Original subtitles

I began to know my father on the day he died.

A bit late,

don't you think?

Or maybe it was the right time?

My father always liked proverbs.

One of his favourites was, "Better late than never."

Well,

for once I have to agree with him.

Dad,

it was worth the wait.

As well as liking proverbs, my father was a methodical man.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

His family wasn't exempt from this fastidious sense of order.

I was the middle brother,

who came after the eldest one but before the youngest.

Perfect.

I was never quite so clear about where my mother fitted in,

and neither was she, I suspect.

Maybe now he's lying beside her

they'll have some time to talk it over.

Lack of communication was always another family theme.

We never talked about it.

Or about the other issue. Or lots of other things.

We never talked about anything that wasn't perfectly trivial

and transient.

Perfectly civilized.

So when my two brothers delegated me to share out our father's estate,

rather than disliking the task, it filled me with a secret hope.

Maybe amongst my father's mementos I could find something

to make me suspect, even for a moment,

that beneath that imperturbable character there was a human being,

with doubts,

fantasies,

fears...

and love?

How's it going?

Good. I'm here.

I'd like to say sorting Dad's things out but that would be impossible.

More like his things sorting me out.

I've never seen anything so organised.

Did you know he had a copy of every stamp issued in Guinea

since '67 til '98?

Yes, I'm going to look at the letters now.

OK, I'll call you later.

Ciao.

My father's letters, how could they not be,

were catalogued down to the last detail.

No surprise at all.

Nothing of any interest.

That was the last bundle.

Or was it?

Why are we so fascinated by things under lock and key?

I remember once,

I must've been six or seven, I saw my father locking something away.

Not in a metal box, that time,

it was in his big sandalwood desk.

With meticulous care, Father locked away

some sweets which a relative had sent us

from some province, I forget where.

My childish curiosity was not impeded by sandalwood, locks nor provenance

and those sweets, which were hard as rocks,

ended up in my clutches.

My father discovered the theft and organised a house hunt to find them.

And he found them, yes, he found them...

Not the sweets themselves,

which I'd swallowed one by one, petrified, ending up with stomach ache.

He found the wrappers.

As a child,

you think that things out of sight are not seen by anyone else.

It's a simple logic but unfortunately wrong.

Am I right, mom?

The tell-tale wrappers were all discarded under my bed.

The punishment was severe,

very severe.

He took me to his study,

bent me over his precious sandalwood desk and thrashed my bum.

One stroke for each sweet,

and one extra for...

I don't remember why.

He felt like it, I suppose.

Violence never needs justification.

And now here, in front of me,

a new opportunity to defy my father,

to probe his secrets.

This time a thrashing won't be of much use to him.

I couldn't find the key.

Why weren't these letters catalogued with the others?

Why had my father classed them as special, like those sweets from the provinces,

and locked them away?

No mention of the sender.

But the address always in the same handwriting.

Some of them were torn up and fixed.

Who was this anonymous correspondent, who could trigger in him such feelings?

Make no mistake,

my father tore things up because he wanted them torn up.

He never,

and I mean never, made a mistake.

Or that's what I thought...

"Dear Rafael,

it's three weeks since I saw you last and all I can say

is that nothing and no-one can put you out of my thoughts,

which are troubled by your insatiable absence,

by the evocative memory of your presence..."

"Insatiable absence?"

"Evocative memory of your presence?"

This letter can't be for the owner of that sandalwood desk I knew...

"The days are long and featureless,

like a sterile plateau on which nothing grows

if you are not walking there.

In a week's time I shall hold you in my arms,

imagining a world in which nothing

except you and I and this love which overwhelms me

nothing is like it is, but all is how it should be.

I love you so much that it hurts me even to write it."

Is it possible to love so much that it hurts?

"I dream about you every night, every day,

with my eyes open or closed,

with my soul distant and orphaned without you.

Goodbye, my love.

Juan."

Juan?

Juan!

Shit! Juan?

This whole string of cheap poetry signed by a man?

Juan!

Just who was my father?

WOUNDED BY THE WIND

No, damn it, no. You've done it again!

And I won't forgive you this time.

Who do you think I am? A nobody?

A decrepit old has-been?

You don't say but that's what you think.

You fix your big blue eyes on me and laugh.

To yourself, but you're laughing.

It's the things you don't see clearly, which you intuit,

which you smell, that's what drives me mad...

But not this time,

you've overshot the limits of my proverbial patience.

I don't love you any more.

No, don't come to me with kisses and cuddles.

I don't love you.

I wish I could say I'll never love you again,

but you know that would be impossible,

that my undying hatred only lasts as long as one of my headaches.

It's so tedious, I've been pulling my hair out,

you know what it's like.

Everyone says I spoil him too much, and I know I do, but...

it's better to forgive him immediately,

so he doesn't get all traumatized.

I'm not too sure there's any such thing as a cat psychologist.

José Antonio, here!

He never takes any notice of me.

Perhaps he doesn't like his name. I don't like mine, either,

but at least I answer when people call me.

"Hey, Juan, Juan!" they say,

and I come running and say,

"Yes?"

I even smile.

I must confess, it depends on who's calling me.

I smile more at men than at women,

at young ones more than old ones,

at dark-haired ones more than blonds, and at handsome ones...

more than ugly ones.

Yes, I know it's not fair to ration out my happiness

on the basis of frivolous external appearances,

but who said life was fair?

José Antonio!

I named him after one of my boyfriends. Not that he looked like a cat,

but he never paid me any attention either so it made sense to twin them up.

I hope it's not José Antonio. Neither of them...

Of course, thinking it through,

if my cat did call me on the phone,

I could take him to the circus instead of the psychologist...

I know what you're thinking...

"This is the old man who sent those letters..."

"now all yellowed with age."

Well, yes, it's me.

I could have been shorter, uglier, older...

And more masculine.

But no,

I am just me as I come:

Juan.

And I know you know who was phoning earlier.

It was David, Rafael's son. Am I right?

You're not that clever,

it's just we made it easy for you, admit it.

So, come to think of it,

let's skip the prologue and get to the point.

I've always hated the predictable.

That's why I'm not fond of life,

I know how it's going to end.

Don't ask me how he got my number, but he did.

He wanted to meet me.

Meet me and talk to me about something to do with his father's estate.

I knew that Rafael had died.

I didn't cry when I heard. I didn't laugh, either.

I just sat down on an old bench in the park

and looked at the sky.

I looked up at the sky expecting to feel something.

I didn't feel a thing.

I suppose that when you've cried too much in your life,

you can end up joining one of two clubs: those who cry about everything

and those who no longer cry about anything.

I realised at that moment that I had joined the latter club.

So...

I looked up at the sky...

and took a deep breath.

I realised that the air filling my lungs

was the only authentic thing I had left at this stage of my life.

He didn't sound like his father.

Rafael's voice was dry, rounded, solid.

His son's voice was sweet, insecure, insubstantial.

I like insecure people, who keep changing their minds,

who change their point of view and principles every minute of their lives.

There is nothing more like death than firm, unshakeable beliefs,

whatever they are.

I invited him over. I was curious to meet him.

Rafael would have got so agitated if he'd seen us together.

How did you find me?

I'd rather not say.

People only hide things they're ashamed of. No matter.

-Sure you won't have a drink? -Yes, I'm sure.

-Don't you drink during working hours? -I'm not working.

Well, sorting out the estate can't exactly be a party.

They are my father's things. I must sort it all out.

When my sister died, I had to sort things out,

a whole load of papers: Bank accounts I knew nothing about,

shares, properties...

I was living right beside a millionairess for 50 years and I didn't know it.

Bizarre. If you're a millionaire and don't show it off,

you've missed the point of being one, don't you think?

But Asun didn't think so.

She was the sensible worker ant and I was the greedy grasshopper.

She wanted to save "for a rainy day".

But while expecting for that rainy day

I guess she never thought of keeping an umbrella for me.

But there you go.

The worker ant dropped dead of a heart attack

and the grasshopper drinks French cognac from Bohemian crystal glass.

Are you sure you wouldn't like a drop?

No, thank you.

Are you going to tell me why you've come?

Or shall we spend more time playing these tactical games,

pontificating on the human and the divine

before jumping into the quicksands of personal interests?

-I'm not here out of personal interest. -Liar.

Everything we do is out of personal interest.

Working, speaking, listening... And loving. Especially loving.

There's nothing more selfish than love.

You have a rather pessimistic outlook on life.

No other choice.

When you reach my age you'll realise that life is just a bad joke.

Sorry, Juan, but you've no idea how I'll feel at your age.

That's possible.

Luckily I won't be here to see for myself.

Forgive me, you were about to tell me something.

If you want we can catch up after your last line, boy.

I've come to talk about my father.

You don't say? You're having me on!

Is it me or have you been laughing at me since I walked through that door?

It's not just you. I've been laughing at you.

But I've also been laughing at myself. At everyone.

Even José Antonio! My cat.

Spoiled damned creature.

Show your tail now or never come back here!

Carry on, I'm listening.

Maybe you'd prefer if I came back another time, when you've found your cat.

No, no, I'm listening.

Sorry again. Sit down, please.

I've denied you the chance to speak three times,

all we need now is for the cock to crow.

Of course, St. Peter had an excuse: they could have crucified him upside down

and that must be a bit painful.

But all I'm doing, after all, is looking for a scatterbrained cat.

I'm all ears.

I've found some of my father's letters.

Written by you.

Well? Nothing to say?

No. Anything to ask?

They're love letters.

Love? No, not just love.

They're letters of love and passion, fire, desire.

-You could say that. -Form is everything! Believe me.

A life is made out of pleasant forms, not boring contents.

Contents are pure, simple, obvious.

-Forms allow more nuances. -Call them what you like,

but letters between two men:

you and my father.

Do you think so?

I know. I've read them.

Don't believe everything you read or see.

And sometimes, not even what you experience.

Sometimes it's difficult not to believe.

I always thought he would destroy them.

If he'd known he was going to die I guess he would have.

We're all going to die. It's stupid to think yourself immortal.

And there are things which it's better not to leave until the last minute.

It's such a long time ago that...

Was I wrong to read them?

No.

I think it's wrong that the whole world didn't read them at the time, but now...

No, I'm glad you've got them.

I wouldn't want your mother to see them. The long-suffering wife, how shameful.

-Did you know her? -Yes, we met a few times.

She was a good woman, but no personality.

Sorry to speak about her like that, but you did ask.

I only asked if you knew her, not your opinion of her.

Maybe I did laugh at you, but you seem to be a bit defensive?

How would you be if I insulted your mother?

Me? Delighted. I couldn't stand her.

Let me make one thing clear.

I didn't insult your mother.

I only said she was a good woman, but with no personality.

Usually those two things go together.

How many good people do you know with a personality?

I don't know,

but people get confused too often between personality and bitchiness.

Well, that's a good theme for a debate:

"Personality and bitchiness at the start of the new millennium."

Sure you won't have a drink?

Have one on Asun. She was always hospitable.

No. Tell me about my father.

Gosh, I was about to ask you the same.

I suppose you knew him at least a little bit.

Thirty-something years with someone isn't what you'd call a quick fling.

Was that what your affair with him was?

Not so fast.

I'm thirty-seven.

You look younger. Lucky boy.

I have always looked my age. How tragic is that?

I only knew him as his son.

-Isn't that enough? -It's not enough.

I've always been surprised why people want to know everything about others.

We have a right to a dose of mystery, dear.

Lies are not the same as mystery.

I see. Can you explain the difference?

Lies cover things up.

Mystery wraps around them, giving them an aura of magic.

He was very clever. Cleverer than his father, that's for sure.

He was playing with me, I don't know if it was conscious or not,

who cares? I gave him something to play with.

OK, let's talk about your father. But not today.

I'm tired, my head is bursting and I have a runaway cat.

Come back tomorrow. Bring all the letters,

I'd like to re-read them.

He was playing with me.

But I was so curious that I let him.

He was certainly a strange lad,

miles apart from my father.

What could they have had in common?

Why the affair?

"Hi, Rafael.

I'm writing this letter in desperation,

like everything I do when it's connected with you,

like every one of my days since I met you.

I never would have imagined a love like this."

It's bad to make assumptions, especially in matters of the heart,

which have more in common with the lottery than mathematics,

although that's a commonplace you must have come across already.

At least once in your life you have to take the plunge

and jump into a deep abyss.

The landing may be painful, but...

the freefall is...

unforgettable.

"I never could have dreamed of a bile so sweet,"

"of a pain so pleasurable."

Rafael,

I can finally tell you:

you destroyed my life.

And now your son wants to know you better.

How tempting, my darling,

how tempting...

So, did you find your cat?

Please don't be so formal.

I know I'm a bit of a relic, but I still have a touch of vanity

which neither you nor anyone can destroy.

OK. But did you find your cat?

-No. -Aren't you worried?

No. There are many things in life I haven't found.

One more won't kill me.

But for your peace of mind I'll let you into a secret:

I haven't got a cat.

-What? -I haven't got a cat.

José Antonio died over five years ago.

On the plus side, my house isn't covered in cat hair.

But I still talk to him, it helps me relax.

Don't look at me like I'm a crazy old man.

At least have the delicacy to look at me like I'm crazy, full stop.

I think it's sad.

What's sad?

Talking to someone who's not there any more.

I'm sorry to tell you it's more or less what you are doing:

talking about someone who's not there any more.

At least I'm talking about that someone with someone who is here: You.

Don't be mistaken. I'm not here either.

I'm only a reflection,

a mirage in the middle of the desert you're crossing.

-Let's talk about you. -I don't want to.

But I do. What are you like?

A normal person, I suppose.

Clear off, then.

I don't want normal people in my life, I only want extraordinary beings.

Out of my house! Go on!

My father was a normal person.

And you loved him for many years.

I suppose I did,

but it wasn't my choice.

You don't choose love.

You choose a profession, a city, friends...

Love is like a coup d'état, it doesn't ask permission, or act democratically.

Your father was normal,

but love turned him into someone special for me...

Even if he wasn't really.

-Have you got a girlfriend? -No.

-I'm not gay. -I didn't say anything.

-But you thought it. -Can't I think what I like?

I don't like it when people think things about me which aren't true.

Blow your brains out, dear boy.

The world is full of wrong ideas.

-I'm sure you've had more than one. -I don't think so.

-Not thinking so doesn't make it certain. -I'm not a homo. OK?

I didn't mean that. But anyways.

-What are you smelling? -You. Do you mind?

-Much. -Sorry.

So... What do you do?

-I'm an architect. -An artist, gosh.

Drawing housing plans isn't very creative.

What about you?

These days, nothing. As I told you, Asun was the financial wizard.

-What about before? -I was a primary school teacher.

One fine day I just didn't go. I stayed at home.

I suppose I lost interest in teaching anyone anything.

You learn things when you want to,

not when someone's trying to stuff them into your head.

At that age all you want to do is play and laugh.

How did you meet my father?

Now the lecture.

Let me stand up, then.

When I'm talking about serious things I like to hold in my stomach,

stick out my chest and put on a deep voice.

I went...

I went to your father's office. I needed a good lawyer

to get me out of an awful mess over an overdue mortgage.

I was always a disaster with those things and Asun and I didn't live together yet.

That's where I saw him:

so handsome...

so tall...

so serious...

so heterosexual.

It wasn't love at first sight, not at all.

It took a few days before I started to really fixate on him,

on the man beneath the straight guy, I mean.

Luckily for Cupid,

it took more than three weeks to sort out the wretched mortgage.

By the time he handed me the bill I was hopelessly in love.

What did you do?

I thought about inventing some other legal wrangle,

but your father's fees were so exorbitant. I couldn't afford it.

So?

I plucked up the courage and invited him to dinner.

The favour he'd just done me was the perfect excuse.

-So you had dinner. -No, we didn't, don't be impatient!

-Can I tell my own story at my own pace? -Yes, sorry.

How kind.

Rafael, as you might expect, declined my offer.

"Thank you, but I've done no favours, it was my job,"

"that's why you paid me."

My father was always so technical.

You insisted, of course.

No. I didn't insist.

I might seem overpowering,

but when you're in love you're not the same person.

You're someone else,

a stranger, nervous, always waiting for a glance from your prince charming.

When did you see each other again?

Just by coincidence, in a café.

I'd been preparing the "coincidence" for nearly a month.

I'd never met anyone so little inclined to drink coffee.

Me, the master of absolutely nothing, of the dolce vita,

Mr. "Don't put off until tomorrow what you could do the following day, or never,"

I was totally overwhelmed.

-You spied on him for a month? -Yes.

And finally, in a heavenly breakdown of bio-rhythms, I suppose,

he went into that café

on the corner of Calle Serrano and Hermosilla.

It's not there any more, it's a burger bar now.

So you see, all my memories end up turning into food or drink.

Are you in a hurry?

No.

Why do you keep looking at your watch?

It's a nervous habit.

To be frank with you it's a nasty habit.

Here am I, dredging my memory,

lifting up the flagstones on a past I'd rather not dig up,

and there you are squinting at your watch.

It's very unpleasant.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry?

-OK. The truth is, I do have a date. -So why did you lie?

-I didn't want to seem rude. -Well, you've certainly managed to!

There's nothing better than a lie to reveal what you're really like.

-Do I seem rude to you? -Yes, you do.

Rude and foolish.

Why do you want to know all this?

Why do you suddenly feel the need to know your father?

He meant nothing to you alive, don't put him on a pedestal now.

Or pull him off one. It's not worth it.

Go to your date and run your hands over that silly blonde.

Be happy, live your life.

Or at least try to.

I said I was sorry. Isn't that good enough?

No. I don't want apologies or excuses. I want the truth.

-How far do you propose to go? -To the end.

How touching.

What if there isn't an end?

You knew my father in a way that nobody ever knew him,

not even my mother.

Those letters talk about a passion I never saw in him.

Perhaps he didn't have any.

But it's all written down!

I don't know anyone as obdurate on the power of the written word.

Apart from Moses and his wretched stone tablets...

Stop playing! I'm fed up with you laughing at me!

To be honest, I thought you were cleverer than your father.

But I was wrong.

My sense of smell has let me down.

Your brain is in the same place as his.

Up here.

And where do you think it should be?

Here.

That's the massive difference which separates winners from losers.

Leave your brain in your head, don't make life complicated.

Go to your date. Triumph.

And forget about me.

I'm beginning to see why my father and you could've been together.

In the end, you treat people in the same way,

as if they were inferior beings,

with that contempt that comes from knowing you're intelligent,

knowing you're special.

Let me tell you something.

Apart from that, my father and you have another thing in common:

solitude.

Maybe at some stage in your life you were different,

but now...

you're nothing but a bitter old man.

All on your own.

This bitter old man

wants you to clear off so he can be on his own.

No, I don't want to hear another immortal phrase before you disappear.

Go in silence.

At least show some class. Your father would've liked that.

And off he went.

He was angry, very angry.

But certain, very certain that he'd hurt me,

something which not everyone is able to claim.

Our vision of reality is so partial.

We look nostalgically at the setting sun

without perceiving that in another part of the world the same sun is rising

and some other imbecile is looking at it, captivated.

The same sun, but different eyes.

A different brain.

A different heart.

Yes,

here I am,

all on my own.

With the terrible feeling that I've wasted my life.

Asun, Rafael

and even José Antonio have all gone.

Now it's just me.

My mistake was not to realise something fundamental:

you don't need two people in order to love,

you just need one person who wants to.

Love is not always a dialogue.

It can be a long, lonely,

terrifying monologue.

Take my advice.

Never fall in love with someone who despises you.

David came here hoping for answers, the ones I spent years searching for.

He never knew his father. I never knew Rafael.

He's being eaten away with doubt.

I'm being annihilated by certainty.

Perhaps it would have been better for both of us to chat a bit more.

Perhaps we will.

Who knows? Who knows?

My father collected old records.

He used to go to a second-hand record shop nearby

in search of hidden treasures

like a limited edition

or a rare compilation.

He listened to them on this old record player,

from his student days at university.

He really liked Italian singers.

Rita Pavone,

Jimmy Fontana,

Niccola DiBari...

and Mina.

Specially Mina.

"Her voice is unique."

He'd play them over and over again.

He handled them with care,

worried that a speck of dust would spoil the sound of its grooves.

My father never caressed me.

Well, no.

Maybe what I've just said isn't quite true.

He took me to the cinema once,

to see one of the cruellest films of all time:

Bambi.

No, don't laugh: Bambi.

That film traumatised me.

At eight, I wasn't ready for such a tragedy.

I'll never forget the tears which streamed down my cheeks

as I witnessed the death of that poor deer.

My father, seeing me so upset,

sat me on his knees and gently stroked my hair,

whispering in my ear:

"Don't cry any more,"

"the mother deer had to go away,"

"but everything's OK."

No, it wasn't OK.

Nothing was OK.

I suppose what my father wanted to do by stroking my hair

was to stop me making such a racket.

That was the first and last time he took me to the cinema.

Yes, my father did caress me once.

But I'll never know for certain why.

It's Juan. He called several times.

He tried to see me, but I didn't think it was a good idea.

So I said no.

But we all know how persistent some people can be

when they want something.

May I?

What are you doing here?

-If the mountain won't come to Mohammed... -I don't want to see you.

Too late.

The most you can do is try not to hear me.

Or I could ask you to leave my house.

Are you going to?

Never make threats which you are not prepared to carry out.

-It's inelegant. -Who let you in?

Your father.

At least that's who it looked like. Which one is he?

Jorge, my brother.

The eldest one got his mother's face, and the youngest one his father's.

What about you?

I don't think I look like either.

-Didn't they tell you about the adoption? -It's not time for jokes.

When it's not time for jokes, it's the perfect time to have one.

Please, leave.

-David... -You were right, that's it.

We don't need to go over all this. Please, leave.

Hello...

OK. Say whatever you have to say.

Aren't you going to offer me a drink?

Asun must be turning in her grave.

Actually, I was just about to go out.

Gosh, the blonde one again?

No. This one's a brunette.

Typical.

Deep down all blondes are really brunettes.

There's nothing genuine anymore.

May I ask you something?

You may.

Why don't you have a steady girlfriend?

I'm young. I want to enjoy life.

Promiscuity makes you feel more alive?

Look who's talking: The master of Dolce Vita.

That's me, you've no idea.

But in order to live,

first you should be able to feel, to perceive,

to savour... And that needs time.

-May I ask you something now? -You may.

Why are you so fond of smelling things?

It's the most trustworthy of the senses, the most direct.

It never fails, it never lies.

Hence the saying, "he has a nose for business"

or "this doesn't smell right."

The sense of smell is used as a reference point for truth.

The king of the senses.

I can tell my olfactory dissertation has moved you.

Thank you.

-What are you looking at? -You.

You look a lot more handsome like that. It's more your style. Informal.

You on the other hand look a bit...

Frumpy?

Yes, frumpy is the right word.

To be honest with you, right until the last moment

I was torn between a big red straw hat with matching shoes and handbag

or this shoddy business suit.

Obviously I opted for the second.

-For the record, it was for your sake. -Well, you needn't have.

A splash of colour would liven up this neighbourhood.

Thank you.

Gosh,

I really appreciate this.

Although I'm used to it now, I hate drinking alone.

I don't think plunging into alcohol is the best way of facing life.

Maybe it's not the best way

but one day you find you have no other options.

How many times I have imagined this place...

Where did you find the letters? My letters...

-Where did he have them? -Up there,

hidden inside a box.

Are you going to tell me why you're here?

I think our last conversation was not very... civilised?

-Well, I tried. -But I didn't. That's why I came.

Why are you so extensive about everything? You're getting on my nerves.

I like to see inside things.

Of course, when you look back at the outside you can't see the inside any more.

I'm a Prometheus chained to my own curiosity.

"Curiosity killed the cat," English say.

Maybe that's what happened to your cat.

No. José Antonio died after a shellfish bellyful.

I'm afraid he had the spirit of a Roman emperor.

Why are you living in this house?

What's wrong with this house?

Nothing, except it's not yours. It's your parents' house.

You're thirty-seven years old even if you don't look it.

You've got a job, your own life. Why didn't you leave time ago?

I don't know. I'm comfortable here.

Liar.

I hate to be called a liar.

And this is the second time you do it in this short but intense relationship.

I am sorry, it must be the heritage of my teaching years.

-I won't do it again. -I appreciate it.

Would you be so generous?

Oh, dear! Your generosity knows no bounds.

I think you're scared of leaving.

Scared of being an adult.

My brother Jorge lives here too.

Yes, but he has other reasons. You only have to look at his face,

so like Rafael, to know he's not scared of anything.

But those eyes of yours...

What do you see in them?

A need for affection,

approval,

to feel important.

I'm not as sensitive as you portray me.

No-one is the same as they are portrayed.

That's why painting is art and passport photos aren't.

Where are you leading with this? Please tell me.

I don't want to see you going round in circles

then lead me to where you were planning to lead me.

Where do you think I want to lead you?

If you're hoping that I'll confess to my supposed homosexuality,

you're wasting your time.

I'm not gay, OK?

Not everyone is gay.

That's something you gays need to understand.

Calm down. I'm sure you're not gay, David.

It's not as easy to be gay as people think.

No.

It takes years of study, training, dedication...

And very often, pain.

You don't meet these requirements. Life has been kind to you.

Yes, I know you would've liked more affection from your father

and perhaps a little less from your mother,

-but you never wanted for anything. -Money can't buy everything.

The only people who say that are the ones who've always had it all.

-I've been lucky in that respect. -Well, not all of us have been so lucky.

Let's be honest, I can't imagine you going hungry.

You don't need to use your imagination.

You just need to read the history books.

There was nothing left in this country after the war.

Only shattered homes, hatred and shortages.

Yes, I went hungry.

I wasn't gravely penniless because I never have been grave,

but I went without supper more than once.

And I can assure you, my parents were so concerned

with surviving from day to day, keeping our heads above water,

that they didn't waste much energy mollycoddling their children.

Your lack of affection doesn't justify its absence?

Of course not!

But, like your parents, mine did as much as they could.

Their world, their scale of values only reached so far.

You can't ask for more.

You must have really loved my father to defend him so much.

Yes, I loved him.

Obsessively,

which is the worst way to love.

I loved him more than you could imagine.

But I'm not defending him.

Believe me, I'm not defending him.

-Do you really want to know why I'm here? -Yes!

To tell you who your father was.

Who my lover was,

since your insistence is as boundless as your ingenuousness.

These are the letters I sent Rafael.

Have them back, they're yours.

keep them. Or tear them up for once and for all.

In any case, I don't want them.

And these...

are the letters Rafael sent me.

These are the ones which should be important to you,

these ones talk about how Rafael felt. How he loved.

It takes two to make a couple.

You have to be informed before you reach a verdict.

And even then, it's better to shut up.

Nobody ever knows what happens between two people in love.

Only they do.

And love itself.

-The letters my father wrote... -Not so fast.

They're for you, impatient, don't worry.

It's my farewell present.

But first let me savour this whisky. Horrible, by the way.

Take my advice:

since you're bound to scathe your body, use a better whip.

I hadn't thought about them.

You bet.

I'll tell you what you want to know,

but first you must do something for me.

Calm down,

I won't ask you to take your clothes off.

Gorgeous as your bum looks in those jeans,

I became an angel a long time ago:

sexless and very camp.

What do you want?

The truth.

The truth? About what?

Your father. How do you feel towards him?

-You mean how did I feel towards him? -No.

I want to know how you feel now.

Resentment and emotional dependencies don't get buried in the coffin.

They pursue us all our lives. How do you feel towards your father?

-I don't know. - How do you feel towards your father?

-I don't know! -You need to know! It's fundamental.

That decision doesn't depend on what you find in these letters,

It depends on you, on your own limitations and expectations.

He was your father. How do you feel towards him?

I don't know!

You're a coward! I'd better go home now with my load.

-You want to know the truth? -Yes!

I love him for everything he gave me.

And what else?

And I hate him for everything he denied me!

So I'm the one who thinks that love is pure selfishness?

A child needs a lot of care.

You wanted more?

Of course I wanted more! I had a right to more!

I didn't choose to be brought into the world!

You should at least clap after pushing me onto the stage.

You're right, David. The world is a stage,

but an empty one.

Nobody is ready to watch the whole show.

If you can only think of yourself, you shouldn't have children.

You can't give what you haven't got.

Your father didn't feel love for anyone.

And you know why? Because he didn't love himself.

You weren't dealt the worst hand when it came to sharing his affections.

What do you know about anything?

Do you think that rubbing me out of the story

would have meant a bigger ration of kisses in this house?

-Yes, that's what I think. -Well, you're mistaken again.

You can't count kisses, like letters, or records or bottles of whisky.

Someone who's got love and kisses to give away doesn't skimp on them,

he doesn't ration them out hoping to negotiate with his valuable merchandise.

-He just gives them away. -My father would be a money-lender.

But that never affected you.

I think the time has come to give you these damned letters.

Read them.

Read them, damn it.

Read them!

It's blank.

Read another one then.

They're all blank.

Those were the love letters your father wrote me.

Blank sheets of paper in an envelope with my name and address.

He only wrote me one letter:

the first one.

"Dear Mr Martín,

After our chance meeting in that café last week

and having thought about what you said,

I would ask you to be kind enough not to contact my office again.

I am sure that some other lawyer

will be able to take over all your legal affairs.

Yours faithfully,

Rafael Duque."

"Madrid, 21st July 1967."

This was his only letter.

Now that you know me a little bit,

I'm not one to let the fire go out if there's still an ember burning.

I swallowed the pride that I never had

and I went back to spying on him,

stealthily,

like someone chasing something fragile and ethereal,

which could shatter into a thousand pieces if someone shook it too vigorously.

Our second meeting took place in a park.

It was short.

He said he didn't want to discuss "that subject" ever again.

I told him "that subject" was burning up my soul,

and making everything around me seem empty and pointless.

He was inflexible.

"I prefer to think that this conversation is not taking place."

But he did give me his word

that he would never say anything to anyone about my "perversions".

I thanked him for that,

but my desire gave me courage and I went further.

I asked him...

I begged him to correspond with me.

Before he had a chance to say no, I started speaking again:

"No, Rafael, I don't need you to write anything.

I only want you to send me blank pages.

My love will write the lines that will never come from your pen,

the words that will never be spoken,

the caresses we'll never feel."

For a moment he seemed to be moved,

or that's what I wanted to think...

But he wasn't prepared even to do that.

He thought it was another form of perversion. And he left.

I stayed there, on a bench,

on that same bench I sat on when I heard that he had died,

and I couldn't get up for hours.

I wanted your father, more than I had ever wanted anyone.

And the fact that he wouldn't consent,

not only to loving me, but to me loving him,

instead of making me unhappy,

made me reach out and grasp a golden ray of hope:

"What if he just doesn't dare?"

"What if it's fear"

"and not a lack of feeling which is driving his rejection?"

Forty years ago being gay wasn't like it is nowadays.

Forty years ago

you had to be grateful for each day they let you breathe.

Yes,

I decided to believe that your father felt something for me.

Something which he couldn't accept, but something.

It's so easy to delude yourself.

These fantasies inspired me again and I wrote to him.

For days I waited for a reply.

Each morning I looked mournfully at the empty mailbox

which denied me even the smallest consolation.

Then one day, it arrived.

Glowing like a full moon. And as white as the same moon.

Rafael had conceded to my wishes.

He'd sent me what I'd asked him for.

He'd made my dreams come true. Was it possible?

Yes, it was.

I was so happy with that blank sheet of paper.

I wrote him a fresh letter full of hope,

allowing myself to fall into the abyss of madness, celebrating our fate.

And I got another reply.

For forty years your father sent me blank letters,

less and less frequently, but in a steady flow

which only ended a short while before his death.

That was our "wonderful" love story.

A sinister game which I had invented myself.

Rafael was only an accomplice in my game, but I was the winner.

What was the prize?

You were right:

my tremendous solitude.

It's not that I didn't have an occasional fling

during all those years,

a body to cling to in desperation, anxious to be cared for.

Of course I did.

But no-one could take his place. Do you know why?

Because his love was my own love, which I had invented.

No-one could outdo this fictitious man who never existed.

My fear of really living,

being loved by a person and not by an impossible being,

kept me firmly tied to this prison of dreams and lies.

I've always loved the sound of the wind,

so smooth on its continuous and persistent path.

"The wind doesn't harm you, doesn't wound you," I thought.

"It rocks you from side to side,"

"rumples your hair, your clothes, but not your heart."

But...

there are more kinds of wind

than the one that I loved, the one that made me feel secure.

The wind can also be a hurricane which destroys your life and your emotions

if you don't know the exact moment to get out of the way.

When Rafael agreed to my requests,

to send me those innocent blank letters,

he threw me a long rope

which I wrapped around my neck for forty years.

And the wind did wound me.

Why your father agreed to correspond with me,

even in this peculiar way,

was something I didn't understand.

I'll never understand.

Maybe at the bottom of his heart,

beyond the recognisable part,

there was a tiny space with my face and my name,

with my voice and my gaze.

A corner of love which could be mine.

And maybe not.

Surely not.

If what you were looking for in me was confirmation that your father was human,

with doubts,

joys,

passions,

I can't help you. I don't have the remotest idea.

I'm sorry to let you down. But I can't help.

And you can't either. Face up to it.

Blaming other people is so easy.

And so cowardly.

Your father once took you to the cinema.

It was a cartoon, Bambi, I think.

I always played for the other team so there I was spying on you across the road.

I saw your small dark eyes full of fear

at the vision of that horrible story of loneliness and death.

Be clever and choose the film which you want to watch for the rest of your life.

You've still got time.

And now it would be best if I went.

You need to change a lot of things.

I need to accept some other things.

It's a pity we can't be friends,

but I'm not prepared to suffer again.

I had enough of that with one Sr. Duque,

I couldn't handle falling madly in love with his son,

because I would fall in love with you, that's guaranteed.

Loving is nothing more than wanting to love.

And I always wanted too much.

It's a pity that I could never choose the addressee for my letters.

For my life.

Look after yourself, young David.

You needn't wrestle with a Goliath who's dead and buried.

Forgive your father.

It's the only way that you'll get to finally forgiving yourself.

I began to know my father on the day he died.

A bit late, don't you think?

Or maybe it was the right time?

Yes, it was the right time.

I don't know who you are, dad,

and I'll never know.

But I do know that you were my father.

From now on that's enough for me.

It ought to be enough for me.

To my father.

For everything that I don't know about him.

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