To João Pedro who is happy e few
À FLOR DO MAR Hovering Over the Water
Director, producer, writer and screenplayer
If I had my own way, I would add nothing to it.
Not even bacon.
It's fat as it is.
I would put it into the oven right away, serve it almost plain.
A pinch of salt, I won't say no,
a trickle of the best olive oil,
a spring of parsley...
And that's all, Amelia.
Too seasoning will spoil its sea taste.
As to the rest, the fire is the master.
Have no illusions. This one's not meant for you.
Go find yourself a she-cat.
New York Herald Tribune.
Come in.
- I brought you the newspapers. - Leave them on the chair.
Wouldn't a bit of fresh air do you good?
I don't see the good it would do but you can open the window.
Blasted light!
I thought I'd find my happiness in you.
How's the world?
It might be a good idea to ask senhora Amelia to tidy it up.
The bird who fouls his own nest can't be a good one.
Besides, senhora Amelia has other things to do.
Baked snook for dinner.
A good snook does deserve a tidy room.
My God: When You created the world You knew very well where to start...
- I'll help you. - I still can do what's to be done.
Bring me some flowers, if you remember.
No. Don't.
If I'll pluck up some courage, I'll go for a walk through the fields.
Carlos invited us for a trip on his boat.
- Would you like to come along? - Just like that...
- Can I give an answer after dinner? - You can.
- Turn your head a little bit. - What for?
You've got an oil spot on it, little sister.
It must have been the bicycle chain.
I'm so sweaty! I'm going to take a bath.
I've still got salt on my body.
Silvestre, my fool, my cat:
Have you never seen a naked girl washing herself?
And if you were a charmed prince?
I would blush with shame, hide from you.
Do you think I'm beautiful?
Is it because the sun tinted my skin with gold?
Because my mouth is like a fruit that seems to be always offering itself?
I made myself beautiful for your sake
and, in the reflexes in your cat's eyes, I fell happy.
Do you know what this is?
It's a black fig that isn't black but blue
and pink inside and from it trickles a honey tear.
Did you call aunt Sara?
Yes, we did.
It makes one's mouth water.
It looks magnificent. I congratulate you for it.
When the fish is good it gives you almost no trouble.
Are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner, senhora Amelia?
I'll taste a bit tomorrow.
I'd rather go home now to cook dinner for my son, who's waiting,
if you don't need me anymore. - No, you can go.
Is Sara coming down?
I thing so, but one never knows.
I think we'd better start.
Could it be the fuses?
It seems one of Sara's jokes to me.
It's not Sara: It's Callas.
I bet aunt Sara will appear in a disguise.
In what disguise? Disguised as Norma?
What about that famous snook? I'm starving.
What's the idea of going around barefooted?
Shouldn't you be in bed?
Maria asks if aunt Sara is really coming on the boat trip tomorrow.
Aunt Sara has already said yes.
Mama said yes, Maria said yes, senhora Amelia already said yes.
Everybody said yes.
Does Maria need carrier-pigeons now?
Maria is a girl and mother knows quite well that a girl is a girl.
Now that the message is delivered, you can go back to bed.
And I don't want to see you here barefooted again.
They go past us,
untouched by what we project upon them.
It is new life affirming itself regardless of our own life.
We get frightened by the smallest trifle, we loose countless nights,
we consume ourselves so that they grow.
You're the only serene mother I know.
Last night I had a dream:
A big colored tropical bird
peeped in a heartbreaking way
while it described crazy circles around the house.
Suddenly, it changed its course and began to flutter,
the enormous wings wide-spread, in front of the window of my room.
The peeping grew more horrible and piercing every minute.
All of a sudden, it vanished.
It seemed to have gone away and then there it was,
charging against the windowpane.
And at each charge,
the blood sprinkles spread over the glass panes
and the light gradually went out inside the room
till complete darkness.
At last, the thousand-colored feathers
exploded in the sky like fireworks.
It reminds one of a virgin's dream.
It reminds what it reminds.
You look stunning!
Fat, girlish moon...
- Are you going to some party? - I'm going for a ride with Carlos.
- Ah! The sailor... - Not a sailor, he's just rich.
I must go now.
Don't go to bed late.
I haven't talked much with Rosa.
To be honest, I haven't talked much with anyone,
except with Antoine, but that's another thing.
Damned kid:
Rosa, Rosarum.
Yesterday I was changing her diapers and soon she'll come up pregnant.
Rest in peace, little mother.
Your Rosa has more sense than both of us together.
I don't believe she's in love.
It's comforting but not enough to appease one's conscience,
a true bourgeois conscience.
I do hope not.
What's so funny?
Nothing.
Do you remember the first time you met Virgílio?
It was in Florence.
Those things can't be forgotten.
You waited until I had finished giving a lesson
and you came to ask me I don't know what.
"His was an eagerness to live; no more the eagerness to love".
It's a passage from "Amor de Perdição"
that still fascinates and troubles me.
You can't strike a match twice.
I believe Simão only wanted soup and rest by then.
We left college together, remember?
I'm doing my best to forget it.
We strolled for hours on end along the Arno...
It's a muddy river in spring time.
It was hot,
the kids bathed in the river,
the Easter holidays were at the door,
and I talked and talked...
You listened, your eyes wide open...
I sometimes opened my eyes wide...
Suddenly, I felt you gripping my arm with all your strength.
You turned pale and started trembling.
It was Virgílio,
the one over there crossing the bridge to meet us.
You had spoken so much about him that I felt like knowing him already.
I was immediately aware there you were in love.
Some years have past since...
How will it be with Rosa?
It's strange her not being in love. At her age...
It will be different. Let's wait and see.
I'm going to bed.
Are you coming tomorrow with us?
No, but I'll drop you at Tavira. I might go for a ride afterwards.
Without destination.
There were several shots,
fired upon a leader of PLO,
here for the Socialist Congress.
Sartawi lies dead on the ground, we think he died instantaneously.
His assistant was also shot
and is now on his way to the hospital in Albufeira.
He was first attended here, at the hotel
and then was taken by ambulance to the hospital.
The sniper managed to escape
and the hotel is packed with police agents.
We don't understand
how he managed to escape, with so much police around.
Issam Sartawi was shot at the main lobby,
down by the entrance of the hotel at Montechoro.
The man came from the hotel
and shot several times.
Issam Sartawi fell immediately to the ground...
They started work very early,
the untiring crime workers.
It's horrible to die on an empty stomach.
Those who are sentenced to death know it well:
A coffee and a cigarette.
Human life, after all,
conforming to small vices...
I must take you to a hospital.
The wound looks bad and ought to be disinfected.
I'm coming, I'm coming...
Just a second.
I drew the bolt because I'm afraid of being here alone.
If you want, you may leave earlier, senhora Amelia. I don't need you.
Do you now when the ladies and the children will come back from the sea?
I suppose tomorrow or the day after... I don't know for sure.
The house is as clean as can be
and if you really can do without my help,
I might use the occasion for going to the doctor.
Not that I need it, thank God I never did.
It's my son who's drinking heavily
and they told me to take him to a doctor for the brain.
I'm sorry to know that.
If I can help you in some way, please don't hesitate to ask.
God bless you, my lady.
Oh! It's you. You scared me...
I called time and again and nobody answered.
Hello, Antoine. Sara is not here.
She isn't?
On second thoughts,
I'm really almost relieved
not to have found her.
With Sara
I always get the feeling I'm one too many.
Or not too short.
Sometimes I fell like I never calling on her again...
Do you remember the time she sent me a telegram
asking me to join her in Florence?
"I love you. Come. "
No, no...
"Come. I love you. "
At first, I thought it was a joke.
It couldn't be.
After all, Sara is not in the habit of joking with that sort of things...
I didn't even have the time to change.
When I arrived in Florence
it was bitter cold and it rained cats and dogs.
I rang the bell at her place,
drenched to the bones and shivering.
She looked at me from head to foot.
I was immediately aware that she was furious.
She looked lovely thus.
I only wished the earth would swallow me on the spot
but the only thing I did
was to take the telegram out of the pocket
and show it to her.
She smiled
and said: "Ah!"
"I can offer you a grappa and a towel. "
"I'm sorry but I worked late and I'm going to resume sleeping. "
"We'll meet for lunch at the Piazza della Signoria,"
"if you want. "
She gave the name of a cafe, the Rivoire,
and turned her back on me.
She was willing to marry you.
But what made her change her mind?
What makes people change their minds if they ever do change them?
Who knows?
If there had been another man...
There have been other man...
All right,
but I don't believe she loved them.
I don't believe she loved me.
Sara loved only one man:
Virgílio, her brother.
It's not by chance
he was the only guy I was truly jealous of.
Also of you, in a way.
Of me?
It was dreadful when we went to Arezzo
to look at Piero della Francesca, the Leggenda della Uera Croce.
Which cross? I constantly asked myself.
Mine or Piero della Francesca's?
For both of you it was as if I didn't even exist.
After a while I couldn't see clearly any longer.
Virgílio irrupted from every recess of the frescoes
as a more and more intense and bright volume.
I could never stand that...
...Piero della Francesca.
You're being unfair.
I was very much in love with Virgílio
and everything spun around us...
I'm jealous of everything, that's the truth.
I don't know.
After all...
a guy tries to find,
by fair means or foul,
is excuses for his mistakes.
It might be a mistake to think one failed
because things don't happen as one has desired.
Maybe the blame we insist on laying upon ourselves
should simply be laid on the rain.
On the rain?
Maybe your story would have had another outcome
if, on that very day, it hadn't rained in Florence.
Do you believe such nonsense?
What has the rain got to do with our story?
Probably nothing but let me believe that kind of nonsense.
It's undeniable
that Sara grew up worshipping her hero,
Virgílio.
It took me some time to grasp that.
Strangely enough,
the jealousy only came up later.
More or less about the time Maria was born,
but mothers are very powerful.
But that's another story.
What one must keep in mind
is that Sara's love for Virgílio,
let's call it so,
was fully returned.
She knew herself loved by God.
That fervor filled her heart
and the men who approached her got scared,
trembled with fear.
Instead of offering her their human love they turned into rivals of God.
It's stupid to be jealous of God.
When you left Florence, Sara cried her eyes out.
Maybe a drinking bout helped her get over it,
or maybe not.
There's nothing we can do now, is there?
No. There's nothing one can do now.
Okay.
Tell her...
I came by
and will do so again one of these days,
as usual.
Do you want me to drop you somewhere?
We aren't going the same way.
Be careful. I hope you won't come across Sartawi's killer.
If I'll come across him
I'll tell him that I've got a friend who was an anti-fascist
and has severely criticized
the security system set up
by the Portuguese authorities;
or I'll simply say
that he committed a disgustingly coward crime,
certainly in the pay of the Sionists. Did I say it right?
You're not far from the truth
but one can add a more personal touch
to ready-made sentences.
Anyway, you probably won't come across him.
I suppose he has already been caught.
How silly of me. I always forget to switch off the headlights.
Good evening.
Documents, please...
Please, show me that bag.
Open it.
This one here?
Take it out.
The keys to the trunk, please.
Here you go.
Your documents.
Thank you.
You may go on. Good night.
The trousers are somewhat short.
No, I'm Italian.
From Alta Valle del Tevere.
Borgo Sansepolcro,
provincia di Arezzo,
Toscania.
Excuse me...
Do you know where I can find the Divine Comedy at this late hour?
Arriving at Portimão you'll see a bridge.
You don't cross it. You turn immediately to the right.
You drive some hundred yards and you'll come upon a confectionery.
The Dom Rodrigos are good,
specially if you've ordered them.
Right beside it,
is a bookshop
where you'll be able to find the Divine Comedy.
Up to now, we weren't instructed to put translators into jail
and it's a pity.
I've got a son called Dante.
Mine is called Roberto
but he's still too young to read Dante.
- Have a nice trip. - Thank you. Good night.
- Enjoy your reading. - Thank you.
Does it hurt?
Maria is the eldest.
Roberto, the youngest, wails like a cat!
There!
It's done.
Let me see...
It looks great!
But very seldom, once every century.
Excuse me.
But you're dead!
Exuberant sudden explosions of pure colored matter.