All language subtitles for Before Night Falls (2000) (1080p BluRay x265 10bit Tigole)_Legendas01.ENG

Eastern Province, Cuba 1943

Trees have a secret life
that is only revealed

to those who are willing
to climb them.

I do not remember
when I was born.

But, when I was three
months old,

my mother returned
to my grandparents' home

with me as the proof
of her failure.

The splendour of my childhood
was unique,

because of its absolute poverty,
and absolute freedom...

out in the open,

surrounded by trees,
animals, and people

who were indifferent
toward me.

Grandmother: Reinaldo!

Reinaldo!

Come on, hurry up, bring me the water!
I have to do everything in this house!

My early life was surrounded
by a room full of unhappy women

who were all bossed around
by my grandmother,

the heart of the house,

the only woman I ever saw
who peed standing up

and talked to God
at the same time.

My mother was a very beautiful
and very lonely woman.

She had only known one man,
my father,

and had enjoyed the pleasures
of love for only a few months

and then, gave that all up
for the rest of her life,

creating in her
a great sense of frustration.

Her chastity was worse
than that of a virgin.

Motherfucker!

Outta here!

Animal!

Motherfucker!

Bastard!

The most extraordinary
event of my childhood

was provided by the heavens.

Water rushed down gutters,

reverberating over
the zinc roof like gunfire

a massive army marching
across the trees,

overflowing, cascading,
thundering into barrels,

a concert of drums,

water falling on water,

drenched and whistling
and out of control,

and under the spell of violence,

let loose that would sweep away
almost everything in its path.

Trees, stones,
animals, houses.

It was the mystery
of destruction.

The law of life.

As I saw it,

the currents were
roaring my name.

Flowers have
reproductive organs.

Class, can anyone
tell us what the male

reproductive organ is called?

Reinaldo?

Reinaldo?

A dick.
A long, skinny dick.

Don't ask her where
she comes from.

Can't you see she
is from the garden

and the most beautiful
flower of them all?

Good evening,
excuse me...

Señor Fuentes, I didn't mean
to disturb your dinner.

What did he do?

No, he didn't do
anything wrong.

I came here to tell you that
Reinaldo has a special gift.

What special gift?

He has a sensitivity
for poetry.

After that, my grandfather
sold the farm

and moved the family
to Holguín,

opened a grocery store,

and refused to speak
to any of us.

Holguín was a town
of 200,000 people

and one garbage truck.

The rebels are in Velasco.

We can walk it in a day.

Okay.

We'll leave tonight.

Very well.

You think you can
do it with her?

My name is Reinaldo.
What is yours?

Loly.

- Would you like to dance?
- Sure.

What do you want?
You are very young.

( radio announcer )
Join the fight.

Radio Rebelde, broadcasting
from the mountains of East,

from the Sierra Maestra,

free territory of Cuba.

Radio Rebelde here.

Where are you going, kid?

- Up the road.
- Up the road where?

Velasco.

Velasco?
You are not from Velasco.

I am from Velasco.
Why do you go to Velasco for?

Ah, the rebels
are in Velasco.

You going to join
the rebels?

Your mamá know you are
going to join the rebels?

No.

No.

Where she is?

She's in Miami, working.

Would you like to see?

It's upside down.

Nice.

You want to hit things?

Sometimes I like
to hit things.

My mother, she has
a store in Velasco.

Before that it was my
grandmother's store,

and before that,
it was her mother's store.

I have six brothers.

They all want
to join the rebels.

The second one,
he joined the rebels.

I'm the middle one,
I don't join the rebels.

( car horn honking )

Get that for me.

Go home.

The rebels are no more
in Velasco.

Go on, get off.

Get off!

What?
What?

Long live Fidel!

Viva Fidel!

Cuba libre!

And so I am, pants rolled up,
stuck in the creek,

thinking,
and when I hear the gunshot

I leave the cans and start running
through the savannah for the Camino Real.

They told me at the entrance
to the farm that Batista died.

We went through the four paths,

where we found the
first group of rebels.

They come on foot from Velasco,
shooting into the air and shouting

Long live Cuba, balls!
And thousands of other things.

You are among them

I scream your name at the top of my lungs
and when you see me, you leave the group,

You run up to me, put your arms
around my shoulders and start talking.

Flags and more flags,
front and back,

up and down, in arcades that
suddenly improvised in the streets,

on the telegraph
poles of first avenue,

hung from the arches of the
doors and windows of all the houses,

scattered on the floor,
tied to threads of string,

shaken by the wind.

Flags, thousands of them,

hung urgently in the
most insignificant places,

red and black rags,
colorful papers and more papers,

rags,
because we are already entering Holguín,

all of us under the flags,
shouting, cheering, singing,

the front of flags
tied to broomsticks,

to the mops,
to everything that the wind shakes.

And the cars honking nonstop

and the frail ones on
the hills watching us pass.

Someone yells,
It's the rebels! Look at the rebels!

And everyone surrounds you,
whores surround you without shame,

one of them touches your face,

"But how young you are,"
he says. "You don't have a beard yet."

And you look at them and you laugh.

Flags, flags...

These are the six aspects

in which we must
concentrate all our efforts.

Translator: It's all for today.

( together )
Spaziva!

As my mother smacked me,
she cursed

and yelled, "Maldito!
Bad seed!"

She shouted at the sky,
"I want to get out of here."

But I really wasn't sure
that's what she wanted.

But now standing over me

she looked like
a huge tree trunk.

And if it didn't hurt so much,
I'd get down on my knees,

and ask her to smack me again,
even harder.

Then she became beautiful.

How pretty she is in her skirt
made out of a sack

and the blouse she stole
from her sister.

I wanted to get up and beg
her forgiveness.

I wanted to say,
"Mom, how pretty you are today.

You look like
one of those women

that you can only see
on Christmas cards,"

but I said nothing because
of the knot in my throat.

That was very nice.
What's your name?

Reinaldo Arenas.

Who wrote this?

I did, it's my own--
from my novel.

What do you call this novel?

"Singing from the Well."

Are you a student?

Yes, I'm an agricultural
accountant.

Tell me, do you think
you'd feel at home

working in the national library?

The pay won't be very much.

But I can promise you
that you'll have all the books

you could ever hope to read.

I would like that
very much.

Thank you very much.

Thank you.

Oye, need a lift?

I want to go down
to Guayanos.

Get in.

Hello.

Driver: You like it, right?

It used to belong
to Errol Flynn.

You don't believe me?

Look in the glove
compartment.

Be careful, huh?

Do you want to go
to the movies with me?

What?

Do you want to go
to the movies with me?

- I'll get out here!
- Oh, Hell!

You got a flat ass anyway!

Come on boy!

You'll see him tomorrow.

Get out!

Stupid!

...last Saturday night
I made 100 pesos

for letting 10 members
of the National Ballet

suck me off.

Doesn't that make you a fag?

If you do it for money,
you're not a fag.

You know him?

No.

Hello.

I'm sorry about the other day.

No, don't worry.
Forget it.

- I am Reinaldo.
- I am Pepe.

- How about some ice cream?
- Yes!

Today they have only vanilla.

Bring him a banana split
with pistachio.

One ice cream!

Go.

So where you from,
Reinaldo?

I am a guajiro,
from Oriente.

- Does it matter where I'm from?
- No.

What do you do?

I just got a job now
in the National Library,

but I would like to be
a writer.

You poor thing.

A country boy in Havana
to serve the Revolution.

- Where's your mother?
- En la bodega.

Give me the key.

Chau.

Vamos!

She says it works,

just one key is a little off.

How can I thank you?

What are you doing?

Who is the man?

Who's the man?

You, because you are
the judo expert.

You don't kiss
on the lips?

Only when I'm in love.

Patricio Lamumba Beach is only
a 10 minute walk from here--

La Concha is about a mile...

This is perfect for you.

You'll have to share
the bathroom with her.

Bedsheets are changed
every two weeks

and you are responsible
for your own towel.

It is perfect, I'll take it.

Don't you want to know
how much?

It doesn't matter,
I can not afford it anyway.

30 pesos a month--

and no visitors...

nor music after 10:00pm.

30.

Thank you.

National Book Award Contest.

Hello.

I would like
to submit this please.

Put it in the box.

Hey, you want a smoke?

No, thank you.

What are you reading?

This is "El Lazarillo
de Tormes."

Who wrote it?

No author,
he's anonymous.

No writer?
That's impossible.

No, no, no,
I didn't say no writer.

I said we don't know
who the author is.

Okay.
Do you have any other books?

Yes, I have many.

I usually read out here
so I can be alone.

I like it here.

Sorry to bother you.
I'll leave.

It's okay.
I'm going home anyway.

You live around here?

Not far.

You want to come over
and hear some music?

What?

I have some
French records.

Maybe you like...

Edith Piaf,
and Jacques Brel.

Stupid idiot!

Are you out of your mind?

Take the book with you.

Fuck your dick, faggot!

Stupid!
Pussy.

And so, ladies and gentlemen,

we have arrived at this
auspicious moment.

We are happy to announce
that the first prize goes to,

"Living in Candonga"
by Ezequiel Vieta.

And the honourable mention
goes to Reinaldo Arenas

for "Celestino Antes de Alba."

Thank you.
Gracias.

Thank you for coming
ladies and gentlemen,

and another round of applause
for our contestants.

- Congratulations.
- Thank you.

You're invited to
Lezama Lima's house.

Hello.

He left after his brother
made the film "P.M."

You've heard about it.

The brother had to leave, too.

Simple film.

Just a group of people
dancing and getting drunk.

It made no judgments.

It made no judgments.

People that make art are
dangerous to any dictatorship.

They create beauty.

And beauty is the enemy.

Artists are escapists.

Artists are counter-
revolutionary,

and so you are a counter-
revolutionary, Reinaldo Arenas,

and you know why?

Because there's a man
that cannot govern

the terrain called beauty,
so he wants to eliminate it.

So, here we are, 400 years
of Cuban culture

about to become extinct
and everybody applauds.

And what happened to your lip?

I found somebody who doesn't
like French music, that's all.

Be careful.
Be careful.

No, no, no.
Keep it--

He would love for you
to have it.

There are 150 books that
contain everything

that literature has to offer.

You read them and you don't have
to read anything else.

So which book would
be the first?

"The Bible."
You have to read the Bible.

Oh, croquettes.
Ooh, María Luisa.

These croquettes don't stick
to the roof of your mouth.

They are delicious.

What kind are they?

In this country, you don't
ask that question.

We're all being placed
on an international diet.

Let's go back
to the Bible,

it's far
more interesting.

Now, I don't mean
to convert you.

Just read it like a novel.

I tell you what, I'm going
to give you five books--

Correction, I'm going to lend
you five books.

You return them,
then I'll give you five more.

"Moby Dick," Melville,

Robert Lewis Stevenson's
"Treasure Island,"

Proust's,
"Remembrance of Things Past"

Kafka's "Metamorphosis,"

Flaubert's,
"Sentimental Education."

María Luisa,
coffee please.

One, two, three--

four, five.

Reinaldo, I don't mean
to be presumptuous,

but we've read your book.

We both think
it's far superior

to the one
that won first prize.

They robbed you
of the first prize.

But, to be frank,

there's always room
for improvement.

If you'll allow,

Virgilio would like
to help you clean it up.

Right now it's good,

but it's too good
not to be great.

Let's fix it.

Second prize
gets published too.

That's the real prize.

We both think that
you were born to write.

( police radio )

You can't be too careful.

This is the only possession
that you really need.

...of life.

The lizards are very large
here.

If you saw them!
Lizards ...

come in various types...

Where's Pepe?

He's getting supplies.

I don't have to work today.

Let's pick up
Nicolas and Juan.

Okay.

Look, look, Tomás.
"Celestino Antes de Alba."

Now, you are really a writer.

- You like that cover?
- I like it, it's beautiful.

I thank Virgilio
for this book.

He gave me a lesson
in literature and editing.

...my brothers Juan
and Nicholas are writers too.

Oh, come on.

Pepe, we've got the Bronte
sisters in the back-seat.

Look at them.

Lezama is a Catholic;
Virgilio is an atheist.

So what do they
have in common

besides being faggots?

Lezama doesn't type,
he writes everything by hand.

Something you
wouldn't understand

It's called
intellectual honesty.

I don't understand!

Well, if you took the time
to actually read their books,

maybe you'd have something
intelligent to say about it.

Oye,
look at this.

Give him the cigarettes.

Hey, handsome!

Maricones!

Mariquita! ¡Mariquita!

Make him eat
pillar of the horse!

( gunshots )

Pussy! What is that?

What happens now?

Welcome to the picnic, mate.

Stay still, don't move.

- What do you want?
- Shut up.

What do I want?

I want Carlos first
to frisk this guy.

Why him?

See if he's got a weapon.

He's not even dressed.

What's your name?

My name?

Franz Kafka.

Franz Kafka.

You're funny.

You think I'm ignorant?

Let's see how
ignorant you are.

Ever heard of a summer camp
called La Isla de la Juventud?

No, then maybe
you can tell me...

when was the last time
you took it up your ass?

The last time?

Oh, I don't remember.

You don't remember?

But, I remember
the last time you did.

When was that?

Maybe the last time
you bent over

to tie your boots?

Okay,
you see, does not?

Okay, okay.

Do you have a cigarette?

Yes, I have a cigarette.

There was also a sexual
revolution going on

that came along with excitement
of the official revolution--

but the drums of militarism
were still trying to beat down

the rhythm of poetry and life.

When I wasn't at my job
at the library,

or guard duty,
or attending rallies,

there were three
wonderful things

that I enjoyed
in the 60's:

my typewriter, at which I sat
like a dedicated performer

sitting at his piano;

the youth of those days,

when everyone was ready
to break free;

and lastly, the full discovery
of the sea.

Did you ever notice there
are four categories of gays?

Really?

Really.

Which are they?

Well, the first one
is the dog collar gay--

He's loud,

shows off that
he's gay,

there's no limit
to his sexual voracity,

therefore he's constantly
being arrested.

The system has created
a permanent collar

around his neck,

so they can
hook him up

and take him to
a rehabilitation camp

like a Valparaíso.

Two is the common gay.

He's made his commitments
with other gays,

has a job, film clubs,

likes to sip tea
with his friends,

writes a poem
now and then,

only has relations
with other gays,

never takes a risk,

and never gets
to know a real man.

The third one,

the closet gay,
okay,

nobody knows
he is gay.

He's married,
has children,

hides on his way
to the bathroom,

still wearing the ring
that his wife gave him.

They're hard to spot,
but I've got one here.

Most of the time they're
the ones who censor other gays.

And fourth, the royal gay,

a unique product
of our country,

a communist country.

Because of his closeness
to our Maximum Leader

or special work with
the State Security,

he can afford
to be openly gay,

travel freely in this
country and abroad,

cover himself
with jewels, clothes...

Coño, he even has
a private chauffeur.

Hey, hey.
Stop!

Reinaldo!

Hey, Reinaldo!

Come on.
We'll give you a ride.

Where are you going?

Don't worry.
Take a seat.

Hello.

How are you?

Now, we're going to take
a little shortcut

and show you a beautiful
part of Havana

that not many
visitors get to see.

The crackdown began in earnest.

The horror and ugliness
advanced day by day

at an ever increasing pace,

but the oppression only
acted as a stimulus

and sex became a way
of fighting it...

a weapon to use
against the regimen.

With the Revolution, everything!

Against the Revolution, nothing!

Needless to say,

the Revolution wasn't
for everybody.

Mr. Heberto Zorrilla Ochoa,

are you aware of Article 243
in the Penal Code?

Yes.

And what does Article 243
of the Penal Code state?

It states that no assembly
of over three people is allowed.

And yet, you had an assembly
of over 20 people at your home

on the night of July 10th.

What were you doing?

It was a poetry reading.

Whose poetry?

My own--
others.

And are you sure that
this was a poetry reading

and not just an
opportunity to recite

counterrevolutionary
propaganda?

Yes, I'm sure.

Mr. Correa, is poetry
ever propaganda?

I suppose it could be.

But not your poetry.

No.

Mr. Correa, who else
was present

at this so-called
poetry reading?

Some friends,
other writers.

Tell me, does the name
José Lezama Lima ring a bell?

Virgilio Piñera?

Your wife, Fina?

Yes.

Were they there?

Yes, they were there.

Are you aware
that Lezama Lima

and Virgilio Piñera
are homosexuals?

Yes.

I am aware of my errors.

that are unpardonable,

errors that demand
to be severely punished.

But I must confess
that I see before me

in this room,

the faces of many comrades
who like me,

have lost their way,

whose ideology has wavered,

who have committed
similar errors...

errors that also demand
to be severely punished.

( crowd screams )

I'm sorry.
I'm late.

We got a call about
an hour ago.

They said they would be
at the Hotel Nacional

and they're leaving
today at 4:00 p.m.

That's all they said?

They're friends of
Lezama Lima.

- Reinaldo?
- Yes.

I'm Jorge Camacho.

- This is my wife, Margarita.
- Hi.

Have a seat.

We live in Paris.

Jorge is in a show
at the Salón De Mayo.

He's a painter.

We are big fans
of your work.

My work?

We bought your book
in a bookstore

and Jorge stayed up
all night reading it.

He said it was
the greatest novel

he ever read
about childhood.

Would you put
the book away, please.

Yes, of course.

Do they speak French?

Of course.

We follow the process of
Zorilla through the newspapers

and we know of the existence
of Mira Flor and the Isle of Youth.

They are pretty names
that remind flowers,

but they are concentration camps

for homosexuals,
for political dissidents...

For those who use...

pants too tight.

How can we help you?

My last manuscript was banned,
take it with you.

We leave in two hours...

He has to come visit us in Paris.

I don't think I travel much at the moment,
but thanks.

One day I'll go, even if it's swimming.

Reinaldo!

Margarita went ahead.

I thought you
were gone.

I went to the hotel--
I didn't know.

But, I knew you
were here.

This is a friend
of ours,

who works at
the French Embassy.

If you ever
need anything

you can give
her a call.

She'll get in
touch with us.

It's a small present
from Margarita and me.

Thank you
very much, Jorge.

You have to go.

What do your
paintings look like?

Because I didn't
ask you before.

You'll have to
see them in person.

Sure.

Who knows?

Maybe you could
write something

about them someday.

Hey Mister,
can I have my kite, please?

Get lost.

You almost killed me.

Come on,
give him the kite.

You want to give
him the kite?

Give him the kite?

Forget it!

Come on,
give him the kite!

Oye!

You want to give
him back the kite?

Okay, I'll give
him the kite.

What are you doing, Pepe?

What are you doing, Pepe?

Get out of here!

Get away from here!

Here.

Excuse me.
Excuse me.

I was on the beach
and these boys

stole my flippers
and my clothes.

Could you identify them?

No, but it's okay.

Get in the car.

No, it's okay.

Get in the car.

There!
That's them!

Come over here.

You have something
belonging to this man?

Look at him.

Give me your ID cards.

I was going to return this
stuff to the police station.

That faggot and his friend,
tried to touch our pricks.

Yeah, we beat them up
and they ran off,

so, we were going to bring
this to the station.

They molested us.

- They molested you?
- Yeah.

- You're sure?
- Yes.

You're under arrest.

Why!

Because I said so.

Lugando Barnes!

What are you doing here?

I live right over here.

I need a towel, t-shirt,
anything you have.

Please.

Thank you.

I need a place to hide.

I don't know,
I have to get out of here.

Why, what did you do?

They said I
molested these kids.

You should see these kids.

They were all bigger
than me.

Have you heard from Tomás?

I was told that he was
in a work camp in Oriente

and he was killed
while trying to escape.

I've heard you've
had some trouble

with the police.

No, it was a mistake,

they had me mixed up
with somebody else.

The way I see it,
you have two choices:

You can try to make it
to the U.S. Navy Base

in Guantánamo;

or you can try to float
your way to Florida.

It's about 90 miles.

You can make it in a few
days if the current is good.

I have an inner tube
I was saving.

It's yours.

( knocking on door )

Who is it?

It's me, Pepe.

I'm sorry about today.

What do you want now?

Where are you going?

I don't know.

Huh, where have you been?

I'm leaving right now.

How?

How?
Inner tube.

You're crazy,
you're going to drown.

Listen, do you want
to help me?

Yes, I want to help you.

Then give me all the
money you have on you.

You can have
the gold, clothes...

you can sell
it everywhere.

Please, give me all
the money you have on you.

You have money in here?

Give me the money.
Give me the money!

You can take--

you can take everything,

You can stay here
if you want.

Reinaldo, I have
some friends

that can solve
this problem.

What kind of friends
do you have?

You know what
kind of friends.

Why kind of friends
do you have?

Don't go away.

- Reinaldo.
- I'm leaving.

I'm leaving...

I-I'll keep in touch
with you, alright?

Bye.

Reinaldo--

Would you be sad if I died?

"Havana, Lenin Park,
November 15, 1974."

The International Red
Cross and UNESCO.

I've been a victim for a long time

of a sinister persecution
by the Cuban system.

I have to hide
you somewhere,

because we are
surrounded by police.

All my friends were questioned

and sometimes forced
by violence and blackmail

to report on myself.

My correspondence
has been intercepted,

my room reviewed
hundreds of times,

my work confiscated by the police.

And right now my own
life is in immediate danger,

the system uses all the methods
at its disposal to annihilate me,

they have come to fabricate against
me a complaint for rape of minors,

for corruption,
and publication of my novels abroad.

...a photo of you

just in case you forget
what you look like,

and last,
"La Iliada."

"La Ilíada," Juan,
"La Ilíada."

Here are the pills
you asked for.

What are they?

I don't know,
but they make you happy.

Will they kill me?

I suppose if you
took enough of them.

Before being transferred
to another prison

I was miraculously able to escape.

My situation, therefore,
is completely hopeless,

I clandestinely
direct these lines.

I already affirm that
what I write is the truth,

knowing that later they will
force me to say otherwise.

Hello.

Hello.

Can I have two
croquetas, please?

Two?

Yes, and a drink.

Do you have a light?

Yes.
Sure.

Do you have
a cigarette?

What is your name?

Adriano Faustino Sotolongo.

When did you get
that name, Reinaldo?

You are Reinaldo Arenas,
aren't you?

Good job.

Officer: We need to look
this package.

This bird that we found in
the park is Reinaldo Arenas.

Dale! Dale!

Dale, coño!
Dale!

And you will see
what is good.

You see what is good
there.

I arrived at El Morro not
as a political prisoner

or writer,

but with an infamous
reputation as a rapist,

a murderer,
and a CIA agent.

a supernatural air
of nonchalance

and gave me an aura
of danger and respectability

among the real murderers,

real rapists,

and common criminals
who would kill each other

for the slightest reason.

Skies lit by bolts
of lightning

were replaced
by electric lights

that blinked on and off
with regularity,

killing the possibility
or chance that I might dream

or forget where I was.

I thought here
I could go unnoticed.

But prisoners are those
beings that know everything,

especially about
other prisoners.

Soon they knew,
maybe from the guards,

or the warden himself,
or a killer named Torre,

that I was a writer.

Say, you think you could
write a letter for me?

What?

Not for nothing,

I give you two cigarettes.

Carlota--

tell her that I miss
her so much.

Your words or mine?

I'm sorry.

My fame as "The Writer"
spread all over the prison.

María...

From the 17 cells of El Morro,

and for those who couldn't
see me directly,

petitions came in the form
of hundreds of balls of soap,

tied to long strings,

that the prisoners
could pass on to my cell.

It was called "The Mail."

I never wrote so much.

I accumulated a small
fortune of cigarettes

that provided me with
enough paper and pencils

for my own novel,

which I wrote in the middle,

of all the screaming
and crying.

Cubans are defined by noise,
it's their nature.

They need to bother others.

They can neither enjoy,
nor suffer in silence.

Even the sun was rationed,

but once a month
the gay inmates

turned El Morro
into a nightclub.

Leonardo da Vinci
was homosexual,

so was Michelangelo,
Socrates, Shakespeare,

and almost every other
figure that has formed

what we have come
to understand as beauty.

Bon Bon, the heartthrob
of El Morro,

was no different.

She was so glamorous,
that when she walked by,

she made everybody feel
like they were in the movies.

Bon Bon was also famous
for another quality.

He was one
of those transporters,

who by the grace
of countless activity,

could carry unfathomable
quantities in the deepness

of his rectum, even if given
a thorough ass check.

Excuse me,

I heard that you can get
things in and out of here.

Could you carry
a package for me?

Of course,
he denied it.

I don't know what
you're talking about.

But every ass
has his price.

It took me a thousand
cigarettes and Bon Bon

five trips to smuggle my novel
to the other side of El Morro.

Please!

- Please do not put me there!
- Walk!

Please!
Why?

I did not do
anything to anyone, man!

Please!

Open the door!

Open the door, my God!
It's me!

Open the door!

Why do you do this to me?

Okay ...
okay.

For God's sake, open the door!

Open the door!

Let's go out.

Wait, my God, wait!

I felt an indescribable
sadness to see my mother

with that white shirt,
demanding that I come home

and telling me that
I had no other choice.

I gathered all
the strength I had.

After two years
of prison,

you think my only choice
is to go home with you?!

I turned my back on my mother
and ran away.

You have no other way out,
look how your friends ended up.

I will always remember
her standing there like that.

I wanted to go back
and hug her.

But instead,

I ran towards these gigantic
black men playing volleyball.

...IS my lover the sea,

will also wake me from this dream

which is also a nightmare.

what a nightmare...

It's gone, it's gone...

Come on out!

Come on, get out.

The truth is that there
is no possibility

of rehabilitating a faggot.

How many times have
we confiscated this...

counterrevolutionary poop?

Don't you realize...

that this can cost
you your life?

We can make
you disappear,

or you could
be free tomorrow.

It's up to you.

But, if you keep
writing this,

you're not going
to get very far.

I'm going to give you five
minutes to make up your mind.

It might take a queer
more than five minutes

to make up his mind
while watching this handsome

lieutenant stroke his
magnificent organ.

What do you say?

Can I have some
paper and a pen?

All the work I've done
until now is garbage.

I quickly accused myself
of being a villain,

a traitor, a depraved
counter revolutionary,

and while fixating on his
generous projectile,

I thanked the government
for the largeness,

and about the grandness
of Lt. Victor.

I deny my homosexual condition.

And I am converted into a man
illuminated by this Revolution.

Good.

Very good.

This is how a man behaves.

I almost fainted when I felt
his member near my face.

Your five minutes is up.

You got a lot
of publicity,

but friends,

where are they now?

Pepe Malas is your friend?

He's someone you can trust?

Why isn't he here with you?

You recognize this
book, Reinaldo?

That book was the only
proof to me that I was alive.

No.
I've never seen it.

This book was
published in France

without permission
of the Writer's Union.

Therefore, you must have had
someone to smuggle it out.

You didn't go
to France did you?

Maybe I should be
discussing this book

with the Writer's Union
and not here in State Security.

Open your mouth.

Mouth...

Mouth...

Mouth!!

Así...

Así, Reinaldo...

Shut up.

I will close my eyes now
and you will be gone.

You're gone.

The revolution will find
a way to use your talent.

We could fit you in somewhere,

some speeches, a letter
to your friends, publisher,

telling them how well
you're being treated

and that's a good beginning.

You thought it was me
who turned you in.

I thought it was...

Pepe.

Can you really
blame him?

Yes, I can.

And, I will blame him
for the rest of my life.

Look at this.

This book...

won best foreign
novel in France...

and I don't even have
a place to live.

What am I going to do?

What are you
going to do?

You're in luck.

I'm in luck?

Remember Blanca Romero,
the painter?

She lives in the Hotel Clarita,

next to the convent
of Santa Clara.

Hey, Blanca wanted
a window.

We thought it went
to the street.

We're selling this stuff
on the black market.

So, this is the surprise.

Something else...

making a fortune.

We got a hold
of these parachutes

and we're going
to sail them to Miami.

You're kidding, right?

No, I'm not kidding.

This is my friend, Armando

He's an expert with
the blowtorch.

He can fix anything,

even steal electricity
from the street.

He's an engineer.

I knew him in jail.

We figure that the balloon
will take three passengers.

So, we are going to draw
lots to see who goes.

I'm definitely going.

Blanca's definitely going.

You are not going to be
on a diet now.

And the others to luck,
have boobs or not.

We need some help,
there's only six of us.

I can help.

- Who's the guy?
- Reinaldo.

Someone is here.

Someone is here.

She's such a bitch.

She hates me just
like my mother.

Why do you think
your mother hates you?

She put me in an asylum
so she didn't have to feed me.

What?

She put me in Mazorra so she
wouldn't have to feed me.

Her own son.

She's just like her.

You can sleep here
anytime you want.

Just friends, okay,
just friends.

A pillow, you have
a blanket...

and I don't have anything
to offer you...

but a book...

that you asked me for
a long time ago,

you remember that?

It's your--
It's your book?

Yes, it's my book,
now it's yours.

Thanks.

Why do you write?

Revenge.

Could you teach me
how to write?

I don't know, Lázaro.
I don't know.

How beautiful is the sky.

I want to die
at the end of the day,

in the high seas,

with my face
towards the sky

when it seems like
agony is just a dream

and the soul, a bird
ascending in flight.

Who is that?

Manuel Guitérrez Nájera.
Mexicano.

I mean, you're a writer
even if you don't write.

You know what I mean?

Yeah, I know what
you mean.

- Hey.
- Hello. How are you?

You know what I mean?

iCoño!
But look...

...and if you need
anything else,

just let me know.
I can find it for you.

What is this pig
doing here?

He's the one who
got the propane.

Grab his leg,
come on.

Psst, psst!

Oh, no, no, no.

If you let me out
of here,

it's yours.

Untie the ropes,

and I'll bring you
to Miami with me.

Come! Come!
Wake up!

The balloon goes!
Low!

See you in Times Square,
faggots!

Lázaro, take this, sell it
and try to get me some lemons,

and tea...

and some paper, please.

Sure.

That's all you need?

Yes, and whatever you want.

- Have you seen Lázaro?
- No.

He hasn't come home
in two weeks.

He's probably in the
Peruvian Embassy.

You heard about the bus
crashing through the gate?

Yes, of course I've
heard about that.

Fidel said that anybody
who wants to leave can.

There's 10,000 people there.

Now, he's mixing
the dissidents

with the criminals,
homosexuals, and mentally ill.

That's a great idea.

All you have to do is go
to the local police station

for your exit permit.

You tell them that you
have a criminal record

or that you're a homosexual,

or that you're mentally ill.

I don't believe that.

It's a trap.

Maybe.

Next.

What's your name?

Reinaldo Arenas.

State your reason
for wanting to leave.

I am homosexual.

Where do you go
to pick up men.

At the Plaza Hotel,
"El Prado" in "La Sortija".

What position do
you like in bed?

I like it from behind,
and on my knees.

Walk!

- Walk! Walk!
- Walk.

Report to Abreu Fontan.

What are they doing?

They got a list
of everyone

they don't want
to let out.

Like who?

I don't know.

- Do you have a pen?
- No.

- Do you have a pen?
- No, sir.

Move, move,
move!

I don't care where I sleep.

Just promise me you won't
bring any of your friends here.

I can cook.
It's no problem.

How much is it?

$350 per month,
plus utilities.

The difference between
the communist system,

and the capitalist system,

is that when they give
you a kick in the ass

in the communist system,
you have to applaud;

in the capitalist system,
you can scream.

My name is Reinaldo Arenas,

I am a Cuban writer,
exiled, living in New York,

I dedicate myself to writing and surviving,

and the Department of Justice
classified me as "stateless"

which means that from a
legal point of view, I don't exist,

I live in the air,
I don't belong to any country.

I'm not religious, I'm homosexual,

and now anti Castro,

I therefore meet all the conditions so
that they never publish a book of mine,

to live apart from all societies
and places in the world.

This is my life, therefore...
No, it is quite long.

This hat reminds
me of my peasant life,

It is a story that I always tell,
from when I was a farmer...

Well, I continue to be that.

My mother and I were
on the banks of a stream

and a handsome man appeared,
with a hat.

He had curly, curly hair,
he was a beautiful man...

And my mother got angry,
and told her everything,

"Son of a bitch, you bastard,
get out of here, you animal!"

And she threw stones at him.

Despite the rain of stones,
the man leaned towards me

and gave me two pesos,
which, at that time,

it was a fortune for
a peasant like me;

We are talking about the year 1948...

Then I realized that
the man was my father.

Well, this is what I eat.

Avocado, spinach, fennel...

This is papaya,
I can only stand it in compote.

It will be because I never
lost my childish nature,

I'm still a child

I like games,
the children's world...

It is much more practical
for people to eat baby food

because, for example,
if I'm typing,

I open a can of what is
called "baby food" here

and it's ready in two or three minutes.

I protect myself from bad looks.

Did you publish much in Cuba?

I wrote 7 or 8 novels,
but only one was published in Cuba;

all the others were
published abroad.

- Hello, Mr. Greenberg.
- Thanks.

Happy holiday.

Thank you.
Here let me help you.

The doorman...

Hey, let's go.
I've got a break.

You're writing a novel!

Laz.

What happened?

- Oh, I broke a glass.
- Hey, you're bleeding.

Leave it alone.
Laz! Laz!

I'm trying to help.

What's the matter, Rey?

You are like a milk cow
that gives milk

all the time and then
kicks over the bucket.

There's the door, doorman.

Walk through it.
Walk through it.

I don't want to
see you again.

I'm tired of living
with a moron.

You are a moron, Laz.

Please, leave the keys
on the table.

The moon bathes Death
in a light

that makes him look
like a white star

twinkling in the middle
of the backyard.

That used to be my bicycle.

( knocking on the door )

Rey!

Open the door!

Rey!

Reinaldo.
Hey, Reinaldo.

How ya doing?
Come on, get up.

It's time to go.

Where?

It's time to go home.

Cuba?

No, I think you should go
to your apartment first.

Come on, I'll give
you a hand.

Here we go.

Are these your
things here?

How are you feeling?
You feeling alright?

I can't believe they're
sending you home.

Do you have any insurance?

- Yes, I do.
- I don't.

- Don't forget the plant.
- I won't.

Ballad for crossing the roads

which sink in
under the weight of rain drops

Buildings we avoid

out of fear
that they collapse

Faces that you value
and condemn

Shops closed

markets closed

cinemas closed

parks closed

cafés closed

sometimes with dusty plates,
justifications:

"Closed due to renovation work"

"Closed due to repair work"

Which repair work?

When will the "renovation"
be completed?

When will they even start?

Closed, closed, closed
Everything is closed

I arrive, I open
a thousand padlocks

and go up
stairs of fortune

And there, who awaits me

I take off the lid

and stare at its
cold and dusty sillhouette

I dust it, the caress

With tender hands, I dry
its back, the basis and the sides

Hopelessly happy
to be with her

My hands surround
the keyboard

and suddenly,
everything snaps into place

Between hammering and tinkling,
music rises, slowly, and then

she speeds up...

Walls, trees, roads,
cathedrals, faces, beaches

cells, small and big

starry nights, naked feet,
pine-trees,

thousands of clouds,
a million parrots

a stool, a vineyard

They all respond to my call

The walls retreat, the roof vanishes,
and I float naturally

I float, deracinated, detached

elevated, transported

immortalized, saved

Thanks to that rhythm,
subtle and continuing

that music,
that jabbing tap-tap

Hello.

You got everything?

Yes.

Give me a glass...

and a straw.

Where is the straw?

- What?
- Where is the straw?

The straw, yeah.

You do it.

Laz...

I have something
to show you.

Look.

Here's "The Doorman."

"For Lazaro, his novel."

It just came out.

You can have
all the money.

The money?

It's my book, Rey,

you took it and now
you're going to insult me

by paying me for it?

Okay, sorry.
Thanks.

- Don't say nothing.
- Okay.

Give me a glass
with a...

This bag
is important, Laz.

You can take it.

You're going to need
it more than me.

Take it.

I want you to promise
me something, Lázaro.

I don't want to wake up
in the hospital.

Promise me.

I promise.

Sure?

Yeah.

Sure?

Hmmm?

I'm sorry.

Yes.

Give me the glass, please.

I want you to mail these.

This is for---

This is for my mother.

This is for
"The New York Times,"

Margarita and Jorge Camacho.

"Miami Herald."

And, this is for you,
but, don't open it.

Mail this to yourself,

and then you open
in your house.

I have never met a boy
as authentic as you, Lázaro.

Never.

Read me something.

"My Lover, the Sea."

Oh, not that one.

Not that one,
where's the glass?

Not that one.

"I am...

That boy, round and dirty face,

that in every corner
annoys us with that...

Can you give me a handout?

I am that child,

dirty-faced, undoubtedly inopportune,

who from afar contemplates the carriages,

among which

other children go laughing
and jumping with enthusiasm....

Rey.
Rey.

I am that unpleasant child
and undoubtedly inopportune,

with a round and dirty face,
in front of the candlesticks of the streets

Beneath great
ladies so well lit,

or in front of girls
who seem to levitate,

He throws the insult
from his round dirty face.