All language subtitles for Advantages Of Travelling By Train (2019)

Imagine a woman coming home
and surprising her husband

inspecting his own shit
with a popsicle stick.

Imagine that this man never
comes out of his self-absorption.

Imagine that she has to admit him
into a mental clinic

in the north of the country.

Our story begins precisely the next day.

CHAPTER 1
The Deceitful Wedding

Do you want to hear my life story?

Just kidding. To break the ice.

It's a long trip to Madrid.

I'm a psychiatrist
at the International Clinic.

I saw you there yesterday
very late. True?

Sorry, my name's Helga.
Nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you.

I don't know if Dr. Crespo
spoke to you about me.

I'm working on the applications
of written discourse

on the diagnosis
of personality disorder.

We ask the patient

to write down
an episode in their life,

we analyze its narrative
and make a diagnosis.

We'll do it with your husband too.

And with great pleasure too.

Texts by coprophagists
are my favorites,

their narratives are the most curious.

In fact,

in this file

I have a set of texts by patients
with schizophrenia

and paranoid disorders.

Later, if you like,
I'll read you some.

Patients with hebephrenic
schizophrenia, for example,

show a marked tendency
to tell their own life story

but each time they do it differently,

so their personality consists

of a string of superimposed stories,

like the layers of an onion.

By the time we realize it,

we don't have a personality
as such to study

but a collection of stories,
one narrative after another,

beneath which there is no person.

I'm going to tell you something

that happened to me with a patient

who should've been
locked up for good.

He wasn't schizophrenic,
but paranoid.

Unlike the schizophrenic,

the paranoid patient is always
attentive to external stimuli,

establishing erroneous links
between them.

Paranoids' stories
can be very dangerous.

Martín.

Martín Urales de Úbeda,
that was his name.

The name says it all, doesn't it?

His seductive power was hypnotic.

Have you ever been kidnapped?

Before he kidnapped me,

I'd spent a long time
looking for him.

I didn't know him,
but I'd heard about him.

I was told that he convinced people

to throw themselves
into garbage trucks.

In fact, he died like that, crushed.

If you like, I'll tell you about it.

Alright, it started when
my wife and I moved

and bought a house on
a residential estate in Galapagar.

We're just following the rules.

And they cover
daily garbage collection,

the residents' garbage.

I am a resident.

But only recently.
You know better than I do

that this garbage isn't yours.

If it were, my friend and I

would load the truck
and haul it away.

But I repeat, this is for
Public Thoroughfares.

They have to come to an agreement
with Garbage Removal,

maybe they think it's our job.

If you'd kindly sign here, please.

Yes.

-Thank you.
-Thanks.

The letter read, quote:

my father's greatest dream was that

my brother Martin might enter
San Javier Military Academy, Murcia.

Though my brother had no calling,

to please my father, he joined
the academy and became a soldier.

-Fusilier!
-Fusilier!

He wrote us letters every week
that my father read and re-read

in his wheelchair
by the sitting room window.

My father was paralyzed,

his legs had been blown off
in a bombing.

Shortly after graduating,

the war broke out in Kosovo
and he was sent there.

He kept sending letters from there,

but they became
increasingly more enigmatic.

One fine day, without warning,

my brother cut off
all communication with us.

He disappeared.

It was as if the ground
had swallowed him up.

Martín!

My son.

They threw me out.

Out of where?

The Air Force.

Sit down.

What happened, Martín?

You know I was posted to
a military hospital in Kosovo.

It was a hotel they'd
fitted out as a hospital.

A huge, old building.

This girl who ran the gym

fell in love with her psychologist,
a guy called Manuel.

They got married,
he gave up psychology

and moved into an office
in the gym with her.

The medicine was running out.

The electrical devices
stopped working.

There was a shortage
of food and water.

The number of deaths was rising.

...she found out by chance

that Manuel wasn't a psychologist,
but a vet.

How she found out,
I'll tell you some other time,

it's not important now.

She went into her office
to ask for an explanation...

One of the halls
was turned into an orphanage.

...looking through a little hole
leading to the women's changing room,

with his pants down and one eye...

It was set up by Dr. Linares.

It was a miracle that she'd
done it with her own hands,

but it was in a terrible state.

I'll catch up.

-If I may...?
-Thanks a lot.

It's a miracle this place exists.

Your work here is incredible.
You must be proud.

We do what we can
with the means we have.

If I can help in any way...

I appreciate it,
but unless you're a millionaire...

What we need here
is a big injection of money.

As a friend of mine said,
money's what I have most of.

Do you have a hundred of anything?

We'd meet for breakfast
before our shifts.

Or go for a walk when we were done.

She'd tell me about
the latest child to die

and about the state of the hospital,
which was more and more worrying.

The months flew by.

Until one day it all changed.

It's called "Lobotomy".

It hypothesizes that everything
on the TV screen

is fiction with a script.

For example, game show participants

are actors who pretend to be nervous
but know how it ends.

The football games,
the goals, the fouls...

-What happened? How did you do it?
-I can't talk now, Martín.

I'll come back when we're finished.
I'm dying of curiosity.

I can't today.

Are you alright?

You know that I live
and breathe for the hospital.

It's the most important thing for me.

You also know they denied funding
and we were about to close down.

You yourself saw some of
those children die.

That's why...

I decided to prostitute myself.

I chose my clients
from NATO leaders,

members of the Papal entourage,

UN observers...

and top representatives of NGOs.

For a few months
there was a bit more money,

enough to not...

give it up,

but not enough to cover our needs.

Until one night...

She got a visit
from a certain client.

We'll call him...

Cristóbal de la Hoz.

I wanted to tell you something.

I have a group of,

let's say, "very powerful" friends,

with a lot of influence
in charitable matters who...

would be delighted to help you.

Sure, give them my number.

No.

I don't mean that.

If you add up NATO subsidies,

the E.U. and the Church,

this group of friends could get you
over 200 million pesetas a year.

In exchange for...

one orphan a month.

Get out.

Think it over.

But the hospital was unsustainable.

Children were dying,

the money from my services
only covered food.

One orphan at random.

Every month.

You needn't worry about a thing.

They'll take care of everything.

I'll talk to them and that's that.

You did it for them.

You saved a lot of lives,
don't forget that.

You once asked me about the orphans.

I told you
they were sold to families,

but...

The other night
I was with these friends...

If you don't want to say
what you do with the children...

Well, a little curious, yes.

But anyway...

I didn't say anything.

What do you mean?

It's the third time you've asked.

I didn't realize.

Do you really want to know
what we do with the children?

Come on.

I'll show you.

To the left.

Get comfortable.
It'll start in a minute.

Let's say this is direction control.

This business
has three income sources.

On one hand, the star of the video

pays a fortune to be
in that room for an hour.

One the other,
a pornographic video is made

that's distributed worldwide,

with the faces digitally altered.

There are specialist pages
that pay very well for the videos.

Yes.

Now?

Of course, yes.

Okay.

We have to go out for a moment.

I won't be long.

Everything alright?

Fine.

Yes?

Cristóbal.

How are you?

I've got nothing against parks,
but why meet me here?

What have you done?

What have I done?

What are you people doing?

Did you know what they were
doing to the children?

I know everything.

It's barbaric.

It's not what we agreed!

Lower your voice.

How could you do
something like this?

How could you?

Money, Cristóbal.

It's the reason you're looking for
and don't seem to understand.

I'm a professional
in the market economy.

I was trained to extract
maximum benefit from raw material.

Though filming death
makes a higher profit

than prostitution or blackmail,

nothing is comparable

to the price paid by
drug companies for the entrails.

We're selling the innards
for a fortune

to a company that makes
special food for geese.

The clean, gutted bodies

go to an eccentric New York artist

who sells them to New York trendies

who truly appreciate
this guy's hyper-realist art.

The authorities say nothing for now
because we lower youth unemployment

and they participate symbolically
in the business.

As for you...

What can I tell you?

You're in big trouble.

They'll search the planet for you.

And they'll find you, of course.

Who knows?

Maybe you'll end up
in a New York art gallery.

I'll put in a word for you.

They're friends, after all.

I'll try to get them not to rip out
your eyeballs which, well dried,

make wonderful erasers

for pen and printing ink.

I'll get them to at least
leave your eyes.

Come on, give me a hug.

I didn't want to...

disappear
without you knowing all this.

I don't want to be stuffed.

I suppose I could be next.

And I wouldn't mind,

it'd be a favor now that I know
that what they did is my fault.

No, it wasn't your fault.

Here.

This is the key to
a locker in my office

with all the hospital's papers,

so you can take charge of it all
if something happens to me.

Nothing will happen to you,
I'm sure of it.

That was the last time I saw her.

I reported it to my superiors,
but they said I was insane

and told me to forget it.

I refused.

They charged me with insubordination,
threw me out of the service

and put me in a psych hospital.

My son!

Lies!

I don't believe a word of it!

From that day on,
my father kept to himself

and devoted his life
to staring out the window

or sitting on the patio watching
the people go by on bullfight days,

when our street was a bit livelier.

Until death took him one day
after an afternoon snack.

My mother died of grief
a short time later.

Now the Secret Service
wants to obliterate Martín,

take away his civil rights,
and they're saying he's mad

and persuades people to throw
themselves into garbage trucks.

I hope this case interests you.
I've nothing more to say.

Yours sincerely,
Amelia Urales de Úbeda.

The letter did sound odd,
to be honest.

But it drew me in so much

that I decided to track down
where this woman lived.

"...devoted his life
to sitting on the patio

and watching people
on bullfight days,

when our street
got a little livelier."

That's what the letter said.

The woman had lived
in a lower house, with a patio,

near Las Ventas bullring.

It's true that the whole thing
could've been a story,

but if we think like that,
we never do anything in life.

I spent days
looking for the non-existent house

of Amelia Urales de Úbeda.
But it did exist.

I'd passed it several times
and never noticed it.

It was like it suddenly appeared.

21 , Martínez Izquierdo.

You can check it if you like,
I'm not making it up.

Hello?

Hello. Are you Amelia?

You wrote me this letter
about your brother's case.

-I'd like to meet him, if possible.
-Angel Sanagustín.

Sorry, I wasn't expecting you.

No, it's my fault
for coming unannounced...

I didn't have your phone number.

Your letter described the house,
that's how I found you.

Sure, sure.

My brother's not in right now,
but I don't think he'll be long.

-Oh, dear.
-You can wait inside if you like.

-You don't mind?
-Please, come in.

-Very kind of you.
-Come in.

The smell is from the pipes.

These old houses, you know?

Very pretty and all that,
but so expensive to maintain.

Sure.

I don't think my brother will be long,

though with him you never know.

Never mind, I'm in no hurry.

-There's no need.
-Please!

Thanks very much.

Forgive me
if I don't turn on the lights,

we have a little wiring problem.

Well...

What did you think of my letter?

Intriguing.

There, sitting in his wheelchair,

my father read the letters
my brother sent.

Through that door

he appeared in the uniform
of a lieutenant, missing an arm.

And look,

the table my father broke when
my brother was thrown out of the army.

Look at the crack.
You can take a look.

He left it in splinters.

I have no money to fix it.
A shame, it's quite lovely.

Lovely, yes.

Though even if I had money,
I wouldn't fix it.

It's a way of remembering
my father, don't you think?

Yes, it is.

That's the croquette
that hit my brother's head

when my dad hit the roof.

I'm quite the fetishist.

Do you like it?

-What?
-The liquor.

Yes.

I make it myself.

Oh, it's very good.

Strong, but very good.

I'll get you some sausage
I also make.

To help you get it down.

-Please!
-There's no need.

Sit down!
Make yourself comfortable!

I make this sausage too.

It's very nice sausage.

I'm so glad you've come,
Mr. Sanagustín.

I'm so glad, because...

there's something I wanted
to tell you.

Yes?

Yes.

I lied to you.

Really?

My brother was never a soldier.

It's not that I deceived you,

he was deceiving us all
for a very long time.

Of everything I said in the letter,
the only truth is that he's one-armed.

Everything went awry
the day they rejected him

from San Javier
Military Academy in Murcia.

He intended to re-do the exam
a year later.

Until then he moved into a hostel
and got work as a garbageman.

Meanwhile, he wrote us the letters
describing barracks life

that my father enjoyed so much.

A year went by
and he failed the exam again.

The next year, the same thing.

Before he knew it, Martín was
a garbageman living in Murcia.

What began as a white lie,
a postponement,

ended up being a decision.

He lost his arm one night
when he wasn't on the ball.

And now, depressed, one-armed,

with a shitty pension,

he's living here with me.

Take it easy.

Take it easy, it's alright.

Now, looking back,

I'm surprised I didn't realize before,

but I didn't.

Take it easy.

Take it easy, it's alright.

Well...

Well, well...

No fucking way.

Sorry about the joke.
I think I kept it going too long.

I've been living alone so long.

Now I've covered the mics,
we can talk.

I should've guessed.

No, don't sell yourself short.

They're much more powerful
and they still haven't found me.

Who?

Them, the garbagemen.

They followed you.

No!

I knew it wasn't the pipes.

8 years without
throwing out the garbage.

You can't expect it to smell of roses.

If you make a noise, I'll punch you

Do you know who those people
in the truck are?

Garbagemen.

You got no fucking idea
what's going on in the world.

-No?
-No, that's why I made you come.

You made me come?

You don't know how hard
it was to find you.

The letter I sent pretending
to be my sister didn't help?

The clues I left were no help?

I brought you because you're
the chosen one.

You're trustworthy,

because for years you've been
using disposable razors,

even though they've brought out
triple or quadruple razors.

You're an idealist because
you don't eat transgenic foods.

You're tenacious and persistent,

your pumpkin seed shells prove it.

And, above all,

you're brave

because you drink loads of coffee.

-You spied on my garbage?
-Of course.

-What for?
-To open your eyes.

You think I use this cotton
and this helmet because I'm mad.

They put mics
and an identification chip in me.

-Who?
-The people up there.

-The garbagemen?
-They're not garbagemen!

Right.

Then what are they, Martín?

Political police.

Have a little respect.

Forget everything my sister told you.

Let your mind go blank
and listen carefully.

I was a garbageman for 5 years.

But didn't you say that everything
your sister said was a lie?

No. I said to forget everything
my sister told you,

to let your mind go blank
and to listen carefully.

Are you going to listen carefully?

-Yes.
-Good.

I was a garbageman for 5 years.

When I started,
I was assigned to a truck

with two colleagues, Paco Platero...

and Gota.

The work was routine and unpleasant.

Some fuckers don't shut
their bags right

and when you tip it into the truck,
all the shit falls on you.

Fucking hell...

Then your colleagues
are always going on about it,

that we're sick of picking up
people's shit...

I'm sick of picking up
people's shit, man.

...that it's the worst job ever...

This is the worst job ever.

...that it's the worst paid...

And the worst paid!

...that it's not valued
by society...

People don't realize what we do,

while they're sleeping peacefully.

Bastards!

Then there's the smell.

No matter what gloves
and special clothes you use,

the stink gets
in your hair and skin,

there's no way to get it out.

The first two weeks are the worst,

you think you'll go crazy
with the stink, I'm telling you,

but then you get used to it.

And then you discover
that the company itself

is spraying the dumpsters
with an unbearbable stench

that we, the garbagemen,
touch every day,

to alienate us socially
and increase our resentment.

The idea is that,
when the time comes,

you'll accept without reservations
what your bosses tell you in secret:

the real task.

The real task?

The real task.

The trucks don't grind the garbage.

They store it.

It all starts with
the identification of each bag.

There's a margin of error,

but usually the last person
to touch the bag is the owner.

The plastic the bags are made of
preserve fingerprints wonderfully.

When they match them with the waste,

we have the owner of the garbage.

Every resident has a file,

with a history and a detailed
analysis of the waste.

That's why they didn't collect
the garbage at your house.

It would've falsified your file.

Your case was a blip in the system.

In the more advanced countries,
this is done by the citizens,

who separate and classify
their own garbage,

believing that they're improving
the environment.

But not here, no.

Unintentionally, we make it hard
for the intelligence center.

There had to be some advantage
to the Third World mentality.

They can find out your tastes,
your phobias,

how you survive financially,
how you vote, your sex life,

your dreams, your moods...
Everything.

They know everything.

I'm the only garbageman
to leave the company

and since then I've been on the run.

I discovered they'd implanted
microphones in me,

in my nostrils,

and magnetic metals
in my cerebral cortex.

I can't go into the Prado Museum.

So I passed myself off as my sister
and hid out here,

buying nothing at the supermarket,
not generating any waste,

feeding myself the best I can
on my urine and feces.

Wasn't the liquor and sausage
you ate nice?

We have a lot of prejudices.

When he said that,
I must've made a face,

much like the one
you're making now.

He said he was sick of
being looked at like that,

of everyone looking at him like that.

He said: "Right now,
I'll show you I'm right."

He tied me up, gagged me

and took me outside
by the back door.

Lots of fuckers don't shut their
bags right, you'll get used to it.

We're getting into a truck
so you see with your own eyes.

Relax, it's just a moment.

Now!

I don't know what I did,
what I grabbed on to,

adrenaline is wonderful.

At the last moment,

he tripped and let go of me.

I fell down outside
and he fell inside.

I'm still alive...

...and he vanished forever.

Are you hungry?

I usually get down here
and buy a sandwich at the bar.

I'll get you one.
Ham and cheese? Salad?

-Okay, but I'll pay.
-No, no need.

My treat.

I'll be right back.

CHAPTER 2
People

Helga Pato's problem with people

was that she confused narrators
with authors

and sometimes the latter
with characters.

When she met W at the Book Fair,

she was an independent editor

and he was a famous writer
popular with the left wing.

W at once perceived
a powerful groin under her pants,

and instead of a dedication,
he wrote an address.

She believed at that moment
a love story was beginning

about a young editor who was going
to live with her favorite author

on the top floor
of a Madrid skyscraper.

She believed she was falling
in love with her favorite writer...

Today we have pleasure of speaking
to the author of "Jungle".

...but she'd actually fallen
in love with the narrator...

If you could be a jungle animal,
which would you choose?

A predator.

...and gone to live
with a character.

After this last romantic failure,
Helga Pato quit her job,...

adopted a dog, called it Pingo,

and decided never to have anything
to do with a man again.

My thing began as " 101 Dalmatians".

Everything that happened later,

I could've foreseen
from the first day I met him,

for all things are present
in their beginnings.

Hey!

No! Sorry, she's mine.
Leave them be.

I wanted a litter.

I really love dogs.

I have plenty of room at home,
I can handle it.

-Do you live in the neighborhood?
-Yes.

Right nearby.

I've got a kiosk on the square.

-Really?
-Yes.

Drop by one day if you like.

One day I had nothing better to do,
so I went to see him at the kiosk.

Hello!

-Hello.
-How are you?

Well, not many customers today.

I was thinking the other day,
you didn't tell me your dog's name.

-Charla.
-Charla?

Charlita, Charla.

And I'm Emilio.

I'm such an idiot...
My name's Helga.

I'd let you in, but this place
is a bit like my home, you know?

It means a lot if a woman comes in.

Sure, sure.

When I went to buy bread
or walk the dog, I'd stop by.

He'd show me dog magazines
and talk about breeds and crosses.

A dog's mission
is to play and procreate.

Obviously I was fond of Pingo
and I'd ask about Charla's pregnancy,

but nothing more.

I was thinking of selling
four of the five pups.

All but this one.

His name's Elvis.

Hold him

I was thinking of giving him to you.

If you'll be my girlfriend.

What do you say?

We spent lots of time together
in the kiosk.

That's the job for you,
it really ties you down.

But I didn't mind.

What I minded was that
he tired of me so quickly.

After a few months he'd leave me
alone all day in the kiosk

while he'd walk the dogs
to Casa de Campo.

One night, in bed,
he asked to do it from behind.

Like dogs, he said.

Like dogs.

As we hadn't talked for a while
or done anything, I gave in.

And if you give in once,
you do forever,

sometimes for love,

sometimes from insecurity,
sometimes because you're scared.

Generally it's for all three
reasons at the same time,

if all three aren't the same thing.

After that we never did it
face to face again.

One day I tried to say no.

No, Emilio, I don't feel like it
that way today.

He was gone for a week.

I never said no again.

Now moan. Like a dog, do it.

That's it, that's it.

That's it.

Higher, higher!

He was very nice all week

and gave me my first gift
since he gave me Elvis.

What's this?

For you.

Wait!

2.20.

Thanks, see you later.

You're not wearing it.

I put it on at home,
but I take off to go out.

Why put it on and take it off
all the time?

Leave it on.

One day he said he'd make lunch.

He bought himself Sanlúcar prawns
and gave me meat stew.

He said it was meat stew.

It wasn't bad, to be honest,

but I would've preferred
Sanlúcar prawns.

From then on,
he always made the food.

Now he didn't even bother
hiding where the stew came from.

Today, eat it without cutlery.
You'll love it.

Today I thought you'd like
to eat with them.

No, Emilio, no.

But it's got your name and everything.

Not that.

Why not?

Because.

Why not?

Because.

Why not?

Don't laugh at me.

You're not laughing at me!

Don't you laugh at me!

Get it straight,
you're not laughing at me!

Don't you laugh at me!

What are you staring at? Shit!

Don't laugh, this is not a joke!

He took the dogs and went off
to the Casa de Campo.

When you're alone,
thinking the whole damn day,

it's easy to find reasons
for doing something.

No matter how crazy it is.

When I told him I'd do it,

he put his arms around me
and for the first time in ages,

he kissed me on the muzzle.

The changes had taken place
so gradually

that I didn't realize
he'd turned me into a dog.

I'd ceded terrain that
I was never going to recover.

That happens a lot in life,

especially if you do nothing
at the beginning.

Helga!

I've been thinking...

Now that you're in the garden
there's more room in the house.

And well...

I thought that

we could have a puppy.

I was so happy,
because I thought maybe a child

would make me more human for him.

Elvis!

No!

He had no choice
but to tie me up and beat me.

Look at her! Look at her!

See her? Go for it, go on!

Love is a beam of indirect light,

a drop of peace, faith awakened,

a hum in the air, a spot in the fog,

a profile, a shadow,

a pause, expectation.

Love is a soft murmur approaching,

a buzz from afar, a light breeze,

a voice in the calm,
an aroma of mint,

and then, a perhaps,

a "let's see", a goal.

Love sprouts between air
and ground,

palpable and felt,
and there are those who see it,

and it makes you awaken
and think of it,

and it calls you softly,
brushing your skin.

Love hypnotizes you,
makes you dream,

and you dream and you give in
and let yourself go,

it moves you inside,
it makes you be more,

it pushes you, overcomes you
and takes you from behind.

And suddenly you rise,
hurl yourself and burn,

there is light in your soul,

fire in your veins,

it makes you scream
when you feel you are burnt,

it dissolves you, evaporates you,
destroys you, creates you.

It makes you travel
on the edge of time,

going up the rivers
of a thousand universes,

and it takes you to glory,
it delivers you to the earth,

it looks at you, sees you,
and thinks and thinks.

And suddenly love
is the light of a flame

that begins to flicker,
then goes out.

It's a tiny island lost in the fog,

a drop, an unknown,
a blemish, a grimace.

Love is a leaf fallen on the ground,

a point on the sea,
a thickening mist,

a snag in the soul, a watching sun,

a why, a depending,
a no more, a whine.

Love comes down, rung by rung,

hands closed, a weary pace,

it asks you who you are
to let you know

that it barely knows you:
What do you want from it?

Love mocks you, laughs at you,

while you follow it calmly,
not knowing what to do,

and you wish to follow it
and tell it now,

to stay, to come back,
to make a mistake.

Love thwarts your grand ideas,

it destroys, it breaks you,
it splits you, it breaks you,

and makes you what you
wanted not to be,

it drives you to be evil
and turns you to shit.

It hurls you face down
into the final hell,

rips out your soul,
stamps on your body,

drowns you in yearning
to return to nothing,

and suddenly it stops.

That night I decided to kill him.

I remembered a book
I'd read recently

that mentioned Anarbital,

a powerful tranquilizer
that left no trace

and that I could get without
prescription on the Internet.

One night, I put 1 0 c.c.'s
of Anarbital in Emilio's drink.

Then I left the house
and spent some days with my mother.

Supposedly in those few days

Emilio would've gradually
passed away,

but when I got back, he hadn't.

I looked for a cheap clinic

that didn't ask too many questions
and was far away.

There I said goodbye
to Emilio forever.

Now let's go back to the train

and let's imagine that Helga Pato
opens Sanagustín's red file

to look for a phone number
or an address.

Let's imagine that her eyes
don't find what they're after,

but they see some words that
immediately grab her attention.

SOMATIC DELUSIONAL DISORDER

I WAS BORN ON A RIVER BANK...

I was born on a river bank...

...and the damp softened my bones,

forcing me to stay in bed
for most of my life.

Those first years of life
that forge character

and predict future conduct,

I was flat on my back.

"No one will be able to avoid..."

Life was filtered through
the opaque sieve of Sister Araceli,

my teacher.

I understand that perfectly.
But what gets me muddled is...

the second and third...
it's like one is...

is everything that's
then inside a third.

-The third part is the second.
-Exactly.

-So, like the Russian dolls.
-Like the Russian doll.

Perfect.
Let's look for our Russian doll.

Okay.

The third Russian doll is
"what has to happen",

which is an adjectival proposition...

I never went to school

or had any contact with
vertebrate boys my age...

...only with the nuns and the carers
in the residence where I lived.

Can you get me some water?

My experiences were always false
and belonged to others

coming from reading
or the TV screen.

Petrarch, Bécquer, Garcilaso,

Truffaut, Bertolucci...

I also took delight
in the audiovisual fiction

supplied to me by
the substitute social worker.

And so, this snail child
got an idea of the world

and the marvelous universe of love.

After many medical trials
and tribulations,

which I won't tire you with,

thanks to advances in prosthetics
as a result of the Gulf War

they filled my body with iron,
inside and out.

Months later, the handicapped
association to which I belonged

organized a trip to Paris.

And off I went to Paris.

As soon as I arrived,
my camera was stolen.

Hold it! Hold it!

Rosa, a lame woman
on the trip, consoled me.

-Did you see that?
-Are you alright?

Yes, I'm fine.
I got distracted for a second.

Just for a moment.

Then her crutch was stolen...

I don't believe it! The same guy!

...and I was the one
who had to dry her tears.

It'll probably seems silly,

but I was disappointed that
they spoke French in Paris.

This detail, which everyone knows,

isn't mentioned in any work
of fiction that I know.

It became a nightmare

when I went out with Rosa
to buy a new crutch.

Lady of France...

It didn't occur to me to look up
"crutch" in the dictionary,

and that led me to figure
in those kinds of episodes

which when they're happening
are pathetic

and which, if you marry
the person with you at that time,

become hilarious and endearing,

and if you don't get married,

they're pathetic
until the day you die.

At the time, I didn't realize that

the higher I went up
the ridiculous scale in my own eyes,

the more points I made
in hers in the account of love.

We finally got a new crutch and,
exhausted, went back to the hotel.

Once there,

she helped me remove the orthopedics
from my arms and legs.

Without them I felt more naked
than when I was naked,

deconstructed like
some postmodernist slug,

almost liquid.

She removed her orthopedic shoe

as if she were taking off
her underwear.

We were so tired by the effort,

we lay there on our backs,
asleep,...

she with one leg
longer than the other

and I, without my structures,

helpless as a peeled prawn.

I caught a cold.

The next day, I had to stay in bed

and she stayed to look after me.

I couldn't see that this gesture
was more than generosity.

I hadn't been trained

to interpret the gleam
in a lame girl's eyes as love.

In all the books I'd read,

in all the films I'd seen,

the women were always
perfect and symmetrical.

They didn't have defects
and they certainly weren't lame.

And if they did, those bastard
poets, writers and filmmakers

had hidden it
with words or prosthetics,

lying to humanity
and fucking up my life.

Can anyone tell me in which
Garcilaso or Bécquer poem

there are imperfections,
physical defects or asymmetries?

And I'm not talking
about skin imperfections

that can be a beautiful trace
of the passing of time, etc. etc.

I'm talking about one leg longer
than the other, for fuck's sake!

Nobody told me that what
I was starting to feel for Rosa

was true love.

I was expecting to shudder,
to shake with internal spasms.

And as I didn't feel any of that,
but a justified affection,

a vague tenderness,
I told myself:

"It's not love you feel, Gárate,
only pity."

And when Rosa asked me
to sleep with her,...

...as I'd promised myself
to do it for the first time

only with the person who
made me feel what I mentioned,

I said no.

I said no,
but we ended up doing it.

We did it, unfortunately for me.

Because sex happened for me
the same as love:

everything I knew,
when the first time came,

I'd learned from the films
my volunteer carer brought me.

No huge breasts or long legs.

Well, yes, there was one long leg

and another shorter one.

Rosa didn't throw herself on me
like the women in fiction.

So there was none of
that frantic activity

or howling that was
so familiar to me.

Worst of all was when
the final moment came.

I did what I'd seen
sex professionals do so often.

I was surprised by her reaction.

I did it
with the best of intentions.

Listen...

She didn't say anything.
She got dressed and left.

I heard her uneven footsteps
heading off down the hallway

and I never saw her again.

She left the Tour,

and hid away on the Fortunate Isles,
where she was from.

CHAPTER 3
Advantages of Travelling by Train

Hello, Good evening.
My name's Helga Pato.

I'd like to leave a message
for Dr. Sanagustín.

-Hello?
-Hello, this is Ángel Sanagustín.

Look, I'm not sure I know
who you are or what you want,

but I can imagine.

What I am sure of is that
I haven't lost any file.

So please, don't call me
at the clinic again.

-Yes.
-I think we spoke on the phone.

Forgive me for coming unannounced,

but what happened to me
doesn't happen every day.

This is the famous file
that apparently you haven't lost.

I told you, that's not my file.

I'd rather you didn't bother me
with these things.

Yesterday I met a man on the train
who said he was Angel Sanagustín,

he was a psychiatrist,
he worked at the International Clinic,

he lived in Galapagar

and had a mountain of garbage
that no one wanted to remove.

Clearly that man isn't you,

but whoever it was I met on the train,
he knows you,

and he left this file on his seat.

Let her in. That's our file.

I'm sorry if my husband
was a bit abrupt, but...

we're having neighbor trouble
because of the garbage

and he thought the call

was about that.

Don't worry,
I understand perfectly.

Unless I'm mistaken,

the person you met on the train
was this man.

He's my brother Martín.

-Martín? Martín what?
-Martín Urales de Úbeda.

So you're Amelia.
And you're Angel.

My brother Martín is very sick.

Theoretically he's admitted
at the International Clinic,

But they have very advanced ideas
about mental health

and they say that my brother
must be free to come and go,

so that he can integrate into society.

-They say he's harmless.
-And he is.

He'd never kill anyone,

but it isn't the first time
he's done something like this.

Talking to people is part of
his rehabilitation therapy.

Is lying part of his therapy?

And supplanting personalities?

Is confusing people
part of his rehabilitation therapy?

If people believe everything
that Martín, or anyone else,

tells them on a train,

it's their problem, don't you think?

Or did you make an honesty pact
that made him tell you the truth?

Martin has paranoid schizophrenia
with a wealth of syndromes.

There are no affective disorders,
but he has divided personalities.

He has delusions and hallucinations.

At times he feels like someone else
and lives as such.

In common language
it's called split personality.

Currently, from what you say,
he's living as if he were me.

The papers here look like statements
by schizophrenic patients,

but they're nonsense,
with no rhyme or reason,

things he made up.

That's the reason I'm here.

I'm interested in these papers.
I'd like to publish them.

Publish them?

I don't care if they're real or not.
They're good.

As an editor, I think
there's a good novel here.

I guess you should speak to him.

If you do, don't tell him you've
been here or that you know us,

and please, don't call him Martín,
call him Angel.

If you want,
I'll give you the address.

No, no need.

Dr. Sanagustín?
Do you remember me?

We met the other day on the train.

Yes, of course.

You were lucky to catch me here.

I've come to inspect
Martín Urales de Úbeda's papers.

Do you want to come with me?

I told you the smell was unbearable.

You'll understand how important
this moment is for me.

This way.

I'm going to need
more time than I thought.

Look, look.

There's everything here.

There's lots of data protection,

lots of discussions about whether
we're watched on the Internet

or when we pay by credit card,

but then we don't mind sitting
on the privacy of our toilet

and blithely supplying

the most hidden aspects
of our personality.

It's how we open
our hearts to others.

We're just a fistful of shit.

A fistful of shit and 80% water.

Look, doctor, I've really
come to see you

because I read the file you left
on the train

and I'm interested in publishing it.

-Publishing it?
-I'm an editor.

-An editor?
-Yes.

That's terrible!

Next Monday it'll be...

seven years and two months
since I stopped reading.

I used to read,

but now, as I read
with a psychiatrist's eyes,

I don't believe a word.

Plausibility bores me.

Why such an effort to make
books and films seem real

when everyone knows they aren't?

Well, there's something called
"suspension of disbelief"...

Plausibility is overrated.

According to the firemen,

it's too soon to know
if the fire was provoked

or due to the spontaneous combustion
of gases from the garbage.

Guys, it still isn't safe
to go down into the basement!

Is anyone left in the basement?

Martín.

but he's called Martín.

FOR SALE

Hello?

Yes, that's me.

We'd make a cut here
on the forehead

to access the pre-frontal lobe.

As you'll understand,
it's a very delicate operation.

So we need your authorization.

You'd just have to sign here.

Good.

Would you like some conversation?