Noviembre Page #4

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We can't do this

out in the desert.

No cash to be made.

It's not about the cash!

You know what we planned to do

-with the money?

-Don't tell me. Give it to the poor.

How did you know?

Come on.

Cut the crap already.

You don't believe me.

No, I don't.

In any case,

it still wouldn't make

any difference.

What was your name?

Alfredo Baeza.

-With a " B"...

-I got it.

What next?

You know the routine.

Thank you.

-What about the wheelchair?

-Next month.

Okay.

For the poor, eh?

I swear to God.

You're crazier than I thought.

It was frustrating,

you know? A pain in the ass.

All our effort

would disappear in a second.

It left an empty feeling inside.

Above all,

a profound sense of impotence.

I don't know, as if...

we were literally stunned.

Stilts, diapers, bedding,

sheets, a microphone...

What's the use?

With a little cash

we could cover our expenses.

Some stilts and a few rags?

Is that the price of our dignity?

We said we wouldn't turn back.

We need ideas.

That's not all they took from us.

There's more.

The strollers took forever to make.

Manu's wigs,

-Pablo's chair, lots of stuff.

-All that is trivial.

Sure, none of it was yours.

Juan...

It's the truth.

Let's not get into whose is what,

okay smart-ass?

Take a look around you.

It's not an issue.

People contributed

whatever they could.

We all knew nobody was getting paid.

If we're throwing away

our principles,

to hell with it.

Making a profit is one thing,

paying expenses is another, Dani.

We'd end up doing commercial

theater, just like everyone else.

This was supposed to be different.

Dani, nobody's proposing that.

No, but this is how it all begins.

You know what we should do?

We should steal

-our stuff back.

-From the cops? Yeah, right.

Well, maybe not.

There must be a way.

Unless someone's got a better idea,

I say we move on.

-Juan, you remember Marble?

-Sure I do.

Didn't he study acting at one of

-our workshops?

-He's still at the Royal Theater?

Sure, he had a contract.

He said he hated it,

but he's still there. Why?

Well, he said to call him

if we needed anything.

So?

We'll rob the Royal Theater

instead of the cops.

How many people fit in here?

Well, 700 seats...

plus the boxes... 1,200.

Can you imagine acting here

with a full house?

It must be amazing.

I'd sh*t myself.

I couldn't go through with it.

Wait, keep quiet a second.

-What?

-Be quiet. Dani, hold still.

It's unreal, isn't it?

Yeah, but I prefer the streets.

Marble was a stage director

at the Royal Theater

and a big fan

of independent theater.

He directed "The Fleas",

who worked small playhouses

in Madrid back in the nineties.

His job gave him time for the group,

but he was ready to move on.

He used to give us all the gossip

about the Royal Theater.

Like the initial budget

for renovation,

and how it ended up costing

seven times that.

He hated their policies.

He said disgraceful sums of money

were going to only a few people.

He said we could have

anything we wanted,

that it was ours for the taking,

because somehow we'd earned it and

we couldn't steal from ourselves.

So it's actually

yours for the taking.

It's better off with you

than rotting here.

-We can take anything we want?

-Sure. Help yourselves.

This, too?

" KlNG AND EXECUTlONER"

APRlL 1999

" NUCLEAR WAR"

MAY 1999

"THE FUCKlNG TV"

JUNE 1999

"THE SlXTlES ARE YOURS"

JULY 1999

"LUNCHTlME"

AUGUST 1999

"RED SUMMER WlNE"

SEPTEMBER 1999

Watch it.

Can we go now?

Wait, I want to see something.

What's so funny?

I can't say.

Why not?

Because. I'll tell you later.

Look at the painting.

Come on, tell me.

No!

A**hole.

Airhead.

You f***ing f*ggot.

B*tch.

You filthy swine.

Scum-sucking son of a b*tch.

You nasty whore. I hope some pig

rapes you dry and infects you

with fleas and ticks.

You cocksucker. I hope a sex maniac

rapes your mother,

wife and children

right in front of you and chops them

up and makes you eat them while...

I give up, you win.

I don't know if it's what you said,

but I don't feel very well.

Your payback for being a shithead.

And for keeping things from me.

I feel dizzy.

No wonder.

We've been in here for 3 hours.

No, I'm serious.

I don't feel well at all.

Really?

Do you need to sit down?

I'm going to faint.

-Don't be silly.

-Here goes.

Alfedo? Alfredo...

Can you help me?

Alfredo...

Please!

-Excuse me!

-Alfredo...

Please!

-Can you hear me?

- What is it?

A guy just fainted in here.

Send me someone, quick.

-What happened?

-He said he felt dizzy and he fell.

All of a sudden.

Alfredo...

He's not moving.

Alfredo...

Hold on, listen to me.

You always take everything too far.

You couldn't leave

well-enough alone.

That has nothing to do with it.

It's about something else.

I don't care. Just leave me alone.

I'm sorry, Lucia. Forgive me.

Goddamnit.

Incidentally, Documentary Theater

was born that day in the Prado.

Alfredo thought it up while looking

at "The Maids of Honour. "

And I was the first audience

to endure it.

I still hadn't told Alfredo

I was pregnant.

You scared me.

I didn't understand.

There, it's over.

I thought you were joking at first,

but later

I thought it was serious.

For a second there

I even thought you might die.

"SHOOTlNG"

NOVEMBER 1999

Somebody help me!

Please, somebody help me!

"Shooting" was the first

of a series of performances

designed around current events.

The idea was to incorporate

fiction into reality

and have the audience take part

without their knowing it.

We thought it would help people

understand modern issues,

like terrorism.

Please, everyone get back.

This way, please.

Please move back.

Quickly, that way, please.

It was around ten in the morning.

The shops had just opened.

It wasn't crowded,

but there were people around.

Goddamnit.

I had to get out of there.

-How'd it go?

-Fine, except for the stroller.

-What?

-I ran it over, I didn't see it.

Someone even had to be attended to.

An older woman, we were told later,

who fainted

when she saw Alfredo get shot.

Holy sh*t.

This is getting ugly.

Give me an update.

We put on a neck-brace, massage...

And we took his pulse.

Saline and adrenaline.

Get the Lifepack.

-Wait, hold it.

-What the f***?

We're actors.

What?

We're a theatrical group.

We're performing here.

What?

I'm sorry, but we've no choice

but to file charges.

We were most tense

not when the verdict was read,

but when the D.A. read the charges.

That's when we realized

the trial was going to be much more

complicated than we had anticipated.

We were accused of simulating a

crime and of justifying terrorism.

We were told later that

the fact it all took place the year

of the cease-fire with E.T.A.

was the reason it all got buried

and the sentences were suspended.

Anything to do with terrorism

was kept quiet.

They wanted the cease-fire

to give people a sense of peace

and calm.

No, I never agreed with " Shooting."

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