we should
have some irrefutable proof before taking this step, isn't that right, Purita?
PURITA: I…
DON
MANUEL: (Ignoring Purita completely). I want you to bring them right
here to me, both of them. We’ll see what those reckless brats have to say for
themselves.
(Manolo
enters, followed by Amparo and Curro).
MANOLO: There's no need,
father. We are already here, free to face you.
CURRO: That’s right, Manuel.
It’s an act of freedom, just like the one I exercise by calling you by your
first name.
DON
MANUEL: What unbelievable nerve!
AMPARO: You address us in
that manner, you tell us: "Hurry up with those numbers," "be
more polite," "if you don't like your job you can go look for
employment elsewhere"… Does that sound familiar?
CURRO: Well, what do you
think, Manuel? We have found, if not another job, then certainly another
future: a dignified and beautiful one.
GERVASIO: (Trying to
maintain his composure in front of the boss, whispers to Purita). Did you
hear that, my love? These scumbags think our work is undignified. Good riddance
to them.
PURITA: (Whispering).
Speak softly, your voice is booming and the master will hear us.
CURRO: Ah, what a surprise
to learn that you two are a couple. At least you have to tolerate each other.
AMPARO: But that goes against
the business protocol. Relationships between members of this shoe shop are
strictly forbidden. Just like sticking your hideous noses into our lockers. You
vultures!
GERVASIO: Don't push my
patience, you filthy hippie girl, because I wouldn’t hesitate to answer you
with blows.
PURITA: Nor would
I!
DON
MANUEL: And I am not going to dirty my hands. Out! Get out of my shoe shop
immediately, you foul-smelling vermin, you trash.
MANOLO: That’s enough,
father! I won’t allow you to speak to us like that. If you throw them out, you
throw me out too. Have a nice life, you capitalist pig.
DON
MANUEL: To me? Are you speaking to me like that? I can't believe my ears.
(DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN enters, in full tearful blackmail mode).
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: (Melodramatic and Catholic blackmail mode). A commune!
Outrageous! Where women share everything and the bathrooms are mixed! And the
women walk around just like that, out in the open, without a single bra for
decency's sake, and even the men walk around naked with all their parts on
display…! I cannot bear it—you are going to give me a heart attack, Manolo. Is
this what I gave birth to you for? For you to mingle with the rabble? For you
to renounce the Cross and the National Movement? (To Curro and Amparo).
I’m sure you’re satisfied now, you vermin.
DON
MANUEL: MISCREANTS!
PURITA: SCUM!
CURRO: Alright, alright,
we're leaving. We leave you to your brave new world, with your order, your
crosses, and your convents.
AMPARO: Are you coming,
Manolo?
MANOLO: Of course, of course
I'm coming. Father, mother... remember me just like this, because the next time
you see me, my hair will be long and my feet will be bare… I’ll be a hippie,
and one of the best.
DON
MANUEL: (Furious, his face turning purple). I will not tolerate hippies
in my house, is that clear?! In Calzados Albaladejo? Never! I’d rather see this
business burned to the ground first! Vagrants! Thugs! Rabble! Flea-ridden
parasites! Drug addicts! Long-haired pieces of shit! Slackers! Parlor anarchists!
Infiltrated communists! Destroyers of the homeland! Traitors to... to... to...!
(Don Manuel presses his hand to his chest, his face already purple, unable
to catch his breath). ...to my own blood!
(DON
MANUEL suffers a heart attack. The attack is real, but it is also the ultimate
and most powerful tool of patriarchal control. He collapses onto the desk,
knocking over the autumn-winter season shoe catalogs).
DON
MANUEL: (In Manolo's arms, with his last breath, the father demands…).
Promise me... by the memory of your grandparents... the shoe shop... don't
leave it... (Don Manuel
faints).
Scene
IV: The Corridor of Concessions
Space:
The hospital corridor or the backroom in twilight, right after the father’s
collapse.
MANOLO
is unable to overcome his crushing sense of guilt. DOÑA ASUNCIÓN embraces him,
with a hint of inner satisfaction, knowing that despite her son's suffering,
she has won.
MANOLO: (Justifying
himself to his mother). It will only be for a few years, mother. I’ll take
charge. The business will grow stronger; I’ll take marketing courses... But
listen to me carefully: once I am the absolute owner, when I have enough
capital and father is no longer around to suffer... then I will sell everything
and leave.
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: (Smiling with maternal malice; she knows the system has already
trapped him). Of course, son, of course... whatever you say. I’ve always
trusted you; I know that, deep down, you are a good person, no matter what
you're like. Just keep your desires contained. And if you can't overcome your
cravings, handle them without affecting the family, and without anyone ever
knowing about your… needs.
MANOLO: (Confused).
Right… thank you? I don’t know, mother. Suddenly I feel like I’m caught in a
spiderweb.
DOÑA
ASUNCIÓN: Son, I have an important meeting, I must leave you. But think about it, truly: you are the best.
Scene
V: The Dismal Grey
Inside
the main display window of "Calzados Albaladejo."
MANOLO
is slouched in the executive chair. He wears his father’s grey suit, which
hangs loosely from his shoulders, and sports the very same trimmed mustache.
CURRO and AMPARO enter, ready to begin their journey. The contrast is brutal:
they look modern and rebellious, wearing faded jeans, frayed clothes, strappy
sandals, and coarse cloth bags crossed over their chests. An uncomfortable
silence fills the room; the distance between the new boss and his old
companions is measured entirely by their clothes.
MANOLO: (Without looking
them in the eye, he offers them money). Take this for the trip. I... have
to stay for a while. Suddenly I've had to take on new responsibilities, but
when the time is right and everything is running on autopilot, I’ll join you in
California.
CURRO: (Resentful and
clear). You’ll never come, Manolo. Those shoes are too big for you. Sitting
there, behind that solemn old desk, you look like you’re wearing your father's
costume. You even talk like him now. New responsibilities that you didn’t
choose... What a shame you gave up before even trying. You’ve killed your own
freedom. Will you walk barefoot in Eden? I don’t think so.
AMPARO: (Handing him her
miniskirt). Take this, a souvenir of rebellion. Maybe you too can choose
not to dress so formally; you could wear some jeans, you're the boss after all…
Do you really want to please your oppressor?… Open your eyes, Manuel... Follow
your path, we’ll follow ours.
They
leave. The doors of the shoe shop close with a metallic clink that sounds
exactly like a prison cell.
Closing
The
shop falls into silence. MANOLO buries his head in his hands, crushed by the
surrounding shoe boxes. Aunt ENRIQUETA enters wearing a black mantilla. She
looks at him, wipes the dust off a loafer with her jacket sleeve, and speaks
with total nonchalance:
AUNT
ENRIQUETA: Well, Manolito, don’t be like that. Look on the bright side: when
you’re the big boss of all this and your pockets are full, you can go to San
Francisco with your long-haired friends... After all, you’re single and free of
commitments, like girlfriends, or… friendships… Don’t worry, child, nobody will
notice you’re gone if you ever choose to take life into your own hands.
THE END
