BRIEF MONOLOGUE OF THE DIVA (RELOADED) A Monologue By GAVARRE BENJAMIN.

  

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BRIEF MONOLOGUE OF THE DIVA (RELOADED)

A Monologue

By GAVARRE BENJAMIN

This work has been published for free and open dissemination, although all intellectual property rights are reserved. Public use of this work requires permission from the author and for permission contact bengavarre@gmail.com or gavarreunam@gmail.com (Reg. Prop. Int. Expte. Inbox)

Characters:

• Voices of Actors: (From backstage, whispers, shouts, murmurs)

• Voiceover: (The Stage Manager)

• Diva: (Patricia)

(The curtain, a picturesque and cliché thing alluding to some dusty Chekhov revival, looks like a forgotten relic. The air is tense, suffocating. The Stage Manager's voice is heard over the intercom, calling places with an exaggerated, almost ecstatic tone. "Places, please" is a blissful sigh. "Five minutes" is a gasp. "Curtain" is a long, unequivocal moan so audible the audience wonders if the show has already started. Suddenly, the harsh white work lights flash on, revealing chaos. The show is not starting. From backstage, insults and shouts are heard.)

Voices of Actors (From backstage): — That’s it, Diva! You’re plastered!

Diva: — (Her shrieks and efforts to defend herself are heard) Get offa me! How dare you! What do you mean you’re not letting me go on! I’m the Star! That stage is mine! And these eighties spandex pants are a goddamn horror show. Let me go!

Voices of Actors (Henceforth "Voices"): — You’re hammered. Get it through your head, Patricia! Nobody wants to hire you! You’re a nightmare to work with. Don’t ruin this for us! People paid to see Chekhov, not you. Please, just get out.

Diva: — A favor? I’ll be the one doing you a favor by working in your pathetic little show. Jesus. “Scenes from Chekhov,” for the love of God. What’s next? A Christmas pageant in Queens? Some nativity play with drunk and stoned actors? What a complete lack of respect for post… modern… Art! At least when they hear I’m in it, the audience will come to see ME. You hear me? ME! (A stagehand dressed in black approaches) — Don’t you touch me! Let me go! My public awaits! And I really have to pee!

Voices: — That’s it, Diva, you’re nuts, you’re drunk! We’re calling the cops, you old hag!

Diva: — (She stumbles onto the stage, tripping on the curtain and nearly falling. She composes herself, smiles at the audience, and pulls a lipstick from her purse to do a touch-up, while the chaos continues behind her). I have arrived! My adoring public; I’m here! (A small spotlight hits her). So, where’s my spotlight? Is that my spotlight? That’s not a spotlight, it’s a friggin’ flashlight from a camping trip! (She looks up at the tech booth). Hey, sweetheart! Art isn't improvised, it’s lit. You have no idea who I am! Are you new here, you little punk? (The lights go out completely). Hilarious. What, did Con Ed shut off the power? Figures. Some NYU production… and not even from Tisch… you’re probably from Gallatin… y’know… where they steal the damn seats… never mind the lighting equipment… (A single overhead spotlight switches on above the Diva). That’s more like it. A little respect. (Suddenly the light goes out and another one snaps on far away from her. She scurries into the new light like a giant moth. The audience murmurs, some laugh. The Diva points at "someone" in the audience, or an empty seat, to avoid actual confrontation…). Real funny. You, the guy in the stupid hat with the schmuck face… No, not you, ya jagoff. The other one… Moron. Broke-ass… Oh. It wasn’t you. Because me, people respect me. (The light goes out again. The Diva lights herself with the flashlight from her purse, the very one she just insulted). Everybody does what I say. My beloved audience: I know you missed me!

Voices: — We already called for an ambulance. We’re sending you to Bellevue, you crazy bitch! You’re Borderline, or at least Bi.

Diva: — I’m not Bi… I am. I am… I’m not Bi, I’m… A bicycle, that’s what I am! A SoulCycle bike that’s never, ever getting off this stage. I am… a free spirit! And I’m not bi, I’m… I… I’m fluid…

Voices: — Freakin' maniac. We're not talkin' bisexual or 'fluid' or whatever the hell you are today, you goddamn shapeshifter.

Diva: — I’m not a bicycle, or a shapeshifter… I am…

Voices: — BIPOLAR!

Diva: — (She laughs, a huge, exaggerated cackle, like a soap opera villain). Ha, ha! How clever, my darlings. Well yes, my dear admirers. You should know that I am… I AM… a star. A star is classified, according to the book by Tomking, or Tombling, or Tompkins… Who gives a damn? The point is, it’s a book. Number One: A star must always be like me. Center stage, with the spotlight right on her. (The overhead spot illuminates her, as if the light itself has surrendered to her whim). Thank you! (To the tech). And don’t you move it. Unless I say so. You all know I’m the only star here!

The Art of Being a Diva and the Handbook for Success

Diva: — (She pulls out a fan and fans herself gracefully. She sits on the floor as if it were a chaise lounge and reclines dramatically). Am I feeling flustered, confused, disenchanted, subject to unidentifiable ailments? Yes, I must admit it. But it’s not that I need my shrink. In fact, I’m absolutely thrilled with the idea of not having any leading roles with these… these… these… third-rate actors! I work alone. And I’m doing marvelously!

Voices: — That’s why you’re unemployed.

Diva: — Three! Three Tony nominations! The envy of hundreds of women… and men… Well, you know what I mean. I, who have filled the silver screen with huge, massive, epic close-ups of my fabulous lips! (She makes an exaggerated duck face). Please. I’m not here to ask anyone for favors. In fact, I have musical talent, I’ll prove it to you. (She pulls a small ukulele from her purse). Listen to one of my most recent and beloved compositions. (She sings terribly out of tune with a forced, breathy accent). My Fuuuuuunny Valentineeeee, Sweeeet, comic… Funnyyy Valentinneeeee… (She stops, silent for a moment, waiting for applause that never comes). Something like that. What do you think? Divine, no?… No?… NO! Why are you looking at me like that? What’s the problem? Do I look the part or am I the part? I AM THE PART! You get it? I, well. I’ll tell you. I was born a Diva. I am the Diva. Diva Diva. I am divine, made by God. I am of God. If you don’t believe me, just look at my… body. My… assets… (She theatrically touches her chest and hips). They’re genuine, no injections, I swear… They cost me… years of effort, of exercise… and a surgery that never happened!

Voices: — You’re full of plastic!

Diva: — (She ignores the comment, or pretends to). Anyway, what can I tell you? Obviously, nobody here has read Tompkins, my bible, the bible of any self-respecting actress. (She pulls out a book with a blank white cover, like the Star’s Holy Book). Let’s see what it says: "The Star, meaning Me, must look charming at all times. She must always, reservedly, maintain her private life. She must never hide anything from the Press, never. She should stay home and take care of her health. She should be seen frequently in… no, no, no, no: in select, but public, places. That’s it. She must… Always be the center of attention."

Voices: — Oh, shut the hell up! Let us do our show!

Diva: — A self-respecting Diva must never wear the same dress twice. She must be like me, just as I am, so that no one could ever, not even by chance, venture to know… about the clear and manifest mystery that surrounds her… That’s why no one has my number, that's why we must live apart in marvelous mansions, surrounded by imposing bodyguards, always ready to protect us, to watch over our integrity… Our beauty… Our sanity. (She takes out a handkerchief and dries a tear with exaggeration). And don’t you dare say I’m exaggerating! My assets have cost me… a lot of effort. I have cultivated my status with more than a thousand daily push-ups… and a diet of only air and drama! (She suddenly stands up and strikes a wrestler's pose). Aren’t you going to shout something now, you ill-mannered pigs?

Voices: — No, we’re listening with great interest, yeah, sure.

Diva: — My gifts as an actress, well, as you know, are priceless, but my assets, my legs, my cute little ass, my boobs…

Voices: — All fake.

Diva: — Well, they’re insured, for more money than these broke-ass college kids will ever see. Millions of dollars, you know? Just in case you ever think of touching me, you should know I’m more secure than a building on Wall Street!

Voices: — You’re made of silicone!

Diva: — Ugh, these peasants, they must be from that Gallatin school, you know… they go on strike, ha. (She blows a kiss into the air). And… as I was saying, I’ve worked in many shows. Always as the Star, of course. You’ll remember me, it’s useless to ask… I embodied the greatest figure of the American Screen… Back then my name wasn't Patricia, not Norma, not Joan… although Joan suits me, like Joan Crawford, you know, Joan… Ah. Joan… Well no, I wasn’t Joan… I was the new Marilyn. Marilyn… Monroe.

Voices: — Oh, here we go. The Marilyn crap again.

Diva: — NO! Of course, of course, it wasn't like that. I wasn't Marilyn, though she wishes she were me, the idiot… I was… Bette Davis in… in… All About Eve! Oh God, what a horror! How could anyone forget a name like Bette Davis! What a horror!

Voices: — You weren’t Bette Davis.

Diva: — Exactly! That’s right, it was me. I died tragically… but that was in another life…

Voices: — You’re insane!

The Diva’s Final Act

Diva: — And yes, it’s a golden rule: one must not pay attention to the vicious voices that try to dim One’s light, One who is Regal, who is Supreme, who is, as one might say: The Ultimate Marvel on the Stage! The one-woman show!

Voices: — Are you leaving or what? The show’s about to start! You’re in the way.

Diva: — Heh, heh. My dear audience, I was talking about Tompkins, or Tomblin, or Thompson. Yes. My constitution is Rara Avis, you know? A rare bird. I am The Star. I have worked on many famous stages. I am. I Am… What more could you ask for. I AM. Is that clear?

Voices: — Get the hell out!

Diva: — Heh, heh. The first thing a Diva like me must do is ignore the bland, abject comments of low-class people, you know? Of godless degenerates, of sell-outs, Neo-Hippies, of post-modern Resentfuls with no future like the ones yelling at me. Ah, if only they knew the basics of the Tompkins Manual, where I… I was educated. I’m a scholar. I know it by heart!

Voices: — You started out singing in some dive bar on Bleecker Street! WE actually went to Juilliard!

Diva: — Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha. What is this they want to present to you, my distinguished Public? Scenes from Chekhov? What? CHEK… hov. From before! So old-fashioned! I, on the other hand, am a professional. I’ve worked…

Voices: — You were a waitress. Go to the psych ward.

Diva: — With Strasberg, with Adler, with Elia Kazan, with Sondheim. (The Diva boasts of her teachers, but the names seem to fade in the confusion of her mind).

Voices: — You’re ancient. Strasberg? They don’t even remember him. You mean you did a workshop on Zoom!

Diva: — No, babies. With Brecht, who was my mentor… Tompkins used to say…

Voices: — You don’t even know your lines!

Diva: — Tom Kings is the manual, par excellence, par antonomasia. (She strikes the pose of a Greek statue).

Voices: — Whaaaaat? Your breath smells like ass!

Diva: — How vulgar! The Manual, it says: "A star of my dazzling condition can only accept leading roles in great, HUGE productions!"

A single voice: — What!? They picked you up on the West Side Highway? How much was it, hot stuff!

Diva: — Tasteless, stupid, backwards, lowlifes! Have you ever heard of anyone as versatile, as unparalleled, as peerless, as MEEEEE? I’ll demonstrate: (She strikes a tragic pose, hands on her chest). "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers!" (She switches characters). "But you are, Blanche, you are in the chair! You're in the chair!"

Voices: — That’s not even from the same play. One is Williams, the other is… whatever that movie was.

Diva: — Yes, yes, yes. Yesss. Yessssss. To hell with Tennessee Williams! Don’t think I’m an ignoramus.

Voices: — Yes, you are!

Diva: — Anyway. Fine. Whatever. Boo-hoo. Well, my dear public. I Am. I am. Some call me the Diva, Others…

Voice, serious, male, from the tech booth: — Hey, Gustavo, get off the stage.

Diva: — (Utterly bewildered. For a moment, the character shatters, revealing a vulnerable being). What? I’m sorry, I don’t understand.

Voiceover: — Yeah, Gustavo, get off. Now. The audience paid, they’re waiting for a show, and you’re in the way. NOW… Get off the stage, Gustavo.

Diva: — But how can that be. I, Juilliard, Stella Adler, I mean, no, gross: The Actors Studio, Yale School of Drama, the highest marks in… Red International Society Progress in the Theatre Performance for the Retro… Post-Retro… Neo-Retro, Post… How can this be? I… I… I am the star!

Voiceover: — That's right, Patricia. I’m sorry. It’s not personal. I mean, Gustavo. You’re finished. Get off the stage nicely, please, or you don’t want us to get the union involved.

Diva: — And by whose right, you backwards, stupid, imbecilic, brainless, fools…? I am still an actress without equal, I AM BEAUTIFUL, I AM PEERLESS, I AM, even with my thousands of years that I will not reveal, I am exquisite, I am egregious, I am incalculable. Imbeciles. You dare to price ME? To weigh ME? You, who didn’t even study. You dare to measure, to judge such an exquisite actress????? I am Patricia… Gustavo has been gone for a long, long time. I demand respect. You’re nothing but a pack… a flock of morons. Don’t kid yourselves. The Public supports me, right, public? Right? Right? (She turns to the audience, searching for confirmation, for applause, for a minimal murmur. There is only silence. A heavy, uncomfortable silence. The only sound is the buzzing of a fly… Maybe someone does support her). You, sir? Yes?

Diva: — (In a whisper, to herself). But what about the rest. Idiots, what, they don't know. They don't know. They don't know. (She laughs without humor). Anyway, YOU PEOPLE DON’T KNOW ANYTHING! …N’est-ce pas?… Isn’t that right?… I AM an informed woman. I know French. And much more. I know things. I’m a translator, you idiots. I’m an artist, DON’T YOU GET IT? Nooo? Oh, well. If you don’t get it. Then… I’m leaving! I HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO!!!!!! (She stands with dignity, but suddenly stumbles). Adieu, idiots. You don’t know how valuable I am. YOU NEVER KNEW. ADIEU! Hasta la vista! (She walks towards the wings, but stops at the edge of the stage).

Voiceover: — Gustavo, hey. Sorry… Patricia.

Diva: — ¿Yes?

Voiceover: — You’re the best!

Diva: — (She turns, smiling and triumphant, with tears of joy in her eyes). I’ve always known it! And you finally called me by my name. Good for you. Gustavo’s been gone a long, long time. I am… I am… Divine! (She turns and exits into the wings, leaving the audience and actors in a stunned silence). Divine!

BLACKOUT

END OF PLAY

BREVE BREVE MONÓLOGO DE LA DIVA DIVA (RELOADED) Monólogo de la Diva De Ben Gavarre

 

BREVE BREVE MONÓLOGO DE LA DIVA DIVA (RELOADED)

Monólogo de la Diva

 

De 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)

Personajes

 * Voces de actores y actrices: (Desde bastidores, susurros, gritos, murmullos)

 * Voz en off: (Del director de escena)

 * Diva: (Patricia)

(El telón, pintoresco y cliché, alusivo a una obra de Cervantes, parece una reliquia olvidada. El ambiente se siente tenso y sofocante. Se escucha la voz del traspunte, con un tono de éxtasis exagerado, anunciando las llamadas. La primera es un suspiro de beatitud. La segunda, un jadeo. La tercera es un gemido tan largo, inequívoco y audible que el público se pregunta si la función ya empezó. De repente, las luces blancas de trabajo se encienden, revelando un caos. La obra no va a comenzar. Desde bastidores, se escuchan insultos y gritos.)

Voces de actores y actrices (Desde bastidores). — ¡Ya, Diva! ¡Estás borracha!

Diva. — (Se escuchan sus alaridos y sus esfuerzos por defenderse) ¡Suéltenme! ¡Pero cómo se atreven! ¡Cómo que no me van a dejar salir! ¡Si yo soy la Estrella! ¡El escenario es mío! Y este pantalón de licra de los ochenta es un horror. ¡Suéltenme!

Voces de actores y actrices (De aquí en adelante Voces). — Estás borracha. ¡Ya, Patricia!, ¡entiende que nadie te quiere llamar a trabajar! Eres demasiado problemática. ¡No nos arruines la función! La gente vino a ver una obra de Cervantes no a ti. Por favor salte.

Diva. — ¿Un favor? Yo les voy a hacer el favor de trabajar en su mugroso numerito. Guácatelas. “Entremeses de Cervantes”, por el amor de Dios. ¿Qué sigue? ¿Una posada con villancicos? ¿Una pastorela con borrachos y pachecos? ¡Qué falta de consideración con el Arte pos… moderno! Por lo menos, al enterarse de que voy a actuar yo, el público vendrá a verme a mí. ¿Me escucharon? ¡A MÍ! (Llega un personaje Comodín vestido de negro) ¡No me toques! ¡Suéltenme! ¡Mi público me espera! ¡Y tengo ganas de orinar!

Voces. — ¡Ya, Diva, estás loca, ¡estás borracha! ¡Vamos a llamar a la policía, ¡vieja babosa!

Diva. — (Sale al escenario, tropezando con el telón y por poco cae. Se acomoda, sonríe al público, y saca un labial de su bolso para retocarse, mientras el caos detrás de ella continúa). ¡Heme aquí! ¡Mi querido público; ya llegué! (Se ilumina un pequeño reflector sobre ella). Y bien, ¿dónde está mi reflector? ¿Ese es mi reflector? ¡Eso no es un reflector, es una linterna de campamento! (Mira al técnico). ¡Ah, mi cielo! El arte no se improvisa, se ilumina. ¡No sabes quién soy! ¿Eres nuevo en este negocio, técnico de cuarta? (Las luces se apagan por completo). ¡Qué gracia! ¿Acaso no pagaron la luz y se las cortaron? Ya lo decía yo, teatro universitario… Y ni siquiera del CUT… Han de ser de Filosofía y Letras… Ya saben… Se roban hasta las butacas… Ya de los reflectores mejor ni… (Una luz cenital se enciende sobre la Diva). Así me gusta, que me respeten. (De pronto el cenital se apaga y otro se prende lejos de donde está la Diva. Ella, corre a ponerse debajo de la nueva luz, como una polilla gigante. Se oyen murmullos del público, algunos se ríen. La diva “señala” a “alguien” del público, o a una butaca vacía, para no incomodar…). Muy gracioso. Tú, el del sombrerito con cara de pendejo… No, no tú, baboso. El otro…  Estúpido. Muerto de hambre… Ah. No eras tú. Porque a mí, a mí me respetan. (La luz se apaga por completo otra vez. La Diva se ilumina ella sola con la linterna que sacó de su bolso, la misma linterna que ella despreció hace segundos). A mí todo el mundo me hace los mandados. Mi público adorado: ¡Sé que me extrañaban!

Voces. — Ya mandamos por una ambulancia. Te vamos a mandar al manicomio, ¡vieja loca! Eres Borderline, o por lo menos Bi.

Diva. — No soy Bi... soy. Soy... No soy Bi, soy... ¡Una bicicleta, eso soy! Una bicicleta de spinning que nunca se va a bajar de este escenario. Soy... ¡un alma libre! Y no soy bi, soy… Yo… Yo fluyo…

Voces. — Pinche maniática. No queremos decir bisexual, ni fluida, aunque lo seas, pinche polimorfa.

Diva. — No soy bicicleta, ni polimorfa… soy...

Voces. — ¡BIPOLAR!

Diva. — (Ríe a carcajadas, exageradamente, como una villana de telenovela). ¡Ja, ja! Qué ocurrentes, mis amores. Pues sí, mis queridos admiradores. Sabrán que soy... SOY... una estrella. Una estrella se clasifica, según el libro de Tomking, o de Tombling, o de Tomphinks… ¿A quién le importa? El punto es que es un libro. Número Uno: Una estrella siempre debe estar como yo. Al frente del escenario, con el cenital encima. (Se ilumina el cenital sobre ella, como si la luz misma se rindiera ante su capricho). ¡Gracias! (Al técnico). Y que no se mueva. A menos que yo lo diga. ¡Saben que soy la única estrella aquí!

 

El arte de ser una Diva y el manual del éxito   

Diva. — (Saca un abanico y se abanica con gracia. Se sienta en el suelo, como si fuera un diván, y se recuesta de forma dramática). ¿Que si me siento abochornada, confundida, desencantada, sujeta a malestares inidentificables? Sí, debo admitirlo. Pero no es que necesite a mi psicoanalista. Es más, estoy absolutamente feliz con la idea de no tener roles protagónicos con estos... estos... estos... ¡actores de tercera! Yo trabajo sola. ¡Y me va de maravilla!

Voces. — Por eso estás desempleada.

Diva. — ¡Tres! ¡Tres nominaciones a los premios de la academia! Envidia de cientos de mujeres... Y de hombres... Bueno, es un decir. ¡Yo que he llenado las pantallas con grandes, grandes, grandes acercamientos a mis fabulosos labios! (Hace un "duck face" exagerado). Por favor. Yo no estoy para pedirle favores a nadie. Es más, tengo talento musical, se los demuestro. (Saca un pequeño ukelele de su bolso). Oigan una de mis más recientes y entrañables composiciones. (Canta desafinadamente y con un acento muy forzado). My Fuuuuuuny Valentineeeee, Sweett, sweet... Funnyyy Valentinneeeee... (Se detiene, se queda en silencio por un momento, esperando aplausos que no llegan). Eso es por el estilo. ¿Qué les parece? Divino, ¿no?... ¿No?... ¡No! ¿Por qué me miran así? ¿Qué pasa? ¿Soy o me parezco? ¡Soy! ¿Lo entienden? Yo, bueno. Se los diré. Nací Diva. Soy la Diva. La Diva Diva. Soy divina, hecha por Dios. Soy de Dios. Si no, miren nada más mi... cuerpo. Mis... atributos... (Se toca el pecho y las caderas con teatralidad). Son genuinos, nada de inyecciones, lo juro... ¡Me costaron... años de esfuerzo, de ejercicio... y de una cirugía que no existió!

Voces. — ¡Estás operada!

Diva. — (Ignora el comentario, o finge que lo hace). Y bueno, ¿qué quieren que les diga? Aquí por lo visto nadie ha leído el Tompkins, mi libro de cabecera, el libro de cabecera de toda actriz que se respete. (Saca un libro con la portada en blanco, como si fuera la Biblia de las Estrellas). Veamos lo que dice: "La Estrella, es decir Yo, debe verse encantadora en cualquier momento. Debe mantener, siempre, de manera reservada, su vida privada. No deberá ocultar nada a la Prensa, eso nunca. Deberá quedarse en casa y cuidar su salud. Dejarse ver con frecuencia en los sitios.... No, no, no, no, no: en los lugares selectos, pero públicos. Es así. Deberá... Ser siempre el centro de atención".

Voces. — ¡Ya no fastidies! ¡Déjanos trabajar!

Diva. — Una Diva que se respete no deberá usar nunca el mismo vestido. Deberá ser como yo, así, tal como soy, sin que nunca nadie pueda ni por casualidad aventurarse a saber... sobre el claro y manifiesto misterio que la envuelve... Por eso no tiene nadie mi teléfono, por eso, debemos vivir apartadas en mansiones maravillosas, rodeadas de guardaespaldas imponentes, siempre dispuestos a protegernos, a velar por nuestra integridad... Nuestra belleza... Nuestra cordura. (Saca un pañuelo y se seca una lágrima de forma exagerada). ¡Y no me digan que estoy exagerando! Mis atributos me han costado... mucho esfuerzo. He cosechado mi estado con más que mil lagartijas cotidianas... ¡Y una dieta de solo aire y drama! (Se pone de pie de repente y se pone en pose de luchadora). ¡No van a gritar nada ahora, maleducados?

Voces. — No, te escuchamos muy interesados, sí como no.

Diva. — Mis dotes como actriz, pues, ya saben, son invaluables, pero mis atributos, mis piernas, mi traserito lindo, mis bubis...

Voces. — Todo falso.

Diva. — Pues están asegurados, en más dinero de lo que estos pobres piojosos universitarios nunca sabrán. Millones de dólares, ¿lo saben? ¡Por si alguna vez se les ocurre tocarme, sabrán que estoy más asegurada que un edificio de Wall Street!

Voces. — ¡Estás hecha de silicón!

Diva. — Ay, estos pelados, han de ser de Filosofía ya saben… hacen huelgas, je. (Le tira un beso al aire). Y… Como les decía, He trabajado en varios espectáculos. Siempre como la Estrella, claro. Me recordarán, es inútil preguntarles... Yo encarné a la máxima figura del Cine Nacional... En ese entonces me llamaba, no Patricia, no Sara, no María... Aunque Sara me queda bien, como Sara la conocen, Sara... Ah. Sara... Pues no, yo no era Sara... Era Blanca Estela. Blanca Estela Bernard.

Voces. — Ahora resulta. La Félix otra vez.

Diva. — ¡No! Claro, claro, no era así, No era María, aunque brincos diera, la estúpida... Era... Blanca Estela Pavo.... ¿Pavo? ¡Pavo! ¡Qué horror! ¡Cómo alguien puede llamarse Blanca estela Pavo! ¡Qué horror!

Voces. — Pavón.

Diva. — ¡Claro! Blanca Estela Pavón, esa sí era yo. Me caí del avión... pero eso fue en otra vida...

Voces. — ¡Estás loca!

 

El acto final de la Diva

Diva. — Y sí, es una máxima: una no debe hacer caso a las voces maldicientes que la tratan de opacar a Una, que es Regia, que es Máxima, que es como si se pudiera decir: ¡La Máxima Maravilla sobre el escenario! ¡El espectáculo de una sola mujer!

Voces. — ¡Ya te vas o qué, la obra ya va a comenzar! Estorbas.

Diva. — Je, je. Mi querido público, les hablaba de Tompinks, o de Tomblns, o de Tompsin. Sí. Mi constitución es Rara Avis, lo saben, ¿no? Soy La Estrella. He trabajado en diversos escenarios y afamados. Soy. Yo Soy…. Qué más puedes pedir. SOY. ¿Eso está claro?

Voces. — ¡Que te largues!

Diva. — Je, je. Lo primero que debe hacer Una Diva como yo, es ignorar los comentarios insulsos, abyectos, de gente de baja condición, ¿lo saben? De Desnaturalizados sin fin, de renegados, Neo Hippies, de Resentidos pos… modernos, sin futuro como los que me gritan. Ah, si supieran las bases del Manual de Tompens, en donde yo…. Me he instruido. Yo soy universitaria. ¡Me lo sé de memoria!

Voces. — ¡Si comenzaste en el Blanquita! NOSOTROS SÍ ESTUDIAMOS.

Diva. — Ah, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja. ¿Qué es esto que quieren presentar a ustedes, dilecto Público? ¿Los Entremeses de Cervantes? ¿Qué? CERV... an-tes. ¡De antes! ¡Qué antigüedad! Yo. En cambio. Soy profesional. He trabajado…

Voces. — Si eras mesera. Vete al psiquiátrico.

Diva. — Con Strasberg, con Sekisano, con Elia Kazan, con los Fábregas. (La Diva se jacta de sus maestros, pero los nombres parecen desvanecerse en el confusión de su mente).

Voces. — Ya estás vieja. ¿Los Fábregas?, ya ni se acuerdan, mejor dí Ocesa, o no sé… en: ¡Zoom!

Diva. — No, nenes. Con Brecht, que fue mi maestro… Thompinks decía…

Voces. — ¡Ya ni siquiera sabes qué sigue!

Diva. — Tom Kings es el manual, por excelencia, por antonomasia. (Se pone en pose de estatua griega).

Voces. — ¿Quéeeee? ¡Te huele el Chóstomo!

Diva. — ¡Qué Vulgares! El Manual, dice: "Una estrella de mi fulgurante condición solo puede aceptar protagónicos en grandes, ¡ingentes producciones!"

Voz sola. — ¡¿Quéee!? ¿Qué te levantaron en Insurgentes? ¿Y de a cómo mamacita!

Diva. — Insulsos, estultos, retrogradas, ¡tarambanas! ¿Han oído ustedes hablar de alguien tan versátil, tan sin igual, sin referencia, como YOOOOO? Les demuestro: (Se pone en pose trágica, con las manos en el pecho). ¡Fuego, fuego, que me quemo, que la cabaña se me abraza, ya dan a mis ojos agua, fuego amigos fuego, agua, agua…! ¡Agua! ¡Agua! ¡Agua, por favor! (La Diva se tira al suelo, pidiendo agua, mientras los actores de bastidores la observan sin hacer nada).

Voces. — Así no es. Conocemos la obra, es de Tirso. El Burlador…

Diva. — Sí, sí, sí. Sí, síí. Sííííi. ¡Al carajo Tirso de Mola! No crean que soy una ignorante.

Voces. — ¡Sí, lo eres!

Diva. — En fin. Ya. Bueno. Buhhhhh. Buahhhh. En fin, mi querido público. Yo Soy. Soy. Algunos me califican como la Diva, Otros...

Voz, seria, masculina, en off, desde cabina. — Oye, Gustavo, ya salte del escenario.

Diva. — (Desconcertadísima. Por un momento, el personaje se rompe y se revela un ser vulnerable). Qué, perdón, no entiendo.

Voz en off. — Sí, Gustavo, salte. Ya. Ahora. El público pagó, está esperando un espectáculo, y tú estorbas. YA… Salte, Gustavo.

Diva. — Pero cómo va a ser. Yo, CUT, Filosofía y Letras, digo, no, fuchi: Enat, Veracruzana, las más altas calificaciones en... Red International Society Progress in the Theatre Performance for the Retro... Pos Retro… Neo Retro, Pos… ¿Cómo va a ser? Yo... yo... ¡yo soy la estrella!

Voz en off. — Así, es Patricia. Lo siento. No es nada personal. Quiero decir, Gustavo. Estás acabada, acabado. ¡Salte por favor de la mejor manera o no querrás que las cosas se vayan a Derecho!

Diva. — ¿Y con el Derecho de quién, retrógradas, estúpidos, imbéciles, descerebrados, estultos…? Todavía soy una actriz sin igual, SOY HERMOSA, SOY SIN IGUAL, SOY, aun con mis miles de años que no voy a revelar, soy eximia, soy egregia, soy incalculable. Imbéciles. ¿Ustedes se atreven a tasarme a Mí? ¿A ponderarme a mí? Ustedes, que ni estudiaron. ¿Se atreven a medir, a juzgar a tan eximia actriz????? Yo soy Patricia… Gustavo hace mucho que ya no existe. Exijo respeto. No son más que una par… Una parvada de imbéciles. No se crean. El Público me apoya, ¿verdad, público, verdad, ¿verdad que sí?  (Se voltea a ver al público, buscando una confirmación, un aplauso, un mínimo murmullo. Solo hay silencio. Un silencio pesado, incómodo. El único sonido es el zumbido de una mosca… Tal vez Alguien sí la apoya). ¡Usted sí?

Diva. — (En un susurro, a sí misma). Pero y los demás. Idiotas, qué, no saben. No saben. No saben. (Se ríe sin gracia). En fin, ¡USTEDES NO SABEN NADA! … Nést-ce pas?... ¿No es así?... Yo Sí soy una mujer informada. Sé francés. Y mucho más. Sé. Soy traductora, estúpidos. Soy una artista, ¿NO ME ENTIENDEN? ¡Nooo? Ah, bueno. Pues si no entienden. Pues… ¡Me voy! ¡MEJORES COSAS TENGO QUE HACER!!!!!! (Se pone de pie con dignidad, pero de repente se tambalea). Abur, idiotas. No saben lo valiosa que soy. NUNCA LO SUPIERON. ¡ABUR! ¡Hasta la vista! (Camina hacia bastidores, pero se detiene en la boca del escenario).

Voz en off. — Gustavo, oye. Perdón… Patricia.

Diva. — ¿Sí?

Voz en off. — ¡Eres la mejor!

Diva. — (Se voltea, sonriente y triunfante, con lágrimas de felicidad en los ojos). ¡Siempre lo he sabido! Y por fin me llamas por mi nombre. Bien por ti.  Gustavo ya hace mucho que no está. Yo soy… Yo soy… ¡Divina! (Se da la vuelta y entra a bastidores, dejando al público y a los actores en un silencio estupefacto). ¡Divina!

 

OSCURO

 

 

 

FIN

GAVARRE BENJAMIN: AUTHOR'S BIO.

Professional Profile

Benjamín Gavarre Silva is a fundamental voice in contemporary Mexican dramaturgy, specializing in the architecture of the impossible and the "meaningful nonsense." His work—rooted in black humor, farce, and the Theatre of the Absurd—serves as a sharp lens for social critique and the exploration of human identity. With a career spanning over three decades, he has moved seamlessly from the stages of the International Cervantes Festival to the digital frontier. As the founder of dramavirtual.org, he leads one of the most significant digital repositories for Latin American drama, ensuring that regional voices find a global stage.

Gavarre Silva is a distinguished playwright, researcher, and professor at the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM), where he has held a senior lectureship at the Faculty of Philosophy and Letters for over 26 years. A Master of Comparative Literature and an expert in New Hispanic inquisitorial archives, his intellectual production bridges the gap between historical research and creative innovation. He is the author of several textbooks and theatrical collections, including Asesino Personal and Yo, el Peor de los Dragones. Through his platform dramavirtual.org, he remains at the forefront of digital humanities and the promotion of Ibero-American theatre.

He is a Mexican playwright and academic who masters the art of the absurd to dissect reality. A professor at UNAM and a digital pioneer, he directs dramavirtual.org, a leading hub for Latin American scripts. His writing blends satirical wit with deep human reflection, establishing him as an "architect of impossible worlds" in modern drama.

Professional Profile

Benjamín Gavarre Silva is a distinguished Mexican playwright, academic, and researcher whose literary corpus explores the intersections of black humor, farce, and the Theatre of the Absurd as vehicles for socio-political critique. With over 30 years of experience in dramatic literature, his work investigates identity, cultural synthesis, and the human condition within liminal and satirical situations.

As a pioneer in digital drama dissemination, he is the founder and director of dramavirtual.org. For nearly two decades, this platform has served as a vital hub for contemporary Latin American dramaturgy, where he curates his own repertoire alongside works by emerging and established regional voices, focusing on the preservation of modern theatrical heritage.

Juan Carlos Urístegui

Teatrólogo UNAT

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1. Academic Background & Languages

• M.A. in Comparative Literature (Summa Cum Laude) | UNAM, Faculty of Philosophy and Letters.

• B.A. in Dramatic Literature and Theatre (Honors) | UNAM, Faculty of Philosophy and Letters.

• Languages: French (Proficiency Diploma, CELE-UNAM) and English (Reading Comprehension, CELE-UNAM).

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2. Academic & Teaching Career

University Professorship (UNAM)

• Senior Lecturer | Faculty of Philosophy and Letters (1999–Present):

  • [Actualizado] With over 26 years of academic seniority at UNAM, he currently leads specialized courses in Textual Analysis I & II, Ibero-American Theatre I & II, and History of Theatrical Art (Ancient to Renaissance).

  • Active member of the Colegio de Literatura Dramática y Teatro, serving as a thesis advisor and jury member for numerous degree examinations.

Research & Academic Contributions

• Project Researcher | IIFL, UNAM: Expert in New Hispanic thought and Inquisitorial archives.

• Anthologist: Compiler of French dramatic literature for the Modern Letters academic series (UNAM).

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3. Selected Publications & Editorial Work

Recent Literary Releases [Actualizado 2022–2026]

• Obras Breves de Teatro de Imaginación y Fantasía para Adultos (2022): A compilation of three plays exploring the boundaries of the fantastic.

• Obras de Teatro Breves y Cómicas para Adolescentes (2022): A collection of scripts and monologues designed for young audiences, emphasizing dark humor and simple staging.

• Asesino Personal (The Novel): A narrative adaptation of his acclaimed theatrical work, expanding the psychological depth of his original characters.

Collaborative Textbooks

• Co-author | Español I & II Conexiones (Alfaguara-Nuevo México): Leading textbook series for Mexican secondary education, co-written with Alberto Chimal et al. (Continuously reprinted through 2026).

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4. Artistic Portfolio & Creative Production

Playwright (Highlights)

• Los Reyes Magos vs. El Imperio Naranja (2026): [Actualizado] A biting contemporary satire exploring the clash between tradition and modern geopolitics.

• Yo, el Peor de los Dragones: Finalist for the "Emilio Carballido" Award; internationally performed in Miami and Monterrey.

• Sala de Espera: FONCA-CONACULTA Fellowship project.

• Personas Inestables: A portrait of the Mexican middle-class anti-hero.

Digital Leadership

• Director of dramavirtual.org: A leading digital repository for Latin American drama, hosting satirical content, technical glossaries for students, and a vast collection of contemporary scripts.

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5. Acting & Direction Credits (Selected)

• Actor: Collaborations with legendary directors such as J.J. Gurrola, Hugo Hiriart, and Lydia Romero.

• Director: Specialized in Cervantes adaptations and original farces (La Fiesta de los Disfraces, En tres Cervantes te veas).

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Contact & Digital Presence

• Email: gavarreunam@gmail.com

• Official Website: www.dramavirtual.org

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THE REBELLIOUS MAID By Ben Gavarrë

THE REBELLIOUS MAID

By Ben Gavarrê

Contact bengavarre@gmail.com

Characters:

THE WIFE, gossipy, demanding, insufferable.

THE HUSBAND, lazy, henpecked, oaf, lame.

THE REBELLIOUS MAID, that is, a servant, REBELLIOUS, but also clever, sly, impossible, lame, stinky.

The action takes place in the home and inn "BOTANAS Y ENTREMESES," where The Wife and The Husband live and work. The play is reminiscent of the brief Spanish theatrical works from the time of Cervantes, but of course it only alludes to that era with a few elements. The costumes do not need to be reconstructions of the period, but also only suggested, with traits of our modern days and our customs, especially those related to the treatment of cleaning employees in our homes, and, on the other hand, their survival strategies, which make their "patrons'" lives impossible. For, as in any comedy, each person has their own vices of character.

The language tries to play with the style of Cervantine Spanish, but of course it is nothing more than a recreation with some modern idioms, and some words that are useless to look up in the dictionary. A playful sense is sought with them.

At the beginning of the play, The Husband is sprawled on some chairs next to one of the tables for the patrons. He is listening to music on an iPod or similar device, with his headphones. He scratches his belly or whatever itches, without shame. He puts his hand in his nose, inspects what he's obtained, without it affecting his work of "doing nothing," a task he achieves with great efficiency.

The Wife arrives, very excited, shouting, bossy, scandalous… She brings a piece of news that makes her indolent husband jump up and listen, because it's impossible, in fact, not to.

WIFE: The new one is coming, she's coming, she's on her way!

HUSBAND: (Jumping up) No! Already?... The heaven has heard us!

WIFE: Blessed be the Lord!

HUSBAND: (Giving instructions, trying to be the man of the house) I must warn you of one thing, wife...

WIFE: You wish to warn me of something? Let's not start fighting, for you already know how that goes for you...

HUSBAND: (Conciliatory) It's not about that, no, may the heaven of a thousand and one mix-ups save me. Listen. About the New One... Once she's present like a hog, treat her with a soft hand, with courtesy, so that she feels not like the maid she will be, but like a sweet princess whom we gladly receive in our humble inn.

WIFE: (Indignant) What are you saying, Husband? A maid is a maid, and that's that.

HUSBAND: (Loses the little patience he had) Ah, yes, I see, I understand... It dawns on me! Now I know... It's all so clear... (Before his wife's withering look, he continues) This is why Jovita left us... and Tota... and Proserpina... and Elba Esther... and Teresita and Angiosperma and Martita... You humiliated them, you treated them like foul kitchen rags and of course, they felt belittled in their most intimate being. And the worst wasn't that, for what do I care, but that we, then, had to clean the pans, scrub the grime from the ceilings, attend to the clientele... Well, not even Don Pepe, the kitchen "pinche," lasted more than two days with us.

WIFE: (Making things clear) One moment, Husband, if the only one here who looks like a kitchen boy and waitress and cook is me, for I must do a thousand tasks that do not marry with my high condition: saffron the paella; resurrect the pozole, so it doesn't sour; stuff the food scraps. I have to clean the tables, serve plates, smile when I don't feel like it, receive pinches from the green-tailed clients...

HUSBAND: Collect the tip moneys...

WIFE: Only to lose them later because we're out of napkins and toothpicks and chilies and lemons and garlic and onions.

HUSBAND: And may the devil saturate your mouth, for you do not stop, Woman.

WIFE: And how can I stop? While I break my back, you scratch your mustache and scratch your belly and scratch what shame and my good upbringing force me to forget.

HUSBAND: Be quiet! For the prospect is approaching, behold, she comes.

The new servant, THE REBELLIOUS MAID, enters, loaded with two enormous suitcases, "velices," as she calls them, or they can be boxes filled with all that she owns in her existence. The spouses watch her come, and comment on her as if she couldn't hear them. Her movement is almost in slow motion, she limps and makes faces as if she were very tired or had a stomachache. Later we will find out that it might be both.

WIFE: (Trying to find a clue on her husband's face, jealous, of course) And why do you say that is her, do you know her?

HUSBAND: (He no longer wants conflicts) No, no, certainly not. I suppose so.

WIFE: And why does she walk like that?

HUSBAND: Ask her.

WIFE: And why is she dressed that way?

HUSBAND: Buy her some clothes.

WIFE: And why does she limp? Is she imitating you?

HUSBAND: More respect, woman. I don't limp.

WIFE: Oh, no?

HUSBAND: One leg is longer, that's all.

WIFE: Yes, yes. (To the Maid, with hypocrisy) May the heaven save us, you come very burdened. Leave the suitcase and welcome, sweet girl, princess of the broom, cherub of paradise...

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Crude, malevolent, likable, she talks about the conquests she was able to make, according to her, on the street) Devils, if they only knew the "calafiate" I've suffered. If I've left two "mochachos" waiting for my "regaliz" it's an understatement. Some of them were very well-dressed, but I, very quarrelsome, only let their advances come without climbing onto any of them because I am a Christian and of a good lineage, although I have to earn my bread with jealousy and good command.

HUSBAND: (Patient, pretending not to have understood she was being hit on) Quiet, quiet, beautiful maiden, and leave your "veliz" in a visible place. You must know that before anything happens, you must sign the book of prints and commit to working for a salary that is two "maravedís" without number.

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Indolent, insolent, distressed, stomach-sore, with a thousand sweet nothings) Yes, I'll sign, I'll sign... but later. A little while later, ehhh.... Ouch, ouchyyy, Woe is meeeeee, Before, be more accommodating and tell me where the latrine is, the toilet, the wc, or with your permission the crapper, or without permission, because it's a matter of urgency, I tell you, I'm having six "jolino" stomach cramps, and I wouldn't want you to be sullen because of the bad farts that usually accompany such disasters.

WIFE: (Apprehensive, nervous, she turns to look at the petrified and horrified husband) Come, I'll accompany you, for such outbursts can relax one's bad mood and leave us all like a converted Jew's nose.

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Suddenly relieved, though with some new signs of a diarrheal emergency) No, no, no. Yes! Yes... (Pause, the couple watches her, she watches herself) No, no, no. No. (Relieved, cynical) The phenomenon has passed, it has passed, but if the case arises, I'll let you know suddenly.

HUSBAND: (Childish, frightened) You promise?

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Easygoing) Yes, "de Vero."

WIFE: (Practical, getting to what interests her) Well, let's go quickly to show you the chores you will have to do.

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Sly) Step, madam, for I have not come from the "Cerro del Tullido" to hear demands before laying out my own.

HUSBAND: (With eyes wide open) You have demands?

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (With a gesture of obviousness. She speaks with the full security of being right and being in her rights) Well, yes, it's better to say them by the thousands than to have to suffer the inclemencies of a bad contract. And here's the tale: To start, I must say that my bed should not be soft or springy, for I have left many patrons for less than that.

HUSBAND: But, what about her!...

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: And the pillows should not have embossments or hardness at the corners, for it is well known that such deteriorations harm the bones of the face. Once a week a very gallant young man will come to graze my spirit, a lad who is already becoming a habit for his very wise and great heart.

HUSBAND: Lame and sly!

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: For the twelve o'clock meal I must say that I usually crave two dishes that I want you to prepare in the following way: First, a salad that must be very well adjusted with each and every one of the vegetables free of miasmas and twists. Afterwards, a well-cooked "calafiate," with walnuts and green peas.

HUSBAND: Wouldn't you like a well-skinned pork more?

WIFE: No, no, better a "mastuerzo" broth with garlic sauce.

HUSBAND: Or would you like chicken feet "a la Morales"?

WIFE: Or a helping of kidney with "calafandras"?

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: Maybe, maybe... I don't know...

WIFE: (In the game of mocking the Maid's pretensions, complicit with her husband) ...Perhaps we should prepare an "entremés" for her, don't you think, Husband, and a good appetizer and a glass of white wine, and, I don't know, some snacks too.

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: Yes, yes, for "entremeses" I want two, very Cervantine, with black olives and vinaigrette. For a snack: a wheel of ham very "a la Lope"... And for the wine... just thinking about it gives me the shivers! For it has been a long time since my intestines have been too startled by such alcoholic excesses that I do not even want to tell you, so you do not think that I am a boozer, although I may seem so.

HUSBAND: (Looks at his wife to begin the treatment of head-knocks and ear-pulls, etc., intended for the Maid) I don't know about boozer, but you are very low-class and THE REBELLIOUS MAID. What do you think, wife, if for an "entremés" we give her a "shaken coscorrón"?

WIFE: Well said. And to follow the soup: what about ear-pulls?

HUSBAND: As a main course, a kick. Will you give it to her? Or should we think about dessert first.

WIFE: Ah, well we have many kinds of those: "moquetes," slaps, and delicious pinches of a "jumento" that I swear you'll never forget, my dear.

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Ache-ridden from the mistreatment received, she complains, but it's not what worries her most) I would very much like to enjoy them, sirs, all of them, but first tell me where the bathroom is or the latrine, for it seems that the miasmas have come undone again and I don't even want to think about it. Yes. No. Yes... It's coming! A pain like childbirth is killing my guts!... Ouch, I can't stand it!... A doctor, call a doctor for I'm "doing myself!"

HUSBAND: (Extremely disturbed) A doctor, a doctor, may he come, may they call a midwife for this wretched maid is "unsewing herself," she is unsewing herself!...

WIFE: Help, it smells very bad.

HUSBAND: It smells awful! What did you eat, creature?

WIFE: Yuck, dead birds, black crows, rotten dog brains! Guaahhhhhh (About to vomit).

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: Oh, sirs, I'm sorry, I told you, I can't hold it anymore... I couldn't hold it, sorry. (Her body language indicates that she soiled herself).

The Husband: (Disgusted) Oh, my God! She has "unsewn herself"!

THE WIFE: Oh, my God! (Continues with her attempts to vomit).

THE HUSBAND: (Not knowing where to go or what to do) Help, what a stench, call the doctor, the firefighters!... (Decided, he flees) I'd better get out of here.

WIFE: And me too! Aggggggggghhh... (She leaves with a clear indication that she is about to vomit).

THE REBELLIOUS MAID: (Distressed, with her tail between her legs, but always ready to overcome her conflicts) And me?... Well... Does anyone know where the cistern is? No?... A sink? A shower at least? (She complains and drags her leg) The devil, well I'll have to stay like this. It's a shame. They won't hire me, who told me to, why did I eat those things in the street, oh, woe is me! (She turns to look at the audience before leaving the scene) Devil take me, who would have thought: lame and stinky, "joder!"

Blackout

Cd. de México. ® Author: Benjamín Gavarre Silva. SOGEM registered rights.