Abraham's Valley (Vale Abraão)

In Abraham's Vale,

land of the man, God in vain forced to confront his own pride,

his own anger and shame,

things happen that seem to come from a world of dreams,

a world of sheer hypocrisy.

Abraham had the archaic custom

of using his wife's looks to get out of trouble.

He said she was his sister,

which made life easier when men fancied her.

Abraham's Vale

A FILM BY

SCREENPLAY

BASED ON THE NOVEL BY

In the 18th century, the river Paiva

was the southern boundary of the district of Lamego.

A clever doctor, an expert in phlegm,

called Abraham of Paiva, lived there.

He was caught in bed with a woman from Moimenta,

who later suffered a sordid abortion,

so he went down to Balsemão

and vanished, which was all he deserved.

Such is Abraham's Vale: its shade and estates

still bear the trace of a Moorish road,

busy with Granada's Orient trade.

Today, the blood of the Paivas runs in Carlos,

who studied medical science in Oporto,

married to a widow and settled on the estate in Abraham's Vale.

One day, Carlos Paiva came to Lamego, near Abraham's Vale.

It was the feast of Remédios.

There he met the 14-year-old daughter

of a respectable man, eating eels in the main square.

In the star outside Ema saw an omen.

Pure honey.

They are perfect!

No, no!

You have them, they are a speciality.

Say thank you to the nice man.

Mr?

Carlos, Carlos de Paiva.

Carlos? Thank you, Mr Carlos.

Doctor and ploughman, at your service.

Doctor and ploughman! I have been ill...

Please take a seat...

Symptoms, minor complaints,

which oddly, time seems to heal. Strangest of all...

His soul lit up on meeting a doctor and ploughman,

so he told him the saga of his many diseases,

but not much about his wife.

She wasn't long dead and he missed her beauty.

Ema, his only daughter, took after her.

Ema's just like her.

I've an uncle in Estremadura.

I have family there myself.

That Estremadura connection drew them together.

The old man gave him his address

and said he'd call him if he was unwell.

I got better and became an almost healthy person.

A doctor's fate! I'm only ever asked over for purges and bleeding.

Ema thought him a fool.

Nobody purges or bleeds any more.

She noted his masculine grace

and didn't see him again.

Or think about him.

Carlos Paiva returned home.

His wife was washing her feet.

She had a fungus between the fingers, where she put yellow powder.

She was sullen, shouted very loud and dressed badly.

Suddenly, Carlos realized all that

and became gentle and soft to her.

He kept saying she was right. She got suspicious.

He saw someone.

She thought, as lucid as someone sentenced to death.

She began spying upon him.

Time passed and nothing happened.

We never know when the heart suffers

or gains coal to maintain the heat.

Where's Romesal?

Where's Romesal?

Tell him!

Romesal? Straight on... but be careful!

Yes, watch out!

There was nothing to say when Paulino called him up.

He was wearing an old jacket.

It was a cold autumn day

and there was no heating in the drawing-room, up the stairs.

What brings you here, Dr Carlos?

Carlos...

Paiva, Carlos Paiva.

That's right, Doctor Carlos Paiva.

I'm looking for a good wine

and knowing your expertise...

It's got to be right,

from a good cellar.

I haven't got it.

But I'm sure we'll manage.

It'll be expensive, Doctor.

A royal beverage!

Though even kings drink plonk and think they're doing OK.

I swear, I'm...

Ema seemed even prettier,

her blonde locks falling

on a coarse-knit fisherman's sweater.

Do you remember Doctor Carlos, from Lamego?

No, I don't remember.

But Ema did remember.

She thought he was handsome, with his neat, salesman's teeth.

Ema thought salesmen must have nice teeth to smile so much.

In Lamego?

Yes, in Lamego.

I must attend to my patients.

Even if this is a sick call...

Ema, bring a glass of wine and some biscuits.

There aren't any biscuits.

Don't go to any trouble.

Carlos noticed an antique altar

of surprising and original beauty.

It's a good piece, an inheritance

that my sister Augusta worships. But she's not home today.

Shut up, Jordão! What's wrong with you?

Cardeano showed Carlos the way out, the same way he came in,

through the main gate, which was never used.

Absurdly, Carlos left feeling bitter.

'Who does she think she is?', he thought.

Ema was orphaned at the age of six.

Once, when she had earache, they put her mother's milk in her ear.

She remembered a trickle, the feel of her mother's breast.

The rest was a secret connection with the belly whence she came,

where everything moved with elastic ease.

Perhaps the walls of the womb, with plenty of give,

nourishment, growing hands and feet.

Aunt Augusta takes communion every day,

you pray so much you must have earned yourself an armchair in heaven.

You're right.

God knows I can't go long without resting my elbows.

But you ought to believe in God, Ema,

and pray,

instead of reading all those love stories.

Women have no business reading those books.

They aren't any concern of ours.

Why not?

Why not?

Because they are overpowering.

Even without reading Amadis of Gaul or Orlando Furioso,

who loved ladies with no culture,

ignorant of Latin.

Ema gazed at the altar,

as if unburdening herself of a uniform,

heavy with lace and ornaments,

as if the memory of the cruel drama

of her mother's death stood by this altar

that was like a theatre set.

Aunt is frightened of me.

You'd be happier if I was a nun.

You'd like to see me in a habit,

with a rosary at my belt, like yours.

Her laughter was crystalline,

like a female response

to the male nightingale's song.

Behave yourself, miss!

A nun? The young lady?

That's what they're saying.

That's all we need!

Marina was tough.

Boys who tried it on, soon thought twice.

Well, I'll tell you this,

she's too young and too pretty for a convent.

Branca was easier-going.

She liked men, without submission, just for the heck of it.

Alice had a plan - she was going to marry someone with money.

All of them liked Ema and gossiping with her.

The washerwoman was dumb, from a family of idiots.

But Ritinha was cunning and curious about the world.

She was as strong and as flexible as a vine.

The house was a hive of rumours,

abuzz with plots and gossip,

where the talk was of sex, desire and all the hurts of love.

She can't hear, don't talk to her.

She knows a thing or two

more than we do.

She can tell the type of grape from the wine stain

And blood on sheets, if it's nice and red, she says it's a virgin's.

If it's dark, it's a married woman's.

If it's heavy, then it's nearly over.

Hey, what else do you know?

How can you tell, since she can't speak?

You can see in her eyes what she doesn't say

and from the way she moves.

A man's got to react with so many lovely women!

Look at that!

I can say that myself. What a waste to have your arms

in cold water instead of around a man's warmth.

What next, scarecrow?

Give me a go with one like you.

Get out of here!

Men!

Are you sighing, woman?

What about you, eh?

- No. - You are!

- I am not! - You are!

That's it, I'm not.