Nuestros amantes Page #4

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who apparently

is part of that nothing!

That's enough, Carlos!

I'm sorry, the human being's

only commitment is to his passion.

What's the message?

You don't turn me on. Get out.

- She's a f***ing cynic.

- What's her name?

Mara. Just Mara.

If you don't mind,

I'll call her "F***ing cynic".

That's fine.

She always wanted a middle name.

I keep wondering what I did wrong.

And the answer is...?

Nothing.

I followed the Instruction Manual

for a Perfect Life, step by step:

studies, work,

wedding, child...

How does the manual go on?

It ends there.

Supposedly, if you do all that

you should be happy.

Well, Mara isn't,

and I'm the reason why.

Where do I lodge my complaint?

But F***ing Cynic

asked for a bit of time.

Two months.

It's only been one.

Wait and see.

I'm doing that. But I know

that in the best of cases

in a month she'll tell me

to come home because...

I don't know.

She's discovered that,

despite everything,

she's still in love with you.

For example.

When what she really means is...

I didn't find the "something better

than you" that I think I deserve,

so I'll settle for you, my love.

I've got a whip

from the Inquisition. You want it?

Do you beat yourself with it

when you think of Sack of Sh*t?

Not since I insulted him.

You know what?

You should pick up a cutie,

the kind that would make

even the Pope a crack dealer,

and make sure your wife finds out.

She'd go mad with jealousy

and come back to you.

I see the happy ending,

the two of you kissing

like the Lovers of Teruel.

Last night I dreamed about you.

With what permission?

With none.

Have I screwed up?

No. I don't like

men who ask permission to dream.

We were sitting in a park.

Playing?

What else?

And suddenly

a boy and girl came up.

Hello.

Are you in love

or something like that?

No.

She forbade me.

Too bad.

We sing songs

for people who are in love.

We can sing one for you,

even if you're not.

- Can we pick the song?

- You don't have to.

It's a dream,

so we'll play one you like.

So they started singing.

What was it?

Kind of like Aretha Franklin.

- Your subconscious has good taste.

- Thank you, I'll tell it.

And what were we doing?

Watching them play.

That's all?

The girl sang very well.

And how did it end?

It didn't.

I suddenly woke up.

Nice dream.

Thank you.

Does the park exist?

Yes.

And the musicians?

If they don't, they should.

Any more uncomfortable questions?

- No.

- Really?

Come off it,

I've got thousands!

But I won't ask them here.

Are you from here?

No. I told you,

I'm from a very distant galaxy.

- And you?

- Me too.

I'm from Teruel.

How old are you?

What do you think?

More or less... forty?

Bang on.

- You?

- What do you think?

More or less... thirty.

Exactly.

I'm so old.

Ten years older than you.

Jorge is even older.

Am I too young for you?

I don't know yet.

What do you do?

I go for walks

with girls ten years younger.

- Do you always make bad jokes?

- Yes. I do that too.

And professionally?

I meant professionally.

Are you a comedian?

Almost.

Writer?

Writer-ette.

- Anything I might have read?

- No.

But have you seen a film called

"Ditsy and Bozo"?

Those two girls

who are f***ing birdbrains?

- Well summarized. That one.

- Of course I saw it!

Did you write it?

I wouldn't call it writing.

My partner and I scrawled it.

You don't seem

very fond of your film.

If I had pancreatic cancer,

that would be mine too,

but I wouldn't be a fan.

Hey, Jorge and I

pissed ourselves laughing.

It's crap.

A lot of people

were pissing themselves.

It's still crap.

It was a big hit.

- So was Milli Vanilli.

- Tell me,

- have you written anything else?

- Sure.

We're doing "Ditsy and Bozo 2",

but we've also signed up

for the third, which is called:

"DitsyDitsyDitsy BozoBozoBozo".

Original.

Can you live decently from that?

And die intellectually.

I sense

that you'd like to be remembered

for something more serious.

Like the play

I've been writing for three years.

Three years?

What is it?

A reflection on nothingness?

Have you heard of Truman Capote

and Charles Bukowski?

Thank you for that subtle insult,

but I can appreciate

your crappy films

and read books.

My favorite by Bukowski is

"The F*** Machine", and by Capote,

everything.

They're my two gods.

In fact, my play is called

"Capote and Bukowski in Hell".

What's it about?

Capote and Bukowski die

and meet in Hell.

I suspected that.

And why don't you finish it?

It's hard to write for your gods.

Writing dialogue for them

is like blaspheming.

And if you change writers?

They're perfect, we hardly know

what they thought of each other.

Bukowski wrote a poem about Capote,

tearing him to bits.

Yes, but he tore him to bits

with some respect.

- I don't know if they even met.

- I see.

And you want their first

official chat to be in Hell.

Yes, and I'm having trouble

recreating their voices.

Look, they're two geniuses,

they're your gods,

and you send them to Hell.

Of course you'll have problems.

I can't even get them

to start talking.

What have they done

these three years?

Bukowski looks at Capote.

Capote looks at Bukowski.

They look at me.

I look at them.

I think the three of us

are terrified.

Don't worry, they'll talk.

You think so?

They're Charles Bukowski

and Truman Capote.

Have faith in them.

I know it's against the rules

but I'd like to know

a little bit more about you.

You know enough.

Why more?

It's important for me.

I'm just a girl

who's done a bit of everything.

I've studied a bit,

I've traveled a bit,

I've had jobs

that weren't one bit interesting.

I'm unemployed now

and that's more thrilling

than talking about my jobs.

I've fallen in love a bit.

At times, I've been loved back.

To sum up,

I've lived, a bit.

And now, The Big Question.

What do you want to be

when you grow up?

I want to keep having dreams.

Even if they don't come true,

I want to keep having them.

What dreams do you have now?

I've got no money

and my heart's broken.

My dream is to be a bit happy.

Am I very ambitious?

Megalomaniac.

And your torrid relationship

with Capote and Bukowski?

Don't spread it around, but

the working class has its secrets.

For example,

my father was a humble bricklayer

all his life, but he loved reading.

He gave me the right books

at the right times.

The best gift he could give me.

What's your favorite book?

One?

- Are you crazy?

- Yes.

I could give you a list of ten.

- I'd love to have it.

- It's yours.

And I'll have a panic attack

trying to pick only ten.

So it wasn't by chance

I met you in a bookstore?

The longer I live,

the more I'm convinced

chance doesn't exist.

When Mara asked me

for two months of "temporary

interruption of cohabitation",

I immediately thought

there was someone else.

I thought that too.

- She denied it.

- No sh*t! And you believed it?

I preferred to.

But Mara doesn't dump

out-of-date yogurts

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