The City of Your Final Destination Page #8

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about the authorization.

I'll have to go after her

and speak to her.

I think she's enjoying this.

[whispers]

These people are awful.

If anyone speaks to Caroline,

it'll have to be me.

I think I might be better

at handling a person like that.

I don't want to handle anyone.

I hate that attitude.

Omar,

what's the matter with you?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, you've been ill.

You've only just

come out of the hospital.

You're not yourself.

And really,

you're not in a fit state

to go running

after crazy Caroline.

Please, Deirdre,

leave it to me.

Darling-

Would you just let me rest?

[indistinct shouting

and splashing]

Omar, "Las Golondrinas"

means little birds

that fly and sing.

That is what we do here,

as you can see.

Jules was always welcome here.

He lived with his two women

at Ocho Rios,

and sometimes

he had to come up for air...

when Caroline

was too much for him.

And Arden was too little.

Don't you want to swim?

We have plenty of suits.

Yes?

You don't have to put that arm

in the water, no?

El bracito en el agua,

para que?

No.

Traele... traele, Wilson...

- No, no, no.

- Como no, no, no, no?

Si.

Plunk! Plunk! Plunk!

[shouting and splashing]

Jules was very, very attractive.

And depressive, of course.

But that made him

even more attractive,

like Hamlet

or someone out of Dostoyevsky.

[chuckles]

He had the knack

of making each woman he met

feel she was the only one

who truly understood him.

Only women.

He didn't care for men,

nor they for him.

And he was writing this book,

another book

to make him even more famous.

We thought it was thrilling.

Perhaps we were all in it.

And each one of us

thought she was his muse.

And would go down in history,

no?

God knows

what she's telling him.

Every woman who ever met Jules

is convinced she understood him

better than I did,

or Arden, for that matter.

You know what I think?

That he wasn't writing a book

at all.

He was talking about it

to impress us,

but he found he couldn't.

And that made him-

he couldn't bear the thought

of not being

a celebrated author anymore.

Admired and famous and...

and everyone

hopelessly in love with him.

Ah, Wilson.

Seora.

Gracias.

Permiso.

[crowd chattering indistinctly]

Tango.

Tango.

Puedes.

- Puedo.

- Puedes.

- Puedes.

- Puedo, puedo.

Maybe we'll meet

in the States.

I'd like that very much,

although maybe you prefer

to forget all about me.

I want to give you

a farewell present.

About the biography,

go ahead and write it.

Explain us to ourselves,

if you can.

I'll be interested

to read your interpretation

or invention.

I grant you my authorization.

Isn't that what you wanted?

What you came here for?

Of course.

And I'm very grateful to you.

Deirdre anyway,

will be pleased.

But what about Jules' letter

that he didn't want a biography?

Jules never wrote

such a letter.

I made that up.

But he did try

and write a second book.

There is a manuscript.

It does exist.

No one's ever read it except me.

Jules never finished it.

He couldn't.

Shall I tell you

about the last scene?

The last he wrote

and then he couldn't go on?

In this last scene, Arden and I

are in the gondola,

and we loathe each other

as we never did.

Though, perhaps

that's what he was waiting for.

But in the gondola,

we have a terrible fight,

a physical fight.

And I push Arden overboard.

But you know what?

The water isn't deep enough.

So I keep on pushing her down

and down.

Did you intend to publish it?

There were times

when I felt that I had to,

that it was a responsibility,

a duty,

to literature, if that

doesn't sound too grandiose.

I don't believe

any of us has such a duty.

I believe literature

takes its life from us,

not the other way around.

Is this the belief

of a professor of literature?

Oh, I'm afraid

this is the other Omar,

the misguided caliph

who burned all the books.

You know,

the entire library of Alexandria

was fed into

the bathhouse boilers,

It took six months

to burn them all up.

[distant chatter and music]

[festive guitar music]

Let me take that.

[thudding

and indistinct chatter]

Gracias.

[knocks]

I was just coming down

to say good-bye.

I've come up.

You must be very happy

with your success.

My success?

You've achieved everything

you came for.

With all three of us,

that's 100% success.

Arden,

I'll come back soon.

I know.

You have to interview all of us.

That's not

what I'm coming back for.

Omar?

I'll be right down.

Deirdre's always afraid

of missing her plane.

She never has.

Have you?

Maybe twice, three times.

Whatever.

There are worse things in life

than missing a plane.

Well,

try not to miss this one.

You're right.

[chuckles]

You know what I think?

Those bees

knew what they were doing.

They stung me so I'd remember

what I was here for.

Not for my own selfish reasons,

not just to have a good time

and be happy-

But to get your PhD.

And write the book.

And when it's published,

I hope you'll send us

one copy each.

And please inscribe it,

"With best wishes,

from professor Razaghi, PhD."

Professor Razaghi.

It sounds like a stage magician.

The kind that makes pigeons

fly out of a top hat.

[both chuckle]

And saws girls in half.

[knock at door]

[whispers]

Go on.

Here you are.

We're going to miss the plane.

Good-bye, Deirdre.

I hope you and Omar have a safe

and pleasant journey.

Thank you for everything.

Good-bye.

Bye.

[fire crackling]

[water splashing]

[fire snapping and crackling]

[bell tolling]

Hey, Omar.

- Where you going, Omar?

- I'm in a hurry.

- Oh, come on.

- Hey! Hey! Hey!

[shouting and giggling]

Knock it off!

Hey!

[shouting and squealing

continues]

In 500 words for Monday,

I want you to analyze the role

of fate in hardy's novel.

In Shakespeare,

character is always fate.

Which we know by now

from experience

to be absolutely true.

What happens to me happens

because I am I.

Hardy's characters

are caught in situations

that are impossible

to get out of.

But are they impossible?

Suppose a character decides

that he can do something

about his fate.

What then?

[bell tolling]

Any hands?

Come on, guys.

[bell tolling]

[students murmuring]

[plaintive woodwind music]

[rain pattering]

[thunder crashes]

It's Omar.

Omar, I found your shoe.

My shoe?

The one you lost

when the bee stung you.

Do you still have the other one?

Then you can wear them.

[panting]

Thank you, Portia.

As a matter of fact,

I did keep it

as a souvenir from my bee sting.

I'll go and get it.

You can't do this.

It's wrong.

Walk in, walk out

whenever it suits you.

No, you can't.

I should have written.

Yes, you should have written.

I tried to.

You don't know

how often I tried,

how many letters I didn't send.

A postcard even,

instead of silence, nothing,

not a word,

as if we no longer existed.

You don't understand.

What don't I understand?

I was always thinking,

"Go there.

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