Madrid, 1987 Page #3

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Can anybody hear me?

Somebody will come.

Is this the only towel we have?

Here.

Friends, Romans, countrymen.

Lend me your ears.

Brutus says...

What would Shakespeare do?

Two people who want to be together

isn't the same thing

as two people forced to be together.

That detail completely changes the plot.

Would it be a comedy or a tragedy?

What do you think?

Until my parents find me, a comedy.

And after that

A tragedy with murders.

Parents nowadays

aren't like they used to be.

My dad is.

What does he do?

He's in the military.

You're kidding. Even has a gun!

What branch

He's Lieutenant Colonel

of the Madrid Command.

What's his name?

Soriano Castroviejo.

Serafin Soriano Castroviejo

is your father?

Then you're Isabel's sister.

How many years between you?

She's my older sister.

Eight siblings.

Eight...

She's 17 years older than me.

I met your sister when she was

in the acting group.

They were dying for me

to write about them.

She was a great girl.

And she was hot.

I never got to f*** her,

but I really liked her.

That black hair...

We're totally different.

Yeah, in that you and I

probably won't f*** either.

Your dad was a real fascist back then.

The type who reached for his gun

if he heard the word democracy.

I had a couple military trials

for two articles.

One in the early 70's,

the other after Franco died.

For offending the military.

You wouldn't remember,

you were just a kid.

I remember Tejero.

That was yesterday.

I went through my paranoid phase

years ago.

I had some government agents

who followed me at times.

They messed with me, you know,

warnings to let you know

you were under surveillance.

I was terrified, what nonsense...

I f***ed a transvestite.

I don't know.

I thought they'd sell it

to a tabloid

to f*** with him a little.

Everybody was paranoid back then.

Now the socialists raised their wages

and everybody's happy.

What I'd give for a cigarette

and a whisky.

Maybe they'll do to me

what they did to Suso and his wife.

You know, Suso de la Guardia,

the political commentator.

Yeah, sure.

He disappeared a couple years ago.

He f***ed anything that walked

and his wife was fed up

because he'd come home

a complete mess.

The guy was drinking himself to death.

He drank like the British.

The Spanish drink to loosen up.

The British drink to kill themselves.

For them it's like a job,

not a hobby.

He was like a Brit in that sense.

But not as a writer.

His writing was messy, smudged,

incomprehensible.

Like he put his sentences in a blender

and it came out lumpy.

Anyway, he had sex with some girl,

I don't remember who,

and he got so shitfaced

that when the girl left the hotel

he fell asleep.

More like passed out.

And he didn't go home that night

because he woke up at noon

the next day.

So he turns on the TV

and sees everybody's going nuts

saying he'd been kidnapped by ETA.

So he calls the paper.

What happened?

Nobody kidnapped me.

His wife had made it all up

to teach him a lesson.

That's what his friends said.

An old man's battle stories.

I bet your dad...

has his battle stones.

Though he didn't get to be

the hero of Alcazar.

What did he get?

the dirty war, the Green March,

the coup attempt...

Your sister was a classic example

of the fascists' offspring.

She was funny,

liked a good time

liked to f***...

Always hanging out with those baby-faced

short actors with big heads

who look so good on camera.

She said your dad were at odds

because she didnt lose Communist plays

that were in fashion back then.

Intellectual brats.

They wanted to conquer the workers

with that.

Workers just want to see

Norma Duval's tits.

My sister and dad still fight.

They have it out every Christmas.

Is she still acting

working on a TV series.

She never talked about me.

She got me your number.

Through a friend.

I told her I had to write

an article for class

and I was considering you.

And If she had a number,

because

I left messages at the paper...

I never go there.

They don't let you drink anymore.

What did she say,

that we were friends?

More like acquaintances.

I remember one night I asked her.

Are we gonna f*** or what"

And she said:
"I'm afraid not."

It's funny, if she saw us now...

I doubt she's as pretty now

as her little sister.

No, she and I...

are both over the hill.

You're still wearing

a child's pajamas.

She said you were overrated

as a writer.

Wow.

I thought the ones you screwed

always hold a grudge,

but I see you have to watch out for

the ones you don't screw as well.

I'll tell you one thing.

Only a completely overrated writer

can make a living at this.

Does it bother you people think that?

Is this still the interview?

Will you tell?

Naked in a grungy shower,

I continued my meeting

with the overrated

columnist.

Will you tell?

It depends how it ends.

But your books and novels

aren't as relevant as your articles.

Despite the wards you've won.

Awards are just...

Money.

But you still accept them.

Some people spend their whole lives

with a novel inside.

Like storytelling in the old days,

I don't know...

I've hung my novels strip by strip

in the paper every day.

I gave it everything I had.

If somebody values me,

lave to pick up the pieces

I like what you write.

Maybe you'd be tftffi one

to glue them together some day.

Or you were going to be,

but not anymore.

Meeting someone you admire is the first

step towards not admiring them anymore.

You can only admire

bodies and dead people.

Whats inside is dirty, rotten, untidy.

It's better not to go in.

What about your other six siblings?

Five. One died 8 years ago.

They do different things.

One's an English teacher,

another is studying

in the United States...

That's what gets me

about this country.

We went from a grotesque tragedy

to an American TV series.

Like "Eight is Enough" or something.

From Goya to Norman Rockwell.

I've written this before.

So why the hell do you want to be

a journalist?

All the interesting stuff

has already happened in this country.

Until people start killing

each other again

this'll be just a boring stream

of economic data and election results.

Maybe not a journalist.

I want to write.

That's another thng.

The last 15 years in this country

have been a party

for newspaper writers.

The transition the political tension,

the coup attempt,

NATO replacing the Common Market...

It was like the unknown body

of a young stranger

you don't caress any more

because you're too old

but suddenly you're allowed to.

Because you and I...

are gonna f***, aren't we?

We've earned it, right?

Try screaming,

see if anyone hears you.

A woman screaming

isn't the same as a man.

Nobody wants to save a man.

Unlucky for you.

People will do anything

to save a pretty girl.

You'r not allowed to go out,

or to live life.

Guys all want to buy you an apartment

and get you pregnant.

Go on, try it.

Hello!

Is anyone there?

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