Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter - Mario Vargas Llosa [26]
“Because, beyond question, they’ll be the principal settings of my scripts,” he said, his pop-eyes surveying those four sections of the city with Napoleonic self-importance. “I’m a man who can’t abide halftones, murky waters, weak coffee. I like a straightforward yes or no, masculine men and feminine women, night or day. In my works there are always blue bloods or the hoi polloi, prostitutes or madonnas. The bourgeoisie doesn’t inspire me or interest me—or my public, either.”
“You’re like Romantic writers,” I unfortunately remarked.
“In point of fact, they’re like me,” he shot back in a resentful tone of voice, bouncing up and down on his chair. “I’ve never plagiarized anybody. I’m quite willing to put up with every sort of carping criticism of my work, save that infamous libel. On the other hand, there are people who have stolen from me in the most nefarious way imaginable.”
I endeavored to explain to him that my remark about his resembling the Romantics had not been made with any intention of offending him, that it had been a mere feeble pleasantry, but he didn’t hear me, because all of a sudden he had fallen into a seething rage, and gesticulating as though he were before an audience hanging on his every word, he raved in his magnificent voice: “All of Argentina is flooded with works of mine that have been debased by hack penny-a-liners from that country. Have you had many dealings with Argentines in your life? When you see one, cross the street and walk on the other side, because the Argentine national character is like measles: a contagious disease.”
He had turned pale and his nose was quivering. He clenched his teeth and grimaced in disgust. I was disconcerted by this new facet of his personality and stammered something in the way of a vague general remark about its being most regrettable that there were no strict copyright laws in Latin America, no legal protection for intellectual property. I had put my foot in my mouth again.
“That’s not the point at all. I couldn’t care less if I’m plagiarized,” he replied, more furious still. “We artists don’t create out of a desire for fame and glory, but rather out of love of humanity. What better could I ask for than to see my work becoming more and more widely disseminated throughout the world, even if it bears other people’s names? But what I can’t forgive those Argentine cacographers is the fact that they make changes in my scripts, that they cheapen them. Do you know what they do to them? I mean, of course, in addition to changing the titles of them and the names of the characters? They add typical Argentine ingredients to spice them up—”
“Arrogance,” I broke in, certain this time that I was saying exactly the right thing. “Vulgarity.”
He shook his head contemptuously, and with tragic solemnity, pronouncing each syllable slowly, in a cavernous voice that bounced off the walls of that tiny den, he uttered the only two dirty expressions I ever heard cross his lips: “Chasing after cunt and assholing with queers.”
I was tempted to draw him out, to find out why his hatred of Argentines was more vehement than was the case with normal people, but on seeing how overwrought he was, I didn’t dare to. A bitter look came over his face and he rubbed a hand over his eyes, as though to blot out certain phantoms of things past. Then, with a doleful expression, he closed the windows of his cubbyhole, centered the platen of the Remington and put its cover over it, straightened