Cherchez La Femme

[instrumental music, something unsettling]

Ten years in prison served

for a crime I didn't commit,

and of which, however, I never defended myself.

Dead to life and dreams,

waiting for nothing,

and desiring nothing.

I come to do, finally, my confession.

That is,

to demonstrate my innocence.

Maybe they don't believe me.

I'm sure they don't believe me.

But it doesn't matter.

I don't need to be rehabilitated.

I only tell the truth,

even when it is unlikely.

Cherchez la femme.

My dear!

My dear Lúcio, you missed the biggest party of the century!

All of Paris was at the American's Palace yesterday! An unforgettable spectacle.

Falls of light, electrifying flames!

So much sensualism explored, absolutely unforgettable.

Impossible to describe.

It's not me, ever, who own my lovers…

- They are the ones who own me! - False modesty, my dear.

You know, Lúcio, what makes an artist a great artist…

- Say it. - It's not just the style of his work,

It's also the way you dress,

your gestures, the way you love, your entire way of being.

All of this defines the genius of the great artist.

Why, my friend, call "genius" to an obese scoundrel like Balzac…

It's not right. It's not fair, nor acceptable!

But there are so many great artists out there, much inferior in terms of physical appearance.

Knowing how to steal a little of God's soul, that's a great artist.

Here comes Ricardo de Loureiro. Poet of Embers!

- Do you know Ricardo, Lúcio? - No, but I admire his work.

It is essential that you know him,

a brilliant man who levitates above mortals.

I'm glad I found him! I barely feared that I had come here in vain.

Now, come on!

The writer and playwright, Lúcio Vaz,

the poet, Ricardo de Loureiro.

A privilege to meet you in person.

I am a humble and dedicated reader of your poetry:

"I look around me

Everyone has an affection A smile or a hug

Only for my cravings to be diluted And I don't have

Even when I link

Oh power

Being able to suck one day

Anyway

The purple and macerated taste Of the mystery

The mystery of writing! Let's sit down, gentlemen.

Gervásio told me about you.

I know the volume of your novels.

I especially like the story "João Tortura".

It's rare to find such genuine melancholic prose.

It gives me great pleasure to know.

- And it’s curious… - What?

Choosing this story.

It is by far my favorite among the poems I wrote,

and the only one that critics don't highlight. - Ah, critics!

Do you want romance grocers to understand us?

You know what we can expect from the Portuguese press.

And it's never too late to find a soulmate.

In the aesthetic and literary sense, well understood.

If you'll excuse me.

For me, nothing new delights me anymore.

Everything bothers me.

My rare enthusiasms, when measuring them…

… I find them petty.

It's not just the things I own that bother me anymore,

just as I am fed up with those I don't have.

Write.

Don't stop writing.

Leave your work…

Let your work save you.

I know we just met,

but allow me to offer all the help you need.

Think about the future,

think…

… in the world there is to conquer. - The future…

The future…

To this day I still haven't seen myself in it.

And the things I don't see myself in, they never happened to me.

I miss this future you talk about.

But I thank you for your encouragement, dear Lúcio.

Maybe meeting you will help me change.

I'm sure yes.

Lúcio!

Do you have anything scheduled for tomorrow at 3pm?

- Not that I remember. - Then you will.

At the Robert Oudin Theatre?

Combined.

Goodnight.

[somewhat unsettling instrumental music]

Tell me, Lúcio,

Are you not subject to certain inexplicable fears?

Like what?

I'm afraid of those dancers.

- Are you kidding? - Look carefully.

All dressed in the same suits,

the same bare legs, the same faint features,

the same gentle air, all the same.

We cannot assign them a life,

a lover, a past,

habits or ways of being.

We cannot separate them from the whole.

It's terrifying. Dreadful…!

- Richard! - Oh!

My dear. Dear Lúcio!

How I bless the hour in which we meet.

Ah... "La Bocca della Veritá".

I don't know if you know the legend of this statue.

A real lie detector.

Legend has it that if you're lying,

the statue tears off our hand.

Do you accept the challenge?

It would be good if it were possible to ascertain women's fidelity.

And does Lúcio find it easy to make new friends?

These good people who come here, live, don't think.

Most of them are happy, normal.

As for me, I don't know how to have affection.

I see how women look at you.

They do not seek anything other than these affections.

I always felt like a social outsider, you know?

Really? It doesn't seem like it.

I am an isolated person who knows half the world. At least, that's how I feel.

Can you believe I can't conceive of myself in my old age?

If there were no absolute certainty that we all die,

I, not seeing myself dead, I wouldn't believe my death.

And you don't aspire, like any artist, to immortality?

Thus escaping death?

Everyone believes me to be a mysterious man,

for not falling in love, not have lovers.

I can't be friends with anyone.

Don't protest, I'm not your friend.

To be someone's friend, It would be necessary for me to own it first…

… whoever I cherished, woman or man.

But a creature of our sex, we cannot possess.

I could only be friends with a creature of my sex

if this creature, or me, would change sex.

In respect of all the people for whom I feel tenderness

there is this desire that I feel in my soul, to kiss them.

Give back,

narrow, possess.

Don't think I feel this in my flesh. No! I feel it in my soul.

Everything in this city is liturgical to me…

My religion is Paris!

Paris, Paris…

We profess the same faith, my dear.

Come with me tomorrow to the Saint-Croix exhibition at the Grand Palais.

They say he is the most exciting sculptor of this century!

I would love to, but unfortunately I won't be able to.

I have a meeting with a lawyer.

Documents to sign, because of my father's inheritance.

I'm sorry you go through these worries.

I would be happy to have you for company.

To tell me what you think.

I wrote last night, after we met.

I don't know what to say.

Don't say anything.

Grant me this pleasure.

Love is a flame that kills

They all say it rightly

It's a malaise of the heart

And with it one goes crazy

Love is a smile

Smile that fades

Lock that comes undone They also call it

Love is not a good

Whoever loves always suffers

Love is a perfume

Perfume that fades

- Yes sir? - Good morning.

I'm Lúcio Vaz. I have a meeting with Mr. Ricardo at 10 am.

One moment, please.

This is for you.

- Thanks. - You're welcome.

[footsteps moving away and soft instrumental music]

My dear Lúcio.

I had to urgently return to Lisbon.

I found my destiny.

I look forward to seeing you again and sharing so much happiness with you.

[serene and contemplative instrumental music continues]

Dear Ricardo,

we were apart for a year.

Our correspondence was null.

Three letters from me and two from you.

In December, I return to Lisbon.

A big, big hug,

Lúcio.

Every other week, I have to take the car to the workshop!

Oh!

Do you know who I met yesterday at Brasileira?

Our "Rodin do Chiado": Gervásio Vila-Nova!

- He came back a month ago! - Yeah.

His sister is sick, as far as I know.

- Did it look good? - The usual,

more full of himself and would exploded.