Original subtitles

If you love life, follow us. Please!

THE SINTRA ROAD CASE

Do you have any idea of who you are meddling with?

It's precisely because we know who you are, Doctor...

that you're still alive!

- Just stay calm. - Oh, I am quite calm!

1 am still dazed after that fall,

I am soaked to the bone, with a gun pointed at my head

and no idea of where I'm going! I couldn't be calmer!

Quiet! Go faster!

Vasco!

He's not moving.

Doctor Siddnio, let's not waste time.

For God's sake, see this man.

I am not Doctor Sidénio!

I'm not sure of what is happening here,

but I am sure that you Kidnapped the wrong man.

My name is Ramalho Ortigdo. I'm a secretary at the Science Academy.

Vasco...

He is not a doctor!

You don't have to be a doctor to realise this man is dead.

Dead?

Go!

Run! Run!

Let go! Let go!

Let go of me!

How did we sink to this, Lord?

The Sintra Road Mystery.

It's the talk of the town. Lisbon is buzzing!

It's not everyday someone declares war on Prussia!

Read all about it!

We're a bigger storm than Prussia!

"Travellers avoid Sintra road at night!”

It's incredible.

Chief Constable goes to Sintra road to investigate news given in novel!

We had been saying this place needed a good shake-up...

There you have it: Lisbon is shaken.

I'd even say shaken stupid!

I told you: truth always wins in the end.

Though veiled in the gossamer mantle of fantasy...

Fantasy my foot!

It happened to me...

Ramalho, that story is as real as a newspaper headline.

The man's name was Vasco.

She is his cousin...

And she must have been quite a beauty...

I barely escaped getting shot and you make light of it...

So be it: you were kidnapped.

You were in dire straits. You even tore your pants.

But now you're safe and sound. That's all that matters.

Moreover, the story is...

it's spicy. The public reads it.

Have you decided what you'll write next?

You left me a dead Englishman so I must find him a murderer.

And quickly, too, because I must go to Leiria tomorrow!

Oh, your self-exile!

You're dearly missed here, my friend!

Fine. Let there be a Prussian or...

stolen British pounds.

No, no. A cuckold Count.

And I'll have your masked man signing the next letter. I will!

Don't go overboard. We're not writing a lachrymose tragedy.

These characters are not to be trifled with.

Don't fret. The plot will unfold...

in Malta.

Will you swear you can do it?

You won't say no to me?

Will you swear you can do it? You won't say no to me?

You know that, for your sake, I'd go down to Hell if need be.

You needn't go that far. Fastening up my dress will suffice.

The room maid gives me the creeps.

The whole hotel gives me the creeps.

It's the best on the island!

This is not civilised Europe, Vasco.

That's for sure. But these dresses are quite civilised.

They are a total puzzle for a man. Why so many hooks and eyes?

Why, to fasten it! What else?

- Or open it... - Vasco! Are you flirting?

My countess looks exquisite today!

All done up to dine with the Ambassador!

It will be brimming with British officers!

Unfortunately.

And my dear husband the Count cannot see a Briton...

without kneeling at his feet.

It's not that bad. Don't exaggerate, cousin.

See whether the Count is ready, will you?

Jorge?

What is it?

- Are you ready? - Raring to go!

Protocol sat us at the table of that Captain Rytmel.

It seems he embarked with us at Gibraltar, but I cannot recall him.

I'll go on ahead to meet our partner.

The Count your husband looks for partners even at a dinner table.

I suspect he hasn't recovered yet from his last game of Whist...

Note, dear cousin, that you are dismissing the man who invited you.

He refused to travel without you.

"He is my partner at Whist, and the inventor of my cravats.”

He keeps saying he'll make you his heir.

You're wrong, cousin!

I came for your sake.

I'am here only because you asked.

God!

I'love you, I love you...

Are there no women like me in Europe?

I'll give my life for you.

1 ask you only one thing.

That, now and again,

you remember me.

Liar.

The hotel might be bearable,

were it not for all these Britons.

Vasco, please behave.

You see that man? He is the Governor, General Broomington.

On his left stands the British Ambassador in Madrid.

It seems that you, dear coz, left all your patriotism back in Lisbon.

The British have been biting our heels, yet you...

As for Lisbon, remember: we're in Malta.

As for the British, this island happens to be theirs.

Just behave.

And, if it's not asking too much, smile!

Sorry to interrupt, darling.

Let me introduce Captain Rytmel, a hero of India.

He crushed a terrible rebellion in Bengal.

And apparently he killed a tiger with his bare hands.

That Countess in your serial novel acts like a sophisticated chorus girl.

She might've been one.

Unlike our illustrious friends,

Eca and I know how to appreciate the delights of "bel canto

I'll say that, in terms of pulp fiction,

this is about the best ever done in our country!

It's only a "divertimento!” No more. A parody!

Besides helping to pay the tailor's bills!

It has duels, kidnappings, galloping horses,

masked men, signet rings, escutcheons with the Phoenix...

We even feature an Englishman. Dead, yes, but an Englishman.

How patriotic can you get?

We can't shake them off in the real world, so we get revenge in fiction!

Your jealousy, dear friends,

was the one thing wanting to let us bask in glory!

Jealousy? Gentlemen, it is not jealousy that you arouse in us!

It's rather... pity.

Where is the New Literature, Eca?

The literature we fought for, one that denounces,

that exposes the corruption in our society.

What do you expect me to do, then?

The country lost its intelligence and moral conscience.

Social mores are dissolute, conscience has fled, integrity is corrupt.

But a writer cannot feed exclusively on the world's misery, dear friends.

Laughter also chastises mores.

Under a military dictatorship?

It's not a time for jokes, dear Ramalho.

I never thought that my friends, prominent intellectuals,

would be so preoccupied with a simple serial novel.

Why don't you focus more on women's silly passions,

and desist from "novelising” politics?

Order at the table!

Have no illusions: the aim of this novel is to make Portugal laugh!

It's not succeeding.

There's one thing missing from your novel to make it a total parody:

you need a victim of tuberculosis!

We'll get there yet!

Look who's coming!

Look who's coming!

Shall we go and greet Count Abranhos and his retinue?

Is it really necessary?

Ladies.

Your Honour...

Gentlemen, a Peer must congratulate such distinguished chroniclers.

We congratulate you for your "Mystery".

We are all devoted readers.

Won't you sit with us a while?

Thank you, madam, we cannot.

We are late already.

Always so busy, Mr. Ramalho.

Not all of us have the fortune of being born in a cradle of gold.

Not all of us have the misfortune of writing to earn a living.

Ifind it all so delightful! Where do you find all the details?

Your success is truly astounding.

You write with such...

how did I put it the other day?

- With verve. - No, no, it was...

- Flavour?

Virtuosity. Yes, virtuosity.

Such command of Portuguese!

Being an MP, I always greatly admired good writing,

the basis of good speaking.

The political intrigue, well, that is rather weak...

But why should journalists seek inspiration in politics?

Why not?

You already have a romantic story, the exotic island of Malta,

a gallant officer.

Romance?

I know a certain gentleman, I shan't say his name...

who fits perfectly the description of your Count.

Abranhos, don't you see that they spy on Lisbon's best families?

You get inspiration from us? From high society?

High and low!

We merely keep our eyes open and alert in this boring city.

We write down matters public, real and notorious.

- Let's say we merely describe. - We are scribes! Scribes!

We shall be famous, dear Countess.

Immortalised by the pen of these gentlemen.

Let go of me, let go of me.

May 1?

To whom do I owe the honour?

I am sorry; I must remain anonymous.

Oh, lunderstand you. 1 often wish I could do the same.

But you know, my situation is somewhat different,

because I possess little more than my name.

I am here on behalf of a noble family,

which is upset by what you, sir, say in the papers.

I say nothing through newspapers.

- I don't wish to threaten you, sir... - Although you do.

You, sir, are threatening the reputation of a honourable family,

one of the noblest and most ancient in our society.

You, sir, dig up the vilest secrets. You throw dirt, you insult.

I merely imagine, dear anonymous, I merely imagine.

In our times, a reputation is all a man possesses.

I see no merit in pursuing that line of work.

How have I offended you?

Obviously with the story of the Countess.

You might end that novel and apply your energy to more dignified writing.

I write what I want, how I want it.

I fail to see how some noblemen, whose names I ignore,

got it into their heads that this novel is about their evil secrets.

You have secrets, too.

Don't laugh.

Your paper might be interested in the history of your own family,

and in publishing it.

I advise you to stop your innuendo and leave at once,

before I lose composure and put my cane to good use.

Dear Editor of "Diario de Noticias”,

in this selfish world,

$0 vague,

hierarchical,

colonising and political,

in the deep of night...

How well you speak our language!

Where did you learn it?

Thank you. It's kind of you.

Portuguese is not an easy language.

It is quite hard.

Where is your mother's house?

In Sintra.

I'm sorry, I thought it was my glass.

My fault.

You do speak beautiful Portuguese.

Have I told you, Luisa, that Captain Rytmel hunts tigers in India?

He has some amazing stories, our dear Captain.

I say, Captain Rytmel, I wish to hear all those stories.

I shan't let you off a single tiger or elephant or landscape with palms trees.

I wish to hear it all!

I adore India,

not the real India, but the India of dream and legend...

What a beautiful woman! Don't you think?

She is magnificent.

A true female.

A Bengal tiger.

Quite a spectacle indeed.

Cousin, don't be jealous. The young lady is adorable.

She ought to be miniature-size,

so that we could hang her with the Captain's medals.

But coming to the rescue of the brazen cousin V,

the spirited Carmen approached.

Captain Rytmel, won't you introduce your friend?

I watched your dancing! I confess I found it peculiar, yet superb.

Delighted!

I'm retiring to my room.

Please, Vasco, have some tea sent up.

Excuse me.

It's horrible, syphilis!

I beg your pardon?

"El pianista, hombre." He's ill because he has syphilis.

Healthy people should not mix with carriers of the Spanish disease.

What did you say?

The Spanish disease.

The Hell it's Spanish! The British gave it that name.

Yet everyone knows the Portuguese exported syphilis to Brazil.

They couldn't keep their hands off the skirts of the Indian girls.

Their skirts?!

Yes, their skirts.

Skirts, hombre, skirts.

"Skirts” is a manner of speaking,

since apparently they went about quite naked - peladitas.

Ma'am...

Ma'am, I was trying to say...

No, I'm the one who must apologise for my cousin Vasco's rudeness.

No need to apologise! I understand perfectly.

You do?

Your cousin is madly in love with you.

1 know exactly how he feels.

I drew that portrait soon after the first time I saw you.

No. They might see us.

Besides, there is Carmen.

Carmen meant nothing to me.

Cousin, do you feel better?

I looked everywhere for you.

Fortunately, cousin, gentlemen still exist,

even if they're British.

I feel ashamed. How could I leave the rarest beauty

in such perfidious company?

Luisa, darling, what happened?

We were all concerned with your indisposition.

Particularly our gallant Captain.

Be gallant with me!

Pretend I am a Portuguese lady.

Serve me.

Are you having me on?

What is this?!

This is totally absurd. Totally!

What are you trying to write: a novel or the chronicle of a brothel?

Moreover, those scenes between British officers and Portuguese countesses...

Therefore, Mr. Editor-in-Chief, Sir,

when you said we had total freedom, you meant made-to-measure freedom.

Eca, admit it, this last scene is bold, to say the least.

Of course it is. It is a scene in a novel!

A scene in the most vulgar kind of novel.

The Englishman seduces the Countess under her husband's nose!

- The Count woos the Spanish girl. - Cuban! Cuban, I insist.

Cuban, is she? I'll start again.

The Count woos the Cuban girl, while the latter eyes Rytmel,

and Rytmel woos the Countess, who was seduced on arrival. Come on!

That's what you call a busy evening, is it?

Non, ca c'est la vie moderne.

That's how it is: all in a hurry.

Besides, do not forget,

we're in Malta, it's hot, full moon. Try to understand.

Indeed, sir, so much indecency might be incomprehensible.

It's good that we have some fun, and mock the Romantics,

but perhaps from now on, we'd better lean more to politics than romance.

No way. Don't think of it, man.

Come on, then, what must we do?

If you want to publish it...

publish it.

But we must be prepared to bear the consequences.

- Portugal... - Does not forgive, I know. I know.

They will jump on us,

all of them, Government, the Court, the Church, the King...

They have nothing else to amuse them, have they?

No, it's the common folk that will jump on us, and with good reason, too.

My dear Ramalho, your mention of the common folk has fully decided me.

Do you know why? Because the common folk makes me panic.

When the common folk growls, Eca cringes.

Who do we serve, after all?

MPs, politicians, Count Abranhos, Lawyers Anonymous...

Look, the cream of crooks banding together.

Bandits all.

Are those gents still in the Cabinet?

Yesterday evening, they were.

They might hold out till tomorrow morning.

But we mustn't breathe hard. At the slightest breeze...

Poor weak things...

Have a look at that one.

Do you think he could be your Spaniard?

He has the right figure.

What does your Nicazio do?

Shady dealings.

What? Smuggling?

If it's smuggling, the Cuban wench has to be involved.

Well, if he fetched her from Cuba that means he has business in Cuba.

I'd say he buys his goods in Asia.

Opium?

Opium! More likely mosquitoes.

I hear mosquitoes abound there.

How about Rum? Rum's a good one.

We always imagine Spaniards as smugglers or bullfighters...

My dear, at present I merely observe.

Remember: the next chapter is your turn.

Look discreetly to that box!

The lady in black.

Another potential character?

It's her! It's her! She is the countess I saw in Sintra!

She seems ill...

So pale...

Darling...

Do you realise who I am?

Count V.

Am I right?

When you're done with fun at the Opera you cook affairs in your sordid paper.

Now, you'll have to hear my version of the facts.

Facts?

1 told you once: it's pure fiction.

Fiction?

At least have the decency not to insult my intelligence!

A Portuguese countess, an island,

a British officer...

Half of Lisbon and I, we know it's no coincidence.

So "Noticias", my sordid paper, has readership.

You've been feeding off a true story.

You are nothing but a pimp, a parasite!

You call yourself a writer, yet you have no ethics!

The ethics of my aesthetics has no truck with breaches of marital ethics

by our Countess.

Think it over.

Watch it. You listen to me:

you'd better change the course of your stories, otherwise...

Otherwise?...

Otherwise, you will be forced to live with another kind of novel,

telling the story of a certain judge

and an adulterous lady, or shameless damsel,

and we'll call it:

"The mysterious paternity of a scribe devoid of ethics”.

My dear Count...

Ramalho, for God's sake, who'd want to publish my life story?

Silly question!

You know as well as I do, that a scoop is a scoop.

Though I must say, your story defies belief.

But that filthy rat is quite capable of spilling it.

He called me a pimp,

a parasite,

and spoke of ethics! Of ethics, Ramalho.

That beast jumps me to give me a speech on ethics! Hold this, please.

Well, ultimately the issue is ethical.

My dear, perhaps we'd better stop.

Nothing justifies having your past exposed.

Stop?

Yes, stop. Why run the risk of...

My friend, are you perchance ashamed of my past?

Of course not!

Really? You act like it!

Listen, you know how these people are small-minded.

So you think I should give in to the threats of a half-baked count?

And desist because of a loon who imagines he's the butt of my fiction?

Obviously not.

Then, let me have the letter for tomorrow's instalment, please.

The letter is written and delivered.

But why?

I believe you forgot to mention that our countess is a lady.

An adulteress, or shameless damsel!

More and more, it appears as if certain people have lost all decorum.

Once again, you are right, cousin.

I'm more and more convinced that the British believe they own the world.

There goes a beautiful woman who knows how to draw attention.

How did your husband put it? A true female.

A Bengal tiger.

Are you retiring so early?

What about the party?

I must freshen up.

The atmosphere has suddenly become unbreathable.

No Captain, it is not proper.

Why do you hate my cousin so?

1 do not. Not at all.

She strikes me as false.

I hate her sentimental airs.

It's a dishonour for Iberia.

You know what's bothering her?

It's the attention Captain Rytmel devotes to her.

The gentleman's attentions do not interest me.

Everyone disputes your company.

This place is so provincial.

Will we never see the end of this stupid ball in Malta?

It's improving, it's more...

It's less...

I think it is rather less.

We try so hard not to offend Lisbon families, that the plot has stalled.

Nothing is clearly said, but you can read between the lines.

No, they look like wax figures in a bazaar.

I feel like throwing something at their heads to try and wake them.

I'm not sure I want to write much about these love affairs.

We ought to change course. Veer more towards politics.

Why don't you go back to the beginning,

and try to unravel the mystery?

What mystery?

What mystery?

What mystery?

The mystery of the house in Sintra.

We have a dead Englishman. Who killed him?

Who killed him?

Where is the corpse? Is it buried or not?

That's what the public wants to read.

Politics my foot. Politics...

We have a few suspects.

Shall we go hunting?

Mr. Coelho (rabbit) commands and the public demands.

Mr. Queiroz!

- Aletter for you. - Thanks.

Mr. Oueiroz, Mr. Rama/ho hasn't told you everything.

Or he didn't tell it properly.

Mr. Queiroz, you won't believe it,

but though he claims to be your friend, he is manipulating you.

Please come to Rua da Paz, 22, the Aline Boutique.

Fondly, a friend.

Leave us, please.

Come closer.

Oh, to Saint Queiroz,

patron saint of lost lovers.

This is only a "divertimento”, dear Eca.

And this one is rather amusing, isn't it.

So long as it amuses you, I shan't oppose it!

It is amusing. Come on, dear Eca.

Ramalho, I must have a word with you.

Alone.

- What is it, my dear? - This joke has gone on too long, no?

1 get offended when someone insults my intelligence!

Especially when the joker claims to be my friend.

Don't tell me we're about to have alive novel here.

Gentlemen, do not be shy.

From discussion, light is born.

What's this all about?

I always thought that between friends, there'd be no foul play.

What are you going on about?

I met your Countess!

You met my Countess?!

And I know you told her all my past.

Deny it.

Your past?

1 didn't even get near her.

It was really a low trick!

A betrayal of the unspoken duties of friendship,

of the intimate cult that bound us and which you threw to the pigs.

First, you insult me with groundless accusations,

and then you lecture me on friendship?

Our friendship was precious to me.

Yet you prefer to believe a woman?

You, who keep saying they are false creatures,

on whom we cannot trust.

Can'tyou see she killed the Englishman?

Don't try to cast suspicion on such a sweet, innocent lady!

Sweet? Innocent?

That does it!

First, you didn't like the idea of writing a serial novel,

then, you refused to believe the facts.

Now, you're the first to quarrel with counts and urinals

and to comfort countesses in brothels.

In brothels? Who said anything about brothels?

That's where you find the better class of hookers.

Tell me at least what you accuse me of.

What did 1 do?

What obscure, malicious information about you did I tell the Countess?

Please do not act naive.

I think we'd better stop right here,

before I say something I might regret.

Could it be you're afraid people will find that I do all the work?

Afraid?

Limagine it, write it, proof-read it!

I had the original idea.

1 got Coelho interested!

My work is worth as much as yours!

Perhaps you want to quit.

Perhaps you're afraid of exposing yourself through how you write...

I write what I want. I am a free man.

I'm not afraid of what half-baked counts or false friends may think.

If you do want to quit...

you have my blessing.

I dispense your blessing.

My dear Countess, that attire is not appropriate for this sport.

Does the dress come from Lisbon?

The dress came from London; the cloth from India. As for bow and arrow...

That didn't count!

I hear that Lisbon ladies prefer fashions...

from abroad.

I see you're not keen on sport.

I can't fathom why they call this barbaric activity a sport!

My sport is a serious activity, a gentlemen's game.

If you must know, it's Whist!

A game with many goals, where you risk much more than your physique.

You may lose fortunes,

but when you hit the bull's eve...

That, yes, that is a man's sport!

Oh God, I can't get the hang of it.

Poor thing!

Let me help you, Ma'am.

They make a lovely couple... in terms of bows and arrows, of course.

How is life in Cuba?

It must be dreadful, with all those black people.

Maybe not as comfy as your little corner in Europe, but we live well.

Surely you import many goods from Europe:

teas, British fabrics...

Fabrics, yes.

But we have all we need in our island.

We only import the superfluous, luxury goods,

things for our pleasure.

Pleasure is not all in life.

Pleasure is pleasure. It's a vice. Like this candy.

One more?

Alast one... as parting gift.

The Portuguese say many things and do much more.

What say you of empires?

We're yet to see one that does not fall.

Just the other day, you said,

"the British did a remarkable civilising job in India,”

"a fecund transformation.”

I'd like to know what was fecund about it:

transforming that ivory-like poetry,

into a boring, trivial, coal-besmirched place.

Treating the sweet Indian race like Irish dogs,

and teaching them to play cricket.

Doing lovely cruises on the Ganges;

overthrowing their legitimate kings;

while, from the other side of the world,

Her Majesty ships them gentlemen with gigantic sideburns and debts,

deported there to govern people who are a thousand times superior!

Who does all that, Captain Rytmel?

Your dear England.

An island that is half ice and half fat and roast beef,

inhabited by beer bellies and pirates in starched collars.

Very well. You know that neither rank nor nationality

entitle you to do as you please.

Especially when the Prince is present.

You know well that our discussion has no connection with the British Empire.

There is no excuse for your lack of manners.

Particularly regarding my wife and I.

"Dogs may bark, the caravan moves on."

Have you seen the spectacle you and your brazen cousin made me do?

I had to defend my honour!

What were you trying to achieve with the Englishman?

You jealous, Jorge?

This is not "La Traviatta” and you, Miss, are not Carmen.

I never leave the City, I never go anywhere.

What about you, Jorge, you and your gambling vice?

Let's be frank, why should we forgo our little excitements?

I think you'd better retire to your bedroom.

Hussy!

I brought you out to Malta. I saved you from wilting in Lisbon!

Do you imagine you can get by on your family's coat of arms?

But for my money, you'd be living in the streets!

But if care so much for excitement,

let me teach you rules.

You seem in dire need of some.

- So, do we have the letter yet? - No. I can't find it.

I suppose you don't really want me to find it, do you?

Do not let life's romantic upheavals upset your reason.

Your belief that we are involved in the disappearance of those papers,

it offends me.

Come on, come on. Make peace.

You only work well together.

Always the military man, aren't you?

With you, it's all targets, goals and missions.

Tactics, tactics.

My dear friend,

that is unfair.

You know that, despite appearances,

I'am human.

Come on, man!

You've been friends for too long to be divided over such a thing.

I don't know what happened.

But it can't be so important that it prevents you from writing.

No.

At present, any meeting with that gentleman is out of question.

Very well.

I think you're wrong, but if that is your decision...

In any case,

I want the next letter on my desk by tomorrow.

You! Stop!

Stop right now.

You, sir, come out this minute.

Do you hear me? You have a lot of explaining to do.

Come out this minute.

What's all this screaming?

If it's God you seek, you have come to the right place,

otherwise, please leave.

I beg your pardon.

Excuse me.

Calm down!

Who do you think you are, to follow me?

Let me explain...

I could not allow you to publish this letter in your novel.

You two must learn the reasons behind all this,

$0 you won't commit more indiscretions.

Don't you commit them.

I did not write this...

Vasco - is that your real name?

Yes, it is.

It was never my intention to frighten you,

I merely sought the right opportunity, and perhaps the courage to...

You didn't lack either on the road to Sintra, did you?

I needed a doctor,

and I knew that a Dr. Sidonio had done a delivery at the Ortigaos's.

I had just come from the Ortigaos's

and to my knowledge, my uncle Augusto has been a bachelor for 78 years.

He is not exactly at the right age to give birth.

As for the Englishman - in his state not even a doctor could help him.

Although I hate to admit it,

the person in direst need of a doctor that night was my cousin.

We ought at least to let her soul rest in peace.

Her soul?

What are you talking about?

Your cousin was seen at the Opera only days ago!

You said it - days ago.

Her funeral was done with the greatest discretion,

since her death was rather indecorous.

What a swell novel, I say!

What you've been writing is more and more a factual account,

and less and less a novel.

I beg you - the end took place already,

so end your novel.

Or then, find it a different logic.

Logic my foot!

What you write has no logic at all!

If we go on like this,

by next year, we'll still be writing letters!

We've offended the British,

the Portuguese are beating their vanished wives,

and sales are dropping.

All that because of the novel?

Obviously!

Sales went up because of the novel; naturally, they drop because of it.

Now, this is logic!

The novel cannot compete with the Franco-Prussian war, can it?

Ramalho, let me tell you something for the last time.

Either you two get reconciled or I'll have someone else finish the Mystery.

You're really desperate, aren't you?

Damn it, you refuse to understand!

Before, there were rules.

Everything proceeded merrily.

Not now!

It's Malta, and Malta, yet more Malta, and...

what's the name of that Spaniard? Come on, help me...

- Nicazio. - Nicazio! Nicazio and more Nicazio.

And the Count.

The plot doesn't move. You're stuck in petty politics and cuckolding.

Now, my wife...

Yes, my wife!

She was your most faithful reader.

She was!

Now, she prefers news of the Stock Exchange.

Why are you telling me all that?

Tell me: how did this story begin?

An Englishman is found dead, not so?

However unpleasant, that's how it was.

There's only one thing we must do: either we find who killed him,

or we kill whoever killed him. That's it!

Ramalho, you two must talk,

you must make peace. You know...

friendship is...

a very beautiful thing.

I do what I can.

I merely stick with the rules of the game.

The rules of the game? There are no rules.

This is now guerrilla war. There are no winners or losers.

Eca says he finds the characters and draws inspiration from them.

Poor man.

He had that accident, right?

Now, he has fevers, he's delirious.

1 won't visit him at home, I cannot,

I had my fill of seeing maimed men during the war.

What accident?

My dear Ramalho, I write to you today nervous and fatigued.

! wanted you to know that, even at this late hour and in pain,

I realised that evidently doctors are real butchers.

Well, doctor?

Nothing serious.

A few abrasions, particularly on the shoulder blade - and a big fright.

Your friend must have absolute rest.

No worries, no irritation.

I prescribed him a sedative. I told him it was a tonic.

Your guest must take it twice a day before meals.

This is my second visit already.

Certainly!

Thank you.

If he does insist on writing, tell him that he must write in bed.

- Thank you so much. - Good night.

My dear Ramalho, I write to you today nervous and fatigued.

! wanted you to know that, even at this late hour and in pain,

I realised that evidently doctors are real butchers.

It's confirmed.

Nowadays, doctors are real butchers,

or simple-minded,

like certain novel writers.

That letter was the only means I had to ensure a visit from you.

You know that sooner or later I would come.

I confess, however, that, had I received it earlier,

I would have been wary.

I know that you, my dear, always have a few shirt bills to settle.

Don't make me laugh, please. My whole body still aches.

According to Coelho: friendship is a very beautiful thing.

That might be the moral of the story.

Coelho might be a brute,

but I guess, this time, I was the brute.

You can't imagine what you've been missing.

The novel goes on.

Guess who returned these pages you wrote.

Forgive me.

Vasco, he is dead.

He is dead.

What happened?

Kill me, too.

I don't want to go on living...

Calm down, calm down.

What happened?

Rytmel is dead.

Where?

Where?

By the ruin, near...

By the ruin, near the cliff.

My Countess...

Calm down.

You stay here,

I'll take care of everything.

Yes. I stabbed him three times.

Someday, it had to be.

But the bastard ran off. I lost him.

Have you gone mad, Carmen?

Did you do it?

Don't you like blood?

Yes, I see you like blood.

Look how you like blood.

I'm not false, unlike your Countess.

And I, I'm not Rytmel.

Rytmel?

Kill him. Kill him.

Kill him. Kill him.

Do it. If not for my sake,

then for your cousin's sake, before he kills her.

What are you saying?

My cousin what?

Are you so blind?

Bloody blind man!

Rytmel doomed me!

He has syphilis. He'll doom your cousin, too!

You're mad!

You've gone mad; you don't know what you say anymore!

- Go! - Let go of me!

Rytmel has syphilis! He'll doom your cousin.

If you don't kill him, he will kill her!

I knew you must be alive.

What will you say?

How can you explain this?

Hush! She almost killed you...

Hush. Quiet.

She has no excuse.

She ought to rot in jail for what she did to you.

You don't want me anymore?

Let us elope tonight.

It doesn't matter where to.

Yes, with love of you.

Maybe insane...

with love of you.

Good to see you!

You had a miraculous recovery.

Are you up to taking a risk?

Oh, I was referring to another gamble, with Don Nicazio.

You understand Portuguese only as it suits you.

The tragic demise of Dona Carmen.

Allow me to lecture you a little.

You, Captain, play with marked cards, an easy, predictable game,

and choose as partners easy prey,

to wit, merry cuckolds and unhappily married ladies in heat.

The game of seduction may be very romantic,

but in your case, it is hardly exciting and has no glory.

I bet that if you had an adversary of my calibre, you'd never win.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

The idiotic words of Count V

possessed the offended Captain with ideas of revenge and punishment.

I'love surprises.

But what is the surprise you have for me?

Nothing special,

just something you asked me and which I managed to get now.

Captain Rytmel. My dear cousin!

What are you doing here?

If you really want to know,

1 just intended going for a little cruise offshore from Malta,

as a way to thank your cousin's part in my recovery.

Indeed? And our dear Count?

It's his day for Whist.

Are you considering sailing with us? You won't be playing?

Why are you so interested?

Do you mean to stop us?

I've never seen you so pretty .

And I've never seen you so worried.

Whether you wish it or not, I'll always be at your side.

Even when I don't want it?

Especially when you don't.

Shouldn't we have arrived by now?

Where is the island?

Captain Rytmel and I decided we'll sail a few days.

Please cousin, don't try to stop us.

Afew days?

Are you insane?

Captain Rytme), I demand to return to Malta at once.

Here goes a little duel.

I'm trying to maintain a little dignity between the two.

He's badly wounded! We must return to Malta!

Don't let him die!

No!

Try not to complicate the scene excessively.

A duel under the dramatic veil of rain is so strong it insults Romanticism.

My dear friend, we must dry the paths of fate.

There's nothing like an unexpected denunciation to tame a sickly villain.

Therefore, I propose that cousin V, out of wounded pride, should revive to...

You forgot to say why in fact you are running away.

You run for fear of shame.

Before it's known that you have syphilis,

that you drove poor Carmen Pueblo to suicide,

and that he doomed you, cousin.

No, no, my dear, this is not a fit ending.

We have a draw.

You picture Rytmel as a heartless brute; I give him a heart of gold.

Couldn't we allow these charming lovebirds to elope to Alexandria?

Charming?

A clownish adulteress and a cowardly syphilitic?

Let them go!

They could start a new life in some remote place, say a desert.

Then, they could become king and queen of a tribe of cannibals.

Don't joke. Let's keep some decency!

Very well.

Then, in order to find an ending, we must return to the beginning.

What, return to Sintra?

Why not?

I must go back there.

Go back to that house, to those rooms,

hear the echoes of the tragedies that I witnessed in that house.

Are you sure this is the house?

Absolutely sure, my dear.

This house is unmistakable.

I must see the room where I was, no matter how.

After you, my friend.

Do you think we ought to?

Yes.

Ramalho, have a look.

But these are not proper hours to visit anyone.

Eca!

It was in this room.

Vasco was here.

He was masked, and quite beside himself.

That's the window he held onto with his bloodied hand.

The dead man lay there.

It's odd.

It's odd: 1 don't recall him bleeding.

Perhaps he wasn't dead yet.

Could he be asleep?

Listen, I took his pulse.

He was cold and didn't breathe.

My dear, a good dose of opium in the stomach can have the same effect.

Do you think he wasn't dead when...

No, listen, he lay down there.

He was white as clay.

Let's go please. This room is sinister!

No! No! Let go of me!

I still haven't found what I came looking for.

Let go! Let go of me!

I don't want to go back!

What will become of me without you, my love?

There's nothing left for me.

If I can't have you in this world, I shall be yours all the same.

Fantastic. A grand finale!

Thank you!

I'm glad you liked it.

We loved it! It is absolutely extraordinary.

I must admit we feared the ending might thwart our expectations,

but in the end it surpassed them.

Don't you think so, ma'am?

Sublime! Worthy of Shakespeare.

It's just like Romeo and Juliet.

Let go of me!

You scoundrel!

1 should know that in the end you always have the upper hand!

Yes, I couldn't resist it.

What a bunch of syphilitics!

You have Rytmel killed not by Carmen's stabs or the Countess's opium,

but by his promiscuous syphilis.

You do enjoy crime and punishment.

You win!

No, see it rather as a technical draw.

How so?

Well, I get the ending, you get the dead man.

In the end, you killed him.

Thank you!

There's something that saddens me.

I wonder if I could have done more.

That we'll never know, my dear.

How about the countess?

If she killed herself, she can't be here!

Love is such a complicated thing!

It's such a cliché!

So, novels, never again?

Any ideas?

If I may quote you,

"The country lost its intelligence

"and moral conscience.

Social mores are dissolute, conscience has fled, integrity is corrupt.”

My dear, boredom has invaded our souls!

What this country needs is a few good "Farpas” (barbs)!

THE END