Original subtitles

Éva Szalánczky?

Another Way

BASED ON "ANOTHER LOVE" A NOVEL BY ERZSÉBET GALGÓCZI

MUSIC BY / PERFORMED BY

Slowly,

Careful.

Good.

- Did your husband find you? - Of course.

That's all right.

Like this.

They say your husband's in rather a bad state of health.

He isn't willing to eat the prison food.

And then there's a lawyer there

who's constantly harping on a certain delicate matter.

Dönci keeps silent. But it's hard to keep it a secret.

Oh, yes. They got the better deal.

Éva died. Dönci is in prison.

And I'm staring at this rotten sunset.

I'd sooner they had killed each other.

You're a clever man.

You've been a party member for ages, Comrade Erdős.

And what can you do now?

Listen, Lívia.

You must get used to the idea

that you won't be able to live on as you did before.

Éva's dead. You can't live with your husband anymore.

You've changed, too. These are facts.

In a couple of years, Dönci will walk out of prison.

And Éva will become a historical legend.

A hero who committed suicide. A martyr.

Hurled herself against the barbed wire. Because she couldn't stand lies.

It's only me who's rotting alive.

My heart is breaking!

That's what hearts are for, Lívia.

I'm... not old yet.

I wanted to have a child. Who will have a child with me now?

What are you doing? Where are you taking me?

What are you doing? Pushing me aside like a sack?

Leave me alone.

Leave me alone.

I've gone mad, I'm not sane.

My brain will burst if someone grabs me and shoves me aside again.

Go out for a moment, will you? Just for a moment. All right?

I'll calm down in a minute.

But don't go away.

Nurse, don't, don't let him go away.

I've got to talk to Comrade Erdős.

It's extremely important.

My drawer is full of her letters.

She threatened me,

she pleaded with me,

she gave up on me.

In the end she attempted suicide.

It's strange.

She wanted to kill me

but she was the one who died.

I'm still alive.

The honey-cake, the walnut kernel,

the cherry tomato.

What's become of us?

What'll become of us, Éva?

What? What?

What's become of us, Éva?

- Which floor? - The third.

Me too.

Sorry.

Tell me something about yourself.

Something credible, because Fiala praised you to the skies.

Here at the newspaper we deal with earthly matters.

I'm a peasant girl.

In 1945 they told me: you just study hard and you can be a minister.

Study, study, study.

And what has become of you?

Nothing. A nonentity.

Are you out of work?

No one will hire me.

And what do you think is the reason?

Have you read my writings?

Oh, "The Joke..."

An early afternoon train. Outside it's drizzling.

The sun is playing hide and seek.

1955.

My fellow traveler sitting opposite me,

a man with a big nose and mocking eyes,

keeps dozing off.

Suddenly he wakes up with a start.

"Damn it!"

He grabs his things and goes to jump off the moving train.

"Don't jump, you'll break your neck!" I say.

"Which is the next stop?" he asks me.

"Balatonlelle."

"Want to a hear a story till we get to Lelle?"

"Why not?" I say.

"All right. A chap's been in solitary confinement for over a year.

The door of the cell opens and in comes

a lanky bald man dressed in black from head to toe.

'I'm the executioner', he says.

'Oh, so you're the hangman', says the chap.

'Yes, that's the usual word for it', agrees the newcomer.

'But I'm the executioner and I'm going to hang you tomorrow.

What would you like for supper?'

The chap orders supper,

then he asks for pen and paper, as is the custom at such times.

The supper comes and the pen and paper.

And two officers arrive, too.

They sit down in a corner and watch him silently.

He finishes his supper, on one sheet of paper there's the farewell letter,

and on the other, the farewell poem.

Then there's a clatter of boots on the iron stairs.

The chap, who's usually pretty tough, now stands up,

holding on to the table with both hands, his teeth are chattering.

In front of him stands the prison warden with the hangman behind him.

The hangman steps out from behind the warden and says:

'I hereby inform you that on orders of the Brigadier General, this was a joke.

Consider the whole matter a practical joke.

There'll be no execution.'

The chap flops on to the bunk, the detachment leaves the cell.

The hangman suddenly turns back in the doorway.

'After all, a joke is better than a rope, right?'

Our man just says: 'You motherfucker.'"

I swear I don't remember ever having traveled on the same train as you.

Even so, this is your story.

I told it only once, in a select company of friends.

True, there were one or two young journalists present.

I was one of them.

I don't understand, you really don't remember or you just...

You look haggard.

What's happened to you lately?

I tried to swallow your story.

I don't know whether you remember... I got up,

locked myself in the bathroom, and threw up and cried.

When they dragged me out, I kept asking you:

How could you stand it? How you could live with stories like this?

How?

You said: "let's set them aside, like old family photos,

and who knows, maybe we'll take them out again one day."

With your permission, I preferred to write it down.

I'm sorry, but even so, the story is mine.

And the time to take it out of the drawer hasn't come yet.

Meaning that there's no job for me at your paper either.

No, I didn't say that.

And why didn't you rejoin the Party?

Because if the Party is wrong again

I don't want to have to be wrong again with it.

And after these bitter experiences, what are your views

on the state of affairs in this country?

This country is my homeland.

Whether they like it or not.

Cheers.

Cheers!

Good morning.

Good morning.

I've been sent here, they said this would be my office.

- Are you Éva? - Yes.

What noise! Enough to drive you crazy.

Doesn't it bother you?

Not at all. What matters is that I can work.

Any desk will do for me, as long as I can write on it.

I haven't worked for two years.

Someone gave this to me on my way here.

I didn't want to go back.

The earth is totally dry.

I'll bring some water.

Have you got a flat?

I rent a room.

- Do you have a husband? - No.

I live alone.

- And you? - I'm married.

- Is he handsome? - Well, fairly.

- Have you got a photo? - No.

Lívia dear, lunch.

All right, we're coming, just a moment...

- Aren't you coming? - No, I have two eggs at home.

Wait, I'll get you a lunch-ticket.

How much does it cost?

Never mind.

You can pay me back on the first.

THE TRUTH NEWSPAPER

Well, let's start then.

The weekly editorial meeting is hereby in session.

This week, Comrade Vándor has been nominated to evaluate the newspaper,

please state your opinion.

Dear Comrades, I have the privilege of appraising this week's issue of our paper.

While appreciating our results, dialectic criticism must also mention our faults.

However, on the whole, I can say that with this issue, we've made a big step forward.

With regard to the fight on two fronts...

I don't see, Comrade Vándor, why you bring up "our fight on two fronts"?

A few minutes ago, in the corridor we were talking

about articles being boring, prevaricating or downright mendacious.

The same is true of our reports, too. Why don't you deal with that?

Why are you talking about a wholly different matter?

Do you realize how humiliating this is?

We speak honestly in the corridor,

but only in the corridor.

I don't understand what you mean.

In this country, it's work that earns you the right of criticism...

Besides, dear Éva, when you, too, will have tried for 30 years

to speak out the truth as I have,

you'll learn to value these talks in the corridor.

You don't understand the situation.

What'll become of us in the next ten years?

Uncertainty prevails.

Why, Imre Nagy was sentenced recently.

Silence, please.

Let Éva give us her opinion.

I beg your pardon, but our task here should be to record the truth.

If we fail to do so, then I believe there are two reasons.

The first reason is that we journalists don't know enough about life

and never will, because those who could help us only mislead us.

I'm thinking of county party secretaries, factory managers,

cultural department chiefs.

And as for actual work, believe me, Comrade Vándor,

I'm longing to be able to work,

I've already finished a reportage on the 1956 village events.

It's based on a village party secretary who admits that in 1956,

over four months, forced 1500 people to join the co-operative.

And what was the result?

People came to hate the Party and him too,

and that's why the revolution broke out.

The counter-revolution!

A storm hurls filth high in the air, but also sweeps it away.

Éva, you will hold next week's review.

But first, we will specify the concepts of "filth" and "storm".

Why...why did you take my underwear?

Don't, please...

It's very hard, you don't understand.

You see, there are...

some feelings...

And it's difficult for me to...

I...

- Hello. - Hello.

Excuse me for bothering you.

Hello Éva.

Why are you here?

I'm sorry, I'd like to have a word with you.

Come in.

When did you get out?

A month ago.

Was it awful?

I was often cold.

We had a sadistic warden woman.

She made us strip to our nighties even in the depth of winter.

And now you need money?

No, I work in the textile factory.

They gave me a bunk in their hostel.

May I have a drop of rum?

Help yourself.

Just imagine, they assigned two detectives

to recruit me as an informer.

They're constantly on my trail.

- Now? Here? - No, don't get frightened.

I managed to give them slip today.

- They promise me everything. - Like what?

A flat, a job in my trade, and they're blackmailing me.

Not only for my political past...

but also because I love women.

I hope you didn't come because of that?

Éva, Éva!

I can't get rid of them.

What should I do?

Oh, never mind...

And you, how are you?

Have you got someone?

Why do you ask?

Well, I just thought that...

you and I... that...

the two of us...

maybe we could again...

Oh, leave me alone!

I don't want you, Magda, understand? No!

I don't love you.

Help me.

You can spend the night here if you like.

Pull yourself together and try to calm down.

Hear me?

My train is leaving soon.

- Isn't there another train later? - No.

The trouble is that I have to change trains.

Only a branch-train comes on to us.

And what if you left tomorrow?

I can't.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and my mother is expecting me at home.

Pity...

Do you know the bloke?

He's been here with the blonde

but I've never seen the little one before.

- Is she at the paper, too? - Of course.

I bet the three of them are writing a novel together!

Cheer up, girls!

Christmas comes but once a year and it doesn't last long.

G. B. Shaw said so. The sage!

- I like Christmas. - Of course you do.

You have no wife, no mother-in-law, no children.

You live like a knight errant in the Middle Ages.

Or like a solitary star, always solitary,

and uninhabitable.

I won't be a minute. Will you wait?

Okay, but hurry...

You said you didn't have any money.

Oh, never mind, don't...

You can pay me back.

You may need it at night. Bye.

Two more cognacs.

Fiala's gone?

I don't know.

Oh, Lívia, I love you so much. I love you, you know, don't you?

Oh, I've smudged your make-up...

Do you love me a little?

Kiss me.

Just look at that, Teri!

Poor wretches.

This is awful.

- Awfully bad? - No...

Awfully good...

Police.

Your identity cards, please.

You're a married woman, why do you get mixed up in something like this?

It's my business.

If we catch you at it again,

we'll tell your husband, understand?

And your boss, too.

Go home.

You're coming with us.

I don't know whether you have the right to treat me like this.

We aren't in America. Get a move on.

- Hello. - What are you doing here?

Lívia changed places with me.

Why?

No idea.

Haven't you got anything to do?

Oh, I do. Thanks for reminding me.

I've got a lot to do.

Lívia.

Sorry, but this isn't the best moment.

Listen. I'm alone, come over and let's talk.

- Okay? - A little bit later. Okay?

Hallo?

Mara? Come to my office for a moment, please.

Yes, Comrade Erdős, I'm coming.

I'll be at the old man's if anyone wants me.

Lívia, you know very well that nothing can happen between us

that you don't want to happen.

Leave me alone, please.

I'm afraid of you.

I don't want to ruin my life.

What do you mean you're afraid?

What are you afraid of? Now you start being afraid?

Come, round, please, and let's talk it over,

We can't leave it like this!

Please, please, just leave me alone!

Lívia, this just came up?

You should've thought first. After all, you started it.

That isn't true. You wanted it.

I'm quite sure that it was you who wanted it.

I've... I've never done such a thing before.

But you just sit in the corner like a spider

waiting for the fly to get caught.

You already have experience in this.

But I don't want any of it.

Put me through to Captain Ödön Horváth, please.

His wife.

Yes, I'll hold.

Dönci, couldn't you come for me now?

All right. We'll meet at home.

Hello sweetheart. I'm sorry, they didn't let me go.

It's all right.

Is anything the matter at the paper?

No.

It doesn't matter.

What about the maneuver you said was so very important?

It was horrible.

These people aren't soldiers, they're pop singers, entertainers,

step dancers, student actors...

Gypsy vendors at the flea market or pansy whores at the public baths.

You can't make them do anything!

You Napoleon, you!

Where shall we have supper? At the Kárpátia? Or the János Cellar?

As you like...

As long as I don't have to wear a suit because my officer is in uniform.

I'm not going in uniform.

Then... then I can put on my slit skirt, can't I?

I often think that you're on your own too much when I'm on duty.

I don't know what's the matter with me... I've been so drowsy lately...

Well, let's go...

- Here you go. - No, that's too strong for me.

- Take it please. - Thank you.

"Wait for me after closing time."

But be careful, son!

What's up? Are you better, papa?

It would be better to change all this.

And?

And... You might bring a drop for me, too...

Come here, kids.

- Thanks. - Your health.

Sit down, Lívia.

Tomorrow the three of you go down to Szolnok County.

And look around a little.

I... I can't go...

Why not?

I've got an appointment with my doctor for a check-up.

Nothing serious, I hope?

I don't think so, at least I hope not...

What's the matter with you, Lívia?

Nothing, I'm not well. I feel like I'm choking...

Not to worry.

Ugh, idiot.

What's your complaint?

That I can't sleep. I can't sleep.

Okay, then you stay and the two of you go to the country.

- And then we'll publish it? - We'll try.

Hello.

Look, they're coming.

How come you chose the co-op?

It chose me.

How did you join? Voluntarily and eagerly, right?

You know better than I, Comrade, about the wheels of history.

Like bulldozer tracks.

It's better to climb up in good time.

Were you the only candidate?

In the village, yes.

The district also sees you as an important personality, Comrade Chairman.

What's up?

Come to the cow-shed, we've got a problem there.

And why did you join the co-op?

My brother is the chairman.

What was it you said about the Hotel Astoria?

Nothing...

Cigarette?

That won't be strong enough for me.

No need for an evening dress, Éva.

Let's meet here in five minutes.

All right.

I'm glad you're here.

Now so am I...

Wait...

Do you regret it?

It's so strange...

Tonight I'll...

Good...

Lívia... my beautiful one...

What are you doing? Don't keep leaning back.

- Cheers. - Cheers.

I hope you write nice things about us!

Let's drink to the Comrade Chairman's health!

I hope he won't get too conceited.

Oh, I'm not afraid of that.

The simple truth is, Comrade, that I was born to be a chairman.

And what was your brother born to be?

A bloody idiot, my dear Comrade!

We're witnessing great times, Éva.

Comrade Instructor, what was the story about the Astoria?

Would you tell me?

What Astoria?

When the men were taken to a hotel in Budapest.

Oh, in Budapest...

Well, the comrades organized a political course for the

private farmers of some importance to win them over to the co-operative.

I see.

- And the chairman was there, too? - Of course he was there.

- His brother, too? - Yes, him too.

When it comes to this year's final accounts,

he won't be the boss any longer, I think.

Why not?

He got the people to join the co-op; it's done, he can go...

About twenty of us whose word carried weight were taken up to town.

Then a comrade told us:

Well, folks, you won't budge from this hotel,

but as long as you're here, you can eat and drink all you want.

- And the political seminary? - It wasn't long.

They said: Folks, you won't leave this place

until you've made up your minds.

He was standing in front of the revolting door.

After a week we signed it.

First my brother, then Béci Nikai,

then Bandi Pozsár, then, in then end, I signed it, too.

Stop it, damn you.

Bloody hell!

Comrade Chairman...

Were you born to be chairman at the Astoria?

You listen here, Comrade.

Let me tell you something.

Once, I was a heroic Hungarian soldier at the battle of the river Don.

Then I was a stinking Horthy soldier in the P.O.W. camp.

Then I was a new landholder.

Then I became a kulak hireling.

In 1956, I also carried the flag.

Fine. And I paid for it.

And now I'm the chairman.

Because I deserve it by now.

Let's pray...

Who knows what fate holds in store

On a winding path through the dark night

Lead your nation to victory once more,

Prince Csaba, on the path of the stars."

What's the matter?

I'm tense, I can't sleep.

One more cognac.

A cognac.

"I was born to be a chairman."

That's good. That's perfect.

You found the right man, the story, and the headline.

Congratulations.

- So it can run? - No.

Well then, I'll go. Goodbye.

No.

Look, Éva,

your article is very good. And it's very important to us,

but without the Astoria business.

That little episode gives the impression that we're still in the fifties.

No, Éva, we aren't there any more

and we're getting further and further away from those times.

Comrade Erdős, what guarantee is there that we aren't in there any more?

Us: those of us who don't want the fifties back.

Comrade Erdős, you think that in the fifties, people wanted the fifties?

Stop this nonsense, Éva. You're an intelligent woman.

The only way that you and I can carry on this paper

and do what we have to do

if we're able to accept an X number of clever compromises.

All that we can reasonably argue about

is the final value we should give to that X.

And you think the Astoria story goes beyond...

Yes.

Why? How long are we going to go on shutting everything that's unpleasant

in the drawer or sweeping it under the carpet.

Oh, Éva, as long as we have to.

As long as the situation requires it.

What situation?

You really don't feel it?

You really don't see that here and now there's a limit to the truth we can speak?

Damn you!

Let me ask you something.

You really don't feel that there's some limit to the lies written and spoken?

And where's that limit, I wonder?

Don't you lecture me on truthfulness.

I've suffered more for truth than you!

I've not only learned when to open my mouth,

but also when to keep it shut.

And when it's the moment to crush someone's guts.

Go back to the other room and correct your piece.

I'll see you back here in half an hour.

Bloody hell.

Thank you,

but I can't write lies.

Goodbye.

Wait.

I'll edit your article myself

and I'll have it typeset immediately.

I'd like to read it in tomorrow's issue.

If you agree, the car's waiting downstairs

and you can be off to work on your next report.

You're quite someone, aren't you, Comrade Erdős?

Goodbye.

Where are you going?

For a walk on Margaret Island, or to the Three Hussars.

Or home to my mummy.

Or to Moscow! To New York! The Moon!

It's none of your business.

- A drink? - No, thanks.

Is your heart still giving you trouble?

Why did you summon me?

- Did you see this piece? - Yes.

I edited it and had it typeset.

But how could this get published?

"I was born to be a chairman."

These are plain facts, we have to face them.

- Could I see the manuscript? - Naturally.

When you start the disciplinary action.

That's a long way off.

Luckily I've got a copy.

"For now, it's only the co-op members of a village

who elect their own leaders.

But what a revolutionary deed it would be to extend this practice

to every community.

To factories, offices

and upwards, too, so that the leaders of towns, districts, counties and the nation

would be elected from below,

by secret ballot."

The rotten lesbian bitch.

And you back her up?

Please note: I didn't hire this girl to work in bed,

but at a desk.

Besides, I deleted the part of the article that you just read, as you can see.

Luckily for you.

But this is only one part of the matter.

The other part is that at our editorial meetings,

your staff use words like: "the October events"

and "1956 revolution".

I won't tolerate it.

As of Monday, I don't want to see Éva Szalánczky at the paper anymore!

And you are going to fire her!

The Szalánczky girl, that lesbian bitch, as you say,

needn't be kicked out by anybody on Monday.

- She's left of her own accord. - Thank God.

But in a couple of years you'll sadly regret it.

You'll all regret it.

Because you'll be surrounded by a gang of arse-lickers,

spineless scribblers, nonentities who barely have enough sense to write

what you want to read.

You'll be swept away like litter.

By whom?

By me, I dare hope.

All right. Now we really must have a drink.

Gyula, have you heard something?

All I know is that things can't go on like this.

What?

There was this old friend of mine.

He was always biting his nails.

He couldn't get rid of this bad habit.

In the end, he went to a world-famous psychiatrist who cured him with hypnosis.

He put my friend to sleep in the usual way and kept repeating:

"Nail-biting is a repulsive habit.

It's a very disgusting habit.

I'll never bite my nails again."

And what happened? Miraculously, he stopped biting his nails.

A month went by, then two months...

then my friend started doing this.

What you're doing is the same thing. Treating the symptoms.

What do you mean, "what you're doing"?

- Well... - Who is "you"?

Let's say, what we or I do, or can do.

It's true that at present, we can give orders to the patient - an entire nation.

We can say: "don't do this or that".

But what'll happen in five or ten years, or let's say, in twenty years,

when the illness is back again?

Who'll take the responsibility?

My dear fellow, dear Gyula...

My dear friend, you're here under a misconception!

But watch out.

We didn't suffer all the misery of 1956 just to let comrades like you

ruin the country once again.

And may the Lord have mercy on the party which relies on you, or the likes of you.

"A month ago, I couldn't keep silent any longer,

and in my weakness and despair, I wrote you a letter.

The paper was burning under my pen.

Had I addressed the letter to the Opera House,

the stone lion would have filled up with blood, and stepped off its pedestal.

You could bear not answering.

I began to hate you. I waited two weeks, then I took a train into town.

From the station, I rang the paper.

They told me you were on holiday.

I went and sat on the bench in front of your house,

waiting for you to come home so I could strangle you.

I sat on that bench for four days waiting for you to come home.

I realized that I hated the pigeons, that I hated the postman,

and I wished both of you were dead...

I wanted you to die.

I wanted you to die.

Good Lord, what all is in me... that I could even kill.

Good Lord, what all is in me... that I could even kill.

I dreamt that I was a little girl again

and I had to dance on burning straw... It was some kind of punishment...

I was crying and laughing, my face was tear stained

and I cried out to you: the straw is burning, the straw is hot...

Then I saw myself, sick and feverish, calling out to you.

I got burnt up.

Tell me, tell me, what now, what'll become of us now?"

Good morning.

Hello.

Good morning.

She's a colleague from Budapest.

Welcome.

Have a seat, the flatbread will be ready in a moment.

Come in.

I feel so small near you.

You are small, my little one.

When I was born, I weighed 2.7 kilos.

There was hardly any life in me.

On Sundays, they'd put me in a pram...

they'd shove the pram out into the yard,

so that I wouldn't disturb the festive lunch if I happened to die.

But I didn't die.

One can't simply not love me.

You hooked me, too, for yourself.

No, that's not true, you hooked me.

Temptress!

And do you know what you are?

Honey-cake...

A walnut kernel, a cherry tomato!

I'll devour you...

How nice it would be to walk with you naked!

Come here.

I'll never let you go again.

Oh, love me, love me...

I'll be waiting for you,

I'll wait for you all night.

PASTRY SHOP

"The night is dark, the father is nowhere to be seen.

He stands in the dewy grass.

Thick and deep. The child cries.

The fog flies far away."

Yes. It's beautiful. Really.

But here it's not quite accurate.

This, for instance, is mistranslated. "Vapour".

"Vapour" has nothing to do with "fog". Rather "mist" or "haze".

"Away the vapour flew". In Hungarian, this simply means...

- Excuse me! - What can I get you?

Excuse me, your blouse is undone.

- Does it disturb you? - Yes.

And what else do you want, sir?

A coffee, please.

"The child was wet of dew."

Not the grass, the child.

Excuse me.

Hail to the vice-squad. Very good, be adamant.

When you go to see a woman, don't forget your whip.

All I can forget now is my umbrella.

And my spectacles.

- Lívia? - Yes.

Well, dear boy, in this situation it's very hard to know what to do.

Lívia likes to play.

True. But I can play, too.

And this could be one hell of a rough game.

And what do you think my role would be in it?

Help us. You know both of us.

And that little louse, too. How could she be eliminated?

You can't switch off that little louse like a radio.

You can't even turn the volume down.

So what can we do...

Exactly. That's what I'm asking. What can we do?

All we can do is pray.

- Tell me something about him. - What do you want to know?

What's he like?

Do you think that'll help us?

Has he got somebody?

I mean apart from you.

A wife, children, a parrot, I don't know...

That's absolutely unimportant.

All right, I'll find out. Where does he live?

Far away.

And you want to go far away right now?

Leave me alone!

I'm coming with you.

I'll talk to him.

Wait till morning at least.

This is too sudden. I can't think it over.

But if you leave me alone now,

I can't answer for myself.

I'm not going to stay alone in this empty flat.

I couldn't bear it.

Then go somewhere that's still open, among people.

Don't make plans for me!

You won't leave me.

You won't shake me off.

I love you. And that's that.

I haven't got anyone apart from you. And I never will.

I decided that long ago.

I'm built that way and that's that!

I've cooled down.

These things aren't so complicated.

They are... they are simply facts.

You won't go away from here.

Nor will you run away!

At least not from me.

Everything will be fine, you'll see.

I want to live with him. Understand?

What if I raped you?

Would he want you even then?

What good would it do to you if you raped me?

It's you who would suffer. I'd see to that!

Do you believe that?

Yes. I believe it.

There you're right.

I just don't believe that you love him.

You're mistaken. I need him.

I don't need you.

I need him more than I need you.

And this woman, this champion of truth, does she have anything to do with it?

Oh, please. Let's stop play acting.

I'm fed up with you pretending not to know that it's Éva we're talking about.

And I pretend I don't know that you know.

I'm fed up with this.

I'm fed up with you!

Tell me... do I disgust you?

I asked you something. Do I really disgust you so much?

No.

You just don't interest me.

All I can think of now is that she's waiting for me.

That I promised her... And she's waiting...

Damn her, let her rot were she is...

Try to understand, it's very good with her...

And you don't count anymore, I can't love you.

I can't love you, try to understand.

I don't love you anymore. Leave me alone!

Leave me alone! Take your hands off me!

Go to hell, you bloody swine!

Go to hell! Drop dead!

Hello.

Why did you come?

Shall I go away?

I don't care.

Lívia,

tell me, tell me what I should do?

- You? - Yes, tell me what to do now.

Go on living your life.

Write your little pieces.

Nothing's happened to you after all.

Shall I close the window?

You'd do better to close your eyes and stop staring at me like that.

I can't close my eyes.

Me either. I can't get a wink of sleep all night,

even with all the sleeping pills and sedatives they give me.

Lívia,

I love you so much

and I was thinking...

What?

What can you still think of?

That when they let you out of hospital

you'll move to my place and live with me

I'll do everything for you.

I couldn't live without you.

Leave me alone.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you. I love you.

Go away.

Hallo, Major Blindics speaking, criminal police.

I'm busy now. Call me later.

Thank you.

What kind of relationship did you have with Mrs. Horváth?

I love Lívia, Comrade Major.

It was a love affair.

- Mutual? - Yes, mutual.

How is that?

When you look at me, for example,

it doesn't even occur to you to see me as a man?

Of course I see you as a man. Why wouldn't I?

You are a man, Comrade Major, aren't you?

Yes.

If, for example, you fall for a woman, what do you do?

Do you court her? Do you buy her flowers?

Excuse me... Must I answer these questions? I'd only like to...

No, no, you don't have to, not at all...

You don't have to talk about it...

I was just asking. I can't understand, how...

What is it you can't understand?

Well... how.... you do it.

How we do what?

How... you do it.

For Heaven's sakes! Tell me what it is you want to know!

How do you do the thing to one another.

With our fingers. We stick them up there.

- Yes? - Yes.

One finger, two fingers

or three fingers...

Fuck you!

Halt!

Halt or I'll shoot!

Comrade! A warning shot!

Halt, damn you!

She's over there on the bank.

- Éva Szalánczky? - Yes.