All language subtitles for El desencanto EN

THE DISENCHANTMENT

He died at 7 in the afternoon
in Castrillo de la Piedras.

A clear, bright summer afternoon,

like so many others
we had experienced.

The previous days
we had been happy.

Once again, there was
a fracture in my life.

Esteemed ladies and gentlemen,
August 27th, 1962

was one of the most emotionally
moving days in the history

of the small city of Astorga,

because on that day,
unexpectedly,

its poet Leopoldo Panero died.

Only by being in those walls at that moment

can we understand the
dimension of the collective grief

and of the meaning
of poetry in the flesh,

like the entranced soul
of my people.

Today, August 28th, 1974,
12 years and 24 hours later,

here, in a corner of Astorga,

a monument by the local
sculptor Marino Amaya is raised,

marking in stone
what was already in our hearts:

the memory of the man
and the poet.

That 28th of August,
Radio Popular of Astorga

cut short the transmission
of the local festival with Mozart's Requiem

informing us of
news that we all understood.

Every 10 minutes it announced:

"This is Mozart's Requiem, because
the poet Leopoldo Panero has died."

I had always lived in Madrid.

Due to this, the province always
held a special meaning for me.

The province represented Madame Bovary,
which I read in the terrace of my home

during the war, with bullets landing around me,

the stories of Azorín,
Baroja: "The Canonized Woman"....

The province was silence,
calmness...

A big house where one could
spend hours peacefully.

My arrival in Astorga
was filled with expectation.

The people saw me as a foreigner,
not as a Spaniard.

What was Leopoldo Panero going
to find that wasn't in Astorga?

Women gave me
disapproving looks.

Curtains that were raised
in windows fell when I walked by.

In the casino, at the first dance,
everyone stared at me.

I danced with my father in law.

I remember that the first time I danced
with him was at the casino.

Everyone looked at us, and I thought I was pretty,

because I was stuck up,
and I thought: "Well, so what?

I'm just better than you",
because at the casino

it seemed to me there weren't
very many pretty girls.

What I would like to know,

playing the devil's advocate,

what would this filming be like, or better,

not just the filming, but of the film itself,

if my brother Leopoldo had been here

during the planning, the filming,
the discussions,

which is one of the most
important themes of the film.

It means, or crystalizes,
the breakdown of a series of things,

more than the death of father,
the circumstance of Leopoldo.

In other words, it's very obvious.

To me, it means
a completely different film.

And also asking what you just asked me,

what does it represent for you?

To me it represents a
very key breakdown of dialogue.

That is to say,
of cinematographic dialogue.

I don't know, because other times,
at certain moments...

- Yes, but I think, in terms of...
- It's a dialogue with him...

I have spoken with him personally,
but I don't know...

- Very seldom, but I don't know...
- Seldom, absolutely seldom.

Certainly, but look,
sometimes, I don't know...

What I think,
and here i include myself,

is that there was never a real
attempt at dialogue with Leopoldo.

Leopoldo is the offended party,
certainly. It's that...

No, to me he's not offended,
he's different that's all. I don't know...

No, no! He was offended!
And... I insist that there was...

Father's death has nothing to do with it,
at least for me, and for...

In the sense of the story I know,
very clearly, starting in 1962.

That's the moment
when I hear, or I sense,

and I listen to the first discussions
about Leopoldo.

Exactly. Your, shall we say,
political story,

or sentimental story, or whatever,
doesn't mean anything.

I mean, my point of reference is that
my playmate was Leopoldo.

And soon he changes,
compelled by a... by...

I think by his family, or by X,
this would have to be made clear,

my playmate
changes into a strange person.

Even for me, just.. strange.

It's the continual discussion,
the screaming, the slamming doors,

the bad alcohol,
etc., etc., etc., right?

In the end, for me, the story,
up until my father's death in '62,

was important.
I lived in my grandparent's house,

as their oldest grandchild
of both sides of the family,

of the Paneros and of the Blancs,

so there was a lot there,
apart from politics and all that...

- Oh, I'm sure, I'm sure...
- So for me the situation with Leopoldo

is less severe in one way,
and more so in another...

No, in the end,
it's not so important for me

as it can be for you,
from what I can see.

For you it's more important.
For me father's death

- was more important than Leopoldo's.
- I don't doubt it.

No, and at an economic level
it was for me too...

- Oh, sure... - Something sentimental...
- Not at all economic...

Sentimentally
the death of my father...

A catastrophe, a personal catastrophe.
I had to start...

another life,
but it was different for you.

- I don't think you you did,
Juan Luis. - Oh, I think so.

You continued your own, but altered

- by a series of conditions.
- No, for me that was important,

very important, I mean...

Look, what I propose is this:

from my point of view, like...
like the dog in "The Mute Witness"...

- Ok...
- No, no, no. Well, yes, I agree...

- I didn't say...
- We're talking...

- Me neither, come on.
- Fine.

In the beginning, I participated
Iittle in this story

until three years ago.
And since then,

I know all about the past, future,
and present of the Panero family.

It's the most screwed up deafness
I've sean in my life!

They're all a bunch of idiots,
even their aunts,

the famous ones... the great-grandparents,
whatever you want.

There was something social, as in
all families, but also something off.

I think so.

I think so. The end of...
The end of a line is something...

- of the "Astorga" line. - No, no.
- We are the Wittelsbach.

- that's certain.
- What the hell do I care?

I don't give a shit about the Wíttelsbachs,
and I won't sit around

playing "Ludwig II of Bavaria."

But you are playing it.

But how the hell will
I play Wittelsbach?

You're playing the end of your lineage.

Sure, it's the end of the line.

So should I just
go knock some girl up?

- Oh, do it, son, perform a miracle.
- Oh, you, who would be more of a miracle.

Well, more of a miracle, I'm not sure.

I don't know about that.

Because I like to flee Spain...
every five months or every year,

or a season,
sometimes a long season.

I travel with certain fetishes.
I adore fetishes.

I don't know if they're pagan
or Christian, but I love fetishes.

So about these fetishes,
my own fetishes:

this cross, for example,

a Spanish Calatrava cross,
that my mother gave me for Christmas in '67,

I won't ever forget it, because
it has a Byzantine cross behind it,

and I adore the Byzantines,
as you will see throughout this film.

And... I tend to travel
with this switchblade,

which has saved my life twice.

I bought it in Paris in 19...

No, not in Paris. It was in Geneva.

in Paris was the second time
when I changed the handle,

in 1960, and it's saved my life twice.

Then there's a Japanese horse
I bought in San Francisco, in Chinatown,

which are very much in style
for Polanski. A lovely horse.

I bought it with my wife. The only fetish
that I share with my ex-wife.

But I suppose there's no bad luck
with having that in common.

Then there's this great hat.
It's an old Stetson. I love it.

It's very old by now.

but I adore it...

the sensation of evil in a movie
is infectious, and I like that.

Next, there's a book on
Constantine Cavafy, a Greek poet.

The English version, by Rae Dalven.
I've translated a few poems in this book,

and I always keep a postcard inside
of a Greek woman that I loved,

more than anyone else in my life.

And then...

I have a book
by Jorge Luis Borges,

his Poetic Works.

Really it's a book that, somehow,

the poetic worth of these
things is very important.

But if I say that I feel
like a poet above all else,

then it's a book by Borges.

After that, there's a fountain pen

given by Agustín de Foxá, the count.

"Il mio" father, is a part of '51.

My father gave it to me
a year before his death.

I've written all my poems with it.

And finally three photos...
four photos, that I love.

I absolutely love them.
One is of F. Scott Fitzgerald.

An alcoholic, "as myself."

with a horrible woman, "as myself."

Another is of Albert Camus.

Albert Camus.

"España libre." All of the articles
by Camus on Spanish Franquismo,

edited by the old
Spanish Republicans in Mexico.

You can find it in the
book stalls in Mexico.

The cover of the book.
I love that culture.

Another is Luis Cernuda, also in Mexico.

Luís Cernuda...

in the end, the poet
who has influenced me most.

with old Constantin Cavafy.

They were both gay, unlike me.

And this, the... the...
To start out, the situation...

for a 23 year old boy,
an orphan at heart, like me,

and very cute... to...
to work, or to...

to live with immediacy, is difficult.

In part because it's a boring country,

and... and I don't want to be boring,

I started on a series of careers,

Philosophy, politics, film,
and I didn't stick to any of them,

and really didn't
test myself with them.

After that I worked for two years
in the Institute of Hispanic Culture,

dictating letters, but they were going
to fire me because I wasn't good,

and then... Well, nothing,
just wandering... as much as possible.

"In front of the statue of Leopoldo Panero,
the work of the great Astorgan sculptor,

Marino B. Amaya.

Oreste Macrí calls you
a "wet" poet...like Darío

in your recent anthology.

Of course, this is nothing new.

Your drinking has already been discussed.

But then again, the comparison
with Rubén Darío is an honor.

There have also been comments
about you visiting brothels

and some of your friends
repeat them with embellishments,

and maybe you like
when that happens.

Regarding the violent
fits of your genius,

why mention what we all know....

Yet, for the story, you are
a model of asceticism,

loving father, Christian from birth,
knight of Astorga, wonderful husband,

defender of the just...

And within all of this,
there's something of truth".

We met when the war ended.
Yes, very soon after.

In that moment of
sentimental emptiness...

some of my friends told me
about a poet that they knew.

His name was Leopoldo Panero.

His name struck me.

They were sure we would find
a lot in common to talk about.

And what were you like
before becoming Felicidad Panero?

I was, as they say, "a good girl."

I was very "Castillan,"
didn't get distracted,

skied in the mountains, played hockey,

but above all, as you know,
my heart was in love.

In that tense and passionate climate
created by the Republic,

for me life was...

springtime, love.

I began pinning lots of dreams on him.

First, my friends appeared.
After... there was someone else.

It was Leopoldo Panero.

Disillusion, unhappiness...

a change in the situation,...

we passed through the rooms,
an immense coldness...

We were all certain
that it had been a disaster.

And after the first moments,
shall we say stunned,

How did you react to the war?

Well, I stayed a bit apart.
The rest of the family, as you know,

were all, for the most part, on the right.

I was a very unusual case.

I mean how did you react to
the war itself, not just mentally.

Oh. Well, at first...

I spent... my time looking at
the garden through that window,

thinking about how the farmer
from the next house over looked,

contemplating the whole
strange world around me.

Later, when the order
was given to evacuate Madrid,

my father said I had to take on a job,

or I would have to leave.

So I went with him to the hospital.

At first I thought it was impossible,
I always got sick seeing injured people.

The least little thing caused me to pass out.

My father had a decisive influence on me.

The first day in surgery, he said:
"If you get sick, you're not my daughter.

You have to be strong,"
and I was strong.

I watched three operations right off the bat,
and in a few days I was so used to it...

that I asked the anesthesiologist
for a piece of bread,

to the surprise of my father,
who scolded me for asking for it.

This is to my father's credit,

because he maintained it
until the end.

The... intent...

frustrated or not...

of bringing exiles to Spain.
He did it in the end,

as director of the
Spanish Institute in London.

I suspect this is why
he lost his position.

In the end, it was done by
Madariaga, Cernuda, Bergamín,

Maruja Mayo, Ramón Gaya...
A lot of people arrived

and waited in the airport
for Leopoldo Panero.

- They've put on him...
- For me, the thing is,

- Luis Cernuda was an unforgettable friend.
- Yes.

From the first moment I knew him

he was a person we linked
completely to our house.

And you know one of the things
I remember most fondly of him?

The day they held dancing
and singing in the Institute,

the great success of your father,

because you can imagine
that there were Reds there,

well, saying "Reds,"

- those of the emblem of the...
- Oh no, Republicans.

Called Republicans, in the end,

So then he, it's the...
when the girls danced,

they danced La Jota,
and a lot of people got up.

And a girl from Aragón got up to
dance the Jota. She danced very well,

I saw her, literally,
and was in tears.

Well, she also was graceful
one of the incredible things

about the Civil War.
At that time Pablo Azcárate

was the director of the
Instituto España for the Republic.

My father was director
of Franco's Spanish Institute,

but they were still cousins,
and they were friends.

So Pablo Azcárate couldn't come to our Institute,

or we to his,

but still every weekend we went
together to the country house

of Pablo Azcárate, where I cut the grass
using those English machines,

- and I had a lot of fun,
- Sure.

- and I had a black and white dog...
- He waited for us at the station

of Taplow with his white dog.
Yes, I remember well.

And they talked about politics,
without talking about it.

They talked about the Institute.
One about his Institute...

Since Fernando was working
in the Republican one,

- as the secretary...
- And with a...

with a great understanding,
because with politics you always talk...

- in a "high class" kind of way, it's never...
- But with dad... - Passion, right?

But with dad in the end,
it's not that they met up,

- but that there was a... I don't know...
- Right, a complete collaboration.

It would be dad's secretary,

Ana Rosa Figueroa, daughter of the
Marquis of Villabrágima. Very right wing.

And Pepe Santacruz,
Marquis of Santacruz,

who was then Secretary of the Embassy.

He was ambassador
for quite a while... for... for...

- Yes, he was...
- he generally had... in the end...

You see the link that bound us.

Again...

I think we met at a concert.

We went out together...

and he started talking to me...

I think that might have been
the start of our love,

since he didn't see me as a young girl,

but as... as a person
at the end of their life.

He saw me as old,
strolling by the walls of Astorga.

My life already over.

That all touched me so strongly,

that I fell in love with him right away.

He still had his little struggles,
his low moments,

never managing to see us as one.

And there was a difficult moment,
that almost pulled us apart.

The "Cántico" saved us that time.

He wrote me a poem early
in our relationship.

No one had ever written
a poem about me.

In this moment of struggle,
he sent it to my home.

I remember reading those first verses:

"It is true you are beautiful,
it is true,

as light enters your heart.

As the earth breathes your aroma in the Spring,
the soul that finds you".

We got married shortly after.
That was in 1941.

I remember the
train ride to Astorga.

How excited I was
to see the city.

And the arrival.
The house was so beautiful,

so full of memories,
with time passing over them.

I waited a few moments in the entry hall.
Leopoldo was beside me.

We heard the ringing
of bells in the background.

The dripping of the fountain.

"How pretty, how pretty," I said.
"We should never leave here."

"We should always stay here."

But this wasn't the whole honeymoon.

The honeymoon was loud.

All of his friends came a few days later,
because Leopoldo had two sides:

the quiet, calm, peaceful one,

and the social one,
that always needed his friends,

with noise and...
and conversations...

We spent our honeymoon in August,

and the first part of September,
always accompanied by others.

It was in Castrillo de las Piedras,
on our farm.

Leopoldo's happiness
at seeing Luís Felipe,

and Pepe Escassi, it was enormous.
But I thought: "Now we're not alone."

Everything I had dreamed
had evaporated.

Oh, my mother...

Well...
after my father's death,...

Between 1962 and now,

there was a discovery in my life,

a discovery
called Felicidad Blanc.

Before, I don't
remember my father,

but before,
my mother didn't exist at all.

I mean, my mother...
was completely subjugated by...

shall we say,
by the Paneros in the family.

Not just my father, Juan Luís too,
even living in my father's shadow.

And that meant screaming.

The Panero scream a lot,
and get abusive when they drink.

She lived in fear,
literally in fear.

If there's a phrase
or verse to describe her,

it's:
"Par délicatesse. J'ai perdu ma vie."

Because that's what...
what made her be quiet,

what made her so silent,
before my father's death,

and really engage things very little.
I mean at a level of...

at a level of imposition...

sentimental or affective imposition,
after my father's death.

- Otherwise I think she's...
One thing that impressed me...

- very, very sensible.
- was when the wind blew.

That... peculiar way
the wend passed through the trees.

I understood that it would remain etched
in your father's life from childhood,

because it's something
that only happened in Castrillo.

At night, when you stood
at the window and felt the breeze

that often blows in Castrillo
in the nighttime,

it changed the world around us.

Another world, right? But of course,
Luís Rosales's laughter,

the jokes, the poetry read
out loud, the singing,

all of the songs that Luís knew,
all of that, in effect,

- broke the climax entirely.
- And what other friends were there?

Well, Luis Felipe. Luis Felipe
was, as you know, often sad.

We had to bring his spirits up,
but he also brought himself up.

We played tricks on a cute servant girl
who worked in the house...

a young girl... and they felt bad.
He was very empathetic,

and he didn't like that kind of joke...
There was constant joking.

It wasn't my type of environment.
I had another type of nostalgia,

with other ideas.
It wasn't my type of place at all.

I always looked for Leopoldo,
and always found him with Luís Rosales.

That was a constant,
because in my life I always found

Luís Rosales at my husband's side,
except in rare circumstances.

Then I didn't dare to do
what I did after, which was to tell me:

"When you pass by, don't interrupt me.
You go your way, I'll go mine."

Then we passed one another,
and I said ironically:

"Bye, see you later",
and we passed each other 2 or 3 times.

But then, no,
I didn't dare do that.

We would walk hand in hand...
There are several poems

about us walking hand in hand
in the fields of Castrillo.

The autumn always brings
a memory of solitude,

of finding ourselves alone.

I remember the office
where he worked that fall,

where I would interrupt him to talk.

I saw his look, annoyed with me.

I leaned that he also
needed his time alone.

I wanted to be with him so much,
but I kept my distance from there.

Sometimes I even thought
that office had two doors,

and that he had left
through the other one.

I remember two poems
from that fall,

that I often go back and read...
I remember them:

"The Tired Smile,"

and one that starts: "Your smile begins..."
Maybe I've forgotten it.

Do you think the life
that Leopoldo has led

up to now,
how would father have accepted it?

I don't think he would have liked it
at all... In the end,

really, me neither,

and in the end... to a certain extent
while it wasn't so extreme,

still there were some moments
years ago when Leopoldo

didn't take things well.

That is to say, in the end,
that as I'm telling you...

in his normal life he was more...
I don't know, more approachable,

but in the disagreements with me,
they were... worse,

and with me living in grandma's house,

and it was only in the summer
when we were both there.

I have the theory
that in some way or other

everything would have
gone on just like it did.

- That's what I've been saying.
- Dad... dad...

He was the reason for this.
But if he had stepped back a bit...

- He would have...
- No, maybe just the opposite,

- he would have made things worse.
- Or maybe he would have,

because the second
to last time I saw him,

6 months before he died,

was the worst I ever had with him,

since I was then an adult.
So with this...

I think either one of us
would have gone crazy,

or maybe not,

but we would have pretended...

Between my father's last name,
which was always seen ideologically

in the university
because of Neruda's polemics,

and some of my deviations...

what seemed like deviations
from the party line,

by the group that I belonged to,
like, I don't know, having long hair,

going out with American girls,
not wearing shirts down to my knees,

or really being a bit of a snob, between that
and the Neruda thing, my situation

was always in conflict.
Later I left. I stepped back from

political activities,
and I left the university...

and a lot of...

of my friends from then,
they...

they accused me of selling out to
American money, because I started working

for an American company.

- Okay...
- It's clear that the threads come together,

but also fall apart.

In that time we realized that
our intimacy was also important.

Very important.

That we had lost too much,
because we were a married couple.

We always had that between us.

And we started to realize
that there should be a stage,

when we were engaged,

when we were old,
when we would stroll through Astorga,

the best time of our lives.
This never happened.

But still, within this understanding,
this intimacy,

there was always something about
Leopoldo that I never discovered.

Pedro Laín called him
"The Mystery Man."

I think he was right.

"Red for some, a friend of Vallejo,
imprisoned in San Marcos,

blue for others,
a friend to Foxá, poet of Fascism,

the disloyal crowd of the Paneros,
the killers of nightingales,

that Neruda wrote about,

and your fat and skeptical end,
bottle of whisky in hand,

working for an American company.

Years later, canonized in magazines
and books, except for the allusion to Macrì.

Homages in the streets
to Leopoldo Panero,

plaques about Leopoldo Panero,
and the Leopoldo Panero Prize,

and Leopoldo Panero High School,
and the Leopoldo Panero Collection,

and finally the statue of Leopoldo Panero,
that I look at on a cold evening

as it rains in the distance
over Mount Teleno."

For not helping a dog, I remember,
maybe a bit questionably,

- with a dog of...
- It wasn't one dog, it was several.

But I remember you when
Reina gave birth to several dogs..

- It makes one calmer and nicer.
- So she gave birth then....

and all were white except one, black,
that you saved by saying:

"Poor little thing, how ugly and black it is,
we'll take care of it."

It's a severe sadism, because you
should have saved the white ones.

I remember one morning you
grabbed me and Leopoldo,

because dad didn't want
to see that litter any more...

Yes, he gave me a clear order:

"When I get back from Madrid,"
he was going by car,

"I don't want to see any of those
dogs in the house."

Then I remember you grabbed
both of us, or maybe just me...

No, both of you.

- And then...
- I wanted to ask you about this.

No, sorry.
But I remember something funny.

When you put all the dogs in a box,
like rats in a cage,

and you poked little holes in it.
And then we...

we went with you
to the bridge, right?

And then, to our surprise, you took
the box, with the little holes,

and threw it right into the river.

Okay, I wanted to ask why
you made the little holes?

Because I thought they would
end up better off

with the box full of holes.

You have to be somewhat
kind in those moments.

- So they could breathe.
- Of course.

- Good example.
- Don't judge your mother for her cruelty.

The last moments of a
condemned man are sweet.

The children grew up,
we would travel alone,

and often. Mostly in the summer,
when we often went to Madrid,

we talked about them on the road.

We talked about so many past memories,

things we'd never spoken about.
We started to feel

like we were in a different type of union.

And about dad and friends,
who did you know first?

Well, I knew Luis Rosales first.

Luís Rosales was also an
inseparable companion for us.

I remember that at the beginning,
after getting married,

you always want your
spouse to hurry home.

The key in the door is
a transcendent moment.

But at the same time
as the key in the door,

you hear a cough.

The cough of the person
with him. It was Luis Rosales.

It was inevitable.
He was charming, a great conversationist,

he liked me a lot, I liked him less,
but he was always with us.

A conversation could start
between them on some topic...

something intellectual or otherwise,
but they would end...

they would start around...

around 2 or 3 in the afternoon,
and would end at 5 or 6 in the morning.

It could be any topic.
In the end, I would have gone to bed.

I would leave the bedroom,
then go back,

the topic would have changed. The thread
was broken, but they kept going...

Don Luis Rosales, Member of the
Real Academia de la Lengua...

I went to bed, went to sleep, heard
Rosales's voice in the distance,

Luis Rosales was my life, whole.

Here in Astorga,

remembering his parents,
his siblings,

his house and garden,

and the living walls of his place of birth.

After speaking just a moment ago

with the person he loved
most in life, his wife,

and with his children, for him
the word of his silent depth,

I feel the hollow of neglect growing,

that his death left me with.

After several yearI think
I got over it.

And I wanted to say...

Death meant this triumph would
never end. What can we do?

Stop talking about him,
or talk about him anew,

and feel that same
rough, warm and wide comfort

of those hands that opened up
so many paths for me in my life.

One more thing, about your friends.
Because you had friends...

I didn't have friends. Not after
I married your father.

- But before. - Before, yes.
But after I got married,

your father took away
my female friendships.

I don't know why I explained a dream
I had several nights before,

in which I was in
a street full of people

holding the hand of my son,
Leopoldo María,

and I cried tremendously.
I cried desperately with his hand in mine.

Leopoldo looked at me and said:

"How silly. They're dreams,
they don't mean anything."

And I said: "It's a dream
I've had several nights in a row,

it's so strange."

But really, the night was happy,
everything was fine.

There was nothing to make me
think of something tragic.

I remember it was at 4:30 in the
afternoon, in a very hot August,

and I was killing wasps in a
washroom to the side of the house...

in the country house, as I did often.

And just at that moment
I saw my father's car arrive,

swerving, which was very strange.

It was particularly strange,
because the path to Castrillo was straight.

But it was because...
At that moment, a vengeful wasp

had stung me in the foot.

So I was crying
when my father showed up,

crying all the way to the car door
to tell him what had happened,

and so he would at least
take me into the house.

And my father shoved me to the side.

Didn't even say hello.

So my path to the car
was suddenly reversed,

showing that my father would
have been a good boxer.

You realize that in a moment of pain,
he made it twice as bad.

And then he was upstairs with my mother,
and they say he was in bad shape,

and, I don't know why,
but death has a smell.

I hate it because it's a fucking
son of a bitch and... it smells...

from kilometers away,
I've smelled it in many places,

and I flirt with it,
because I know it,

and you can't be ok or not with it,
you just have to flirt with it.

So...

I smelled it for the first time.
I've smelled it often since then.

His first words were that it had
been difficult to make it home,

that he felt terrible.

He started to say contradictory things.
I love you, I don't love you,

I'm going to bed, I'm not going to bed.
In the end he went to bed.

He told me: "Go find the doctor.

I don't know what's wrong,
what's making me feel bad.

When I went into the dining room,
when I started to have lunch,

I started to feel a nausea,
a terrible chill."

He went to sleep.

I can still see myself running,
wearing a brand new suit,

running to find the doctor.

When the doctor showed up,
he said it wasn't anything,

that he probably ate
something that didn't sit right.

He said he had a digestive problem,
and since my dad drank a lot,

that the indigestion

was just an excuse to say
he was really drunk,

and that it was a made-up pain.

I remember his last
gesture perfectly.

His hands touched
mine in a strange way

and he said to me:
"Go to the terrace. Wait there.

If I need you for something,
I'll call you."

I went to the terrace.

I waited a while and then went back...
I went to the room and listened,

he gave me the sense that he was calm.
I went back to the terrace.

Night started to fall...

The silence of the room seemed too...
dismal or just strange.

I went in. I turned on the light...

but his face didn't look at all normal.

I took his hand...
and searched for a pulse,

and it was cold. Extremely cold.

His hand fell lifeless. I thought:

"My God, and if he had...
and if he has no pulse? And if...?

We'd have to give him another shot,
we'd have to find someone."

I can't remember what occurred
to me at that moment.

I know I went downstairs like I
was hallucinating, and they say I said:

"He's cold, like he's dead."

We called an intern,
because the doctor was gone.

He walked slowly up the stairs
once I described the symptoms,

and I told myself it looked bad.
I had to find help right away,

look for a doctor, go to Astorga...

to get everyone organized

so we could take care
of things as quickly as possible.

And I went...

to the train station nearby,

500 meters at a run, when I saw
that things were looking really bad,

and we called an ambulance from there.

And when I came back running,
I was wearing red moccasins,

I'll never forget it, and I lost one.

But then that tremendous
cruelty of the Spanish people,

that I partly admire and partly detest,

an old woman dressed in black
going down the same road,

at 10 at night, or maybe 9:30,
said to me:

"What are...she treated me formally
or informally, I don't recall,

"Juan Luis Panero?" And she said:
"Why are you running if he's already dead?"

They opened his eyes, raised his head.
The head fell on his pillow.

I was living something
totally unreal.

I asked her,

almost without realizing
what I was saying:

"You're going to tell me he's dead?"

She turned, looking at me an instant:
"What can I tell you? Yes, he's dead."

I can't explain...

how I could say the words I said next:

"We should put him in a shroud.
He'll get cold and it will be more difficult."

I didn't pay attention to anything.
I was like a machine, an automaton.

Michi, my little son, went upstairs.
I heard him yell to me:

"Mamá, mamá, papá isn't dead, right?"
I said: "No. Come down. He's not dead."

I started talking to the intern again

about what death meant
in technical terms.

People started showing up.

The workers from Castrillo
started to go up the stairs.

My older son had returned. He asked me:
"Do you want me to close the door?

- That way they won't come in." "No, no,
Let them come in, let them see."

My only obsession was thinking
about what I had to do,

go to Astorga and call friends.
I don't want him to go alone.

He would never have wanted
to be buried alone.

I want to call them.
Let the people he loved most come.

I don't know who took me to Astorga.
I called several of them.

I couldn't get in touch with some,

but I got to the two most
important at that moment,

LuIs Rosales being one of them.

When they took him downstairs,
the staircase was narrow,

he was wrapped in a blanket,
since the coffin hadn't arrived yet.

One of his hands had
fallen out of the blanket.

It was hitting all the
steps as it went down.

A large hand, part of what
Leopoldo Panera was to me.

Then I spent three days crying,

and following anyone
who would listen to me,

screaming a sentence
that I've often repeated:

"Were we so happy?"

Hi, mom.

Michi, I had just started talking about you.

- I was going to explain...
- How original, right?

I was going to explain
what you were like.

- Oh, yeah?
- Yes.

You remember after your father died,

Juan Luis took on an
important role in the home.

- You might remember that.
- I remember.

It's that Juan Luis was like your
father's substitute, my new husband.

At one point in some restaurant,
I don't know which...

maybe in Madrid or Barcelona,
but the waiter

had the idea that I was
my mother's gigolo,

and it made me excited...

It turned me on, it was a lot of fun.

What an idea, even if a bit strange...

being your own mother's gigolo.

And he was around a lot,
I told him about my problems,

we went to the
openings of expositions,

me still with that air of
a widow that I carried around,

- sometimes more sad, other times less...
- You looked like a newlywed, right?

Sure, but a newlywed who
had recently been widowed.

We went out often...
I remember finding,

right after Oliver! came out...

we went to a lot of expositions, got back
in touch with a lot of people,

people, I don't know, homosexual,
people that...

less formal, of course, than...
than those who stayed home...

There were film people, theater people,
from the world I lived in,

it was more fun, and my mother
started to really go wild,

because really...
going wild in the good sense,

because really, I mean,
she had lived a life of... of...

lady beside illustrious poet,
who wasn't his wife.

He carried an impressive pain
with good humor.

This works well to an extent.

6 or 7 months,

until Leopoldo, really,
becomes...

a potential threat,
and then time would show that...

he became that threat,...

to Juan Luis's literary career.

Of course then, two things
fall apart, maybe unconsciously

in the primitive thoughts
of Juan Luis.

On one side he's not a father,
the children don't accept him.

The wife, my mother, accepts him
in principle for the first 2 or 3 years

as their father,

but then, consumed by tremendous
jealousy, she rejects him.

And his literary career,...

at that moment, really,
she held all the aces in her hand,

or could have held them.

That was just at a time
when everyone

was thinking about us.

I'm referring to intellectuals.

Because his literary career
seemed frustrated...

first by Leopoldo's behavior,

and then his role as father
was also frustrated by Leopoldo's creation.

But that with my mother and also with me,

His literary career was only
frustrated by Leopoldo.

And not only because Leopoldo
would write, or stop writing...

but because Leopoldo was doing things
that Juan Luis would not do,

maybe because of fear.

Seeing it now from a distance,

I think Leopoldo's literature is more
interesting than Juan Luis's.

I'm not sure, because in reality...

Even if Leopoldo hadn't written,
he'd always spoken...

but he didn't write
after father died,

there had always been a clear separation
between him and Juan Luis.

We would have to look
for the reasons why...

in psychiatry,
but they were always there,

so that crystalized
in his literary career,

or in Juan Luis's affective career,
but there was always a separation.

That seems pretty clear, right?

Then...

Nowadays, for example,
those relationships don't exist.

As far as I can tell,
in any case.

It's not good or bad, or whatever.

It's like there's a complete distance.

Leopoldo won, in so far as
one can win in this country,

and Juan Luis, inevitably, didn't.

I remember.

And what do you think
about how I acted then?

How do you feel I acted
as a mother for you all?

- Very frivolously.
- No, God no,

if I was so unhappy,
how could I be so frivolous?

I don't know, you were fine.
I don't remember much about you

- now that you mention it.
- I think you all made me change...

- I think you went out with Juan Luis a lot.
- Yes, I think you all

made me change in a strong way,
and that I'm someone else

than I was when your father died.

I mean, I was rejuvenated
to a certain degree, slowly.

With every child I started
taking on aspects of them.

Juan Luis was more serious, of course,
then Leopoldo made me

come into contact with
such a different world,

and adapt to this world,
with all its problems,

with all its misfortunes,
all its passions...

Leopoldo has been the most consistent
of everyone in the family,

if not the only consistent one.

In what he did and will do
in his literature, and in his life.

For example...

the attempts, well, of suicide,
of my brother Juan Luis

were much more literary...

I remember some that
were absolutely literary,

In his two serious attempts,

he was in a coma
for 24 hours for the first,

and 48 in the second,
and by chance it saved his life.

It saved me from jail.
What I most remember...

is the times when
things were pretty rough,

and this was when,
because of a fight...

they put me and the other guy
in a cell and left us there for 20 days,

which was hellish.

What did I know what
punishment cells were like?

When I found myself there...

the first thing I did
was take out the lining of my coat,

and make a cord with it,

hang it from the window,
which was pretty high,

and try to hang myself.
But the lining broke,

and all I did was fall hard.

Leopoldo, as you know,
was the big complication in my life.

I knew your father's death
would cause a big change...

an enormous change
in your way of life.

So I did everything I could
to protect you from it.

I mean, I tried to fill that gap
that your father had left.

I don't know if I succeeded,
because it's so difficult to do.

I think you managed it,
though, right?

Well, sure I did,
maybe I did, but...

but every once in a while I thought:
"How tough it is without their father."

He always earned the money,
and the Panero's...

inability to work,
and that inability that...

that's lasted 4 or 5 generations,
from what I've heard.

When my father died we found ourselves
in a difficult and sad economic situation.

And from then until now, there has
been consistent selling of possessions...

always disguised under...
under very... convenient excuses.

First selling houses,
apartments, and so forth,

and then the literary part began.
This is where the Panero family links

literature and art with economics.
I don't think it's in...

well, not in books,
but rather here.

First they sold the paintings,
and then, in some type of...

the final scene of Zorba the Greek,
the Bubulina thing,

the books.

First editions,
signed editions...

and really, shamelessly,
I think they stepped all over us.

I don't know, I don't think there's
much left to sell,

like I won't sell in the future...

You know that Leopoldo started to become

interested in politics around that time.

- Yes.
- Politics was a way of...

of venting, of rising above
the things that imprisoned him.

The painful and abrupt way his...

his political career was cut short,

made him turn frenetically
toward literature.

I saw an appreciation of literature
in my children with a certain fear.

I had seen it so central
to the life of my husband,

and I knew how difficult
it was for a poet

to live an ordered life,
and order is important to me.

Yes, but what I wanted
to ask about is...

the first part of Leopoldo's life,
before those political stories,

when he was still in school,
in the Italian lyceum,

and of his girlfriends,
like Elisabetta Pontremoli.

I remember Leopoldo with an umbrella,
walking along the railing

on the terrace. And that guy who
threw a brick that nearly killed us.

That's a terrible story.
Really, a terrible story.

- He opened up the umbrella.
- Yes, he said he was a tightrope walker.

His balance was terrible.

I showed up and
waited most mornings.

First I came with your father,
later alone, after he died,

and that's when I began
to think about what you would be.

I sought out your
professors to ask them

what they thought of you,
to confirm my thoughts about you.

I remember Father Palomar talking
about Leopoldo one day.

I said to myself...
Leopoldo worried me, and I told myself:

"Leopoldo could be everything,
or nothing."

Well, look, I think he...
was right...

especially because...

Well, in that I've ended up
as an absolute failure.

But I think that failure
is the most sparkling victory.

- I think that as well, son. And you?
- It's all the same to me.

That's strange that it doesn't matter.

I remember a very happy day,
a masquerade ball.

- You were dressed as Harlequin.
- Yes, I was disguised as myself.

- You were photographed with the
white rabbit in the mosquito net.

What do you mean the "white rabbit?"
Who was the white rabbit?

- Jaime Chávarri.
- No, the white sheep is my fa...

our loving father,
because his smile

looked like the white rabbit in Alice.

And what about the friends of
both Leopoldo and me, like Juan Luis?

- Well...
- You often took part

in decisions about who was a good
friend and who was a bad one.

- It's that...
- They always tried to flatter me,

and were... and they said I was pretty,
or a good mother,

trying to raise themselves up

quite a bit in the eyes of others.

I remember that Vicente Molina,
who came regularly to the house

over a couple of years
when I was in military service.

Every day he stopped in front of the door,
waiting for me to open it,

and said: "How is the
happiness market today?

Have I fallen into disgrace,
or have I not?"

Because you were...

there was a fluctuation
with you from day to day...

from passionate loves,
to terrible hatred.

You'd call our friends evil,
and the next day adored them openly.

It was something Vicente
prayed about. He'd say:

"Today, what will it be today?
Will she be angry at me today?"

Well, I've always been like that,
and generally been wrong

in saying that a very good
person was very bad,

and saying a bad one was in fact good.

- That's how it was for us.
- It was typical for me to be wrong.

- That's how it went for us.
- Sure...

On my latest list of friends I've had to
get rid of 45 because of you.

That's true.

That's true, and I'll
continue being like that.

Because it's what makes me passionate.
To put it simply,

I decide right away that I like a person,
but the next day I discover a defect,

and then, well, it falls apart.
And that's fine.

Alcohol leads to solitude,
it's consequence is solitude.

Well, not alcohol in itself,
but, let's say, it's continued presence.

Alcoholism, right?

In the Italian lyceum, the parents
would play an active role

in the punishments of the children.

When one of them did something wrong,
they made their mother or father come,

and in front of everyone
would scold them.

The bulk of that would fall
to your father until one time,

I don't know what you had done,
a big mess happened at school.

You saw a big group of children shouting
when you went in the front door:

"It's Panero's dad!
It's Panero's dad!"

And they followed him
like a hero through the halls.

And he'd hide in his cubby,
and wouldn't come back out.

And from then on I was always
responsible for those punishments.

When I left, the parents
consoled me, saying:

"Don't worry, ma'am,
they're very good kids.

Don't worry."

I wanted to ask you
something, Leopoldo,

but it's been so long....

What do you think about the school?
About the school itself?

I think the school explains
why I acted in a way

that would make the
other kids yell really loud

about the "white rabbit"...

I think it's a penal institution,
where they teach us

to forget about our childhood.

And I've always reacted against
that type of colonizing,

and did so then.

My weapon was humor,
or "umore" as Jacques Vaché called it.

Things like... I don't know,
I could just go on and on...

Once in a religion class...

I planned with all of my classmates
that we would touch the priest.

So we got up and one of us,
acting like he would sharpen his pencil,

touched him lightly on his shoulder...

It was such a strange thing, everyone
touched him but he couldn't protest

because it was just silly,
and he had to stay quiet.

And with the professor of politics,
I remember...

in that class we had so much fun,
that once I sold tickets

to the entire school so they
could go to the class.

And one of the beadles, Juliana, went in
with a very confident entrance,

thinking she would see the show,

and the professor wouldn't let her go in.

I remember it as one of
the biggest scandals.

I remember the gymnastics
teacher telling me once

that you didn't know how to run.
And to prove him wrong,

he was a pretty fat man,
you made him run three laps

around the school,
and the next day he called me and said:

"He's rebelling, running three laps
around the school."

He wanted me to...
to go up with the "Préside",

to see the director,
to punish me and all that,

and in the end one of the troublemakers
from the class ended up helping me.

So I said:
"Well, yes, it seems bad to me,

but it shows me that yes,
he does know how to run."

It left him a bit stunned.

- I was better behaved, right?
- Yes, you were better behaved.

- Just... - I was well behaved.
- Sillier, but better behaved.

Funnier.

Even in how you left school,
you were both different.

Leopoldo would always leave
running, I don't know why

always throwing his wallet down.
He would throw it on the ground,

and it was an act that
I couldn't understand.

Yeah, I don't know,
but it's not the famous one, right?

Or the one that...
that is known for being self-destructive?

But what I understand, I don't know,
he would respond to you

with a quote by Artaud: "I destroy myself
to know that I am myself and not the rest."

All enjoyment begins in self-destruction,
that is, it begins with the body.

- and ends intoxicated.
- ...very strange.

I remember when you were three
you put on a broken straw hat,

- with a... - No, it wasn't broken.
- Yes it was.

And with a handful of magazines,
you said in your limited language:

"I'm Captain Marciales,
the speaker."

Your speeches were a total mess.

They mixed a variety of images
with a strange philosophy,

and left us completely speechless.

He had...
Captain Marciales had a wife,

who had the absurd
name "Comeandgo."

He and Comeandgo traveled to strange places,

and that's where your
imagination came out.

I remember after that,
maybe when you were 4, or a bit older...

- I'd say younger.
No, you wrote your first poem at 3,

right around 3...

You all of a sudden started
your poetic creations.

It was unexpected.

You said... you would be like in a trance,
and would say, "I'm inspired."

Then you mixed together a series
of things that made a poem,

but your poems weren't childish.
They had a dramatic tone.

It worried us.

So we tried not to encourage you,
we would leave you alone,

showing indifference.

Everyone spoke about that poet who
started reciting poetry at 4 years old...

- At 3 and a half.
- 3 and a half, that's right.

- Because it's dated '53
- You were Pippi Longstockings.

- Pîppi Longstockings.
- And those poems

were the best I ever wrote.
They anticipated my later poetry.

Like the apocalyptic theme
that I chose much later,

is full of those early poems.
One says: "And the books spoke and spoke,

but God said:
Soon the world will end."

And there was another very pretty one,

that I still remember:
"My heart trembled, it wasn't a dream,

and all of the king's guardsmen
were dying,

and my heart still trembled."

Well...

on all of that biblical damnation,
I have a couple things to say.

My personal experience
which is the complete rejection

by everyone of myself,
of all the insults they threw at me,

of that resentment
that I found in them

as their only passion.

The second thing,
why I was so repulsed...

at that type of... of existence...
on their part...

Which is that since
language doesn't exist...

it should serve as... be positioned
as a religion, don't you think?

And that's why it needs a priestly class,
which are the intellectuals,

who sacrifice their lives
to serve that language.

And...

since.... since they hate life
and have to live it anyway,

that's why I represent it.

Life, I mean unlivable life,

Now, I remember
your Astorgan friendships a bit...

the friendship you had
with the gravedigger.

After your father died,
I went often to the cemetery,

I would sit on the tomb.
And one day he said he was retiring,

he was leaving. And I said:
"Oh, what a shame, Braulio.

I was hoping you would bury me."
And then I saw a character appear,

round, kind, and his side, and he said:
"But this is the new gravedigger,

who will happily bury you."

There it was. He was going to travel, because
he said he had traveled the world

to see how they made tombs,
the changes...

He was extraordinary.
An extraordinary person.

You were a very happy child,
and invented a lot of games...

I remember a children's theater
you put together, in which...

That wasn't happy,
to tell the truth.

It was a bit sad, because all of
the actors were terrible.

- And also because no one came...
- Because it cost 5 pesetas,

and no one wanted to spend that much.
It was sad because of that, but still good.

I also remember a newspaper you made..

No, it was a game Michi and I played,
that we called farangosines

And I don't know, it was...
it was a schizophrenic world,

- made of animals with...
- I still have it...

the schizophrenic world,
not the farangosines.

At the least, you have the
schizophrenia inside of you.

There was a dog, a rag dog...
He was author of several books,

named Prim Lalá. He wrote books
about his trip to the moon, or something.

He wrote recipes, and...

He lived in a medical books,
of which I have two copies,

It was filled with
imaginary sicknesses,

but which were...
they weren't so made up,

because they all dealt with
the loss of intelligence,...

Loss of sight, loss off...
loss of anything, and there were maps.

Later on Leopoldo copied
newspapers. It changed him.

But... he was ok.

And I remember that...

when quite a bit older,

you got rid of the
game with the albums...

I didn't get rid of it. Dad did.

Because it was there
until the night

when mom and Juan Luis said:

"No you tighten the belt."
Then the game disappeared.

And there was also...
in this world... of animals,

There was some kind
of modeling...

where in one part it would repeat
the sounds of cats,

in different voices,
like the cat Tone,

and another with dogs...

Who did the cat Tone?
it was an alternate option.

Tone, obviously, was done by me.

- Tone was frightening.
- No, it wasn't that bad.

And tell me, Leopoldo, now...

much older...
well not a lot, you're still young,

- but...
- Well, being a bit older.

...your childhood is a bit behind you...

What do you think of it now,
of your childhood?

Well look, I, confirming the few
extra years, would say...

we lived our childhood,
and later we survived it.

But the nicest story from when
they put me in the punishment cells,

was when the prison electrician,
who was completely in love with me.

He was a bit old, in the end,
so his live was not returned,

not at all, but...

he put on for me, as he was the
prison electrician and was also

the prison choir director,
so under the pretext of testing voices,

he put on for me some
organ concertos by Handel,

It was one of those that I brought with me,

to test on the master's record player.
So he played them on the speakers

so I could hear them.

That was the nicest thing I could
remember about prison, but...

sorry, of the punishment cells,
because the prison itself was beautiful,

the entire thing.

- Do you remember Calvert Casey?
- Oh, yes.

Calvert Casey because
of Vicente Molina.

- Do you remember when he first came,
how elegant he looked? - Yes.

And how little you paid
attention to him.

It pained me
that I was so quiet,

and you and he got tense
when I talked about certain things,

That my saint's day made me think of
mimosa flowers, which got him excited,

with me describing how my saint's day

always smelled like mimosas,
because that was the flower that bloomed...

usually in March, which is when
my and my mother's saint's days were.

So everything was linked to mimosas.

He liked Calvert so much...
He gave me that look

of a wounded man...
But I treated him badly, you're right.

I remember the night when
Vicente came in crying,

saying that Calvert
had killed himself.

Yes, I valued the
dedication he wrote.

I read the dedication in his book,
that I think said:

"With a dark intuition
of what could have been said."

That's it. He waited for me
in the station and I didn't leave.

How can you walk by someone
and think they might kill themselves?

Not think it, but sense it. I should have
sensed it if I'm a sensitive person,

who was destitute, who needed
affection... at those moments

from someone.
How did I not realize?

It was something you could have known
by reading his books, maybe.

Well... not reading The Return.
When I saw what The Return was

I knew right away about Calvert Casey.

It's stayed with me as
one of the worst things I've done.

And what other friends have you...
have you condemned to death or failure,

over the years?

It would be hard to talk about those
I've condemned to failure.

I think in the family...
In the family rather than with individuals

in particular,
there are two stories to tell.

One is the epic legend,
as Lacan calls the deeds of the self,

and the other is the truth.

And the epic tale of our family,
which is what I imagined

would have been told in this film.

It should be very lovely,
romantic and heart-wrenching,

but the truth is a rather...
well... in the end...

depressing experience,
starting with a brutal father...

followed by your cowardice
that... when...

on the event of a suicide... on one of my
attempted suicides, operatic,

in which I had the pills
placed on top of the bed,

a nosy Andalusian
came in and said:

"But you will uze at leazt az much
az Marilyn Monroe?"

And due to this suicide,
to avoid trying to figure out why,

what had led me to it,
instead of asking for explanations

and trying to fix the situation
that brought it about,

you decided to put me in a clinic,
which was terrible for me.

That's the other side of the story.

But I think it's also
very difficult to find oneself...

- No, there are reasons for everything.
- No, no... but...

- But in the end you can talk, right?
- Fair justifications...

- There is for everything, even this.
- For a crime.

- there is your justification as well.
- Exactly.

And if I were to present the problem,
you'd at least have to justify

- yourselves as well.
- No, no, of course.

As for me, because
"the nosy Andalusian" came in,

- I don't have to justify anything.
- It's that the Andalusian wasn't...

...as funny as you present her.

The worst this is, like I was saying before,
the reason for my internment

wasn't my suicide, but...
due to my suicide attempt,

drunk on barbituates,
I told one of my uncles that...

no, I asked him:
"Do you have drugs?"

Then he called my mother
and said a sentence

that must appear in "Revelations":

"The worst thing isn't the suicide attempt,
it's that you're using drugs."

And... with my mother trying to
detoxify me when I wasn't using anything,

which is marijuana, that...
is worse than a "Celtas,"

well... I passed through an
endless stream of clinics

which were really frightening.

True, but I have to confess that
the first time I heard about pot

was in a telephone call I received
that told me you were on drugs.

What did you want? I was old fashioned
and hadn't adjusted

to a generation that was smoking that.

- That's not the case anymore,
that was years ago. - Fine.

There would be a very
different reaction now,

because the world has changed a lot,
and very quickly.

Don't compare that with now.

That's my only excuse, because I don't...
Don't think I don't know I was wrong!

- Your only excuse...
- I know I was wrong.

You had read articles
by Oriana Fallaci about:

"I took this shit called LSD,"
and you believed it, right?

Well, I don't know if it was Oriana Fallaci
or something else.

There were several reasons,
and not just about drugs,

but also some doctors trying
to take my money, probably,

talking about depressive neuroses,
things I didn't understand very well...

- All of that...
- So now you...

Above all it's the fixation
you have on your father,

who was a doctor and he becomes
a target, and since then you're,

- I don't know transfixed, like before a priest.
- I've always liked straightjackets,

and regretted I never
married a doctor.

It's a trauma I've always had.

Well, we've taken that on too,
because, I don't know how...

Right, you've taken it on,
no doubt.

- But in the end, beside that I think...
- What I... what I...

and above all here in the school,
want to discuss is...

what you've grown used to...
for example the strange behaviors

that Leopoldo would do or not do
with his politics professor,

or writing poetry.
Those are relatable things

within your culture of Russian literature,
and of sunrises in Manuel Silvela, right?

But you don't get used to a man
who commits suicide, or who...

smokes pot, right? I mean,
that means a straightjacket,

and it's another thing
to block off?

Ok, I wanted to ask who in
my generation would have understood that,

because I don't think
anyone would have.

Look, I know a lot
of mothers who

- well, I have no need to name them...
- Introduce me.

I could introduce you
to Eduardo Haro's mother,

- and I don't know... Eduardo Haro...
- Eduardo Haro's mother ended up

withdrawing him and sending him
to his grandmother's house,

- Another system you can...
- Sorry but Eduardo Haro

- lived with his parents in Tangier...
- He had his father...

- for several years.
- He had his father, pardon me,

and could trust in his father.
The sense of weakness that a woman

experiences when
she's alone with her children,

is very different
than having a father.

- You're calling weakness what
I'm calling cowardice... - I agree.

I say it's cowardice.
I was never brave.

No, in that sense I'm also
a coward, or maybe...

Being a coward is something you're born with,
not something you acquire.

- I accept my cowardice.
- Me too.

I also accept it, my cowardice.

- I don't think it's like that.
- Though... though...

though I think, Leopoldo,

I was very brave
when they took you in.

I was very brave with
the police and judges,

with people that are difficult to face.
Or, I was a coward on one side,

I realize that, but I wanted to
make up for in another way.

and because I was a weak person,
I achieved it.

I know, you were ashamed
to be among the gypsies,

- the ones in the prison....
- I was ashamed?

I got to know the gypsies, and
learned all of the stories they told...

- Look, I've told you often...
- they were great.

- But you were ashamed...
- No, I wasn't at all ashamed.

- That makes me feel very
ashamed, too. - Not me.

And you always remembered
some adorable beings.

They played songs by Peret
on the jukebox,

and it was the best time of my life.

- How old were you then?
- I had escaped from the clinic

saying I was going out with some friends,
and I went to a bar

called the "River Plater," "The Silver Shore,"

to buy some candy,
and that was glorious.

I asked before
how old you were then.

19, which is the age...
you need to be, I don't know...

- to have girlfriends, lovers, etc.
- And why didn't you?

Because it's hard to in an asylum.
Well, you could say I had some:

two morons for a pack of cigarettes,
that kind of thing.

So...

But I ask myself also
about the series of things

between clinics,
the series of things that happened...

but you were just talking
about the fun part of that,

but there wasn't just the fun part.
There was the dramatic part.

Probably the same for you
as for me, right?

What dramatic part?
I didn't see anything dramatic in...

- I do. - In "Vill you do ze zame sing
az Marilyn Monroe?"... - You see in prison...

I didn't just know gypsies in prison.
I see myself alone in front of the prison

one New Year's Eve,
with those same gypsies, frozen stiff,

waiting for them to call me
so I could see you for 5 minutes,

in the jail at Carabanchel.

It's a strange feeling.
For a woman...

from a generation as besieged as mine,

them always looking at me accusingly.
I mean, they didn't look at you,

they looked at me. I was
the accused, not you.

But I don't believe in... in that...
that entity call a person.

I don't believe in the "I" at all,
I don't think it marks...

childhood, that it marks...
Childhood does mark you a bit,

but I don't think it marks a generation,
or that it marks anything.

I think a person can change perfectly well,
and that the spirit of a person

is always pure liberty,
is always a blank slate.

You think I haven't changed?

Well look, I think that your...
"cape" of comprehensibility,

your cape of comprehensibility
is completely superficial,

and there's nothing more to it.

- Are you sure?
- In the end

you're a bit better, to tell the truth.

I've tried to understand both the good and
bad in you, but always understand you.

I don't know, maybe I haven't been able to.

Maybe some other mother wouldn't
have asked this question at all.

I don't know... a Spanish mother...

I don't know... from las Hurdes,
well, I'd understand...

And a mother specifically from las Hurdes,

might have understood better

than a mother not from las Hurdes.

I don't mean to accuse anyone,
I only mean to dismantle

what I called before the "epic legend."

An analysis applied to my family...

well... it teaches me that...

that my brother Michi
is a... schizophrenic, for example,

that schizophrenia is a precious thing,

and my brother Michi
is an enchanting person.

even if he's sarcastic with me
and calls me "Pippi Longstockings,"

this is still perfectly fine.

And the other is paranoid.
Paranoia is rather disagreeable.

Paranoia, I don't know, means...

means doubting...

having fears...
It's an insanity that is hard to deal with.

I don't know, I think I've been the
scapegoat for my whole family.

I've become the symbol of
what they most hated

in themselves, but that was in them,
and that are in more than just me.

What happens is...

insanity, or losing ones wits,
or deviating from what's normal,

from what is deduces, isn't
in words, it's in actions.

So at the level of actions, shall we say,
I've been less in control of myself than them,

and they've taken advantage to
make me their scapegoat.

But at the level of thoughts,
well, it's best for me to not talk about this.

The strange thing that
occurs to me is...

beginning with the happy
death of our father...

I started to... to...
we, in our family...

to have a sense of humor,
to laugh about things, to...

with genuine happiness...

Not like being obligated to go
to mass or something. Don't you think?

Well, at the very least there was
more honesty in the family.

No, there's never been
much honesty.

Not too much, no, but
things opened up and became clearer.

We came out behind in that,
in particularly with money

because our father earned a lot,

and it was a disaster
because we had to sell the car...

the car we used to ride
around in together.

Apart from all the disasters
that came with his death,

well, everyone wanted to take his place.

Maybe me the least.
I wasn't eager to do so.

I didn't interest me at all.
Like Deleuze says, for me:

"The schizophrenic lacks the
Oedipal drive." And for me,

what I want is to sleep
with my fa... with my mother,

which is the negation of Oedipus,
because Oedipus is a repression

of what I have plainly in
my consciousness and desires.

Politically, I also think
it would have been completely...

No, in politics and
everything else, right?

Politically I agree with dad...
he really did a good thing,

scolding Juan Luis when he
joined the Communist Party,

which now, after years,

it seems to me like a good reason
to throw him out.

It's a very partisan thing.

So, the first thing...
one of the first things that...

motivated... the change in power in the house,
from Juan Luis to Leopoldo,

were Leopoldo's political detentions.

The two I most remember,
because they had the most impact,

were the following:

Due to the referendum that
Leopoldo pushed, or rather,

from the propaganda he distributed
that said "Don't vote,"

when a watchman caught
him in Ibiza Street.

The watchman caught him
and took him to a bakery...

- Communists...
- until the police arrived.

Leopoldo told me...

at that time... he took out all of
the propaganda from his pockets,

and threw it in the dough.

So it's possible that
everyone on Ibiza Street,

even around the Retiro neighborhood,
had "Don't vote" in their bread.

His second detention
that I remember,

at that time,

was at a rally on Bravo Murillo Street,

and when he heard: "Over here! Over here!,"

he led a group of
50 or 60 protesters

to the only dead end street
on all of Bravo Murillo.

It was something for streetcars.

So of course they got everyone,
including Leopoldo.

I've spent some very
good time in jail.

If it were a question of just
4 months, I'd go back.

Jail breaks the pointless separation
between public and private.

It breaks the social
stratification of isolation.

It's the only place where
real friendship is possible.

A friendship that lasts for
the duration of one's term,

because later when I've
been on the outside

and founds friends from jail,
it's been a disaster.

It's been a devastating experience...

because jail is the maternal womb,
and on the outside the ego is stronger,

and from there the most
useless and bloody war begins.

The war to be oneself, to make
the other no longer exist.

This is where humiliation comes from.

It's more more than just
a mercantile exchange,

it's the structure of
contemporary society.

I think it makes something
clear, that...

to be disillusioned,
one has to first have illusions.

As for me, I don't recall
more than... 4 or 5 moments,

very fragile ones, in my life,
when I was...

shall we say, enchanted.
Or maybe it's better to say illusioned.

I think that disillusion...
or disenchantment, or boredom,

whatever you want to call it,

is something that...
that's been imposed on me

from several...
and various sides.

And I, to put it simply,
have participated....

as a spectator, nothing more.

It's still cold, but in a few
days it will be spring.

The spring of Castrillo during Easter time...

when we used to see
the really young children.

Those are the springs I most remember.

And with him.

In the morning you heard the cuckoos.
They were so pretty.

And it already seemed like summer.

We spoke of projects,
of what we would do in the summer.

The summers in Castrillo.

Here among the oak trees,
is my entire life with him.

The beginning, the honeymoon...

Those pretty poems:

"The smile, sleepy until tomorrow,"

and "Until you say tomorrow."
It was so lovely.

The surprise of those
first two poems.

The other one that references them,
and the summer, and reads:

"Still how close,

the roads of summer
when I press your hand."

Other times, other people I remember
here under the oaks trees,

lunch would be put out, we would eat.

"Now you can see....

- At night... - ...with pressing intensity
you watch,

that which is lost forever.

The old staircase that
led to your childhood.

They were long, wonderful Sundays,

with Wagner's music,
and the treasure of youth.

They were long like..."

It's now that...
12 years after my father died,

it's so unreal to me,
because that shadow....

has somehow continued,
not following me,

or at times following
and at times helping,...

here in Spain,
or outside of Spain.

The weight of a last name, and...

one that was more or less
well known, has always been...

something I have carried,
probably the best I could,

and it's brought me
a personal satisfaction.

Lately...

as Ernest Hemingway said,
to the one I most love:

"It's not that he's no one's son,
he's a son of a bitch."

"Old and arrogant like
those who lived here,

Now among strangers,
it calls them again to mind,

burning realities and dreams
in the same bonfire."

I changed. Well,
Juan Luis and I changed.

We drank the most,

acted the most like our father.

We became substitutes
of our father...

but even worse. Not like a
stand-in, but as a reality.

And...

- I had so many dreams...
- And my mother, I don't know,

I thought...
living such a marvelous life...

- She... I don't know...
- ...everything went another...

Well, to tell you the truth, it was right

when we turned into the worst
of our father, because...

my brother Juan Luis and me,
and my brother Michi, who's just starting...

he was the best one
until now, but...

We've been the true cause
of our mother's decline.

Though in the end...

He who "runs less, flies,"
no, because...

Mother was also
the cause of my downfall.

I think it's not...
it's all a vicious circle

that can't be broken, right?

It turns out like humor,
"umor" without an "h,"

always without an h, always,

and like writing,
written in solitude.

My personal experience
over the course of the years,

has led me to fear
we won't have any descendants.

I'm interested in going over that,
because we're a lineage

not at all Wíttelsbach,
not at all...

not at all Wagnerian.

We're the end of an Astorgan line...
very deluded by time...

which isn't our fault.
I mean, we have so many liters

of alcohol in our blood
from our father and our mother,

that there was a moment
when nothing more would fit.

Now that it's September,
I want to take...

some medical exams...

to find out if we can
somehow continue our lineage.

EPITAPH

The poet Leopoldo Panero has died,
smothered in the kisses of his family,

absolved by the most beautiful blue eyes
and the calmest heart,

born in the city of Astorga

and grown up under the shade of
an oak tree that he dearly loved.

He drank in much, and now,
his eyes bound,

he awaits the resurrection of the flesh,
here, beneath this stone.