Original subtitles

Delambre, Delambre, Delambre!

We had a tail this morning.

Hurry up!

Lieutenant Delambre, I curse you and your two legs!

(Music)

It's not a dream

and I'm not dead.

What are you doing?

I just signed a release and got the hell out of there.

Didn't you see the doctor?

You're under observation until tomorrow morning.

You'd better go back to your room and get a good night's sleep.

I'm in great shape and my tires are well inflated.

That's good enough for me.

And you, do you have a note for this morning, because it's all because of you

that I got my ass kicked by this inopportune jerk?

No, I don't have a note.

And that guy you hit,

don't you care what state he's in?

He's the one who jumped out from under me.

I hope it's serious and he's going to take it hard.

Missed it.

He's alive and well.

Go on with your gruff, misanthropic cop routine without me.

For the discharge, I think you need to ask at reception.

Hey!

Why are you here?

That guy you hit, I came to get his jacket

and take it to the IML.

No one knows his name.

He had no papers on him, no wallet, nothing in his pockets.

If he's awake, just ask him.

Yes, but apparently the shock caused him to develop a form of

of amnesia.

He can't remember when you met, let alone his name.

Nice carnage.

Didn't miss it, the bastard.

His injuries are minor.

Nothing to do with the massive hemorrhage that caused these marks.

It's not my blood either.

I don't have any open wounds.

So there's a third person between us.

Exactly.

The one who slaughtered him before running into you.

Given the state of coagulation, this blood has been spilled several hours

before your accident.

What are those little white things there?

According to the intern, probably cervical matter.

What is the origin?

Human? Animal?

Whatever its origin, I wouldn't put much stock in it.

Come on, out! To the IML.

How can you serve such awful food?

This is unheard of.

This hospital is lousy.

As for the morons who work there, they're talking nonsense.

I don't remember the accident you're talking about

but I know exactly who I am.

My name is Gustavo Guzman.

What's your name?

Do you mind?

If you don't mind.

Please go ahead.

At your own risk.

Is it good?

But tell me, the chair, I hope it's not...

Oh, no.

Don't worry, it's not your fault.

The best thing you could have done is put everything back in place,

but I've been weighed down by destiny ever since...

All my life, in fact.

It's very kind of you to come and see how I'm doing.

Between companions in misfortune, it's only natural.

Can I ask you a question?

Please do.

The morons who took care of you showed me your jacket.

A real butcher's apron, there's blood and brains everywhere.

Any ideas?

If you slaughtered your neighbor's dog because it was dropping off

on your doormat, it's not right, but I don't care.

If it's a man, then I'm interested in your story.

Because, as luck would have it, I'm a cop.

I don't understand a word you're saying.

Let me understand what you're saying.

Listen, excuse me, I'd like you to leave me alone, I'm tired.

I feel like sleeping.

Goodbye, sir.

My name is Cain.

I'm a police officer with SRPJ.

I'm going to send for an orderly to watch over your sleep.

Don't hesitate, of course, to ask him if your memory comes back.

Otherwise, see you tomorrow, Gustavo.

What unhealthy pleasure can you take in skinning corpses

all day long?

I've known you to be more inspired, it sounds like a freshman question.

Being undrinkable requires iron discipline.

I'm just out of the hospital, so I'm entitled to a little slacking off.

Let's just say I prefer to try and find out how people die,

while you try to find out why and because of whom.

Really?

And why is that?

That still leaves me a little hope in the living.

And when I see you, I tell myself it's still a great chance.

That's a cruel thing to say.

You shouldn't have gone soft on me.

The blood on the jacket and shirt is human.

And the little white things are brain gray matter

from the thalamus.

Since the thalamus is located deep in the brain,

between the cortex and the brain stem,

we can deduce that the bullet passed through the encephalon

and caused irreparable damage that more than likely resulted in death.

The bullet, the bullet, the bullet. What bullet?

I found gunshot residue on the sleeves of the jacket.

In other words, your guy shot his victim in the head.

This way.

Sit down, please.

Where are we?

A killer with amnesia is not going to be easy.

Amnesia, that remains to be proven.

Do you think he's faking it?

You're going to take Guzman in hand for questioning.

And why me?

I need a round of observation before getting down to business.

Come on, out!

Captain Cain's on his way.

We'll start without him.

Is there a problem?

Problem, no.

You're very pretty.

You've heard that a lot, I guess.

I'm afraid this is neither the time nor the place for such considerations.

There's no time or place for complimenting a pretty girl.

Especially when it wouldn't take much to make her a pretty woman.

You're under interrogation, Mr. Guzman, not judging the Miss SRPJ pageant.

And I'm asking the questions.

When was the last time you heard me ask a question?

If he has an ounce of taste,

your boyfriend would do well to take you shopping

because you might meet someone who will do it for him.

Do you have a boyfriend?

That was a question.

You are suspected of murder.

Then I'd advise you to stop being such a show-off, Mr Guzman.

What's all this about murder?

The biological traces found on your clothes are of human origin.

You've got some explaining to do.

And quickly.

What's with the clothes?

And what's this?

Where does it come from?

From the hospital, Emmaus, I don't know.

And now you have to answer my questions.

Come on, let's do it the old-fashioned way.

Last name, first name, address, profession, marital status.

My name is Gustavo Guzman.

I was born in 1947 in Buenos Aires.

Single, no children.

Translator.

I live at 15 boulevard du Général Leclerc in La Ciotat.

As for the rest, I don't understand what you're telling me.

And I have nothing to say to you.

It's all right, Lieutenant.

Time out.

Either he's messing with us, or he's up to no good.

I'm leaning towards the latter.

Above all, he's an inveterate fetishist.

I beg your pardon?

A fetishist of the female foot who only appreciates it in pumps

or better, high-heeled sandals.

He's a refined guy who knows that true elegance begins with the feet.

He's wonderful.

While you're off discussing foot elegance with Hidalgo,

I'll go check on her marital status.

I hope for your sake he doesn't have such a tire fetish.

Not bad.

Avenue du Général Leclerc.

And here's the 15th.

Must have been a nice house from the doorway.

Everything's going to hell, Gustavo.

Must be ages since it was demolished.

Look, Gustavo, it's simple.

Knife to cut, fork to prick.

When did this Alzheimer's start?

Wouldn't it have been easier to tell me straight away?

You have to live it not only as a drama,

but above all as a humiliation,

so you said to yourself, against all probability,

that you might be able to slip through the net.

So, how long has this Alzheimer's been going on?

I can't remember.

Like waiting for something else.

Usually, I always carry a dictaphone with me,

on which I record essential information,

but I don't know where it went.

Some memories come back randomly, then fade again.

It's like a gallery of fragmented, disordered memories,

in my head.

Without my Dictaphone, I'm lost.

My address, for example, I was absolutely sure of,

but it's been years since I've lived anywhere else.

Let's summarize.

For the moment, you are Gustavo Guzman.

Yesterday, you spilled brains with an 11.43 before rushing off

under my wheels.

An 11.43, you said?

Wrong question, Gustavo.

You should have asked me what an 11.43 is.

So that means you already know.

We're making progress, aren't we?

Just a minute, Mr. Guzman.

Here we go.

You are aware that we have an interrogation room

where you can get sandwiches and beer delivered?

The piece was to die for.

You remember that with your service weapon,

the administration gave you a pair of handcuffs?

You know, that accessory that enables police officers

to prevent their suspect from running off?

Her name was Vanessa.

I offered her my pliers after hanging her on a St. Andrew's cross.

A very moving memory.

She also liked my gun, but I was able to resist.

You don't take your gaucho out unless it's on a leash and for a good reason,

Is that clear?

Gustavo Guzman is unknown to the police.

Nothing in the phone book or with cell phone operators,

in social security, pension fund and treasury files,

in Marseille and PACA.

And for the moment, nothing from the translators either

after an Internet search.

So for the moment, it doesn't exist.

At least not in the region.

I've extended the search to the whole country, broadcasting its description.

And now I've contacted the Argentine consulate, but it's going to take some time.

What about the DNA on the jacket?

It doesn't come out on any file.

A murderer without identity, an unidentified, untraceable corpse,

no murder weapon, a real mess.

I'm getting excited.

What about him?

We'll give him room and board until his memory comes back.

It's not just a matter of memory, this guy's got a mind of his own.

You'd need a medical expert to at least know where you stand.

Alzheimer's stage 2.

Memory problems intensify and require human assistance

for daily activities.

Frequent depressive episodes.

Progression to stage 3 is inevitable.

Increasing cognitive impairment, language impairment.

The disease is incurable and life expectancy is between 3 and 8 years,

depending on the patient's age.

Excellent. Where did that come from?

Vidal, health pages from a magazine, or something?

No, my father died of that crap.

I'm sorry.

My mother's life quickly became a living hell.

And even though the old man always acted like a total bastard to me,

to relieve her, I took a leave of absence and took care of him.

I bet you never thought I'd be capable of such self-sacrifice, Lieutenant.

Be careful, if you give in to emotion,

it'll throw off the balance of our reporting relationships.

If I've understood correctly, there's bound to be someone looking after him.

We've received the fax.

It's (Didier).

Guzman's fingerprints appear on a 30-year-old robbery.

Hence 11.43.

Which 11.43?

No matter.

Get the file on this case, so we can get down to business.

I think Borel has a problem.

I think I've got a problem.

I know, Borel, you're a visible minority cop and I'm a quota cop.

So you know what?

To each his own.

His name is Bruno Lopez and he says he's responsible for the death

of Emma Dumont, who was found yesterday.

Stick it in the hole and call the D.A.

Problem solved.

But according to the coroner, the victim died of a heart attack.

Get him out of the hole and apologize to the D.A.

End of story.

But it's a bit more complicated than that.

Bruno Lopez says he deliberately induced the heart attack.

Are you doing this on purpose, Borel, or is it just to piss me off?

He wouldn't, Captain.

I wouldn't, Captain.

I repeat, it was I who killed Mrs. Dumont.

She was only 41 years old.

41 is a young age to die.

She warned me she had a heart condition

and that I should take it easy, but I took it hard.

Very hard.

Very hard.

Five times 50, 250.

In total, that's what she paid me for my services.

What do you mean, paid for your services?

You just told us that Mrs. Dumont was your mistress.

No, she wasn't.

No, I said we slept together.

I'm an escort, senior escort.

Yeah, some people like it, old people.

At 250 a pass, you've got to love it.

Gotta love it.

Wait, 250, 250, my wife's holding back half of it anyway.

I beg your pardon?

She takes care of the business, the web pages,

referencing on dating sites.

Good, good, good.

In our beautiful country, prostitution is not punishable by law.

But pimping is.

So all you have to do is go and get Mrs Lopez.

We've received a letter for you from the SRPJ in Menton.

Apart from the horoscope from the Chaumières school,

I don't know who could have predicted this murderous outburst by people in their sixties.

Mrs Lopez will wait.

Imprison him while we take care of his colleague.

Bank robbery in Menton, January 21, 1980.

One of the two robbers was fingerprinted,

but they were never identified.

Until today.

According to police officers at the time, the operation was well prepared.

Two hooded and armed individuals appear at 9:15 a.m.

They are very brutal, and are given the cash takings of a supermarket.

But the affair goes wrong.

A bank employee panics, you hurt your hand

trying to subdue him.

You remove your glove, hence the fingerprints.

The employee does not calm down and in a fit of rage,

you shoot him in the head before fleeing.

His name was Edouard Couturier.

He was a senior cashier and 33 years old.

This robbery is 31 years old and time-barred.

Justice can no longer do anything against you or your accomplice.

By the way, who was this accomplice?

Do you remember him?

No.

I remember a woman.

She was at the counter.

Blonde, long hair, carefully made up.

She's staring at me.

Not really panicked, just surprised.

And there's a scent too.

Something classic.

Bergamot, vetiver.

And there's another smell, that of powder.

Obviously, it's not as sexy as the Plexiglas panels in Without a Trace,

but hey, we're in France.

If you start noting details like this, the Chinese wall won't be enough.

A detail.

Proust's madeleine, a detail.

Pull the little thread and the whole ball of yarn comes along.

A whole life tied up in a simple sensation.

This madeleine is much more than a literary device, Lieutenant.

I'm planning a police strategy.

A box of cigars, 260 euros.

Can you explain?

Expenses to be charged to the Guzman case.

Our new client is a cigar enthusiast, but not only.

He's an epicurean who appreciates good food and beautiful women,

as long as they're not dressed like Lucie.

I still don't see the connection.

Was I not clear?

I agree with the Proustian theory of the madeleine,

we'll have to take great care of the suspect to stimulate his reminiscences.

But that's great!

That's brilliant!

If he expresses a few ancillary fantasies, what do we do?

Should we book him 2806 in a New York palace?

Don't take this personally, but I hate anything that represents authority.

That's one thing I don't need to write down for my memory.

It's like cigars, I got it from my father.

Your father?

Tell me about him.

What does this have to do with your investigation?

None, I'm just interested, that's all.

My earliest memories are the most vivid, the clearest.

My father was Italian.

He was a meat merchant.

He adored me.

How old were you when he died?

I can't remember.

I still feel the pain of her disappearance,

but at the same time I feel as if he never left me.

Do you still have your father?

And your mother?

My mother was French, as beautiful as the day.

Her death, I remember it well.

I must have been five or six years old.

My father raised me alone.

He never had another woman in his life.

And you, have you had many wives?

Maybe I have.

Surely.

We're not out of the woods yet.

What's he going to do with this guy?

Keep him here until something comes back to him.

Unless you have a better idea.

And apart from your mother, do you remember any faces, any names?

Any memories of weddings, children?

I want you to keep an eye on them, Delambre.

On them?

I don't want Guzman to bring shit to the surface.

I've already had to pick up the pieces once, I don't want to have to do it again.

Do you understand?

Nothing at all.

No matter.

Gustavo.

No me recuerdo.

No me recuerdo.

I've got to go.

(inaudible).

It's in the house.

In the house.

In the house? What house, Gustavo?

What day is it?

It's Wednesday.

The date, damn it!

November 12th.

If you need anything, the phone is connected to the switchboard.

To write down what's on your mind, there's a calendar at the end.

I've crossed out all the days up to today's date.

And there's a little gift for you.

Tell me, Gustavo, what made you cry

when you looked at the photos of the robbery?

The victim lying in blood?

The memory of a perfume?

Never mind, we're in no hurry.

We'll have to talk about that house again.

Hey!

Lopez, we missed him.

Oh, it's ugly.

We'll see tomorrow.

You've got to be kidding. That's illegal detention.

Any lawyer can get us blown up for this kind of crap.

You're so litigious!

Go get us the madam

and settle this before the Hague tribunal sends us to rot with Mladić

for crimes against humanity.

Yes, I'm helping him.

I manage his schedule, choose his underpants.

What do you want?

He's not even fucked...

He can't even use a remote control.

Probably not a toaster either.

In the meantime, you provide him with the means to sell his services.

And what's more, you're taking a com.

It's called pimping.

Are we going to jail, then?

Does prison turn you on that much?

40 years together, 40 years of her telling me I never had a driver's license,

that she pisses me off with my blow-dry that's always messed up.

I can't take it anymore.

I want to be locked up.

Excuse me, but wouldn't it be easier just to separate you from your wife?

I've never lived alone.

What have you got?

Do you have a house?

An apartment?

A small bungalow in Pointe-Rouge.

You sell, then create a property management company.

You buy two studios, a large one for the lady, a small one for the gentleman.

As far away as possible.

You're getting divorced, so you're physically separating.

Then you, Sir, with what you earn, you buy yourself a maid.

We're not even married.

I don't mind.

You get married, then right after, you get divorced.

Sir, you continue your activities in your own apartment.

You, Ma'am, manage his website and calendar with his login and password.

You, Sir, let her go to the hairdresser, buy bananas,

or take a yoga class, on credit.

Then, Sir, you send the maid to pay the bill, there's no more remuneration.

It's no longer pimping, it's gifts.

Case closed.

All right, everybody out.

Come on, come on, come on.

Is that you, Frederic?

Yes, it's me.

You're such a little prick.

It's Lucie. I just got off the phone with Stunia.

Still no body matching Gustavo's victim registered at IML.

Great.

And the TGV to Paris, did it leave on time?

Pardon?

A train leaving on time isn't information, Delambre.

It's when it's late that it is.

Next time, bother me when you have information.

Jaguar E-Type '67, flat floor, that means flat floor.

What's the matter with you, Delambre?

Guzman remembers this car.

There's only one vehicle of this type registered in Marseille

in the name of Irene Rousseau.

How's that for information?

Irene.

Irene Rousseau?

Yes.

I'm from Homicide.

Do you know Gustavo Guzman?

Who's Gustavo Guzman?

This man, do you know him?

Yes.

What's going on?

- Hello. - Hello.

Does this man look familiar?

He told us he lived around here.

Of course, he's from the neighborhood.

He's Argentinian, loves cigars.

He or his chaperone regularly order fine Cuban vintages from us,

a young guy who takes care of him.

You know, Gabriel, he doesn't have light in every room.

Gabriel?

Yes, Gabriel di Pilato, that's his name.

He lives right next door.

You know, Gabriel's a bit of a star around here.

Two days ago, there was a guy looking for him too.

Since the numbers aren't very visible, he couldn't find the address.

A guy?

And who was this guy?

I don't know, I guess he wasn't from around here.

He was driving a red C3.

I saw the sticker on the windshield.

OK, thanks.

You're very welcome.

Thanks for the information, Lieutenant.

Churros?

Gabriel murderer and bank robber, I can't believe it.

Did he ever tell you about Argentina, his parents, his house in Buenos Aires?

Gabriel is Italian.

He's lived in France for 30 years.

Three years ago, when we met, we took a trip to Italy.

He showed me the place where he was born.

How long have you been separated?

Eight months.

Even before her Alzheimer's diagnosis, our relationship wasn't going very well.

We only lived together for six months and I quickly realized he wasn't cut out for it.

He's a confirmed bachelor, an infamous man.

He wishes he could love, but he can't.

And when he talked to you about his past, what did he tell you?

He didn't like to talk about it, so I didn't ask him any questions.

Did he ever ask you about your past?

To your customers, you were Eleanor.

Rate-wise, rather charming.

I'm not a socialite, I don't care about your call-girl past.

What's the matter with you?

My problem is that you no longer have any income-generating activity,

you live in the 7th arrondissement,

and what you're wearing is equivalent to three months of my salary,

so he maintains you.

But it's not with his translator's swallows

that he can support such a lifestyle.

Gabriel has always had money.

An inheritance, from what I understand.

Or the loot from one or more robberies, because we don't know if there were more than one.

Would you like to go and say hello to him?

Gabriel, Gabriel, you're back?

Gabriel, are you back?

Open up, damn it!

It's a full-time nanny job, but now it's over.

He may be giving me a lot of money, but 30 hours cooped up in a boiler room

dying of heat and thirst, no thanks.

How did he manage to lock you in the boiler room?

I don't know how.

He worked in his office.

He imagines he can still work, then forgets everything as he goes along,

it sends him into a rage.

Anyway, I heard a noise in the garage,

I thought it was the boiler acting up, it's getting tired.

I went to check and the door slammed behind me.

Did you have any visitors the day before yesterday?

No.

The bar owner saw a young man who asked him for di Pilato's address.

He had a red C3.

No, I haven't seen anyone all day.

Are you sure?

You were prettier as a brunette.

I was never a brunette, Gabriel.

Gustavo, my name is Gustavo.

What's my name?

My notebook.

My notebook.

What have I done with my notebook?

What are you talking about?

What day is it today?

November 13th.

November 13.

I'm thirsty.

I'll get you a glass of water.

You really don't remember my name?

I'm thirsty.

She's overdoing it.

And above all, she's blowing us.

Especially since Guzman does exist.

This just came in from the Argentine consulate.

Guzman Gustavo, born July 10, 1947 in Buenos Aires, son of Emilio Guzman,

naturalized Argentine, born in Milan, Italy, and Hortense Laforesterie, French.

Arrested in April 1977 by military junta cops,

hence the anthropometric photo.

He escapes two months later, probably leaving the country,

and that's when we lose track of him for good.

And the guy with the red C3 looking for his address?

According to the bistro owner, he was driving a rental car.

Surprise,

a duplicate rental contract issued to a certain Johan Couturier.

Johan Couturier, born January 12, 1973 in Menton and living in Essonne.

The son of the cashier shot by Guzman.

Right on the money.

Edouard Couturier had a seven-year-old son when he was killed.

He decides to avenge his father.

He has no choice, the crime is statute-barred.

He finds Gustavo's house and locks Bognac in the boiler room.

Then, mystery.

He's probably picking up Gustavo.

They disappear into thin air for a few hours,

until the Argentinian reappears,

his brain-spattered suit, to dart under my wheels.

I want to know everything about this Johan Couturier.

And you're putting the pressure on this Irene Rousseau.

until she spits out her Valda.

I'm taking Gustavo, we're going to his place.

But nothing to Moretti.

Hush.

You can refuse to answer my questions.

I'll let you know when you're in custody.

You may be assisted by a lawyer.

And we'll be able to ask for your custody to be extended for up to 72 hours.

Do you understand?

So, Guzman, ever heard of him?

Yes, but Gabriel kept his past a secret from me at first.

And with the illness, he resurfaced in spite of himself.

What about the robbery, did you know about that?

No, not exactly.

I knew something bad had happened back then.

That's why he changed his identity so he could start a new life in France.

And the second robber, did he ever mention him to you?

No.

Gabriel di Pilato.

The memory palace is a mnemonic device

whose origins date back to Antiquity.

The principle is simple: use a place you know well,

a house, for example, and visualize the rooms always following the same itinerary.

In each room, we place an image of what we want to memorize.

Tell me, Gustavo, which room did you put me in?

In my father's library, in our house in Buenos Aires.

As soon as I knew what was waiting for me, I used this house.

But as the disease spreads,

each time I visit, I notice that the humidity is increasing.

It rots everything.

Doors refuse to open.

I lose access to whole sections of my memory.

Now all I have left is the library.

And there's not much left in the library.

The vermin have eaten almost everything.

But I know that today is the 13th.

And as you might have guessed, I have a very important appointment.

Show me the plan.

The operator gave us Couturier's cell phone number.

Captain?

And you, Cain, what's on your mind?

In which room would you store your memories?

And which ones are most important to you?

Villa Ellcote.

I think we've arrived, Gustavo.

Maybe you can put your gun away.

The jerk!

I was a mad dog, Cain, a mean dog.

I bit until I bled.

I robbed, I killed.

I remember that.

There's always been rage in me.

I could control it,

then you show up and start going through my head.

And then she comes out, more violent than ever.

And there's nothing I can do about it.

You're such a little prick.

Let me give you something first.

You told me about your father, I'll tell you about mine.

He jumped from up there.

It's horrible.

I hope so, when the disease has eaten you to a pulp,

that you'll have words other than his for the person who cares enough to listen to you.

Gustavo, where is he?

He was found prostrate next to the body in a state of shock.

He was hospitalized.

Magdalena Colina born 1949 in Rome.

Lives in Paris, in the 7th district.

She had her bag beside her.

Two fatal impacts, full chest.

Beretta 71.

Gustavo was hugging him when he was found.

He didn't smoke the lady.

The Beretta's magazine is full and the blood is well advanced.

From the looks of it, she must have been shot at least 48 hours ago.

Can't you feel it?

Proust's madeleine, bergamot and vetiver.

Gustavo's accomplice on the chin break was her.

Magdalena arrived in Marseille the day before yesterday at 7:50 a.m.

Couturier rented his car in Marignane the same day.

He follows her from Paris, shoots her at the villa.

So far, so good.

Gustavo, Magdalena and Couturier met before the robbery.

Because the main teller was their accomplice at the bank.

Couturier panics and Gustavo shoots him.

Lieutenant Delambre.

Super.

Go ahead.

Johan Couturier's cell phone has been hooked up to the same base station for two days.

They've just determined the transmitting location.

Maybe we'll wait for the forensics team so as not to pollute the crime scene.

What's all this post-modern jargon, Delambre?

We're the real police, for God's sake,

not the ones who fiddle with their tweezers to pluck their ass hairs.

Johan Couturier.

All explained.

He finds Magdalena before Gustavo, he doesn't let her go.

He follows her to Villa Ellcote, shoots her after extorting Gustavo's address from her.

Then he goes to his house.

He brings him here to shoot him.

Gustavo defends himself and Couturier takes a bullet to the head.

The circle is complete.

Fred.

No, don't thank me for brilliantly solving this case.

I only did my duty.

I just got off the phone with the Carabinieri.

Guzman's Beretta comes out on five cases between 1978 and 1983.

No deaths, but three injuries.

And all in all, a pretty penny.

What does Italian law say about the statute of limitations?

The same as ours.

Guzman can plead Alzheimer's to be declared irresponsible

for the murder of Couturier's son and continue to live happily.

The old bastard.

It's so immoral it's refreshing.

Tell me, is it true what you told him about your father's death?

I didn't know he'd told you that when he swung down the stairs.

What difference would it have made if you'd known?

I don't know.

I probably wouldn't have stuck my foot up your ass so often

when I scraped you off the ground after his death.

Come on, you're putting your foot in my ass because you like it.

I'm sorry about that.

This time it's done.

My memory palace has closed its doors.

That girl who came to visit me, I have no memory of her.

Magdalena.

What little I have left will sink into oblivion.

Did I ever tell you about my father?

No.

You want to tell me about your father?

I don't think so.

Farewell, Gustavo.

Thanks, you little prick.