All language subtitles for 02-Ca

Bye. Bye.

And welcome to Kabaredi Saya.

It is my immense pleasure to offer each
and every one of you a

very special evening full of passion,
live music,

dance, and erotic readings.

Our poets will seduce and delight you
with tales of intimate erotica,

evocative imagery, and much more.

In exchange for a symbolic token, they
will undress themselves and

reveal their most provocative
performance for your ears

only.

Tonight, they are all for sale.

Please choose whoever entices you, and
above all, enjoy the show.

Hi. How are you?

Pretty well. And you?

Good. It's your first time here?

Yeah. It's my first time.

Thanks.

Do you have my payment?

Thank you.

Yes. Okay. Thanks.

I'm tired of having to define myself.

Sweet or savory.

Black or white.

Friend or lover.

Man or woman.

Dominating or submissive.

Think. Or whore.

Fuck everything having to be labeled and
classified.

It all started last spring, when Alex
and Alex showed up a few days apart at

bar.

I don't usually get involved with
clients, but if fate would have it, I

liked both of them.

Opposite sexes, but with the same name.

Perhaps that is precisely what turned me
on.

After eavesdropping for a while, I
introduced myself.

And between one drink and another, I
served up my infallible specialty.

The Kalashnikov.

Call it plain mischief, or just playing
the game, but the truth

is, that little shot of vodka with
lemon, coffee, and sugar

got them more than a little bit excited.

It was incredible how well we got on and
what great conversations we had.

It was getting late, but I wanted to
make sure the night would go on further.

Finally, it ended with an exchange of
phone number, email, Facebook.

We were getting it on.

No doubt.

Obviously, we made another date.

But this time, during daylight hours, a
sure sign that things were getting

serious.

I love the simultaneous relationship
with my two Alexes.

So easy to repeat scenarios and moments.

I will not see tears, only salty tears
in your

eyes.

I would give half a day for one evening

spent with you in silence.

You are so tender, you are so tender,
you are so tender, you are so

tender, I don't know.

I don't know.

After all, now you're a friend,

you're rolling your hands around.

I can't believe that I loved you, that I
loved you.

And now you're gentle, dearly gentle.

You've let go of your hair, you're white
in love.

You've let go of your hair.

And you can't hear a voice Because your
lips

are stuck But now you are gentle You are

a gentle queen You let go of your hair
On white

shoulders You let go of your hair And
you can't hear a

voice

One thing led to another, and as you can
imagine, we ended up having

an affair.

And it was good.

Damn good.

Two lovers.

Two flavors.

Two smells.

This intensity lasted for months.

Thank you.

Thank you.

But all good things must come to an end.

At least that's what they say.

Jealousy reared its ugly head.

And the fact that they both had the same
name only made matters worse.

They both started to ask me
uncomfortable questions and began to

unannounced at the bar.

Aren't my other regular thoughts.

On Cineity, they said.

Controlling, I thought.

In the end, what had to happen,
happened.

One afternoon, there we were, the three
of us.

Nothing to say to one another.

If instead of real life, this was a
French indie film, the three of us would

have ended up fucking and living happily
ever after as a trio.

And though that proposal did cross my
mind, I finally decided that it was far

better to keep my mouth shut.

The fight, if you can call it that, was
very civilized.

Both Alexes were in agreement about one
thing.

Neither wanted things to continue as is.

So I had to choose between them.

Are you gay?

Or straight?

They asked me.

Make up your damn mind, Sophia.

They gave me a few days to think it
over.

How generous.

Meanwhile, they both decided, without
consulting me, that I couldn't meet up

with either of them.

Time to reflect, they called it.

So I did just that.

What they failed to understand is that
if you put too much pressure on Sophia,

she's out.

You lose.

Now my new love is this beauty.

Which, by the way, I've named Alex.

Hello. Hello.

Will you tell us a story?

I'd love to. How much would that cost?

Two chips.

Thank you.

What's your name?

My name's Tanya.

Tennessee. Pleasure. Mine.

And you?

I'm Juan.

Nice to meet you, Juan.

Are you ready?

No one, man or woman, ever fucked with
my mother.

She was the most progressive, refined...

libertine, and sensual woman anyone had
ever seen.

Her family left her a small inheritance,
and she used it to become the youngest

and most brilliant art historian in the
country.

She was a real revolutionary.

Everything about her, from the way she
dressed to her paintings and her

to become a single mother, went against
the grain, and she knew it.

Her decision to have me, alone, showed
her conviction to the counterculture.

Everything I know came from her.

My extensive knowledge of modern art.

My love of chamber music.

My ability to tell a true Fabergé egg
from a forgery in about five seconds.

The writing of Anaïs Nin and D .H.
Lawrence, to name a few.

And the simple fact that I was regularly
eating, savoring really, fine beluga

caviar before my 10th birthday.

I owe it all to her.

Having her as a mother was fascinating.

Almost delirious at times.

My life was nothing like my friends.

For one thing, I never knew my father.

There were never any men around.

She was so discreet, almost secretive.

She was the kind of person who rarely
spoke.

She always used to say, You have two
ears, but just one mouth for a reason.

You should speak half as much as you
listen.

Her penchant for silence was far from
accidental.

It wasn't just that she was a private
person.

My mother had a lot to keep quiet about.

In fact, her livelihood depended on our
ability to keep our mouths shut.

Few people ever knew about it, but my
mother was a thief.

Not a common burglar, though. She didn't
knock off banks or pick pockets or

break into rich people's houses.

She was an art thief.

She stole one -of -a -kind pieces, from
deco jewelry to paintings from the

Renaissance and the modernists, and she
especially loved incredibly old first

editions from her favorite authors.

There was nothing she couldn't find and
acquire.

Her intelligence and her training in art
history made her the best there ever

was.

If she wanted something,

It was hers.

There was one thing that made her a
legend.

She never spoke of it, but it said that
Interpol nearly had her once, but the

detective handling the case fell in
love, and they had an affair before she

vanished.

There are always rumors about important
men, the director of the Louvre, a

famous art restore at the Prado, private
collectors.

Curiously enough, they all ended with
something incredibly valuable missing.

And more often than not, it wasn't even
reported to the police.

But of all her adventures, there was one
that she considered her masterpiece.

One story that she told with more vigor,
pride, and excitement than all the

others.

She called it her best work.

And it was funny because it was never
clear just what she had stolen or what

made it so special.

All I really know about that particular,
and in her words, ambitious caper, is

the mark.

Carl Razman.

The famous novelist and playwright who
revolutionized the entire world with his

experimental work on sexuality,
seduction, and the equality of the

She had all of his work.

It comprised almost one -fourth of her
extensive library.

She often spoke of him in fact, and
always with the most sincere and

intellectual admiration.

I would listen intently, trying so hard
not to ask questions, but

always asking too many and causing her
to snap out of it and change the

Oh!

Bye.

Thank you.

I was always suspicious that it was more
than just a simple robbery.

Especially after Razman wrote a best
-selling novel whose protagonist

mysteriously resembled my mother.

But neither the novel nor my mother ever
revealed exactly what precious objects

she stole from him that day.

Of course, in the end I figured it out.

After years of stalking around the house
looking for some...

hidden objects, it finally came to me.

There wasn't any mysterious treasure
hiding around the corner.

As it turned out, the thing she stole,
her greatest work was

me.

You're dying in the night I'm waiting
for a

right time to pick up the pieces

Like a glassy river,

haughty But this hollow place, I'm
missing I've

a morning fever, I just want to build
you now an empty bay

Your

heart will softly fade

Like the sweet grace of the winter day
The

year

is dying

Like a glassy river,

hopping off this hollow place, I'm
missing our

moment fever, I'm in slumber, you know
it.

So pleased to introduce you to Simone,
one of our most exciting poets.

Please sit down.

I always thought that when I turned 30,
I'd be an adult, living the life I'd

always fantasized about.

The one we create when we're little
girls.

A beautiful home, two kids, a dog, a
fulfilling career, a handsome

and adoring husband.

It's funny how life plays its course.

Our white picket fantasies that seem so
clear as little girls.

Change and transform as we become more
who we truly are.

As the years pass by, my best friends
and I have lived through many things

together, made little packs to support
and pique our every desire.

Every birthday has become a sort of
showcase of sexual playthings.

A few days ago, I turned 30.

And I have to confess, I was intensely
curious to know what mischief my friends

had dreamed up for me this year.

Amongst giggles and champagne and that
perfect evening you have with best

friends.

They pulled out an envelope.

Inside was a card with a phone number on
it.

That's it.

Call this number at 6 p .m. on Friday
was all they said.

Lips were sealed.

However, after a few glasses of
champagne, Patrick did let it slip that

other end of this phone line was not
completely unknown.

That by 30, we should all finally get
over ourselves and become more ballsy.

Friday, I was a mushy mess of excitement
and nervousness.

But I called.

A male voice said, I'll pick you up in
an hour. Be ready.

Don't make me wait.

Who was that?

Damn, he had a sexy voice.

But the main question was, what the hell
was I supposed to wear if I didn't know

where I was going?

Or with whom?

Six outfit changes later, and I opt for
sexy.

When in doubt, heels.

Leather. but with a tinge of femininity.

I was just about to lose myself in a
little fantasy when the doorbell rang,

jolting me into reality and causing me
to go all weak -kneed and schoolgirlish

again.

A black motorcycle.

A blindfold.

a hard -bodied man, and oh yes, my
friends know me oh too well.

I tried to conceal the fact that I was
so wet I was practically sliding off the

seat.

But the bike's vibration wasn't helping
us.

I think the driver could feel my legs
trembling, pressed against his ribs.

The ride could have been five minutes or
thirty.

I couldn't gauge.

But by the time we arrived, and he told
me to go inside, I was

practically dizzy with anticipation.

This has to be some sort of elaborate
ruse.

I'll go in, and all my friends will be
there for my surprise party.

I hope they invited the guy on the
motorcycle.

If he looks half as good as he felt, I'd
be happy.

Okay, a surprise party with scantily
clad angels or what?

My friends do know that I've always been
curious about that.

Hello?

Hello?

And Patrick did say that I needed to
become more daring.

A bed in the clouds.

Okay.

Where are the angels?

This is strange.

Did I go into the wrong room?

Am I early for my own party?

Or am I just imagining that I'm seeing
the silhouette of a gorgeous man, or

what?

Matisse, please tell me this is not a
dream.

How did they manage to convince him?

I've been onto him for months.

The only man sexy enough to paralyze me.

Literally.

And as if all this wasn't wild enough,
he actually leans in and whispers to me,

now we can finally sweat together.

Now I can finally taste that sweat of
yours.

I know you've been watching me sweat.

Now I want to make you sweat.

God, he tastes better than I could ever
imagine.

Did those bastards pay for him?

Or how in the world did they lure him
here?

Lucky me.

30. Yes.

Here's to being 30.

I have to. My past is bleeding and I'm
longing as I'm walking, longing to get

where I'm supposed to be and stay
focused.

I can't

get

no more.

I'm going to tell you a story.

But first...

After

15 minutes of walking in high heels that
were too high and too new,

her feet were killing her.

God, I'm so uncomfortable.

And the dress is too short.

These shoes are ridiculous.

I don't feel right.

Do I really have to try so hard to
impress?

Couldn't I just have worn something more
me?

A teenager.

That's what I look like.

Someone who is dumb enough to go on a
date riding a bicycle in the heat,

a suit no less.

Shit, I'm nervous.

What we had was good.

Damn good.

But it's not going to go anywhere.

It was just amazing sex for a few days
over a year ago.

And that's it.

Oh, and he is so not my type.

Older than me, divorced with a kid. Oh,
such a bad idea.

Why the hell did I say yes?

What am I doing?

What are we even going to talk about?

It's been over a year since we've seen
each other.

I don't even know where to start.

Man, why do I always complicate my life
like this?

I can't even remember how old she is.

Maybe I should just buy one of those
cupcakes and eat it alone and skip the

date. Problem solved.

We just locked ourselves in that
apartment for three days straight and

it.

And for the life of me, I just can't
remember the first thing about her.

It's pathetic.

What should I do?

What am I doing?

What if he doesn't want anything
serious?

What if I don't want a relationship
right now?

Or what if I do?

I don't know. I just...

This restaurant is rank.

Why didn't I just decide to hit that
amazing sushi joint right by my place?

So, here I am, trying to make a good
impression with this ridiculous outfit

a tie.

Nice going.

You gotta chill, man.

Please, just try to have a good time and
be yourself, right?

Thank you.

right first.

Just what I was hoping wouldn't happen.

Oh, this guy's going to show up, right?

Now that would be the icing on the cake,
let me tell you.

Just what I needed. A flat fucking tire.

Another glass?

Sure, why not?

At least I'll be in a good mood when he
arrives.

Or, depending on how long he takes,
stumbling drunk.

And now, of course, I'm going to be
late. Such an idiot.

message nothing he's not coming you'll
see

typical me always messing it up

well I'm polishing off a bottle of
champagne all alone great

Okay.

That's enough.

I'm going.

This guy is making such a fool out of
me.

I look fucking hot, and I'm going to
call Marie to go out.

I'm going to the bathroom, and I am so
out of here.

She's not here.

She didn't come.

Or she came and she left.

Shit. I lost her again.

For the second time.

You know that moment on the terrace.

I was the tangled mess.

It was all so smooth.

And we were so comfortable.

We were great together.

And I.

felt something.

That was the moment to speak.

To say something.

Anything.

Like, stay.

Be with me.

I want you.

I... But I just sat there.

I ate, and I kept my mouth shut.

I didn't say a word.

Nothing.

Way to go, man.

Way to go all wrong.

When will I learn?

It's been really good for your skin.

Do the tadpoles poke around while the
demon soaks in? I've got a million

foolish things to remind me of you.

I tried to wash away the sin, but the
one

of the devil is bonded to my skin.

And oh, how the scent of you clings.

Thank you.

Then offers girl power But all the
subjugation Won't wash off in one shower

so glad my pipe has wings To remind me
of you

You

were gonna

Let it out your name.

Next time, don't remind me.

Next time, you'll never find me.

live longer than the memory.