Adela Venegas Character Analysis

Henry: (Pretend and pompous outrage) An overweight, uneducated Mexican waitress had once again humiliated me, Henry Parsons, PhD!

Henry: So why was I in that crummy little sandwich shop? You tell me. Addicted to humiliation, maybe? Most likely. I know something about addiction . . . being one of Bill’s friends.

Adela: (Aggressively, as she makes his sandwich): Welcome back, my dear old borracho perdido. Sucio viejo borracho. You know that one, darling? I teach you. Yes, I like you so much you sucio viejo borracho perdido, I teach you speak my language. “Sucio” is meaning “dirty.” “Viejo” is “old.” Sí. There you have it.

Henry: My dear señorita—I say “señorita” incidentally because I think anyone would have to be blind, dead and dumb to want to marry you—so I say, señorita, it is not what I want so take the fucking thing back and wait for my order!

Henry: So go ahead and call the police if you want to. But before you do so let me just say I hope your papers are in order, darling, because that is the first thing they are going to ask for, you know. I’ve got no problem and I certainly hope for your sake that you haven’t any as well.

Adela: I’m telling it. So you listen and learn, gringo. Husband is beating wife, Adriana. Right? Wife calls police and wants divorce. Okay? Next stop: court case. Police and husband tell lies in court but judge believes him because they all gringos and husband is Vietnam vet. Verdict? Court gives baby Isabella to husband. They call it American justice. But not end of story because now comes Mexican justice. Beautiful Adriana waits for time when little Isabella is playing in the street. Adriana walks—very easy, like you know—to Isabella and says . . . “Hey baby! Come with Mama! We go eat ice cream.” . . . And off they go.

Henry: Well played! I’ll give you that point. I can’t trump your pride . . . and for the simple reason that I don’t think I’ve got any left. (He tries) “I am a South African!” Didn’t sound convincing, did it? Certainly didn’t feel it. But there was a time . . . oh yes, there was a time . . .

(He shakes his head ruefully.

Pause.

He starts eating his sandwich and waits, watching her at work behind the counter for a minute or so, beginning to see her as something more than just a target for his scorn and contempt. Eventually . . .)

Do you ever get homesick?

Henry: [T]hat was another terrible yearning . . . watching people live their lives . . . and understanding what those lives were all about. I can’t do that here in America. I understand nothing. When I stand on a street corner here in America I feel I don’t even speak the same language. Back there it was different . . . I knew them all . . . I knew their stories . . .

Henry: (With simple sincerity) Thank you. Thank you very much. That was very beautiful . . . and leaves me amazed once again at the Almighty’s infinite capacity for mistakes: that voice in your body.

Henry: I am, Adela, by common definition, an alcoholic: you were right, borracho perdido. Ten years ago my very beautiful wife—Loretta—delivered an ultimatum: “Me or the bottle.”

Adela: (Nodding her head in an “I knew it!” response): And you choose bottle. You got beautiful wife and little girl but you want bottle.

Henry: No! It’s not as simple as that! I wanted them. I wanted my family. So I tried! Believe me, I really tried. Every Saturday night in the basement room of a church in Gramercy Park in New York.

Henry: You see, my daughter Kate has told me that she would love to come and visit me, provided I could stay sober for a year. So what do I do? I get to ten, sometimes even eleven months . . . and then I hit the bottle again. But I’m not fooling myself. I know what’s happening. Do I really want her to come over and look at me, look at what my life is now? Even if I was sober, what would she see?

Henry: I get it now. When I first walked in here last Christmas and you saw another borracho perdido . . . and you saw Roberto. Right?

Henry: Two very lost old people from the look of things, don’t you think? I wouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t get a “missing persons” card in my mail next week with their pictures on it. “Have You Seen Us?” Oh yes! I have not only seen them, my dear Adela, what is amazing is I also happen to know them.

Henry: . . . There . . . gouged out in the tarmac in front of one of the parking bays, and obviously intended for the car and its occupants that had been parked there, was the Star of David . . . Do you know what that is, Adela?

(He goes to the chalkboard menu, wipes away what was written, then takes a piece of chalk and draws the Star of David.)

The Jewish Star of David . . . the one Hitler pinned on the clothes of little boys and girls, marking them down for the grand “Final Solution.”

Henry: Now listen, this monster . . . what do you call it . . . monstruo? . . .

(He now points at the menu.)

Is those three words . . . and those three words . . .

(He now points at his own chest.)

. . . are inside me.

Henry: The monster had got a name, you know. Prejudice! That’s the name of the disease, my darling. And the symptoms are the same, whether it’s Jew or black or coolie, that you happen to be looking at . . . hatred and fear of anything that is different. It’s endemic to that beautiful country of mine. Like all decent liberal-minded men and women back there, I, of course, thought I had cured myself of it. Maybe others did. I hadn’t. I’m rotten with it.

Henry: I hated you.

Solly: I know.

(Pause. They look unflinchingly into each other’s eyes.)

But why?

Henry: You were ugly . . . you were a Jew . . .

Solly: I still am.

(A pause. Henry is shaking his head in denial.)

Speak. I will listen.

Henry: (After a gesture of utter helplessness): I don’t know . . . now you are beautiful . . . I . . . love you.

Solly: Then God will also forgive you.

Henry: It’s my one and only souvenir of Adela, and what happened to me that night. Remember it? “Have You Seen Us?”

It’s a good question. I like to believe I did.