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I wasn't expecting you.

I wasn't expecting you.

We love you so much.

We love you so much.

Button up your shirt, Andr�.

Andr�!

Andr�!

Andr�!

In the sluggish, lazy afternoons at the farm...

I hid away in the woods...

from my family's worried eyes.

Soothing my feverish feet into the ground,

and cover myself up with leaves,

I slept as quietly as an ailing plant...

wilted by the weight of a red blossom...

Were those stems around me all fairies...

patiently, watching my adolescent slumber?

Where those ancient urns...

calling me out from the porch?

Andr�!

Andr�!

And was the use of those calls,

if faster messengers...

rode the wind skillfully, corrupting the atmosphere?

When my slumber was ripe...

I harvested it as a fruit, voluptuously and religiously.

I remembered my father's sermons.

He said: "Our eyes are the lanterns of our bodies.

If our eyes are good, our bodies shall carry the light.

But if our eyes are blurred...

it means that's a dark, gloomy body."

The shutters...

Why are the shutters closed?

"TO THE LEFT OF THE FATHER"

BASED ON THE NOVEL "LAVOURA ARCAICA"

BY RADUAN NASSAR

A FILM BY LUIZ FERNANDO CARVALHO

Don't you worry, brother.

Find the serious voice you're looking for

Ask me what's been going on.

Disagree with me...

and shatter the family chinaware against my eyes.

This is how we used to sit around the table for meals...

or for sermons: Father at the head...

to his right, ordered according to age,

There was Pedro, Rosa, Zuleika and Huda.

To his left, Mother, myself...

Ana and Lula, the youngest.

The right branch...

had grown spontaneously from the trunk.

But the left branch was scarred,

as if Mother, where the left branch started, were an anomaly,

a morbid offshoot, weighed down by affection.

You have no idea of what we've been through since you left.

You would be shocked to see our family's strained face.

It's hard for me to say this, brother...

but Mother can't hide her sobbing anymore.

She didn't tell anyone you had left.

That day, at lunch time,

each one of us felt

the weight of your empty chair.

The day dragged on while we worked with Father...

we thought about our sisters at home...

busy in the kitchen, or embroidering on the porch...

sewing, or cleaning out the pantry.

No matter where the girls were...

they would never be the same after that day.

They no longer filled the house with joy.

You should have been there, Andr�.

You should have seen Father, locked up in his silence.

Right after dinner he left the table and went outside.

No one saw him withdraw.

He stood there...

staring blankly into the dark night.

Finally, at bedtime, when I went to your room...

I opened your closet and pulled the empty drawers...

only then I understood...

as the eldest brother, what had really happened:

The family's destruction had begun.

It began long before you think.

It began at a time when faith grew malignantly inside of me...

when I had more passion than anyone else at home.

Me...

a pious child...

would set my Marian society ribbon next to my bed at night...

and think about God waking me everyday at 5 AM...

for early communion.

Wake up, sweetheart.

Wake up.

Don't wake up your brother, sweetheart.

- My heart. - My heart.

- My eyes. - My eyes.

- My lamb. - My lamb.

My heart, my eyes...

As soon as I got up...

God was there in front of me, on my bedside table...

and it was a God I could hold in my hands...

and it filled my innocent chest.

And I went to church like a balloon...

The light we had at home during our childhood was fine:

Home baked bread, hot milk and coffee, the butter dish...

The brightness of our home...

seemed to be even brighter when we came from the village...

That clarity...

later started to disturb me.

It would make me strange and mute to the world.

The more united a family, the worse is the blow.

A family's strength and joy can be destroyed in one blow.

In the woods, behind the house...

under the taller trees, when the sunlight created

a gentle and joyous play of shadows.

After the smell of roasted meat...

was gone, through the leaves of the fuller trees,

the cloth, that was spread over the calm grass, was folded away.

And I watched it, sitting next to a trunk,

the frantic preparations for the dance;

young men and women rushing around,

my sisters joined in, with their country ways...

wearing light, bright dresses...

along with love's promise of a greater love.

Running graciously, they filled the woods with laughter...

they carried baskets of fruit to where the tablecloth had been.

The melons and watermelons were joyously split.

And I imagined, once the wine had dampened his solemnity...

the happiness in my father's eyes...

he felt reassured, then that all would not rot in the ship's hold...

And seated like that, seemingly relaxed...

I imagined from a distance the fresh skin of her face...

her lavender aroma, her full, tender mouth...

full of sweetness, mystery and malice in her date-like eyes.

I wanted to dig my nails into the soil...

and lie in that pit, covered with damp earth.

Come on, sweetheart.

Come play with your brothers and sisters.

Leave me alone, Mother.

I'm having fun.

That bright dust, when I look back into that distant time...

I see the day, when I had my feet in chains,

and I looked down to avoid her face...

As I left home, my knapsack weighed on my shoulders...

tied to my back, the two of us walked like twins;

yolks of the same egg...

eyes looking forward...

and eyes looking backwards.

As I stood there, I saw many distant things.

That afternoon, I made my desperate decision...

to dwelve into the soft womb of time.

Who knows, I could have told to my brother tenderly:

"Go away, send my regards to the family!"

I could shut the door...

then, alone in my darkness...

I'd bundle myself in the soft cloth there was on the wall.

And, thus protected, give in to wine and to my fortune.

SCATENA BOARDING HOUSE BREAKFAST, MEALS AND ROOMS

Since I ran away, I stifled my revolt

and step by step, I went away from the farm.

And If I asked myself, "Where are we going?"

"We are always going home."

When I told Mother I was coming to see you,

she stood back...

and her eyes brimmed with tears.

There was fear in her eyes.

"Come on, Mother, cheer up, you should laugh, instead...

Don't be like that, and don't worry.

I promise I'll not argue with that runaway.

You'll see how happy he'll be. You'll see.

Mother, you'll see how everything...

is going to be like it was, just like it used to be!"

Bring him back, Pedro.

Don't tell your brother or your sisters you're going.

But bring him back.

Now I'll bake the sweet rolls, he enjoyed so much...

As she said that, held me firmly as if I were you, Andr�.

That's how you feed a lamb.

Mother has aged a lot.

I saw her sitting on her rocking chair,

completely alone and lost in her grey daydreams

unraveling the lace woven during a lifetime around love

and family union.

As I saw her comb in her bun in majestic simplicity...

I felt for a moment it was worth a history book.

But no one at home has changed as much as Ana.

As soon as you left, she shut herself in the chapel to pray.

When she is not wandering aimlessly in the woods...

she hides strangely over by the old house.

None of us can break her pious silence.

No one causes us more worry.

I don't drink any more. Nor should you drink any more.

Father's wisdom isn't in this wine!

The spirit of this wine will not repair the damage of our home!

Put the bottle away, that's serious, it's about the family!

Lt's all right to have a drink!

I'm an epileptic! An epileptic!

Your brother is epileptic, now you know it!

Go home and tell everyone!

Go now, and you'll see that the doors and windows at home...

will bang shut by this wind!

And you, men of the family...

carrying Father's heavy tool box, will walk around the house...

violently hammering crossed boards over the windows!

And our sisters...

dressed in black, will run around the house in mourning.

It'll be a chorus of howling, sobbing and whimpering...

a locked-up family dance!

He abandoned us...

And with a flock of scarves to hide their faces...

they will huddle, exhausted, sobbing in a corner...

He abandoned us...

And you will scream louder and louder:

"Our brother is a convulsive. A possessed epileptic!"

And tell them I have a room in a boarding house for my fits.

We lived with him and we didn't know.

Never even once we suspected!

Never even once we suspected!

He abandoned us.

He abandoned us.

And yell as you will, gorge yourselves!

Although you don't understand the sinister web I got caught in!

And you, Pedro, as the eldest, you may lament:

"It's sad he has our blood!" Cry out! Cry out loud:

"He's been possessed by a cursed disease!" Scream it!

What a disgrace has descended upon our household!

"What makes him different?" And you'll hear the chorus...

He's possessed by the devil! He's possessed by the devil!

"He's possessed by the devil!"

Then you go ahead and say:

His eyes are gloomy...

He's possessed by the devil!

Then keep sputtering, like stones in a sewer and say:

"What terrible crime has he committed?"

"What terrible crime has he committed?"

"He's possessed by the devil!" And then say:

"He has stained the family!

He condemned us to burn in shameful flames!"

He's possessed by the devil.

He's possessed by the devil.

And you'll always hear the same cavernous hollow sound:

"He's possessed by the devil."

And then, as if in blasphemy...

raise your arms. Raise your hands to heaven.

He has abandoned us!

He has abandoned us!

Plug your ears, Pedro. Plug your ears.

Stick your fingers in the hole!

And after all the weeping...

all the sobbing and teeth grinding...

go straight to the linen closet...

open its doors...

and look for the old linen sheets, kept with such care.

You'll see that those sheets, even those...

like everything in our house...

even those carefully washed and folded cloths, everything!

Everything in our house was totally soaked with Father's words!

It was him...

It was him who always said...

We must start by the truth and end with the truth.

Look at my arms.

Look.

Look.

But it was also him...

He was the one who said probably unaware of what he was saying...

and certainly not realizing how one of us could use it some day.

Look at the strength of the tree growing in isolation...

and the shade it provides to the herd.

The troughs...

the long troughs emerging isolated on the immense field...

smoothed by so many tongues...

where the cattle comes for the salt...

that purifies its flesh and skin.

Did it ever cross your mind, even for a short moment...

to open the dirty clothes hamper in the bathroom?

Did you ever think of dwelving in...

to carefully remove each and every intimate garment of the family?

I dragged up a shred of each of us when I dug there.

No one heard each one cry like I did, Pedro.

I knew the family's every mood...

moulding away in the vinegary, rotten smell...

of the cold, vein-ridden walls of a dirty clothes hamper.

No one stuck their hands in like I did!

No one felt the loneliness more.

You had to get out of bed...

and wander through the halls.

Listen to the throbbing and moaning behind all the doors...

and our muffled, homicidal plans.

I knew the body of the entire family.

I held the red dust-covered sanitary napkins in my hands...

as if they were an assassin's rags.

No one heard us like I did, Pedro.

No one loved us like I did. No one knew the path to our union.

Grandfather led us along that path...

that tall, slender old man carved out in the wood of our furniture.

The truth is, it was he led us...

he was a guide carved out of plaster.

He had no eyes, our grandfather.

Nothing more than two deep, hollow, somber pits in his face, Pedro!

Nothing else shone besides his terrible, golden hook!

I'm tired of soothing thoughts...

afflicting eyes, gentle contortions.

I want everything to burn:

My feet...

the thorns in my arms...

the leaves covering my wooden body...

my forehead...

my lips...

provided my useless tongue is spared.

I don't care if only laments are left...

the family's sobbing and moaning.

Pedro, my brother...

father's sermons were inconsistent.

The world of passions is an unbalanced world.

The passionate must be careful averting their eyes...

so they are not blurred by the rusty red dust.

Building a fence, simply shielding the body...

those are the ways...

to prevent darkness from one side...

from invading and contaminating light on the other.

Through isolation, we can escape the dangers of passion.

But do not think...

we should just always sit and cross our arms.

No one in this house shall rest while there is land to be tilled.

No one in this house shall rest when walls need building.

And let no one shall rest...

when a brother is in need.

I hadn't left home yet, Pedro...

but I saw suspicion in Mother's eyes.

I wanted to tell her:

"You are saying farewell now without knowing me."

I could have said:

"All I did was nestle in the straw of your womb for nine months...

and receiving for many years the tender touch of your hands and lips."

"That's why I'm leaving home...

that's why I'm going away."

I could have told her so much, Pedro.

But I thought it was useless.

"It makes no sense", I thought...

to leave in her poor, flour-coated hands...

an exasperated carnation stem.

"It makes no sense", I thought twice...

to stain her apron...

to cut the cord...

and other leaves.

That's why instead of saying...

"Mother, you don't know me..."

I preferred, Pedro, with my mouth dry and salty...

I preferred to remain buckled up before her...

as if nothing was the matter.

I had nothing to say, but she wanted to say something...

and I thought:

"Mother has something to say that I might listen to.

Something perhaps that should be saved carefully."

But all I could hear without her saying anything...

were the cracks in her old chinaware womb...

I heard in her eyes a desperate cry of a delivering mother.

I felt her fruit drying under my hot breath.

But I couldn't do anything, my eyes were darkened.

Still, I could have said:

"Mother, you and I have begun to ruin this house.

The time has come to throw out the window...

all the dishes and the flies of our old cup board..."

But I've already told you Pedro, my eyes...

were darker than they'd ever been before.

Me, the wayward son...

It was not of roads that I dreamt of.

I'd never thought to leave home.

I never thought of running afar searching for sensual thrills.

I knew, dear brother, from the most tender age...

how much disappointment awaited me outside our home.

Pedro. It's your silence I need now.

Lift your blinds.

Give your eyes free reigns.

Leave aside the family strength and caution.

And hold your harsh tongue.

Moisten your lips...

your mouth.

And your rotting teeth...

and probe the depths of your stomach.

Fill this leather pouch tightened by your belt,

let the wine seep through your pores.

That's the only way to idolize the obscene.

Oh, brother...

we've come to understand each other.

I can see your mouth is decongested

and the sweetness of the wine is in your eyes.

Take it in your hands, Pedro,

and feel this filthy ribbon.

This rag is the subtle extension of the red fingernails...

of my first whore.

What a crazy shame...

you poor, quivering boy.

You've got such a pure face...

and such a clean body.

What a crazy shame...

to see a boy with peach down...

with a smooth, bare chest...

burning in bed...

like kindling.

Take this.

Take this.

Take what you've asked me.

Keep this grimy little ribbon with you...

and come back to your niche, my little saint.

My little saint!

That's where I took my communion, Pedro.

Oh, brother. I lied on the blazing tangerine-filled ground.

Didn't I surrender like a child in the orgy of killer berries?

Wasn't it a precarious peace that came over me...

to have my body stretched out on a weed mattress?

Wasn't this different slumber perhaps temporary?

To have my fingernails dirty, my feet numbed.

Lice cutting trails through my hair.

My armpits visited by ants?

Wasn't this second slumber perhaps temporary?

To have my head crowned with butterflies.

Fat larvae sprouting from my bellybutton.

My cold forehead covered by insects.

My limp mouth kissing scarabs?

Such a sleepiness...

such a lethargy...

such a nightmare of adolescence!

What kind of rock is that, so heavy on my body?

There's a mysterious chill in this fire.

Where will I be taken, someday?

A white board...

and a pale dust.

A silent field...

lilies and the taller cypress trees...

such long cries, mourning my young body!

Get a little inside these things that lulled me to sleep.

Fatten your eyes with that crumpled orchid.

With this bracelet and these pink garters...

all these trinkets I bought with coins stolen from Father...

I buried it in this box to dig it out someday...

and spread them on the ground thinking, as I do now:

It was a long adolescence!

Take it with you, Pedro. Take home all these scraps...

and tell them how did it happen the story of the son and the brother.

Then request a warm night or a big fat moon.

Gather our sisters.

Make them dress up scantily in muslin...

wearing strappy sandals.

Paint their placid cheeks crimson, their eyelids green...

and their lashes dark charcoal.

Adorn their arms and their bare necks.

Put these cheap beads on them, ivory models.

Have these earrings bite their earlobes.

And don't forget the sensuous gestures...

exposing their clevage, and parts of their thighs.

Imagining fatal charms for their ankle bracelets.

Provoke on those newly red, debauched lips...

the thick flow of pestilent fluids.

Take it with you, Pedro! Take all those trinkets home!

And when you get there, announce solemnly:

"From your beloved brother." But be careful in handling them.

"To repay Father's sermons, our misfit brother also sends...

with the gifts, a heavy, scornful laughter."

Come on, put them in the bag!

As I look back on our utensils...

and the family clothing...

I hear diffused, lost voices inside that trench.

I'm not surprised by the clear water springing from the bottom.

And I withdraw into our weariness.

And I step back after such an exhaustive struggle.

And from our bale of routines I draw, one by one...

the sacred bones of our code of behavior:

The excess: Forbidden.

Zeal: A must.

And condemned as a vice...

through constant preaching any waste was to be banned...

denounced as a serious threat to our work.

And I face again the tepid message in looks and frowns.

And our hidden chagrins burning through our cheeks.

And the acid anguish of a stingy scold.

And discipline oftentimes rude...

there was also the children's crafts school...

forbidding us to buy elsewhere...

what could be made with our own hands.

And the toughest law said that it had to be right there...

at the farm, that all of our bread had to be kneaded.

We never had on our table a bread that was not homemade.

And by the time we would share it...

which happened three times a day...

we had of our ritual of austerity.

And it was also at the table, more than anywhere else.

Where with our heads bowed, we learned about justice.

Move, brother.

Open your eyes! Set them agog!

Take my hands in yours.

Let's go.

Once upon a time, there was a starving man.

Who's there?

Where do you come from?

Didn't you know...

you can have all you want if you go to our lord and master?

Lord and master, in God's name, I beg for charity.

- I am so hungry, I may collapse. - Stay here, poor man.

I want to break bread with you.

You must have the salt of my table.

God bless you and your saintly mother.

The starving man was writhing...

he thought to himself the poor must be patient...

when faced with the whims of the powerful...

refraining from showing any sign of anger.

Dear guest, my house is your house...

and my table is your table. Make yourself at home.

Eat until you are satisfied.

What do you think of this bread?

This bread is very pure and good.

I've never tasted a bread this good.

What about the delicacies on your left?

What do you think of this meat stuffed with rice and almonds...

or these lamb cutlets?

And what do you think of the aroma?

The aroma is inebriating...

as well as the presentation...

and the divine flavor.

You will now taste a tidbit from my own hand.

You must chew carefully.

Excellent!

You may bring dessert.

We shall make ourselves sweet.

Eat, eat. Do not stand on ceremony!

You must also try these figs fresh off the tree.

Here. Eat up, eat up.

God is merciful to human beings.

I am satisfied, sir. I can't eat anymore.

This is strange. You were so hungry when you arrived...

it's amazing you are already satisfied.

No matter, it has been an honor to share my table with you.

Ah... but we still haven't drunk.

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