SCENE 10: FORGET THE FORGETTING

NAOMI: I dreamed that one day, a sunny day preferably -
though fog would be more fitting - one day I would step
outside, into the light again, onto the street, without
shackles or blindfold, no armed escort, and I would see ...
everything, everybody, the Argentina I thought I'd lost.
(Moving among the NARRATORS.) I would walk
the streets and greet strangers like lost brothers until, quite
by chance, I found you, Gerardo. Why you? Why not me? I
feel guilty to be alive. Half of me is missing. Mothers of the
disappeared march each day around the Plaza. I want to
join them, but I am afraid. I will go out one day with your
picture in my purse
(She shows his picture to passersby.) I will take you
around the city to show you to whoever holds the key, the
clue to putting you into a conventional narrative with a
beginning, a middle, and an end. You will pass from hand
to hand, wander among ex-prisoners, survivors, the
reappeared, strangers, acquaintances. (The MOTHERS
unfurl handwritten banners and posters and pictures held
on sticks. They process in silence.)
I spot the corner where the marchers are gathering, but
before I take a step in that direction you cut in front of me.
I bump into your name, scrawled across a worn strip of
white cloth. Your black letters sting my memory and my
legs take on a will of their own. I stand there, rooted
before your one-dimensional scream. (A banner with
"GERARDO" written across it appears behind her.)
Someone knows. Someone misses you. Someone
marches for you, Gerardo. You are counted, among the
disappeared. They won't tell me how long you survived,
only that someone had seen you in another prison, only
that you'd been shot. I already knew - knew from the
moment I smelled you in the adjoining interrogation
room, smelled your blueness - but it's not the same as
hearing it. I almost cry. I almost scream. Almost. Still,
each day I go in search of you. (She holds aloft the picture
of Gerardo.)
Ladies and gentlemen, the one I'm looking for likes to
strum the guitar, has a weakness for coffee, plays soccer
and other sports, has been known to watch TV, and cooks
much better than mama ever did. (She is joined by other
MOTHERS who hold aloft their child's name or picture
while speaking.)
MOTHERS: She's fond of camping and staying up all night ...
Has friends in many different languages ...
Travels the length of the continent ...
Writes poems at dawn.
NAOMI: He's about to finish his thesis on the permanence of
matter, but he can't endure even the metal of the scissors
that I threw at him when I was four years old.
MOTHERS: She is thinking about getting married.
He is accepted at university.
She passed the bar exam.

The one I'm looking for has eyes that speak ...
Untamed hair ...
Imposing height ...
Wavy voice.

NAOMI: The one I'm looking for has never grown old, his brow
is not wilted nor his temples graying.
MOTHERS: He delights in playing hide-and-seek ...
Cowboys and Indians ...
Hopscotch...
Chess.
He's great at math but incapable of drawing a cow.
As a kid she locked herself in the bathroom.
As an adolescent, in his bedroom.

MOTHERS: (Together) Now they lock them in a camp.
NAOMI: He lives yet in a black and white photo ID.
MOTHERS: In a color slide, her T-shirt in a knot showing her
navel.
In a math notebook filled with formulas.
In a pair of shoes.
NAOMI: Why not go backwards, you used to say, remember,
Gerardo? When we played as kids? Backwards, like in fairy
tales, why not? Why don't you come back? (Pause) Say
something to me. (Silence. NARRATORS gather on edge of
stage to address audience. NAOMI is left alone.)
NARRATORS: From 1976 to 1983, the military junta
disappeared thousands of Argentine citizens.
How many?
Too many. Numberless
many.

Roberto Viola, second president of the regime, said the
military coup was an unavoidable act supported by
practically all Argentine citizens.

Yeah, right!

Despite having been found guilty of grave human rights
violations and sentenced to 16 years in prison
Even that was cut short by the amnesty granted
military leaders …
Viola still claimed there was no governmental terrorism.

Amazing!
Is he blind?
He's an idiot.

Quote, the expression governmental terrorism simply
does not fly, unquote.
Viola said that?
"Does not fly"?
Idiota!
In 1994, the kidnapped and disappeared were legally
recognized by the new regime and were therefore eligible
for indemnity payments.
NAOMI: Gerardo, say something.
NARRATORS: Naomi went to the Office of Human Rights.
From the third floor she was sent to the first ...
And from there back to the third ...
Where they said what they already said before ...
In the exact same tone of voice ...
That tone of official indifference that drives You crazy ...

"A person who claims to have been one of the disappeared
must be named in some official document."

See? Their reasoning is perfectly logical. You cannot be
catalogued with any precision if there are no records of
your booking or release.
(Pause. Consternation.)

But...
No records were kept of the disappeared.
That's how they were disappeared.

Get it?

In the end it's still unclear whether the disappeared
legally exist or not, but one thing is certain. We will have
to prove it.

NAOMI: Gerardo!
NARRATIORS: Naomi decides to see a psychologist for the
usual reasons.
Sleepless nights ...
Bad dreams ...
Voices from the interrogations ...
Strange pains your doctor cannot explain ...
Flashbacks.

She spends a long time in the waiting room rehearsing
her speech, before she is ushered in. The psychologist
asks the standard question ...

"What brings you here?"
She answers with a summary description of her situation, an outline of what happened to her.

She is unaware of his reaction until, at the end of her summary, she sees his eyes.

NAOMI: Are you crying? I ask.
NARRATORS: Yes, the doctor is crying. He has to take his
glasses off to dry the tears which smear his face.
NAOMI: It's not that bad, doctor, others had it worse.
NARRATORS: She offers him a tissue.
He cannot stop sobbing.
She moves closer and dries his cheeks, then holds his head. After a moment, he composes himself ...
Thanks to her first-aid.
He makes an appointment to see her again another day...

But Naomi doesn't wait for his diagnosis.
She marches out of his office and declares herself cured. Cured!
NAOMI: He cried more in those few minutes than I have cried in ten years. What is it, Gerardo, that keeps me from crying, keeps me from letting go? Why do I search for you in every face I pass when I already know - ? I hear your laughter at the cinema, your voice in every stranger shouting on the street. Why can't I say goodbye to you?
NARRATORS: (To audience) Compañeros ...
We came today to tell you a story ...
Because they never succeeded in vanquishing our minds ...
Or our souls ...
Or our memories.

It was 25 years ago today...
On a dark and stormy night ...
That the dictatorship began.
NAOMI: (As if in a trance) The key to the front door turns as if
by some perverse magic steps rush in three pairs of shoes
practice their disjointed tap dance on the floor the clothes
the books an arm a hip an ankle a hand.
NARRATORS: Step on a crack n.
NAOMI: I look around me, surprised by a voice.
NARRATORS: Break your mother's back.
NAOMI: I turn the page, paper rustles between fingers
inventing the figure of a circle, incredulous amid images
that are and are not. The secret road between my house
and the city is filled with Ford Falcons - green Falcons
with no license plates. The floodgates have opened. Voices
from the past take over my body. I am - we are - a song, a
poem, a memory, one voice.
NARRATORS: (Quickly) They murdered my brother ...
Her son n.
His grandson n.
Her mother ...
His girlfriend n.
Her aunt ...
Her grandfather n.
His cousin ...
Her neighbor.
CAST: (In one voice) Ours n.
Yours n.
All of us. (GERARDO enters Upstage singing softly, "El
Pueblo Unido Jamás Será Vencido." He continues to sing
beneath the NARRATORS' voices.)
NARRATORS: We were injected with their emptiness n.
Our dreams haunted by their fears …
Our ears infected with their insults …
Our bodies wracked by their cruelties …

We all lost a version of ourselves ...
And we tell our stories in order to survive.
(GERARDO's voice rises to finish the song.)
NAOMI: Don't forget the forgetting!
(ENSEMBLE sings the song together. Song builds to a chant.)
CAST: El pueblo unido jamás será vencido!
EI pueblo unido jamás será vencido!
(Beat.)
Remember us!

THE END