Man Facing Southeast (Hombre mirando al sudeste)

To My Father

Mirta! My love!

I fired twice, as we agreed.

There were two bullets left for me.

I put the revolver here and fired the other two shots.

Then I couldn't see anything.

I could only hear her moaning.

She was dying.

I wanted to help her, but there were no more bullets.

I couldn't see through the blood.

I heard her, but I didn't know where she was.

The blood gushed out of my head like water from a broken pipe.

And then she was gone.

Our pact was to die together.

She bought the gun...

And I let her down, Doctor.

How can that be?

You have to help me.

Who told this poor wretch I could help him?

I fired twice, as we agreed.

A priest would be of more help.

There were two bullets left for me.

He'll never rid himself of those images.

How can that be?

Do I give him drugs?

He'll soon blend in with the others.

He'll just be one more patient, but he'll never be himself again.

...as we agreed.

How would he react if I touched his hand?

She was moaning.

Would it show affection?

Tenderness?

The pact was to die together.

Dear God, how he must need it.

But he can't be expecting it.

I put the revolver here and fired the other two shots.

I don't expect it either.

I could only hear her moaning. She was dying.

Poor fool.

He still doesn't get this is his punishment:

a protracted death.

I wanted to help her, but there were no more bullets.

You didn't make it, buddy. Welcome to Hell.

Don't worry. We're going to help you.

Excuse me, Doctor. How many patients are in your ward?

32, I think. You must know that.

- Check the registry. - I have checked, Doctor.

- There should be 32. - So? Has somebody escaped?

No, Doctor. Just the opposite. There's one too many.

I checked the other wards. Everything's in order. Nobody's missing.

No new patients have been admitted.

- When did you discover this? - In this morning's head count.

Which one is he?

- He must be on the grounds outside. - He's in the chapel, Doctor.

He's a good man

and he comes from far away.

It's only a series of vibrations, but it has a positive effect on the men.

Where is the magic located?

In the instruments? In the one that wrote it?

In me?

In the listeners who are moved by it?

I can't understand what they feel.

Well, I can understand it but I can't feel what they feel.

Do you understand?

I beg your pardon. My name is Rantes.

How did you get here?

To Earth? In a spaceship.

You're a Martian.

Doctor, that's an insult.

You are an intelligent man.

Do you always begin by underestimating your sick patients like that?

Are you sick?

No, but I'm not a Martian either.

I come from far away, from another world.

But it's pointless to give you more details. You wouldn't believe me anyway.

But you came in a spaceship and landed right here

in our courtyard.

No.

Coordinates 34 degrees South latitude, 61 degrees West longitude.

In a field, near a place called...

Junin, I believe.

I shouldn't reveal so much information.

All right, Rantes, or whoever you are.

We're alone. We're not the police.

You fucked up somewhere and want to use the Asylum as a hideout.

You're not the first. Who'd think to look for you here, right?

Look, I don't care what you've done.

But don't waste my time.

If you stay, I'll have to contact the police for your records.

You know the best way to protect my mission?

Tell the truth. Who's going to believe it?

And do you know where the best place

to tell the truth is? Here.

Anywhere else, what would happen?

They would bring me here.

I would be back here telling you the same things I am now.

If you're gone tomorrow morning, no one will say anything.

If you stay, do you know what you're in for?

I know your methods,

all the methods you humans use.

I think he's faking. Tomorrow he may be gone.

If he stays, just in case, give him a sedative tonight.

What name do I put on his file, Doctor?

Put “Unidentified Flying Patient” until we find out his name.

Dr. Denis, this is Dr. Giménez's secretary.

I'm confirming the interview on Tuesday at 3:00. Thank you, Doctor.

Julio, it's Nolasco. Look, I'm calling about the clinic.

Call me at home or the office. Ciao, man.

Horrible machine, tell my Daddy when you see him

that I called to tell him that Saturday, when he comes to see us,

to take Consuelo and me to see the Moscow Circus.

Buy the tickets. Bye, machine.

A kiss for my Daddy.

If Rantes were faking, his very effort to

maintain the farce would make him sick.

He spent hours without moving a muscle, without blinking.

Totally isolated.

He goes to another place I'm beginning to suspect is impossibly far away.

But not “out there,” as he says,

but within.

Rantes, what do you do out in the courtyard?

You spend hours there motionless.

I receive and transmit information.

I told you if you stayed I'd need your identity.

The police are coming to take your fingerprints.

I hope that doesn't upset you.

No. I think it's funny.

It's just...

If my prints should match someone who's been dead a while, don't be scared.

Rantes, do you believe that could happen?

I mean, do you...

believe that you could be dead...

and yet be here, sitting in front of me?

Yes.

Not in such crass terms, of course.

But, in fact,

the majority of these men are dead but here they are...

sometimes in front of you.

They're dead in what way?

What do you think?

Rantes, you are a damn son of a bitch.

A righteous son of a bitch poser, who's crazier than a son of a bitch lunatic.

Your affirmations would make my mother laugh.

What's her name?

We have no mother. At least, they never told us about that.

You're a robot.

No. You're all robots and you haven't realized it yet.

All right, Rantes. I'm a robot. And what are you?

You wouldn't understand.

Try me.

It's just you're in the prehistory of holograms.

Holograms?

Yes, a type of photograph created with a laser beam.

It's an experiment usually performed in a physics lab.

We have been able...

How can I explain?

...to make images take shape in space

by means of what you would call... a large projector,

programmed with a highly complex computer,

to send vital information in a light beam to bring an image to life.

Let's see if I understand.

You're telling me that you are... a projection.

In a way.

I... the spaceship that brought me here...

we are images projected in space.

I say “images” for your benefit.

Because, truthfully, I could dispense with your eyes.

You could close them. I'd still exist.

I breathe. You can touch me. I can touch you.

We're perfect human replicas except for one detail.

We cannot feel.

“I cannot feel.”

That was one of the most moving confessions

I'd ever heard from a sick patient.

I myself no longer felt anything for my profession.

For the first time in a long time an Asylum patient had piqued my interest.

And I was happy for the first time in a long time.

Soon they would take his fingerprints.

I bet that Rantes had been a mathematician,

a physicist, perhaps.

He had mentioned a physics laboratory.

This is a hologram.

The laser bounces off the object, leaving its impression on the plate.

Then, to reconstruct the image, we use another laser.

Is this an experiment?

It's a laboratory demonstration.

The object is registered indirectly onto the photographic plate. Understand?

The hologram represents the object in code.

Is it crazy to think people could be photographed and projected into space?

Sending a person here, for example, so that person would seem real?

Yes, it could be done with pulsating lasers,

but it would just produce the image's outward appearance.

It would lack all the other attributes of a real person.

Why assume that a person who talks about physics must be a physicist?

He could just know about certain phenomena and make up a story.

Who uses such information for non-scientific purposes? What is he?

A writer.

A writer.

A writer or just a reader.

A reader...