All language subtitles for Juventude Em Marcha (Colossal Youth) (2006).EN

I was a young girl.

I'd go swimming.
I had a body like a fish,

with shoulders wider
than any boy's in San Felipe.

I'd go in the water
on the slightest whim.

None of the boys
were brave enough to follow.

They'd shout from the beach,

"Sharks, Clotilde!
Come back before they eat you!"

Then they'd sing...

Come back, my love
Back to my arms

No shark ever got near me.

Sometimes
I'd take my oldest boy.

I'd leave him on the rocks
and dive in the water.

I wanted to never go back,

but I always did.

Poor Jójó would cry and cry.

He'd almost fall off the rocks
reaching out to me.

I'd swim back close to the beach
and float there

and watch him cry.

Sometimes it seemed
he'd burst from crying,

but he never did.

I'd sit with him
until the sun went down.

I knew the boys were still
watching me from above,

but they had run out of steam
and stopped singing.

COLOSSAL YOUTH

Bete.

Bete.

Your mother's gone.

She doesn't love me anymore.

She doesn't want to spend
the rest of her life with me.

She doesn't want to move
to the new place.

She fought me every night.
It's been like a nightmare.

I'm thinking back 30 years
to when I lived in public housing

as a young man working
for Gaudêncio Construction.

I tossed and turned every night,
suffocating under the covers.

Ventura,
you got the wrong door.

No, I don't.

I used to get it wrong
all the time.

I'd come back drunk from work

and collapse in a strange bed.

I'd walk into Totinha's house,
or Nina's, or Maria's,

and I'd fall asleep, even snore.

They'd take me home at dawn.

All the doors looked
the same back then.

You got the wrong door
and the wrong daughter.

Every time your mother gave birth,
she'd pray it wouldn't be a drunk like me.

She doesn't love me anymore.
She doesn't love anyone.

She doesn't love her children.

My son is humble,
the apple of his mother's eye

Born of our kiss
and our happiness

- How's it going?
- Good.

- See you, Xana.
- See you, Ventura.

Not hungry?

I didn't eat last night.

Your mother left me.

She stabbed me with a knife.

The blood's already dry.

That woman wrecked the house.
The bed, the armoire... -

Nothing's left in one piece.

She took
the new black suitcase,

all my embroidered shirts
and jackets.

All she left me
is a few clothes.

Really?

In the bathtub, I think.

She smashed up
all my furniture.

What woman?

She had Clotilde's face,
but it wasn't her.

I don't know if it was Clotilde
or another woman I slept with.

- Eat.
- I'm okay.

Vanda!

Vanda!

Where do you live?

What do you want, Ventura?

- They gave you a basement apartment?
- Yeah.

What do you want?
- A beer.

- You got money?
- Yeah.

Your mother didn't come home?

Look, it's stealing the food.

She didn't sleep here last night?

Look at that little monkey.

She took the suitcase and left.

Ventura, my mother's buried
at Amadora Cemetery.

I looked all over for her.

What do you want me to do?

I'd like lots of things
I don't have either.

I'd like to cut down
on the methadone.

I'd like no more pain
or suffering.

I'd like to be at peace.

I'd like to have
my daughter with me,

but I don't.

I'd like to get unemployment
or a pension, but I don't.

You don't even get
the minimum amount?

Nope.

I haven't gotten a thing
in 15 months.

I'd like a little shrimp
with my beer, but no.

You still have something.
Not much, but still.

I'd like a little luck... -
I don't even have that.

If my mother was still alive,
I wouldn't be like this. That's for sure.

Shit! Why'd I wipe my eyes
with those Dodots?

That's what I get.

- Dodots?
- Yep.

I wiped my eyes with them.

Look at that snake! Christ!

An anaconda.

Look at that.

That one's gonna get it.

Dodots?

Look! He's huge, Papa!

Forty feet.

He got it.

Look at that crocodile.

Dodots?

Yeah, Dodots.

There goes the crocodile.

It's twisted all around it.

You see the size of those jaws?

What are Dodots?

Towelettes for wiping
a baby's bottom.

These here.

You've never seen Dodots?

- Cloths?
- Yeah.

He's eating the crocodile!
Look at those huge jaws!

See you, daughter.

See you, Papa.

You're gonna eat this one.

Three points.

This one too.

Seven.

Nine.

Twenty.

I need you to write
a letter for me to my wife.

- To send her money?
- To tell her I miss her.

It's Arcangela's birthday
on December 4th, and mine on the 5th.

A sort of love letter.

"Nha cretcheu, my love,

meeting again will brighten
our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over
a hundred of us now."

Seventy-seven.

Forty-three.

What else?

- Go get a pen.
- There are none in this shack.

No pens in the shack?

That's sad.

Lento?

Lento, you asleep?

Listen good.

"Meeting again will brighten
our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over
a hundred of us now."

It's a beautiful letter.

Yeah, it is.
Learn it by heart.

Good night, Lento.

Goodnight, Ventura.

I bought chicken.

Mr. Ventura?

That's me all right.

Retired laborer.

André Semedo, locksmith,
now in civil service.

North or south islands?
- South, born and bred.

Ch? o do Monte, águas Podres,
Santa Catarina.

Principal, Ch? da Horta,
and Tarrafal.

Your wife's not coming?

3:00 p.m., November 1, 2001.

Fourth floor, right.
It gets a lot of sun.

My head's spinning,
and I ache all over.

I can't open it.

Temple, shack, household god.

Nothing's more joyful than opening
our home to God, our protector.

It's too small.

I want bedrooms for my children.

Bring me their papers.

There's no mention
of children in your file.

- I want bedrooms.
- How many?

Lots.

Everyone's asking
for more rooms.

I need them
more than others do.

When I had my daughter,
I was in pain for over three days.

In pain?

In my back.

I told my husband,

"I can't stand it.
I'm not even due yet."

"Careful, darling.
Don't give birth here.

If you're feeling bad,
we'll go to the hospital."

Three days in horrible pain.

I didn't want to go.
I was scared.

That was a Saturday.

I had my little girl on a Saturday.

The nurse put her hand on me and said,
"You're not going anywhere."

I said, "Excuse me?

I've got to get home.
Why can't I leave?"

"Because the baby's head
has already appeared."

"But I'm all alone here.

I have to go get my husband.
I don't know his phone number."

And she said,
"You're not leaving here.

Give me your address.
I'll send someone."

I was in such pain!
Christ!

Waves of pain every ten minutes.

"Ow! It hurts so bad!"

Then it was every five minutes.

"Hey, it's getting worse."

"You're having your baby.
Come with me."

So I went.

They put me
in the delivery room

and put this thing on my belly.

I had the same belly
I have now.

I didn't even have a belly.

It was the same as it is now.

They put this CTG on me,
a kind of belt.

And I went,
"Hey, get this crap off me! It hurts!

"We can't, ma'am.

It's to listen to the baby's heart."

"Take it off me, or I will!"

"Ma'am, you can't do that."

When I realized
I was stuck there, I said,

"My husband's outside.
Go get him."

"You were alone before,
and now your husband's here?

"He's outside. Go get him."

- "What's his name?"
- "Paulo Jorge."

He came in.
"What is it, sweetheart?"

"I can't stand it here.
I'm in pain.

Help me, darling.
I can't take it!"

Then an Indian man came in,

plus my husband and five others.
Seven in all.

The Indian man
climbed up here on me,

because when I pushed,
my daughter moved up here.

It was hard.
She was like a little mouse.

If she'd been big,
she'd have come out quicker.

But the small ones
all come up this way.

The doctor said,

"We have to do something.
She can't take any more."

And all those guys on top of me,
with their knees and hands

they kept pushing and pushing

until the baby came out...
whoosh!

Once she was out,
I didn't even see her face,

or if it was a boy or girl.

I never saw her again.

They said, "You're not going
anywhere. You're sick."

"I'm not fucking sick!

I want out of here,
you fucking whores!"

And my husband says,

"Shut up.
You're upsetting these women.

Shut up.
You have to stay here."

I was all stitched up
and couldn't even walk.

Otherwise I'd have left.

I wouldn't have hesitated.

They put me in a room.

First they put me on a gurney

next to another girl
who'd just delivered too.

She was young too.

We couldn't have a pillow.
We had to lie flat

so the blood could circulate.

So I raised myself up
like this and said,

"Hey, I'm starving."

"You can't eat, ma'am."

"Miss, bring me something.
I'm starving!"

The girl next to me said,

"You can't eat anything.

Lie back down.
The blood could go to your head."

"Then let it!"

I felt nauseous,

and I couldn't walk
because of the stitches.

When I looked up...

an hour later,
they started pushing my gurney

God knows where.

I covered that whole hospital
on a gurney.

The doctor was pushing me.

We took one elevator... -
wrong one.

Then we took another one,

and I ended up
on the seventh floor.

Me, all alone in a room.

- What?
- All by myself.

I swear on my mother's soul,
on my daughter's health.

I was left alone in a room.

And I cried every day.

My God! All I had was a TV.

I never saw the doctor's face,
just his eyes.

They all wore masks.

I asked them,
"Why are you wearing those?

Am I that sick?
What's the matter with me?"

"Nothing much.
You just have a spot on your lung,

and we have to be careful,

for your safety and ours."

Then I start crying.
Holy Christ.

One day I told my husband,

"Get me out of here
or I'll jump out the window.

I'll kill myself.

Just like that lady did yesterday."

My husband got scared.

He told them,

"Keep an eye on her.

She says she's gonna use
the oxygen to kill herself."

I had one of those
oxygen things on the wall.

If you open it, it's like gas.

Alone in a room, no windows,
no doors, nothing.

Locked in.
I could have died.

"I'll open the canister,
and they'll find me lying here.

Get me out of here, honey.
I feel better now.

I want to leave."
I cried every day.

Then one day,

"So you won't let me out?
All right, then.

Where's my daughter?"

I asked the doctor,
a Spanish lady.

"She's in an incubator
in the nursery.

You can't see her right now."

"I can't see my daughter?
You bet I can!"

"No, you can't."

After she left
I put my mask on,

and those paper slippers
they have.

You know, those paper slippers.

I slipped them on.

When they found me,
I was at my daughter's side.

"Why can't I see her?
I have to get to know her.

You took her away.
I didn't even see her face."

"You're out of your mind.
You can't be here."

"What do you mean?"

From then on,
they came every day and took me

in a wheelchair.

Me in a wheelchair!

I went to see my baby girl.

But it was so painful.

She was in a bad way,
just like me.

God, how she jerked up and down
in that incubator.

You know,
those glass incubators.

She kept jerking up and down
and hitting the glass.

That'll stay with me forever.
I'll never forget that, ever.

Shit.

But thank God, the kid's
absolutely fantastic. She's fine.

She just has trouble breathing... -
but it could've been worse.

May God help you both.

Raising them is hard,
but it's worth it.

- It's true.
- Then they're the ones... -

Yours are grown.
Now they all... -

- They all help me.
- You see? It's true.

I feel so bad for my daughter.

Without her
I'd still be hooked, Papa.

That's no life.

Believe me, without my daughter
and my husband,

I'd still be on drugs.

- You'd be dead too.
- I sure would.

I swear it.

My daughter
gave me such courage,

and God knows how much
my husband helped me.

If I told you his life story,
all he's done for me... -

no man would have done that.

He didn't even know
about the drugs.

I'd send him out to buy them.

I'd say,
"Go to such and such a place

and ask to speak
to such and such a person." Shit!

That's why
I love him so much.

He helped me so much.
Maybe too much.

Are you off drugs, Zita?
I mean... Vanda.

Absolutely.
It's been almost two years.

If I hadn't stopped,
you think I'd be like this?

Come on.

That's life.

You shouldn't work so hard, son.

Today's a holiday.

In my day,
we didn't work on holidays.

More rice?

That's enough.

How are things at home?

- Come over for lunch Sunday?
- All right.

And your wife?

Your daughter?

She's in daycare now.

When you were small,
I'd carry you to school

piggyback,
on my shoulders,

up that way,
by the supermarket.

I'd come home exhausted.

"My love...

meeting again will brighten
our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over
a hundred of us now.

Still no word from you.

Maybe soon."

Hurry up, Ventura. Let's go.

"I'm still waiting.

Every day, every minute,

I learn beautiful new words
just for you and me.

Still no word from you.

Maybe soon..."

August 19, 1972.

I was on a big jet

with 400 immigrants,
plus the serving girls.

It was me
and my cousin Augusto.

Once in the air,
he started to cry.

They served us horse steak
and table wine from Castelo Branco.

He didn't eat.
I ate his entire portion.

At the airport, we met his uncle.

He took us to Salitre Street.

The next day, we started work
with Constru?? o Técnica

on the Borges Brothers bank
downtown.

I earned 1,800 escudos
every two weeks.

At the barracks
a parrot would sing,

"Nigger, nigger, stinky face!"

I left to work
for Gaudêncio Construction.

They sent me here
to the Gulbenkian Museum.

I earned 7,500 escudos,
plus overtime,

or 16,000,
plus the Christmas bonus.

This was all brushwood here.

Me and Correia, the mason, cleared out
the brushwood and eucalyptus

and laid down sewer pipes.

Me and António, the tiler,
laid the stone and tiles.

It was a carpet of frogs here... -
thousands of them.

One day we set up the statues
of Mr. Gulbenkian and the penguin.

They were in the middle
of a big patch of dirt.

We planted grass
to make it prettier.

We watered it.

They say Mr. Gulbenkian
has lots of oil...

and lots of heirs.

Guarding this isn't like guarding
the open-air market back home.

Here you wield an iron hand
in a velvet glove.

There, it's just an iron hand.
Nothing but poverty.

Blacks, whites, gypsies,
old people, children... - everyone steals.

So much hunger and sadness
it makes you feel bad.

I know what I'm talking about.

Here it's another world.
An ancient, untroubled world.

No one shouts or runs
or spits on the floor.

It's nice and easy.

I can even take a little nap.

So afternoons here
in Egyptian Art are sacred to me.

It's trouble when someone
like you turns up.

But you don't see people
like you or me here often.

We're left in peace.

I have to make a living.
I became a father last month.

- Your first child?
- Yes.

Boy or girl?

A girl. Her name's Tha:is.

I took a spill over there.
Slipped and fell off the scaffold.

- Wanna play a hand?
- I'm gonna make some food.

Come and play.

I'm gonna make an egg sandwich.
Want one?

Sit down and play.

Get this into your head.

"Nha cretcheu, my love...

meeting again

will brighten our lives
for at least 30 years."

You need some rest.

"I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet."

Don't tire yourself out.

"But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over
a hundred of us now.

Two days ago,
on my birthday,

I thought about you
for a long while.

Did my letter arrive safely?

Still no word from you.

I'm still waiting.

I'm still waiting.

Every day, every minute,

I learn beautiful new words
just for you and me,

tailor-made for us both

like fine silk pajamas.

I can only send you
one letter a month.

Still no word from you.

Maybe soon."

You're a good player.
You always win.

Lucky you had your hard hat on.

- Why?
- You didn't hurt your head.

A green pen and a black pen.

I'm hungry. Aren't you?

Raise your arms
and shout "Freedom!"

Shout, O independent people

Shout, O liberated people

July 5th means freedom

July 5th, the road to happiness

Shout "Long live Cabral!"

Freedom fighter for our nation

Mama.

Mama okay?

Mother of God...

Silly...

Mama's sick, sweetie.

See how my daughter asked,
"Mama okay?"

It's like she's asking,
"Are you okay, Mama?

Are you okay?"

My little girl...

Mama just wants to raise you.
Then they can take me away.

It's okay. I'm better now.

Look at your little booties.

Look at your little suitcase,
sweetie.

I went to visit
my other daughter earlier.

- Who's that?
- Bete.

Is she still in Fontaínhas?

She's waiting for housing.

She likes shrimp just like you.
- Oh yeah?

Was she having some?

No, not today,
but she eats them a lot.

She really likes them.

Then we'll have to get together
and buy a few pounds.

We'll stuff ourselves.

That's for sure.

Next time I see her, I'll tell her.

See, Papa, just three squirts of this
and it goes away.

Then use it all the time.

No, that's bad for you.

It's just that when
the room feels all closed up,

I get panicky.

It's like that
when you can't breathe.

I can't ride in elevators.

I do anyway,
but it scares me.

It scares me, I don't know why.
I shake all over.

It's right here, sweetie.

Listen to Mama, baby.
Mama's turning it on.

But when Franklin comes on,
I'll turn it off, all right?

My little girl asks me, "Mama okay?"
Poor little thing.

Because she feels what I feel.

That's why she... -

Dance, baby, dance!

Dance. Shake your butt.
Like this.

Show me.

Show me.
No, this part here.

She's worried.

She can tell I'm hurting.

Look at her little face.

Baby, Franklin is almost on.

Mama's sick.

You know what Mama... -
Bia, look at Mama.

Mama doesn't think
she'll be able to raise you.

Look at her dance.

Dance, baby!

How did Mama teach you?

Mama can't raise her child.
Mama is sick.

Sing, baby.

Ah, your mouth is full,
little piggy?

Dance, baby.

She's upset.
She sees how sick I am.

Look... - Franklin!

Let's turn this off now, okay?

All over.

Look at Franklin.

- Papa, it's Franklin.
- There he is.

My little flower,
I love you like I love my mother

I love you dearly

For our happiness

You know you have a dead son.
Do you remember his name or age?

The one who drifted through
the neighborhood, from door to door.

No one helped him.

The other day,
I had breakfast at the food stand.

There were some workers there.

They were discussing
a construction site in Porto

and mentioned a worker
named Nhurro who worked in Porto,

but I don't believe
my brother is alive.

Remember when you were
digging up potatoes

and you cut him with the hoe?

You like this living room set?

I have a nice bedroom set too.

I don't need one.

Are you clean, Nhurro?

I'm not the same Nhurro
you knew back there

in that shantytown.

But really clean... -
no one can claim that.

Clean means
three meals a day,

no more stealing
or parking cars...

having a decent job,

knowing all the tricks.

Did they tear Fontaínhas down?

It's just empty lots,
weeds and rats.

They relocated everyone?

Bete's the only one left.

I'm here with you,
but my mind is back there...

with my mother.

She stopped drinking
three weeks ago.

She's going through withdrawal.

She called and said,
"When are you coming to visit?

When are you coming
to see your mother?"

I keep telling her,
"Mama, it's hard right now.

There's no one
to fill in for me at work.

But the first chance I get,
I'll come see you."

And she says,
"Son, the cachupa is on the stove.

I'm sitting here waiting for you."

She's already been relocated.

I have to get her water
and electricity hooked up...

put in some lights...

a water heater, stove,

washing machine,
some carpeting,

and give it a good cleaning.

My father called too.

"Son, I've got my ticket
for a week from now."

"Wait, Papa.

I'll come help you call a taxi...

carry your luggage,

get you to the airport...

help you check in...

weigh your luggage
since you can't read.

Then, if we have time,
we'll go for a beer,

just father and son.

I know you've always hoped
to return to Cape Verde to die.

Mama thinks
you'll make it back there.

Me... I don't know."

"Nha cretcheu, my love,

meeting again
will brighten our lives

for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over
a hundred of us now.

Did my letter arrive safely?

Still no word from you.
Maybe soon.

Every day, every minute,
I learn beautiful new words

just for you and me,
tailor-made for us both

like fine silk pajamas.

I can only send you
one letter a month.

Still no word from you.

Maybe soon.

Sometimes I get scared
building these walls,

me with a pick and cement,
you with your silence,

pushing you ever deeper
into a pit of forgetting.

It hurts to see these things
I don't want to see.

Your lovely hair slips
through my fingers like dry grass.

Sometimes I grow weak
and think I'll forget."

Good morning.

We're really having trouble
with the keys.

But we'll get it worked out.

How did you get in?

The door was open.

- Is it just you again today?
- Just me.

Better that way.

Second floor, to the right.

You can see
it's a large living room:

130 square feet
of solid construction.

There's room for a sofa set,

a liquor cabinet, a TV.

It would make a great room
for socializing.

This move is important
for our future.

This neighborhood has
a kindergarten for the little ones,

an activities center
for the older children,

social services for everyone,
a health care center, a library,

an ice-skating rink,
and a police station.

It's full of spiders.

This bedroom is perfect
for you and your wife.

Usually the wife comes along
to see the place.

Usually the whole family comes.

All that's left is to discuss
some rights and duties of residents:

Unpaid rent means eviction.

Unpaid water bill
means no showers.

Unpaid gas bill
means no cooking.

Unpaid electricity bill
means no light.

Above all, no dealing
of any kind on the premises.

Is that clear?

Everything all right?

The city has nothing larger.

Five rooms
is the best we can do.

How many children
do you have anyway?

I don't know yet.

Yes?

- Does it work?
- Yes.

Good luck.

Thank you.

Papa, keep to yourself
what I'm going to tell you.

I made a pledge
to take my daughter

to Fátima... -
but don't tell anyone.

I won't.

I want to go on a group excursion
with someone from around here.

I promised that if she was born healthy,
and if I got clean,

I'd take her to Fátima.

I'll come along
and pay for the trip.

The cripple wants to go too.

He keeps telling me so.

I help him out with the stamps
off cigarette packs.

The state already gave him a leg.
This time, it's for a motorcycle.

He needs two pounds
of these things to get a motorcycle.

Someone who didn't really need it
would get it in no time,

but since he really needs it... -

My methadone
is from the state too.

The other day,
the state lost the key to the safe.

They had to call in the army...

to get us our methadone,
'cause we were in a bad way.

They finally showed up.

I hope they learned their lesson.

They should always leave two vials.

It has to be locked away.
It's more precious than gold.

It's true.
More precious than gold.

I have to lower my dose again,

'cause I'm sweating too much.

I cut it down to 40,
but I have to go even further.

I've had enough suffering.

You can't imagine what
my husband and I have been through.

No one would do
what he's done for me.

I mean no one.

I'd find him crying alone at night.

It's true.

He sold everything

so I wouldn't suffer
without the fucking drugs.

TV, stereo, DVD player,

at least seven cell phones,
gold, everything.

Every last bit of it.

The day I had Beatriz,

we had no money
because of the fuckin' drugs.

We had to take the bus,

the 155 bus
that goes to the hospital.

And me in such pain... -
Mother of God!

I've made a mess of everything.

She was born so tiny.

She looked like a little mouse,

with her skinny
little arms and legs.

The lord and master is home.

We ate already.

We didn't feel
like waiting around for you.

Papa, want some fruit?
- I'm full.

Did you come to eat with Vanda?

It's pork chops.

Try to borrow your boss's van
so we can get rid of this shit.

I'm sick of looking
at those sofas.

Papa, I don't know what I see there.
Looks like ghosts.

Like a woman or a girl.

White shapes... moving around,
sitting down, standing up.

My daughter sees them too.

She never comes in here alone.
She's scared.

I have to get rid of this junk
to buy new stuff.

Same for the bedroom furniture.
It's all falling apart.

The bed creaks something awful.

If I had the money,
I'd buy all new stuff.

One day I found
a little white table downtown,

brand-new.

If it had been nearby,
I'd have brought it home.

It had two panes of striped glass.
Really pretty.

When I went back, it was gone.

And I found a box
with a light like this one inside,

but even bigger and newer.

He wouldn't let me take it.
Thinks he's a rich man.

He's ashamed of everything.

I'm not. When I'm alone,
I pick stuff out of the trash.

Papa, what happened
to your old furniture from Fontaínhas?

Clotilde smashed it all up... -

or a woman
who looked just like her.

What happened?

She smashed everything
before she walked out.

Didn't leave a thing,
not even the suitcase.

A new black suitcase.

She took everything?
Where do you sleep?

On the floor.
Clotilde destroyed our iron bed.

So that's how it is...

Did you two fight?

She stabbed me in the hand
with a knife.

Don't cross the silverware.
You want more?

Had enough?

Papa, want some fruit?

I'm full.

Are you married to Vanda?

Some apple?

Okay.

Lento, is that you?

Lento!

Come and learn this.

"Nha cretcheu, my love,

meeting again will brighten
our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me."

Could you please open the door?

I'm the guy who comes by
now and then.

I've come to ask for a little help.

If you could help me out...

- Paulo?
- I'd be very grateful.

Sorry to bother you.

A guy came around asking
for 5,000 escudos for your funeral.

I wanted to give him something,
but your mother said no.

My mother...

My leg's still weak.

No more crutches, Paulo?

That guy's pathetic.

I taught him
everything he knows.

Addresses, streets,

buzzers, doors.

He'd always wait downstairs.

I'd go up and ring the doorbell.

"Dona Gina, it's Wednesday.
How are you?"

"Fine, Paulo. Just a minute.
I'll see if I have anything."

And she'd come back

with a bag of rice,
a can of sausages.

Then I'd hit the next floor.

"Dona Teresa, how are you?
It's Wednesday. It's Paulo.

Is your sister better?"

"Yes, thank God.
The operation went well. And you?"

"I'm doing a bit better too,
thank God."

"I'll see what I have."

And she'd come back

with some socks and sneakers
and four euros.

"These are my son's gym shoes.
They might fit you."

"They should, Dona Teresa.

Thank you very much.

I hope your sister gets better.
See you next Wednesday."

Then I'd go downstairs.

"See what I got
from just one building?

Do like me and you'll get by."

So what does that moron
go and do later?

He gets a folder
and some paper,

puts on a half-clean shirt...

and gets right down to business.

He rings at Dona Gina's door.

"Dona Gina,
I have some sad news.

You know Paulo
with the crutches?

They had to amputate his leg.

In despair, he climbed up
on Santa Cruz Bridge,

threw himself in front
of a train and died."

- "It can't be!"
- "It's the truth.

So I decided to come here

and ask for donations

from you and his other friends...

so he can have
a decent funeral.

I'll buy him some flowers,

a casket,

a headstone."

He just wasn't thinking
that a few days later

I'd be back at Dona Gina's.

Imagine the lady's shock

when I knocked at her door.

She almost had a heart attack
when she saw me.

"Paulo, you're alive?"

"Yes, Dona Gina. Why?

My leg's doing better."

"Because a friend of yours
came by a few days ago

asking for money
for your funeral."

"You're kidding me!"

Too bad for him...

Dona Gina was married
to the chief of police.

Last time I saw him,
he was in a police car.

I still go around
to the same people...

and they're even happier
to give me stuff.

Your mother left me, Paulo.

Why?

I don't know.

- This place is too big for just you.
- It's for all of us.

What's in the bag, Paulo?

Toys I sell outside schools.
I don't make much.

Of course not.

No use begging around here.
Everyone's poor.

We'll need cooking gas,
tobacco and matches.

If things get worse,
we'll have to make do here on our own.

Just when things are working for us,
this coup d'état breaks out.

Soldiers all over...

in their armored cars,
ready for a fight, checking IDs.

They're bound to come here.
Don't go out for anything.

I went to confession.

The priest asked me
if I ever ate human flesh.

Come learn the letter.

Yesterday at dawn
they passed by in a jeep.

They took Yaya up into the hills.

They beat him up
and tied him to a pine tree.

Poor guy was the first,
but not the last.

Please come learn the letter.

It's no use now.

The letter will never reach
Cape Verde.

"Meeting again
will brighten our lives..."

There's no more mail, Ventura.

No boats, no planes, no nothing.

They're all on strike.

One more gone...

Lena's daughter Zita.

The usual poison.

It wasn't the poison she took

but the poison everyone took
before she was born.

See ya, Ventura.

See ya, Xana.

You hear
a woman crying outside?

Well, I do.

But I see two turtles
right over there.

See 'em in the corner?
- No.

Now I see a hen

with its comb.

See it?

No.

Look, there's a uniformed cop
with a cap.

Behind him are lots of houses.

Under the cop, I see a lion

baring its teeth.

- A what?
- A lion...

baring its teeth.

I see a man and a woman.
The man has a tail.

- Where?
- Above the lion.

With a tail?

Then he's a devil.
- Must be.

And you? Are you
a good man or a bad man?

I'm a good man.

In the houses of the departed,
there are lots of figures to see.

Where were you?

In Porto?

Did you see him?

I was in too much pain.

I just heard a man
crying in the street.

You're a good man.

When they give us those white rooms,
we'll stop seeing these things.

It's true.

It'll all be over.

It's hot.

Papa, Zita was your daughter,
but she was my sister first.

I know.

"Nha cretcheu, my love,

meeting again will brighten
our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you
renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over
a hundred of us now.

Two days ago, on my birthday,
I thought about you for a long while.

Did my letter arrive safely?

Still no word from you.

I'm still waiting.

Every day, every minute,

I learn beautiful new words
just for you and me,

tailor-made for us both

like fine silk pajamas.

I can only send you
one letter a month.

Still no word from you.

Maybe soon.

Sometimes I get scared
building these walls,

me with a pick and cement,
you with your silence,

pushing you ever deeper
into a pit of forgetting.

It hurts to see these things
I don't want to see.

Your lovely hair slips
through my fingers like dry grass.

Sometimes I feel weak
and think I'll forget."

That's an awful letter, Ventura.

It's me, Paulo.

I've had too much anesthesia.

My head...

They took flesh off this leg
and put it on this one

to plug up the holes
the Lizaroff made.

It's a device like a scaffold

to stretch the bones.

But in my case,
it stretched the tendons too.

The doctors
are running around like crazy...

taking pictures, filming it.

They sent them
to the United States

so their colleagues
could study the method.

They'll send me home
in two or three days.

If they don't,

I'm leaving on my own.

It's costing me a lot.

I'm paying 12.50 euros
a night for a room.

My girlfriend Paula can't pay.

She's sick.

It has to be my lady friends
from Pontinha,

Colina do Sol and Benfica.

But they've had enough.

"Paulo, will these operations
go on the rest of your life?

"No...

not if you find me
some work in construction:

laborer,

tiler, carpenter.

Goldsmith would be perfect.

It's the trade
I learned as a kid.

I can do it all:

weld chains and bracelets,
resize rings.

I even did wedding rings.

The mint was like
my second home."

I want you to come with me
to see my mother.

Your mother?

I know she does her crochet
every afternoon

at an outdoor café in Trafaria.

She's alone there.

I'm sure

if we go together,

she won't run away.

Seven or eight years ago,

it was a disaster.

I went with a buddy, Nhurro.

My Nhurro?

Yeah. She got scared.

It's understandable.

She gave me 5,000 escudos.

"What can I do with this,
you tightwad?

Go up and get me more dough!"

If we went together
and you talked to her...

What would I say, Paulo?

"Good afternoon, Lurdes.

Remember this boy?

Does this face
mean anything to you?

This dirty hair...

these hands blue from the cold...

these legs full of bullets?

You don't remember, do you?

I do.

It wasn't you who washed him...

gave him hot soup at night,

went to get him
in the oil drum he slept in.

So what are these tears now?

Tears of remorse?

I've brought you your son,
just as he is.

I've done what I could."

I just want her to tell me
my daughter's address.

I haven't seen her in 15 years.

I found out a few days ago
that I'm a grandfather.

Come on, sweetie.

Be careful.

Careful with your jacket.

You little monkey!

Are you in pain, Ventura?

Let me by.

Let me by, Ventura.

Is it that rat again?

The floor's shaking.

We gotta get
some bricks and cement.

Have you eaten?

Tonight we'll sleep
warm and cozy.

You're barefoot?

Don't you want
the letter anymore?

I can't learn it. I can't write,
and you won't write it out.

I'm gonna get
some electricity in here.

Electricity?

Monday I have to go
to Social Security.

I have to go early
to get a number

and wait in line.

I have to go to the cemetery
to clean my mother's and Zita's graves.

I haven't had the courage
to do Zita's.

Tomorrow I stop mourning.
Enough is enough.

It's like I'm in mourning
for myself.

Papa, your socks don't match.

No more?

I took some grilled chicken
to the hospital for your mother

the day you were born.

I was working construction
on a bank in Rossio.

My brother came to tell me
you'd been born.

How did you win
my mother's heart?

It was at the águas Podres River,
in Assomada.

She was scooping up
water in a can.

I was riding my donkey,
Fogo-Serra.

It took three years
to win her over.

At first, she wouldn't even
look at me.

On July 5,
the Independence Day holiday,

she was there
among the violins, flags,

accordions and drums...

and she started to sing.

Fifth of July
Raise your arms and shout "Freedom!"

Shout "Cabral!"

Peoples of liberated Guinea
and Cape Verde

Shout "Cabral!"

Raise your arms
and shout "Freedom!"

But she didn't know how to sing.

I started to tease her.

"You sorry-Iooking
little country hick!"

She whacked me with the flagpole,
but she took a liking to me.

Was she pretty?

Yes, she was.

And am I pretty or ugly?

Pretty.

It's a wonderful story
to tell your children and grandchildren.

Good thing you told me.

They say you jumped
out the window.

They say you jumped
out the window

with your wife
and your four kids

and landed on a car
like minced meat.

They say you screamed a lot.

I screamed my head off

for my mother, my father,
the fire department,

St. Barbara the Generous.

I even yelled your name.

Then everything went black.
See my hands?

All burnt.

They were stuck to the wall.
It was 1,000 degrees in there.

I cried when I heard the news.

You cried for me?

I cried a lot for you once.
You remember?

Was that you I heard crying?

I was afraid you'd die.

I was afraid you'd drowned
in the pond at the park.

We were so afraid
of death back then.

This was the kids' room.
We holed up in here.

Nobody came.

We broke the window.

But...

neither the cops,

nor the revolutionary militia,

nor the gypsies,

nor the whites succeeded
in burning down our shack.

I set fire to the mattress.

- Why?
- Because of all our problems.

- And now?
- Now?

- What will you do?
- Do?

We'll live here.
I'll be your neighbor.

I'm just across the way.
Second floor, to the right.

We lived even closer
to each other once.

- Come live with me. I have lots of rooms.
- What about your kids?

Is that them I see
at the window?

Is that Clotilde
I see at the window?

Quit joking.
There's no one there.

You got everything in the end.

Water, electricity,
gas, an ID card.

You worked day and night.

I sleep alone.

"I wish I could offer you
100,000 cigarettes,

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

the little lava house
you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all...

drink a bottle of good wine
and think of me."

This is Arcangela's
and my bedroom.

This is where it all began.

See ya, Lento.

See ya, Ventura.

Good timing, Papa.

I'm gonna go clean
at a woman's house.

Stay with my daughter, okay?

Okay.