The Duke Job’s Last Waltz: The Porcelain Empire
MEXICAN ANTI HISTORICAL COMEDY
By Gavarre Benjamin (México).
© INDAUTOR
Cd. De México
© BENJAMÍN GAVARRE SILVA
Contact: bengavarre@gmail.com
gavarreunam@gmail.com
A Ghostly Guide to the Mexican Limbo
(Note for the English-speaking reader)
To understand the ghosts in this salon, one must understand that Mexico is a country built on layers of masks. This play takes place on a supposed and anti-historical night of December 31, 1899, a moment where the 19th century’s "Frenchified" elegance is about to be shattered by the 20th century’s revolutionary blood.
1. The Context: The Porfiriato (1876–1911)
For over 30 years, General Porfirio Díaz ruled Mexico with a motto of "Order and Progress." He obsessed over turning Mexico into a "Little Paris." He built opera houses while the countryside starved.
· The Whitewashing: This is literal and metaphorical. In portraits, Díaz’s indigenous features were softened and his skin "whitened" with makeup to look more European.
· The Belle Époque: The Mexican elite spoke French, dressed in Parisian silk, and ignored the "bronze" reality of their own people.
2. The Glossary of Ghosts (Who’s Who)
Character | Historical Reality | Role in the Play |
Duke Job | Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera, a brilliant poet and journalist. He founded the Modernist movement in Mexico. | The Master of Ceremonies. He represents the refined, "Frenchified" intellectual who is dying of tuberculosis and nostalgia. |
Juventino Rosas | A prodigy of indigenous descent who composed the world-famous waltz Sobre las Olas (Over the Waves). | The tragedy of Mexican talent. His work was so perfect that Europeans refused to believe a Mexican had written it. |
La Güera Rodríguez | A legendary socialite who lived through the Independence era. She seduces Humboldt and Bolivar. | The archetype of the woman behind the power. She knows that in Mexico, flirting is a political weapon. |
Iturbide & Santa Anna | One was the first Emperor; the other was a dictator who lost half of Mexico to the U.S. | They represent the ego and the failure of the early 19th-century military leadership. |
The 41 & Wing J | In 1901, police raided a private party of 42 men, half of them dressed as women. One escaped: Díaz's son-in-law. | The origin of the slur "joto". It comes from "Wing J" of the Lecumberri prison where they were held. It marks the birth of public LGBTQ visibility in Mexico. |
3. Symbolic Nuances
· The Sugar Skull (Calavera de Azúcar): While modernists rhyme with "rose" and "thistle," the Mexican identity is a sugar skull—sweet on the outside, death on the inside. It’s the ultimate symbol of Day of the Dead.
· The Ypiranga: This was the actual ship that took Porfirio Díaz into exile in Paris in 1911.
· La Malinche: Often called a traitor for being the interpreter for Hernán Cortés, she is actually the "Mother of Mestizaje." Her presence represents the indigenous truth that these "Europeanized" ghosts try to ignore.
· Mexican Curious: A sarcastic term used to describe how the elite viewed their own indigenous culture as an "exotic" hobby rather than a living reality.
Note on Translation: In this version, the word "joto" is kept in its original form to preserve the historical sting of the Lecumberri prison’s "Wing J," a scar on Mexico’s social morality that remains relevant today.
Synopsis:
In a violet salon where time has ground to a halt, the elite of the Mexican 19th century celebrate their own decay. While the Duke Job rhymes verses of silk and Juventino Rosas wrenches notes from a blood-stained piano, the shadows of history—from La Malinche to Maximilian—slip into the party to settle old scores. Between glasses of rancid champagne and the echo of the "41," the ghosts of power discover that makeup cannot hide the thunder of the machetes already beating at the door. A black comedy about a country that yearned to be Paris and woke up being Mexico.
CHARACTERS:
- THE DUKE JOB (Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera): The aesthetician of the shipwreck. A man attempting to salvage beauty through rhythm, while his body (and his monumental nose) remind him of his earthly world. He is the conductor of an orchestra playing as the ship goes down.
- LA TRUJIS (Emilia Trujillo): The voice of the underground. A tent-show starlet and queen of the popular vaudeville theater. She is the "anti-mue": while poets dream of France, she knows the price of a pound of meat and the stench of moonshine. She is the reality check; the one who strips away the mask because she lives off the faces people make in the darkness of the theater.
- LA MALINCHE (Malintzin): The translator of destiny. Not a victim, but the master of language. She observes the parade of powerful men with the patience of one who saw a world born and now sees it rot with elegance.
- LA GÜERA RODRÍGUEZ: The eroticism of power. She represents the criollo cunning that knows that in Mexico, image is the front line of battle. Her obsession with rice powder is not vanity; it is political armor.
- JUVENTINO ROSAS: The invisible genius. He represents Mexican art, validated only when it returns with a European seal. His piano is a wooden confessional. The soul of Mexico sold for ten pesos.
- MANUEL ACUÑA: The martyr of the idea. Representing suicidal romanticism at his intense 24 years of age.
- BENITO JUÁREZ: The granite law, the "just middle ground," and the black frock coat.
- MAXIMILIANO DE HABSBURGO: The Archduke of broken dreams and the gala uniform.
- CARLOTA, THE EPHEMERAL EMPRESS: Already touched by early madness and before returning to her long life in Belgium, her country of origin.
SCENE 1: THE VIOLET SALON
(The salon of Manuel Gutiérrez Nájera. Rancid luxury, golden dust, and the scent of rotting tuberoses. JUVENTINO plays a single note on the piano, rhythmic, as if counting pennies).
DUKE JOB: (Contemplating his glass of red wine). Let us drink, gentlemen. The century is dying between our fingers like a tubercular virgin. (He pulls out a lace handkerchief and frantically wipes a mud stain from his silk boot). Look at us: we use lace to hide the leprosy of indolence. We apply makeup to the General so the world won’t see the guerrilla from Oaxaca, but a Louis XIV in polished huaraches.
LA GÜERA: (Fanning herself furiously while applying rice powder until she looks like a corpse). Makeup is the only stable policy in this country, Manuel. Carmelita Romero Rubio is not a wife; she is the image consultant for a nation terrified of its own shadow. (She swats the air). She slipped the silk glove onto Porfirio so no one would notice that his hands still smell of gunpowder and red earth.
ITURBIDE: (Standing on a stool, adjusting a frayed imperial sash). And what is the fatherland, if not a costume that doesn't fit us? I put on a crown and they called me a traitor. Juárez put on a black frock coat and reformed the laws, though he wasn’t liked by everyone—least of all the Church. (He loses his balance and climbs down clumsily). Even so, beneath our little rags, we are all naked, waiting for history to forgive us.
SCENE 2: THE PRICE OF TALENT
(LA TRUJIS pours cognac directly from the bottle and leaves a crumpled ten-peso bill on the piano keys).
LA TRUJIS: History doesn't forgive, Agustín; it collects. Look at Juventino. His music had to travel all the way to the Danube just so they’d let him in through the front door here. In Mexico, to be a genius, you first have to look like a foreigner.
JUVENTINO: (Without stopping, his bloody finger stains a white key). Ten pesos. That’s what they paid me for my most famous waltz. And yes, we live "Over the Waves," and sometimes under the damn waves. That’s the price of my soul: ten measly pesos. Don't be fooled: the waltz isn't French, nor is it Austrian. It’s the wail of a mexican curious who learned to write in the language of those who despise him.
(MANUEL ACUÑA appears from between the curtains, with a purplish-blue stain on his lip and an empty apothecary jar).
MANUEL ACUÑA: (Blows out the piano candle). "Well then, I need to tell you that I love you... to tell you I adore you with all my heart..." My verses precede me. But what does it matter to be remembered for a few little rhymes if destiny is an absurdity? I died for a love that was a symbol of this land: beautiful, elusive, and cruel. Romanticism isn't a genre, Duke; it’s the suicide of a country that prefers to die from a sigh than to live by the blade.
SCENE 3: THE VISITORS OF MEMORY
(A distant roar shakes the room: a locomotive whistle. The characters of the 1800s freeze like a sepia photograph. From behind a screen appear LA MALINCHE and CARLOTA. Carlota has sprigs of ahuehuete in her hair; La Malinche wears a purple Mazahua skirt with small round mirrors).
CARLOTA: (Uses a monocle to inspect La Güera). By Maximilian’s nails! What is this, Malintzin? A nation or a French patisserie? They’ve put so much flour on this woman’s face that if she sneezes, we’ll be baking a croissant.
LA MALINCHE: (Wipes her hands on Carlota’s silk dress). It’s what you wanted, isn’t it, "Mama Carlota"? Whitening. Canned Europe. Look at the Duke... he has silk lungs and a rotten cactus heart.
CARLOTA: (Snatches an empty glass from the Duke). I wanted an Empire of marble and wide avenues! Not this kermesse of pretentious consumptives. Juventino plays as if he owes money to Death itself.
LA MALINCHE: (Sits next to Juventino and blows on the back of his neck). This waltz is some of the best work we Mexicans have done—even if it makes me bite my tongue, since they say I’m such a malinchista. I do love Mexico and the Mexicans, but without weak empires. No offense, but your reign was an operetta fiasco, and Iturbide’s so-called empire was a court of fools, as they say. I choose the time I was given, even if they hate me, and I prefer my short, "striking" Spaniard... at least he knew that to conquer this land you didn't need etiquette; you needed three hundred years, a lot of blood, conciliation, and good translators.
(CARLOTA rips out a lock of white hair and leaves it on the Duke’s shoulder like a medal. She hugs herself).
CARLOTA: Leave me! Your "barefoot Indian" presence insults me. You gave me toloache, you witch, you double-traitor! Look at her, she’s a demon... and don't look at me like that, I’m not crazy! I am NOT crazy! Do you hear me, you perfidious woman!
LA MALINCHE: (Calms her with brutal stillness). There, there, manita... you’re not crazy, just a bit hysterical. Let’s get out of here; this room smells like a luxury wake. (She steals the Duke’s handkerchief to wipe Carlota as she leads her into the shadows). It’s over, it’s over. Let’s get you to your ship... it’s the first of two ships...
SCENE 4: THE FATHERS OF THE CONFLICT
(Locomotive smoke invades the room. From the steam emerge BENITO JUÁREZ—with his dusty black frock coat and a suitcase indicating a long journey in his famous carriage—and MAXIMILIAN OF HABSBURG, with a flawless bullet hole in his gala uniform. They come in arm in arm, stumbling over the furniture).
JUÁREZ: (Fanning himself with a Law Code). It’s so hot in this century, Maximilian! In this ornate parlor, they’ve left the windows closed so long the air tastes of fermented decadence.
MAXIMILIAN: (Inspecting ITURBIDE’s imperial sash with disgust). It’s the scent of order and progress, Benito. You liked order and austerity, didn't you? Well, look: the country turned into an ivory tower with little pearls and Frenchified princesses. They didn't want a whole Archduke, oh, but they sure had to put up with their stiff, whitened little General who wanted to look just like me.
JUÁREZ: (Takes a cigar from Maximilian’s ear). Order without justice is a lack of respect. These modernists (Points at the Duke) have their eyes on Paris and their feet in the air. I gave them Laws, and they spent their time "dancing over the waves."
MAXIMILIAN: (Sitting on the piano lid, causing a thud). You see, "Benito"? If you hadn't died, perhaps you would have held power for thirty years, like Porfirio. You’d be Dictator Benito, and they’d have had to wash your face with lye to whiten you up, ha, ha... With all due respect. (Juárez looks completely indignant; Maximilian changes the subject). Juventino, play something cheerful! It feels like we’re at your mommy’s funeral.
JUÁREZ: I would have sought a "just middle ground."
(Juventino seems to listen to Maximilian and plays "The Bat" waltz).
MAXIMILIAN: That’s it, much better... What were you saying, Mister Benitou? Is it true you made a pact with the gringous?
SCENE 5: THE DIALOGUE OF POWERFUL SHADOWS
(SANTA ANNA enters, limping rhythmically: clack-thud, clack-thud. Separately, in a corner, a man wearing a rigid wax mask of PORFIRIO DÍAZ observes everything in haunting silence).
SANTA ANNA: (Banging on the piano with his wooden leg). Enough with the rhymes, you effeminate poets! Power isn't about little ornaments or sissy music; it’s about will. I sold half the map just so the other half could have a name. They called me "Most Serene Highness," and though today they call me a traitor, no one can deny this soil improved thanks to my spurs.
LA GÜERA: (Snatching the cane from Santa Anna). What "improved" were the debts, Antonio. Juárez’s Mexico resisted thanks to his laws, and thanks to Margarita. We women have saved the Republic. Men do nothing but shout, but women carry the rifles of common sense.
LA TRUJIS: (Forcefully adjusting the masked PORFIRIO’s gloves). That’s right. Women run the show. Porfirio doesn't take a step without Carmelita checking his tie knot. She invented the Mexican aristocracy and crushed the rebellions. What they call "Order and Progress" was just the silence Carmelita imposed at her Frenchified dinners.
DUQUE JOB: (With a sad smile). I don’t understand... you say "Frenchified" as if it were a flaw. But my poetry is original; it’s purely "Duque Job"... and I’m backed by none other than Rubén Darío—ever heard of him? The most important Modernist. Our poetry is like Don Porfirio’s Mexico: too great to ignore and too cultured for the rabble. (Whispering to the mask). But something disturbs me... I hear the gossip, I hear the laughter... and I hear the anger of the darker ones and the crunching bones of the "peaceful" Porfiriato.
SCENE 6: THE MASK SHATTERS
(PORFIRIO stands up abruptly. His voice sounds metallic behind the wax).
PORFIRIO: I’ve had enough! Shut up! My head feels like it’s inside the Bell of Dolores. Gossip? Laughter? What you hear is the engine of a country that I oiled with my own blood because you lot are only good for rhyming "rose" with "prose." (Kicks SANTA ANNA’s wooden leg). I civilized these people with "bread and stick," strict censorship, firing squads before breakfast, and a very entertaining ley fuga!
LA TRUJIS: (Approaching ITURBIDE maliciously). Oh, sure, the powdered Don Porfirio was one hell of a bastard... But listen, my dear "Lord Perpetual," so macho... Did you know your son-in-law, Nachito de la Torre, ended your "bread and stick" delusions? The Dance of the 41 was more than a colorful celebration; it’s the crack in your Parisian porcelain morality. From the "J Ward" of Lecumberri Prison, a name will be born to insult the elegant, the fragile, and the forbidden. Cheers to the high-society jotos! Real macho, Don Porfirio, real macho, ha ha!
(PORFIRIO tears off the mask. Beneath it is a sugar skull with silver mustaches).
PORFIRIO: I’m leaving! I won’t tolerate such disrespect and insults, and I can’t stand the smell of cheap perfume in this room. I leave you peace, gentlemen... May the peace of the graveyards be with you.
SCENE 7: PREMONITION OF EXILE
(PORFIRIO walks toward the exit with the mask in hand. LA MALINCHE appears out of nowhere and places the edge of her obsidian knife right against the fly of his medal-covered uniform. He freezes).
LA MALINCHE: (With a feline smile). One moment, General! Don’t run; your medals are jingling like cowards' bells. The sea is already licking your boots, and it’s not to clean them. I see a ship called the Ypiranga. It will take you to a city where the dead speak real French, not that babble you rehearse in front of the mirror. (She uses the knife tip to lift PORFIRIO’s chin). Over there, no one will know you for your battles, but for your broken statues used to fill potholes. You will die staring at the horizon, waiting for a pardon the sea will never bring, because salt water doesn't wash away the blood of the Mayans you sold as slaves. Bon voyage, Don Perfidio!
CARLOTA: (Laughing hysterically while cleaning her teeth with a maguey spine). Welcome to the Exiles' Club, Porfirio! Exile is the only democracy we ever invented: we all end up as ghosts in hotels and castles we can’t afford. You’ll watch Mexico shrink from the stern, like a dirty handkerchief waving at the port to say goodbye to a very uncomfortable relative. The 20th century is an iron beast that doesn't eat heroes; it eats gasoline and spits smog!
JUÁREZ: (Adjusting his top hat). The 20th century will be a marketplace, Maximilian. They’ll trade the rifle for the microphone and the bayonet for marketing. (Points an accusing finger at the audience). I see a Mexico of asphalt where the Indian will remain invisible, but now he’ll have a serial number, a credit card with eternal interest, and a voter ID to vote for whoever tells the best lies on television. The Law will be a three-act joke!
MAXIMILIAN: (Searching his empty pockets). So my execution was just an editing error, Benito? What a waste of gunpowder!
LA MALINCHE: (Rips the last medal from Porfirio’s chest). Keep it, Max! Your execution was just the premiere of this grand farce. (To Porfirio, whispering). Your "Order" will be the nostalgia of bitter old men, and your "Progress" will be an eternal line under the sun, waiting for a bus that never arrives—and when it does, it won’t have brakes. The 20th century isn't a century, Don Porfirio... it’s a wound you lot opened and are now bequeathing to those who haven't even been born. (Pushes PORFIRIO into the mist).
SCENE 8: THE SHIPWRECK OF THE 1800s (FINALE)
(JUVENTINO crawls toward the piano and, with an animal cry, strikes the internal strings with a wooden mallet).
JUVENTINO: (Screaming with his eyes rolled back). They’re at the door! They smell of gunpowder and thirty years of sweat! They aren't coming to ask for permission, Duke; they’re coming to collect for the very air we breathe!
(A crash of breaking glass. LA GÜERA and LA TRUJIS, in a manic trance, begin overturning the heavy furniture into a luxury barricade. Rice powder flies like a fog of war).
DUQUE JOB: (Climbing onto the wobbling table with a glass of black liquid). Let them come! Let them find this room full of dead verses and empty glasses! For the century rotting in our hands and for the one coming to spit on our French graves. Cheers, gentlemen! Cheers to the "41" and to the shadow of betrayal!
MANUEL ACUÑA: (Holding a candelabra dripping blood). LONG LIVE THE ILLUSION! LONG LIVE THE POISON THAT MAKES US ETERNAL!
(The sounds of a locomotive transform into a chorus of thousands shouting: "WE ARE HERE! WE WANT JUSTICE AND LIBERTY!" mixed with the rhythmic clashing of machetes against marble).
JUÁREZ: (From the shadows, with glacial calm). The time for ink is over. The time for lead and blood begins.
(BLACKOUT)
