Imagine a woman coming home and surprising her husband
inspecting his own shit with a popsicle stick.
Imagine that this man never comes out of his self-absorption.
Imagine that she has to admit him into a mental clinic
in the north of the country.
Our story begins precisely the next day.
CHAPTER 1 The Deceitful Wedding
Do you want to hear my life story?
Just kidding. To break the ice.
It's a long trip to Madrid.
I'm a psychiatrist at the International Clinic.
I saw you there yesterday very late. True?
Sorry, my name's Helga. Nice to meet you.
Nice to meet you.
I don't know if Dr. Crespo spoke to you about me.
I'm working on the applications of written discourse
on the diagnosis of personality disorder.
We ask the patient
to write down an episode in their life,
we analyze its narrative and make a diagnosis.
We'll do it with your husband too.
And with great pleasure too.
Texts by coprophagists are my favorites,
their narratives are the most curious.
In fact,
in this file
I have a set of texts by patients with schizophrenia
and paranoid disorders.
Later, if you like, I'll read you some.
Patients with hebephrenic schizophrenia, for example,
show a marked tendency to tell their own life story
but each time they do it differently,
so their personality consists
of a string of superimposed stories,
like the layers of an onion.
By the time we realize it,
we don't have a personality as such to study
but a collection of stories, one narrative after another,
beneath which there is no person.
I'm going to tell you something
that happened to me with a patient
who should've been locked up for good.
He wasn't schizophrenic, but paranoid.
Unlike the schizophrenic,
the paranoid patient is always attentive to external stimuli,
establishing erroneous links between them.
Paranoids' stories can be very dangerous.
Martin.
Martin Urals Ubeda That was His name.
The name says it all, doesn't it?
His seductive power was hypnotic.
Have you ever been kidnapped?
Before he kidnapped me,
I'd spent a long time looking for him.
I didn't know him, but I'd heard about him.
I was told that he convinced people
to throw themselves into garbage trucks.
In fact, he died like that, crushed.
If you like, I'll tell you about it.
Alright, it started when my wife and I moved
and bought a house on a residential estate in Galapagar.
We're just following the rules.
And they cover daily garbage collection,
the residents' garbage.
I am a resident.
But only recently. You know better than I do
that this garbage isn't yours.
If it were, my friend and I
would load the truck and haul it away.
But I repeat, this is for Public Thoroughfares.
They have to come to an agreement with Garbage Removal,
maybe they think it's our job.
If you'd kindly sign here, please.
Yes.
-Thank you. -Thanks.
The letter read, quote:
my father's greatest dream was that
my brother Martin might enter San Javier Military Academy, Murcia.
Though my brother had no calling,
to please my father, he joined the academy and became a soldier.
-Fusilier! -Fusilier!
He wrote us letters every week that my father read and re-read
in his wheelchair by the sitting room window.
My father was paralyzed,
his legs had been blown off in a bombing.
Shortly after graduating,
the war broke out in Kosovo and he was sent there.
He kept sending letters from there,
but they became increasingly more enigmatic.
One fine day, without warning,
my brother cut off all communication with us.
He disappeared.
It was as if the ground had swallowed him up.
Martin!
My son.
They threw me out.
Out of where?
The Air Force.
Sit down.
What happened, Martín?
You know I was posted to a military hospital in Kosovo.
It was a hotel they'd fitted out as a hospital.
A huge, old building.
This girl who ran the gym
fell in love with her psychologist, a guy called Manuel.
They got married, he gave up psychology
and moved into an office in the gym with her.
The medicine was running out.
The electrical devices stopped working.
There was a shortage of food and water.
The number of deaths was rising.
...she found out by chance
that Manuel wasn't a psychologist, but a vet.
How she found out, I'll tell you some other time,
it's not important now.
She went into her office to ask for an explanation...
One of the halls was turned into an orphanage.
...looking through a little hole leading to the women's changing room,
with his pants down and one eye...
It was set up by Dr. Linares.
It was a miracle that she'd done it with her own hands,
but it was in a terrible state.
I'll catch up.
-If I may...? -Thanks a lot.
It's a miracle this place exists.
Your work here is incredible. You must be proud.
We do what we can with the means we have.
If I can help in any way...
I appreciate it, but unless you're a millionaire...
What we need here is a big injection of money.
As a friend of mine said, money's what I have most of.
Do you have a hundred of anything?
We'd meet for breakfast before our shifts.
Or go for a walk when we were done.
She'd tell me about the latest child to die
and about the state of the hospital, which was more and more worrying.
The months flew by.
Until one day it all changed.
It's called "Lobotomy".
It hypothesizes that everything on the TV screen
is fiction with a script.
For example, game show participants
are actors who pretend to be nervous but know how it ends.
The football games, the goals, the fouls...
-What happened? How did you do it? -I can't talk now, Martín.
I'll come back when we're finished. I'm dying of curiosity.
I can't today.
Are you alright?
You know that I live and breathe for the hospital.
It's the most important thing for me.
You also know they denied funding and we were about to close down.
You yourself saw some of those children die.
That's why...
I decided to prostitute myself.
I chose my clients from NATO leaders,
members of the Papal entourage,
UN observers...
and top representatives of NGOs.
For a few months there was a bit more money,
enough to not...
give it up,
but not enough to cover our needs.
Until one night...
She got a visit from a certain client.
We'll call him...
Cristobal de la Hoz.
I wanted to tell you something.
I have a group of,
let's say, "very powerful" friends,
with a lot of influence in charitable matters who...
would be delighted to help you.
Sure, give them my number.
No.
I don't mean that.
If you add up NATO subsidies,
the E.U. and the Church,
this group of friends could get you over 200 million pesetas a year.
In exchange for...
one orphan a month.
Get out.
Think it over.
But the hospital was unsustainable.
Children were dying,
the money from my services only covered food.
One orphan at random.
Every month.
You needn't worry about a thing.
They'll take care of everything.
I'll talk to them and that's that.
You did it for them.
You saved a lot of lives, don't forget that.
You once asked me about the orphans.
I told you they were sold to families,
but...
The other night I was with these friends...
If you don't want to say what you do with the children...
Well, a little curious, yes.
But anyway...
I didn't say anything.
What do you mean?
It's the third time you've asked.
I didn't realize.
Do you really want to know what we do with the children?
Come on.
I'll show you.
To the left.
Get comfortable. It'll start in a minute.
Let's say this is direction control.
This business has three income sources.
On one hand, the star of the video
pays a fortune to be in that room for an hour.
One the other, a pornographic video is made
that's distributed worldwide,
with the faces digitally altered.
There are specialist pages that pay very well for the videos.
Yes.
Now?
Of course, yes.
Okay.
We have to go out for a moment.
I won't be long.
Everything alright?
Fine.
Yes?
Cristobal.
How are you?
I've got nothing against parks, but why meet me here?
What have you done?
What have I done?
What are you people doing?
Did you know what they were doing to the children?
I know everything.
It's barbaric.
It's not what we agreed!
Lower your voice.
How could you do something like this?
How could you?
Money, Christopher.
It's the reason you're looking for and don't seem to understand.
I'm a professional in the market economy.
I was trained to extract maximum benefit from raw material.
Though filming death makes a higher profit
than prostitution or blackmail,
nothing is comparable
to the price paid by drug companies for the entrails.
We're selling the innards for a fortune
to a company that makes special food for geese.
The clean, gutted bodies
go to an eccentric New York artist
who sells them to New York trendies
who truly appreciate this guy's hyper-realist art.
The authorities say nothing for now because we lower youth unemployment
and they participate symbolically in the business.
As for you...
What can I tell you?
You're in big trouble.
They'll search the planet for you.
And they'll find you, of course.
Who knows?
Maybe you'll end up in a New York art gallery.
I'll put in a word for you.
They're friends, after all.
I'll try to get them not to rip out your eyeballs which, well dried,
make wonderful erasers
for pen and printing ink.
I'll get them to at least leave your eyes.
Come on, give me a hug.
I didn't want to...
disappear without you knowing all this.
I don't want to be stuffed.
I suppose I could be next.
And I wouldn't mind,
it'd be a favor now that I know that what they did is my fault.
No, it wasn't your fault.
Here.
This is the key to a locker in my office
with all the hospital's papers,
so you can take charge of it all if something happens to me.
Nothing will happen to you, I'm sure of it.
That was the last time I saw her.
I reported it to my superiors, but they said I was insane
and told me to forget it.
I refused.
They charged me with insubordination, threw me out of the service
and put me in a psych hospital.
My son!
Lies!
I don't believe a word of it!
From that day on, my father kept to himself
and devoted his life to staring out the window
or sitting on the patio watching the people go by on bullfight days,
when our street was a bit livelier.
Until death took him one day after an afternoon snack.
My mother died of grief a short time later.
Now the Secret Service wants to obliterate Martín,
take away his civil rights, and they're saying he's mad
and persuades people to throw themselves into garbage trucks.
I hope this case interests you. I've nothing more to say.
Yours sincerely, Amelia Urals Ubeda.
The letter did sound odd, to be honest.
But it drew me in so much
that I decided to track down where this woman lived.
"...devoted his life to sitting on the patio
and watching people on bullfight days,
when our street got a little livelier."
That's what the letter said.
The woman had lived in a lower house, with a patio,
near Las Ventas bullring.
It's true that the whole thing could've been a story,
but if we think like that, we never do anything in life.
I spent days looking for the non-existent house
of Amelia Urales de Úbeda. But it did exist.
I'd passed it several times and never noticed it.
It was like it suddenly appeared.
21, Martinez Izquierdo.
You can check it if you like, I'm not making it up.
Hello?
Hello. Are you Amelia?
You wrote me this letter about your brother's case.
-I'd like to meet him, if possible. -Angel Sanagustín.
Sorry, I wasn't expecting you.
No, it's my fault for coming unannounced...
I didn't have your phone number.
Your letter described the house, that's how I found you.
Sure, sure.
My brother's not in right now, but I don't think he'll be long.
-Oh, dear. -You can wait inside if you like.
-You don't mind? -Please, come in.
-Very kind of you. -Come in.
The smell is from the pipes.
These old houses, you know?
Very pretty and all that, but so expensive to maintain.
Sure.
I don't think my brother will be long,
though with him you never know.
Never mind, I'm in no hurry.
-There's no need. -Please!
Thanks very much.
Forgive me if I don't turn on the lights,
we have a little wiring problem.
Well...
What did you think of my letter?
Intriguing.
There, sitting in his wheelchair,
my father read the letters my brother sent.
Through that door
he appeared in the uniform of a lieutenant, missing an arm.
And look,
the table my father broke when my brother was thrown out of the army.
Look at the crack. You can take a look.
He left it in splinters.
I have no money to fix it. A shame, it's quite lovely.
Lovely, yes.
Though even if I had money, I wouldn't fix it.
It's a way of remembering my father, don't you think?
Yes, it is.
That's the croquette that hit my brother's head
when my dad hit the roof.
I'm quite the fetishist.
Do you like it?
-What? -The liquor.
Yes.
I make it myself.
Oh, it's very good.
Strong, but very good.
I'll get you some sausage I also make.
To help you get it down.
-Please! -There's no need.
Sit down! Make yourself comfortable!
I make this sausage too.
It's very nice sausage.
I'm so glad you've come, Mr. Sanagustín.
I'm so glad, because...
there's something I wanted to tell you.
Yes?
Yes.
I lied to you.
Really?
My brother was never a soldier.
It's not that I deceived you,
he was deceiving us all for a very long time.
Of everything I said in the letter, the only truth is that he's one-armed.
Everything went awry the day they rejected him
from San Javier Military Academy in Murcia.
He intended to re-do the exam a year later.
Until then he moved into a hostel and got work as a garbageman.
Meanwhile, he wrote us the letters describing barracks life
that my father enjoyed so much.
A year went by and he failed the exam again.
The next year, the same thing.
Before he knew it, Martín was a garbageman living in Murcia.
What began as a white lie, a postponement,
ended up being a decision.
He lost his arm one night when he wasn't on the ball.
And now, depressed, one-armed,
with a shitty pension,
he's living here with me.
Take it easy.
Take it easy, it's alright.
Now, looking back,
I'm surprised I didn't realize before,
but I didn't.
Take it easy.
Take it easy, it's alright.
Well...
Well, well...
No fucking way.
Sorry about the joke. I think I kept it going too long.
I've been living alone so long.
Now I've covered the mics, we can talk.
I should've guessed.
No, don't sell yourself short.
They're much more powerful and they still haven't found me.
Who?
Them, the garbagemen.
They followed you.
No!
I knew it wasn't the pipes.
8 years without throwing out the garbage.
You can't expect it to smell of roses.
If you make a noise, I'll punch you
Do you know who those people in the truck are?
Garbagemen.
You got no fucking idea what's going on in the world.
-No? -No, that's why I made you come.
You made me come?
You don't know how hard it was to find you.
The letter I sent pretending to be my sister didn't help?
The clues I left were no help?
I brought you because you're the chosen one.
You're trustworthy,
because for years you've been using disposable razors,
even though they've brought out triple or quadruple razors.
You're an idealist because you don't eat transgenic foods.
You're tenacious and persistent,
your pumpkin seed shells prove it.
And, above all,
you're brave
because you drink loads of coffee.
-You spied on my garbage? -Of course.
-What for? -To open your eyes.
You think I use this cotton and this helmet because I'm mad.
They put mics and an identification chip in me.
-Who? -The people up there.
-The garbagemen? -They're not garbagemen!
Right.
Then what are they, Martín?
Political police.
Have a little respect.
Forget everything my sister told you.
Let your mind go blank and listen carefully.
I was a garbageman for 5 years.
But didn't you say that everything your sister said was a lie?
No. I said to forget everything my sister told you,
to let your mind go blank and to listen carefully.
Are you going to listen carefully?
-Yes. -Good.
I was a garbageman for 5 years.
When I started, I was assigned to a truck
with two colleagues, Paco Platero...
and Gota.
The work was routine and unpleasant.
Some fuckers don't shut their bags right
and when you tip it into the truck, all the shit falls on you.
Fucking hell...
Then your colleagues are always going on about it,
that we're sick of picking up people's shit...
I'm sick of picking up people's shit, man.
...that it's the worst job ever...
This is the worst job ever.
...that it's the worst paid...
And the worst paid!
...that it's not valued by society...
People don't realize what we do,
while they're sleeping peacefully.
Bastards!
Then there's the smell.
No matter what gloves and special clothes you use,
the stink gets in your hair and skin,
there's no way to get it out.
The first two weeks are the worst,
you think you'll go crazy with the stink, I'm telling you,
but then you get used to it.
And then you discover that the company itself
is spraying the dumpsters with an unbearbable stench
that we, the garbagemen, touch every day,
to alienate us socially and increase our resentment.
The idea is that, when the time comes,
you'll accept without reservations what your bosses tell you in secret:
the real task.
The real task?
The real task.
The trucks don't grind the garbage.
They store it.
It all starts with the identification of each bag.
There's a margin of error,
but usually the last person to touch the bag is the owner.
The plastic the bags are made of preserve fingerprints wonderfully.
When they match them with the waste,
we have the owner of the garbage.
Every resident has a file,
with a history and a detailed analysis of the waste.
That's why they didn't collect the garbage at your house.
It would've falsified your file.
Your case was a blip in the system.
In the more advanced countries, this is done by the citizens,
who separate and classify their own garbage,
believing that they're improving the environment.
But not here, no.
Unintentionally, we make it hard for the intelligence center.
There had to be some advantage to the Third World mentality.
They can find out your tastes, your phobias,
how you survive financially, how you vote, your sex life,
your dreams, your moods... Everything.
They know everything.
I'm the only garbageman to leave the company
and since then I've been on the run.
I discovered they'd implanted microphones in me,
in my nostrils,
and magnetic metals in my cerebral cortex.
I can't go into the Prado Museum.
So I passed myself off as my sister and hid out here,
buying nothing at the supermarket, not generating any waste,
feeding myself the best I can on my urine and feces.
Wasn't the liquor and sausage you ate nice?
We have a lot of prejudices.
When he said that, I must've made a face,
much like the one you're making now.
He said he was sick of being looked at like that,
of everyone looking at him like that.
He said: "Right now, I'll show you I'm right."
He tied me up, gagged me
and took me outside by the back door.
Lots of fuckers don't shut their bags right, you'll get used to it.
We're getting into a truck so you see with your own eyes.
Relax, it's just a moment.
Now!
I don't know what I did, what I grabbed on to,
adrenaline is wonderful.
At the last moment,
he tripped and let go of me.
I fell down outside and he fell inside.
I'm still alive...
...and he vanished forever.
Are you hungry?
I usually get down here and buy a sandwich at the bar.
I'll get you one. Ham and cheese? Salad?
-Okay, but I'll pay. -No, no need.
My treat.
I'll be right back.
CHAPTER 2 People
Helga Pato's problem with people
was that she confused narrators with authors
and sometimes the latter with characters.
When she met W at the Book Fair,
she was an independent editor
and he was a famous writer popular with the left wing.
W at once perceived a powerful groin under her pants,
and instead of a dedication, he wrote an address.
She believed at that moment a love story was beginning
about a young editor who was going to live with her favorite author
on the top floor of a Madrid skyscraper.
She believed she was falling in love with her favorite writer...
Today we have pleasure of speaking to the author of "Jungle".
...but she'd actually fallen in love with the narrator...
If you could be a jungle animal, which would you choose?
A predator.
...and gone to live with a character.
After this last romantic failure, Helga Pato quit her job,...
adopted a dog, called it Pingo,
and decided never to have anything to do with a man again.
My thing began as " 101 Dalmatians".
Everything that happened later,
I could've foreseen from the first day I met him,
for all things are present in their beginnings.
Hey!
No! Sorry, she's mine. Leave them be.
I wanted a litter.
I really love dogs.
I have plenty of room at home, I can handle it.
-Do you live in the neighborhood? -Yes.
Right nearby.
I've got a kiosk on the square.
-Really? -Yes.
Drop by one day if you like.
One day I had nothing better to do, so I went to see him at the kiosk.
Hello!
-Hello. -How are you?
Well, not many customers today.
I was thinking the other day, you didn't tell me your dog's name.
-Chat. -Chat?
Little talk, talk.
And I'm Emilio.
I'm such an idiot... My name's Helga.
I'd let you in, but this place is a bit like my home, you know?
It means a lot if a woman comes in.
Sure, sure.
When I went to buy bread or walk the dog, I'd stop by.
He'd show me dog magazines and talk about breeds and crosses.
A dog's mission is to play and procreate.
Obviously I was fond of Pingo and I'd ask about Charla's pregnancy,
but nothing more.
I was thinking of selling four of the five pups.
All but this one.
His name's Elvis.
Hold him
I was thinking of giving him to you.
If you'll be my girlfriend.
What do you say?
We spent lots of time together in the kiosk.
That's the job for you, it really ties you down.
But I didn't mind.
What I minded was that he tired of me so quickly.
After a few months he'd leave me alone all day in the kiosk
while he'd walk the dogs to Casa de Campo.
One night, in bed, he asked to do it from behind.
Like dogs, he said.
Like dogs.
As we hadn't talked for a while or done anything, I gave in.
And if you give in once, you do forever,
sometimes for love,
sometimes from insecurity, sometimes because you're scared.
Generally it's for all three reasons at the same time,
if all three aren't the same thing.
After that we never did it face to face again.
One day I tried to say no.
No, Emilio, I don't feel like it that way today.
He was gone for a week.
I never said no again.
Now moan. Like a dog, do it.
That's it, that's it.
That's it.
Higher, higher!
He was very nice all week
and gave me my first gift since he gave me Elvis.
What's this?
For you.
Wait!
2.20.
Thanks, see you later.
You're not wearing it.
I put it on at home, but I take off to go out.
Why put it on and take it off all the time?
Leave it on.
One day he said he'd make lunch.
He bought himself Sanlúcar prawns and gave me meat stew.
He said it was meat stew.
It wasn't bad, to be honest,
but I would've preferred Sanlúcar prawns.
From then on, he always made the food.
Now he didn't even bother hiding where the stew came from.
Today, eat it without cutlery. You'll love it.
Today I thought you'd like to eat with them.
No, Emilio, no.
But it's got your name and everything.
Not that.
Why not?
Because.
Why not?
Because.
Why not?
Don't laugh at me.
You're not laughing at me!
Don't you laugh at me!
Get it straight, you're not laughing at me!
Don't you laugh at me!
What are you staring at? Shit!
Don't laugh, this is not a joke!
He took the dogs and went off to the Casa de Campo.
When you're alone, thinking the whole damn day,
it's easy to find reasons for doing something.
No matter how crazy it is.
When I told him I'd do it,
he put his arms around me and for the first time in ages,
he kissed me on the muzzle.
The changes had taken place so gradually
that I didn't realize he'd turned me into a dog.
I'd ceded terrain that I was never going to recover.
That happens a lot in life,
especially if you do nothing at the beginning.
Helga!
I've been thinking...
Now that you're in the garden there's more room in the house.
And well...
I thought that
we could have a puppy.
I was so happy, because I thought maybe a child
would make me more human for him.
Elvis!
No!
He had no choice but to tie me up and beat me.
Look at her! Look at her!
See her? Go for it, go on!
Love is a beam of indirect light,
a drop of peace, faith awakened,
a hum in the air, a spot in the fog,
a profile, a shadow,
a pause, expectation.
Love is a soft murmur approaching,
a buzz from afar, a light breeze,
a voice in the calm, an aroma of mint,
and then, a perhaps,
a "let's see", a goal.
Love sprouts between air and ground,
palpable and felt, and there are those who see it,
and it makes you awaken and think of it,
and it calls you softly, brushing your skin.
Love hypnotizes you, makes you dream,
and you dream and you give in and let yourself go,
it moves you inside, it makes you be more,
it pushes you, overcomes you and takes you from behind.
And suddenly you rise, hurl yourself and burn,
there is light in your soul,
fire in your veins,
it makes you scream when you feel you are burnt,
it dissolves you, evaporates you, destroys you, creates you.
It makes you travel on the edge of time,
going up the rivers of a thousand universes,
and it takes you to glory, it delivers you to the earth,
it looks at you, sees you, and thinks and thinks.
And suddenly love is the light of a flame
that begins to flicker, then goes out.
It's a tiny island lost in the fog,
a drop, an unknown, a blemish, a grimace.
Love is a leaf fallen on the ground,
a point on the sea, a thickening mist,
a snag in the soul, a watching sun,
a why, a depending, a no more, a whine.
Love comes down, rung by rung,
hands closed, a weary pace,
it asks you who you are to let you know
that it barely knows you: What do you want from it?
Love mocks you, laughs at you,
while you follow it calmly, not knowing what to do,
and you wish to follow it and tell it now,
to stay, to come back, to make a mistake.
Love thwarts your grand ideas,
it destroys, it breaks you, it splits you, it breaks you,
and makes you what you wanted not to be,
it drives you to be evil and turns you to shit.
It hurls you face down into the final hell,
rips out your soul, stamps on your body,
drowns you in yearning to return to nothing,
and suddenly it stops.
That night I decided to kill him.
I remembered a book I'd read recently
that mentioned Anarbital,
a powerful tranquilizer that left no trace
and that I could get without prescription on the Internet.
One night, I put 1 0 c.c.'s of Anarbital in Emilio's drink.
Then I left the house and spent some days with my mother.
Supposedly in those few days
Emilio would've gradually passed away,
but when I got back, he hadn't.
I looked for a cheap clinic
that didn't ask too many questions and was far away.
There I said goodbye to Emilio forever.
Now let's go back to the train
and let's imagine that Helga Pato opens Sanagustín's red file
to look for a phone number or an address.
Let's imagine that her eyes don't find what they're after,
but they see some words that immediately grab her attention.
SOMATIC DELUSIONAL DISORDER
I WAS BORN ON A RIVER BANK...
I was born on a river bank...
...and the damp softened my bones,
forcing me to stay in bed for most of my life.
Those first years of life that forge character
and predict future conduct,
I was flat on my back.
"No one will be able to avoid..."
Life was filtered through the opaque sieve of Sister Araceli,
my teacher.
I understand that perfectly. But what gets me muddled is...
the second and third... it's like one is...
is everything that's then inside a third.
-The third part is the second. -Exactly.
-So, like the Russian dolls. -Like the Russian doll.
Perfect. Let's look for our Russian doll.
Okay.
The third Russian doll is "what has to happen",
which is an adjectival proposition...
I never went to school
or had any contact with vertebrate boys my age...
...only with the nuns and the carers in the residence where I lived.
Can you get me some water?
My experiences were always false and belonged to others
coming from reading or the TV screen.
Petrarch, Becquer, Garcilaso,
Truffaut, Bertolucci ...
I also took delight in the audiovisual fiction
supplied to me by the substitute social worker.
And so, this snail child got an idea of the world
and the marvelous universe of love.
After many medical trials and tribulations,
which I won't tire you with,
thanks to advances in prosthetics as a result of the Gulf War
they filled my body with iron, inside and out.
Months later, the handicapped association to which I belonged
organized a trip to Paris.
And off I went to Paris.
As soon as I arrived, my camera was stolen.
Hold it! Hold it!
Rosa, a lame woman on the trip, consoled me.
-Did you see that? -Are you alright?
Yes, I'm fine. I got distracted for a second.
Just for a moment.
Then her crutch was stolen...
I don't believe it! The same guy!
...and I was the one who had to dry her tears.
It'll probably seems silly,
but I was disappointed that they spoke French in Paris.
This detail, which everyone knows,
isn't mentioned in any work of fiction that I know.
It became a nightmare
when I went out with Rosa to buy a new crutch.
Lady of France...
It didn't occur to me to look up "crutch" in the dictionary,
and that led me to figure in those kinds of episodes
which when they're happening are pathetic
and which, if you marry the person with you at that time,
become hilarious and endearing,
and if you don't get married,
they're pathetic until the day you die.
At the time, I didn't realize that
the higher I went up the ridiculous scale in my own eyes,
the more points I made in hers in the account of love.
We finally got a new crutch and, exhausted, went back to the hotel.
Once there,
she helped me remove the orthopedics from my arms and legs.
Without them I felt more naked than when I was naked,
deconstructed like some postmodernist slug,
almost liquid.
She removed her orthopedic shoe
as if she were taking off her underwear.
We were so tired by the effort,
we lay there on our backs, asleep,...
she with one leg longer than the other
and I, without my structures,
helpless as a peeled prawn.
I caught a cold.
The next day, I had to stay in bed
and she stayed to look after me.
I couldn't see that this gesture was more than generosity.
I hadn't been trained
to interpret the gleam in a lame girl's eyes as love.
In all the books I'd read,
in all the films I'd seen,
the women were always perfect and symmetrical.
They didn't have defects and they certainly weren't lame.
And if they did, those bastard poets, writers and filmmakers
had hidden it with words or prosthetics,
lying to humanity and fucking up my life.
Can anyone tell me in which Garcilaso or Bécquer poem
there are imperfections, physical defects or asymmetries?
And I'm not talking about skin imperfections
that can be a beautiful trace of the passing of time, etc. etc.
I'm talking about one leg longer than the other, for fuck's sake!
Nobody told me that what I was starting to feel for Rosa
was true love.
I was expecting to shudder, to shake with internal spasms.
And as I didn't feel any of that, but a justified affection,
a vague tenderness, I told myself:
"It's not love you feel, Gárate, only pity."
And when Rosa asked me to sleep with her,...
...as I'd promised myself to do it for the first time
only with the person who made me feel what I mentioned,
I said no.
I said no, but we ended up doing it.
We did it, unfortunately for me.
Because sex happened for me the same as love:
everything I knew, when the first time came,
I'd learned from the films my volunteer carer brought me.
No huge breasts or long legs.
Well, yes, there was one long leg
and another shorter one.
Rosa didn't throw herself on me like the women in fiction.
So there was none of that frantic activity
or howling that was so familiar to me.
Worst of all was when the final moment came.
I did what I'd seen sex professionals do so often.
I was surprised by her reaction.
I did it with the best of intentions.
Listen...
She didn't say anything. She got dressed and left.
I heard her uneven footsteps heading off down the hallway
and I never saw her again.
She left the Tour,
and hid away on the Fortunate Isles, where she was from.
CHAPTER 3 Advantages of Travelling by Train
Hello, Good evening. My name's Helga Pato.
I'd like to leave a message for Dr. Sanagustín.
-Hello? -Hello, this is Ángel Sanagustín.
Look, I'm not sure I know who you are or what you want,
but I can imagine.
What I am sure of is that I haven't lost any file.
So please, don't call me at the clinic again.
-Yes. -I think we spoke on the phone.
Forgive me for coming unannounced,
but what happened to me doesn't happen every day.
This is the famous file that apparently you haven't lost.
I told you, that's not my file.
I'd rather you didn't bother me with these things.
Yesterday I met a man on the train who said he was Angel Sanagustín,
he was a psychiatrist, he worked at the International Clinic,
he lived in Galapagar
and had a mountain of garbage that no one wanted to remove.
Clearly that man isn't you,
but whoever it was I met on the train, he knows you,
and he left this file on his seat.
Let her in. That's our file.
I'm sorry if my husband was a bit abrupt, but...
we're having neighbor trouble because of the garbage
and he thought the call
was about that.
Don't worry, I understand perfectly.
Unless I'm mistaken,
the person you met on the train was this man.
He's my brother Martín.
-Martin? Martin what? -Martin Urals Ubeda.
So you're Amelia. And you're Angel.
My brother Martín is very sick.
Theoretically he's admitted at the International Clinic,
But they have very advanced ideas about mental health
and they say that my brother must be free to come and go,
so that he can integrate into society.
-They say he's harmless. -And he is.
He'd never kill anyone,
but it isn't the first time he's done something like this.
Talking to people is part of his rehabilitation therapy.
Is lying part of his therapy?
And supplanting personalities?
Is confusing people part of his rehabilitation therapy?
If people believe everything that Martín, or anyone else,
tells them on a train,
it's their problem, don't you think?
Or did you make an honesty pact that made him tell you the truth?
Martin has paranoid schizophrenia with a wealth of syndromes.
There are no affective disorders, but he has divided personalities.
He has delusions and hallucinations.
At times he feels like someone else and lives as such.
In common language it's called split personality.
Currently, from what you say, he's living as if he were me.
The papers here look like statements by schizophrenic patients,
but they're nonsense, with no rhyme or reason,
things he made up.
That's the reason I'm here.
I'm interested in these papers. I'd like to publish them.
Publish them?
I don't care if they're real or not. They're good.
As an editor, I think there's a good novel here.
I guess you should speak to him.
If you do, don't tell him you've been here or that you know us,
and please, don't call him Martín, call him Angel.
If you want, I'll give you the address.
No, no need.
Dr. Sanagustín? Do you remember me?
We met the other day on the train.
Yes, of course.
You were lucky to catch me here.
I've Come to inspect Martin Urals Ubeda's papers.
Do you want to come with me?
I told you the smell was unbearable.
You'll understand how important this moment is for me.
This way.
I'm going to need more time than I thought.
Look, look.
There's everything here.
There's lots of data protection,
lots of discussions about whether we're watched on the Internet
or when we pay by credit card,
but then we don't mind sitting on the privacy of our toilet
and blithely supplying
the most hidden aspects of our personality.
It's how we open our hearts to others.
We're just a fistful of shit.
A fistful of shit and 80% water.
Look, doctor, I've really come to see you
because I read the file you left on the train
and I'm interested in publishing it.
-Publishing it? -I'm an editor.
-An editor? -Yes.
That's terrible!
Next Monday it'll be...
seven years and two months since I stopped reading.
I used to read,
but now, as I read with a psychiatrist's eyes,
I don't believe a word.
Plausibility bores me.
Why such an effort to make books and films seem real
when everyone knows they aren't?
Well, there's something called "suspension of disbelief"...
Plausibility is overrated.
According to the firemen,
it's too soon to know if the fire was provoked
or due to the spontaneous combustion of gases from the garbage.
Guys, it still isn't safe to go down into the basement!
Is anyone left in the basement?
Martin.
but he's called Martín.
FOR SALE
Hello?
Yes, that's me.
We'd make a cut here on the forehead
to access the pre-frontal lobe.
As you'll understand, it's a very delicate operation.
So we need your authorization.
You'd just have to sign here.
Good.
Would you like some conversation?