In front of the entrance of the flat. Somebody is knocking on the door. Carmona, the writer in residence–a 65-year-old Mexican lady– goes towards the door to open it. The woman rushes after her to stop her.
Carmona: What are you doing?
The Woman: Please, don’t!
The Woman: I said, ‘please, don’t open the door’.
The Woman: I will tell you later. For now, please, don’t open the door.
Carmona: But somebody is breaking down the door.
The Women: I know. But please, I am … (looking for the right word) frankly…deeply… sincerely…imploring you not to open the door. Just let him go.
Carmona: How do you know there is a man at the door?
The Woman: I just know.
Carmona: No! It is Ms Judith! Our neighbour. I have been expecting her. I knew she would come. I put the rubbish in the wrong bin, and her daughter saw me and said something that I didn’t understand, so I called her Mammacita in return! She didn’t understand and got angry, I think.
The Woman: No! it’s not Ms. Judith. Listen! This is a man knocking!
Carmona: Oh! My god! What man?!
The Woman: I will tell you later. let’s go upstairs…
Carmona: No! I want to know what you are talking about? Were you expecting somebody?
The Woman: That is the point. I was not waiting for him.
Carmona: Who is he?
The Woman: OK! He is the one whose father murdered my father.
The Woman: No, no! Please don’t be scared. Not that way.
Carmona: I am going to call the police.
The Woman: No! Please don’t! His father didn’t kill my father.
Ms. Carmona: But you just said he did!
The Woman: Actually, his father wanted to kill my father. But the one who killed my father was not him.
Carmona: So, who killed your father?
The Woman: I did!
The Woman: No! No, not in the particular sense of the term. I didn’t kill my father…He did.
The Woman : The man who is knocking… oh how can I explain…the story is complicated.
Carmona: I want to call the police.
The Woman: No!
Carmona: Step aside. Let me go. I want to call the police
The Woman: No!
Carmona : I am telling you!… step aside or,…
The Woman: I don’t want him to be arrested. I still love him.
Carmona: Do you love your father’s murderer?! Oh! good heaven! You are supposed to hate him.
The Woman: How can I hate someone who sent me 35 messages in less three hours.
Carmona: 35 threatening messages!?
The Woman: I don’t know. I didn’t read them.
Carmona: Does he want to kill you?
The Woman: I guess he wants me to go back home.
Carmona: Which home?
The Woman: our home…
Carmona: Oh! Good heaven! Did you live with your father’s murderer? I can’t breathe!
The Woman: Oh! Not exactly! Let’s go back to the story of his father. You know! A soldier is a soldier…
Carmona: A terrorist?!
The Woman: No! Why!?
Carmona: You said soldier…Oh! Jesus! Terrorists!
The Woman: Sorry…No! Let me explain. His father wanted to kill my father during a war … they were soldiers in the opposites sides, enemies. He wanted to kill, not exactly my father. You know …all the soldiers are the same. That is what I meant…I meant in the war, soldiers wear similar clothes, as if they are all similar… our fathers probably never met each other,… but he, I mean, his father had direct orders to kill Iranian soldiers… and my father had direct orders to kill all Iraqi soldiers…
Carmona: I can’t breathe…
The Woman: Are you listening to me?
Carmona faints. The woman catches her on time, and sits down on the floor under her weight. The woman is scared. She goes to the kitchen and after a few seconds, she comes back with a glass of water in her hands. No one is knocking on the door now. The woman puts her ear on the door. No sound. She open the door carefully.