Letters to Angel Page #4

Can I call you some time? - What for?

- I don't know... just because

Angel... F***! We're waiting for you!

You hear me? Action!

F***!

Merrily!

Elvis has gone completely crazy.

- Stop it! Lars!

Who's gone crazy?

- Elvis. Said he'll kill Lars.

Your husband? I'd like to see that!

- I have to get home somehow.

Kirotaja will drive you.

- That Arab? Hasn't he been drinking?

Him? He drinks only water

and he's celibate.

Completely harmless...

It helps me calm down.

You had to drive to town for me -

leave the party.

The scandal came as no surprise.

Everybody says don't take it seriously.

Just a sick person's ramblings.

You won't believe me when I say

he says he'll strangle me. In my sleep.

He suspects that I get

orgasms in my sleep.

I'm afraid to fall asleep.

Get a bodyguard.

- A bodyguard for a cellist?

Pay him in sonatas.

Some people like music.

Brahms, for example.

- You like Brahms?

Not as much as I used to.

One violin concerto.

The fourth section. Allegro manondanto.

But that isn't Brahms

This?

You guessed it.

Elvis!

Elvis has started composing.

He's a pianist Gifted... he was.

Now he's composing,

no one will perform them.

Composed in a delirium.

I told him to write when he's sober,

but he refuses. He's stubborn.

He's mad, he fills himself up with any

sh*t he can get and then writes...

What can I offer you to drink?

- Water.

He had a piano concerto

where the piano is swan in half.

Naturally it was never performed.

Now it's gone.

I think he destroyed it.

Not the first time.

On top of everything,

he's a pharmaceutical

chemist Look at the

house we live in.

Sit down somewhere.

Here's a new piece for a cello.

'Babylon'

Let's have a premiere.

Wait here. I'll be right back.

You can take some with you,

if you're interested.

I don't watch them.

I'll take one.

Very beautiful.

The Ten Commandments.

In cuneiform.

Elvis paid a fortune for me

to be the muse of his dreams

Thou shalt have no

other gods beside me.

First Commandment

Take my glass.

Yes.

- Where are you, at the hostel?

No, I can't talk now.

- Come back.

Back where?

- Back here!

I'm totally wet and filthy...

I can't talk, I'm at a concert.

- What concert? I'm freezing!

Get going! It's so bloody slippery here

make sure you don't run me over!

Please give me my glass...

The concert is over. Now go...

Please go!

I brought the money back and

I'm borrowing a film from you...

Where's Lars? What happened?

- How would I know?

How would I know?

Get going - drive - Drive!

Bastard! Son of a b*tch! Bastard!

Bastard! Bastard!

Bastard!

Angel. Touch of Love

Is that Kirotaja? Hello? It's Fee.

- I'm listening.

Your father's funeral is

tomorrow, I didn't know.

My condolences... - Thanks.

Are you going there alone? -Yes.

On the river? -Yes.

By boat? -Yes.

Take me with you. -What for?

If you're going alone by

boat anyway, I thought...

We have a performance

there tomorrow.

Where? - In the marsh, the same place.

Or do you want to go alone?

Maybe. I don't know.

- I promise I won't bother you. Please.

I don't know.

If it's so important to you...

- So I can come.

What time are you leaving?

- Early...

Good. Hello?

- Yes. -Thanks. - Don't mention it.

Safia!

Safia.

Turn the light off.

Tell me if you want to go to sleep

I'll leave.

I'm selling the hostel.

This town gets on my nerves.

And this marriage.

Even while we were getting married

I was thinking about divorce.

It makes me sick.

Are you asleep?

Angel.

You gave your daughter a beautiful name.

Dear Angel. Maybe you'll ask

why I haven't written about Safia before

For 20 years I've been keeping the

secret of my Afghan foster-daughter.

I'm not trying to justify it

That's how it's been.

Safia didn't know about you

either, just your name.

That there's an Angel

somewhere and I write to her.

She never asked who Angel is,

and I didn't explain either.

Sometimes she laughed

when she saw my mouth

inky mouth, sometimes

she became thoughtful.

She was somewhere else in her thoughts

And I didn't ask about it.

It felt good being together.

I wasn't a proper

father and she wasn't a

proper daughter, but

that wasn't important.

What was important

was something else.

In a sense, we owed

each other our lives.

But that wasn't the

explanation for our affection

I don't know how much Safia remembered

her father and mother and two brothers.

Time and again I

caught myself thinking

that perhaps a five-year-old

child forgets,

that the subconscious erases

some images, voices, smells.

Sometimes I even believed that.

But it's not true.

There are things that can't be erased,

it isn't possible.

It was hard for her

to look deep, inside,

and hard for me too,

as an onlooker.

It didn't happen every day, but there

were days when it lasted a longtime,

and I don't know

how deeply she was going into herself.

She wandered in the

mountains more and more.

She'd be gone a whole

week and come back,

singing to herself.

She'd make up new songs.

They were sincere, lovely

creations, soothing

and endless, in Persian,

like prayers.

Then one day she was gone.

She left a short letter, that

she would call and explain.

My heart feared the worst.

I asked the other soldiers

and didn't get a clear answer.

I waited a whole year,

then decided to go back home

I sent a letter saying the unknown

soldier was alive and coming home.

In the reply they said

my Dad had just died

He died Thursday evening.

My letter arrived with the Friday mail.

Now that Safia is gone,

I think about her promise to call me.

Maybe she tried to

call that morning when

I sat in the hearse

at the madhouse.

Some Arab called me from Pakistan.

Another soldier.

I had to lie:
, "wrong call".

Maybe Safia wanted to say something

to me, but it remained unsaid.

That is the whole story

of Safia Siddigi Assifi,

the suicide bomber,

my lost foster-child.

Fee, Fee, we're waiting for you!

Fee! Give me your hand.

Let's go]

This is the only one.

Forward, move the coffin forward

Lift the coffin.

You are at my father's funeral

- F***!

Help me, this schizo is

climbing on the set.

Is someone coming or not?

If you have nowhere to go, you can

stay with us, we've got space.

Alfred is away until Christmas.

Where was he sent?

I think he's in Helmand. I don't know.

Anyway the letters come from Pakistan

At the mission, then.

- Yeah.

Our missionary...

Well, let me see.

Do they hurt?

Not too bad.

You don't want any?

In memory of the old man.

You won't say anything at all?

What's there to say? Nothing.

We need to talk.

- I found this in my room.

Same place where you hid it.

There's only one bullet in it.

Who are you saving it for?

Yourself. Not a bad idea.

The Dane is dead, floating somewhere

in the swamp with a bullet in him.

That bastard raped me.

You know, he used me, brutally,

dragged me in the mud and...

Bloody pervert!

And you put a bulletin

the pervert's head

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