Original subtitles

Downloaded from YTS.MX

Official YIFY movies site: YTS.MX

Prologue:

"Willpower."

"Pa."

"Pa!"

"Pa." Say "pa."

Come on! It's the first thing kids say.

It's the simplest syllable to start speaking: "Pa."

How can I establish contact?

How can I communicate?

Stone.

Hello, stone.

Stone?

Sto-one.

S, T, O, N, E.

Stone.

Come on, stone!

Say…

"pa."

I don't know if you hear me, but you do understand.

Do you understand? Do you get me?

I know you can say it. I know you can say "pa."

I know you can speak a little.

I know you find it hard

because maybe nobody has asked you to speak before.

It's hard if you're not used to it. I'm aware of that.

That's why I'm understanding. I'm just asking for a little effort.

Now I'll repeat it again. And you'll repeat it with me.

Agreed?

Come on, say it.

It's not easy, but it's not impossible. Say it: "pa."

But why do you find speaking so hard?

I'm determined to teach you even though I know it's not easy.

For centuries, the verbal capacity of the mineral kingdom has been undervalued.

One just needs the will to achieve it.

Come on.

Say "pa."

Good morning, stone.

Not too hot, not too cold.

Come on, say "pa."

Fine. Don't speak if you don't want to.

Don't think I haven't noticed your tacit contempt.

Without saying a word, your contempt is obvious.

But let me say one thing: nobody makes fun of me!

Pa!

"Wisdom."

Otto!

Otto!

Handsome!

Yes.

When I sleep with someone,

I have to tell you it wasn't due to an attack of lust

but because I've fallen in love.

And I don't have to feel guilty.

You and I have a very clear and elastic agreement.

But I feel cleaner if I clarify that it was out of love.

But when I have a fling with somebody,

you say that I do it out of lust.

That irritates you.

It's not that I get jealous. I'm not jealous at all.

I'm just annoyed you're so basic. So… instinctual.

I do feel jealous when I know you're with someone.

But it's understandable because you're in love.

If the person with whom you have a more or less elastic agreed

modus vivendi falls in love with someone else,

then jealousy is logical.

How do you think I determine if my affairs

are products of love and yours are of lasciviousness?

You apply a simple scale: you're you and that justifies everything.

Not only am I not you,

but I am also a man, which comes with its historical baggage.

That is not true.

But over the years I've learnt that

men and women do behave differently.

One can't generalise, there are always exceptions.

I'm so close to recognising

the cliché that all men are the same,

though commonplace and therefore repugnant,

is partially true.

Maybe not all,

but the vast majority are the same.

I know what's what.

I've fallen in love with lots of men,

and every single one,

unfailingly, whatever display they put on,

date me because they're driven by lust.

Lust to which you easily yield.

I recognise I've found it easy to fall in love from an early age.

I find love so intoxicating

that when a man strokes my shoulders,

kisses my ear lobe and slides a hand between my legs,

no matter how much I want to say "no", I always say "yes."

"Honesty."

Today more than ever I'd like to get off on time.

I've finally got Munt's boyfriend

to meet me

on the pretext of talking about her,

who is my best friend, by the way.

Even though I know, given what Munt has confided,

Zet doesn't beat around the bush,

and isn't interested in small talk,

and that he's invited me to his house for dinner,

to impale me in next to no time on top of his table,

between the candles and bowls of spaghetti.

If he has indeed made that for dinner.

He always makes spaghetti.

Munt told me.

I can't wait to get to his house!

Hello.

Senyor Redz, time for your medicine.

Come on, Senyor Redz.

The patient in room eight has died.

I need to go. The man in room eight has died.

It's a bad time for a death for me now.

If I notify the death, I'll have to stay a while longer,

even though the next shift starts in fifteen minutes.

The dead generate so much paperwork, which can't be done in a flash.

I'll be late for my date.

Of course, I could call Zet,

tell him what's happened and arrange to meet another day.

But I know from experience

that it's usually fatal to postpone first dates.

If you postpone it for one reason, the next will be postponed for another.

And for another and another, until the postponement is definitive.

Besides, it's been a terrible day and I can't wait to leave,

go to his flat and let him have his way.

If I knew the nurse,

I'd ask her to pretend she hadn't noticed.

And one of the nurses on the next shift would find him.

The other head nurse would look after the paperwork.

Besides, they will have just started work

and a dead man wouldn't ruin their day.

That way, I'd get to my date on time.

I don't have so much trust with the nurse.

She's new and may be afflicted by that obsession with ethics

that new people sometimes have.

If that's not the case, she may remember it

and use it to her advantage one day.

I'm feeling more and more stressed.

The hands are moving to my leaving time,

to my date with Zet and the spaghetti, and I don't want to miss it for anything.

What should I do?

I must decide quickly.

The nurse can't understand why I'm talking without deciding anything.

I will sort it. Don't you worry.

Nor can I ask the head nurse on the next shift to do it.

Not because I feel any ethical qualms

but because we've hated each other since the day we met.

What if I can't find a solution? Should I give up on the spaghetti?

I'm so stressed, I can't think straight. It's getting bleaker.

There's just one possibility.

I need to ask a favour.

The man in room eight has died and I can't stay late.

I have a prior engagement.

Don't worry. You get off. I'll take care of him.

Thank you.

The way the doctor has smiled at me since he started at the hospital…

was he propositioning me in exchange for this favour?

Do I want to give in to him?

I hadn't thought about it. My initial reaction would be no.

But after taking more notice, why not?

Besides, I can always say no. One gives favours freely.

A favour with a price, is no longer a favour.

It's already 10 minutes since my shift ended.

The more I think, the less I want to say no.

I feel like saying yes.

I really want him to proposition me.

So badly, I'm thinking less about Zet

impaling me between the bowls of spaghetti.

Zet? It's me. I'm sorry, I can't come.

Yes, I have lots of work and I don't know when I'll leave.

We'll be in touch.

How long will you take to proposition me?

What should I do to help you on the way if you're too slow?

"Sincerity."

-To us. -To our engagement.

When shall we marry?

-We'll decide later. I'm very excited now. -I love you.

I love you too.

Will you be faithful?

Always. I couldn't cheat on you. Will you?

I couldn't either. I'd rather die.

-No. -No!

-I'll always love you. -Forever.

-Me too. -Me too.

-Always together? -Always together.

And we'll always be honest?

We'll always be honest.

-Always faithful. -Always faithful.

Always honest with each other.

We will never lie to each other, no way, no excuses.

Just one lie will be the death of our love.

-Shall we get lunch? -Yes.

A couple of tapas would be fine for me.

-You must be hungry. -No, anything would be fine for me…

Yes, I am hungry.

I'd be happy with tapas. You eat a couple and I'll eat more.

No, you want a proper meal. Wouldn't you rather go to a restaurant?

We've promised to be completely honest, so yes,

I would prefer to go to a restaurant.

I knew I was right, eh?

Let's go to the Japanese we went to last week that you liked so much.

I didn't say that I liked it so much.

I remember it clearly:

I told you it was okay, not that I had liked it.

Last week we hadn't promised to be totally honest with each other.

In other words, you didn't like it.

No. I hate Japanese food.

-But you know I love it. -I know.

To be totally honest with you,

something I don't like about you is your fondness for restaurants

that have replaced good cooking with public relations.

And that ties with a certain attitude you think is snobbish

but is just poor taste.

-You're an idiot. -I don't feel like an idiot.

If we were to do an intelligence test, I'm sure yours wouldn't win.

You're a chronic idiot and you always will be.

I don't ever want to see you again.

You don't know how much I agree.

"Submission."

I have always been quite candid. I am seeking out,

and will do until I find him, a real man,

who is on the ball,

who doesn't waste time on gallant pleasantries and futile frippery.

A man who doesn't hang on my every word,

say, when we're having dinner.

I cannot stand men who try to be understanding

and say they want to share my problems.

I want a man who's not worried about any of the feelings I might have.

From adolescence, I've avoided the callow youth who spoke of love.

Of love!

I want a man who never speaks of love,

who never says that he loves me.

It's ridiculous that a dewy-eyed man would tell me:

"I love you."

I'll tell him that I love him a lot, because I'll really love him,

and I'll be delighted by the understanding glance

he directs my way.

That's the kind of man I want.

A man who will use me in bed the way he wants,

without worrying about what I want,

as my pleasure will be what he gets out of it.

Nothing irks me more

than those men who, at one moment or other during copulation,

enquire whether I have reached orgasm or not.

On the other hand,

he must be intelligent,

successful, and lead an intense life of his own.

He mustn't be dependent on me. He should travel.

And have other women and be upfront about it.

That doesn't bother me,

because he knows he only has to whistle

and I'll be at his feet, ready for whatever he demands.

I want him to give me orders.

I want a man to tell me what to do, who dominates me.

Who gropes me in public without a care in the world.

And who, as I'm not embarrassed by such things in life,

gives me a good wallop without stopping to worry if anyone is watching or not.

I want him to hit me at home. Partly, because I like it.

I enjoy being beaten.

Partly as I'm convinced that, with what I have to offer,

he could never do…

without me.

"Competition."

Hey, Morell…

Everyone calls him Morell.

At school, at university, in the engineering company where he works.

While others are Josep, Joan or Maria, he is Morell.

Morell… Morell!

Even Babá, his girlfriend, addresses him by his surname,

even in moments of sheer intimacy,

digging her nails in.

Babá says he's nice and friendly.

Because Morell is not smug, quite the contrary.

She's delighted.

Especially because in recent years, all her boyfriends have been depressed

and were looking for a shoulder to cry on.

When Babá goes to empty the ashtray,

the sound of a couple shouting

takes him to the window.

It's pitch black outside.

Only three flats have the lights on in the facing building.

One is the couple who never stops fighting.

In the penthouse, there's just a guy who sometimes goes out to smoke.

In the third, for the past three months,

there's a girl who works in the same building as Babá,

but in another company.

They saw her on the way back from the cinema,

and Babá and her smiled at each other.

They eat and sleep at Morell's three or four times a week.

Never at Babá's house, which she shares with three friends,

which is not as intimate for steamy sessions.

Now she'll ask for pepper.

And the pepper?

It's a habit of Babá's:

as soon as he sits down, she wants something that's not on the table.

But Morell's still at that stage where he lets it slide.

When he goes to the kitchen, he sees the neighbour on the balcony,

looking stunning.

Two days later, while listening to Brazilian music,

the shouting couple invite him to the window once more.

Where do they find the energy? They'll lose their voices.

He looks at the apartment next door.

He can't believe it.

On Monday evening after calling Babá,

he goes to the window.

At first, he feels bad about invading her privacy.

But then it seems he wasn't doing anything wrong.

He's just looking at what is in front of his window.

Everyone has the right to get some fresh air.

What's wrong with that?

Coming to that conclusion, he stares fixedly.

He'd like to take a closer look.

He buys the most powerful telescope he can find.

One imported from Taiwan.

At around a quarter to seven…

he's got everything set up.

Now he can see everything more clearly,

although he needs to get used to the telescope.

The right window must be the kitchen

and out of his view, must be the front door.

He's fascinated.

If he can see what happens so clearly during the day,

how she undresses, the orange colour of her glass…

when night falls and the lights are turned on

he will see everything perfectly.

Indeed.

When at ten, the neighbour wakes up

and turns on the lights in the lounge,

he can see everything.

He sees every detail with cinematographic clarity.

The sheen of the clothes she takes to the left…

It must be the bedroom.

She doesn't go to sleep until half-past midnight.

When she turns off the last light,

Morell also calls it a day.

But he can't use the telescope when Babá is there.

To space out their dates,

he makes up problems at work.

And to compensate, he talks about their holiday in September.

Their first holidays together.

He gets such a grasp of the neighbour's schedule,

he doesn't need to look ahead of time.

On one hand, the situation gets more interesting.

On the other, he thinks he should stop,

call Babá to go out and forget about it,

not stay in watching this private show.

They must be eating.

Or not?

What if they're already in the throes of amorous ecstasy?

At ten past ten, she puts on a record

and is dancing to the rhythm of sexy music.

It's frustrating

seeing them talk and not hearing them.

He'd like to read their lips.

They've certainly got a good set-up.

This guy visits the neighbour a couple of times a week.

And sometimes another guy visits.

There's no way of predicting when they'll come.

The first week, the usual guy goes Monday and Thursday.

The other guy goes Tuesday and Friday.

The next week, the usual goes Tuesday and Saturday.

The other doesn't come.

The third week, the usual goes on Tuesday.

The other on Sunday.

Tonight, the neighbour is on the balcony,

with the usual guy.

She looks vaguely across until she focuses on his window,

a tenth of a second.

Enough to startle him.

He dreams he's using the telescope

and he sees that the man visiting her is not the usual guy,

or the other one,

but him.

And when he has her before him, at arm's reach,

he doesn't find her that attractive,

with porous skin and smelling like a baby.

He starts getting bored with the situation

and invites Babá to spend the night again.

While Babá prepares gazpacho for dinner,

he suddenly remembers he hasn't tidied the telescope away.

He can't resist taking a peek.

This has clearly become a challenge.

You watch me, I watch you.

I'm sure it's no coincidence that she's bought a telescope.

Did she catch him watching? When?

When did he mess up?

Spurred on by perceiving the neighbour's watching,

tonight he performs with Babá above his usual average.

Like a kid showing his drawing,

he goes to the window.

Despite the darkness, he thinks he sees her beside the telescope.

That satisfies him.

Tomorrow, not only will he go back to look,

but she'll be aware she's being watched all the time,

constantly.

When he gets home from work, he sits before the telescope.

This afternoon,

the neighbour gives him…

an innocent smile.

She comes back at nine, and not with the usual boyfriends,

but with two strangers carrying books.

He thinks, for a minute, that it must be a meeting,

and he feels disappointed.

He considers abandoning the telescope.

Fortunately,

he doesn't.

Fifteen minutes later, she's getting it on with both of them.

What can he do now to match her?

Suggesting a threesome to Babá seems out of place.

He knows that Babá sees other men,

just as he sees other women,

but Babá wouldn't be happy with that sort of a proposal.

He spends the day selecting ads.

Morell cannot believe it.

What's he doing in bed

with two girls he's hardly even interested in

only for the neighbour to see him?

No matter the type of competition they've set up,

it's reached its limit.

It's impossible to know if she looks satisfied or not.

It hasn't convinced her.

What if she knows he's paid for the girls,

given their enthusiasm?

She'd think he's a fraud.

It must have irritated her to the point

that there'd never be another telescope session.

She doesn't receive any guests the following night.

Does she think the competition is over?

Surely not.

Morell feels the weight on his shoulders

of being responsible for giving it another go.

He mulls over the idea at work.

At midday, he speaks to Joan.

He suggests calling a girlfriend he no longer sees.

A girl from Reus who loves orgies.

If Joan brings another girl…

While he's getting ready, he thinks it would be terrible

if the neighbour had a guest this evening

and couldn't watch them through the telescope.

Despite the champagne and seafood,

orgies are not as impressive as he imagined

and more about the circumstances involved.

But at least it was a genuine show.

One evening, the neighbour will have to match him.

Or perhaps she's given up already?

The next day,

Joan, set on organising these sessions every other day,

keeps insisting on repeating.

Morell, eager to see if the neighbour raises the bet,

calls Babá to say he can't see her.

Babá reassures him.

She was about to call him. She has things to do.

That evening,

he goes straight to the telescope when he gets home.

At a quarter to seven, like always,

she arrives.

As she undresses,

she walks towards the balcony

and smiles at him.

At around ten,

the girl goes to the front door.

Babá is her guest today.

"Passion."

I need to talk to you.

Can I sit down?

Please do.

I don't know where to begin.

At the beginning.

Last month

I seduced your wife.

-My wife? -Yes.

Why are you telling me?

Because I've been miserable since.

Why? Do you love her so much you want to live with her?

You're upset she doesn't love you?

No.

Maybe it's remorse?

No!

She won't leave me alone.

She always calls and comes round if I don't reply.

If I'm not in, she looks for me. She comes to see me at work.

She says…

she can't live without me.

And?

I've lost my peace of mind.

Ever since I met her, I can't get rid of her.

Didn't you notice?

When did you meet her?

A month and a half ago.

You were in Rome.

-How do you know? -Don't you believe me? She told me.

I met her at a computer class.

So what do you want?

For you to help me get out of this.

It's not that I don't like your wife. She's fantastic.

She's intelligent and sensual.

What else can I say?

-But… -She is very overpowering.

Isn't she just?

Do you want to get her off your back?

Yes, in a nutshell.

She won't leave you for a second, right?

If she sees you by yourself, smoking,

enjoying the fresh air, reading,

or watching your favourite TV show,

she immediately lies on top of you and starts buttering you up.

If you don't pay her attention, she gets annoyed

and gets like she does.

That's why, though I've no right to,

I'd like to ask you a favour.

Talk to her. Make a scene, threaten her.

Whatever it takes. Anything to stop us seeing each other.

-You really want to get her off your back? -Yes.

-Please. -Easy. Do what I do.

Stop avoiding her. Don't hide.

Be nice to her. Be considerate.

Be more into her than she is into you.

Call her.

Tell her you love more than anyone else.

Tell her you'll devote your life to her.

Marry her.

"Consensus."

Hello.

Hi. It's me.

-I told you never to call me at home. -But…

I told you to call me at the office.

Can you talk now?

Of course I can't. You know how it is.

Where is… she?

In the bedroom.

-Can she… hear you? -No!

But she could walk in.

Sorry.

I'm really sorry.

But I just had to call you.

It couldn't wait until tomorrow.

Why?

This situation is making me suffer a lot.

-Which situation? -Ours. What else would I mean?

-Let's see if we understand… -No! Don't say a word.

You don't have to. She might hear you.

No. She can't hear me now. Listen…

I think it's time we decided.

Decided what?

Can't you guess?

I'm not in the mood for guessing games.

-I have to choose between you and him. -And?

Since you can't give me everything I want…

Let's not kid ourselves.

To you, I'll never be more than a…

Don't you want to leave her?

I don't know why I ask. I know the answer.

-What's all the noise? -I'm calling from a payphone.

We've talked about this a thousand times. I've always been upfront.

I've always been open with you.

You and I get along…

But I'm hung up on you.

I know you don't feel like that about me.

I've always said I don't want to hurt you.

I never promised you anything, did I?

No.

-You have to decide what we should do. -Yes.

Haven't I always said you should decide?

Yes.

That's why I called.

Because I've decided.

I've always been honest with you.

What's your decision?

I've decided

to stop seeing you.

I'm sorry, but if that's what you really…

Don't you understand, I don't want to stop seeing you?

Maria…

No.

I'd rather you said nothing.

You know I'd go for a more economical car.

-What? -Especially if you have to drive a lot.

Yes.

As far as that goes, I wouldn't know what to suggest.

I think you should go for a car that's more…

that's more…

That's right, that uses less petrol.

-Can't you talk? -Obviously not.

-Is she close by? -Yes.

In front of you?

Yes, but…

That model's more or less the same price as the Japanese model.

And the Japanese model…

Your wife is there and I'm here not knowing what to do.

Not deciding to put an end to this misery.

A four-door is ideal.

You see, there's no alternative. We can't go on like this.

We can't even have a civilised conversation.

It uses six and a half litres.

You're talking about cars, petrol and four-doors and I can't even decide

-to hang up on you. -Wait a second.

He's saying…

Tell Lluïsa, from Anna, that her cake was perfect.

Who does she think you're talking to?

Anyway, see you soon.

Should I hang up or…?

-Tell me, will we see each other tomorrow? -Yes.

I'm hopeless.

I call you to say it's over and end up asking you if tomorrow…

-Usual place? -Yes.

-Usual time? -Absolutely.

-And will we do the same as usual? -Yes.

I'm imagining you on your knees in front of me,

pulling up my skirt.

Will you lick me?

Will you bite me?

Will you hurt me really badly?

Yes.

Fuck, Maria. She almost noticed.

She's in the kitchen but could be back. What if she asked to talk to you?

Why would she want to?

I don't mean you. I mean the person she thought I was talking to.

Nobody gets you.

Nobody gets me either. I don't even get myself.

I'm hopeless.

I decide to end it and the second I hear you, my decisions melt away.

I really want to be with you now.

Come to me. You can't?

Of course you can't.

It doesn't matter.

At least I can hear you. It calms me down.

-Do you love me? -Of course I do.

I should hang up. Goodbye.

Where are you?

In a bar. I told you.

You said you were in a payphone.

-If you knew, why did you ask? -So you're in a bar?

Well, that's what you're saying.

-Bar, payphone, it's all the same. -It's all the same. It's all the same.

-Hey, that's enough, -What are you going to do now?

Now? Do you mean about us?

No, I mean right now. Are you going to the cinema? Do you have drama class?

Hey, I'm hanging up.

-Wait a minute. -The fact is…

Sometimes I think if we wanted, if we really tried,

we'd make this all work, without all the tension.

-I expect we could. -We could, so then…?

We could.

What's the matter? Can't you talk?

Is someone there?

Yes.

You agreed to meet him and he's arrived.

Or he was with you and now he's come to the phone? Yes or no?

I'll return the book. Don't worry, my dear.

What's happening?

-Now you're addressing me as a woman? -So, goodbye.

Call me. And remind me to give that book back.

Hey! Don't hang up!

I had to put up with your nonsense and now…

I don't know that one. What did you say the title was?

Perfect. Your performance is terrific.

Now you'll say the book title. Or maybe you won't?

Right…

I really like that "right."

It makes the conversation with that made up girl seem realistic.

Did you say Love in the afternoon?

Is that title a come-on?

An invite?

The hundred crosses was better than Love in the afternoon.

At least in my opinion.

I haven't read that one. Is it another novel?

The hundred crosses is boring?

Hey, I told you.

It uses much less petrol than the other one.

But the heroine in Love in the afternoon is much more realistic.

How did Peugeot not anticipate something like that?

But that was in We're all equal now.

-Right? -Absolutely.

-So then? -No, nothing.

Do you see how impossible it is? I can talk again.

Are you there?

Have you run out of steam or

do you want to change your car chat to something else?

-I'm alone again. -So goodbye.

You're right. We should say goodbye.

-I have to tell you something first. -Go on.

I'm pregnant.

Do you hear me?

I'm pregnant. It's yours.

What do you mean "yours?" How can you be sure?

I've only been with you since my last period!

And that boyfriend who can give you everything I can't?

Sorry.

-What are you going to do? -What?

-Aren't you going to say anything? -No.

Now I see you for what you really are.

If ever found myself in that situation, you'd wash your hands of me.

What do you mean, "If I found myself?"

I mean I'm not pregnant, obviously.

Do you think I'm stupid?

I wanted to see how you'd react.

Do you think if I were pregnant

I'd ask for your opinion?

Listen, Maria.

Listen to what?

You know I won't be spoken to like that, in that tone.

No?

I'll wipe that smirk off your face.

Oh, will you?

I'll knock you around.

Oh, yes!

Until you scream. Oh, yes!

I'll tie you to the bedposts.

Oh, yes! Oh, yes!

-I'll spit in your mouth. -Yes!

I'll slap your face until you bleed.

Oh, yes! Yes!

I'll make you…

Do what? Make me do what?

-I'll make you… -Do what?

I'll shove it in your mouth.

I'll make you swallow it all.

Not a single drop will spill.

Not a single one.

Not a single drop.

Lick that one that's dripping off your lip.

Pig, call me a pig.

Pig, get on your knees and open your mouth.

That's enough.

I had to tell you no matter what.

It's ridiculous trying to keep this up. Listen…

I'm not Maria.

What do you mean?

I'm not Maria. Maria is…

Maria asked me to call you and pretend I was her.

Are you pulling my leg?

-She had to go and wanted… -Where did she go?

Out of town.

She wanted you to think she was here…

I can't keep pretending.

Maria and I met in drama class.

I also study at the Theatre Institute.

She asked me to call you and get you to argue,

as you should be meeting tomorrow, but she won't be back.

-Do you hear me? -Where is she?

She's gone for a week. With a boyfriend.

-With who? -With Jaume.

-With Jaume? -Yes.

-Which Jaume? -Jaume Ibarra.

I'm Jaume Ibarra.

Who did you think I was? Which number did you call?

-You're Jaume? -Yes.

Fuck!

-Who did you think you were talking to? -With Joan.

With Joan?

So you mean Maria and Joan…

-I mixed up the numbers. -How come you have my number?

Maria jotted down both numbers,

one above the other and I picked the wrong one.

I dialled one instead of the other.

Why did she give you mine if you weren't meant to call me?

Or were you supposed to?

You just said you thought she'd gone with me.

-You wouldn't believe me. -Tell me one thing:

-Who are you? -Carme.

-Carme, tell me something. -Wait a minute.

Are you really Jaume?

Jaume lives by himself. Joan's the one who has a wife.

Why did you say your wife was there?

Well, you're not exactly truth personified.

If you thought you were talking to Maria,

why did you make me believe you had a wife?

The truth is that Maria and I sometimes

do this kind of thing. It's a game.

She never told me.

Why should she? Do you tell each other everything?

Almost.

Oh, really?

What about me?

Ooh!

What do you mean "ooh?"

It means she tells me the most interesting stuff.

All the juicy details?

All the juicy details and then some.

-Where are you? -I told you: in a bar.

-You told me you were in a payphone. -Not that again!

-What are you doing now? -You already asked me.

When you were Maria.

You're Carme now. Maybe you had something else to do.

Besides, when you were Maria, you didn't answer me.

Why don't we meet up?

-When? -Today?

It'll have to be tonight. I've got a class.

-Tonight then. -Where?

In the bar at The Ritz?

-Sure. -At eight?

My class finishes at eight. Make it half-past.

What will you wear?

I'll be wearing the fur jacket you gave her a month before…

The fur jacket.

A month before what?

The jacket: I gave it to her a month before what?

-I have to tell you or I'll explode. -Go on then.

Maria is dead.

You gave her the jacket a month before she died.

Listen…

I shouldn't have…

I knew how much you loved each other. And when she died, I decided…

All of us in the class decided…

This joke is in poor taste.

Let's meet and talk about it. At half-past eight.

Or, I'll skip my class.

-I saw her last week. -She's been dead five months.

I've seen her many times in the past few months.

I was with her last week. She was lively and very pretty.

You've been going out with a Maria who isn't Maria for five months.

Who's been Maria this whole time?

-Me. -I'd have noticed.

I'm telling you the truth.

If you were, why would you decide not to come to our date tomorrow?

I'm fed up with pretending to be Maria.

But you just agreed to meet.

Because I'll come as Carme, not as Maria.

Jaume, I'll explain later.

So why didn't you realise I was Jaume and not Joan?

Did you think I didn't know who I was calling?

Obviously, you're Jaume. I know you perfectly.

You've been my boyfriend for five months. You learn a lot in five months.

Even to the point that I…

I've fallen in love with you like a fool.

I want to end this farce.

I don't believe a word.

How could you have managed it so I didn't notice

you weren't Maria whenever we met up?

I am studying drama.

Even if you study drama,

how could I have not noticed the difference?

All I need now is for you to say she has a twin sister.

Hey, hang on…

Maria has,

had a twin sister.

-Yours truly. -I never met her.

Oh, yes you did. I mean, you have, and so often.

Twice a week for the last five months.

Sometimes only once a week. In fact, we need to talk about that.

I want to see you more often.

So see you when we said? At half-past eight?

Is your name really Carme?

At half-past eight, right?

Yes.

I love you so much.

If you ever stopped loving me, I'd die.

"Ego."

You don't listen to me!

You don't listen to me!

You only talk about yourself.

You're not interested in me. You don't care about what I have to say.

Or how I think, what I'm like or what I do.

Do you think I only talk about myself?

It's the second night we've been out together

and you've not asked me anything about myself.

Fuck.

You're very weird.

-But it wasn't so you'd get like that. -I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for not being interested in you or what you do.

I've hardly been interested if you live with someone.

I only asked yesterday to figure out if we could go to yours,

or if we'd have to book a hotel or stay in the car

on the corner of a quiet street.

I feel really bad,

like the worst man in the world.

It's true, I don't care much for people.

How low I've gone. I feel ridiculous.

I thought I was human, sensitive,

different from other people who just think about themselves.

The truth is…

You're right. I only ever talk about myself.

I hadn't realised. It's terrible.

It's obnoxious behaviour.

Really.

I want you to believe me. I'm not lying.

Don't think I'm lying to please you.

It must be hard to put up with, even for just two nights,

someone who only talks about himself.

I couldn't stand someone like that.

But you can't say I've not been honest.

I've been honest with you.

I'm puzzled. I can't deny what you said.

You're right. I only talk about myself lately.

As if I'm the only thing I'm interested in.

I'm horrified to discover I'm like this.

I was different before. I cared about others.

I'm sure.

I don't know when I stopped caring about people.

I'd like to know what or who made me so selfish.

I want to care about people again.

I especially want to stop being like that with you.

No, don't laugh.

I am really into you.

So you must tell me when I behave like that

and why I do it.

I'd like to talk about it.

"Spite."

Cheese!

In the last year of the degree, Grmpf is in love with Pti

and Pti with Grmpf.

But as Pti is a tad shy and proud, he never lets on.

And Grmpf ends up thinking he doesn't love her.

So she strives to put him out of her mind.

It's a battle and a half as she's very much in love,

but in the end she manages to half forget him.

Particularly when she meets Xevi and takes an interest in him.

Which suits Xevi to a T.

He'd have clung to a red-hot poker.

He's just broken up with Mari and feels very lonely.

In a rush, like people who want to bury the past,

Xevi and Grmpf marry immediately.

When Pti finds out, he's flummoxed.

He realises at once he was very much in love with Grmpf.

When Xevi leaves for work,

Pti waits by her front door

and when he gets the chance, goes in.

Grmpf opens the door.

She's astonished to see Pti on bended knee,

-declaring his love. -I love you.

Her emotions trigger inner turmoil, on the point of doubting herself,

but she's strong, takes a deep breath and tells him

-it's too late. -It's too late.

Pti says nothing,

stands up and walks away, despairing, not wanting her to see his tears.

Meanwhile, on the way to the office, Xevi bumps into Mari.

What a coincidence!

They look at each other and realise it was a mistake.

They hug and pledge eternal love.

Mari's worried about Xevi.

She doesn't trust his change of heart and that he loves her and not Grmpf.

Xevi insists he does and that he really loves her.

To prove it, he goes home knowing Grmpf isn't there.

He packs a suitcase

and leaves her a note saying what happened and how sorry he is.

When Grmpf comes home,

she sees… the note

and feels desperate.

How stupid she was not to accept Pti's proposal!

She opens a bottle of vodka.

She drinks every drop. That gives her some courage…

to tell him what she's thinking. She loves him. She calls Pti.

There's silence on the other end of the line.

Finally, Pti clears his throat and speaks.

It's too late.

He explains that her declaration is late

because, when she said no, he was so distraught

he immediately started a process of denigration.

It was so rapid, he had destroyed

the high opinion he held of himself

and totally transformed the love he felt for her.

Now he only feels hatred,

an intense hatred that allows him to hang up on her.

Phone in hand, Grmpf bursts into tears,

and comes down with a fever.

She's suddenly 39.2 degrees.

She doesn't go to work the next day.

That afternoon, a friend from the office, Toni, appears,

wielding a bunch of flowers,

to see how she is and whether she needs anything.

Some hours later, Grmpf realises that

behind his concern and the bouquet,

is a glimmer of love, but now is not the time.

For now, she can only think of Xevi until that wound heals.

The wound heals.

Grmpf gets over it

and Toni persists every day. He takes her for a stroll.

He takes her for dinner. They go to the cinema.

He'd like to go further,

but she makes it clear from the start

that they will be good friends.

Toni acquiesces,

because he is understanding.

He understands he can't play with Grmpf's feelings.

Every Saturday, back from the cinema or a restaurant,

he leaves her by the front door and kisses her on the cheek.

Poor Toni.

Until one day,

Toni meets Anni.

It's what they call

love at first sight.

They get it on immediately and Toni stops seeing Grmpf.

Grmpf's upset and decides that Toni's not going out with her anymore

because he only wanted to jump into bed with her

and as that didn't happen, he stopped dating her.

This is the proof. Since she's not an easy woman,

he's ended the hypocrisy of their meals, moviegoing and the phrase he liked to say:

"I'm not worried. I understand you're hurting over Xevi.

"I'm not bothered if we don't sleep together."

Hypocrite.

In revenge, Grmpf goes out to some bars.

She pulls the first man she sees: a Scotsman by the name of Eric.

Eric's just arrived from Aberdeen and intends to stay a week

to get over a girl by the name of Fiona.

"Desire."

Needing to sign some documents,

my husband, of eight years, and I,

went to a far-off city.

We arrived mid-afternoon.

As we couldn’t see to business that day, we looked for a hotel for the night.

We were given a room with two single beds,

two night tables and a desk.

There were envelopes

and a folder with paper on hotel letterhead.

And a chair and a minibar with a television on top.

We had dinner, strolled along the river

and back in the hotel, we each climbed into our bed

and opened a book.

A few minutes later,

we heard a couple screwing in the room next door.

We could clearly hear the spring mattress squeaking,

the woman moaning and the man's gentle panting.

We looked at each other, smiled,

made jokey remarks,

wished each other goodnight and turned off the lights.

My husband,

aroused by the screwing he could hear through the wall,

thought about saying something.

Maybe he thought I was as turned on as him.

He could have come over, sat on the bed,

joked about our neighbours, and quite casually,

caressed my hair and face and then my breasts.

I would have likely joined in at once.

But what if I didn't, he must have thought.

And if I pushed away his hand and clicked my tongue

or, even worse,

if I told him I didn't feel like it?

Years ago he wouldn't have hesitated.

He'd have known if I was up for it before he turned off the light.

Whether the moans from the adjacent room had aroused me or not.

But with the cobwebs of many years together, nothing was obvious.

My husband turned on his side and masturbated

as quietly as he could.

Ten minutes later I asked him if he was sleeping.

He said he wasn't.

They had stopped moaning in the room next door.

They were conversing quietly and tittering.

I got up and went to his bed.

I pulled back the sheets,

lied down

and caressed his back.

My hand went from his shoulders to his buttocks.

Not having the courage to tell me he'd just masturbated,

he said he didn't feel like it.

And I stopped caressing him.

There was a brief silence, like an eternity.

I went back to my bed. I pulled back the sheets,

got in and twisted and turned.

He plucked up some courage and came over to me

and confessed that he had masturbated

because he thought I wouldn't want to screw.

I didn't say anything.

Minutes later he guessed,

from the surreptitious sounds he could hear,

that I was masturbating.

My husband felt hugely sad.

He thought that life was absurd and unfair,

and burst into tears.

He cried into his pillow, sinking his face in as far as he could.

His tears were hot and plentiful.

And when he heard me suppressing my final moan with the palm of my hand,

he screamed.

The scream that I was holding back.

"Jealousy."

I really like it…

I really like it…

I really like it…

I really like it…

I really like your cock.

I really like your cock.

I really like your cock.

Why do you always say that?

Since we met, you've said it countless times.

You never say you like my right arm

or my shoulder blades.

It's always the same: my cock.

You've got a lovely cock.

You're obsessed with my cock.

Is that all you like about me?

And what about me?

You never say you like me.

I used to like your single-mindedness.

It was tender and stimulating.

Like when I'd tell you: "I really like being inside your pussy."

But it gradually became a tad obsessive.

It is true that you really like my cock.

I see it in your eyes, the way you look at it,

in the rhythm of your words,

in the way you emphasise the word "really."

"Really."

You even hold on to it when you're sleeping.

-What are you doing? -I really like it.

Do you really like it?

Yes.

I really like your cock.

Here we go again.

Would you love me without a cock?

What's up with you?

What do you think? All you ever talk about is cocks.

Your cock.

You never say that you like me.

You're crazy.

You've gone crazy, Onan.

I'm not crazy. But I do exist too!

Wouldn't you agree?

I exist too! I exist too!

Wouldn't you agree?

"Love."

The archivist at the Zoology Museum

is a tall woman,

with strong, becoming facial features.

She's intelligent, witty

and has what people call character.

The American football player is a tall man,

with strong, becoming facial features.

He's intelligent, witty

and has what people call character.

The archivist treats the football player with contempt.

She's dry and dismissive.

Now and then, when he calls her, because he always calls her,

she never calls him,

even if the archivist has nothing to do.

No, I can't meet today.

I'm sorry.

I make him think I have other lovers, so he doesn't think he has a claim on me.

I occasionally think about it.

Not much, in case I realise I'm on the wrong track.

I reach the conclusion that I treat him that way

because I really love him and I'm afraid that if I don't treat him with contempt,

I'd fall in love with him as much as he loves me.

Each time she decides to sleep with him,

the football player is so happy, he can hardly believe it

and weeps tears of joy, as he does with no other woman.

Why do I cry? I don't know.

I believe there's more to the contempt you treat me with.

In no way is it the decisive factor.

The football player knows deep down she loves him

and knows she plays hard to get to avoid falling into the trap,

and not be as much in love with him as he is with her.

The football player would prefer…

I'd prefer she didn't treat me with scorn,

or at least, less so.

She'd then see, on the one hand,

that this isn't the only relationship possible between the two of us

and on the other, she mustn't be afraid of falling in love.

Because I'd love her with tenderness.

The tenderness that she's afraid to show.

The footballer sometimes goes out with other women.

He thinks he can't stand it any more.

He can't tolerate her treating him like a simpleton anymore,

whom she hardly even looks at,

whom she sweet-talks at will and then ignores.

But he always goes back.

It's not that the others don't interest him. On the contrary.

They are wonderful, intelligent, lovely, considerate girls.

But not one pleasures him the way she does.

One day, one afternoon,

while the archivist is doing her nails and smoking

and watching him undress, the football player plucks up the courage.

You shouldn't be so harsh, so prickly.

I love you. Don't be so afraid to show me who you are.

I won't take advantage of your weaknesses.

If you're tender, and I know you are but don't want to show it,

I will love you even more.

Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?

That afternoon, the football player enjoys himself more than ever.

But another day when they meet up,

quite unexpectedly, she's not as irritable as usual.

He's surprised.

Perhaps she thought it was over and started taking notice of him.

From then on, the archivist is even tender.

The football player is overjoyed.

Now I know I shouldn't be afraid.

That showing how I felt deep down wouldn't lead to any hurt.

Would it?

He is so excited. He's overwhelmed by her every gesture,

and caress.

He finds special pleasure with every touch.

The tenderness is such he doesn't even want to fuck.

Hugging and saying they love each other,

now she tells him all the time, is quite enough.

I love you.

I love you.

The archivist doesn't treat him with contempt again.

She's so in love, she tells him in the morning,

in the afternoon, and at night.

She gifts him books.

She gifts him shirts.

She gifts him CDs.

She gifts him jewellery.

She always gives him her all.

She now calls him, more and more to arrange seeing each other.

My love?

How are you?

And one evening, she soon asks him.

Would you like to live together?

He looks at her coldly, with glassy eyes.

Until quite recently, he'd have given his right arm for her to suggest that.

"Faith."

Yes. "Faith."

What if you don't love me?

I do love you.

How do you know?

I don't. I just feel it. Sense it.

How can you be sure what you sense is love?

You're different from all the women I know.

I love you like I've loved no one else.

I love you more than I love myself. I'd give my life for you.

I'd let myself be skinned alive for you.

I'd let you play with my eyes like they were bullets.

Or throw me into a sea of sulfuric acid.

I love you.

I love every fold of your body.

I'm happy just looking into your eyes.

I see myself, so tiny, in your pupils.

Really?

Oh, Raül…

If only I knew that you really loved me,

that I could believe you,

you're not lying to yourself and me as well.

-Do you really love me? -Yes, I love you like nobody has.

I'd love you even if you rejected me, even if you didn't want to see me.

I'd love you silently, on the sly.

I'd wait for you to leave work just to get a distant glimpse of you.

How can you doubt I love you?

How can I not have doubts?

What actual proof do I have?

You say you love me, but that's just words.

I know I love you lots.

But how can I be sure that you love me?

By looking into my eyes. Can't you read how much I love you?

Look into my eyes.

Do you think I could lie?

I'm disappointed in you.

I disappoint you?

You can't love me that much if I disappoint you.

And you ask how I can doubt your love!

I love you. Are you listening?

-I love you. -It's easy to say I love you.

Shall I kill myself to prove it?

Don't be so melodramatic. I don't like your tone.

You lose your patience so fast.

If you really loved me, that wouldn't happen.

That's not true. I'm only asking one thing:

what would convince you that I love you?

It has to come from you.

Things aren't as easy as they may seem.

-Maybe I should believe you. -Of course you should.

But why?

How do I know you're not lying?

Or you believe you love me and that's why you say you do.

But deep down, quite unaware, you really don't.

You could be wrong.

I don't think you mean to be.

You say you love me, because you really think you do.

But what if you're wrong?

And what you feel for me isn't love

but affection or something similar?

How do you know it is real love?

-This is upsetting me. -I'm sorry.

I only know I love you and I find your questions baffling.

Maybe because you don't love me.

Epilogue: "Doubt."

Mushrooms.

Chanterelles.

Saffron milk caps!

Red pine mushrooms.

Scarlet elf caps, portobellos and black trumpet mushrooms.

Fly amanitas!

Poisonous!

Good day, I'm the lucky gnome who's born of fly amanitas when they fall apart.

You're a fortunate man.

A lucky gnome is only found in every one hundred thousand amanitas.

Make a wish and I will grant it.

This only happens in fairy tales!

No, it also happens for real.

Make a wish and I'll grant it.

-I don't believe it. -But you will.

Make a wish and you'll see how I'll grant whatever you wish for

even if it seems huge and quite beyond reach.

How can I ask you for anything if I don't believe in gnomes?

Here before you stands a little man with a white beard,

red hat and boots with bells on and you don't believe it?

Come on, make a wish.

What should I ask for? Wealth?

Women?

Good health? Happiness?

Ask for tangible things. Nothing airy-fairy.

If you want wealth, ask for an amount of gold,

or a palace, or a company with specific features.

If you want women, say which ones in particular.

If it's what makes you happy,

that's down to you.

Tangible things?

A mansion?

A Range Rover?

An airline?

Claudia Schiffer! Julia Roberts!

The throne of a country in the Balkans?

I can't wait forever. I didn't think you would take so long,

but you have five minutes to decide and you've used three.

-Look, I want… -What do you want? Out with it.

It's madness choosing in a rush like this.

When you have a unique opportunity like this, you need time to decide.

You can't ask for the first thing.

A minute and a half.

Maybe I should ask for money.

An actual figure.

A thousand billion pesetas, for example.

I could have everything I wanted with that much.

Why not ten thousand? A hundred thousand?

Or a trillion?

I can't decide on a figure.

In a situation like this, so charged with magic,

it's banal, trite, or hardly subtle to ask for money.

One minute.

-What about power? -Thirty-three seconds.

-It's unfair having to decide so quickly. -Fifteen seconds.

A million trillions? Or a trillion trillions?

-Four seconds. -No money.

An exceptional wish like this should be more sophisticated.

Two seconds. Make it.

I want another gnome like you.

Good day, my good man.

I'm the lucky gnome who's born of fly amanitas

when they fall apart.

You're a fortunate man.

A lucky gnome is only found in every hundred thousand amanitas.

Make a wish and I will grant it.

-Come on. -I don't know what to choose.

The five minutes to decide what you want have started.

I can always ask for another gnome like you.

But that doesn't lessen my stress of not knowing what I want.