Original subtitles

This story happens in Lisbon on the last Sunday of July,

between midday and midnight.

That Sunday the city was deserted. It was the year's hottest day.

On the dock, at the other side of the river Tajo, an appointment took place.

but the person he was expecting didn't arrive.

"We sleep our life, eternal kids of Destiny"

Fernando Pessoa (1888-1935)

The "Bola"

Foreigners interested in Benfica. Enough is enough!

I like unpredictable teams.

Yesterday night we beat Real Madrid one-nil

Not by much but winning is what matters. Above all beating the Spaniards.

They've never beaten us. Not even in battles.

Today I haven't sold much.

Under such a heat, apart from you, I can't see a single living soul.

But man, what are you going to do here?

Ghosts...

Ghosts?

I had an appointment at twelve o'clock on the dock, but there was nobody.

But friend of mine, was it twelve a.m. or twelve p.m.?

Err... an interesting question. I didn't think of it.

Usually ghosts appear at midnight.

For example, my mother-in-law's ghost, who chased after me my whole life,

used to appear at dawn, when I was coming home in the small hours, there she was.

Until midnight...

Good morning. I need your help.

What for?

For eating. I haven't eaten anything in two days.

Two days without drug...

It's the same, it's food as well. Do you mind?

It's not about that... In principle I'm in favour of all of them.

To be high at home, as in the old times,

accompanied by cultivated and intelligent friends, is one thing.

But destroying your body in the middle of the street, is something different.

Just one thousand escudos. It'll be enough with what I already have for my dose...

I need it... I'm suffering withdrawal. I could've been aggressive with you.

To attack you. But I've been gentle, warm, and you refuse to give me one thousand escudos.

You're a bourgeois loaded with prejudices.

Indeed, that's what I am.

But I am changing. Here, you got your thousand escudos.

Time was Fernando Pessoa appeared in the banknotes. Do you like Pessoa?

Yes, I love him. I could even tell you a funny story about him.

But it's just my own stuff. Not interesting for you.

Tomorrow it's the toss, do you want a bill?

I don't speak Portuguese.

No problem, Sir. But if I catch him in...

Wait! I've seen you somewhere. Yes, I met you... In a book, perhaps...

Sir, you�re not a madman, are you?

Without any doubt it's this heat and the hunger that play dirty tricks on me...

To be honest, I don't know what I'm doing here.

I was reading under a tree, and suddenly...

It must be a hallucination.

Indeed... he looks like a sleepwalker.

I am.

What I was reading this morning was the Book of Restlessness.

That's it! You're the one-legged lottery guy who made a mess of things with Bernardo Soares.

I had my part of restlessness.

Let me introduce myself: Francisco Mar�a Pereira de Sousa e Melo.

One of the oldest families in Portugal.

Bernardo, in fact, was my elder brother.

He wasted all our estate on cruises and women

and I had to end by selling lottery tickets.

Right now, I'd like to read a bit.

I've started an article about a French philosopher, on the soul.

The soul is fashionable now.

I'm not Catholic but I believe in soul, in the same way as several philosophers do.

Do you believe in soul?

It's one of those strange things I do believe in,

though at the moment it's been my soul

or my unconscious what brought me to this bench.

The unconscious?

The unconscious belongs to the Viennese Bourgeoisie from the beginning of the century.

We're in Portugal, and we belong to the Greco-Roman civilization.

We have nothing to do with the Mitteleuropa. We do have the soul.

It's true, I've got soul, but unconscious too.

You know? this catches, the unconscious, like a virus, and I caught it.

Let's do an exchange: I lend you the "Spirit" and you lend me "A Bola".

I thought you were interested in the soul.

Yes, but now it's the last goal from Benfica that interests me.

I'm going to buy you a lottery ticket.

Look for one that ends in nine, as that was the month I was born in.

What day? I was born in September, too.

In the autumnal equinox

That's a good sign. You�ll be lucky.

I'll need it...

Today I must meet people that don�t exist beyond my memory.

I think this last Sunday of July is a very appropriate day

to find people who don't exist beyond memory.

Your unconscious is going to work hard on such a day. Good luck.

Calle das Pedras Negras, please.

Can you tell me where that is?

It was a pretty busy street more than ten years ago,

but I can't remember how to go. It�s next to a castle.

Let's go, we'll see...

Would you know some place where to buy a new shirt?

Mine is completely soaked. Under such a heat...

It's anxiety... Sometimes anxiety makes me sweat...

Today is Sunday. Everything is closed.

Even today there must be some place where to buy a shirt!

Gypsies! Yes, sure, gypsies!

At the gate of Cemetery of Pleasures.

They sell all kinds of stuff, loads of clothes, even on Sunday.

But I don't know how to get to the Cemetery of Pleasures.

Where are we?

We are at the Sodr�, near the station.

You'll have to tell me where to turn.

Turn over there, the street to the left.

But it's the other way.

It doesn't matter. There's no one on Sunday.

But it may cost me the licence. I'm not completely legal.

If we meet the police, I'll pay for the fine and I'll be responsible for all.

Can't you see how I sweat? I do need a shirt.

You won't let me get sick in the middle of the street, will you?

Are you sure it's over here?

I've told you, Campo de Ourique.

Sorry, sir. I know the city very well.

I never get lost, but I do not know the name of the streets.

My patience is running out.

It's not too difficult to remember the names of the streets.

Stop when you see a bar.

I come from Sao Tom�. I'm a taxi driver in Lisbon since a month ago...

I used to be an engineer. But there was no place for an engineer up there, so...

What's wrong? Are you all right?

It's the heat...

What's wrong, son. Got fever? Did you fall down in the Tajo?

I don't know what happened to me. What I do know is that I need a clean shirt.

Then I'll tell you what happens to you.

You have to get changed first, if you leave the sweat to dry on your back, you'll get sick.

I recommend you a Lacoste shirt.

An imitation costs a thousand escudos, an authentic one is a thousand and one hundred.

So what's the difference between a false one and an authentic one?

If you want a real Lacoste, buy a false one first.

Then you buy the crocodile and stick it on, so you have a real one.

For a hundred escudos I give you four crocodiles because they always come unstuck.

For another five hundred I'll tell you why you're sweating that way.

I'll tell you why you are down here and who's waiting for you on this hot Sunday.

Want to know your destiny?

It's in your hands.

Sit down here.

It can't be...

You can't live on both sides at the same time.

In dreams and reality, you'll have hallucinations.

You're like a sleepwalker who walks with outstretched arms

and all that you touch becomes part of your dream.

Even I feel like I'll vanish into thin air when I touch your hand.

So what should I do?

Nothing. There's nothing you can do.

This day waits for you and you can't escape from your destiny.

It'll be a day of tribulations, a day of purification and then, you'll be in peace.

You must visit someone,

but the house you're looking for only exists in your dreams

and the person you want to see is right there, behind that gate.

Go, son of mine, go to your appointment.

Do you feel better?

Yes, I feel better. You may leave, I don't need you anymore.

Okay. Then see you soon, sir.

Excuse me, I didn't want to bother you. You were eating.

Feijoada,

I eat it every day,

My wife can't cook anything else.

Want to taste it?

No thanks, I'll wait for you outside.

Because of the heat? You'd rather stay here.

What brings you down the cemetery at this time?

First of all, if I may, I'd like to get changed.

I'm soaked.

I'm looking for a friend.

The gypsy woman who sells the shirts told me I'd find you here.

He's an old friend.

We were like brothers. I've got a question to ask him.

Do you think he will answer?

The dead are very talkative. I know them very well

At least I can try it.

I'd like to understand something that escapes me. He died without telling me about it.

A story of women...

In these cases they're always women�s stories.

Tell me his name and I'll give you his tomb number.

Suwatki, Pierre Suwatki

Pass me that book.

- That one? - Yes.

Funny name...

Wasn't he Portuguese?

His father was French of Polish origin. But he always lived in Portugal.

What did he do?

He was a writer. He wrote beautiful pages in Portuguese.

Well, beautiful is not the right word. Let's say rather, bitter pages.

Here you are: Tomb number 4664. See! Palindrome... Was your friend a joker?

He spent his whole life playing jokes. He did them to himself.

But he was a poet too, full of emotions and sorrow.

I'll write down the number.

Here's a good number to play on the lottery.

It could hit the jackpot. I'll let him go alone. With such a heat...

Thank you very much.

- Good afternoon - Good afternoon.

Do you remember, Pierre? It was me who took that picture.

You'd just left prison, under the public opinion pressure.

A French newspaper reported.

"Salazar must release the intellectuals"

And now, here I am.

I came to see you.

Come in Paul.

So, come in Paul, you already know the house.

What luxury!

You've bought all of this without a wage?

Not even a monk... Exaggerated!

Don't be shy.

This is the house you've ever known,

You have slept down here, you have eaten down here, you've kissed down here.

I came to clear up some things.

You've died without telling me a word

and I'm eaten up with doubt.

Did you have breakfast?

No, I had coffee this morning.

Then let's go for breakfast down at Casimiro's.

You don't know what's going to happen to you.

Yesterday I asked for a "sarrabulho a moda do Douro", great.

I don't know the sarrabulho,

it must be one of those poisonous dishes you like.

With such a heat...

Don't pester me with your lectures about food.

I'll die as a result of a heart attack in a couple of years and you come to indoctrinate me.

Okay..

- But you owe me an explanation. - Later on.

We'll talk at the restaurant.

With champagne we speak about literature.

I go for ice.

What are you writing?

A small verse novel.

A story about the love affairs between a parish priest and a nun,

it happens in Portugal, XVII century,

it's a gloomy and sordid story,

a metaphor of abjectness.

- What do you think? - I don't know.

They'll probably eat sarrabulho in your story.

I recognize you in those words, thinking incessantly of the soul.

But I, it's a body that I've got, and not for a long time.

Cheers!

What's wrong, Pierre?

I don't know.

Perhaps a melancholy crisis,

nostalgia of the time we walked like this, down the streets.

Everything was different, everything had light.

That was youth.

In any case, you've done well coming to see me.

We had to talk about what happened to us.

There's something that's got me truly intrigued.

That bill you gave me the day of your death, at the hospital.

You had tubes everywhere and death on your face,

you'd made an incredible effort can you remember what you wrote?

No, I was agonizing,

how I am going to remember it.

You wrote: "It's been zosterian herpes' fault"

Do you think that's a farewell message from your best friend?

Bah, I shouldn't be fully conscious.

Or maybe I wanted to play a last joke,

to go with a pirouette, ol�.

I don't think so.

I think that phrase is about Isabel.

I want to talk to you about her.

You're right. It's truly delicious.

One of the best things I've enjoyed from life.

So, dear, why did you come to see me?

I've told you, because of the bill.

The words you wrote that day obsess me.

I want to know. I want to be able to live in peace,

and you to rest in peace.

What? Did you like it?

Terrific! My friend says it's the best food he's ever eaten in his whole life.

But this is a very simple thing.

- Simple? - Yes.

It's a masterpiece.

It's typical from my homeland, my mother taught me.

The recipe must be quite complicated.

Not much. But you must know how to do it.

- Want to know the recipe? - I'd love it.

If you want to make a good Sarrabulho you've got to prepare the meat.

Cut the pork into regular pieces

and season it with garlic, salt, pepper, wine, cumin and leave it macerate.

Next day put it in a clay pot,

cut into pieces the fat around the intestines,

then let it melt over a low flame

Then brown the kidneys over high heat and let it cook.

When it's nearly made, baste the meat in the marinade and let it evaporate.

While you cut the intestines and liver and toss them in oil

Chop the kidneys, season with salt and oil and add it to the clay pot.

Mix it well and we have our sarrabulho.

Bravo! Wonderful!

Do you know the name of this, Mrs. Casimira?

A Sarrabulho.

No, that's called a sublime lesson of material culture.

I prefer material to imaginary. Before the imaginary there's the comical.

I want to know why Isabel killed herself.

Why don't you ask her yourself?

It's not me you should ask, but her.

How am I going to find her?

I could find you thanks the gypsy woman�s help, but how can I find her?

I'll help you. Maybe it's easier than you think.

But in the end, was it you who induced her to have an abortion?

Did you prefer to see a little bastard with two fathers?

I didn't know your story with Isabel.

I didn't know about it till much later on.

You betrayed me, Pierre.

But the kid was yours or mine?

As far as I'm concerned...

That would have made us all unhappy: Isabel, me, you and him.

Isabel was unhappy anyway.

After the abortion she got depressed,

and because of that depression she committed suicide.

Because of making her have an abortion, because of your advice... it was you?

I repeat it. You must ask her, I know nothing.

That's it, I see it clearly now. It was you.

That had nothing to do with her death.

If you want to know why she killed herself, ask her.

Where can I find her?

Anywhere. Choose a place. It makes no difference to her.

At Alentejo's, Calle das Portas de Santo Antao. What do you think?

I'm sure that's a place she'd always wanted to visit.

- She'd never set foot in that place, - Why not?

OK, so, Alentejo's House, Tonight at nine o'clock.

You can pass her the message.

Your sarrabulho was too heavy.

With this sun and my medication, I'll need a little nap.

- What medicines are you taking? - Tranquillizers.

All medicines for the soul are rubbish.

- The soul heals through the stomach. - Maybe...

You're lucky about your convictions, I have no convictions.

Come home to sleep, I've got a good bed in the guest room.

No, I won't go. This is the last time I see you, Pierre.

I don't really have much money.

The hotel shall be quite expensive.

Do you know any guest house where to rent a room for one or two hours?

Nothing easier.

Go to the Guest House Isadora and tell her you come on behalf of me.

It�s just right there, after the restaurant. She'll receive you well.

Goodbye Pierre.

- Good afternoon. - Good afternoon.

- Are you the owner? - I'm the doorman. The owner is dead.

Want to see my papers?

Your papers... What for?

I don't know. It's the habit.

Do you want to stir up trouble?

Of course not, I just wanted to show you my identity card.

Pleased to meet you, but I've got to go to the bathroom.

I've got problems with my prostate.

Are you here yet? What do you want?

A room, of course.

A room? What for?

To sleep. I need to sleep for a while.

Down here, sir, we're a serious guest house. We do not accept singles.

Only accompanied people.

Neither voyeurs nor depraved. Understood?

Not entirely. I've told you, I just want to sleep a bit.

Why don't you go to a hotel?

It would take too long to explain.

Let's say I'm short of money and I've eaten too much.

I'd have acidity the whole afternoon and need to sleep a bit.

But how did you get here?

Okay, listen, is Isadora here? I want to talk to her.

lsadora! lsadora!

Coming!

Doorman: There's a Frenchie who wants to talk to you...

Excuse me, but the doorman is a little rude sometimes,

but taking into account all that happens in the world, we're never prudent enough.

You'd have to have asked for me directly.

I come on behalf of Pierre. He recommend me your guest house.

I'd like to sleep an hour or two. I can barely stand up.

I didn't sleep the night before because of a dog and

I just finished eating a hell of a sarrabulho with Pierre.

No problem, darling.

But why doesn't Pierre come anymore?

I don't know. He must be busy.

I'll give you a nice room with clean sheets

Viriata! Viriata! Prepare room fifteen for this gentleman.

Ready! The bed's all ready.

Do you want some company?

No thanks. I just want to sleep a little.

If you want, I can stay without moving. I won't bother you.

I prefer to be on my own.

I could scratch your back. You could sleep while I do it.

You're very gentle, but I want to be calm for a while.

Wake me up in an hour and a half.

Fine.

On what day was your mother born?

Father, what are you doing in this guest house?

What about you? We're in 1932

and my ship stops over in Lisbon in a few days

But why do you always ask such absurd questions?

Like my mom's date of birth and stuff like that?

I never remember dates, I'm not good for numbers,

You always chase after me with your questions. I'm fed up!

I want to know if you are a good son. That's why I ask.

Father, I never liked examinations,

you've got to stop appearing like that.

Stop chasing after me.

If I am here it's because there's something I must know.

I want to know how my life is going to end.

Today's Sunday, July 30th, 1932, and you are in the present.

You're the only one who knows the truth. I need to know it, now.

What good will it do? Life is what it is and there's nothing you can do about it.

I'll forget it as soon as I leave the room.

A woman waits for me.

But now I'd like to know.

All right, as you like. So, it ends badly, with a larynx cancer.

Absurd, since you never smoked.

An otolaryngologist operates on you. What a word.

A complicated way to talk about noses and tonsils.

That guy frightens me. I spend the nights at the hospital where nobody cares for you.

They've put a tube in your stomach to feed you.

One day you start coughing and the doctor on duty says you suffer a heart attack.

Lie. Your face is bluish and you look at me hopelessly.

You make signs. The tube pierced your stomach and touches the lung.

I buck up to take you out. I deal with everything.

I transfer you to another clinic. A pneumologist cuts your back.

The air leaves the lung and it goes flat.

They've got you in resusitation for fifteen days and you manage to survive.

During all that time the illustrious director of the clinic,

who had operated on you, won't come around asking about you anymore

And then...,

what happens to me?

A surgeon friend reconstructs your pierced oesophagus and you live for three more years.

You can't speak, we communicate by writing,

on one of those kids' magic boards, I refuse to talk as well.

Three quiet and nice years. You eat normally.

Then your sickness comes back and this time there's nothing to do. You die.

Is it a painful or a sweet death?

Your life comes to an end like a candle.

Just before entering the dark, you make a sign with your hand.

I'd like to know if you've been a good son.

What was your reaction before the surgeon who operated on me?

I just should have slapped his face.

But I was incapable. I just know how to write. Writing is not enough.

This has left feelings of guilt.

You should've hit him. It would've been a noble act, as in years past.

Better this way. It's better to make use of words than hands.

I'm glad you told me this. I wasn't very satisfied.

That's why I came.

To make you feel safe, to make myself feel safe.

I'm much more serene now.

Then you won't appear back in such a spooky way anymore.

I want you to know, son, that it wasn't because of me that I came to this room.

It's been you who called me, you wanted to dream with me.

The servant is going to knock at the door anytime.

I must go. Goodbye son.

Sir, time to wake up.

What did you sing?

A song from my country, the Alentejo. Only men sing it.

But I know it well. I should record it.

Are you going to make a record?

No, it's a... err, well, someone who collects popular songs.

An ethnologist?

Yes, that's it. She's French like you.

We became friends. I use to sing her many songs.

Today she came with her machines and as soon as I have a break I'll go for her.

Won't you come with me?

Gladly.

But before we go, pass me the wallet that's in my trouser's pocket.

Oh no! Nothing doing. I don't want a tip.

You've been very gentle with me,

and gentleness is the best gift anyone can give.

Besides, I'm from the Alentejo.

We do not accept tips in my country.

Cristina...

- Good afternoon. - Good afternoon.

Are you interested in traditional Portuguese songs?

I'm on holiday.

I'm preparing a thesis in Nanterre,

About Southern European popular songs.

I found Viriata in the arts & crafts fair.

She sang songs in the Alentejo stand. We got on.

She can remember songs that her grandfather used to sing. He was a shepherd.

A generation leap and tradition is lost.

What's special about the Alentejo?

The peasant carols and the songs of miners, too.

It's choral singing, all of them with male voices.

Some singing in a very low key, others pretty sharp, almost for a child's voice.

That creates extraordinary polyphonic effects.

And besides, there are the women's singing,

those from the tapestry weavers, or from the swingers or the harvest songs.

In the Alentejo, it is the women who collect the harvest.

Alentejo's women are courageous.

Do you know who Catalina Eufemia was?

Of course.

She was the one who was killed by Salazar's police, with her son in her arms.

- Do you know the poem they dedicated to her? - No

"As you didn't send a man in your place"

"nor stayed at home cooking up plots"

"by the ancient female method"

"as you didn't use manoeuvres nor slanders"

"and you were good just to cry for the dead"

Nice isn't it?

- Are you spending some time down here? - No

Are you going to stay longer in Lisbon?

No, I'm not even sure that I am here.

You needed to be here.

I've got to go, because of the heat.

Because of this heat?

I've got an appointment. Got to visit a picture.

A picture? Nonsense, what picture?

"The Temptation of St. Anthony" by Hieronymus Bosch at the Museum of the Arts.

There's something I must ask that picture.

It's not possible to have a reply today.

It's a really particular day...

If you want to see that picture, hurry up, they're about to close.

I've got an agreement with the guard.

Are you making a copy?

Just a detail.

I've never seen a detail from a Bosch picture so large.

It's huge.

Perhaps, but it's my job.

I've worked on that picture's detail for ten years.

Ten years? Then you must know all about the picture.

Absolutely all. For example, did you know it had healing powers?

Sick people came to prostrate before it in the hope of a miraculous healing.

- Didn't you know it? - No, I didn't.

The picture was exhibited at the San Antonio de Lisboa Hospital.

It was a Hospital where they treated skin diseases.

Mostly venereal diseases.

But also the terrible St. Anthony's Fire, with very painful pustules.

An indestructible virus.

How did you get to know all that?

I've spent a while in front of that picture. It has no secrets for me.

What else do you know about that virus?

Probably we all carry it inside.

It attacks when the body's defences are weak.

Then it sleeps and reappears as clinical symptoms

We call it: Zosterian Herpes.

Modern medicine made it less serious.

I'm going to tell you something. I think herpes looks like remorse.

It's inside us, wakes up and attacks, then it sleeps again.

But it's still inside us.

We cannot do anything against remorse.

I go close to the street of Alacrim.

Fine, I've got to catch a train at the Sodr� Station.

- We can go together. - Fine.

Do you think it has healing powers yet?

For the skin?

No, for remorse.

You know, no medicine is effective if you don't believe in it.

It's just a matter of conviction.

May I smoke? The coach is empty.

It's empty now, but it'll be a hell on return.

It's always like that on Sundays: Everyone goes to the beach for a tan.

That causes skin cancer. They know it but don't care.

- What do you smoke? - "Multifilter"

We can't find it in Portugal. It's sweet and light... like smoking air.

It's rubbish yet. It causes cancer as well.

Everything causes cancer. Now, being happy cause cancer.

I had a friend who died from cancer because of being unhappy.

In the U.S.A. they have refused the last cigarette to a condemned man.

Do you realize? The famous "last cigarette".

- Good afternoon lady. - Good afternoon.

I came to see the house. I'd like to visit it, if you don�t mind.

To visit my house?

Not your house. The big house, the one with the beacon.

The beacon? But it was closed a long time ago.

I think it's going to collapse soon. It's a ruin.

That's why I'd like to visit it, before it falls down.

Are you a buyer?

No, but I spent a whole year in that house, long time ago.

You were not here that time.

This is the entrance.

Next winter you'll see the whole first floor tumbling down

Last April, during the storms, the roof gave way and collapsed over two rooms.

The rooms towards the sea are in pretty bad condition. Have you been happy here?

It was a haunted year, yes, we may call it like that, they put a spell on me.

Do you believe in witches? In general, only simpletons believe in it.

I do believe. At least in some witches.

It can never be suggested the way things may happen in the future,

You run the risk of making it happen exactly like that.

When my brother was in Guinea's war,

I went to see a witch because I'd dreamed he'd never come back.

The witch told me he'd come back but deformed. He came back, but armless.

Always the same mist.

Did you have good weather in Lisbon?

Yes, sure.

Did you want to see the first floor as well?

Yes, I'd like to.

I'll go ahead. Be careful with the stairs, they're unstable.

We can't get there, the floor wouldn�t hold us.

Just a look. To see the beacon.

When I couldn't sleep, I used to come up here and directed the light by telepathy.

At least so I thought. I sent messages.

To whom?

Let's say I talked to certain presences I couldn't see.

You talked to ghosts.

My God, Do you dare to talk to ghosts?

Sometimes it's not necessary.

The piano...

Here is dangerous too, the piece of roof may fall down.

I liked laying on this bed.

Let's say it's a farewell.

It was from that moment that our lives changed.

They were lonely nights. In winter the house was filled with mist.

Our friends were in Lisbon and never came to see us.

I was writing, and wondered why I did it, my story didn't have a resolution.

I couldn't imagine my life would finally end up by being like...

Perhaps it was then when Isabel started to get lost...

Isabel is your wife?

No, she played the piano... not too well, but I liked that.

Good evening.

Are you member of the club?

- and you? - No, I am on a visit.

French... This house was reserved to the members,

I'm the owner of the hotel, but you've done it well by entering,

you're the first person I've seen all day.

I've got an appointment here within nine hours.

A person that belongs to my past...

But everything here belongs to the past.

If you want to eat, you cannot choose, the cook made just one dish,

a "ensopado de borreguinho a moda de Borba"

Thanks, I don't think I'm going to eat here. Besides I'm not hungry.

I see you don't like it, the Alentejo's kitchen...

On the contrary, I love it.

Do you like Poejada?

There are two ways to make it, with white cheese or with eggs.

I always ate it when I was a child.

Nowadays the kitchen is a bit more sophisticated,

the Poejada became nearly a jumble for distinguished people.

Things from childhood don't come back.

Yes, it isn't worth the pain to be too hopeful.

- Would you like to play billiards? - Yes, very much.

Do you like the game? I spend days playing alone.

As you like, it's in the old-fashioned way. No tricks.

Nowadays everyone play the American way, with lots of balls.

That's awful, don't you think so?

Awful.

Seemingly, I'm done, but I don't give up.

Can we make cannons?

No, but if the runner brakes, I'm going to have to pay for it.

I'm going to try.

I'd like to make you a proposal. A strike like this one deserves a bet.

I've got a bottle of Oporto from 1952.

I think it's time to open it up.

If you win, I give it to you, if you lose, you pay for it.

I fancy an Oporto from 1952 quite a lot. It's a deal.

Here it is.

I've placed two bets:

A real one with you and another one... let's say mental, with myself.

Let's drink to my mental bet.

Would it be indiscreet to ask you about your mental bet?

A billiard strike may look like certain situations of existence.

If I get a cannon avoiding the balls in between,

the person I'm waiting for shall come.

If I don't, I won't see him anymore.

I wanted to open this bottle for an eternity.

This is the ideal occasion.

- Another round. - I've got enough,

I need to have good reflexes to try my strike.

I really believe the time has come to tempt your luck.

I'm going to need a bit of time.

Because of the cannon.

Excuse me, I'll answer the door.

A lady asks for you. She says her name's Isabel.

Is this what you wanted to see me for? To reproach and insult me?

But it's you who came. You asked me to come.

Never mind. Let's say I'd like to know what are your intentions towards me.

Listen, I've spent my life making hypothesis about you, and I'm already tired.

This is what I have to tell you.

The whole word admires you, but I want to stop needing you. That's all.

Did you dislike my company so much?

On the contrary. It's been very important.

But it's caused me troubles. It disturbed my calm.

Don't you think that's precisely what literature must do?

to cause a certain restlessness?

Tonight I can offer as starters...

the "Perdition Love" jumble and the "Tragic-Marine" salad.

What do you say?

We've got a literary menu. This is the speciality of the house...

Now I can come back.

What kind of a restaurant did you take me to?

It's a fashionable place, seemingly. As you are fashionable...

I prefer anguish to rotting peace.

I do prefer anguish. Let's drink a toast.

To what? To anguish?

No, to the next century. You'll need it.

I wonder about your problems with the next century.

Taking into account all the problems we already have, I'm sure we need that drink.

I'd like to drink to the "saudosismo" the poetic movement about nostalgia.

I feel nostalgia from "saudosismo".

Nobody is "saudosista" anymore, everyone is becoming European.

However, you've been a pretty European writer.

For the first course I recommend to you the Turbot "O Delfim"

or Intersectionist Sole filled with ham.

The Nouvelle cuisine needs poetry as well.

The nouvelle cuisine?

Of course, it's our avant-garde on this century's end.

I'll let you think...

What were we talking about?

I was telling you that you were the European writer par excellence.

You know, I never left Lisbon, nor Portugal.

I loved Europe but only on a mental plane.

The others travelled by me, I sent a friend to England, another to Par�s

while I stayed leisurely down here, at my aunts' place.

On my time, Europe was something distant, far-off... a dream

Did you dream much about it?

Not too much.

What I liked was going to the Rossio station,

waiting for the trains coming from Paris

and reading the trip on people's faces.

You didn't get into the game. You're a liar.

No, I just tried to be that other one each of us is.

But you know I loved it. You know it.

It was a waltz I danced in years gone by.

I've learned the steps from a manual called "The Modern Dancer".

I always liked that kind of "How to" booklets,

I trained by night sometimes, coming home from work.

I danced alone, I wrote poems and letters to my girlfriend.

Did you like the dance in which I guided you today?

I've suffered. But now I feel lighter.

Released. But what about you? What's your role?

Look at the moon.

It's the same one I contemplated with my girlfriend,

as we walked by Po� do Bispo.

Funny, isn't it?