Music from the apartment above.
FATHER: Strangers, foreigners!
SON: Just what we need.
FATHER: They came from the hills and took our castles away.
FATHER: I’m just referring to those foreigners who are robbing from us what little remains that is truly ours. You know what I mean.
SON: She’s not a foreigner. Like it or not, she’s your daughter.
FATHER: Who ran off forty years ago with one of them, rejecting her family, her homeland, her language, and her own blood. That’s not a daughter. It’s bad enough that a bunch of these strangers have moved in here, but they continue leading an identical life to the one they lived there, listening to the same damned music, eating the same garbage, buying things at the same stores, of which there is every kind and I don’t know how they let them, dressing the same way, giving off the same odors, and speaking the same language. They even have their own sacred places to pray just a few blocks away from here! She, on the other hand… not even a phone call, not even a postcard, not even a visit in forty years… I don’t understand how she didn’t miss all this. Not even when her four children were born did she do us the honor of a visit. And she appears at our door now with the news that she’s dying. And you believe it, imbecile! What really happened is that her husband has left her, and he doesn’t send her his pension, and she doesn’t have a cent and wants to sponge off us for the rest of her life! (Pause) Well, off you, to be more precise.