Volume iii, #2

As I read over the rough draft of this letter, a horrid reaction coursed through my bloodstream. "This reads like a stockholders' report." I shivered and fled from the typewriter in fear and self-loathing. How did Flaubert put it? "Human language is like a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, when all the time we are longing to move the stars to pity." I went outside and sat on the front steps of the theatre to talk to the ceiba.

The ceiba is in full leaf. A light rain is falling, a typical kind of rain at this time of year that often continues all night. The night is even darker than usual, especially in contrast to the full-mooned nights last week. The rain muffles the night sounds. A dog barks and another, much farther away, answer. I listen to the rain falling in the branches. Well, in a sense it is a sort of stockholders' report. Form follows function. "If music be the food of love, play on."

We're completing four years of existence with the end of this year. Each of the years has been filled with more than its share of false starts, blind alleys, mudholes, downed bridges, and other assorted disasters. But somehow we've managed to end each year a few steps ahead of where we started. "Everything that rises must converge." The past six months have probably been the most action-packed in our history, at least in terms of the multiplicity of events on various levels.

The world economic situation has come to roost in the rafters of teatro la fragua, side by side with the owls and iguanas. It is a cliché to say that grant money has dried up everywhere. But a theatre in a strife-torn region of the third world applying for a grant seems to have taken on the anathema equivalent to the blessing bestowed a few years ago on a black hockey player who speaks Chinese applying for a college scholarship. ("We have been cutting back on so-called 'cultural' projects. The new emphasis is on economic, productive projects.") This has forced us into a complete structural re-organization which is still floating (like the Mexican peso), but which seems to be moving toward a truly independent professional theatre. We should emerge from these growth pains with a much firmer base for a continuing organization -- if we survive the infant mortality period.

And it is precisely on this point that the stockholders' report is due, for we have existed for the past four months solely on box-office take and your contributions. Thank you.

I walk outside again. The continuing dripping from the trees deceived me: the sky has cleared completely and the stars are brilliant in the cool, washed air. There's more rain falling under the ceiba now than when it was raining. The close-barking dog seems to have finished his piece, but a whole zodiacal menagerie in the far distance are discussing the news the middle-distance crier. A couple of roosters whose alarm clocks have gone amok join in. The moon hasn't come up yet, but its glow is already silvering the taller palm trees.

Beginning with a national theatre congress in Tegucigalpa in July, and culminating with the first national theatre festival in fourteen years in November, we've dramatically expanded the radius of our audience base and been catapulted into a leadership position in a national grass-roots theatre movement. The festival, held in the National Theatre in Tegucigalpa (a turn-of-the-century horseshoe which has been excellently restored) was exciting even for a dyed-in-the-wool cynic like me. You can imagine what it was like for a bunch of small-town guys who had never even seen -- much less played in -- such a theatre before to suddenly find themselves the toast of La Capital. And I discovered that even when they are written by people who obviously don't know what they are writing about, rave reviews warm the cockles of even the hardest heart.

The moon is up and visible through the branches of the ceiba. Waning, a couple of days past the third quarter, it's holding water. The aroma of the orchids is especially strong in the post-rain dampness. The white ones stand out clearly in the moonlight, but the red and green of the leaves and flowers of the poinsettias are almost indistinguishable. The canine telegraph is fading into the distance, but a pair of shots not too far away starts the wave all over again.

In June my brother Ted married Mary McGuire in a ceremony over which I presided -- and in one fell swoop complicated exponentially the "which Mary?" problem in our family. (Thank God, one of the bridesmaids was not named Mary). At the reception a good friend of Ted's toasted them with a song he had composed for the occasion:

You won't find a pair finer
Than Ted Warner and Mary McGuire.

That was Dan McDermott, who is now electrifying Honduran audiences billed as El Irlandés Errante ("The Wandering Irishman," or "The Irish Rover" depending on how romantic your bent). Dan's musical accompaniments have raised performance level of our shows by a quantum leap, and last month he brought down the house in Tegucigalpa with a rousing rendition of "Guantanamera." A week later he was bringing down another house:

"I had to ride in the back of the pick-up truck as we bounced along this dirt road through the mountains to do a show in Santa Bárbara. When oncoming cars passed us they left behind thick clouds of dust to travel through. I had to cover my face to prevent dust from entering into my eyes, nose, and mouth. But I was enjoying the journey. My eyes popped open and my jaw dropped in astonishment as we passed through all that tropical vegetation and the mountain streams that Jack had written about in past newsletters.

"Suddenly the pick-up started shuddering all over and stopped. Jack and Edy worked for about two hours in the dust under the car, and finally got it moving again. But after a few kilometers the same thing happened all over. They decided to throw in the towel and sent of the actors ahead to look for help.

"Hot, dirty, tired, and hungry, we pushed the car down the road and stopped in front of a shack up on a hill about fifty yards from the road. Edy went up to the house to ask if they had any food. He came back with a young man about eighteen years old who explained that they couldn't offer us much, but that we were welcome to what they had. I walked up the hill, ducked under a branch of a tree guarding the entrance of the house, tiptoed around various patches of chicken droppings, and arrived at the porch at the back of the house. guarding the entrance was one of the most disgusting welcome mats I've ever laid eyes on: a 500-lb. black and white hog. The beast was sleeping and I took care not to wake it up. I reached the table in this porch-dining area and the three of us chatted with our hosts as the señora and two of the older daughters prepared our lunch.

"There were eleven children in the family, living in a shack about the size of a two-car garage. I wondered how they continued living daily in such poverty, living with hogs and other farm animals. It took me a while to get accustomed to such surroundings.

"After fifteen minutes the food was ready. We supped regally on beans, rice, eggs, and tortillas. And Honduran coffee. I took care not to look at the hog while eating; I wanted to enjoy my food. I stared at the rough brick wall, a far more pleasant sight.

"We finished lunch, got up, thanked our hosts, stepped around the hog, and followed some of the smaller children down the hill and across the road. We trudged down a path that led from the road to the banks of a river, undressed, and set foot in the water. The temperature was a shade cool, but I didn't complain. I stepped cautiously on the slick rocks until the river was about two and a half feet deep and sat down. The cool water rushing over me washed away all thoughts and feelings of being hot, tired, and dirty.

"I climbed carefully out of the water and sat on the bank, letting the sun dry me as I struggled to chat with the campesino children. I watched the river flowing by and the hills on the other side. We dressed and walked through

corn and pineapple fields and up the hill to the car. I noticed my violin in the back and asked Jack what he though of my playing for the kids to pass the time. 'Great idea,' he said. 'After all, they fed us.'

"I got out the violin. Jack asked the kids if they knew what it was.

"'Una guitarra!' Close, but try again. 'Violín!' shouted another, and with that I started playing in Irish fiddle tune. I got through a couple of verses, stopped, and heard voices calling from the house. A command performance for the family. I put the violin back in the case, walked up the hill, stepped around the hog and onto the porch where the whole group was already gathered. I tucked the violin under my chin and launched into the jig 'Banish Misfortune.' The dog got up noisily and laboriously and trudged toward the other side of the house, scattering chickens in its path.

"I finished the song and looked at the family. Nobody applauded, but nobody moved either, and their faces spoke a special acknowledgement of this new experience. It didn't matter that the music was from a far-away country that they had probably never even heard of. I kept playing and they kept asking me to continue.

"Finally I sang the only song I know in Spanish, "Guantanamera." I asked them to sing along, and one by one they timidly joined in. They were all singing by the time we got to the last verse:

Con los pobres de la tierra
quiero yo mi suerte echar.
El arroyo de la sierra
me complace más que el mar.

With the poor of the earth,
I cast my lot with them.
The stream in the mountains
pleases me more than the sea.

"I'll never forget singing that with them."

The moon in just above the ceiba now. The frogs and the crickets are engaged in a song contest of Wagnerian proportions. Only a couple of distant dog-barks.

I am a poor boy too.
I have no gift to bring
To lay before our King.
Shall I play for him on my drum?

Six shots ring out in quick succession, fairly close, momentarily dominating the vocal competition. Just some drunk emptying his revolver. I hope. The battle of the crickets and the frogs resumes in full force.

And they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.

From all of us at teatro la fragua, our sincere prayer for a Christmas filled with peace and joy and hope. And that the real spirit of Christmas may inspire you throughout the new year.

Peace,

Jack Warner sj

P.S.: SUBSCRIBE NOW! teatro la fragua is in the forefront of a nascent national theatre movement. teatro la fragua is also broke. We need your help more than ever to carry on. Good seats are always available at whatever price you can afford. $100 buys out the whole house. $50 brings you a dress circle box for the entire season (along with a paper fan and a can of Off for every member of your party). Any single ticket purchase increases the chance of there being seats in the theatre throughout the coming year. The price of your subscription is tax-deductible. Send you order, along with a check payable to "Jesuit Mission Bureau," to: Jesuit Mission Bureau, Inc., 4511 West Pine Blvd., St. Louis MO 63108

Do it now! Don't take the chance that when you drop through Progreso the show will be sold out. Or closed.