Night Across the Street Page #7

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was always talking about.

I knew Long John Silver in the Peneca.

Who do they think they are?

I invented them,

I created them,

and now they have the nerve

to do as they please

and act however they want.

Is this what it's come to?

Don't let it upset you, Don Celso.

That's how people are these days.

There's no respect anymore.

Are they the ones calling us?

Good God, better to just laugh.

Are you there?

Show yourselves.

No, they won't come.

I can feel them.

I feel them calling to us.

I do, too.

Let's go, before it's too late.

Too late for what?

It's about time!

Welcome!

Better late than never.

I knew they'd come, boss,

which is why I took the liberty

of preparing a speech,

which goes

like this.

Dear victims of fate and destiny.

Those born to fate cannot escape destiny.

It was our destiny

to wander the ghostly docks

of the northern regions.

It was our fate

to enjoy this destiny.

But one of us

assumed this fate from the beginning.

He waited for it,

dreamt of it,

called to it.

This bullet

represents that fate.

This bullet,

this swift instrument

of diligent speed,

this instant remedy for all evil,

and more importantly,

for all good.

This bullet,

I say again and again,

is an epiphany from the depths,

a lyrical fife,

a ferocious drug,

an insatiable devourer.

This bullet

is the crouching toad

who opens the door

to the encroaching night,

and who now swears before us all.

Bullet,

you slim warning of death,

you alone

deserve to wear its coat of arms

and be its standard-bearer.

You alone

deserve the shadows.

And...

I've lost my train of thought.

Well...

You get my drift.

Excellent speech, Don Gural.

Our deceased would have appreciated it.

Thank you.

I...

I prepared a few words as well.

Please...

Regale us with your sweet words.

As you know,

my daily life is punctuated

by a typewriter called Magnolia.

As you know,

Magnolias

love Rhododendrons.

Our now-deceased beloved

was Rhododendron.

And I became Magnolia.

Don Celso

was

and always will be

my only love.

That's all.

It wasn't much.

But they say that the dregs of the mat,

cup never tastes of much.

Speaking of mat,

here is this silver cup.

This cup

which was the pride and joy

of our Celso Barra,

inspired me

to write a song.

Old cup, the galley slave of love

venerated reliquary of ideals

You are the mystery of flowers in bloom

old cup, galley slave of love

Your bulb is the ideal flower

where the bees suck love

Serving as an attentive tie

for the two souls united in a kiss

Old silver cup

venerated reliquary

Cut!

Sous-titrage:
L.V.T. - Paris

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