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 or just a reader.
A reader...
Why did I think of that?
A reader of what?
Fiction wasn't my strong suit.
But Rantes' description of holograms... had a literary feel to it.
Somewhere I had read something similar.
That business of projecting human beings...
in some book...
and I had it.
“I began to find unknown waves and vibrations
and devised instruments to capture and transmit them.
Here's the machine's first component.
The second records, the third projects.
It doesn't require screens or papers.
But if you turn all the dials at once,
Madeleine will be reproduced completely, and she will appear exactly as she is.
You must not forget that I am speaking of images extracted from mirrors,
with the sounds,
tactile sensations, flavors,
odors, temperatures, all synchronized perfectly.”
The Invention of Morel.
Adolfo Bioy Casares, 1940.
If Rantes had written his story instead of telling it to me,
he could have become a famous writer instead of the lunatic I hoped to unmask.
All right.
Rantes could have been a physicist, or read The Invention of Morel.
But what would that prove?
Take it easy, Julio.
Ultimately, there are only two alternatives.
Either Rantes is mad as a hatter or he's really from another planet.
No, old man.
There can't be just two alternatives.
Yes?
- What is it? - The report on Rantes' fingerprints.
- I don't understand. - He's not on file.
He doesn't exist. He's nobody.
Any explanation?
A Uruguayan who suddenly turned up here would have no records.
He always looks in the same direction.
He always orients his body in the same direction
between the water tank and Pavilion 6.
- What direction is that? - Which way is north? There.
Then he faces towards the south.
South... Southeast, right?
Yes, southeast.
Southeast.
And why not southwest? Or north?
- Southeast. - What does he say?
That he receives and transmits information.
Whatever it is,
in that direction lies some clue to his past.
We're changing the medication for the patient in bed 7, Rantes.
He's delusional and not improving.
Let's try to depress him.
I want a daily report on his progress, okay?
He's a good man.
He comes from far away.
Everyone seems to like you.
Rantes, I've thought about what you told me, that you couldn't feel.
How come?
Can we chat?
How about some coffee?
My projection includes all the information I need to do many things.
To play Bach and other things that would surprise you.
But to me, it's simply information.
Why do psychiatrists lean back when they listen to patients?
Do they fear it's contagious?
Forgive me. It's just a habit.
Now, Rantes...
I saw you give that patient your jacket.
He was cold.
Yes, but what compelled you to give him your coat?
Because he was cold.
Stop screwing around, Rantes.
You felt something for that man.
No, it's a totally rational reaction.
If someone is cold, I help him.
You're programmed for that.
Rantes, do you have hallucinations?
No, you do. I'm one of your hallucinations.
You're a complete lunatic.
But I recognize you're a very special lunatic.
You worry me. You really do.
I appreciate your worrying about me.
I don't think it's common for people to care about others here.
In this hospital?
On this planet.
What about on yours?
Come on. Tell me about that.
Where did you live? In a town? In a city?
Error. No data found. Search result = 0.
- Ask again. - Rantes.
I don't want to deceive you.
I could describe any town, any city.
But I would be deceiving you.
It wouldn't be a town as you understand it,
nor would it be the past you're seeking.
You're my past.
This moment, this world.
You want to take me back to the human past.
But how could you understand that?
Relax, Doctor. What's worrying you?
If I were president of a superpower
and could command powerful armies, I could understand.
But I'm not.
I'm in an insane asylum.
Everyone knows I'm crazy.
You do too, right?
Rantes, you're sick.
I'm a doctor.
I want to cure you. That's all.
I don't want you to cure me. I want you to understand me.
Even though he didn't believe me, I was trying to understand him.
Moreover,
it was gradually becoming my life's main purpose: to understand Rantes.
He passed every test, as expected,
clinging to his ever more complex, ever more perfect delusion.
The intelligence test rated him a genius.
No analysis showed any physical abnormality.
All the results indicated he was healthy,
except for one small detail.
He claimed he came from another planet.
- Aren't we going to the circus? - No.
I didn't have time to buy the tickets.
- So where are we going? - To the zoo. You want to, don't you?
Again?
What are you doing?
Keep still!
Sit down! Leave that alone! Leave it!
Waiter!
Here.
Order up! One steak!
- Steak ready? - What's the matter?
- That steak I asked for! - I just put it right there.
- Where is it? - But I put it there!
People are waiting!
- You probably already took it. - Where?
Time was passing.
Rantes was becoming just another shadow,
one of many at the Asylum,
recognized only by the priest, who now had the organist of his dreams.
Rantes didn't exist, except for me.
No other doctor remembered him now.
By that time, I was the only eyewitness to his existence.
So if Rantes were crazy,
he was crazy only for me.
His delusion didn't diminish.
It was obvious he had avoided taking his anti-psychotic pills.
I could have injected him.
For some reason, I didn't take that route.
Rantes' delusion was harmless...
and for the moment, perfect.
I just had to wait.
I was sure that, anytime now, he'd make a mistake.
Doctor, I want to ask a favor.
Would you arrange with Dr. Prieto for me to work in Pathology?
In Pathology? What would you do in Pathology?
Let's say...
cleaning up, maintenance.
Forgive me, Rantes. You're bored. You want to use your hands.
What about the handicraft workshop?
No, Doctor.
What would you have me make?
Little wooden boxes that say “Souvenir of the lunatic asylum”?
I'm not bored. I want to work in Pathology.
You're my only friend with any power in here.
If you say you're sending a lunatic to work in Pathology, people will say you're crazy.
Maintenance is a good cover story.
That's the pretext. What's the real motive?
I want to investigate.
Investigate what?
The human brain.
- Your brain. - No, your brain.
I hate to disappoint you, Rantes,
but, at this point, your brain is identical to mine and every other human's.
Then, why do you wear the uniform of the sane and I wear the uniform of the insane?
If he's not from an another planet, he should be.
He's a good man. Gentle.
All right. Leave him here with me
on a trial basis.
If he behaves, he stays. If not, I'll send him back.
He'll be useful to me.
It's the only way I can get an assistant.
There's not even money for coffins. I swear.
The other day I sent two corpses in the same box to the Medical School.
Behold...
a genius.
I wonder what made the poor guy go nuts?
Hey, when he dies, I get the autopsy.
Prieto, you're a son of a bitch.
“Unheeded Warnings”
“Malnourished Children... in the Capital”
Yes, it's mine.
- It's full of clippings. - It's information.
About what?
About the world's deadliest weapon.
We know how to defend against your other weapons.
But this one worries us. It baffles us.
What weapon, Rantes?
Stupidity. Human stupidity.
Why do you insist on saying “we”?
Because I'm not my planet's only inhabitant.
Nor am I the only one of us on this planet.
No! For pity's sake, Rantes, don't tell me there are others!
With you I've got more than enough!
This exact same scene is happening all over the world.
Other Ranteses are sitting across from other doctors like you...
in other insane asylums...
having the same discussion at this very moment.
And all we Ranteses are saying exactly the same thing.
Go ahead. Check it out.
Call them.
Dr. De la Fuente, Madrid. 223-4563.
Dr. Lamarque, Lima, 42-6126.
Do you speak English? French?
If only one of you dared to call, you'd change history...
but we know it won't happen.
Because it's a reality beyond the limits of what you find acceptable.
We are beyond those limits.
All right.
If I accept all those doctors are talking to all you Ranteses,
they're asking the same question: what do these clippings mean?
Your daily murdering.
If God is within you,
you murder God every day.
And how does that concern you?
We're mounting a rescue mission.
Do you see why an asylum is the safest place?
I can tell you this top secret information
because nobody will believe it.
What rescue mission?
The rescue of the victims...
those who can't bear living in constant fear.
Those broken by horror...
those who have lost all hope... here.
It won't be kidnapping anyway.
Rantes, all you've left out are the words, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.”
You made a mistake in assuming your role.
You shouldn't have said you were from another planet.
You should have told me you were Christ.
My story might've been different,
but your reaction would've been the same.
Rantes, do you have children?
No.
Then, why have you kept this drawing?
They can't live with the horror either
and they die like ants.
International Operator, one moment, please.
The idea of an invasion of Christs was amusing.
May God forgive me, but the absurdity of it made me laugh.
Christ's old, official version had always seemed preposterous to me,
but I never thought it funny.
I didn't know why, but I couldn't get the thought out of my head.
I wondered, if it were true,
why it was that Christ was a social being,
one with a political role,
while this one sought isolation and anonymity?
Since things had not gone well that first time,
it wasn't nuts to think that this time around these Christs decided to change tactics.
My Lord!
Rantes was probably right in saying we psychiatrists lean back in our chairs
to avoid contagion.
In his case, I had been reckless in not leaning back.
Doctor, why does a perfumed breeze sometimes come through a window?
Why? Does it awaken old memories?
I don't have memories that can be activated that way.
But if I had them and didn't want to remember,
certain aromas, certain perfumes would harm me.
We have lost many agents that way.
Meaning?
Agents like me.
They end up with feelings we're not programmed for
and step out of the laser beam.
They've deserted. Why?
For reasons you would consider trivial.
Perfume wafting through a window, for example...
a woman's fragrance,
a haunting tune on the saxophone.
A saxophone? I play the sax. You knew?
No.
But, please, Doctor, don't take me literally.
Save yourself the ridicule of showing up tomorrow to try to destroy me with a sax!
What I don't understand, Rantes, is...
you talk about sensations...
sensations that somehow unhinge the people from your planet.
Unprogrammed combinations make our computerized memory begin to malfunction.
We still don't know why.
That's why I asked to work in Pathology. Because I want to investigate.
Why don't you stop fucking around?
I will help you. I really will.
I know you're afraid, terrified
to see yourself as merely a man, as a sick man.
But don't worry.
I will not abandon you.
If you help me, I can cure you.
You're a great guy, Rantes. It's a shame.
You're a great guy, too, but you're not happy.
What's worse, you know it and don't care.
Why are human beings resigned to tolerating what's destroying them?
And why do they do so little to improve things?
Is your stupidity making you commit suicide or are you paying for your sins?
We're home again.
Rantes, it's still early. How about some coffee?
Why do you want to cure me?
Can you give me a serious reason we can discuss here?
Rantes, if you're not a lunatic, I would have to admit you're an extraterrestrial.
And that would mean I'm the lunatic.
Nature allows only for very slow change...
accepting a change of species more easily than a change of conscience.
I'm more rational than you.
I respond rationally to stimulus.
If someone suffers, I console him.
If someone needs my help, I give it.
Why, then, do you think I'm crazy?
If someone looks at me, I respond.
If someone speaks, I listen.
You have slowly gone mad by ignoring those stimuli,
simply by looking the other way.
Someone is dying and you let him die.
Someone asks for your help and you look away.
Someone is hungry and you squander what you have.
Someone is dying of sorrow and
you lock him up so as not to see him.
Anybody who systematically behaves this way,
who walks among them as if the victims weren't there...
may dress well, may pay taxes,
may go to Mass,
but you can't deny he is sick.
Your reality is terrifying, Doctor.
Why don't you end your hypocrisy and look at the madness out here for once?
And stop persecuting the sad ones,
the poor in spirit,
those who don't want to buy
or can't buy all that shit you would gladly sell me
if you could, that is.
Rantes had just made a move that seemed unplanned,
unprogrammed.
Providentially, a rage had arisen in him.
If he tried to become a “Cybernetic Christ,”
his increasing rage would make him resemble the other Christ, the old Christ.
At this point, my thoughts were confused,
a bit by embarrassment, a bit by anger at those thoughts because
as Rantes became more Christ-like his end wouldn't be much different.
I wouldn't admit it, but I wanted Rantes to go, to disappear from my life
even though the history of the Universe might see me, if it were true,
as the “Pilate of the galaxies.”
In that case, I would prefer, as many Romans probably did,
the risk of a resurrection to having him here,
saying what he was saying.
Hey, Rantes has a visitor.
- Beatriz... - Dick.
Rantes has been here for a while, and he's made no progress.
We don't know his true identity.
In his file he's listed as “John Doe.”
So your presence may be very useful.
That's why I intercepted you in the hall.
Now I'd like to ask you some questions,
which may seem rude,
but I think you can forgive me.
- Are you related to Rantes? - No.
A friend?
We met recently. I'm an evangelist.
I work in a church.
We do relief work in a slum.
That's where I met him.
In a church? What was he doing there?
He showed up offering to help out.
At first, we didn't realize how important he would become.
Important?
He's a jack-of-all-trades.
He teaches the kids music.
He's delivered several babies like a real doctor.
He's assembling a machine using parts of radios and calculators.
And the kids say it'll be a computer.
From the beginning, we thought him...
a little odd, but a good man.
One day, he told me his story.
It was very moving.
He explained how he got here?
Yes, he described his alcohol problems.
His alcohol problems? What alcohol problems?
He didn't tell me why he had problems and I didn't want to know.
He just said he'd been an alcoholic.
He sought help on his own to avoid harming anyone.
He said he was all right, improving.
He spoke highly of you.
Did he ever mention... being from another planet?
No.
Rantes may have problems, but he doesn't seem crazy to me.
Excuse me.
Forgive me, Doctor...
but it's late.
Yes, of course.
Will you continue to visit him? I'd like to ask you more questions.
Anything he says to you may help me...
- And especially him. - Yes, of course.
May I have your phone number?
I don't have a phone.
I'll give you my numbers.
You can call me here... or at home.
Rantes deserves our help.
He's a valuable man.
So you weren't hiding anything, eh?
The Saint?
She's a very interesting woman.
Why do you call her “The Saint”? Is it because she's religious?
No. Because she's a very special woman.
In her I've seen mechanisms like no other's.
What mechanisms?
This is confidential.
But I think I can trust you.
Uncommon connections between the affective and the physical.
When a human being feels something,
what external physical reactions do you observe?
A human being can cry or tremble...
or play dumb and pretend not to feel a thing.
Right. The Saint could never hide anything.
When she feels,
when... she's deeply moved,
or feels love, I suppose,
her mouth expels a blue liquid.
A blue liquid?
Yes. I'm very interested in her case.
Since we are seeking to decode feelings and convert them into information,
she's truly an exceptional case.
Why the need to expel the liquid?
Why blue? What produces it?
Couldn't she be an epileptic, and you imagined the liquid was blue?
What's wrong, Doctor?
Are you at the limit of your understanding?
Insane trees grow in insane asylums.
Why did you tell her you were an alcoholic?
An alcoholic?
Oh, I didn't want to frighten her.
I am interested in working with those people.
Telling the truth would ruin everything.
Horrible machine, tell Daddy I would like to go fishing this weekend.
I deserve it since I got an “A” in school.
Bye, machine. I don't like talking to you.
Have Daddy call me.
Dr. Denis, this is Beatriz Dick, Rantes' friend.
Please tell him that I haven't abandoned him.
I couldn't visit him for reasons beyond my control.
I'll visit him again next Sunday at 5:00 p.m.
I know you care about him so I decided to call you.
Thank you, Doctor.
Sgnilbis er'yeht wonk ll'uoy yad emos.
Hi, how are you?
I came to check my patients. I'm done now.
Do you have time for some coffee?
I want to know how Rantes seemed to you.
Would you excuse me for a minute?
Sure. I'll wait in the car outside.
Beatriz, I don't want to alarm you, but...
his case is not as simple as he told you.
Rantes hid things.
A man always hides something in his soul.
- That's why he's not happy. - Yes, of course...
but these are serious things.
Rantes isn't an alcoholic, as he claimed.
He has delusions he's from another planet.
- What do you think? - Do I think he's from another planet?
No. Do you think it's serious? Can he be cured?
The truth is, I don't know.
- I haven't made any progress yet. - He seems well.
He feels well, but that place is not exactly a summer camp.
No. I know.
I thought you'd be able to help me.
I want to help you, but I don't know how.
I'm seeking Rantes' history.
I can't find any trace of his past, of his origins.
I can say he's sick, but I don't really know what's wrong with him.
As a psychiatrist, I know nothing.
A man can't live his life without leaving a footprint.
I know the real story of Rantes must exist somewhere.
So I think you can help me.
Why do you think I can make a difference?
He lied to me too.
You never heard him mention a place...
a town...
a city where he might have lived?
- Did he ever mention Uruguay? - No.
As far as I can remember, no.
Once he mentioned a trip...
In the slums Rantes teaches a boy music.
He's very impressed with him.
Rantes thinks he's a genius.
He admires him.
But he suffers because he believes the boy's talent will be wasted there.
Once he asked me to care for the boy until his trip began.
When I asked what trip he meant,
he just said, “That boy shall travel.”
Rantes can leave whenever.
He already comes and goes as he pleases.
Why doesn't he go out with you- for a walk or a drink?
He doesn't want to.
He says he's too busy at the Asylum.
He's investigating something.
Oh, yes.
Are you scolding me for not taking him to the movies or a concert?
No, no. You're very good to visit him.
Well, I better go.
- Need a ride? - No, thanks.
I'm not going far. I like to walk.
So long, Doctor.
Thank you for your concern for him.
Next week I'm taking him to a concert.
Would you like to come with us?
A REAL LOONEY CONCERT MADMAN CONDUCTED IT
Terrific. It would've been just fine in the entertainment section.
But no...
it made the crime section, with me looking like an idiot.
“How did the patient escape?” He didn't escape.
He was at a concert with one of our doctors.
You're right. I'm sorry. I made a mistake.
I thought it would do him good to get out of here for a while.
He loves music. Besides, he's harmless.
So I see.
It's lucky you didn't take him to a military parade.
Instead of the crime section, we'd be front page news.
“Madman Orders Military Attack.”
That already happened, and it wasn't Rantes' fault!
Dr. Denis, that man suffers from delusional paranoia,
and you're treating him as a mere neurotic.
I shouldn't have to remind you that a man who persists in such a delusion
is potentially dangerous.
Today he thinks he's a Martian.
Tomorrow he hears voices and kills someone.
And you put him to work in Pathology...
take him to concerts.
Perhaps you're experimenting with a new healing technique.
We don't cure anybody here, Doctor.
If you've lost faith in your profession, you know what to do.
I come to the Asylum every day because I believe that despite the difficulties...
we do serve a purpose, we do cure.
Curing even one patient gives our work meaning.
One in 1,500 patients is a pretty low percentage.
Dr. Denis, regarding you, the subject is not closed.
Regarding the patient, I want no more confusion.
Alpidol by injection and that's final.
He'll fall apart.
It's the only way to end his delusion, and you know it.
Yes, but his delusion is all that keeps Rantes going.
I'm afraid he'll become catatonic.
Then give him electric shock treatment.
Stop fucking around, Doctor. You have 15 years' experience.
This can't go on.
Uh, Doctor, that man... Rantes...
Was he with you all last evening?
Yes.
I picked him up and brought him back.
The other patients say that he led last night's riot.
The sentence had been handed down and would be carried out.
I had my orders.
After all, in this story, I was only Pontius Pilate.
Nevertheless, I felt guilty, not about hoping Rantes would slip up...
but about how little his future troubles bothered me.
The Saint, as usual, had disappeared...
vaguely promising to visit soon.
Oh, Doctor.
I was worried.
I didn't mean to undermine your position.
Please forgive me if my behavior yesterday has had consequences.
I didn't think I'd done wrong.
You didn't. Relax.
I get how you store information
but what makes it function?
How does it keep you going?
What makes you feel?
Is this where your soul is?
Rantes, you did nothing wrong but you made yourself conspicuous.
You made the papers. We embarrassed the director.
There are torturers who love Beethoven...
who love their children...
who go to Mass.
Humans do that.
When animals kill, they are more honest.
It's no big deal.
We're not talking about torturing or killing you.
I just have to give you medicine. That's all.
Dr. Prieto told me I can no longer work here.
For a time.
Where is that afternoon he first felt a woman's love?
What traces remain of the moments of pain and pleasure this man felt?
Rantes, you may feel some changes...
but don't worry.
It's all for your own good.
And I won't abandon you.
There goes Einstein.
Bach.
Mr. Nobody.
A madman, a murderer...
What do you think, Doctor?
Does this drain lead to Heaven or Hell?
The first results were unexpected.
Rantes' delusion seemed to persist.
Only I noticed a change.
His position, where he claimed he received and sent information,
had changed.
He wouldn't admit it, but his transmissions had been affected.
The medication had damaged his antennae.
More down to Earth than before, Rantes focused on concrete problems.
What I considered his progress led to new problems.
Appalled by the Asylum food,
he spoke for the patients, demanding that the Director sample the food.
The Director refused to see him.
Rantes would not leave until he was heard.
The next day, he changed tactics.
He turned up at a newspaper office to plead his case.
They showed interest...
but Rantes refused to leave unless the Director came to taste the food.
In his new role he fared no better than he had conducting the orchestra.
Behold the imbecile... asking for help,
claiming he spoke on behalf of others with his deeds.
How could he be helped?
How to pierce the metal of a robot driven by machinery so fragile
that he needed to protect himself with such impenetrable armor?
At that point, I was beginning to doubt I would ever find out.
Doctor.
Why have you forsaken me?
Yes?
Doctor, Rantes is dying.
So am I.
I want to see you.
I don't think it would be good for any of us.
Beatriz, don't make me embarrass myself on the phone.
I need to see you.
Why did you abandon him?
I didn't.
Perhaps he was abandoned before.
- Now we're trying to cure him. - Why don't you leave him alone?
Before, at least he was happy.
He's going to get better.
I know it won't be easy but...
Don't disappear again, Beatriz.
Rantes needs me.
I need you more.
I love you.
I know there will be a price to pay.
For sleeping with me?
No. For betraying...
- Betraying whom? - Rantes.
Have you slept with Rantes?
No. Not because of that.
Then what?
I'm not what you think, Doctor.
You're incredible. We just made love and you're still calling me Doctor!
I don't think anything, Beatriz.
I haven't felt this way in a long time.
How do you feel?
I'm happy.
- No matter what? - No matter what.
I came with Rantes.
I'm one of those lost agents he spoke about...
corrupted by sunsets,
by certain aromas.
It's not a joke.
All right, I lied to you.
I'm not an evangelist.
I didn't meet Rantes in a church.
But we do work with people in the slums.
It's true Rantes wants to rescue a boy.
It is also true we cannot feel...
except for some traitors like me.
Get out.
Get out, you goddamn lunatic!
Don't abandon us, please!
But who do you think I am? The dumbest psychiatrist in Buenos Aires?
Let go of me!
- Get out! - Julio, don't leave us now!
Get out!
I too could have loved you.
Rantes, is she your sister?
In this photo, you're each 15 years younger...
10 years younger?
Who's in the missing part of the picture?
Mom?
Dad?
Who was your Dad?
An alcoholic?
Everything will work out, Rantes,
but you have to help me.
Was this taken in your back yard?
Did you live in a large house?
Rantes...
I must know who you are.
And Beatriz?
Who is Beatriz?
Your sister?
Was she your wife?
February 9, 1985 was a Saturday.
I went fishing with my children.
Rantes hit rock bottom.
With his vital signs severely compromised
the doctor on duty ordered the usual electric shock treatment
to bring the patient out of his catatonic state.
Rantes reacted badly to the anesthetic and suffered a heart attack.
When I arrived at the Asylum on Monday,
Rantes' body had already been sent to the Medical School.
I wondered if some student, some professor,
upon cutting open his body, would sense the infinite mystery it had contained.
The inmates didn't accept Rantes' death.
They said he had gone, but that he would return for them in a spaceship.
They would be there... waiting.
I sat down to wait for her.
If they were brother and sister,
God would be, for me, from then on,
an unknown alcoholic who had fathered these children...
these two sides of one coin.
Perhaps that's all we are-
The idiotic or mad children of a father
who, either way, would be difficult to forget.
Revised English subtitles by Nancy J. Membrez