Colossal Youth

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I was a young girl.

I'd go swimming.

I had a body like a fish,

with shoulders wider

than any boy's in San Felipe.

I'd go in the water

on the slightest whim.

None of the boys

were brave enough to follow.

They'd shout from the beach,

"Sharks, Clotilde!

Come back before they eat you!"

Then they'd sing...

Come back, my love

Back to my arms

No shark ever got near me.

Sometimes

I'd take my oldest boy.

I'd leave him on the rocks

and dive in the water.

I wanted to never go back,

but I always did.

Poor Jj would cry and cry.

He'd almost fall off the rocks

reaching out to me.

I'd swim back close to the beach

and float there

and watch him cry.

Sometimes it seemed

he'd burst from crying,

but he never did.

I'd sit with him

until the sun went down.

I knew the boys were still

watching me from above,

but they had run out of steam

and stopped singing.

COLOSSAL YOUTH:

Bete.

Bete.

Your mother's gone.

She doesn't love me anymore.

She doesn't want to spend

the rest of her life with me.

She doesn't want to move

to the new place.

She fought me every night.

It's been like a nightmare.

I'm thinking back 30 years

to when I lived in public housing

as a young man working

for Gaudncio Construction.

I tossed and turned every night,

suffocating under the covers.

Ventura,

you got the wrong door.

No, I don't.

I used to get it wrong

all the time.

I'd come back drunk from work

and collapse in a strange bed.

I'd walk into Totinha's house,

or Nina's, or Maria's,

and I'd fall asleep, even snore.

They'd take me home at dawn.

All the doors looked

the same back then.

You got the wrong door

and the wrong daughter.

Every time your mother gave birth,

she'd pray it wouldn't be a drunk like me.

She doesn't love me anymore.

She doesn't love anyone.

She doesn't love her children.

My son is humble,

the apple of his mother's eye

Born of our kiss

and our happiness

- How's it going?

- Good.

- See you, Xana.

- See you, Ventura.

Not hungry?

I didn't eat last night.

Your mother left me.

She stabbed me with a knife.

The blood's already dry.

That woman wrecked the house.

The bed, the armoire... -

Nothing's left in one piece.

She took

the new black suitcase,

all my embroidered shirts

and jackets.

All she left me

is a few clothes.

Really?

In the bathtub, I think.

She smashed up

all my furniture.

What woman?

She had Clotilde's face,

but it wasn't her.

I don't know if it was Clotilde

or another woman I slept with.

- Eat.

- I'm okay.

Vanda!

Vanda!

Where do you live?

What do you want, Ventura?

- They gave you a basement apartment?

- Yeah.

What do you want?

- A beer.

- You got money?

- Yeah.

Your mother didn't come home?

Look, it's stealing the food.

She didn't sleep here last night?

Look at that little monkey.

She took the suitcase and left.

Ventura, my mother's buried

at Amadora Cemetery.

I looked all over for her.

What do you want me to do?

I'd like lots of things

I don't have either.

I'd like to cut down

on the methadone.

I'd like no more pain

or suffering.

I'd like to be at peace.

I'd like to have

my daughter with me,

but I don't.

I'd like to get unemployment

or a pension, but I don't.

You don't even get

the minimum amount?

Nope.

I haven't gotten a thing

in 15 months.

I'd like a little shrimp

with my beer, but no.

You still have something.

Not much, but still.

I'd like a little luck... -

I don't even have that.

If my mother was still alive,

I wouldn't be like this. That's for sure.

Sh*t! Why'd I wipe my eyes

with those Dodots?

That's what I get.

- Dodots?

- Yep.

I wiped my eyes with them.

Look at that snake! Christ!

An anaconda.

Look at that.

That one's gonna get it.

Dodots?

Look! He's huge, Papa!

Forty feet.

He got it.

Look at that crocodile.

Dodots?

Yeah, Dodots.

There goes the crocodile.

It's twisted all around it.

You see the size of those jaws?

What are Dodots?

Towelettes for wiping

a baby's bottom.

These here.

You've never seen Dodots?

- Cloths?

- Yeah.

He's eating the crocodile!

Look at those huge jaws!

See you, daughter.

See you, Papa.

You're gonna eat this one.

Three points.

This one too.

Seven.

Nine.

Twenty.

I need you to write

a letter for me to my wife.

- To send her money?

- To tell her I miss her.

It's Arcangela's birthday

on December 4th, and mine on the 5th.

A sort of love letter.

"Nha cretcheu, my love,

meeting again will brighten

our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you

renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house

you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine

and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over

a hundred of us now."

Seventy-seven.

Forty-three.

What else?

- Go get a pen.

- There are none in this shack.

No pens in the shack?

That's sad.

Lento?

Lento, you asleep?

Listen good.

"Meeting again will brighten

our lives for at least 30 years.

I'll return to you

renewed and full of strength.

I wish I could offer you

a dozen fancy new dresses,

a car,

that little lava house

you always dreamed of,

and a 40-cent bouquet.

But most of all,

drink a bottle of good wine

and think of me.

The work here never stops.

There are over

a hundred of us now."

It's a beautiful letter.

Yeah, it is.

Learn it by heart.

Good night, Lento.

Goodnight, Ventura.

I bought chicken.

Mr. Ventura?

That's me all right.

Retired laborer.

Andr Semedo, locksmith,

now in civil service.

North or south islands?

- South, born and bred.

Ch? o do Monte, guas Podres,

Santa Catarina.

Principal, Ch? da Horta,

and Tarrafal.

Your wife's not coming?

Fourth floor, right.

It gets a lot of sun.

My head's spinning,

and I ache all over.

I can't open it.

Temple, shack, household god.

Nothing's more joyful than opening

our home to God, our protector.

It's too small.

I want bedrooms for my children.

Bring me their papers.

There's no mention

of children in your file.

- I want bedrooms.

- How many?

Lots.

Everyone's asking

for more rooms.

I need them

more than others do.

When I had my daughter,

I was in pain for over three days.

In pain?

In my back.

I told my husband,

"I can't stand it.

I'm not even due yet."

"Careful, darling.

Don't give birth here.

If you're feeling bad,

we'll go to the hospital."

Three days in horrible pain.

I didn't want to go.

I was scared.

That was a Saturday.

I had my little girl on a Saturday.

The nurse put her hand on me and said,

"You're not going anywhere."

I said, "Excuse me?

I've got to get home.

Why can't I leave?"

"Because the baby's head

has already appeared."

"But I'm all alone here.

I have to go get my husband.

I don't know his phone number."

And she said,

"You're not leaving here.

Give me your address.

I'll send someone."

I was in such pain!

Christ!

Waves of pain every ten minutes.

"Ow! It hurts so bad!"

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