Parallel Street, The (1962)

[bunniefuu]

I think the classification of document
188 has been adequately dealt with.

It's now exactly 6 am.

It's the end of the second night
of discussion of documents

relating to the person in question.

You are released from the rules
until we resume tonight.

You are free to use this time
as you wish.

I wish you a pleasant day.

Gentlemen, thank you.

That was a GBF film, Gesellschaft
für bildende Filme, Munich.

Produced by
Otto Martini and Karl G'schrey.

I was sentenced to 20 years,
but I stayed here.

It's now 38 years.

Screenplay by Bodo Blüthner.

I was drunk and missed my ship.

Cinematography, Ronald Martini.

Music by Hans Posegga.

The minute-taker was

Participants
in the discussion

Irmgard Henrici was the editor.

Thanks to Swiss Air and their crew
on all routes

and to everyone who helped
with this film sometime and somewhere.

Ferdinand Khittl was the director.

THE PARALLEL ROAD
END OF PART 2

The next 90 minutes
will be the last for five people.

Their lives will end
because they don't fulfil their task.

Just like all those who
have sat here before them.

I've lost count of how many.
Every third night there's a new group.

I just know they all fail.

I worry about them

as I take minutes and observe them.

I observe the way they deliberate
without ever reaching a conclusion.

I wonder what makes them so blind.

Their task is to assess and order
documents of a person in question.

These documents are simply mirrors
of their own existence.

Why don't they recognise themselves?

They are in an absurd situation.

They readily recognise the ridiculous
conventions of their conversation.

They were not forced to sign
the so-called rules.

And they've made a meaningless chart
the basis of their assessment.

They agreed to a seating plan barely
allowing them to change places.

I've become accustomed to seeing
five tired people on the last night

hopelessly behind in their task.

But something helps me stay with them

until the final bell rings.

They reflect, as if reflection
were more important than the goal

which they hope to achieve.

I think they would continue to
reflect and speak to each other

even if they knew for sure
they would never reach a conclusion.

But in reality
they don't seem to realise

that everything will end
with their downfall.

It is part of my duty to witness
their final 90 minutes.

THE PARALLEL ROAD
PART 3

You haven't said anything
for some time.

I'm just too tired.

This bright light hurts my eyes.
It's just taking too long.

- Would you like some water?
- Yes, please.

- Wait a moment.
- Yes.

Thank you. That's good.

I may be mistaken

but I think
we've already seen document 267.

I'm sorry, unless I've got it
very wrong, we haven't seen 267 at all.

Gentlemen, I believe
it's because we skipped 266

and unfortunately I gave you
the wrong number.

But thank you
for drawing my attention to it.

Hopefully it will soon be light
so it will be over.

I've had enough of it.

You may wish the discussion were over,
understandable but unwise

since you don't have much time
to complete your task.

Can't we get on with it?

I don't know why we're discussing it,
it's not getting us anywhere.

I'll show you document 269

and read you the accompanying notes
from the person in question.

More information is available
should you require it.

Here is the information.

Vultures fly over the carcasses
of cattle, sheep and pigs.

The pre-birth phase.

First visible signs
of the birth houses.

The purchase is vital.
Responsibility lies with the buyers.

Flaws or lack of ingredients
will produce a less valuable animal.

The ruling principle is a flawless
delivery of the individual pieces.

Despite the thousands of parts,
possible mistakes and deceit.

The animals' birth house.

Such care is taken. Protecting against
pathogens in the blood and urine.

The meat is duly heated.
The carcass is introduced.

Genuine admiration
for the achievement of the suppliers.

Food manufacturers supply bones,
calcium. Margarine factories, tallow.

Pharmaceutical manufacturers,
organs and endocrine glands.

Fodder and manure firms supply the
vital element protein-carrying blood.

Three phases of birth.

Phase 1, animal halves are washed
prior to assembly.

The spine is put back together.

At the same time the backbone is
filled with marrow. Hung if required.

The risk of damaging
the sensitive intestines.

Arranging them correctly
is a job for the highly skilled.

Phase 2, the skin is applied
to the back, ribcage and belly.

Pads of fat are placed
in certain parts.

Alongside the birthing area,

heads and organs are examined
and assembled. Heads are mounted.

The blood is fed in.
Once hung, filling takes place.

The best combination is
22 g blood meal for 100 I of blood.

High protein content, lower manganese,
calcium and lecithin content.

Such care is taken.
Nothing must be overlooked.

Tongue, gullet, lungs.

Stomach, kidneys, guts.
But above all the heart.

Nothing must be forgotten
at the moment of birth.

Quick and gentle, a knife, a bolt,
a hammer gives the animal life.

Activates the central nervous system,
respiration and circulation.

Life begins. Life.

Down narrow channels,
led into life by bellwethers.

Herded by cattle drovers.
Taken on by the buyers.

The animals' only expectation is food.
Always searching for it.

Constantly aging,
heading towards death.

For the buyers, the reverse.

One of them is Himmelreich, 'Kingdom'.
It's the reverse for him.

He lives heading towards his birth.
His life's most important celebration.

He still rears cattle.
In a few years he'll stop.

The school he's opening
will be demolished.

The donors' money will be returned.

Then he reverses
the purchase of his farm.

He dismantles his bed, his chair,
his washing bowl, his shower.

He returns these to the sellers
hundreds of kilometres away, by boat.

The primeval forest
will grow back over the farm.

It occurs to him
to search for diamonds.

In two weeks he will find 225
80-carat diamonds.

But 15 cruzeros he paid for a permit
is all that will remain.

He paid that to look for the diamonds.
He gets that back.

He travels up the Rio das Mortes.
Alone.

He hunts capybara, tapirs
and crocodiles.

With these hands he will sh**t
and k*ll two black jaguars.

He fights against the native Indian
tribes of Xavante and Karajá.

He will have to leave his boat behind,
cross the Serra do Roncador on foot.

Until he reaches Gran Chaco.
Alone.

There will be a w*r in Gran Chaco.

But he will return his r*fle, p*stol
and knife and get his money back.

Then he will do something strange.

He gives up his citizenship
and takes on another.

He changes his name
from Enrico to Heinrich.

He travels to a country he has
never seen before. His homeland.

He will forget his current language
and only speak that of his homeland.

His ship comes into the harbour.
His parents stand on the quay.

He will see them for the first time.
His mother will cry.

At home a welcome meal awaits him.

He will pack the time that follows
with projects.

He works as a magazine editor.
He will do this until he leaves school.

He's an alert pupil
until his first day at school.

Always the most skilled player.
But then he becomes weaker.

Just crawls
and finally forgets how to talk.

Seven days before he is born,
his parents proudly name him.

Heinrich Himmelreich.

'Himmelreich',
is said to be a heavenly paradise.

Then the birth.
The most wonderful day of his life.

On this day, Himmelreich
will enter the last great stillness.

Painlessly, as he doesn't yet know.

Himmelreich is happy.

So perhaps I can give you the facts
prior to your discussion.

It's not so important.
It slows us down.

Perhaps, but I'd like to hear it.

Nebraska, North America,
Northwest and East Australia

and the Himmelreich section
was Brazil.

Thanks.

There's something much more important.

The similarity between
this document and the Via Appia one.

I think we looked at that
two nights ago. There's a parallel.

Yes, in both the catacombs document
and this one time is reversed.

- Was that what you meant?
- Yes, but there's more.

In both cases he considers
two very different existences

man's and animals',
from the same perspective.

That's important. We should take this
as our starting point.

The time reversal or the comparison
between man and animals?

The comparison of course.
That's something specific.

I can't rule on the importance
of the documents

but I'd like to make a suggestion.

First take a look at the next document.

I think it could be useful
to your discussion.

If it moves us on, let's.

On the other hand, we're now having
a fruitful conversation.

- Will it really move us on?
- Yes. I think there are various links.

k*lling of the cattle, persecution
of Christians and the two roads.

Which roads?

We've got the Via Appia
from the documents two days ago

and now the road
from Miami to Key West.

We shouldn't spend time discussing
something we don't know.

Let us see the document.

Number 272.

Intermediary numbers are
a hotel receipt

and a bill for whisky
from Dakar, Africa.

So document 272.

Madness of a road.

Route 1.
Such preparation in building a road.

How many stones, how much paper?

Number 1. Madness.
A hundred miles into the sea.

Thoroughly thought through.
Built without mercy.

Good engineers,
good concrete, good iron.

No trains, no ox-carts, no bicycles.
Just a prison.

The malice of millions
who paid for it.

They have never seen the road.
But the prisoner is alone.

A well-made surface.

Its resistance value
exceeds requirements. Number 1.

Those who paid for it all
should be destroyed.

The engineers, the workers,
the prisoner should be destroyed

so that the prison can be destroyed.

Destroy the concrete, the paper,
Route 1.

Or let the road run down, flatter.

Gently declining into the deep

where the door can be opened
for the prisoner.

Release the prison attendants.

Destroy the aquarium, the road,
Route 1.

The prisoner.
Does he even want to return to the sea?

Does he want to fight again?

Route 1.

I'm surprised at the malice
he shows towards this road

and how agitated he gets about it.

Where does the road go from and to?
I didn't catch that.

From Miami in Florida to Key West,
an island around 90 miles from Cuba.

Route 1 USA.

There must be something special
about it.

I don't see it.

Think about the malice.
It sounds almost like a threat.

Perhaps it's connected
to a personal experience.

What's to say about this road?

The fact it's Route 1
isn't anything remarkable.

Some road has to be Route 1.

You can't think it's unimportant.
Not in this context.

I don't understand.
We're now discussing the road.

Before it was Himmelreich.
He has nothing to do with a road.

We've gone completely off track.

You shouldn't have shown
this document first.

At least tell us
where you saw connections.

Thank you,
but it's up to you to discuss it.

It's absurd that we've lost time
because of you.

You could have declined the document.
No one is forcing you.

The document was so dark
that it was barely recognisable.

Nothing but problems. No doubt
it was pointless showing the document.

But I didn't think it was dark.

Even if it wasn't as bright
no one is to blame.

- But it was clear...
- Don't discuss the picture quality.

- Sorry. I dropped the glass.
- Leave it. I'll give you another.

Thank you.

Many thanks.

- What's that strange noise?
- What noise?

Listen.

In the garden.
The leaves are falling from the trees.

It would be best to end the break.

We were having such a good debate
before and now we're getting nowhere.

Perhaps it would help if you showed
the Himmelreich document again.

I think spending so long on
one document will cause problems.

Let's continue.

Document 273.

Rice at dawn.

On the lowest heat,
first boiled for a while.

Just slightly salted,
thus avoiding any stickiness.

Just freshly covered with water.

While it is steaming,
it is left untouched, unseen.

When opened, the fragrance hits.

Dry, crunchy, in its own juice.

The smell wafts swirling over the river.

In the Klongs.

Rice. Just once a day.

The lightly warmed bowls, hand-hot.

The smell of mud, rose water.
Then that of fish.

The smell of black bananas.

Still red, it fades to yellow,
the aroma of cinnamon.

Above all, gentle,
like meditation, rice.

Consumed before midday.

The question for the cook. How can you
know if other rice would be better?

The rice from the islands,
the terraces of Banaue or Madras.

Why do the giving hands give thanks,
not the taking hands?

For delicacies from primeval forests,
the deep and wildernesses.

Ricebirds, morel, squid,
nutmeg, kelp, anise.

Fasting meals made of
ten roasted vegetables.

In clay bowls,
roasted kernels of forgotten trees.

Broken trunk, blood of trees, tamarind.

Memories of faded flowers,
a thousand miles south.

Inbetween, an incongruous smell,
a mistake. Maybe deceit.

Which fires have given rise
to this odour?

Chestnuts fried in rice oil.
Chicken steamed in smoked tea.

Where do those who pray
get such meekness?

Why don't the praying experience lust?
Why don't they shout?

Forests of fruits.
The fish of all seas.

Winter bamboo.
Lotus seeds. Palm hearts.

Follow the scent of the tea,
up into the Himalayas.

Breathe in the rice
as far as the horizon.

Roasted, smoked, fried, baked.

Worship. Worshipping the rice.

The bell's ringing outside.

I'll go and see. In the meantime
would you start discussing 273.

Do you know what tamarind is?

The ground up bark of
the tamarind tree, I imagine.

- Something like cinnamon.
- You should know that.

You've made such a point of saying
how much you've travelled.

Tamarind has nothing to do
with the bark.

A tropical tree with seed-like fruit.

They make a pulp from it which
tastes good but has an aperient effect.

I keep trying to imagine
what the chicken tastes like.

Imagine, steamed in smoked tea.

When I was a child, my mother
would bake a type of Christmas biscuit

which smelt very strongly of something.

The moment you smelt it,
you knew Christmas was on the way.

I think the Asian cuisine
is like Asian poetry.

Nothing ever happens,
but anything could happen.

The cold moon.

Two blind old men sit on the edge
of the abyss and laugh.

Who was it?

- No one.
- It couldn't have been anyone.

Why not? What do you mean?

It must have been a mistake.

What's the time actually?

Five o'clock.

- It's gradually getting light.
- Have you decided how to order 273?

- Yes.
- Good. Then I'll read out 27 4.

One minute's journey bridges everything.
Oxide of hydrogen, H2O.

Specific weight at 4 degrees, 1.0.

Boiling point 100 degrees,
melting point, 0.

Not the largest, highest, longest bridge

but for those proud of it,
the largest, highest, longest.

The water defends itself
through oxidisation.

The sublime malice of this liquid.

It forces people
to spend a lifetime on this bridge.

John Sale, 9 years on the bridge.

Ronald Swanson, 11 years.

A fight against the water.
They owe their existence to it.

Their bodies 65 per cent water.

A 20 per cent fall in the level
equals death.

Vital management of the water balance.

A construction as elegant
as the chemical formula.

The liquid smooth as the iron surface.

The curve of the structure comparable
only to that of a wave.

Seemingly of the same value.

Compared to the water, man is stunted.
Puny the wars he has waged for water.

His performance is better
on oil and natural rubber.

Oil. And here again
the impressive chemical formula.

Houston, Dhahran,
Aruba, Baku, Abadan, Maracaibo.

High-molecular hydrogen compound.

A pleasure trip between towers
with 80.4 per cent carbon.

10.2 per cent hydrogen.

Natural rubber. How wonderful
its composition. Acetone extract.

Polymerizates, polysulphides.
It bleeds.

The thief who stole it was ennobled.
Rightly so. Natural rubber nobility.

Towers with sulphur, oxygen, nitrogen.

Behind them lie
the inevitable atrocities.

Wars, a few dead.

70,000 seeds were stolen.
Only 2,800 bore fruit.

Why weren't millions stolen?

Such strength in the paraffin series,
methane, ethane, propane, octane.

The beauty of these words justifies
waging w*r, prescribing poison.

Tapping before sunrise.

Stock Exchange speculators
falsify the yield.

Inevitable deceit.
Malicious appellation for coerciveness.

How many dead from being burnt?

For the glory of a chemical compound.

More significant is how butane
would react in a naphtalene chain.

Each drop has its necessary outrages.
Its murders, its suicides.

Absurd to talk of suffering

given the aromatic compounds
like benzol, polyol, napthalene.

Each drop is exquisite.

Dynamic raw material.
Exacting rules are involved.

Most serious,
no arbitrariness, no cynicism.

Oil, rubber.

All the Earth's gold is
but a beggar's coin

compared to these drops.

Though it is never visible,
always in pipes and tanks.

46 degrees in the shade.
Ambitious substances.

The trees bleed for five hours.
White blood, brown skin, silver money.

Tower LL806 no longer pumps.
Exhausted, empty, dismantled.

The dead tree without name or number.
Exhausted, empty.

Triumph of the great adventurers
elevated by wild men to gods.

But where's the deed whose greatness
was worth this depravity?

Where the daring
that would immortalise their names?

Demi-gods, cunning like false gods.

Forgive me for taking the lead here
but I've noted down a few phrases.

You may not make anything of them,
I'm not yet sure myself.

They don't exactly fit with the chart

but I'm sure that they are important.

'White blood.'

'Pleasure trip.'

'The thief was ennobled.'
'Tower LL806.'

I think that's good.

An excellent summary.

The most important phrase is probably
'The thief was ennobled.'

It belongs to the complex, 'Thieves'.

You may want to contradict me,
but I think I'll be able to prove it.

But I don't think the analysis
is so unusual.

The next combination would be
'pleasure trip' and 'white blood'.

It's a bit pretentious,
but I admit it works.

But I haven't been able to fit
'tower LL806' into the order.

But it can't be that hard.
The concept was a good one.

Maybe turn it around?

'White blood, the thief was ennobled,
tower LL806, pleasure trip.'

It helps a bit,
but the whole thing lacks coherence.

I don't know, I'm not convinced.
I don't buy the tower.

Then turn it around another way.

'Tower LL806, the thief was ennobled,
white blood, pleasure trip.'

We have to take this more seriously.
I don't think it is such a good idea.

There's always something
that can be improved upon.

- But there's something missing here.
- I have a suggestion.

It's a little odd, but let's revisit
the document on the boab tree

that we found so hard
the day before yesterday.

I don't want to spoil your concept.
We snatched the idea away from you.

- What do you think?
- Your suggestion is excellent.

I'm not at all upset
that you've moved away from my idea.

It doesn't add up to much.

Please show us the document
on the boab tree again.

That was document...

...38.

A tree grows, trapping someone inside.

The colour of a wall.

The branches like bars.

Nature's generosity.

This is the door to freedom.

Derby, Northwest Australia.

That's it !

Yes, it now all fits.
Now it fits with the chart.

First imprisonment, then the view out.

It goes like this
'white blood', 'thief ennobled'

'pleasure trip', 'tower'

and two new phrases,
'imprisonment' and 'the view out'.

Let's try a combination.

Each of us says a term out loud.
Do please start.

- White blood.
- Pleasure trip.

- The view out.
- Imprisonment.

- Tower LL806.
- The thief was ennobled.

I don't think that's quite it.
We could improve it.

But we must change places,
if you agree.

Maybe the two of you
could sit over there.

You realise that's the second time
you've moved?

You moved after yesterday's
altercation between two of you

and the rules allow
for only three place changes.

Yes, we know.

Perhaps I'll start this time.

- The thief was ennobled.
- Tower LL806.

- Pleasure trip.
- View out.

- Imprisonment.
- White blood.

I think that's it.
And it's all thanks to you.

Not at all. I just found the document
most interesting.

Can we go onto the next document?

We're on document 27 4

and without wishing to worry you
it's not enough to complete your task.

You're staying as you are?

Yes, of course.

Then document 275.

At the start of the notes the word
'egotists' appears 20 times.

The last three times
with a question mark.

After the 20th time
comes the following text.

They call themselves egotists.

Recent observations suggest otherwise.

That they live only for others.
Do everything for others.

It is established
that they cannot live alone.

Their secret is being close to others.
Emotion over this realisation.

First trying to take part.
Offering to clean scissors and knives.

To sharpen blades,
to dispose of toenail cuttings.

To carry away lumps of
black, blond, red, white hair.

Nose hair, pubic hair, head hair.
Never talking of payment.

Offering help, wanting to participate.
Refusing. Not asking for payment.

Only offering help.

Oiling the necessary tools.
Giving the illiterate painkillers.

Being allowed to carry
the pot of coconut milk.

Being allowed to participate.
But refusal everywhere.

Such an effort of will.
Is a greater sacrifice possible?

Willing to fulfil
the intimate needs of others.

Prepared to wash their clothes.
To wash others' laundry.

To remove the debris of their meals,
their pus, their excrement.

To return the simple clothes clean,
without asking for payment.

Not to be upset
when others bemoan remaining stains.

Stains on these rags.
Wanting to participate.

Refusal. Rejection.
They do everything for others.

To be there for others.
Think for others. Live for others.

But the nut sellers from Pasiala
are without compare.

Not offering just durian fruit,
cashew nuts and thambili.

But themselves too.
They give of themselves.

This village alone has such
a privilege. Only here this sacrifice.

They do it for others' enjoyment.

Without resistance. Without desire
which would only be short-lived.

Beggar. Why does he beg?
Why doesn't he buy sympathy?

Is he so poor?
Is he not able to participate?

He too can only offer himself.
The sole request is to participate.

The request to be allowed to serve,
work, help, heal, teach, love.

The refusal is mute. Hostile.

All that remains is envy.

The only way of participating
in others' happiness.

This document seems
to deliberately end abruptly.

It's clearly incomplete
and does not finish in the usual way.

Yet it's the one case

where the next document's content
can be deduced.

'Rejection', 'insult' and
'Ioneliness' are clearly linked.

See for yourselves.
Number 276.

Feeling unwell.
The ailments die away slowly.

The insult suffered remains.

Envy, the only way
of participating in happiness?

The only truth, the simplicity
of mathematical equations.

Alkali-trachyte SiO2 FeO3.

In addition alkaline compounds
Al2O3. Na2O.

The bottom of the crater is
still warm. The search for solitude.

It may be more helpful
if I give you the facts straightaway.

Kilimanjaro. Africa's highest mountain.

Extinct volcano. Allegedly 5,995 m.

Other sources state 6,014 or 6,027 m.

I'll re-read a section,

which may refer
to this part of the mountain.

The only truth, the simplicity
of mathematical equations.

Alkali-trachyte SiO2 FeO3.

In addition alkaline compounds
Al2O3. Na2O.

The bottom of the crater is still warm.
The search for solitude.

He says the bottom of the crater
is still warm. Is that true?

That couldn't be determined.
But there is no snow there.

And what do the chemical formulas
relate to?

The Geological Institutes confirm
it's the structure of volcanic rock.

I think that's a real revelation for us.

We've always clung to the numbers
and formulas as technical information.

Now they have a spiritual meaning
all of a sudden.

Kilimanjaro is the best proof of this.
Alkali-trachyte as solace for the soul.

I think we have to alter the chart,
fundamentally.

No, that would be dangerous.

This new spiritual function
doesn't exclude the technical one.

We should be clear from here on

in that both possibilities
can exist side by side.

We shouldn't overvalue the human side
as we have the technical side.

By combining both documents,
you've made us see the right links.

We must thank you.

I'm glad that you acknowledge my help.
I'm entirely on your side.

It's now 5:15.

You're approaching the end
of the final night of your talks

and are in the final stage,
the neutralisation stage.

Unfortunately, you are very behind
in accomplishing your task.

We're on 277 of 318.

- How long do we have?
- I can't tell you.

Does that mean we might have to stop
a few minutes in?

The rules aren't meaningless.

You wouldn't be able to solve
the task in a few minutes.

Do we stand a chance?

The ball's in your court.

- Please let us see the next document.
- Document 277.

Two axes which cross each other
at right angles form a cross.

The symbol
with which they take possession.

Next phase, plans.
Plans like your physiognomy.

Carried out like a cosmetic act.
In search of beauty.

The first thought, iron wires.
The next, concrete pillars.

The means to achieve beauty are sand,
slate, marble, lead, copper, tin.

One man does all the thinking.
He doesn't draw plans or mix concrete.

He doesn't pick up a hammer or a spade.

Kitchens, bathrooms are irrelevant.
His passion is facades.

He has soft hands. He is their master.

His thoughts, tropical fantasies
with no engineering problems.

His thoughts,
protection from fire, water, weather.

His thoughts, concrete sails,
glass and steel cathedrals.

Red dust everywhere. Red sheets.
Red cross. Building sites everywhere.

And their towns? Their living towns?

Their city?

Such an effort to enter them.

Only strong perceptual capacity
overcomes the obstacles.

Such an effort
to enter the five parts of town.

Leptis Magna, North Africa.

Wiluna, Australia.

Machu Picchu, Peru.

Angkor, Cambodia.

Cap-Haitien, Haiti.

The first part of town, Leptis Magna.

The lighthouse visible all night long
before the arrival.

Entering the port.
The lighthouse keeper beckons.

On the quays
beneath the Temple of Neptune

legionaries guard sl*ves from Numidia.

They unload marble from the ships
for pillars and statues.

A lumbering man comes on board.
The harbour master.

The second part of town, Wiluna.

At the station the arrival of a boxer
from Melbourne.

The opponent of a sheep breeder
from the bush. Tonight at City Hall.

The town's women whisper
about the opponents' virility.

The station is too small
for such receptions.

The third part of town, Angkor.

The East gate. Celebrations for the
troops, victorious against the Chams.

The Palace of King Jayavarman VII

the East gate is immediately named
the Gate of Victory.

The fourth part of town, Machu Picchu.

On the sun's resting place,

a celebration for boys and girls,
mature enough for love.

Even the great Inca is present.

Race of the sexes.

Every man who overtakes a woman
has his pleasure with her on the spot.

The fifth part of town, Cap-Haitien.

In the citadel the mood
of the ten thousand is sombre.

They wait. But there are no enemies.

Henri Christophe
has been strange recently.

The hotels, chock-full.
Business booming in the shops.

Fighting in a bar.
There's talk of gold in the land.

Crowds at the market.

All residents receive Roman
citizenship on the Feast of Jupiter.

In the east of the town, hue and cry.
Vandals plunder a suburb.

One rumour persists.

A princess was r*ped
by a temple attendant.

But it was the princess's intention.

The attendant was beheaded
early next day.

Henri Christophe hasn't left his room
for the last two hours.

Pipes of icy mountain water
cool the rooms, yet still oppressive.

The guards, tipsy,
sleep for the most part.

On the steps of the Commercial bank,
a sheep breeder.

He learnt from a bank employee
that he is bankrupt.

On the elected's square

three messengers arrive together
with the same news.

The Cuzco virgins let the Spaniards
have their way with them.

At Augustus' Ceres temple,
the son of Septimius Severus, Caracalla.

He bathes with a hetaera
he brought from Cyprus.

Crowds around the swimming pool.

The guests wait on the elephant terrace.
At any moment the king may arrive.

Does he really have leprosy?
Will he look repulsive?

In the shade of the walls
that's all the talk.

A servant in livery
flies over the palace's steps.

Henri Christophe has shot himself,
with a silver b*llet.

In his right hand a lawn handkerchief
dramatically displaying his initials.

Strike in the gold mine,
Monarch of the East.

Allegedly Black Swan and Golden Age
are also striking.

The gold bunker surrounded by police.
Gold diggers were k*lled by wild men.

At the club, an English man reads about
the Marquis de Sade to some ladies.

In the lavatories, trivial chatter.

Scorn for the Tarentine dress
Marcia is wearing.

Doubts about
Caracalla's ability to love.

Glycera argues his loins
are like those of gentle Eroses.

Towards evening before dusk,
bound for the theatre.

All the day's events seem forgotten.

Sumptuous robes. Togas, blue jeans,
evening suits, livery, waistcoats.

All the splendour they can muster.

The grand theatre,
the showpiece of the city.

Applause from the stands.
For the actors, the singers, the chorus.

Applause, proof this town is alive.

Such faith to plan and build
such a town.

Because it will decay.
w*r will extinguish it.

Forest destroy its walls.

Floodwaters will inundate it.
Sand will cover it.

The town will be forgotten.
No one will live there.

How can that be?

He was in all these places
at the same time.

How can that be?

Can he move as he wishes
in time and space?

The stronger the perceptual capacity
the more control over time and space.

Clearly he is not subject
to time and space.

- Yes, but only in a certain document.
- Might it not be an analytical method?

- A subjective observation?
- Certain documents prove otherwise.

The inevitable consequence
is that we do need the chart.

On a case by case basis, at most.

The chart has to stay.
It's the only basis we have.

We're talking about the chart
as if it were the Bible!

Meaning?

What else could we base
our judgement on, if not the chart?

It sorts out the terms,
their value and their purview.

But it wasn't our idea. It was there
from the start and we followed it.

Don't pretend you don't know anything.
You signed the rules just as I did.

You've known from the start
the chart has no validity.

You shouldn't have said that.
I know that, but I'd never had said it.

We're in an absurd situation.

It's as if you ask someone
for directions and they reply

'Keep straight on.'

'Then you'll come to a point
where there are just two roads.'

'Take the parallel road.'

How about the image brightness?
Have you seen enough?

Enough, for sure. My eyes are hurting.
It's because the image is too dark.

- Maybe I'm just imagining it.
- But that won't help you.

Leave me be.
I don't want to talk about it.

- Should I give you the next document?
- Yes, please.

6 hours, 47 minutes later,

11 degrees eastern longitude
37 degrees northern latitude.

It's an illusion.
The sun isn't rising.

But a conclusion has been reached.
They must die.

Sunrise kills few.
Chickens, murderers, dreams.

Sunset kills them all.

They divide up their lives by it.

Their day, their weeks, the months,
the years, their life.

Deriving fate
from the position of the sun.

That's why sunsets
have such great romantic value.

Though determined by coloured phenomena.

The aesthetic quality could be improved
but not the inhumanity of the action.

Colour distortion alters the romantic
value, not the physical and factual.

Books about colour
don't tell us everything.

Gamma values, Kelvin degrees,
complementary colours.

Strong colour changes near the equator.

23 minutes later. A higher proportion
of red in the South Seas.

6 hours, 11 minutes later.

Additive colour mixture
in Central Africa.

It's a basic error.

The sun never rises and sets.
The sun always rises and sets.

No one has ever seen
the unforgettable spectacle

of the sun
simultaneously rising and setting.

The Earth is bathed in blue light.
The stars look idly on.

Several attempts through
colour changes to alter its fate.

Increasing intensity of the red
confirms the recognition

that their death is necessary.

Returning to the sea of silence
for a second time.

There is a footnote to this account.

L'Oiseau des Iles returned 24 hours
later because of engine problems.

That must refer to the ship
that you saw in the last sunset.

The ship is French-owned
and sails from Marseille

through the Panama Canal
and to the South Seas.

Don't you want to start your discussion?

On the basis of the chart
I think our opinion is clear.

We don't need to talk about it.

Don't force yourselves
to abandon the chart.

I'm saying that for your sake.

Despite the immutability
of the situation

I think you should focus on finding
solutions to the problems.

Number 279.

Why in this very place?
The address is precise.

12 Wall Street, New York.
A messenger is due. Which messenger?

Presence alone arouses suspicion.

The first questions,
near equipment after an offensive touch.

Suddenly the order to take Mauritius.

Mauritius shares are not traded,
they don't exist.

No messenger.
The order again.

At the same time, certainty,
Mauritius after all. No messenger.

Why the Indian Ocean? Why Mauritius?
Searching for the messenger.

Is the message on his body?
Or in a container, or in a bag?

Capital, Port Louis, Place d'Armes.

1847 Charles d*ck was promoted
to Prison Governor in Port Louis.

Is there a link between
this promotion and the messenger?

Then searching all the island.
Understanding is hard.

No one knows anything.
The population keeps quiet.

No registration number
for the waterfall. Of no interest.

The fisherman on Cap Malheureux,
of no importance.

Information indicates mountain huts.

Pieter Both. Messengers are said
to come in and go out there.

No success. The search becomes absurd.
Back at the Place d'Armes.

Queen Victoria.

Sudden recognition.

The Blue Mauritius.

The message has been found.

After closer investigation,

the young woman on the stamp,
a temporary ideal of beauty.

It would be possible to prove this
in reverse order.

Curiosity paid off.

New recognition won.
The messenger was deceived.

The marking 'post paid'
was forged to read 'post office'.

The messenger was cheated
of his payment.

The word 'deceit' for the first time,
two pence became worth millions.

From unpaid messenger fees.

Stamp, destination, recipient
are unimportant.

The fate of the messenger of interest.
Mauritius no longer of interest.

It can't be west of there. Only east.

5,143 km east-north-east.

Direction Island.
The place as expected.

The measurements are accurate.
600 m long, 200 m wide.

Near a palm, sea cables,
each with a diameter of 12 cm.

300 words a minute.

To Indonesia,
South Africa, West Australia.

Machine messages.

One messenger destroyed
the machine messages of the other.

Where's the perpetrator?
A signpost gives some indication.

#

Cruiser Sydney destroyed Cruiser Emden.
9th November, 1914.

Cruiser Emden's destroying messengers
before its destruction.

The square is empty as calculated.

The messenger annihilated, destroyed.

West Island, 6th June, 1945.

The location is marked, easy to find.
A plane, crashed.

What was this messenger carrying?

Is his personality relevant
or only the message?

Only the message is relevant.
The chain of evidence is closed.

The deceiver is a deceived messenger.
Deceit against deceit.

So it is not a question of suicide.

The person in question puts forward
an impressive line of reasoning.

There's just one single question.
Who was the dead man we saw at the end?

Francisco Pizarro.
Born in 1470 in Extremadura.

Swineherd,
illegitimate son of a country gentleman.

Conqueror of the Incas in Peru.
m*rder*d in 1541.

I thought identifying the dead man
would help us.

Pizarro doesn't help me at all.
He lived at the wrong time.

And he never stopped on Mauritius
or the Cocos Islands.

For these very reasons,
we carried out further research

and it turns out that Pizarro
is only representative of the dead.

We don't know
who the real dead person is.

- It's part of our task to find out?
- Yes.

Alright.

At the New York Stock Exchange
who said the word 'Mauritius'?

That can't be ascertained
from the information.

The person had his back to the camera.

- What became of Cruiser Emden's crew?
- Most were taken prisoner.

Around 150 crew members
were k*lled in the sea battle.

Only the few
who had destroyed the cable station

got back to Germany on a captured ship.

In 1847 was Prison Governor
Charles d*ck sent the Blue Mauritius?

I can't answer that question.

Only three examples of the
Blue Mauritius on an envelope exist

and none is addressed to Charles d*ck.

Have all the measurements and facts
been verified?

Yes, they're all correct except one.

The New York Stock Exchange is
11 Wall Street, not 12.

Unfortunately you've only answered
two of our questions.

On their own, they don't help us.

Without any papers, we'll never
establish who the dead person was.

You can dismiss a question

if you think it is too complicated
or taking too long.

That's no solution

just an outrageous commentary
on our situation.

I have to interrupt. An administrative
measure stipulated by the rules.

20 minutes into the neutralisation
stage, the bell must be tested.

I'll go and ring the bell.
Please listen and say if you hear it.

Did you hear the bell?

- Of course.
- Good.

Then I can introduce
the next document, 280.

Which of their glands produces courage?
The hero?

Research into their muscles,
tissues, cells yields nothing.

Of course there's an absurdity in this.

They chose a symbol of courage.

But why not the courage of elephants?

Or the courage of buffalos?
Of leopards? Of rhinoceri?

It is very important
they have the courage of a lion.

How openly theatrical. They establish
their solitude in this way.

Courage as a type of furniture.

Which of their glands produces courage?
The hero?

Research into their muscles,
tissues, cells yields nothing.

Of course there's an absurdity in this.

They chose a symbol of courage.
But why not the courage of elephants?

Or the courage of buffalos?
Of leopards? Of rhinoceri?

It is very important
they have the courage of a lion.

How openly theatrical they are.

They establish their solitude
in this way.

Courage as a type of furniture.

Courage becoming weaker
in their menopause.

A symptom of waning virility.

All that remains is the legacy
of manly actions.

Legacies more grandiose
than the model they followed.

Which of their glands produces courage?
The hero?

Research into their muscles,
tissues, cells yields nothing.

Of course there's an absurdity in this.

They chose a symbol of courage.
But why not the courage of elephants?

Or the courage of buffalos?
Of leopards? Of rhinoceri?

It is important
they have the courage of a lion.

Courage becoming weaker
in their menopause.

A symptom of waning virility.

All that remains is the legacy
of manly actions.

Legacies more grandiose
than the model they followed.

Self-expression of their weaknesses.

Ridiculous their dexterity,
their blank cartridges

the hanging equipment for hanging.

What's the point of this courage?
So openly theatrical.

They establish their solitude
in this way.

Courage as a type of furniture.

Courage of a lion. Blank cartridges.
Hanging equipment.

All that remains is a legacy.
The legacy of manly actions.

Legacies more grandiose
than the model they followed.

Monuments of people
are thoughts of yearning.

I couldn't follow the document.

It's set me on edge. You could have
told us about this bell test before.

What's its significance?

It doesn't have to be explained.

Someone will come and say
that the discussion is over

and the rules say
the bell must first be tested.

We can't work in peace,
we're constantly under pressure.

As if we didn't know
we've no time to lose.

But I don't want this tension
to make us drop the current document.

It's too important,
but I favour deferring it.

The rules allow you to do that.
Why don't you do so?

Right. Then document 281.

Bells of welcome. Shark bells.

Arriving or departing,
sharks greet you.

Sharks have a keen sense of hearing.

Islands of health, salvation, rescue.
Tips of underwater mountains.

Places where the high priest is met.

Carriers of mercy, of guilt,
of optional guilt.

The temple walls are close by. Such
beauty in the vertical and horizontal.

The only possible ordering of chaos.

Their ideal measurements
open a view onto fairytales.

The monks' names are unimportant.

Numbers.

Devotional objects of the final goal,
of happiness.

Orders of monks. Immortal images.
They will always be there.

Fingerprints on the cell walls.

Well-preserved ink, on the walls.

Fragments of prayer in coded language.

Black brigades, forced labour.
The guards hand out tobacco.

Cruel love.

Time keeping of the spiritual
exercises follows strict measures.

In places of rest, under the sign
of mercy, the cross, familiar names.

Yellow fever.
Lieutenant of the Guard. Sense of duty.

Again the fascination
with the vertical and horizontal.

On the slopes of the mountain,
the paths of the holy.

The stones know each of their feet.

In still waters, the ritual of washing,
protected from the sharks.

Heavy labour in quarries
as a form of prayer.

Harrowing,
how readily they make sacrifices.

All preparation for the celebration.

Remarkable the mortification
for the body that searches for sin.

Metal rings snuggling
around ankles at night

welded to the cell's bedstead.

This too is a part of the prayer.

Abhorred by the priests, the
secular buildings of self-preservation.

Buildings for emptying
and filling the body.

Manly refusal of opulence,
immoderation.

Sameness of clothing, food, cells.

Redemption from sin through penance.
By those who take on others' sins.

They are the chosen.
Heroes of Ionely despair.

Once again in front of
their cells of meditation, verticals.

Even nature grasps
the deep meaning of vows.

The room of realisation,
of preparation for the sacrifice.

Waiting for vestments here.

High priest of guilt.

Empathy runs out for the amount of time
that he spent in these temples.

38 times the high priest
experienced the full extent.

He forswore freedom.
He redeemed others vicariously.

The charm of this person.

The charm of these islands.

Ile Royale, Ile Saint-Joseph,
Ile du Diable.

Nature helps the priests
with all her might.

Early morning,
the final cleansing and refreshment.

The priests' robes, purple,
the colour of the highest sacrifice.

The result of calcium absorption
in the blood at the moment of mercy.

Near the door is the monstrance.

Guillotine.

Its strange name makes no impact.
Only reverence makes eyes turn away.

And bows the necks of those standing
before the consecration.

A crunching, the air is severed,
barely any blood.

The consecration is over.

Pallbearers are dressed in uniform.
The altar boys are sharks.

Keen of hearing and fast,
they are called by the bells.

The charm of these islands.
Islands of bliss.

Only a few weak ones
ever tried to return.

It's strange to encounter a place

you thought you'd never see again.
And in a document like this!

- Were you there?
- Yes, in Cayenne for a few weeks.

I happened to go across
to the islands by fishing boat.

My memory of some things now takes on
a remarkable supernatural intensity.

For example,
the rock with the hole in the middle.

The convicts had driven an iron rod
into it, but only partially split it.

It made a strange noise
when the wind brushed over it.

Like a deep flute.

I stood in the courtyard, to which
the document makes a veiled allusion

where the guillotine
was erected for execution.

The shark bell was no longer there
but I know where it had hung.

It was always rung
when convicts escaped.

The sharks found
the escaped convicts first.

I didn't meet the man we saw in the
document. The islands are uninhabited.

But in Cayenne and the surrounding
villages there are former convicts.

I'd like to know
why he keeps talking about monks.

God knows Devil's Island
was no monastery.

Because of your personal record I can
tell you there is an additional note.

It says he knew the papers for this
document have been mixed up

but didn't think it necessary
to alter his record.

Is this note enough for you?

It's a pity
you didn't mention this beforehand.

We've wasted a lot of time.

We should focus on the things
which are important for the chart.

Let's take number 282.

Primitiveness renders
everything delightful.

The piquancy of an obstacle

and then being asked to take part
as it moves forward.

Slipping from the elephant in Nilambur
into the rickshaw.

Woo, rickshaw man, Hong Kong.

He sweats. The traveller laughs.

Just a tiny sideways movement
onto the camel's back.

The camel-puller in the kasbah knows
little about the pleasure of rocking.

Unnoticed, swap the camel
for the cane sugar train

going towards the cane sugar mill
in Port-au-Prince.

The move to a horse-drawn carriage
is easy.

The ride along the Lungomare
in Tripoli is gentle and smooth.

Seamlessly into the gondola to
Sugar Loaf Mountain, Rio de Janeiro.

The swaying motion between
station 2 and 3 are unrivalled.

North Philippines, Pagsanjan River.

What a pleasure, slipping like oil
through warm water of 24 degrees.

The fastest speed reached so far.

Faster still, dusk on Broadway.

Taxi P72l4102.

Air-sprung, rubber-sprung and
cushioned. Driving. What a pleasure.

Reflections in glass panels.
Light from droplets.

Only now do the travels begin.
From the hillcrests. Higher and higher.

What pleasure, full of amazement
as he takes the flight.

From the hillcrests.

The requisite music is both
mournful and happy.

To dream for a heartbeat
about a flight to the sun.

And willingly forget
to ask the question.

Unlike what we've seen so far,
this isn't about individual terms

but one precise term, 'flight'.

But a happy type of flight.

For example, fleeing to find things
that you could love.

Run and feel that you are constantly
getting stronger.

Fleeing in all directions,
like an expl*si*n.

Or fleeing and feeling
that you are tied down.

- What's wrong?
- I'm sorry, I don't feel well.

How can we help?

Let's move on.
We may be able to help him later.

The next document is number 303.

The other 20 numbers are most likely
linked to the previous document.

They are...

...night club bills, receipts
for diving equipment, beer-mats

ticket for a rollercoaster,
Chinese dictionary

instructions for a boomerang,
small vanilla pod

place card of a geisha
from Yokohama etc.

You can easily put
these documents in order later.

So now 303.

There is a note to say the account
refers to the end of the document.

The sawer saws.

He lives from the dead.

The living die for him.

He rewards them
with life-Iong repetition.

Coffins.

One of them belongs to him.

Let's keep it brief.

If you don't agree, just say so.

The analysis is straightforward.
The key is 'the living die for him'.

On the chart,
that's the category 'Brotherly Love'.

- Then let's move on.
- Just a moment.

Couldn't the document also be put
in the category 'Pleasure'?

- 'Pleasure'?
- Yes.

I remember a sentence
from the previous document

'Primitiveness
renders everything delightful.'

That made me wonder
if he drew pleasure from his work.

Don't you think
that's a bit far-fetched?

But there isn't a single document
in which he views activity as work.

That has something going for it.

Can we put the document
under both headings?

- We can combine both.
- Of course.

That was relatively quick.

Have we caught up now in our task?

37 minutes into the neutralisation
and you've fallen further behind.

Number 304.

Plunderers. Where's the fourth?

Pathetic horse-traders.
All four of them.

Or what comics.
All four of them.

Or obnoxious comedians.
All four of them.

Facts. Cocalinho, a village
in the Brazilian forest.

On the Araguaia river, a tributary of
Tocantins, a tributary of the Amazon.

Part of the account is missing.

Nothing's missing. I've read it all out.

- Inexplicable. Part of the film then?
- No, the document is complete.

- Let's see the document again.
- With this time pressure!

- Yes, or it will take even longer.
- Here it is.

- Do you want to hear the account too?
- Without question.

Plunderers.
Where's the fourth?

Pathetic horse-traders.
All four of them.

Or what comics.
All four of them.

Or obnoxious comedians.
All four of them.

I still don't get the picture.
I still feel something is missing.

Couldn't we somehow order it
nonetheless?

- But where?
- Maybe under 'Utopia'.

- So that we don't forget about it.
- What's wrong? You are ashen.

Doesn't the smell from the garden
bother you?

No. You've got an allergy.
Probably hay fever.

Do you want to go out for a moment
so you're not ill sitting here?

I think it's most important
for you to continue.

The next document is difficult.

It's a long document. Nine minutes.

The task involves
four different documents.

305.

The plane arrives at 8:00.

Whoever has loved
knows that the plane can come.

Always at 8:00.

The farewell thinks of the place
behind the ear.

The curve in the hollow of the knee.

Only here to say farewell.

Never before thought
about the warmth of this hair.

All listen to the death scent
of the old fish.

Is that all the sea knows?

The plane arrives at 8:00.

Don't think that the heart
has already forsaken.

A caress, a forgotten one, your skin.

A boat without wings.
The sails smell of hibiscus flowers.

Never without white blossoms
in your hair.

You give away your children,
love the fish

drag them onto the land in nets
and k*ll them.

But you too cry when you say farewell.

The plane arrives at 8:00.

Sleep with you.

You are fragrant.
Hands dream of your eyes.

A soul paralysed with happiness.

The plane arrives at 8:00.

Only here to say farewell.

Love, the first and only time.

All joy until now was simply imaginary.

Goddesses are handmaidens
of your beauty.

The night in your hut,
the coolness of the waterfall

the mat of pandanus leaves are
meaningless next to the infiniteness

in which you lie.

The plane leaves at 8:00.

Blankets of white across the reef,
usually tireless

abandon their wanderings.

Farewell.

Sensing death, the coral turns black.

The soul of the shark
sets out anew on catches.

Flecked white, listening
for the whispering of the pilot fish.

The call to leave.

Only here to say farewell.

To forget the islands, love, you.

Knowing the essential at last.
If only you had never been seen.

To the west over the mountains
of Moorea wafts a burnt cloud.

Rubber, petrol, farewell.

The island forgets. Love forgets.

You will forget.

Those in search of happiness leave you.

The final exertion.

Death.

But you have not been forgotten.

Died several years ago
in Antananarivo, Madagascar.

53 years old. His name Rarafindrakoto.

His greatest moment was in his death.

He lay in the mud in the hill for years.

They took him out,
from the shelf of the dead.

They laid him out, danced around him
in the backyard of a bar.

Music for a dead man.

The dead man's body is brittle.
The corpse's fluids dried up.

His original form barely discernible.
Nevertheless he is given a new shroud.

There is no bolder proof that he lived.

Decayed parts so worthless,
they are not even used as manure.

But joyfully,
they celebrate a past existence.

Stop, please.
I'd like the document to be stopped.

A document
has never been stopped before.

The document is much too complicated.
Why didn't you tell us in advance?

I simply couldn't follow it.

Who remembers the name of the dead man?
Where he died, how old he was?

Which island did the plane leave from?

You see.
You said it was nine minutes long.

Do you honestly think we can discuss
things at such a distance?

What does the name Rarafindrakoto
mean to you?

How does it help if I say
you will see Tahiti, Madagascar

Rio de Janeiro, Fujiyama
and the cemeteries of the world?

But names and place names have given
us a way into the whole document.

Why hold us up with your talk?

- Why can't you be more objective?
- Don't talk rubbish.

Why are you accusing your father
of a lack of objectivity?

So now you're refereeing?
I thought you weren't well?

Please.

I don't think it's your place
to intervene like this.

We merely agreed to take part
in the discussion.

But you signed the rules.

It said nothing about a neutralisation.

Nor a bell test, nor that we had to
relinquish our watches.

Why were we forced
to read these printed texts?

Gentlemen, how else
would you have come to an agreement?

Can we sit back with you?

That will be your third
and final change.

Come back round.

We'll resume the document
from roughly where it was stopped.

The decayed parts so worthless,
they aren't even used as manure.

But joyfully
they celebrate a past existence.

Hate for these dead
because they too are joyful.

Lowered into the ground
they'd like to shout

'I have lived. I built a house.
A house of cards.'

'The last card rested quietly
before the house collapsed.'

'But that was the proof. I lived.'

The body is hastily buried again.
Without tears.

Relatives don't even wait
for this spectacle.

They take solace in their pride.
Comfort full of contempt.

Many forms of this contempt
are held in readiness.

Their religions.

No one knows how many there are.

No one will be able to list the things
they have prayed to or will pray to.

These many paths to one goal.

To survive death.

Where do all these forms come from?
Some have 88 heavens.

Others climb mountains
whence they worship yet higher ones.

Death holds the greatest horror
for them. They have no protection.

But they throw themselves
into their fate, obsessed by death.

To gain strength,
they subject themselves to suffering.

Ice-cold water.

Boiling oil.

Fire.

Suffering protects from death.
While they suffer they are alive.

And that is what concerns them.
Living.

It is like torturing a bag.

They don't ask for solace,
but demand it.

After bowing deeply,
they join their hands.

Or raise them above their heads.

They whisper, murmur or shout out
the redeeming formulas.

They knock at the doors
of their heavens, suns or moons.

They honour gods of wealth,
robbery, inebriation.

They embrace an outrageous advantage.

While they pray,
each one of them is good.

An astute trick of solace.

They do the most ignoble deeds
in the name of their prayers and gods.

A wretched lot.

Rogues, swindlers, charlatans,
traitors, thieves, murderers.

The form of worship turns
into the opposite, sacrilege.

Dancers ready to pay a penance.
Sects of those who hate death.

They demand their gods to bless them.

Hypocrites.

Their shouts, their dance, their faith

just another form of despair,
of cheerfulness.

This spectacle is intended to provoke
immortality to take them on.

But they must die. All of them.

Their dances are death throes.

They will die unreconciled
and not of their own free will.

Their death, revenge on the universe.
Finally liberation from humankind.

For them death is the only reality.

After that everything is over.

They know how to shape their death
better than their life.

They must die. All of them.

Their bodies are buried again.

But before they die,
at the risk of eternal damnation

they all cry out

'May you exist,
you, our gods, so that you can hear'

'that no divine thought,
no heavenly reward'

'that absolutely nothing can justify
the end of a human being's existence.'

Each one of them scream

'There is no death.
I am the only one who will die.'

They use this trick
to gain possession of their fate.

They are happy...

These fraudsters.

Quiet a moment. Wasn't that the bell?

No. It wasn't anything.

Please make your entries.
You have three more documents.

The next is number 306.
There is no information attached.

Did you notice just after the scream
you hear the word 'triumph'?

We assume it is the English word
'triumph', 'Triumph' in German.

Has it been proved
that it means 'Triumph'?

No. Nothing is proven.

Could I have a drop of water?