When I met Marcelo Pitrola as part of our Author Spotlight series last September, he mentioned he was working on a new project: a collaboration with longtime artistic partner Silvia Hilario and actress Emilse Diaz.

‘Diario de incertidumbre’, which premiered on 5th May and is excerpted in an exclusive English translation here, is an eerie tale about a woman caught in a hospital with a mysterious ailment. As she waits for a diagnosis, she re-lives and then re-evaluates her life, falling further and further away from certainty as the double examination progresses.

Silvia Hilario and Emilse Diaz the director and actors in 'Diary of an Uncertainty' (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

The play stars Emilse Diaz as the troubled woman at the center of the story, and Silvia Hilario as both doctor and nurse.

I was captivated by the idea of what is essentially a one-woman play: how would such a thing evolve onstage? How would her memories manifest? How would an actress perform under such obscured conditions? How would a stage director use an atmosphere as cold as a hospital ward to convey so many shades of emotion?

I met up with Marcelo, Silvia and Emilise to discuss the work, the collaborative process, and the creative constraints of portraying an entire life in a single clinic room.

How did you get the idea for ‘Diario’?

Marcelo: Silvia proposed the core image of the story. Afterwards, I began to sort through my own thoughts and questions regarding the different women, selecting here and there in my attempt to construct Diana and her world. I began to write the interior monologue that serves as the linchpin of the play, and the idea of a private diary immediately appeared as the ideal medium.

Silvia: The idea was based on my own experience. I’d had an accident – I was that helpless patient. I wanted to capture that feeling of stasis, of confusion.

Marcelo and I started with the central vision of the woman under diagnosis, and he gave it dramatic form. He invented the mythology of Diana’s life – the ballet teacher, the absent father – and came up with the idea of the acts. It was a very comfortable collaboration and it’s been wonderful to work with him.

Marcelo: Theatre is a collective, collaborative activity. Effective dialogue produces the best work. Silvia is a good friend and she’d already performed as the protagonist in my earlier play, ‘The Peronist Princess’. We’ve always had an excellent rapport, and we have similar ideas about what aspects of theatre are most appealing. I suppose that’s why she approached me with this idea.

And how was it, Emilse, to come into this process as an actress?

Emilse: I have to confess that it was difficult in the beginning, wondering how to convey all of this. The actress is trapped in a single room. She’s always in the bed, but she’s also always moving, changing, transitioning into different states. She’s running back over every minute of her life. It’s exhausting. But in the end, I very much enjoyed the process – the diverse possibilities. It was a game. It was gratifying.

Marcelo, you’ve written many works about women and womanhood – what was it like to develop this specific female protagonist?  

Marcelo: I do seem to have more of an interest in female characters than in male ones. That may be because I have questions about the feminine sphere, and I write in order to answer them.

In this work, as well as in ‘The Peronist Princess’, I wasn’t really sure where the process would lead – I just had a series of questions, and they were pushing me to write more and more. That’s basically how it was all conceived.

And as women, how did you two, Emilse and Silvia, develop this female thematic? 

Emilse: There is, well, an excess of women!

Silvia: Yes, but there’s an important theme about the relationship between femininity and fertility  – what you can make out of yourself. The character of the nurse: she became a mother at 16. She didn’t question it; it wasn’t an existential dilemma. The doctor is another alternative: she has a different attitude. And Diana’s mother, too, represents a different set of obligations – a kind of pressure for Diana to define herself against. And then there’s Diana’s friend, yet another version of womanhood. She’s made different choices too – she has different impulses. Altogether, they form a kind of synthesis.

The synthesis that Diana doesn’t contain within herself?

Emilse: I think she feels profoundly alone. In this place, in the hospital, you feel isolated.  Naked.

Silvia Hilario plays a nurse and Emilse Diaz as the patient in 'Diary of an Uncertainty' (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

Can you tell me a little bit more about what it was like to bring this concept to the stage?

Marcelo: I’d say, first of all, it was difficult to convey something as private as a diary in a theatrical medium. It occurred to me that different interlocutors could appear during this internal monologue, to allow it to become more theatrical, more externalized. Piece by piece, the work was transformed into what you could call “mono-dialogues”. The subjectivity – Diana’s universe – came to life.

Emilse: Yes, and for me, the problem was performing such an internal transformation. How do you act that out? I was also working with a character who doesn’t have a sense of herself. She is what other people call her – she speaks a great deal about what they say about her. And of course, as a patient, she is what the doctor and nurse say she is. All of her traits have this feeling of externality – as thought she exists as a reflection. Her role as a performer is in keeping with all of this. She takes on other roles, and speaks lines written by other people.

But for a work about so many “other people”, it’s very restrained, very narrow. For much of the play, Diana is totally alone.

Silvia: Yes, there’s a restraint in the design that places it firmly in liminal territory: it lacks detail. There’s also a projector that serves as a kind of magic lantern. At first, it’s used to project the radiography slides of the patient’s anarchic body, but then it becomes more complicated than that – less strictly medical.

The stage, the physical dimensions of the theatre, crudeness, unadorned blankness – it’s all very much a part of the design. The cramped little bathroom to one side of the hospital bed is a part of the production space, and the blocking incorporates it into the play. The bed is also ambiguous, deceptively simple, un-identified. It can be seen as a multiplicity of beds. Where you dream, where you wake, where you make love, where you die.

Emilse: In the context of childhood, the bed becomes a place of ‘play’. But then, it’s a sickbed, too: immobility, pain and sickness.

How was sickness given meaning in the play? 

Marcelo: Diana’s character is in the clinic because she had an accident. She’s desperate, in extremis. But then, during this period of enforced stillness, she starts thinking about her childhood, her career, her art. She’s been many different kinds of artist: a ballerina, an actress, a choreographer. And now she’s suffering from this disorder. She’s trying to control her body but soon she starts trying to control her life: to regulate her past, define it and all of its components, keep it from destroying her. When she enters the past, it’s as though she enters another space – a kind of limbo.

Silvia: And as she endeavors to find herself, to undertake this journey, she’s interrupted by the nurse and the doctor. The nurse’s realm is quotidian: she’s trying to impose a rhythm, a routine, something more normal than the emerging consciousness of the intractable patient. Meanwhile, the doctor uses scientific discourse, trying to translate all of these feelings and impulses into symptoms. In this way, the three women have little connection with each other.

They seem to be total opposites. Yet the doctor and nurse are both portrayed by the same actress. Why?

Silvia: Well, for one, because of the clear overlap in the roles. They both represent realism. The nurse is pragmatic, bodily. The doctor maintains distance. She is prone to discussing everything in medical terms of either a sickness or a cure. She has an answer for everything, as it were.

Emilse: These three women are all looking for the truth. The doctor is obsessed with concrete, specific objectives – because the alternative is too alarming. The nurse also represents certainty and uncomplicated things. This play is all about complication. The three women aren’t really antagonistic. They’re like facets of one another.

And what becomes of Diana’s relationship to herself, and to the doctor and nurse, at the end of the play?

Silvia: She never solves the problem. She only asks more and more questions. We decided that the material led us there, and that there’s no way to tie things up neatly. She exchanges the firm ground of a decision for ambiguity.

Emilse: We don’t know what she’ll do, but the sensation at the end is that after all of this, this great production, this investigation…she’s finally ready to ask these questions honestly. Who am I? What am I? We don’t get to find out.

Editors note: The following is an excerpt from Diary of an Uncertainty, translated into English exclusively for The Argentina Independent. Click here to read an interview with Marcelo Pitrola and actresses Emilse Diaz and Silvia Hilario.

Emilse Diaz as the injured woman in 'Diary of an Uncertainty' (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

Scene 1

(A hospital room. A hospital bed. Next to the bed, on the left, an apparatus used for viewing radiography slides. On the apparatus, or at the far end of the stage, we see a projection of the x-rays of Diana’s spine. As if in accordance with Diana’s attempt to construct an image of her unknown interior–intimately familiar and foreign at the same time–the image is much larger than normal.

The lighting is bright white and diffuse.  

Diana reclines on the bed, covered up to the waist with a sheet. She’s wearing a white hospital gown, and her hair is tied back in a ponytail. The top half of the bed is raised, allowing Diana to confront the audience. A little table stands at her side. A chair nearby. On the table sit a purse, a glass of water, a notebook, a pen, and a medicine bottle. On the chair are piled a pair of jeans, and a blouse. On the floor, a pair of red shoes.  

Diana picks up her purse and retrieves some cosmetic paraphernalia and a compact mirror. She outlines her eyes with careful attention. Then she picks up the lipliner, opens it, and reveals the tip: violent crimson. A pause. She puts the color away without painting her lips, and then arranges her hair without checking it in the mirror. She replaces the purse on the nightstand. A long pause.)

Hour 1: Chiquita

Diana: In the beginning was the stupor, yes, the stupor, like an instantly expanding cloud, that I felt inside. In the morning, while I watered the plants, I heard on the radio that in the United States six hundred thousand jobs disappeared in a single month, that a million people were about to lose their mortgaged homes, that stocks had plunged to their lowest point since the Great Depression. That afternoon, I decided that I wanted to find my tutu and my dance slippers. And yes, I had kept in some part of my memory the image of a red dancing costume and ballet slippers…The smallest, size 26 or 27 and then the ones I wore after, size 28, 30, and so on. I was finishing up the laundry when suddenly, I remembered Monina, the dance teacher, and her fine white hair in its long braid… dusted with powdered soap, maybe… She had a drum that she used to keep time during the class. She sat there like an inscrutable buddha and with the drum between her legs she began to mark time. Tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac, tum, tac. Her tiny breasts and her nipples pointed like the tips of meringues, grazing the loose blouse she always wore… The blouse wasn’t always the same, but always the same model: rounded collar, three little buttons, long sleeves, one or two sizes larger than properly fit her, three colors: lilac, yellow or white… She never wore a bra… Of course, why would she? She had a fat one-eyed cat called Alfonso. Under the attentive eye of Monina, scrawny, fragile Chiquita performed the adagio, allegro, arabesque, battement, battement degagé, battement cloché, battement fondu, battement frapé, battement tendú, changement de pieds, chassé, croisé. Chiquita… I could still twist into each figure, just the same, but I can only imagine what I look like now. Classical ballet had a beginning, but it didn’t seem to have an end.

It stands proudly in its timeless forms, in its antique condition, in its beauty immune to the depredation of time and the pitched battles of aesthetic. With Monina this sensation was accentuated, intensified: in her studio, one had the certainty that the dance ordered not only the movements of one’s body but the universe itself; the vertigo and the chaos of life were immediately suspended. Chaos was left at the door of Monina’s studio in Munro, never allowed to enter. In the middle of a street of squat houses, there sat Monina’s house and, next door, at the end of a long passageway was her studio, in Santa Rosa street. The hardwood oak floor in the studio, always impeccably polished, stretched out its smooth and brilliant surface that could only be used for dancing. The penetrating odor of wax and wood impregnated the whole interior. When Monina wasn’t there, before class, I liked to throw myself down on the floor with Renata, my best friend in the class, and we rolled together, arms around each other, from one end of the room to the other. The walls covered with mirrors expanded the space, and the barres restrained it.  Mama took me to class three times a week, Chiquita. And there, at the door, stayed Mama’s nocturnal sobs and, after we came to Buenos Aires, Papa’s tense and anxious embrace when he met you at the airport, the new school that didn’t please you, the headmistress with her severely pointed nose that didn’t please you any better, your raw little foot, twisted in the spokes of a bicycle wheel one cold morning when Mama brought you to school… All was left at the door… (pause) all the girls changed together in the studio dressing room. The first pubic mound with hair, the first that wasn’t Mama’s, I saw there… Claudia, a German girl doing a student exchange for one year, she was a favorite of Monina… she also had a tuft of fine blond hairs in her armpits… Where were the shoes?  And the red leotard?  And the tutu?  The red tutu?  When we packed up Mama’s house I carried off all my things… Suddenly, the past seemed like a expanse of sand, enormous, voluminous, minute, covering the present, and it was all joined together, there, in that same moment, in the instant…

The nurse enters.  She has a slip of paper in her hand and pushes a metal trolley. She looks at her form and then takes a container of pills from a compartment. She cuts one of the pills in half.  

Silvia Hilario as a nurse comforts Emilse Diaz as the patient in 'Diary of an Uncertainty' (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

Nurse: Do you have water?

Diana: No.

Nurse:  I’ll bring it to you now.

The nurse gives her a pill. Diana looks at it carefully.

Diana: What’s it for?

Nurse: For the pain, hon.

Pause.

Nurse: How are you feeling?

Diana: It hurts….

Nurse:  What hurts?

Diana: My back and also here… (she indicates her sternum). Here, but inside (signalling). When can I leave?

Nurse:  When you have a diagnosis and you’re not in pain like you are now, hon. Then you can go.

Diana:  I want to go home.

Nurse:  Well, you can’t.

Diana:  I have to walk my dog…

Nurse:  How can you? You can’t even get as far as the balcony. Call a family member or a friend.

Diana:  Can’t you do anything to get me out of her sooner?

The nurse looks at her for a second.

Nurse: What’s your name?

Diana:  Diana.

Nurse:  Well, Diana, Listen to me for a second, Diana. You had an accident in the house, right?

Diana nods.

Nurse:  You can barely walk, no?

Diana nods.

Nurse:  You’re in a lot of pain, right?

Diana nods.

Nurse:  Then you have to stay in the hospital until the doctors give you a diagnosis and a solution to the problem.

The nurse looks at her in silence and then leaves. She returns a moment later with a glass of water. Diana takes the pill and a sip of water. The nurse exits. Diana changes her position with a slow, choreographed movement.

Diana: “No better, no worse, no change.” That could be it for me, that is to say, yes, that… Then, with the image of my tutu stuck in my mind, Chiquita, I went to look for the white stepladder. I unfolded it and climbed up to the closet. First I brought down the bags full of books… Books that no longer interest me, that I didn’t need to keep handy, I don’t know why I keep them…. Platero y yo, Botánica 1, Educación Cívica 2 by Kechichian, Rimas by Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, Cianuro espumoso, an Agatha Christie mystery. At the top of the ladder it wasn’t easy to continue the search. I steadied myself, almost buried under the second bag, but finally I managed it and climbed back up in search of the tutu, Chiquita. At the back of the attic I saw a box wrapped in flowered paper; I thought my dance things might be inside (pause). Monina always repeated some of her stories, like that Marina Semyonova had taught her the cabriole petit in person and the great ballet in Moscow. Marina Timofievna Semyonova, the greatest Odile-Odette in history, the greatest of all time, she said.  I learned with the best, she said, with the best in Stalinist Moscow. She had also met Tamara Toumanova, the “black pearl,” when I came to Buenos Aires. An exquisite ballerina, sophisticated, delicate, but Toumanova was more “jolibudense.” You knew that I never became a classical ballerina, Chiquita, you didn’t have the necessary discipline, but you kept dancing, modern, jazz, contemporary.  In spite of everything, you kept dancing.

The doctor appears.  She’s the same actress as the nurse, but now she’s wearing a lab coat, a stethoscope hung round her neck. The doctor looks at the amplified projection and then addresses the public.

Doctor: The image came out a bit blurry. We need to obtain another. But from what I can see, it may be a herniated disc.

The doctor points to a part of the image that is a little blurred.  

Diana: Uh…

Doctor: This happens when all or part of a spinal disc is forced to pass through a debilitated part of the disc. It places pressure on the nearby nerves.

Diana: Yes, yes, I know what a hernia is….

Medica: The bones of the spinal column, or the vertebrae, run along the back, connecting the cranium with the pelvis. These bones protect the nerves that exit from the brain, underneath the back, forming the spinal medulla. The neural pathways are large nerves branching from the spinal medulla and exiting from the spine through each vertebra. The vertebrae of the spine are separated by discs filled with a soft, gelatinous substance. These discs provide a cushion for the spinal column and the spaces between the vertebrae.

Diana:  Yes, Doctor, I know something about anatomy…

Doctor: These discs can herniate (shift out of place) or break as a result of trauma or strain. When this happens, the dorsal nerves can be compromised, causing pain, stiffness, or weakness.

The lower part (lumbar region) is the area most common for a herniated disc. The cervical discs are affected in eight percent of all cases, whereas the discs of the upper and middle spine, thoracic, are rarely compromised.

The radiculopathy refers to any disorder that affects the nerves of the spinal column.  A herniated disc is one cause of radiculopathy. But the diagnosis isn’t definite. We have to perform an MRI to be sure that we are treating a herniated disc. At present, the diagnosis is indeterminate. The image is blurred.

Diana: Radiculopathy…okay.

Pause.

Doctor: Do you have inguinal pain?

Diana: Inguinal?

Doctor: In the groin.

Diana thinks.

Diana:  Maybe. I don’t know.

Doctor: We are also going to take an x-ray of your hip because this zone may be affected and that can radiate out into the spine.

Diana looks at the doctor.

Diana:  When can I leave?

Doctor: When we have a diagnosis.

Diana: And that, what will it be?

Doctor: We still don’t know.

The doctor exits.  

A year ago, Buenos Aires was named the UNESCO World Book Capital City, an honor we at The Argentina Independent decided to commemorate by launching a new literary section and, with it, the ‘Author Spotlight’ series. Our goal was to bring stories, poems, plays and other writing by Argentine scribblers into English, and to feature this work alongside original English-language interviews with those contemporary Argentine scribes. In just twelve months, as the famed Buenos Aires International Book Fair has come and gone and come again, we’ve managed to do just that — bringing into English novel excerpts by Guillermo Martínez and Carlos Chernov, poetry by Ezequiel Zaidenwerg, theatre by Marcelo Pitrola, short fiction by Inés Fernández Moreno and a series of microfictions by Ana María Shua.

In addition, we’ve featured two authors — and will feature a third next month — whose novels will soon be available in English translation (hint: Ángela Pradelli, Carlos Gamerro, Andrés Neuman). And, as we celebrate the first birthday of this series, we’d like to toast these authors, and their excellent additions to the Anglophone library, alongside a few other Argentine novels we think are worthy of a place on your 2012 Argentine book queue. These five aren’t just the most interesting novels by Argentine writers being published in the US and UK this year, they’re the most interesting novels being published in the US and UK, period. And they are all by Argentine authors that we’d feel remiss if you didn’t know about. So take out your pen and jot these names down, or load them onto your “To-Read” App, or scan them with your Google Glasses, whatever your style may be.

Friends of Mine by Ángela Pradelli

Friends of Mine by Ángela Pradelli
For loyal readers of this series, Ángela Pradelli needs no introduction. An excerpt from her novel ‘Amigas Mías’, translated expertly by Andrea G. Labinger, helped us launch as our first installment a year ago. Now, after much anticipation, the full-length novel from which that excerpt was taken will be released in English from the Latin American Literary Review Press. Called ‘Friends of Mine’, and also translated by Labinger, the novel tells the story of a group of women living in the Buenos Aires province, who meet once a year on 30th December to eat dinner, celebrate the New Year, and reflect on the strange, difficult and wonderful passage of time. Structured in short, lucid fragments, the novel reads like a coming-of-age tale for a group of friends, a neighborhood, and an era of life in middle-class Argentina that has as much resonance today (and outside of Spanish) as it did when it was first published in 2002 and was awarded the Premio Emecé. Re-read our interview with Pradelli for more context, or peruse the sample we published last year. Then head over to the LALRP website to buy a copy for all your friends — after all, that’s what the novel is about.

The Islands by Carlos Gamerro

The Islands by Carlos Gamerro
When we spoke to Carlos Gamerro last year, two of his acclaimed novels were in the process of being translated into English, both by his friend Ian Barnett (who also translated ‘The Peronist Princess’ by Marcelo Pitrola). Last year, the first of those books, ‘An Open Secret’ (Pushkin Press), was released to a critical consensus: The Economist — a publication not known for effluvient rhetoric — declared that Gamerro’s novel had “the makings of a classic,” and the Independent called it “haunting and disturbing.” This isn’t news to us; we’ve been enjoying Gamerro’s brand of darkly comic prose since we published his story ‘Bad Burgers’ in August. Now English-reading fans of his fiction will have another reason to cheer: this May, And Other Stories, a new British publishing concern, will release a translation of Gamerro’s first novel, ‘The Islands’. Like the spiralling narrator of ‘Bad Burgers,’ the protagonist of ‘The Islands’ chases his own trauma down a rabbit hole when he discovers that, despite the passage of ten years, the Falklands/Malvinas War is still raging — a reality he’s not quite ready to confront. Written with Gamerro’s trademark muscularity, we’re certain this new addition to the English-language cannon will only swell his growing fanbase. Head over to the And Other Stories site to pre-order a copy.

Traveler of the Century by Andrés Neuman

Traveller of the Century by Andrés Neuman
Long considered an “up-and-coming” writer by the Spanish critical press, Andrés Neuman (born in Buenos Aires in 1977 and raised in Granada, Spain) published two novels set in Argentina (‘Bariloche’ and ‘Una vez Argentina’) before his fourth novel (‘Viajero del siglo’) won Spain’s Alfaguara prize and caught the attention of English-language publishers. That book, published as ‘Traveller of the Century’, made its way into the British bookstores last month, and will soon be released in the US. Neuman, who has written poetry (‘No sé por qué’), short story (‘Alumbramiento’) and travelogue (‘Cómo viajar sin ver’), created in ‘Traveller of the Century’ a novel that is at once contemporary and historical: set in Restoration-era Germany, it discusses sexual mores and intellectual disputes in a distinctly modern way. Praise from writers like Roberto Bolaño long ago boosted his reputation in the Spanish-speaking world, but more than acclaim or ambition, it’s the clarity and grace of Neuman’s prose that has earned him high standing among fans. Now, English-language readers will have a chance to assess, and enjoy: check back here next month for an excerpt from ‘Traveller of the Century’ and interview with Neuman.

The Planets by Sergio Chefjec

The Planets by Sergio Chejfec
When Open Letter Books (US) published Sergio Chejfec’s novel ‘My Two Worlds’ in English last year, the English-reading public was introduced, for the first time, to a unique writer: hyper-perceptive, unafraid of interiority, sworn to the incremental drama of hermeneutics. The novel was well received — one critic called the book a “vast and complicated work of literature;” meaningful praise for a novel only 102 pages long. So this summer, be alert for literary excitement when Open Letter releases the second volume of Chejfec in English: ‘The Planets’. First published in Spanish in 1999, ‘The Planets’ was written during the fifteen-year period when Chejfec lived in Venezuela, a temporal and cultural dislocation important to the text. As ‘My Two Worlds’ used ambulatory reflection, ‘The Planets’ uses the act of remembering to elevate a simple story into an elegant register. It’s a mode of literature difficult to master, but worthy of celebration when done right. Head over to the Open Letter website to begin the celebration.

Varamo by César Aira

Varamo by César Aira
As much as there exists a literary rock star for the 21st century, César Aira is it. He publishes a new book nearly every 6 months; each is more beguiling than the last. They’re short, they’re irreverent, their surreal, or anti-real, or unreal, or, beyond real. Sometimes they’re sloppy; occasionally, they feel unfinished — but somehow, either because of, or in spite of all that, they are always worth reading. Already author of nearly 80 books published in Spanish (no one seems to be sure of the exact number), Aira has, for the last decade or so, slowly been making his way into English. Now, New Directions, famed US publisher of Borges, is bringing out a book nearly every year, with five published since 2006. This year, they’ve released ‘Varamo,’ a novel kind of about a Peruvian man who takes up the homemade art of fish embalming, and also kind of about a very slow city-wide car race, and also kind of about the makings of a classic Central American poem, and yet somehow also not about these things at all. ‘Varamo’ is as strange, and as compelling, as Aira’s best work. In fact, it may be Aira’s best work. Or his worst. You’ll have to read all his books to know for certain. Visit New Directions to start with ‘Varamo’.

Marcelo Pitrola is a playwright currently living in Buenos Aires. His first theatrical experience was onstage, performing at Teatro Nacional Cervantes in Armando Discépolo’s “Babylon” and “The Organito” (directed by Hugo Urquijo Villanueva Cosse) and at the Teatro San Martín in Villanueva Cosse’s 1999 staging of “Luces de Bohemia.”

Marcelo Pitrola (Photo: Beatrice Murch)

When he turned to writing, it was to his roots in the theatre; his first full-length play was an adaptation of Kafka’s “The Penal Colony,” produced in 2002 at the El Ombligo de la Luna theater. Then, in 2004 he completed his first original play: “The Peronist Princess” (excerpted here in an original English translation by Ian Barnett). In 2005, “The Peronist Princess” won first prize in the Rozenmacher Germain New Playwrighting Contest. That same year, it received special mention in the national playwrighting competition at the National Theatre Institute. As part of the Rozenmacher prize, the play was translated into English and French; it was also later translated into German. It was also nominated for the Florencio Sanchez and Trinidad Guevara award. In 2006, it premiered at the Teatro del Pueblo.

Marcelo currently works as a copyeditor for Tiempo Argentino and is on the editorial staff of the art and literature magazine, “Otra parte”. He also gives classes at the National University of the Arts (IUNA). He is in the process of completing two new works which will be produced next year. The first is “Diario de incertidumbre,” which will be produced in the Sala Machado at Parque Centenario. The other project is a collaboration with the actress Maria Merlino and director Diego Lerman. Marcelo is also working on a screenplay with the director Hernan Belon; an earlier short film he co-wrote with Ezequiel Yanco, “Feliz Navidad,” won numerous awards, and was an official competitor at film festivals worldwide.

“The Peronist Princess”—excerpted here in an official translation by Ian Barnett—takes place over the course of a single momentous evening: the ascension of Rafael Martinoti, standard-bearer of the new Argentina. The dramatic and emotional center of the play is Victoria, Martinoti’s scorned lover. Like a Greek tragedy, “The Peronist Princess” evokes grand political drama on a fiercely intimate scale. Deftly balancing tragedy and comedy, high art and smart-mouthed squalor, Marcelo Pitrola gives us a truly modern princess.

Marcelo spoke with us about his work, his creative process, and the origins of “The Peronist Princess” in a café near his home in the Palermo neighborhood of Buenos Aires.

Your first two plays were adaptations, weren’t they?

Yes. My first play was an adaptation of Kafka´s The Penal Colony, in 2002. It was an interesting problem, adapting Kafka´s novella for the stage. I was fascinated by the idea of a protagonist struggling against an overwhelming system. The tension of the story, the horrific aspects of the prison and the punishment, had a lot of dramatic potential. My next play, “Tres Hermanas (Mas Aca)” was an adaptation of Chekov´s “Three Sisters.” Manuel Iedvabni requested the work. As a director who had worked with many plays in translation, he wanted a version of the Chekov play that wasn´t merely a translation into Spanish, but an Argentinian play. So I transported the three sisters to a northern province of Argentina and stranded them there. Instead of Moscow, they long to return to a glamorous Buenos Aires. I set the play in the 1920`s, to keep the story from becoming too anachronistic. I was even able to incorporate the climactic duel from the original. Duels were still a form of ritual confrontation at that time–not common, not usually fatal, but not unheard-of. I enjoyed the interplay of cultures, the way that the theatricality of the original played out in its new setting. The language, as well, presented an intriguing challenge.

Peronist Princess

And “The Peronist Princess?” How did you come up with the idea?

“The Peronist Princess” is my first original play, completed over the course of 2004. I began with a single image: a beautiful woman, dressed for a party, comes into a bathroom with a bloody nose. How did she get there? What happened to her? Who was she? This was Victoria, the Peronist Princess. Victoria’s last monologue arrived next. It’s different from rest of the dialogue in the play, much more direct and poetic, and it took me a while to find a place for it. Eventually, it became Victoria’s final speech. I realised that she needed to release her fury, her betrayal.

The bodyguard, Tití, emerged next. For me, he was a likeable character, similar in some ways to Victoria. Not a nice guy, exactly, but with a certain sympathy. He’s human. The third character, Martinoti, the politician, Vicky’s lover, was to me the least sympathetic and engaging. Of course, he’s not a very agreeable guy, but he was also least important, least central. He’s not onstage much.

For a play centered on a political creature, it contains remarkably few political speeches–and the political action all happens offstage.

Theater isn’t really the place for political diatribes, I don’t think. If I wanted to make political speeches, I’d…write pamphlets. I wanted to show a more universal perspective. I was looking at the subjective effects that a political system has on an individual life: the point at which an individual’s trajectory intersects with a political or cultural trajectory. I was fascinated throughout by the idea of someone resisting, trying to escape their destiny. Victoria is fighting against the role that has been assigned to her. But she’s not a very political person–she’s not a politician. She doesn’t hold office, she doesn’t do anything for any cause. She’s a politician’s lover, a marginal character. She can watch from the sidelines, mock the system a little. She can attack its failures, its problems, its willingness to betray its original ideals. And, of course, its betrayal of her. She sees herself as someone who has been betrayed. The desperation of her character comes in part out of that realisation. I wanted to evoke a character at that tragic moment: when she realises that she has no children, no husband, no one. What she wants is inclusion, recognition.

All three of your plays have involved very restrained, narrow-focus formats: a single room, a single evening, a cell, a prisoner. Do you find this setup interesting on a creative level?

Well, the works are different–but yes, fairly intimate in focus. There’s something about the stage–it’s possible to break theatrical and spatial constraints, to create grand spectacles. Look at Shakespeare. But this play was bound up in the intimacy of the story, the intimacy of the scene. This woman cannot get out of that place. The traditional theatrical setup, with its single space, is perfect for the dramatic situation of people who are unable to break out of their circumstances.

And your current projects?

I’m currently working on a very different play, “Diario de Incertidumbre.” Although, actually, the main character is also a trapped person. I guess that is sort of a personal theme. She’s a patient, stuck in the ward of a hospital, awaiting a diagnosis, unable to leave. It began with an idea of Silvia Hilario’s–this character, the protagonist. I’m hoping that Silvia can play two smaller roles, the physician and the nurse.

The following is an excerpt from Ian Barnett’s official English translation of Marcelo Pitrola’s first original play, the prize-winning ‘The Peronist Princess’.

Characters
Victoria: A forceful, severely beautiful woman of around 35.
Rafael Martinoti: A bald, cheerful, slightly tanned provincial Deputy of around 45.
Tití: Deputy MARTINOTI’s hulking, moon-faced, beady-eyed bodyguard of about 60.

1. In the Toilets with Tití

A dimly lit, long disused toilet. The floor is polished concrete or tiles. There is a smell of damp and urine. The smell of urine becomes faintly nauseating in the intense heat. The air is close and thick. At times the distant reverberations of a dinner can faintly be heard: voices, laughter, the remote clink of cutlery. TITÍ comes in, leans against the closed door and watches VICTORIA cleaning herself up, combing her hair and fixing her makeup. She is still rather flustered and shaken after being beaten up a few blocks from the Party Offices. She is wearing a light blue gown with plunging neckline, revealing an ample portion of bosom. Her feet hurt. She takes off her shoes and stands there barefoot. Her nose has been bleeding profusely. She dabs at some spots of blood on her dress with some damp toilet paper.

VICTORIA: What are you dumping me in here for?

TITÍ: You’re staying here till it’s finished.

VICTORIA: Tell Raf to get in here right away. Come on, Tití. Please. Don’t make me waste time; they must have started eating by now. I’m really hungry.

TITÍ: You can’t. The wives are there.

VICTORIA: (Trying to staunch the flow of blood by tilting her head back.) Tell him I won’t say anything, I’ll be good, like the little French Mademoiselle I am.

TITÍ: No.

VICTORIA: Bitches. My mouth hurts. (She inspects her mouth and teeth in the mirror, still holding the toilet paper to her nose.)

TITÍ: You’re pouring with blood, baby.

VICTORIA: They kicked me in the nose.

TITÍ: Who did?

VICTORIA: Some local girls from the shanties. I know them. I’ll show them. Your little old boss lady sent them, the fucking bitch. And don’t call me baby.

TITÍ: Not the Señora.

VICTORIA: (She has staunched the blood and is cleaning herself up.) The Señora… She thinks she’s Elizabeth Taylor. Good God. The Señora. Just because she’s had four children with him, she thinks it gives her more of a right, the bloody bitch. Those fat dykes I’d… (Pause.) I’m walking out of here and having dinner with everyone, like a princess… (Pause.) I’m a true Peronist and have been from the cradle. Perón gave my cradle to my grandfather. I’ve got every right to be at that dinner. I’m the heiress to a Peronist dynasty.

TITÍ: A Peronist dynasty?

VICTORIA: I’ve got a lot more about me than those old phonies. A lot more about me. Let me out.

TITÍ: What dynasty?

VICTORIA: My Mummy, my Mummy, Lidia, was Labour Queen. Labour Queen, one 1st May in ‘52. (Pause.) When I’ve finished cleaning myself up, I’m going to sit down at that table and have dinner. Me, Victoria. I won’t do anything naughty, no scenes.

TITÍ: You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got the key.

VICTORIA: What if one of the old slags comes in for a shit? What if one of them wants to cover up her wrinkles and mop the sweat that’s making her makeup run?

TITÍ: Don’t worry, Vicky. The ladies is upstairs.

VICTORIA: The ladies. They’re all such tightasses. Their husbands get serviced when they’re out of the house. Besides, they’re all antiperonist gorillas. And don’t call me Vicky.

TITÍ: They’re not gorillas.

VICTORIA: No one knows this town the way I do. They don’t even know Buenos Aires the way I do. On Saturdays they go and doze their way through an opera in a box at the Colón and stuff their faces in a posh restaurant in Recoleta, and they claim they know Buenos Aires. They’re provincial sluts and antiperonist gorillas. Do you honestly think any of them are real Peronists? Well? Do you really think so?

TITÍ: None of my business.

VICTORIA: All your good for is pulling nasty faces and being scary. And picking the kids up from school. I bet you take ‘The Señora’ to get her hair done too.

TITÍ: Vicky.

VICTORIA: You want to bang the coiffeur but you can’t. So, while you’re waiting to take ‘The Señora’ to the gym in the afternoons, you have a siesta in the maid’s room and get your cock sucked.

TITÍ: Vicky.

VICTORIA: Poor girl. She never gets real sex because you’re afraid of getting caught. It’s always easier to hide a blowjob.

TITÍ: Vicky.

VICTORIA: You take ‘The Señora’ to play canasta with the old slags too. Don’t call me Vicky.

TITÍ: They play at the Señora’s house.

VICTORIA: Have you given ‘The Señora’ one yet, Tití? (Silence.) Impossible. You can’t. You haven’t got the balls. (Pause.) Let me out. Please, pretty please, Tití.

TITÍ: Shut up.

VICTORIA: Do you expect me to spend the night stuck in these grubby toilets and not make a peep about it?

TITÍ: Yes.

VICTORIA: This is my big night. Lights! Fanfare! Drums and cymbals, Peronist drums.

TITÍ: No, no drums tonight. No more drums, baby.

VICTORIA: Don’t call me baby. Look at the dress I’ve put on. It’s satin, ever so soft. (Pause.) Don’t I look marvellous?

TITÍ: I’m going to have something to eat. I’m a slow eater, so I’ll be a while. I like to chew my food properly. You just relax, Vicky. I’ll lock the door. If you’re a good girl, I’ll bring you a doggy bag. If you’re not, I won’t bring you anything and I’ll leave you here all night.

VICTORIA: Wait, come on. Let me out, please. What do you want? I’ll give you something if you let me go. (She comes closer and leans on him.)

TITÍ: No, Vicky, don’t.
(TITÍ goes out and locks the door.)

VICTORIA: Lackey. And don’t call me Vicky.
(Pause. She goes on cleaning herself and putting on her makeup. When she’s finished, she sits down with her back to the mirror. Her dress still has spots of blood on it.)