Lavoura Arcaica FULL MOVIE [FR, EN. ES] / Luis Fernando Carvalho

Lavoura Arcaica FULL MOVIE [FR, EN. ES] /  Luis Fernando Carvalho


I wasn’t expecting you. I wasn’t expecting you. We Iove you so much. We Iove you so much. Button up your shirt, André. André! André! André! In the sluggish,
lazy afternoons at the farm… I hid away in the woods… from my family’s worried eyes. Soothing my feverish
feet into the ground, and cover myself up with leaves, I slept as quietly
as an ailing plant… wilted by the weight
of a red blossom… Were those stems
around me all fairies… patiently, watching
my adolescent slumber? Where those ancient urns… calling me out from the porch? André! André! And was the use of those calls, if faster messengers… rode the wind skillfully,
corrupting the atmosphere? When my slumber was ripe… I harvested it as a fruit,
voluptuously and religiously. I remembered my father’s sermons. He said: ”Our eyes are
the lanterns of our bodies. If our eyes are good,
our bodies shall carry the light. But if our eyes are blurred… it means that’s a dark,
gloomy body.” The shutters… Why are the shutters cIosed? ”TO THE LEFT OF THE FATHER” BASED ON THE NOVEL
”LAVOURA ARCAICA” BY RADUAN NASSAR A FILM BY
LUIZ FERNANDO CARVALHO Don’t you worry, brother. Find the serious voice
you’re looking for Ask me what’s been going on. Disagree with me… and shatter the family
chinaware against my eyes. This is how we used to sit
around the table for meals… or for sermons:
father at the head… to his right,
ordered according to age, There was Pedro, Rosa,
Zuleika and Huda. To his left, Mother, myself… Ana and Lula, the youngest. The right branch… had grown spontaneously
from the trunk. But the left branch was scarred, as if Mother, where the left
branch started, were an anomaly, a morbid offshoot,
weighed down by affection. You have no idea of what
we’ve been through since you Ieft. You wouId be shocked to see
our famiIy’s strained face. It’s hard for me to
say this, brother… but Mother can’t hide
her sobbing anymore. She didn’t teII anyone
you had Ieft. That day, at Iunch time, each one of us feIt the weight of your empty chair. The day dragged on while
we worked with Father… we thought about
our sisters at home… busy in the kitchen,
or embroidering on the porch… sewing, or cIeaning out the pantry. No matter where the girls were… they would never be
the same after that day. They no longer filled
the house with joy. You should have
been there, André. You should have seen Father,
locked up in his silence. Right after dinner he Ieft
the tabIe and went outside. No one saw him withdraw. He stood there… staring bIankIy
into the dark night. FinaIIy, at bedtime,
when I went to your room… I opened your cIoset
and puIIed the empty drawers… onIy then I understood… as the eIdest brother,
what had reaIIy happened: the famiIy’s destruction
had begun. It began Iong before you think. It began at a time when faith grew
maIignantIy inside of me… when I had more passion
than anyone eIse at home. Me… a pious chiId… wouId set my Marian society ribbon
next to my bed at night… and think about God waking me
everyday at 5 AM… for early communion. Wake up, sweetheart. Wake up. Don’t wake up your brother,
sweetheart. – My heart.
– My heart. – My eyes.
– My eyes. – My Iamb.
– My Iamb. My heart, my eyes… As soon as I got up… God was there in front of me,
on my bedside table… and it was a God
I could hold in my hands… and it filled my innocent chest. And I went to church
like a balloon… The light we had at home during
our childhood was fine: home baked bread, hot milk
and coffee, the butter dish… The brightness
of our home… seemed to be even brighter
when we came from the village… That cIarity… Iater started to disturb me. It wouId make me strange
and mute to the worId. The more united a famiIy,
the worse is the bIow. A famiIy’s strength and joy
can be destroyed in one bIow. In the woods,
behind the house… under the taller trees,
when the sunlight created a gentle and joyous
play of shadows. After the smell of roasted meat… was gone, through the leaves
of the fuller trees, the cloth, that was spread over
the calm grass, was folded away. And I watched it,
sitting next to a trunk, the frantic preparations
for the dance; young men and women
rushing around, my sisters joined in,
with their country ways… wearing light,
bright dresses… along with love’s promise
of a greater love. Running graciously,
they filled the woods with laughter… they carried baskets of fruit to
where the tablecloth had been . The melons and watermelons
were joyously split. And I imagined, once the wine had
dampened his solemnity… the happiness
in my father’s eyes… he felt reassured, then that all
would not rot in the ship’s hold… And seated like that,
seemingly relaxed… I imagined from a distance
the fresh skin of her face… her lavender aroma,
her full, tender mouth… full of sweetness, mystery and
malice in her date-like eyes. I wanted to dig my nails
into the soil… and lie in that pit,
covered with damp earth. Come on, sweetheart. Come pIay with
your brothers and sisters. Leave me aIone, Mother. I’m having fun. That bright dust, when I look back
into that distant time… I see the day,
when I had my feet in chains, and I looked down
to avoid her face… As I left home, my knapsack
weighed on my shoulders… tied to my back,
the two of us walked like twins; yolks of the same egg… eyes looking forward… and eyes looking backwards. As I stood there,
I saw many distant things. That afternoon,
I made my desperate decision… to dwelve into the soft
womb of time. Who knows, I could have
told to my brother tenderly: ”Go away,
send my regards to the family!” I could shut the door… then, alone in my darkness… I’d bundle myself in the soft cloth
there was on the wall . And, thus protected,
give in to wine and to my fortune. SCATENA BOARDING HOUSE
BREAKFAST, MEALS AND ROOMS Since I ran away,
I stifled my revolt and step by step,
I went away from the farm. And If I asked myself,
”Where are we going?” ”We are always going home.” When I toId Mother
I was coming to see you, she stood back… and her eyes brimmed
with tears. There was fear in her eyes. ”Come on, Mother, cheer up,
you should laugh, instead… Don’t be like that,
and don’t worry. I promise I’ll not argue
with that runaway. You’ll see how happy he’ll be.
You’ll see. Mother, you’II see how everything… is going to be Iike it was,
just Iike it used to be!” Bring him back, Pedro. Don’t teII your brother
or your sisters you’re going. But bring him back. Now I’II bake the sweet roIIs,
he enjoyed so much… As she said that, heId me firmIy
as if I were you, André. That’s how you feed a Iamb. Mother has aged a Iot. I saw her sitting
on her rocking chair, completely alone and lost
in her grey daydreams unraveling the lace woven
during a lifetime around love and family union. As I saw her comb in her bun
in majestic simplicity… I felt for a moment
it was worth a history book. But no one at home has
changed as much as Ana. As soon as you Ieft, she shut
herseIf in the chapeI to pray. When she is not wandering
aimIessIy in the woods… she hides strangeIy
over by the oId house. None of us can break her
pious siIence. No one causes us more worry. I don’t drink any more.
Nor shouId you drink any more. Father’s wisdom
isn’t in this wine! The spirit of this wine wiII not repair
the damage of our home! Put the bottIe away, that’s serious,
it’s about the famiIy! It’s aII right to have a drink! I’m an epiIeptic!
An epiIeptic! Your brother is epiIeptic,
now you know it! Go home and teII everyone! Go now, and you’II see that
the doors and windows at home… wiII bang shut
by this wind! And you, men of the famiIy… carrying Father’s heavy tool box,
will walk around the house… violently hammering crossed
boards over the windows! And our sisters… dressed in bIack, wiII run
around the house in mourning. It’II be a chorus of howIing,
sobbing and whimpering… a Iocked- up famiIy dance! He abandoned us… And with a fIock of scarves
to hide their faces… they wiII huddIe, exhausted,
sobbing in a corner… He abandoned us… And you wiII scream
Iouder and Iouder: ”Our brother is a convuIsive.
A possessed epiIeptic!” And teII them I have a room in a
boarding house for my fits. We Iived with him
and we didn’t know. Never even once we suspected! Never even once we suspected! He abandoned us. He abandoned us. And yeII as you wiII,
gorge yourseIves! AIthough you don’t understand
the sinister web I got caught in! And you, Pedro, as the eIdest,
you may Iament: ”It’s sad he has our bIood!”
Cry out! Cry out Ioud: ”He’s been possessed by
a cursed disease!” Scream it! What a disgrace has descended
upon our househoId! ”What makes him different?”
And you’II hear the chorus… He’s possessed by the deviI!
He’s possessed by the deviI! ”He’s possessed by the deviI!” Then you go ahead and say: His eyes are gIoomy… He’s possessed by the deviI! Then keep sputtering,
Iike stones in a sewer and say: ”What terrible crime
has he committed?” ”What terrible crime
has he committed?” ”He’s possessed by the deviI!”
And then say: ”He has stained the famiIy! He condemned us to burn
in shamefuI fIames!” He’s possessed by the deviI. He’s possessed by the deviI. And you’II aIways hear the same
cavernous hoIIow sound: ”He’s possessed by the deviI.” And then, as if in bIasphemy… raise your arms.
Raise your hands to heaven. He has abandoned us! He has abandoned us! PIug your ears, Pedro.
PIug your ears. Stick your fingers in the hoIe! And after all the weeping… all the sobbing
and teeth grinding… go straight to the Iinen cIoset… open its doors… and Iook for the oId Iinen sheets,
kept with such care. You’II see that those
sheets, even those… Iike everything in our house… even those carefuIIy washed
and foIded cIoths, everything! Everything in our house was totaIIy
soaked with Father’s words! It was him… It was him who always said… We must start by the truth and
end with the truth. Look at my arms. Look. Look. But it was also him… He was the one who said probably
unaware of what he was saying… and certainly not realizing how
one of us could use it some day. Look at the strength of
the tree growing in isoIation… and the shade it provides
to the herd. The troughs… the Iong troughs emerging isoIated
on the immense fieId… smoothed by so many tongues… where the cattIe comes
for the saIt… that purifies its fIesh and skin. Did it ever cross your mind,
even for a short moment… to open the dirty cIothes
hamper in the bathroom? Did you ever think
of dweIving in… to carefuIIy remove each and every
intimate garment of the famiIy? I dragged up a shred of each
of us when I dug there. No one heard each one cry
Iike I did, Pedro. I knew the famiIy’s every mood… mouIding away in the vinegary,
rotten smeII… of the coId, vein- ridden waIIs
of a dirty cIothes hamper. No one stuck their hands
in Iike I did! No one feIt the IoneIiness more. You had to get out of bed… and wander through the haIIs. Listen to the throbbing and
moaning behind aII the doors… and our muffIed,
homicidaI pIans. I knew the body
of the entire famiIy. I held the red dust-covered
sanitary napkins in my hands… as if they were
an assassin’s rags. No one heard us Iike I did, Pedro. No one Ioved us Iike I did.
No one knew the path to our union. Grandfather Ied us
aIong that path… that taII, sIender oId man carved
out in the wood of our furniture. The truth is,
it was he Ied us… he was a guide
carved out of pIaster. He had no eyes,
our grandfather. Nothing more than two deep, hollow,
somber pits in his face, Pedro! Nothing else shone besides
his terrible, golden hook! I’m tired of soothing thoughts… affIicting eyes,
gentIe contortions. I want everything to burn: my feet… the thorns in my arms… the Ieaves covering my
wooden body… my forehead… my Iips… provided my useIess
tongue is spared. I don’t care
if onIy Iaments are Ieft… the famiIy’s
sobbing and moaning. Pedro, my brother… father’s sermons were
inconsistent. The worId of passions is
an unbaIanced worId. The passionate must be carefuI
averting their eyes… so they are not bIurred
by the rusty red dust. BuiIding a fence,
simpIy shieIding the body… those are the ways… to prevent darkness
from one side… from invading and contaminating
Iight on the other. Through isoIation, we can escape
the dangers of passion. But do not think… we shouId just aIways
sit and cross our arms. No one in this house shaII rest whiIe
there is Iand to be tiIIed. No one in this house shaII rest
when waIIs need buiIding. And Iet no one shaII rest… when a brother is in need. I hadn’t left home yet, Pedro… but I saw suspicion
in Mother’s eyes. I wanted to tell her: ”You are saying farewell now
without knowing me.” I could have said: ”All I did was nestle in the straw
of your womb for nine months… and receiving for many years the
tender touch of your hands and lips.” ”That’s why I’m leaving home… that’s why I’m going away.” I couId have toId her
so much, Pedro. But I thought it was useIess. ”It makes no sense”,
I thought… to Ieave in her poor,
fIour- coated hands… an exasperated
carnation stem. ”It makes no sense”,
I thought twice… to stain her apron… to cut the cord… and other Ieaves. That’s why instead
of saying… ”Mother, you don’t know me…” I preferred, Pedro,
with my mouth dry and saIty… I preferred to remain
buckIed up before her… as if nothing was the matter. I had nothing to say,
but she wanted to say something… and I thought: ”Mother has something to say
that I might listen to. Something perhaps that
should be saved carefully.” But all I could hear
without her saying anything… were the cracks
in her old chinaware womb… I heard in her eyes a desperate
cry of a deIivering mother. I feIt her fruit drying
under my hot breath. But I couIdn’t do anything,
my eyes were darkened. StiII, I couId have said: ”Mother, you and I have begun
to ruin this house. The time has come to throw
out the window… aII the dishes and the fIies
of our oId cup board…” But I’ve aIready toId
you Pedro, my eyes… were darker than
they’d ever been before. Me, the wayward son… It was not of roads
that I dreamt of. I’d never thought
to Ieave home. I never thought of running afar
searching for sensuaI thriIIs. I knew, dear brother,
from the most tender age… how much disappointment
awaited me outside our home. Pedro.
It’s your siIence I need now. Lift your bIinds. Give your eyes free reigns. Leave aside
the famiIy strength and caution. And hoId your harsh tongue. Moisten your Iips… your mouth. And your rotting teeth… and probe the depths
of your stomach. FiII this Ieather pouch
tightened by your beIt, Iet the wine seep
through your pores. That’s the onIy way
to idoIize the obscene. Oh, brother… we’ve come to understand
each other. I can see your mouth
is decongested and the sweetness
of the wine is in your eyes. Take it in your hands, Pedro, and feeI this fiIthy ribbon. This rag is the subtIe
extension of the red fingernaiIs… of my first whore. What a crazy shame… you poor, quivering boy. You’ve got such a pure face… and such a cIean body. What a crazy shame… to see a boy with peach down… with a smooth, bare chest… burning in bed… Iike kindIing. Take this. Take this. Take what you’ve asked me. Keep this grimy
IittIe ribbon with you… and come back to your niche,
my IittIe saint. My IittIe saint! That’s where
I took my communion, Pedro. Oh, brother. I lied on the blazing
tangerine-filled ground. Didn’t I surrender like a child
in the orgy of killer berries? Wasn’t it a precarious
peace that came over me… to have my body stretched out
on a weed mattress? Wasn’t this different slumber
perhaps temporary? To have my fingernails dirty,
my feet numbed. Lice cutting trails
through my hair. My armpits visited by ants? Wasn’t this second slumber
perhaps temporary? To have my head
crowned with butterlies. Fat larvae sprouting
from my bellybutton. My cold forehead
covered by insects. My limp mouth
kissing scarabs? Such a sleepiness… such a lethargy… such a nightmare of
adolescence! What kind of rock is that,
so heavy on my body? There’s a mysterious chill
in this fire. Where will I be taken, someday? A white board… and a pale dust. A silent field… lilies and the taller
cypress trees… such long cries,
mourning my young body! Get a IittIe inside these things
that IuIIed me to sIeep. Fatten your eyes
with that crumpIed orchid. With this braceIet
and these pink garters… aII these trinkets I bought
with coins stoIen from Father… I buried it in this box
to dig it out someday… and spread them on the ground
thinking, as I do now: it was a Iong adoIescence! Take it with you, Pedro.
Take home aII these scraps… and teII them how did it happen the
story of the son and the brother. Then request a warm night
or a big fat moon. Gather our sisters. Make them dress up
scantiIy in musIin… wearing strappy sandaIs. Paint their pIacid cheeks crimson,
their eyeIids green… and their Iashes dark charcoaI. Adorn their arms
and their bare necks. Put these cheap beads
on them, ivory modeIs. Have these earrings bite
their earIobes. And don’t forget
the sensuous gestures… exposing their cIevage,
and parts of their thighs. Imagining fataI charms for
their ankIe braceIets. Provoke on those newIy red,
debauched Iips… the thick fIow
of pestiIent fIuids. Take it with you, Pedro!
Take aII those trinkets home! And when you get there,
announce soIemnIy: ”From your beIoved brother.”
But be carefuI in handIing them. ”To repay Father’s sermons,
our misfit brother aIso sends… with the gifts, a heavy,
scornfuI Iaughter.” Come on, put them in the bag! As I look back on our utensils… and the family clothing… I hear diffused,
lost voices inside that trench. I’m not surprised by the clear
water springing from the bottom. And I withdraw
into our weariness. And I step back after such an
exhaustive struggle. And from our bale of routines
I draw, one by one… the sacred bones
of our code of behavior: the excess: forbidden. Zeal: a must. And condemned as a vice… through constant preaching
any waste was to be banned… denounced as a serious
threat to our work. And I face again the tepid
message in looks and frowns. And our hidden chagrins
burning through our cheeks. And the acid anguish
of a stingy scold. And discipline oftentimes rude… there was also the
children’s crafts school… forbidding us to buy elsewhere… what could be made
with our own hands. And the toughest law said
that it had to be right there… at the farm, that all of our bread
had to be kneaded. We never had on our table a
bread that was not homemade. And by the time
we would share it… which happened
three times a day… we had of our
ritual of austerity. And it was also at the table,
more than anywhere else. where with our heads bowed,
we learned about justice. Move, brother. Open your eyes!
Set them agog! Take my hands in yours. Let’s go. Once upon a time,
there was a starving man. Who’s there? Where do you come from? Didn’t you know… you can have all you want
if you go to our lord and master? Lord and master,
in God’s name, I beg for charity. -I am so hungry, I may collapse.
-Stay here, poor man. I want to break bread with you. You must have
the salt of my table. God bless you
and your saintly mother. The starving man was writhing… he thought to himself
the poor must be patient… when faced with
the whims of the powerul… refraining from showing
any sign of anger. Dear guest,
my house is your house… and my table is your table.
Make yourself at home. Eat until you are satisfied. What do you think
of this bread? This bread is very pure and good. I’ve never tasted
a bread this good. What about the deIicacies
on your Ieft? What do you think of this meat
stuffed with rice and aImonds… or these Iamb cutIets? And what do you think
of the aroma? The aroma is inebriating… as weII as the presentation… and the divine fIavor. You will now taste
a tidbit from my own hand. You must chew carefuIIy. ExceIIent! You may bring dessert. We shaII make ourseIves sweet. Eat, eat.
Do not stand on ceremony! You must aIso try these figs
fresh off the tree. Here.
Eat up, eat up. God is mercifuI
to human beings. I am satisfied, sir.
I can’t eat anymore. This is strange. You were
so hungry when you arrived… it’s amazing
you are aIready satisfied. No matter, it has been an honor
to share my tabIe with you. Ah… but we stiII haven’t drunk. What a perfect wine. FinaIIy, having searched
aII over the worId… I have found a man
with a strong spirit… and firm character, who,
above aII, has proven… to have the most important
virtue known to mankind: patience. From now on,
because of your fine character… you wiII Iive in this huge,
uninhabited house. You can be certain… you’II never Iack food
on your tabIe. At that moment,
the servants brought a bread… a true bread, and the man,
thanks to patience… was never hungry again. How could a man who has
bread on his table… the needed saIt… meat and wine,
teII a story about a hungry man? How couId Father
have omitted so much… every time he toId that taIe? The most powerul
ruler of the Universe… confessed that after much
searching he had just found… a strong spirited man… straight minded… who above all had
the rarest of human virtues: patience. But before he couId compIiment
his guest… father didn’t mention
that the starving man… with the amazing strength
born of hunger… struck vioIentIy the oId man
the beautifuI white bearded! Lord and master of my IaureIs… you know I am
your submissive sIave… I have sat at your tabIe with you… and shared a banquet of
deIicacies fit for a king… to finish off,
I’ve tasted your many oId wines. What eIse can you expect,
my Lord? The wine has gone to my head. Therefore I am not responsibIe
for what I just did… when I raised my fist
against my benefactor. Impatience aIso has its rights! Impatience aIso has its rights! Impatience also has its rights! I’m 1 7 years oId. I’m perfectIy heaIthy… and I’m going to start my own
church on this rock. I’m founding a church for
my own needs… a church I’II enter bare feet,
naked as I came into the worId. I want to be the prophet
of my own history. Instead of gazing upwards… I want to Iook with certainty
to the fruits of earth. And I can do it! I can! I can be the prophet
of my own history! I can do it! I can! I can be the prophet
of my own history! I can! I can be the prophet of
my own history! I can do it! I can! Maktub.
(It is written.) UntiI someday… a pestiIent breath… invades our carefuIIy
seaIed boundaries… reaching the surroundings
of our home… seeping sIyIy through the sIits
of our doors and windows… catching an unaware member
of our famiIy… no hand in our home… shaII cIench a fist
against the stricken brother. Let each one of us Iook… more candidIy than ever… upon the desperate brother. And the care of each one shaII
be given to this needy brother, each of us wiII inhaIe… the noxious odor of this brother… and our gentIe hearts wiII
soothe his wounds… and our Iips wiII tenderIy kiss
his tousIed hair. For Iove within the famiIy
is the supreme form of patience. It is through family union… that we may find the
achievement of our principles. And occasionally… amongst our most
immediate needs… each of you should take the
time to sit on a bench… with one foot set squarely
on the ground… then, leaning over… rest an elbow on one knee… then approach the chin… rest the head
on the back of our hand… and with gentle eyes,
watch the movement of the sun… and the rains… and the winds… with these same gentle eyes… watch time’s mysterious
manipulation… of the other tools
it skillfully wields… in its transformations… never once questioning
its unfathomable… meandering designs… just as you never
question the pure flat plains… or the winding trails drawn by
the herds on the pasture. Because the cows… always go to the trough. The cows aIways
go to the watering pit. Patience is the virtue
of aII virtues. He who despairs is not wise… he who does not submit
is fooIish. I’m crazy. I’m crazy… God… I make no mistake in this fire… in this passion… in this deIirium… I shouId have baited her
with grape seeds… a winding traiI
up to the front stairs… and heId fresh pomegranates
at the front windows. I shouId have done
a coIorfuI fIower garIand. I shouId’ve ran
on the oId raiIing at the porch… White, white… Her white face… Ana! Time… Time… This sometimes gentle… sometimes cruel torturer. Despotic devil
that affects everything. He still decides everything.
Now and always. This is why I bow
down to Time in fear… and held in suspense, I wonder: in which exact moment
does the change happen? Which instant? Which terrible instant
marks the leap? Which gale of wind? Which end in space conspires,
taking us to the limit? The limit in which all
vibrationless things… cease to be just part
of daily life… to come alive in the
depths of our memory. A miracle, my God.
A miracle! Let this hand breathe
like mine, oh God! And in my Iack of faith I wiII
give You back the existence. AIIow me to Iive this passion! A miracle! And in Your name, I’II sacrifice
a Iamb of my father’s herd. One of the ones grazing
in the bluish dawn… a young one in the dew,
a plump and agile, wild animal. A miracIe, my God! And I’II give you Iife in return! We’II drink many wines. We’II get drunk Iike chiIdren. We’II cIimb steep hiIIs,
bare feet… and hoIding hands… together we’II set
the worId on fire! It’s mine! It’s mine! The doves in my yard
were free to fly. They took long journeys,
but they always returned . For it was nothing,
but love what we had to exchange. They flew far away and I could
recognize them on distant rooftops. Among stray birds
I hoped someday… would come to my immense garden. It was Ana, Pedro. It was Ana. My hunger was for Ana. Ana was my iIIness. She was my insanity. My breath… my bIade… and my chiII. My breath… my harassment… I was the crazed brother. I was the desperate brother. I was the viIe smeIIing brother. I was the one who had
the skin covered with sIugs sIime, and the deviI’s sIobber
coating my skin. Hurry up, Pedro,
bring me the basin… in which we bathed
when we were IittIe. Bring the warm water… the ash soap… the scratchy sponge… and the white fIuffy toweI. Wrap me up… wrap me up in your arms. And dry my tormented hair… then run your earnest hand
over my neck. You must do it, Pedro. You… who were the first
to open our mother. You… gifted with the saintity
pertaining to an eIder brother. It was Ana. It was Ana. It was Ana. It was Ana. Ana… When I saw my brother covering
his face with his hands… it was clear to me that
he was seeking support. He was definitely in search of
some solid, hard ground. I could even hear
his cries for help. But when he suddenly got
deeply still, it was my Father. I also thought it was maybe
an exercise of patience… in which we’d withdraw… to consult in darkness
the elders’ texts… the noble,
ancestral pages… but in my trance,
his pain didn’t matter any longer… nor did my respect for the
ancient sayings. I had to scream in furor
that my madness… had more wisdom than
Father’s wisdom. That my illness suited me better
than the family’s good health. That my remedies had never
been mentioned in the books. But there was another
medicine. Mine. I recognized no science
except my own… and everything was merely
a matter of perspective. Only my point of view held
any meaning whatsoever. I wanted to tell him only
a satisfied person would test the virtue of patience
with other people’s hunger. I had to say all this
in a verbal fit… turning upside down
the sermon table. Destroying clamps,
bolts and moorings. Establishing a different balance,
and gathering strenght… to go higher and higher. Tightening mainly my
clandestine muscles… rediscovering at once
the beast in me, My hooves, jaws and spurs… letting the oily grease coat my
sculptured self as I galloped… with my feathered mane
flying like feathers. Stepping with my sagittarius
paws the soft belly of the world. Taking from this pasture
a grain of wheat… and a fat slice
of wine-soaked wrath. Me, the epileptic . The possessed, crazed epileptic. Me, the starved,
rolling in my convulsive speech… the soul of a flame. A veronica cloth
and a squirt of mud… mixing the salty name of our
sister into this flowing broth… the perverted name of Ana. Such shivering… So many suns… Such agony. And Ana was there next to me. Her presence was
so necessary . I thought how often,
like two children… we would be able
to laugh riotously. Spraying the urine
of each one… against the other’s body. Wetting ourselves as
we had done just awhile ago . And mixing together
with our laborious tongues… the saliva of each other. Uniting our faces,
wet by our eyes… cheek to cheek. Thinking that we were
made of dirt… and that everything in us would
germinate in the other… with the water
received from the other. The sweat of one
for the sweat of the other. My eyes were still closed… when I touched the hay again. Ana was gone. I didn’t know love required
watching over… that there’s no such
thing as everlasting peace… nor a goblet without
a trace of poison. Ana. Ana! Ana, if you’re here,
pIease answer me! Answer me! I Iove you, Ana. I Iove you, Ana. Ana, Iisten, that’s aII I’m asking. What happened between
us was a miracIe, dear sister. We’ve discovered our
bodies fit so weII. Through this union our
chiIdhood can thrive… with no sorrow over
our pIaythings… no Ionging for our shared past. It was a miracIe to have
discovered above aII… that we’ve become whoIe
in our own home… just as Father said… happiness is onIy
found within the famiIy. It was a miracIe, Ana! This arrangement of destiny
shaII not vanish. I want to be happy. Me… the odd son… the bIack sheep
no one wants to confess… the famiIy’s good- for- nothing… but who Ioves our home. And I Iove this Iand… and I aIso Iove to work,
unIike what everyone thinks. My hands are bIessed
for pIanting. I can hear
the caII of the Iand aII the time. I’II take perfect care
of our animaIs… sheItering the cows
from gusty winds. Protecting them under the trees
during heavy storms. I have a shepherd’s souI,
dear sister! I’m very versatiIe. There’s nothing
in the farm I wouIdn’t do. And some day,
our father… wiII be Iost in his thoughts,
and I’II waIk towards him… sit down by his side,
and very naturaIIy… start the conversation
we never had. That’s how it’II be,
and wonderfuI things wiII foIIow. HeIp me to Iose myseIf in this famiIy
Iove through your Iove, Ana. I can’t take another
step in such darkness! Give me your hand, Ana! So many things are waiting for us… A singIe gesture of yours
wiII guide my attitude, my behaviour… my virtues… Everything, Ana,
begins with your Iove. That is the seed. Your Iove for me… is the beginning of the worId. HeIp me, Ana. Answer me. Say just one word! Nod your head sIightIy,
it’s enough… or gentIy move your hair… or the soIes of your feet! Be kind to me, Ana! Be kind to me before
it’s too Iate, Ana. Don’t push me away,
don’t Iet me go! I’ve aIready said, I’m tired. I want my pIace
at the famiIy tabIe. The famiIy can
be spared of our secret. For my part, I’d even give up
the chiIdren we wouId have. The oId house is enough. I want to come again and feeI
the intense joy of our Iove. AcknowIedge with me where
this passion began… If our severe Father made a
tempIe of our home… Mother… with her Iavish affection… onIy made it the house
of our damnation. I’m thirsty, Ana.
I want to drink! This wound, this fester isn’t
my fauIt nor is this thorn… nor the mucus fIowing through
from my pores! I can’t be bIamed
for this cursed sIime… not for this bIooming sun… this crazed fIame.
I can’t be bIamed for my deIirium! One bead on your rosary
for my passion! Two beads for my testicIes! AII the beads for my eyes! Say ten rosaries for the
brother gone mad! I’m bathed in spIeen, Ana… but I can stiII face your rejection. I won’t hide my smiIe… if disease pIagues
our herds and crops. I’II turn my back as everyone
rushes around. I’II cross my arms
when they ask for heIp… cover my eyes to avoid their
wounds… turn a deaf ear to their cries… I’II shrug if the house tumbIes
to the ground. I did not get what I wanted,
I’II have no pity for the worId! To Iove and to be Ioved
was aII I asked… but I was cast off unfairIy. I was amputated. I’m now in the brotherhood
of rejects… of the forbidden,
the unIoved… the affIicted,
the anxious… the restIess, the writhing… of the brotherhood
of tainted foreheads… bearing the ashen scar of
sacred envy… of the thirsty for
equaIity and justice… those who eventuaIIy
end up bowing to EviI! His whispering forces us
against the current… his harsh breath
scratches our ears. Seducting us untiI we reject
the fragiIe soIidity of order, those stone buiIdings, constructed on
weeping shouIders! He is the first, the onIy,
the sovereign! Your generous God
is just a servant. He doesn’t see his own Iaws
fueI the EternaI Fire! I feeI a new wave coming on… I feeI Iike piercing your saints. your tender angeIs… I want to bite into
the heart of your Christ! I’m dying… I’m dying. And the thicker
the sheII is made, more suffering there is
under its weight. Instead of being safe,
they are consumed by fear. They hide from everyone… not knowing that their
own eyes are withering. They unsuspectingIy
become their own prisoners. They hoId the key,
but they forget what it opens. They agonize over
their personaI probIems… and never reach the cure,
for they reject the medicine. Wisdom is found precisely in… not shutting oneself
in a smaller world. Being humble, a man
abandons his individuality… to become part of a greater whole… from where he draws his greatness. It is onIy through the famiIy… that each of us shaII have
a greater existence. Only by surrendering to the
family that each one shall forget… about his own problems. In preserving this unity… each of us shall reap
the finest rewards. Our Iaw… is not to withdraw,
but to join in… not to separate… but to unify. Wherever one shaII be, his brother shaII be
there as weII… He’s back. He’s in his room. He who was lost… has returned home. He for whom we have wept… has been returned to us. Rosa! André is iII… he needs care. We better Iet him
rest for a whiIe. Pedro is right. MeanwhiIe we’II prepare
his homecoming party. BIessed be the day of your return. Our home has been
wasting away, my son… but it is once again
it is fiIIed with joy. I want to taIk with you. Later… once you’ve rested. For now… take a bath,
wash off the dust… before sitting at the tabIe
your mother has set to you. André, dear brother,
God bIess you! Ana ran off to the chapeI
right away to give thanks…! Mother is preparing your party,
we’II heIp her. We’re inviting everybody. – ReIatives…
– Neighbours… …friends, cousins, everyone! But for us in the famiIy… the greatest joy is
to have you back. You’ve brought back twice
the joy we’d Iost. Now, Iet’s wash up.
Mother can’t see you Iike this. My heart… is acking to see
your scarred face, my son. Don’t hide anything
from your father, be cIear. To make yourseIf understood,
your ideas must be organized: word by word. In aII order there
is a seed of disorder… in cIarity, a seed of obscurity.
That’s why I taIk Iike I do. For exampIe,
I couId be very cIear and say… that I had never thought of, ever,
untiI I changed my mind… I never thought of Ieaving home. I couId be cIear and say as weII
that I never thought… neither before
nor after I Ieft… I’d find eIsewhere
what I wasn’t given here. And what weren’t you given? I wanted to have my pIace
at the famiIy tabIe. So that’s why
you abandoned us? because you didn’t have
a seat at the tabIe? I have never
abandoned you, Father. AII I did, when I went away,
was to spare you from watching me… surviving on my own guts. Yet there was aIways
bread on our tabIe… and you were never forbidden
to sit down with the famiIy… on the contrary… aII we ever wanted was to have
you at our tabIe. I’m not taIking about
that kind of food. Share onIy that bread may in
some cases be just a crueIty… it wouId onIy
perpetuate my hunger. What are you taIking about? – It doesn’t matter.
– This was a bIasphemy! No. Father this
wasn’t bIasphemy. I spoke Iike a saint
for the first time in my Iife. You’re not weII, son. A few days work with your
brothers wiII quieten your pride… you’II recover your heaIth
very soon. I’m not interested
in the heaIth you taIk about. There’s aIways a seed
of disease in it… just as there’s a strong seed
of heaIth in my iIIness. Forget your whims, son. Mixing up our ideas is pointIess. Don’t try to keep me out
of your probIems. I don’t beIieve in the discussion
of my probIems. I don’t beIieve in
exchanging ideas. One pIant can never
see the other. Conversation is
very important, son. Every word,
indeed is a seed. If I Iived ten Iives,
I’d stiII think that taIking… is Iike an overripe fruit. You’re young, naturaIIy seIfish… you think onIy of the fruit
when pIanting. The harvest isn’t the greatest
reward, when we sow… we are gratefuI just by knowing
our Iives are meaningfuI. There is gIory in the Iong
cuItivation… a vaIuabIe gIory
we hand down… if indeed,
that is the Iegacy we bestow. – Father, sowing is not enough.
– Of course not, son. If others are to reap
what we’ve sown today… we now reap
what’s been sown before us. That’s Iife,
such is the current of Iife. I’m aIready disenchanted
with the current. Those who sow and don’t reap,
stiII reap what they did not pIant. I didn’t get my share
of the Iegacy, Father. Why forge on? My hands are aIready tied,
I’m not going to bind my feet. So, I don’t care how
the wind bIows. I don’t see what difference
it makes. Things can move forward
or backward. I don’t beIieve the IittIe
I understand here. You can’t expect a prisoner to serve
happiIy in the jaiIer’s house. It’s absurd to demand
a Ioving embrace… from one whose arms
we’ve amputated. Or worse,
a person with maimed hands… cIapping his feet at his torturer. The ugIy, bowing to the beautifuI
becomes even ugIier. – Go on.
– The poor man appIauding… the rich becomes poorer… the smaII man,
smaIIer for appIauding the great… the short man, shorter,
for appIauding the taII, and so on. I can’t embrace vaIues
that crush me. It’s a sad game to Iive in
other peopIe’s skin. The victim crying for his oppressor
becomes a prisoner twice over. What you say is very strange. It’s a strange worId, Father… which onIy reunites by dividing. BuiIt on accidents,
there’s no seIf- sustained order. Merit is spurious, Father. I wasn’t the one
who pIanted that seed. What are you trying to say? I’m not trying to say anything. – My son, you’re terribIy disturbed.
– No, father, I’m not disturbed. – Who were you taIking about?
– No one in particuIar. I was onIy thinking
of hopeIess cases… of those who moan with reason… of those who cry out
in thirst, passion… and soIitude… I was thinking onIy of them. I want to understand you, son… but I don’t understand anymore. I’m mixing things up as I speak,
my words are rushing, but I’m Iucid. If there’s chaff, there’s pIenty
of grain in what I say. But you’re hiding your meaning. I’ve said I don’t
discuss my probIems. It’s dangerous to cross
boundaries. It takes strength to face reaIity… you’d be insane to think
your famiIy hostiIe. ReaIity isn’t the same
for everyone. I onIy know any pIace is hostiIe,
insofar as the right to Iive is denied. There’s no hostiIity in this house,
you’re not denied the right to Iive… such thoughts are
inadmissibIe. – That’s one point of view.
– It’s not a point of view! We’ve Iived for you chiIdren. No one in need has Iacked
support in this famiIy. – Father, sir, you misunderstood me.
– How can I understand you, André? You’re stubborn,
I don’t understand that. Where eIse couId you share
your probIems? Nowhere, much Iess here! Our famiIy Iife has been
precarious! You set impossibIe Iimits! Father, you just said every
word is a seed… they contain Iife, energy… and may even contains
an expIosive force, we run great risks
when we taIk. Don’t interpret me with
suspicion and Ievity! You know you can count
on our Iove! The Iove we’ve Iearned here… I discovered Iater,
doesn’t know what it wants. It’s now just a mere hindrance. Love doesn’t aIways unite,
it can separate. I couId say Iove in the famiIy
may not be as grand as we think! Be quiet! Enough of your eccentricity! I don’t think I’m eccentric. StiII, it doesn’t matter what I say. Since you think I’m eccentric, who
cares if I’m as pIain as the doves? If I set an oIive
branch on this tabIe… you might onIy see a thistIe! I’II have no provocation
at this tabIe! Enough of your pride! ControI the snake
under your tongue! Ignore the deviI murmuring
in your ear! Be humbIe in your manner, André,
answer me as a son shouId! – Be cIear as a man shouId be!
– If I’m confusing. Stop the confusion for once
and for aII! – If I avoid being cIearer…
– Be quiet! Be quiet! Our water doesn’t
fIow from this fountain… nor our Iight,
from this darkness. Your haughty words aren’t
going to destroy now. what it’s taken
miIIenniums to buiId! No one in our famiIy wiII
mix words as they speak… tangIe ideas,
grind everything to dust. Because if you open your eyes
too wide, you’II be bIinded. Furthermore,
pretentious enIightenment… is as bIinding as darkness. Never try to set a new course
to avoid the unavoidabIe. Let no one confuse that
which cannot be confused: the fruit bearing
tree with the barren… nor the seed that muItipIies,
with dry grain! The simpIicity of our daiIy Iife,
with barren thoughts. I’m teIIing you
to hoId your tongue! I won’t have depraved wisdom
contaminating our famiIy! It was not Iove, after aII… but pride… scorn… and seIfishness… that brought
you back home… That’s enough, Yohana! Spare our son! I’m tired, Father. Forgive me! I have not returned
with a proud heart… I’ve come home humbIe
and submissive. I have no more iIIusions… I know aII about
IoneIiness now… I know about misery… And I aIso know now, I shouId
never have taken one step from home. From now on,
I want to be Iike my brothers: I’m going to submit to
my tasks… I’II be out in the fieIds
before sunrise… and I’II stay Iong after sunset. My work wiII be my reIigion… my fatigue wiII be my euphoria. I’II heIp maintain the famiIy union. From the bottom of my heart,
I want to deserve… aII your Iove. Your words… have touched my heart,
dear son. The tears of joy… erase the bitterness
of your absence. I feeI a new Iight on this tabIe. For a minute I thought I had sown… on barren Iand… on graveI,
or on a fieId of thorns. But no. Tomorrow we’II ceIebrate
the once bIind son… who can now see. So, go rest. My son. My dear son. My heart. My eyes. My Iamb. The box… my box. LuIa…! LuIa…! LuIa…! – Were you asIeep?
– Of course. CouIdn’t you teII? I wanted to have a IittIe
chat with you. – That’s why I woke you up.
– Chat about what? – LuIa, I’ve just come home.
– So what? I thought you’d be happy… Why? – I don’t know, I just thought so.
– WeII, your thought was wrong. If that’s how you’re going to taIk,
then we’d better just forget about it. You shouIdn’t have
started, good- night. What’s wrong with you, LuIa? – I just wanted to taIk Iike friends.
– What’s wrong? What’s wrong,
you have the nerve to ask? I’ve been here waiting for you
for over an hour. A whoIe hour, André! Now you feed
me this Iine about friends… – I didn’t know, LuIa.
– You didn’t know. Where eIse wouId I be? I wasn’t out in the pasture,
with the sheep. Okay, LuIa..
Good- night, then. I’m running away, André! Tomorrow, during your party. I can’t stand
this prison anymore. I can’t stand Father’s
sermons, the work… nor Pedro watching over me. I want to be in charge
of my Iife, André. I wasn’t born to Iive here.
I don’t Iike to work the Iand… not in the sunshine,
much Iess in the rain. I can’t stand the boring Iife
on this fiIthy farm! I said not to taIk so Ioud! As soon as you Ieft, André… I spent aII my time sitting up
on the gate… dreaming of the open road… Iooking out as far as my
eyes couId see. I couIdn’t take my mind off
your adventures. I want to see Iots of cities,
traveI aII over the worId. I want to exchange my
nosebag for a backpack… traveI from pIace to pIace,
Iike a vagabond! I’m Ieaving never to return! I’m not giving in to
begging, André! I’m brave, I’m not going
to faiI Iike you! What are you doing, André?! What are you doing, André?! Time… time and its
inflammable waters. The tireless, wide, flowing river. Father used to say,
”Woe unto him…” who tries to hold
back its movement… for he shall be
consumed by its waters. Woe unto him,
the wizard’s apprentice… who tears open his shirt
to confront it… he will succumb to its flames. Time and its changes… present in everything,
in every inch, in every grain… and also present,
with its seconds… in every letter of this
passionate story of mine… transforming the dark
night of my homecoming… into a bright morning. That was how Ana… draped in the vulgar
trinkets from my box… caught my party like a storm… sweeping the dance circle
with her diseased body. She controlled everyone
with her violent spirit. She knew what she was doing… with her moist dance
and soaking body. She hurled me impetuously… into bizarre ecstasy… until I saw my legs to one side… and arms to the other. My amputated arms and legs … struggled to regain their
ancient unity. Oh versatile devil! No, Father! What horror, no! What horror, no! Where is the famiIy’s union? Father! Time is the greatest
treasure known to man. Although not consumable… time is our most
valuable nourishment. Time is immeasurable,
yet it is our greatest gift… it has neither
beginning nor end. A miser who compares his
worth with his wealth is poor… so is the man who spreads
himself out over vast lands. The only rich man
is the man who has. learned to live piously
and humbly with time… approaching it gently,
never disrupting its current… always welcoming it wisely
to receive its favors, not its wrath. Life is essentially ,
held in balance by this supreme gift. When seeking,
if you know when to wait. And how much time to
give things… you won’t trip up in error. Only the true measure of time
reveals the true nature of things.

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