01x02 - Hermanas (Bárbara e Irene)

[bunniefuu]

STAGE 0

Beyond the motorway ring roads
and the petrol stations franchises,

amid acres of rain-fed fields
and wind farms subsidised by the EU,

surrounded by crops:

wheat, barley, oats,

rye, corn,

sorghum, sunflower.

Sunflower heads
like children's heads at the school gates,

waiting to be collected.

Parallelograms of reaped fields,
irrigated crops,

the constant chirping
of the birds of prey:

goshawks, sparrow hawks,

tawny owls.

Here, where you were born,

where your parents
and their parents were born.

Land of kings and dead people in ditches,

lame dogs on the roads,
derelict shortbread factories.

Far from the city,

in the uplands, in the empty Spain.

Here.

There was once a man in a suit.

THE MARIACHIS
Written by Pablo Remón

Santos!

Santos!

-Santos?
-What?

Santos, are you there?

-Where?
-Are you in there?

-Can you see me?
-Of course I can see you.

-No, do you recognise me?
-There's no one else. How couldn't I?

What you say concerns me.
I can't be recognised.

We can get the rest wrong,
but if I'm recognised, to hell with it.

Anonymity is non-negotiable.

What are you on about?
Where's the coffee in this house?

No idea, it's not my house.

I know, you practically live here though,
that's why I'm asking.

I practically live here.
Is that an accusation?

Accusation? No, it's a fact.

Mum's at home, and I can't practise.

-Practise what?
-The carnival heads.

Listen, I was practising breathing,

this has been made wrong.

There's an opening, the mouth
is supposed to coincide with your nose,

but it depends on the person.

Not everyone's nose is the same size.

I had no air, I ran out of oxygen,
I must have fallen asleep, I guess.

-There is no coffee.
-Look,

-here's a tin.
-That's not coffee.

-It says, "coffee."
-So what? That doesn't mean it is.

In any event,
it had coffee in it at one time.

Who knows when it had coffee in it,
if it ever did?

How would I know?

There's none left.

-I bought some on Monday!
-That surprises me.

-It surprises you?
-Your word against mine.

What bloody word?
I bought coffee and it's gone!

Well, move on, dammit!
There is none, it's gone, move on!

-What's all this?
-All this? From last night.

I went to "La Convivencia."
The lads were there.

I wanted to sort the festivals out
but they sidetracked me.

-I had another drink, and another...
-And another.

Then I bumped into Quique,
on his way back from some festival.

He was going to the club.
So I went with him.

It was closed,
and we didn't know what to do

so I suggested coming here,
to our cousin's.

I was practising with the heads,

but I had no air
and I must have fallen asleep, I guess.

Yeah, and you drank all his booze again.

I make a note of everything, Raúl.
Then I replace them.

Besides, he won't be coming.
Not with the mess he's in.

Didn't you see it on the news?
He's escaped.

He didn't turn up at the trial.

What's up with you? You look depressed.

-She's gone.
-Well...

-I said she's gone.
-It's no big deal.

-She's gone. She's not coming back.
-Who's gone?

Who do you think? Claudia.

-She'll be back, she's done it before.
-She's gone for good, to her mum's.

-To her mum's?
-Yes.

-To the city?
-Yes.

-She might not come back.
-That's what I'm saying.

-That's impossible.
-I know, that's the problem.

-Who'll put the heads on with me?
-The heads?

Yes, I practised
loads of times with Claudia.

I tell you my wife has left me
and you talk of carnival heads.

-What should I talk about?
-What? My wife!

We're talking about your wife.

I tell you my wife's just left me
and you talk of carnival heads.

-So, you think I'm being inconsiderate?
-Yes, I do.

Well, no, I'm thinking of the future,
I'm focusing on problems to be solved.

-I'm not licking my wounds.
-What are you on about?

-I'm thinking about the kids.
-What kids?

-The kids that are coming to the parade!
-There aren't any!

-There aren't any?
-Not in the village.

None in the village? Valero's kids!

-They never come!
-They do.

They came one weekend
and brought a load of kids.

-Their own, adopted. At Easter, you know.
-That was last Easter.

Last Easter then, Raúl.
Don't be so negative, dammit.

They came and they'll come again.
This matter is affecting you.

-What matter?
-Your wife leaving you.

-Let's see... What did she say exactly?
-Claudia?

What were her last words?

-She hasn't died.
-Who?

-Claudia. There were no "last words."
-Who said she'd died?

-Who says she's dead?
-She does!

"I'm dead." "I'm dying."
Things like that...

-Things about death?
-Yes.

-Like she was negative.
-Really negative.

You know where that's from.

"I'm dying in this sh*t town," she said.

She isn't dying, is she?
That'd explain things.

-Hell, no.
-People do odd things when they're dying.

-She gets frustrated, here in the town.
-What the hell's wrong with this place?

Well, it's a sh*t town
in the middle of a sh*t, empty province.

-Wait, who says "sh*t town," you or her?
-We both say it.

-You agree?
-Well, yes, we agree on that.

-Town. Did she say "sh*t town"?
-Yes.

That's impossible, she loves this town.

No way, she can't stand the town,
or you, or Jesús.

"Your brothers are pitiful.
You're like them."

-Sounds odd.
-It's what she said.

That doesn't sound like Claudia.

-Why would I lie to you?
-How should I know?

Claudia and I chatted a lot.
When we went for forest fruits!

-What forest?
-She always praised the town.

"What fresh air!
The air is different here." Quote.

There's something people always say
about the countryside,

rural life.

And I'd like to share it with you.

They say it's a hard life, it's tough.

Of course it's tough.
But it has its compensations:

The peacefulness.
The open sky. The silence.

Where is it?

Can you see it? I can't see it.

-All I hear is noise!
-Claudia has left. She can't stand you.

-Who?
-His ex-wife.

-She isn't my ex!
-He's blind. He can't see the truth.

-Well, I'm glad.
-Don't say that!

It's true. I'm glad.
It's about time. She was in the way.

I don't want your opinion.

He's depressed.
We have to cheer him up.

That's it, do them with me.

-Do what?
-The carnival heads!

Stop pestering me
with the carnival heads.

The problem is: there are two.
Hence the name "heads."

It's not an individual thing,
just one head.

The carnival heads go in groups,
everyone knows that.

Even two isn't much.
A couple of carnival heads is rare.

-Lucky they adapt.
-Who adapts?

-The kids, the poor things.
-There aren't any.

There will be, it's always full of kids.
They're all the joy!

But we must get sorted, so it looks like
there are more of us. Scare them.

Carnival heads are scary.
I remember that.

I was terrified.
They're coming: they're huge, with sticks.

Why are they after me? I've done nothing.
That's what's scary: there's no reason.

An irrational attack.

They're after you cos you're a kid.
That's your mistake.

Instead of protecting you,
which is normal, they attack you.

It's mad!

I mean... It's like terrorism, you know?

-What?
-Yes.

Terrorism has similar aims.
Irrational terror.

The carnival heads would be
an antidote to terrorism, like a vaccine.

That's why we have to do them.
Do them with me, man.

Stop f*cking insisting.
Tell him to do them with you.

No f*cking way.
I might end up battering them all down.

The two of us have been doing
these festivals for so long...

Now it's your chance to join us.

-You know I hate festivals.
-Since when?

Since always.

Everyone loves festivals, Jesús.
Am I wrong?

Claudia, for instance, loves them...

See? I'm sure she'll miss them...
Come on, let's do it!

She's taken the kid.

It's best. Imagine she left her here
with you. That would be worse.

-I don't think so.
-You tend to see the negative side.

The child is better off with her mother.

-Really?
-Yes.

-She's taken the money too.
-What money?

From the farm.

-Our money?
-Yes.

Hang on... how come she took it?

She went to the bank,
she withdrew it all, and took it.

Now what do we do?

Well, don't worry, we'll have to have
a meeting with the shareholders.

Who are the shareholders?

Who do you think? Us three.

I'm a member of the shareholder
committee?

-Since when?
-Me too?

I couldn't pay you once
and I gave you shares.

-You owe me a month?
-No, I don't.

-You got shares. You're a shareholder.
-I'd rather get paid.

-Me too.
-No, that's not how it works.

You're shareholders.

Bloody hell!
Well, tell us how the farm is going.

Do you know
how much fat ostrich meat has?

Two per cent.

It's a white meat, with no fat.
One of the healthiest.

Better than chicken, turkey, beef.
Ostrich meat is the healthiest.

You're making a case. Are you heading
somewhere with this, right?

It's popular
in Australia and South Africa.

But here, it isn't tradition.
Why? I don't know.

We've got set ideas.

There's no tradition of ostrich meat,
when there could be.

-Close the bloody farm.
-What?

-Close the farm!
-I heard you, don't shout.

I just can't believe my own brother is...

You're also one of the shareholders
of the farm.

I'll sell you my shares, for f*ck's sake!

You can't just close the farm!
Is that your view of the business?

I've got 60 females and 30 breeding males.
I can't sell, I can't go anywhere else.

And now without Claudia,

I'm not sure
I have the strength to carry on.

Do you know what I'd do?

Get the 60 females
and the 30 breeding males together,

and get them to do a dance routine,

with hoops and ba*ls...

From town to town,
doing their shows...

Forming pyramids, all kind of elegant.
A bit like sea lions.

And if sea lions can do it,
ostriches must...

I mean, ostriches must be able
to do pretty much the same.

Maybe the ones that aren't up to much
and they don't do it very well,

you k*ll them and cook them.

I think it's a solution.

I'll leave you with that idea:

a circus.

-Have you got a Diazepam?
-Have you got anxiety?

My heart is beating too fast,
I don't know...

-I've got Sumial.
-Same thing, right?

No, Diazepam is
an allosteric modulator for anxiety.

Sumial is a beta blocker
with inotropic effects,

for controlling heart rate.

-Give me whatever you've got.
-He's got cocaine.

-I haven't!
-Have you?

No, it was a joke. It's a joke.
Besides, it's worse.

Yeah, cocaine, you bet, that's all I need.

-Get it out.
-Yeah.

-I haven't got any.
-Yes, we know, it's to help him.

It helps you, right?

-The carnival heads?
-What about them?

-The matter isn't sorted yet.
-I said no.

-That was before.
-Before?

Before being a shareholder, the cocaine.
We're in a different present time now.

-You said you didn't have any.
-I don't. It's hypothetical.

Right, it's hypothetical.

You mean, if I don't do the heads,
there's no cocaine?

I mean, things seem to be getting
organised by themselves, right?

-You m*therf*cker.
-Who's yours.

Who's mine.

-Okay, I'll do it.
-And rehearse?

No, dammit, I'll do it without rehearsing.

-Shall we improvise then?
-Yeah, let's improvise.

You keep it in the coffee jar?

Where else?
Mum might find it at home. She did once.

-You threw out my coffee?
-I bet you don't miss it now.

Jesús, get aunt Carmencita.

f*cking hell. This is our aunt?
Take a look at her...

She'll do for this.

-Christ...
-What's up?

Christ... no. I was just thinking...

-She looks a bit like Claudia.
-Aunt Carmencita?

-From the side...
-Well, yes.

-Maybe. Her eyebrows.
-No, her lips.

f*cking hell. They look identical.

Bloody hell, you're well depressed.
Go on, have a snort.

I'll tell you something...
When someone you love disappears,

you start seeing them...
You see them all the time.

For example, when Dad died,

and you never saw
such a son of a b*tch like him,

I found him down at the club one night,

but dead.

He was there,

he was there, bare chest, shirt open,
you know what he was like,

as drunk as a skunk,
drinking from a bottle

and singing a jota.

I said, "Hey, you can't be here.

You're dead!"

And he said, "I'm here if I feel like it."

And I said, "You don't belong
to this club, Los Mariachis,

-you belong to La Convivencia."
-He said, "You're right."

And...

that was it, I never saw him again.

You never told me that.

As I say, for the amount of time
we spend together, we don't talk much.

I know this:

Aunt Carmencita,

cocaine.

I know this.

The festivals have started.

Cousin! What happened?

I didn't want to talk about it.
In my position? As I am right now?

-What is there to talk about?
-Nothing.

-Why talk?
-For nothing.

-What need have I...?
-No need at all.

-At this stage in life?
-It's normal.

-Best to say nothing.
-Nothing.

-What for?
-What for?

-Nothing.
-Nothing. Better off keeping quiet.

It's only worse.

-Worse!
-Worse!

THREE WEEKS EARLIER.
IN THE CITY

-I'll tell you what's happened.
-I already know.

-Of course you do.
-We all know.

-What happened...
-Sure.

-It was a witch-hunt.
-That's the word.

-A political one.
-Absolutely.

-I was used as a fall guy...
-A fall guy.

Exposed by the media to...
what do they call it?

When someone is used as a warning.

I don't know.

-Yes, to give a warning...
-A fall guy?

-The other one, dammit.
-The other.

-Like I've been used as a...
-I'm telling you, I don't know.

-The scene they made, what a spectacle!
-Well, like you said, a spectacle.

-They got me out, in front of my family.
-A set up for the photo.

Obviously. For the photo.

-And those people?
-People...

-"Criminal, cheat."
-Whatever.

-Who are those people?
-Who?

-Conducting a trial.
-A parallel trial.

A parallel trial.
Don't I have the right to a fair trial?

-Aren't I a person?
-Apparently not.

Because after that...

no one from here has called me.

-From the party, you mean?
-No one.

-They've washed their hands.
-No message?

Nothing.

-As if you were...
-Dirt.

-It's incredible.
-Incredible?

Unbelievable.

Germán, I meant to call you last week.
I had the phone in my hand.

The typical, "Shall I call him?"
You put it off and don't call,

but you're in my thoughts.

-I have to go.
-Go? Stay for a drink.

-No.
-Have a shot.

-I've got a meeting.
-Meeting?

-For the regionals.
-The elections...

Wait, I want to ask you something.

In what was my office...
sorry, there's a picture.

It's a small picture, Juan Luis.

-A brownish one, you must have seen it.
-It doesn't ring a bell.

It's my town, in Castile.
Where my family is from.

It all happened so fast,
I left it in the office, on the wall.

It's not valuable,
it's more of a sentimental thing.

-You mean you're fond of it.
-Exactly.

I don't fancy turning up
as though I'm begging.

So, I thought, "Maybe Juan Luis
won't mind... You don't mind...?

Pick it up one day.

We can meet for lunch,
I feel like inviting you.

The thing is, Germán,
you turn up here in the coffee break,

-you down two whiskies in 20 minutes...
-You don't understand.

-You ask me to steal...
-No, it's mine.

I can't walk into someone's office.

-It's my office.
-No, it's Mendizábal's now.

-Mendizábal's office?
-Sure, he's even got a nameplate.

Mendizábal, the son of a b*tch.

Who's in Mendizábal's office?

I am.

Juan Luis, I'm asking you a favour...

So, no worries, in all confidence,
if you have to say no, say no.

Well then, no. No way.

-If you have to say no, say no.
-Well, no.

No?

No.

-Well, that's it then.
-Don't take it badly.

-I'm fine.
-Come on, we'll have a couple of whiskies.

-No, you have to go.
-No, yours was on the rocks.

-Two whiskies.
-A small one for me.

Germán,
we all go through times like these.

Everything looks dark and bleak, you know?
But everything soon gets clearer.

My grandad had a well. He lost a bucket.

He looked for it for a long time.
Finally, it turned up.

What I'm saying is:
the darkest moment is just before dawn.

-That isn't true.
-About the bucket?

Hell, no, the other bit.
Before dawn isn't the darkest moment.

It isn't dark before dawn,
before you know it, there's light,

there's usually a beautiful light,
an orange hue,

which covers the sky announcing dawn.

I don't know why people say that.

It's a metaphor, Germán,
a figure of speech, you know.

"Turk's head"! No "fall guy."
As we say here:

-"Turk's head."
-Turk's head.

I guess it comes from the crusades.

When a Christian, like you and me,
captured a Moor.

-Turks were Moors, right?
-They were called Moors.

To serve as a warning, they cut
his head off. To hell with his head.

They put it on a stick.
They impaled it. That's the verb.

The beasts. Impaling it, such brutality.

In the middle of the square,
bleeding to death.

With no eyes,
the birds must've eaten them, I guess.

Its tongue hanging out, purple, the skin
and the flesh going grey and decaying.

Christ, that's what happens, they decay,

until what is left isn't a Turk's head
anymore, or anyone's head,

it isn't anyone's head.

It's a totem.

A punishment.

That's what they've done with me,
Juan Luis.

I have magic powers. I master telepathy.
I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking,
"This guy wants money for wine."

Or worse, "He wants to get some drugs."
Wrong.

Incorrect. Firstly:

I've never taken drugs
in my whole bloody life.

Secondly: I don't want money.

I want what everyone wants:
emotional connection,

sense and meaning.

The same as you.

That funny feeling inside,
which Romantic poets baptised as love.

Yes, I say "baptised," that's what it was:

a baptism.
I come to this tube car looking for love.

But, of course, "Who can think of love
on an empty stomach?"

First things first, madam.

I need 2.95 for a sandwich.
And ten euros for a warm place to sleep.

So, please, if you'd be so kind.
Whatever you can give me.

If you only have a cent,
I'll be grateful all the same.

Thank you, sorry for the inconvenience,
have a nice day.

SEVENTEEN DAYS EARLIER.
IN THE CITY

I know you.

I know you. Where do I know you from?

Let me see. Take your glasses off.

Yes, now I know, of course,
I know you. I've seen you on TV.

You're falling from the heights.

Yeah, he's falling from the heights.
Well, you've still a fair way.

Look at him,
the gentleman uses the tube now.

Put that away!

That's suspect.
I don't want it. You stole it.

Keep it, believe me, you'll need it, man.

I'll take a note if you have one.

Sorry?

I'll take a note if you have one.

Don't root around.
Give me that yellow one.

-Put that away!
-Take it.

Take it, please.

Shove it in here.
I don't even want to touch it.

But I'm telling you all:
this is the lowest I've ever stooped.

I've never stooped so low
in my whole bloody life, madam.

It's so hot in this room!
The air is stagnant. You can't breathe.

Germán, do you need anything?
Need to take a leak?

You can't smoke in here,
this is a hospital, dammit.

I can't smoke?
Eat your yoghurt and leave me alone.

Look what you've done.
You took the easy way out, right?

You drive along the motorway at night,
the lights.

I can see the lights,
I can imagine the lights, perfectly.

You're tired, you're stressed,
you've a rough time ahead,

I know, we all know,
the bosses know too:

trials to face, it's a tough situation.

Then the media, and presumed
innocence is a joke in this country.

-So you swerved.
-It was an accident!

An accident? You swerved.
Against the cars, against the lights.

Hey, come on, time to rest.
But you don't rest, Germán.

You don't rest because you're here,
I'm here, talking to you.

It's not the right way.
It's understandable, but it's not the way.

NINE DAYS EARLIER.
IN THE CITY

Think of Patricia, think of your son.
They told me to say that.

We're with you.
It's gonna be tough, but we're with you.

Just think the cash will keep flowing in,
as long as you lie low.

You crash the car? You think,
"It's an end. The story is over."

But it's never over.

Because you f*ck us all up:
yourself, your wife, your kid,

you f*ck up the whole regional set up
and we get f*cked in the elections,

and it's a mess, everything's a mess.

What flavour is that yoghurt?

Fruit c*ck.

You're a pedigree politician.
A political animal.

Nothing more to it.
Hold on, carry on and ride the storm,

it'll clear up, Germán. It'll clear up.

I've seen St. Pascual.

Who?

I've seen St. Pascual Bailón.

I was here, you weren't where you are,
Patricia was where you are, asleep.

The food is crap here, so Patricia
brought some butties, for our tea.

Ham, cheese, potato salad.

I woke up sweating
in the middle of the night, terrified.

Dammit, this anxiety,
this pain in my chest.

I need a drink. I'm thirsty.

I need sugar. I call out, "Nurse! Nurse!"

No one comes. I press the button.

You get a button to press. It's a placebo.
It doesn't work. No one comes.

The button won't help you, Germán.
It's down to me.

Patricia is asleep, she doesn't wake up.
She looks dead.

She's not dead.
It's just a figure of speech.

It's 4 a.m. The hospital is deserted.
I get up, as I am, in my pyjamas.

I walk along dragging the drip.

-Where are you going?
-I have one aim.

-What aim?
-I know what I want: some pineapple juice.

Pineapple juice? You?

I haven't had one in 30 years,
but I want one,

no, I don't want one,
I need a pineapple juice.

I think if I have one,
everything will be fine,

as though things will work out.

So I go along the corridor
to the waiting room.

When I get there it's empty
but there's a noise...

The snack machines buzzing:
the coffee, crisps and drinks machines.

There's pineapple juice! Great!

I punch in the code,
you know you have to introduce a code.

I put the coin in,
punch in the code: FF...

It doesn't drop down. For f*ck's sake.

I bang it, but nothing.
It doesn't drop down.

The juice is there,
I can see it through the glass.

So near yet so far.
I put my coins in, I punched in the code.

-You did what you had to do.
-Yes!

I did what I had to do. I bang it again...

It doesn't drop.
I crouch down, with the drip.

Just imagine the whole scenario.
I stretch my arm to unplug the machine,

it's a matter of life or death.
I plug it in,

I unplug it, like a restart,
you know, like a second chance.

I get up...

St. Pascual Bailón.

-Hang on a minute...
-In the machine, St. Pascual Bailón.

-Inside the machine?
-Yes.

In the gap
between the crisps and sweets...

-Like a souvenir?
-What souvenir, dammit?

Ramiro, the saint.

-Do you know who St. Pascual was?
-A saint.

Exactly. My town's patron saint.
There's a statue in the church.

He was a shepherd, carrying a sack.

-I asked him for things as a kid.
-Things?

Yeah, kids' things, "St. Pascual,
let me score a goal tomorrow."

I hadn't thought of him in 30 years,
until last night.

-He appeared.
-He appeared. I saw him.

I know what you're thinking.

I saw him. I saw him last night,
in the drinks machine.

-It's the medication, you know.
-It isn't the medication,

It isn't the medication.
He spoke to me.

-He spoke to you?
-Yes.

I put another coin in and he started
to speak, like at the fairground.

And he said,

"Germán, I'm St. Pascual Bailón.

I have a piece of cheese,
a herd of sheep,

a jug of wine.

I have three things.

What have you got?

What have you got, idiot?"

-He insulted you as well?
-He was furious.

He said, "You idiot, you dickhead."

And in the end,
he threw down his sack and said,

"You're a sh*t mariachi."

For being in the ICVCs.

-But we've all done that.
-I know we've all done it, dammit,

but how did this guy know?
They k*lled him centuries ago.

They hit him with sticks and tortured him.

You know, I'm talking Inquisition chairs.

I'm talking tridents.

And he comes insulting me...

Then he said I had to do something,
as a penance.

-What did he tell you to do?
-He told me not to tell anyone.

Especially you.
"Ramiro Vicuña is a b*stard

-and he'll f*ck up your life."
-The dummy insulted me?

No, I cut him short. I said, "Listen,

St. Pascual, Ramiro Vicuña is my friend,
he's always been good to me,

he's always been good to me.
Don't speak of my friend like that."

And he calmed down.

Then the metal arm came out,
that goes like that...

It picks up St. Pascual,
and drops him where the things are left.

The door opens...

he's gone.

-The pineapple juice was there!
-Yes, the pineapple juice.

The pineapple juice was there.
So I picked it up.

I gulped it down, you know,

with my eyes shut.
It dribbled down my lips...

I used to drink pineapple juice
after mass, you know,

in the bar in town, I was an altar boy.

Why is it that we always leave aside
the small pleasures?

Once, at a rally,

I ordered pineapple juice, chilled.

-They brought me an isotonic drink.
-Unbelievable.

-You know...
-Unbelievable.

When it comes to the crunch,
that's my life:

you order chilled pineapple juice,

and they bring you isotonic drinks.

It's not the same.

It's not the same.

It's possible.

-It's possible.
-I know.

It's quite possible,

because we know so little.

I mean...

mysterious things happen all the time.

Symbols that appear in dreams,

we imagine things, Germán.

Yeah, sure.

-It makes you think.
-Sure.

Yes, about my life.

Yes. About my brother.

I didn't know you had a brother.

Twins.

I came out first.

I probably...

I don't know...

I trapped him,

I blocked the tiny creature's exit.

I was born, he wasn't.

I breathed, he didn't.

I sometimes think
about what I did with it.

What you did with what?

With the oxygen, Ramiro,
what else would it be, dammit?

Well, can I get you anything?

Shall I bring you a magazine?
To keep you occupied for a while.

-You can bring me a picture.
-A picture?

A picture.

From my office.

My mum used to cook over there.

Yes.

I used to hide behind that cupboard.

It's exactly the same, dammit,
it smells the same.

No, that wall wasn't there.

There was a door there, and some stairs.

There were 16 steps.

I remember counting the steps

when I came home drunk
in the early hours during the festivals.

I'd count to 16 and turn to the right.

With this hand
I'd stroke the wall to find my way.

I'd count to 12 and I was in my room.

I'd lie on the bed
without ruffling the covers.

The yellow light from the street lamps

shone through the window.

Behind the bedhead...

a noise.

Someone snoring.

It was me.

It was me snoring on the other side.

Who are you?

-Who are we?
-We're your cousins.

-Your cousins. Don't you remember?
-I've no cousins.

Aunt Asunción's sons.

A fat woman,
she was a nun in Valladolid.

What are you doing in my house?

We come from time to time
to keep an eye on it.

You know what happens
with empty houses.

We keep watch.

Crikey, cousin, you haven't changed.
Raúl, he hasn't changed, has he?

You haven't changed.

-Well, did you get married?
-Yes, I did.

The best thing you could do.
Nothing worse than being on your own.

Look, three bachelors.
Well, his wife just left him.

Mine will leave too.

Oh dear.

So then, fancy a drink? A beer?

-Yeah, come on.
-I'll get the beers, cousin!

Jesús.

Cousin.

Santos.

-To our cousin's return!
-To our cousin's return!

Well, man, all right.

Our cousin the politician!
He's sure gone a long way, right, Jesús?

I remember, as kids you hung out together
all the time, here there and everywhere.

How's things in the city? Lots of people?

How can people live crammed together?

I couldn't.

I'll be charged for money laundering,

fraud

and tax evasion.

How come you didn't turn up in court?

Well... I didn't go.

So then... now what?

I guess they'll issue an arrest warrant,
but I'm not really sure, to be honest.

What's your plan?

-I've come to the festivals.
-To the festivals? Sure. Great.

I've come to carry the saint.

The saint?

I've come to carry St. Pascual Bailón
in the procession.

Excuse me. That can't be possible.

There's a big demand for that.

The committee
decides that one year to the next.

People are very devout here.
They fight to carry the saint.

I can fit you in for doing
the carnival heads.

If I have to negotiate,

I'll negotiate.

Is that cocaine?

We got a bit carried away,
with the festivals coming up.

You live next door, don't you?

It was the same house but they split it.

We were in the same club
"Los mariachis". Is it still open?

-Yes.
-I remember that club.

I remember the painting on the door.
The picture. I did that picture.

A mariachi,
with an enormous Mexican hat,

holding a guitar, singing.

I painted him with a contorted face
because he was drunk.

A drunk mariachi. That was our emblem.

I chose it and I drew it.

I got involved.

It meant a lot to me.

I wanted it to look good.

The thing is, I remember the picture

but I can hardly remember anyone.

I don't know who you are.

You look a bit like my son.

My son's clever.
He might become an engineer.

Well then, cousins,

-can you lend me a car?
-Sure.

-Didn't you come in yours?
-No.

-I walked.
-From the station?

No, from my house.

-From the city?
-Yes.

-That's a pretty long walk.
-Three days and three nights.

If you like walking,
you should go on an outing.

The council has invested money
and has done all the paths up.

There's a route you can do:
you start off at Ramo hill,

you carry on up, on your left
there's the St Pascual chapel,

and on the right a bit further up
they're doing up a wine museum.

You carry on up, then down,
to where the Roman bridge is,

if you see "Sign 2,"
you're on the right track.

You turn to the left again, onto a path

and you carry on up
and it leads to the Rubiala spring.

You stop for a while and cool off.
You carry on up.

You carry on up. Sign three, sign four.

You'll come across a shepherd
with a dog. That f*cking dog.

-It's dangerous.
-Careful.

Then you've got two options.

To the left you go to Pozanco,

but if you go straight on,
you'll get to Alto del Francés.

There's a picnic area. Have a picnic,
take your time, lovely views.

To the right: the castle where
Ferdinand the Catholic was baptised.

To the left:
Cañamaque, Valtueña and Torlengua.

-It's not Torlengua. It's Bordalba.
-How can it be Bordalba?

What you can see from the picnic area,
to the left is Bordalba.

From the picnic area,
what you see to the left is Torlengua.

-From the Alto de los Borrachos?
-Alto del Francés!

It's on the Alto de los Borrachos!

-It's always been next to the cross!
-What cross?

-La Cuchillada cross.
-What are you on about?

-La Cuchillada cross is down the ravine!
-Bloody hell! They moved it!

-Go and see it!
-You go!

-Shall I show you?
-You show me?

-You've got it all mixed up.
-Get away with you, man!

I keep thinking about what you said,

about you not remembering us.

I mean,

you might be blocking out that memory,
don't you think.

Because... it sometimes happens.

Sometimes memories are blocked out.

I've got lots of memories blocked out.

Memories of the w*r, for example.

I didn't even live through the w*r.
How could I? I wasn't even born.

But even so I have memories of it.

I close my eyes...

and I hear everything:
the bombings, the cries,

as if it were happening now.

As if it was happening all the time,
you know.

Like background noise,

like when the radio is on in the car,
and you think, "What's that?"

"Yeah, it's the radio."

It's as though the radio,

the background noise,
here in this town, was the w*r.

Some folk hear it, some don't.

For example, I hear it.

Christ, I hear it alright.

And I've lost my hearing.

This ear is perforated,
because of techno,

'cos I do techno.

And I often wonder if techno isn't a way
of covering up that background noise.

Which I still hear in the end.
I don't care, I hear it all the same.

Do you hear it, cousin?

I think you do.
You hear it. These guys don't.

These guys are too busy
doing their own thing.

One with the festival, the other
with his wife who's left him. Who knows?

I mean, who could persuade a woman
to come and live in a town like this?

Can you see any women? I can't.

A coach full of women came once.
They fled. They ran off...

So I don't know for sure
if this woman Claudia has really left,

or if she's at home, bored,

watching Teleshopping.

Or if she ever really existed.

God knows. Younger brothers
do those kinds of things.

They want attention.
They don't hear the background noise.

But we do. Right, cousin?

Well, we slept wall to wall for years.
Separated by a partition wall.

So, you know, we share our dreams.

From head to head.

You know what they say about dreams?

-No.
-No?

No. What do they say?

If you listen,

they speak.

-Cousin!
-Come on, cousin!

Ready!

-Come on, cousin.
-I am!

-Long live St. Pascual!
-Hurray!

-Long live St. Pascual!
-Hurray!

There's a key.

It's at home in the box made of bone
that they brought me from Mozambique.

When I walk down the hall
I look at the key and wonder,

"What will that key open?" I don't know.

I'm reluctant to throw it away,
it must open something,

and if I have it, if I have the key,
whatever it opens is mine,

and if whatever it opens is mine
and it has a key

it means it is locked,
and if it's locked, it's valuable,

and if I've got the key but I can't open
it because I've thrown it away,

what kind of person am I?

I don't want that.
I don't want to be that kind of person,

so the key is still there, getting dusty.

Until one day, drunk, I throw it away.
I bury it in the dustbin.

And I feel good.

I feel kind of...

light.

Like when the sun hasn't come up,

but the lorry that cleans the roads
has passed wetting the path,

and the water vapour sticks to your feet,
forming a film.

That kind of lightness.

And I think,
"This is what the key was for.

This is what it opened.

It opened the world."

THREE DAYS EARLIER.
IN THE CITY

You won't understand
what I'm about to say right now.

There's no need.
I just want you to listen.

It will remain with you, from now on,
floating, like a cloud above you.

And in many years to come
that cloud will start to rain.

It will rain down on you
and everything I'm saying to you,

which you won't understand, will
pour down on you like a heavy shower.

But I'm telling you now
because it's important.

Are you separating?

That's a good question,
it shows you're a clever kid.

-I'm not a kid.
-You're a kid, Darío, you're nine.

There's nothing wrong with being a kid.
You'll soon grow,

before you know it.

I was a kid too.

Look, what can you see?

I don't know.

-A picture of a town with a church.
-A town.

The town where I was born.
I lived there till I was your age.

You've been there but you won't
remember. You were very young.

You cried all day.
You didn't like it one bit.

Your mum said it was the smell.

And she was right, the town smells.

You know what it smells of?

-Cow dung.
-Poverty.

It smells of poverty.

Poor people have a particular smell.

You don't know that smell
and that's the best thing I've ever done.

I know that smell.

Your grandad smelled like that.

-Was he poor?
-Very poor.

And I was ashamed of him being so poor.
It broke my heart.

So, what did I do? I worked and worked,
you know better than anyone,

so I wouldn't be poor like your grandad.

-We aren't poor.
-No, we aren't poor.

In that sense, I won.

I wouldn't say we're rich though.
We're upper middle class.

Do you know
what upper middle class means?

-We have things?
-We have things!

Very good, Darío, we have things. Yes.

Look, I made a list
of all the things we have,

when I was in hospital,

so you and I can read it together.

Here it is.

-"A hybrid..."
-Out loud.

"A hybrid car."

A hybrid car.

-Hybrid.
-Hybrid. The car we came in.

Picture it, otherwise
this exercise is useless. Carry on.

"A wine thermometer."

"A garden and a gardener."

-"Graciela."
-Graciela, yes.

-Graciela isn't a thing.
-No, Graciela isn't a thing.

Graciela is almost one of the family
and we love her very much.

But, to all intents and purposes,
Graciela belongs on the list, believe me.

Go on, carry on.

-"A villa with a pool."
-Where we live.

-"The f*ck..."
-"The f*cking..."

-I can't say that.
-Of course you can, love,

look, the f*cking, the f*cking.

Go on, say it.

"The f*cking... the f*cking flat
in Sotogrande that I'm still paying for."

-"The bilingual..."
-Hey, that's underlined, isn't it?

It's underlined... because it's yours.

That is yours.

Carry on.

"After-school German lessons."

-Yours. Yours.
-"The football boots..."

Do you know how much they cost?

-They were from Father Christmas.
-Like hell they were, Darío. Come on.

Santa is your parents, and you know it.
Don't act innocent now, please.

-Carry on.
-I don't want to, Dad.

-Sorry, carry on, please.
-It's too long.

-I know, because we've got a lot.
-I want to go home.

Please, listen.

All I'm trying to say... Darío!

Darío!

Everything I've done in my life,

absolutely everything,

-was for you.
-Fine.

How can I explain this to you...?

Those people downstairs.
You've seen them, right?

-What do they shout at me?
-I don't know.

-You see them when you catch the bus.
-I don't know.

-What do they shout?
-Mum tells me to cover my ears and run.

Mum isn't here, please.
What do they shout?

-They say you're a thief.
-A thief.

-They say you're a crook.
-A crook.

They say you've got black money.

Do you know
what having black money means?

Money that stinks.

It's money you don't declare and it's...

Like stealing.

Did you steal it?

Did you steal it?

Yes.

-How much?
-A lot.

-Why?
-For you.

For Mum. To have things.

To have all the things
your grandad never had.

Things happen for a reason, Darío.

All that has happened
these past few months,

has happened
so that I can be here with you,

in this coffee shop,
having a gin and tonic.

Try it.

-It tastes bitter.
-Yes, it's bitter.

I'll get arrested, son.

I'll get sent to prison,

you'll see it,

and you'll hate me.

-No.
-Yes, son.

You'll hate me.

With good reason.

Yes, you're right,

I'll hate you.

My life will be an impossible attempt

to break this umbilical cord
that unites us.

One day,

in many years to come,

when I'm 29,

I'll be at a techno festival in Chile,

I'll walk behind the stage
with a glass like this in my hand,

I'll be drunk and drugged,

and I'll shout to the desert,

"My dad was a thief.

My dad stole."

Dawn will be breaking,

the first rays of sun will shine
on my face, like they're answering me,

and I'll throw my glass to the sun,
furiously,

like someone throwing a stone
to stone someone.

Only then
will I feel like I've left my dad behind,

left you behind,

Until then, this...

this moment

will remain in my head,

like constant background noise.

Something that goes unnoticed,

as though it isn't there, Dad,

but it's there.

It's there...

Take the picture.

-It's for you.
-For me?

Turn it over.
There's a key on the other side.

Only you must know where that key is.

Who will know where that key is?

-I will.
-Who else?

No one else.

Right.

What do I have to do?

Nothing. You don't have to do anything.

-But if anything happens to me...
-What will happen to you?

Nothing. But if it does,

call uncle Carlos and tell him
it's the key to my gym locker.

What's in the locker?

Money.

A lot of money.

-Black money?
-Your money.

It's yours.

No one else's.

Right.

-Where are we going?
-No, I'm going alone.

-Where to?
-I have to go to that town in the picture.

-What for?
-I have to do something.

-What?
-I can't tell you. It's a secret.

-A secret?
-Yes.

-Did a saint tell you?
-It's a secret.

I have to make a kind of pilgrimage.

-So what do I do then?
-You will wait for mum here.

Hey...

take my cap.

Your cap?

-No, that's your cap.
-When will you be back?

Soon.

Take it, then.
You can give it me back later.

Can I have a kiss?

-I love you, son.
-Okay.

Darío.

-Ok, cut.
-End slate.

Let's go with Cam A now.

C mark.

LB23-29, second slate,
cameras A and C.

Cut.