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THE CANNIBALS

Story

Music

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The story you are about
to witness fell into my hands

in the form of an anonymous manuscript

entitled "A True Story".

of my friend Niccolo,
the brilliant ltalian violinist,

who calls on me frequently,

and people are beginning to talk...

they say he is my eyes
and ears.

Lies!

Niccolo!

This tale of mine
is a blue-blooded creature,

a beast of aristocratic tastes.

And you, my listener,

are therefore about to enter
High Society;

you are about to discover a world
where people sing and never speak.

lwill take you to banquets
and dances;

lwill talk of love, of jealousy
and of the darkest mystery.

At least that's what
society novels are full of.

And now... I shall begin.

Niccolo! A mazurka!

Marguerite is a femme fatale.

She makes men desperate.

As a girl, she transformed
each and every young man

who had the misfortune
to cast his eyes upon her

into a would-be Romeo!

And, if she were to marry,
soon after, many would jump

at the chance of suicide

merely to attract her attention!

Why then is Marguerite so sad,
why is she in such a daze?

l have not lost hope.

Sheer vanity, Don Juan.

lam an old hand.

l have torn veils

from some of the most modest
and chaste faces alive today.

But Marguerite...

She is a woman,
I sense her surrender is near.

What makes you think that?

Little things,
a look here and there...

You flatter yourself.
Believe me.

There is no ambrosia for you there,

nothing to quench your love.

She is one of those rare women:

she has a heart
which she will give but once.

Perhaps then I...

It belongs to another.

Ah, so Marguerite is in love!

V\fith you, Baron?

Unfortunately, no.

Who then?

The Viscount.

His honour the Viscount
d'Aveleda.

What” he say, what” he say?

What is he bringing?

What mystery here!

Look at him there! A Byronic man,
a man of romance!

A thousand rumours fly!

We know he comes now from America,

popular with scholars
and savants.

He lives like a prince.
He has bought palaces.

And he sings like an angel
yet he will never marry.

Of course a story needs a setting,

that is the storyteller's task.

I know. But I would rather brave

the yapping rabble
of all the critics

than to tell you what country
we are in.

The manuscript is silent
on this point.

Put the dance wherever you wish:

in the most splendid palace
ever before dreamed.

ln Lisbon lam certain...
but that is enough.

Back to the banquet...

Where strange d'Aveleda
has made his entrance.

Have you spoken to him?

Just now.

I don't know what to think.

l have never met anyone like him.

You were right, I shudder still.

Do you know that your sorrow
affects us very much?

Why are you always so sad?

I cannot pretend to be amused.

That, of course, I can respect,

but such ostentation...

Ah, but the appearance of luxury
sometimes hides dismay...

Just as laughter, as you know,
sometimes conceals a sea of tears.

There is some misfortune.

I am not complaining.

I do not pity you.

But I cannot ignore
your unhappiness.

Do you doubt all this?

I do, I sense the harm

in all your innocence.

Your heavenly, honey-voice is bitter,

if I may say so, like absinth.

Is that a compliment,
or merely sarcasm?

Does my unhappy presence
deepen your own unhappiness?

Much worse than that.

Yes worse. Picture a traveller
lost in the desert.

Under a burning sun,
weak and dying.

Next to a stream, deep in a ravine,
and thus unattainable.

Can you imagine the torture?

Then tell me how you expect me
to look at you?

To hear your heavenly voice
and not burst into tears?

l weep inside at the thought of what
I am, of what I once was...

And what I might once
have been.

I am not sure I understand,

a traveller should not lose hope.

In the desert,
not lose hope?

There is comfort in faith.

How should I knoW?
Providence... a miracle.

Providence! l have worn my eyes out
searching for Providence

and now I am blind.

Blind with eyes like yours?

If only I had no eyes,
if only I could not see you

nor see the distance between
the earth and the sky,

nor see how impossible it is
for you and l to be one.

Why impossible?

All these enigmas...

as if you were torturing me...

Can you not guess?

Must I speak the things I feel?

Very well then, I shall.

If the power to make you happy
is mine, then come.

I will give you your happiness.

lmpossible!

A blind man knows the miracles
he cannot see about him.

What are you saying?

I adore you, Marguerite,
but I cannot... that's all.

You wish to kill me!

I love you too much
to wish you chimeras.

Chimeras? What is a chimera?

Speak!
Do you not see my distress?

All I can say is a word,

the sacred word of the Apocalypse.

Now, reduced to the pathetic
proportions of novelistic intrigue.

What is this word?

Mystery.

I know not what condemned

the protagonists of our true story.

To sit among the divine luxuries
of a dance without pleasure.

lntoxicating themselves instead
with the sententious language

of poor melodrama.

I would, however,

like to point out
the pair of hagard eyes

flashing out from behind
the wall-hangings.

Don Juan! If this story
were a fabrication,

he would be clutching
a glinting dagger.

But I think we can do
without the dagger.

I beg of you, Madam,

help me persuade our guest

to sing us one of those ancient
melodies for which he's famous.

He will not dare refuse you.

You cannot escape.
Your song, please.

Quiet!

A hush fell.

And the viscount's perfect tenor
rose above the guests.

Echo! Echo!

Echo, sweet passionate nymph,

so miserable, so hopelessly ardent
in your love.

The song was immaculate.

Each of the notes twisted a knife

in the wounds of every heart
like a sweet poison.

Unhappy Eccho, you are gone forever.

Only your song remains of you.

Marguerite was whiter than camelias.

To the end, she held her breath.

And then she vanished.

Once alone, she burst into tears.

Do you not love, as I do,

that strange dawn twilight?

lt quickens the imagination...

And carves vague masks
in everything.

It is the vagueness that is
enchanting.

You understand this,
don't you?

It is ecstasy. I know it well.

I knew you would.

Something told me our souls were
alike in thought and sentiment.

Is it not so?

Perhaps, but I doubt it...

Do you believe in misfortune?

Have you no faith in me?

ln you! My poor child!

You live in a shadow-world...

Where virtue is despised
and appearance is everything!

That is the very essence
of my misfortune.

My heart is aflame,

but my arms will never cherish
a woman, nor give her spirit rest.

Marble is cold and.
clay turns to dust.

Enough of your enigmas!

If your heart is aflame,
you are in love...

V\fith all of my heart!

And she will not have you?

I don't believe it.

You do not understand that the noble
creature which you profess to see in
me

is in fact an ignoble brigand.

l have the vanity to believe
in your love...

But do you believe
that such a love would cure me?

Of leprosy, of cancer,
or of festered wounds...?

Imagine the innocent and sensitive
young girl on her wedding night!

You do not frighten me.

I know my destiny is exceptional.

I am made for someone heroic!

I can believe that.

But I have a question for you
which may seem strange.

If I was inanimate, a living corpse...

Somehow artificially reanimated,

so that my brain could think,

so that my heart could beat,
but my body was dead...

Would you still be able to kiss me
without disgust?

Could you lay your head
on the chest of a corpse?

How fanciful! But I accept
your challenge, I shall answer.

V\fith God as my witness,

if my wedding-bed is a tomb,
then so be it.

That is what I wish it to be.

My voice is uncertain,
but it is truth which makes it so.

l have told you the truth.

Love cannot lie.

I beg your pardon
for intruding, Madam.

I could not resist the temptation
of confessing my shame.

l have just witnessed your touching
scene from my hiding-place.

Madam, your lover...

Please! At least I have the generosity

not to pour useless insults
on a rival behind his back.

I will remain discreet.

to the Viscount this evil thought
which has crossed my mind.

Ask him for me, madam,
for I am dying to know...

V\fill a bullet go through
a gentleman's brain?

Marguerite was ashamed.

She kept Don Juan's threats to
herself.

And how would the Don be received
at the Viscount's wedding?

It was a splendid occasion.

The bride was magnificent.
How else?

The flower of society,
all her friends,

her father and brothers
gathered around her.

One of her brothers had entered
the disreputable world of law.

The other was a man-about-town,

drifting through
the wasteland of city life.

But the main thing was her husband.
He was there.

Such heights of society
she had not yet attained?

Strange!
On a day like today!

The groom is eating
with his gloves on.

His gloves which he never removes!
How fascinating!

He looks like a necromancer!
How frightening!

Naturally, nobody says anything nasty
about the bridal couple.

I propose a toast
and burn a gram of incense

on the holy altar of frankness
and friendship

I foresee endless pleasure,
such as the pleasure

burning in my veins
and clouding my sight today.

of offering the bridal couple
the usual pathetic congratulations.

Like Caeser,
in whose bloody arena in Rome,

passive Christians
were fed to the lions.

and dedicate the bride to the groom.

l have never heard
such an odd wedding toast.

Your love still burns in vain!

I love her more than ever.

My love is like a man-eating tiger,
devouring its own object.

Bacchus be my witness!

No-one saw Don Juan
come in from the garden.

He was obviously hatching
some kind of plot...

But he is too private a man
for us to intrude upon his thoughts.

Let us return to the banquet.

A banquet is an irrational event...

In another age, some magic rite
would have been at work...

And no amount of holy water shall
prevent the Viscount's canonization.

By midnight, the party was over.

Marguerite, with sweet tears
shyly streaming down her cheeks,

embraced her old father
and her brothers.

She showed them to their rooms...

Then, at last, crossed the threshold
into her own sacred appartment.

The sight of the white curtains,
embroidered with gold,

that veiled the mysteries
of her nuptual bed.

Through the open window,
she saw the moon.

lt watched faithfully over her

and illuminated
the heavy foliage outside,

sweetly scenting the breeze.

A virgin heart, swooning with emotion
on this the first night of love

its charming dizziness no doubt
increased by the mystic harmonies

which mortals can only perceive
at such sacred times...

This in unadulterated recitative.

But where is her husband?
Why is he not at her feet?

Henri? My Henri!

What's the matter?
Why don't you answer me?

Thinking what, my lord
and master of my dreams?

Do you know the tale
of Hero and Leander?

As a girl
read it once.

It's similar to our story; it isn't
the sea, but death itself menaces us.

I'd rather face the furious
Hellespont.

Beware! Oh innocence that will not see
the raging clouds of Fate overhead.

Do not frighten me.

What on earth could ever
threaten our love?

See here this crystal flask?

It contains an acid which
in a minute, brings death.

In the garden, a scream

like the yelp of a boar surprised.

Don Juan! He had thought
up some bloody plot...

Considering his nature, it should be
assumed he be called an assassin.

Unhappy Juan, teased,
despised.

There is no hope for me.
I will combat Destiny.

I will not go to my fate alone.

My tormenter will share my misfortune.

You are shrinking away from me?

You should have done so sooner rather
than sharing now what I must suffer.

Do you know my love?

Know you how much I love you?

As much as a drowning man must love
the life that is leaving him.

Then love me too! These mysteries,
the very air you breathe,

everything fills me
with cold and...

Feafl

Yes, inexplicable fear.

Unhappy Juan,
victimized by fate.

Must I allow this surrendering
of my beloved

to the man who stole her from me?

No! He shall die!

Who are you? I do not know you?

lam an abandonned soul
with no body to shelter me.

My heart is aflame in a cold body
that is like a marble sepulcre.

I told you once before,
you would not listen.

You chose the appearance of what I am
and would not hear me say.

You were in love!

I tried to speak...

But I could not...

l shrank from the breath that
would scatter an angelic vision.

I admit I sacrificed you...

Perhaps I have dragged you down
to the depths with me.

What depths?

There is still hope.

If that hope should fade,
l have shown you the hidden poison.

You will be rich, a widow and a
virgin.

Do not cry, my angel!

Oh unhappiness! lnnocent creature
you said, and you were right!

I met you and thus began my dream!

I fell in love with the unreal
mystery of you.

lnnocent creature!

Ignorant of the world, I saw only
the artifice of passion!

How was I to know my master
was on parole, was a criminal!

But I see your tears of repentance.

Trust me, open up your past.

My love is absolution
and my kiss is forgiveness.

Thankless fate!

You will die
but die revenged!

Come my beloved wife,
it is time we spoke openly.

lam no criminal,
my life is without blemish.

Else my punishment would be
riven deep into my conscience

and your kisses
would be my balm.

No! Come! Listen!
How brave is my love?

Speak.

Do you remember your promise,

the word you spoke
in trembling passionate fear?

l have promised so much,
so often!

You promised you would
follow me to my grave

if that was where
our wedding bed lay.

Mother of God! What is this?

Was this not the truth?
An angel's lips do not lie.

Come into my cold arms.
Embrace the inanimate body of death.

Why are you afraid?

Henri! Who are you?

Come!

Ah... I cannot! I am terrified!
Else it is a dream...

A dream it is. lam not human.

Horror! Who are you then?

A statue! The new myth,

the centaur of a new age,
half-man, half-machine.

Buried in my breast is a human heart
that adores you.

My tormented head is a man's,

but my limbs are mechanical,
they are fake.

At night, they must come off.
Come help me.

Ah, you faint!

Done is your courage,

and the valour promised me
by the woman who loved me?

Woman, merely like all the others!

Promises... empty words! I am
not altered. Nothing is missing.

Love me for what I am.

I am yours!

She is faithless.

Yet the lips which sang
her bewitchment

are aflame with the fires
that she lit herself!

When Mr Urbano Solar,
Marguerite's venerable old father,

lazily opened his eyes still heavy
with the caress of sleep,

the blessed man would not have woken
so
early had it not been for the
rumbling,

the complaints of his belly which thus
revealed its dreaded hollowness.

In fact he hated an empty stomach

so much that the mere prospect
of a solid breakfast

was enough to make him leap
from his bed, quickly get dressed

and go out in search
of the newlyweds and of his sons.

Where is the Viscount?
Where is Marguerite?

My love-doves. Has anyone seen them?

This looks like another
of the Viscount's little jokes,

to see how long we can
hang on for our breakfast.

But I am a cunning old thing.
I have my revenge,

called for them in their room.

What about the masculine pride?

The room was deserted,

save for a curious odour...

Of ambrosia...

No, rather Of roasted meat!

My son-in-law, I know, is full of
secret whims. He is an eccentric.

He is not to be found. No-one saw
him leave, he and the bride are gone.

The only sign of life is a huge hunk
of meat roasting on the coals,

half-charred already.

Yet the visible part is enough to kill
the most tragically voracious
appetite.

What kind of meat is it?

Something strange.
A secret of the Viscount's.

I thought it would be fine punishment

if we were to partake
of his own breakfast.

Would it not be too fonNard?

I'll take the blame.
Quickly! Before he returns.

Shortly thereafter, the old man was
having a ball in the young couple's
room

making merry with all the utensils
necessary for such a feast.

But how disappointing!

The meat was slimy and tasteless,
with a bittersweat aftertaste.

In all his days, Urbano Solar

had never come across meat
so impossible to carve.

And only the unforgiving drove him on
to consume the unpleasant dish.

Meanwhile the dandy pecked
ungratefully at the food on his plate

and the man of law fell
into a state of deep melancholy

as he stared at the contours of the
hunk
they'd put back to where they found
it.

Go and fetch the salt
and some mustard.

Lamb is a sickeningly dull kind of
meat...

Listen to me.
There is some mystery here.

The bed has not been slept in.

The servants swear no-one
has left the house and...

ln horror, they cease.

The only dish in this banquet of
theirs
was the Viscount's own flesh

which should, I suppose,

have been twice as tender
as less blue blooded meat.

Suddenly,
the same thought crossed their minds.

Swiftly glancing at each other

they ran out into the garden
which was in an uproar.

What has happened? Speak!

Tell us what's wrong.

A disaster, you have no idea!

Anselm...! You have never lied to me,
never disobeyed.

I command you to tell me
what has happened!

Poor little lady!

What happened?

She's dead!

What about Don Juan?

He's alive. Perhaps we can save him.

I've already called a doctor...

Chaplain? Do you know if it was
Don Juan who killed my sister?

The Viscountess commited suicide.

Speak more softly, man!

There must not be a scandal!

Did Marguerite kill Don Juan?

Don Juan killed himself.

Perhaps the Viscount did too.

Everybody has committed suicide.

Did your master kill himself too?

I don't know. Here's someone
who can tell you.

The doctor?

He's coming now. Be brave!

What do I care about the doctor?
I am going to die anyway.

Whom are you expecting?

The father of this unfortunate girl.

I am here.

I beg your forgiveness. Approaching
death teaches candour: I confess.

I adored your daughter.

l was madly in love with her
and slighted love stirred the anger in
me

when I learned she was giving in
to the Viscount's whims.

I swore I'd have my revenge.
Last night,
spied on them.

l was consumed with jealousy.

l sneaked up to the window
of their room.

There was a hideous death cry.

l hesitated.

There was a sound of bodies
crashing to the floor.

I entered the room. It was horrible!

Only the groom did I see.
An Inferno!

Terrified, I ran into the garden.
I stumbled on Marguerite's corpse.

I shot myself. But death is cruel!

All
ask is forgiveness.
I loved your daughter to sickness.

Don Juan, my daughter is no more.

As to forgiveness,
here is someone who's business it is.

Just tell me in what state
was the Viscount?

Look in the flames, look...

In the flames...?

Urbano Solar left the garden in a
panic,

taking his sons with him.

They were in awe
of their father's silent anguish.

All three locked themselves in a room.

The brothers collapsed on to a sofa,
broken-hearted.

Life is a bloody joke
that brings us nothing but ruses.

Crying is a woman's duty,

that at least should be left to them.

My conscience is clean. What matters
the Viscount? Do you know what I mean?

lndeed. We've eaten him.

Eaten him and not even enjoyed it!

What matters now
is my darling girl is gone.

Marguerite, you are gone!

How did I lose you? When? Where?

Trusting in God's grace, l have prayed
for death... but to no avail.

He, the all-powerful,

cruel tyrant chooses to ignore
an old gentleman's prayers.

He has left me alive!

Very well then, he will have nothing
but blasphemy from me.

And not for long. Farewell, I am dead!

What? You too?

Yes, this is it. I've had enough.
I need to rest!

If you die, we shall follow you.

I thank you. Let this be the last
of the life of Solar.

Let us die! Let us die!

Marguerite awaits us.
Let's go now to our sister.

The awful thing is that the
Viscount...

We've eaten him
and we didn't enjoy it!

The Viscount was rich,
he was a multimillionaire...

He always said he had no family.

His wife is dead...

We must go to our sister...

In theory, until we hear anything
to the contrary,

we are his legitimate heirs.

There is one problem.
The corpse is not identifiable.

We ate it.
It's the end of us.

No! lam a lawyer.
I shall find a solution.

They said no more.

During this moment of silence,

the man-of-law noticed his brother's
expression, recovering its poise

as if a ray of sunlight had come out
and scattered the storm-clouds.

The case is a difficult one.
But... we shall triumph.

We are saved!

Victory!

The millions are ours.

Glory be to God on High!

Glory be to God the Judge!

And they rushed on the man-of-law
like hounds,

sinking their teeth in to the leathery
skin
of a fine Lamego ham.

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