Vaquero del mediodía (2019) - full transcript

MY FLAME KNOWS HOW TO SWIM IN COLD WATER
AND HOW TO LOSE RESPECT FOR HARSH LAWS

MISSING POET
FAIR SKIN - 53 YEARS OLD - INFORMATION

People tried to find me too.

My people looked for me

for eight years.

They knew nothing about me
for eight years.

Do you know
how long Samuel has been missing?

-Tell me.
-The man I mentioned.

-Tell me.
-Eight years too.

Some people told me,
"Stop looking, man, you won't find him."

-No, man, of course you can find him.
-What do you think?



You know,
I managed to stay under the radar

for almost 16 years.

But now they know I'm alive.

ANNEX
…FOR DATA COLLECTION…

I came to file a missing person's report,
a friend of mine's missing.

-What's your name?
-Diego Osorno.

I've been looking for him by my own means.
I'm a journalist.

MISSING POET

I even hired a detective.

Honestly, this doesn't look like
a detective's office.

PRIVATE DETECTIVE

That's what most of my clients say.

I'd like you to help me,

I'm looking for this poet…



His name is Samuel David Noyola García.

He was born on 8th February, 1964.

PERSONAL INFORMATION

-Do you know his marital status?
-He's single.

I don't fully trust
the work of the DA's office.

I'm under the impression
that they'll only look for a dead body,

they won't look for him alive.

-I mean, he could be alive.
-Yes, of course.

Sorry, how old would he be now?

He'd be 53, right? Yeah.

Was he your friend?

-Yes.
-Okay.

I met him after a poetry reading

by José Emilio Pacheco at Casa Magna.

I used to be a poet too.

A lousy, immature poet.

When I met him, I realized
I had no talent whatsoever for poetry

because he is a truly amazing poet.

How long has he been missing?

About eight years.

Eight years. Do you have
any more data? What did you find out?

He lived on the streets sometimes.

He decided not to have a home.

It's not that he didn't have
a place to stay,

but he didn't want to stay in one place

because he thought
that went against his vision

of poetry and life.

His only guiding light
was Nobel prizewinner Octavio Paz,

but, apart from him, he refused
to be subdued by any group or person.

THANK YOU IN ADVANCE
FOR READING THESE LINES.

Okay. I think the posters are a good idea.

We'll put them on the walls, we'll look
for him here and in Mexico City.

I have the feeling
that he wanted to get lost.

He might come back on his own,
we don't know.

That's what poets are like.

Does he have any nicknames?

Some poets used to call him
"Midday Cowboy."

We're looking for this man.

We were told he used to work around here,
outside this bar.

I remember when his book came out.
It was an astonishing moment.

WRITER AND FRIEND

You felt you were
in the presence of a poet.

I went to the store
to buy credit for my phone

and I saw him sitting outside,
but he seemed lost…

-Did he?
-He was out of it.

-What is his name?
-Samuel Noyola.

His face looks familiar.
Some time ago, I used to get drunk a lot.

Our main concern is
to find out if he's alive.

"Like a bee in heat, I fluttered around

towards the loneliness
of a darker garden."

"I fell for so long,
until vertigo made a martyr of me."

"And then I got lost forever
in the heart attack that love is."

-Did you like it?
-Yeah, it's quite cool.

One more?

He has a gift.
I mean, it's a gift from God, right?

Either you have it or you don't.

That man's a good writer
because there are…

many things in there
that make you think.

Many things that you can't even describe.

Very cool. I hope you'll find him.

Someone who looks similar to him
passed by 15 days ago.

-Right.
-He's always barefoot,

but that time
he was wearing plastic bags on his feet.

This man thinks he might be Samuel.

Yeah, he might be wandering around here.

Suddenly, he started reciting

the fifth canto
of The Divine Comedy in Italian.

WRITER AND FRIEND

The whole thing.

So I told him,
"Samuel, you speak Italian!"

"No," he answered,
"I just know Dante's work."

-He's not here now.
-That bastard…

That is another one,
but he's bad-tempered.

To me,
what's most fascinating about Samuel

is neither the fact that we can't find him
nor the life he led.

To me, what's most fascinating
about Samuel is his poetry.

Where are you from?

From here. I'm from here.

Are you using the past tense
because you haven't seen him

in a long time,

or because you think, like many others,
that he's dead?

Well, the last time I saw him,
he was lying on the street…

We were told he usually roams around here.

-Maybe you saw him?
-Have a good look at it.

He was a poet.

-Well, he is a poet.
-His name's Samuel.

He was wearing rags. He was so filthy.

His nails were pitch black,
he had no teeth…

his hair was completely matted.
He was half asleep, half drunk…

I saw death in him then, to be honest.

"Death is drunk
and runs aground at 7:19 a.m."

POET

Not only will we get life drunk.

We'll get death drunk too.

I don't think he goes to bars.
Does he drink?

It's a possibility. We've been looking
for him in some bars too.

Damn…

As any other nomad,
Samuel lived at everyone's home.

POET AND FRIEND

Everywhere but with you two

because your wife wouldn't allow it.

In your case,
your sisters wouldn't allow it.

Anyone who tells you, "He lived with me,"
don't believe them.

He slept wherever night overtook him.

What I first heard about him was…

JOURNALIST AND CRITIC

…that he was very interested in poetry

and that he had an extraordinary memory.

This portrait…

No, brother.

We're talking about 1982.
How old was Samuel then?

-Was he… 19 years old?
-He was 19.

Samuel was…

well, part of our family.

There's a man here
who really looks like this dude, yeah,

he wears cargo pants.

Yeah, cargo pants. And he's thin.

He has a really small waist.

You can see this dude is hiding something,

he has a look
as if he were mocking someone.

What we could see in Samuel
from the very beginning

was that he was…

POET AND FRIEND

…very, very well read.

That dude doesn't come from the streets.

You can see this guy
has the evil inside of him.

He's doing bad deeds,
you can see it in his eyes.

You can see evil in his eyes.

I mean, he seems very focused
on doing something.

He's very focused on doing something
to mess with someone.

CASE REPORT
DISAPPEARANCE - REPORT DATE

He's a poet.

Oh, man…

I think Samuel worked on his verses…

by mapping them.

I've seen that dude.

There are so many men there, man…

When he suddenly finished
two or three verses,

he would repeat them to you
two, three, many times.

STIRRED UP BY THE FIRE OF A BEER,
I WRITE

And then he chained them together.

-No…
-He looks like someone I know.

He looks like the guy nicknamed Barrio.

He looks like Barrio.

POET AND FRIEND

He was influenced by the poets
from the Spanish Golden Age…

-Yes.
-…who were

precise in the sound and meter
of their poems.

I WRITE THIS POEM WITHOUT A GUARDIAN MUSE

TRUSTING THAT INSPIRATION
IS A THING OF THE PAST,

STIRRED UP BY THE FIRE OF A BEER,
I WRITE FOR A NAMELESS MUSE

We use many… Excuse me.

We use many nicknames around here.

Barrio, with all due respect,

looks very similar
to that person you're looking for.

…at that corner, over there.

-Around that corner.
-Wait. If you want, we can go there.

-Let's go, yeah.
-I can go with you.

Samuel was a wild artist.

Excuse me.

He was like a bundle of instincts

walking around the street.

Is he a college graduate or…?

Well, he's a poet. He… reads a lot.

Oh, yeah, that's the guy!

Because Barrio's always "poeting" me.

He never had a proper trade,

a normal way to earn his living.

What do you mean by "poeting"?

Well, he's always telling me stuff like,
"Baby, honey, you're so fine."

That man is quite a poet.
My respects to him.

He's had many girlfriends.

Of course! With the loquacity
of a poet, who wouldn't fall at his feet?

I know some women
who were very beautiful at the time

and who were Samuel's girlfriends,
at least for two or three days.

And that made him even more loathsome.

This is my trunk of memories.

Samuel must be under the letter S.

FOR A NAMELESS MUSE

STIRRED UP BY THE FIRE OF A BEER,
I WRITE FOR A NAMELESS MUSE

TRUSTING THAT INSPIRATION
IS A THING OF THE PAST,

I WRITE THIS POEM WITHOUT A GUARDIAN MUSE

…IS A THING OF THE PAST

I'd better close it.

So the rest won't get scared away.

"Faithfulness killed the cat."

"Better again than sorry."

His drawings.

Do you understand it?

Samuel is the arcanum number 0,
he's the Fool,

the nomad, the traveler.

JOURNALIST AND FRIEND

He's crazy,
but he's looking up at the sky.

He roams the world along with the wind.

He has no apparent course or goal,
but he's looking up at the sky.

THE FOOL

He's looking at a star.

I met Samuel 32 years ago.

Gosh, that photo… Don't mention my age.

Samuel was very young.

SENATOR AND MUSE

He was just 20, 21 years old.

He wouldn't talk about some things.
We didn't really know…

WRITER AND FORMER PARTNER

…what his family was like
or where he had studied.

Yeah, that was Sam.
Yes, it was around that time.

PSYCHOTHERAPIST AND FORMER PARTNER

It is him!

Look.

-It's him, but younger.
-Yeah, look. Come here.

Yeah, but filthy, look.

-He's a very important poet.
-Yeah, he's a very important poet.

He told me so. He said, "I'm a poet."
And I said, "Yeah, you are."

"But you are you drunk."
And he replied, "No, I'm not drunk."

He said, "I am a poet,"
and I replied, "Yeah, I believe you."

He chats a lot with--
He always sits and rests here.

We talk a lot.

-That's Barrio.
-He's Barrio, you shout, "Barrio!"

and he answers, "What's up, man?"

-And when he's mad…
-He tells you to fuck off.

That's his security blanket.

This is a meme they made…

-Of Barrio.
-Of Barrio.

The one we're looking for is a poet.

TRUST YOUR SECURITY BLANKET - BARRIO

He always wore the same pair of jeans,
and his sneakers always looked impeccable.

I also remember
he used to wear a long-sleeved T-shirt.

A burgundy one.

And he had a full head of hair
with perfectly defined curls.

This is one of Samuel's curls.

He was very proud of his work.

He was quite aware
that his poetry was elevated and worthy.

Almost all of us were running
from one place to another,

teaching
or writing articles for magazines,

but Samuel
was completely devoted to poetry.

We never knew what Samuel's job was.
Samuel was a poet.

Look. "Dear poet Martha,

maybe I'll come back to sleep,
with the gods' and the drunks' favor."

"Best regards
from this neurotic and compulsive man."

"Amen."

What is a neurotic
and compulsive man like?

Well, to me, he's beautiful.

I mean, poets have the right
to be whatever they please, right?

He was just himself.

I have a strong character
and I don't give in to anyone.

So I wouldn't give in to him either.

Just because you're cute,
have light eyes and write beautifully?

No, honey, of course not.

Ever since we first met,
Barrio and I are always arguing.

Sometimes I tell him,
"Hey, bring the moonshine!"

He sometimes says,
"I don't have any damn moonshine!"

In truth, I was his friend,

a friend who always opened her doors
to him and also protected him.

I was his confidante,
he would tell me many things.

Well, some things, because I know
he didn't talk about everything.

He kept some things to himself.

Those that hurt him, most likely.

It's not an easy book.

TO MARCELA GUERRA: NUMBER AND MEANING

Look, instead of his photo,
he put a drawing of himself.

-It doesn't look like Samuel, does it?
-Yeah, it does.

-Does it?
-Yeah.

One day he came to my office and asked,
"Which country would you like to visit?"

This was 32 years ago, or even earlier.

I thought about it for a bit
and then said, "Egypt."

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I want to see the Great Sphinx,"
I answered.

And he said, "You are the sphinx."

And then he wrote the poem
about the sphinx.

I mean, he didn't write it in front of me,
but here it is.

Let's see it.

Let me find it.

"I know you are the sphinx, the dream
that scares people with its doves."

"You are the smiling eye,

with your theory
about aesthetics and conversations."

"The woman who fires with her laughter
the ancient crossbow of the senses."

"I know you are the sphinx,

a sphinx muted by her own beauty."

"The question of the self
before an amazed mirror."

THE WOMAN WHO FIRES WITH HER LAUGHTER
THE ANCIENT CROSSBOW OF THE SENSES

What was it like to live
with someone like Samuel?

I was very at ease. I have to admit
that he always came home to sleep.

If he was going to come home late,
he'd call me to let me know.

We were going to get married.

-He wanted--
-We were going to have kids.

So do you think he was tamed?

I don't know if that's the right word,

but someone like him,
who led such a wild life…

It's him, isn't it?

Good evening, sir, sorry to bother you.

We're--

-We're looking for a person.
-Yeah, tell me, what…?

A lot of people told us,
"This man is Barrio,"

so we were looking for you and--

I'm Barrio, but I'm quite macho.

This is a wisp of Samuel Noyola's hair,

which he gave me on March 30th, 1985.

Why?

His name is Samuel Noyola.
Because he's missing.

Samuel "Sabiola"?
No, I'm Arturo Juárez Franco.

-No, but it's that guy.
-So much fuss over this man?

Dust of celestial magic.

This is for Forensics.

Here it is, for…

Okay.

Thank you very much.
So you said this was given to you…

-That same person.
-…by Samuel's partner.

-Former partner.
-Samuel's former partner.

Where do you think he is?

Where do I think he is?

MARCH 30TH, 1985

I don't like to talk about possibilities

and say, "Yes, we'll find him in 15 days,"

or "No, he'll never be found."
It's not accurate like that.

I think no one can give such answers,

we're talking about people
who can move around,

who can travel from one place to another,

even from one country to another.

SPECIALIZED TEAM FOR IMMEDIATE SEARCHES
MISSING PERSON: SAMUEL DAVID NOYOLA GARCÍA

I want to talk to my brother,
he's in the United--

Give me his number, we'll call him.

A real poet, to me and to many…

A real poet
is someone who feels hunger, thirst, cold.

Barrio…

Pastor…

-I'm Hernan. Hey…
-Hi, Carlos.

-What's up?
-Hey, well…

Someone who feels abandonment.

He is a real poet.

Not only does he have the spirit
of a poet,

but he also has the talent of a poet.

What's up?

What was Samuel?

A man touched by God.

Oh, God be with you.

He's my brother,
but he doesn't speak Spanish anymore.

I've been living in trains
for about 20 years…

You're a cowboy.

The poet we're looking for
goes by the name "Midday Cowboy."

Hi, friends.

I'm Daffy Duck.

You want me to keep reading, right?

"Death is drunk
and runs aground at 7:19 a.m."

We were roaming around at night,

following secret signs
left for us by… someone.

PRODUCER AND FRIEND

And Samuel said,
"This is telling us something."

He sees this. Death.

The skull.

Three, two, one.

Good evening, Samuel Noyola.
What are you presenting us today?

Tequila con calavera. What is it about?

It's about my impressions of the city.

Here there are these… masks.

It was like a tour that became a ritual.

It's about my impressions of the desert.

See?
Little weird things that suddenly appear.

This one is incredible.

It's about moods.

Yes, he'd suddenly break down in tears.

We respected the fact
that he had those moments.

"Okay, he has these strong feelings,
that's all."

"There's nothing we can…"
So we kept silent.

We let him be, feeling and suffering,
in that silence.

And then, it was over.

We'd keep walking. No big deal.

Why Tequila con calavera,
"tequila with a skull"?

It's like death and parties.

Why bringing death and parties together?

Because that's the image of the calendar.

-Do you want to add anything else?
-Mmm… no. Cheers!

That time, Samuel was really stubborn.

"Rogelio Cuéllar lives near here.
He's a photographer."

"He has to take your picture
because you're a writer."

And Samuel insisted I had to wear a tie.

I don't know why.

They came here one morning,
and Armando Alanís was wearing a tie.

And Samuel's at the back.

PHOTOGRAPHER AND NEIGHBOR

And Samuel is at the back.
He's looking at this sphere.

Around that time,
Vuelta magazine was launched.

I started working at Vuelta magazine
in 1990.

It was founded by Octavio Paz.

In 1990, Octavio Paz
became the first Mexican

to be awarded
the Nobel Prize in Literature.

I used to produce shows,

so I had a huge address book

with the phone numbers of intellectuals,
musicians and painters.

And I had Octavio Paz's number.

Samuel saw I had Octavio's number,

so he took the phone,
left and called him up.

Hi. We're not available at the moment.
Please call again later.

He came back and told me,
"He extended me an invitation."

I don't remember if he called Paz
"the master," "the boss" or whatever.

So I said, "Cool,"
and we just kept on drinking.

I didn't pay much attention to it…

Octavio Paz aroused great admiration,

and his magazine attracted young poets.

PRODUCER: SAMUEL NOYOLA

I had the chance to meet Samuel.

Samuel was like a hurricane.

He'd enter the Vuelta offices
and cause a stir.

JOURNALIST AND CRITIC

Samuel's arrival would be quite an event.

He was so irritating.
He was a professional nuisance.

But I was very pleased to see

that his first poem
to be published in Vuelta magazine

was dedicated
to Octavio Paz's beautiful blue eyes.

At the time, that was a scandal
for young poets,

who thought you're supposed
to keep a critical distance,

but he said, "No, I don't care,

he has beautiful eyes,

so I'll write a poem
about Octavio Paz's beautiful blue eyes."

But Octavio Paz had gray eyes.

Yeah…

At first, people admired his position.

Well, it depended on whom you asked.

If you asked José Jaime, he'd tell you,
"Look at where Samuel is,

he's now by Paz's side."

"He's seated at the right hand of God."

Or something like that.

But if you asked those
who considered themselves his detractors,

his rivals, they'd say, "Nah,

most surely he's fucking Paz
and his wife Marie Jo too."

Since Noyola wasn't particularly cautious.

WRITER AND FRIEND

He'd show up at Octavio Paz's house
uninvited, even when Marie Jo was there.

-Hello?
-Hi. We're not available at the moment.

-Please call again later.
-Hello? Hi?

-Who is it?
-How do you do, Marie Jo?

Octavio Paz was working at his office,

and Samuel looked at him from afar
and told her,

"Look, he's working,
we mustn't interrupt him."

He was quite reckless.

Once Samuel told me, "Everyone thinks

I had threesomes
with Marie Jo and Paz. Whatever…"

"No way! Paz and I
had a father-son kind of relationship."

He'd get very angry about that.

But there were strong rumors about it.

It's Diego, Marie Jo.

You told me to call you now

to talk about Samuel Noyola.

Yes, sure, what happened?

Marie Jo, did Octavio Paz see Samuel
as a real poet, as an important one?

Yes, sure.

He said he could see
certain poet qualities in Samuel.

Yes, he used to tell him that.

At some point,
Octavio Paz told him, "Look,

you should listen to your talent
more than to your personality."

Since he saw Samuel used to drink a lot,
he told him,

"Have your drinking under control,
and I'll be your patron."

I think what Octavio Paz saw in Samuel

was a reflection of himself in his youth.

In a way, Octavio Paz identified with him.

Do you know why?
Because Samuel was the only one

who was straightforward with him.

For instance,

we were in a class
analyzing the poem Blanco.

So I was there with all my classmates,

a bunch of pseudointellectuals.

I was the youngest one there.

Octavio Paz
was at the back of the classroom,

and everyone went,
"In my personal but informed opinion…"

And they said
that Blanco was about nothingness,

that Blanco was about love.

Suddenly, Samuel, in despair,
jumped to the front

and, in the most lowbrow tone
you can think of, he said,

"No one here
gets the damn point of Blanco!"

I mean… "No, Blanco is about semen,

it's clearly written
in the first two paragraphs."

"But semen is not just semen,
it's the seed of life."

He left everyone gaping,

and Octavio Paz was so amused and happy.

Octavio Paz adopted Samuel Noyola

because of his genius and his abandonment.

Samuel Noyola
was always an abandoned child.

I can't see which book is that one
in his hands, if it's his or not.

Oh, it's his greatest book,
Tequila con calavera.

Octavio Paz called me and said,
"We must publish this book."

And if Octavio Paz, the head
of the publishing house,

told you so,
well, you couldn't argue with that.

Everyone really liked the book,

and we defended it a lot.
It was heavily criticized by outsiders.

I think those who envied and resented him
couldn't really speak ill of it

because he had written
some really good poems.

I didn't know if his poetry was worthy.

Even now, I don't know if it is.

But it was our friendship that moved me.

He wanted me to be his witness,
he wanted me to watch his every step.

He knew I had my camera.

It was all an adventure,
to see what was next,

and it almost always ended up badly.

Can you spare a cigarette, sir?

Make it two, come on. Please.

-What did I tell you, man?
-What? Hi.

I told you to stay away, man, leave.
No one invited you, go.

What did I tell you?

-Which invitation, man?
-What did I tell you, man? Get lost.

What are you talking about?
Which invitation?

Which invitation, man?

Which invitation? What?

We never had a quiet evening.

We always ended up fighting,

being kicked out of places
or chased by someone.

…at the back. Go to the back
and do whatever you do there.

Man, what…

To you, was Samuel's life
full of light or full of darkness?

Full of light, definitely.

I think it was here…

where I shot that video of Samuel

in which I'm telling him to walk
in the middle of the street.

Okay, come here.

Follow the middle of the light beam.
To the left.

-More to the left.
-Over there?

Sorry, to your-- There!
Go straight ahead.

No, follow the light beam, see?
Can you see the light reflected on…?

There, now walk straight to the camera,
come towards me.

What does a mountain smell like?
Does it smell like oregano?

Does it smell like sweat?

There are many sensations involved.

Monterrey has the great advantage
of being surrounded by mountains.

So there's always a new peak to climb,

or a track nobody has followed
for a long time.

Have you met any poets here?

No, romantic people
are usually not into this.

The only one was Samuel.

When Samuel was young,
he used to come with me.

MIDDLE SCHOOL NUMBER 10
SEVENTH GRADE

He was between 13 and 14 years old.

That was one or two years
before he left for Nicaragua.

DAVID ALFARO SIQUEIROS SCHOOL
OVERALL AVERAGE: 8.9

"What is Samuel's family like?"

I should speak in the first person,
and that's…

hard for me.

I'm 11 years older than Samuel.

We were…

nine siblings.

My mom and my dad.

MOUNTAINEER AND BROTHER

Well…

when I was 15,

he abandoned us.

My youngest brother was one year old.

It was really tough.

It's hard for me to talk about it.

"Sonnet to celebrate two summits
reached on 6th February,

the day my blood reached
the top of the Aconcagua,

and Rubén Darío's birthday."

"To Héctor Noyola."

"You gave me murky baths of icy water

in order to shake off the hiding slumber,

through my veins,
the brightness of the daylight

was inspiring
an image full of white snow."

I LEFT

FOLLOWING A FIRESTORM OF VOWELS

YOU WENT TO THE PROUD VERTIGO OF HEIGHT

THERE ARE SNOW SWANS
AS WELL AS REAL ONES

BECAUSE THE PAGE AND THE SKY ARE DEEP

AND A RIVER WITH OTHERWORLDLY STARS

THAT VIBRATE WITH THE SILENCE AND THE TEXT

WITH OTHERWORLDLY STARS

…"and the text."

I've read this poem…

just twice.

Once I reach the third paragraph,
I can't keep reading it anymore.

Before he left for Nicaragua,
we had an argument.

Which were my mistakes?

Up to which point am I responsible
for his tragedy?

There's a photo of Samuel
in which he's shirtless.

He was always a child. In this photo,
he must have been 16, almost 17.

DESIGNER AND PROTECTOR

He wasn't a poet then.

-No, he wasn't a poet yet.
-Wasn't he?

At that time, incidentally,

the Nicaraguan revolution
was taking place.

One day, a tall guy showed up.

He was just a teenager.

Or he was just leaving
his teenage years behind.

He said he was a visual artist.

SCHOLAR AND PROTECTOR

He didn't tell me he was a poet.

Down! Don't lose your positions!

That restlessness
was also characteristic of Samuel.

He was a person who was trying
to find meaning in his life.

Enemy down!

Riot!

One fine day,
he decided to go to Nicaragua.

IF THE HOMELAND IS SMALL,
YOU DREAM OF IT BIG - RUBÉN DARÍO

Samuel didn't have a place to stay.

I told him, "Stay at my place, then."

Back then, he didn't write.

He made book covers and posters.

He made the cover

for Ernesto Cardenal's book of poetry,
based on Cardenal's hand.

Your hand.

-Is that okay?
-Put it in the middle of the page.

Press it hard!

There.

Samuel was very quiet.

We sang the revolution songs,
went to protests.

He didn't feel nostalgic,
neither for Mexico nor for his family,

which I found strange.

He made anyone who talked with him,
on the streets or the buses, his family.

"An unexpected call from Managua…"

We organized a poetry marathon.

"Ernesto, Laureano is dead."

I think Samuel never read anything.

"…Jamaica, Havana, Managua…"

But he was way up the stairs,
listening, entranced.

Carried away.

"When I lost you, we both lost."

"I, because you were
what I loved the most…"

I'm absolutely sure

it was here
where he revealed himself as a poet.

Here, he discovered poetry,
Nicaraguan poetry,

and got captivated by it.

He was like a bird

who would fly from one branch to another.

Suddenly, one day, he said,

"I'm going to León to work."

But it turns out he didn't go to León
to work at the university.

RESTRICTED AREA
KEEP OUT

Samuel went to join
the Sandinista Popular Militia…

to fight the enemy.

Then there was a shift
in Samuel's mindset,

in terms of his character.

He was part of the militia.
There, it's kill or be killed.

You end up fighting yourself.

I don't know…

I refuse to think or believe
Samuel is dead.

I think he could, he might…

He might be somewhere around the world.

He was running out of testosterone.

He was running out of revolutions to join.

I was shocked, it was a very thick book.

That's his whole published works,
three books.

Three books?

"I write with a Bic ball pen

that lets out a juicy ink
of Italian wine."

"I am in room 94,

where I have fallen in so many times

with a sleepless drunkenness on my back."

"Do you know
this room is the second-to-last,

but an esoteric calculation
made me think of the number 13,

a fortunate number
for a ridiculous epitaph?"

"I pondered about suicide

by a struck with a tequila bottle
in the hands of the woman I love."

"Managua Hotel's bones slept,

put in a cast after the tremor,

waiting for its wreck at any corner."

"I am not that Chinese philosopher
who dreamt he was a butterfly."

"I am a self-banished poet…

who is fused in the memory
with a ranchero bacchanal."

I'm really surprised by it…

because this is a poem…

with surrealist echoes.

And there is also delirium in it,

which is also surrealist.

Suicide…

This poem, Managua, baffles me.

Why reminiscing about the Managua Hotel?

That's pure nostalgia.

Pure delirious nostalgia.

I hope Samuel is alive.

I ran into him once. I told him,
"What's up, Samuel? Let's have a coffee."

He answered, "No, I have money.
Let me buy you lunch."

"How did you get that money, Samuel?"

He said, "I have to tell you that story."
I said, "What?"

And he said, "I was paid 5,000 pesos
to kill some bastard."

"How did you kill him?"

He replied, "I shot him twice in the head,
and then I ran away, just like that."

I said, "Wow, man."

What did really happen?

Well, they searched for him at mass graves
using his brother's DNA,

but they didn't find him.

I mean, he's not dead.

He might be in Hong Kong or in Shanghai.

He's a man of adventure.

Where is he?

I don't think he's dead because…

What could have happened to him?
Maybe he's having an adventure.

I think his life was an adventure.

It could be a thriller too,

but I hope…

that it is a thriller
in which he's not the victim.

There are many ways to be a poet.

And the history of poetry
has created its own myths.

A very established one
is the myth of the wandering poet

who's touched by grace,
and doesn't need to work

because he can find beauty in the world
without anyone's support.

"Martha Tamez, I think you understand

that poetry is an element
whose most intimate essence is freedom."

They're looking for a person
named Samuel David Noyola García.

Why should a poet clock in every day
and have a nine-to-five job?

He's used psychoactive drugs,
mainly alcohol.

Therefore, there's a possibility

that he ended up having a mental illness.
Maybe he was brought here.

When you've been in touch
with your sensitivity for so long,

when you've been alone
with your sensitivity

without following any external rule,

your own light can make you burst.

"Poetry moves on its own."

"And poets do too."

"Their spontaneity is fed by the sap
of the Tree of Knowledge,

but also by the sap of the Tree of Life."

"They don't look for anything specific,
and nobody feels sorry for them."

"I can tell you that everything I've done
I did it in search of my own self."

"Poetry is a secret illusion,
a song born at the center of everything,

not a product."

"Your friend, Samuel Noyola."

And in one of those texts,
he referred to himself as Midday Cowboy,

in reference to a conversation he had had
with Mario Santiago Papasquiaro.

Mario Santiago
was a good friend of Roberto Bolaño's.

WRITER AND FRIEND

He appeared in Bolaño's novel
The Savage Detectives

under the name Ulises Lima.

On a certain occasion,

Mario Santiago asked me to meet him
at the La Habana café.

Samuel Noyola came with me.

"I'll introduce you to Mario."

He thought it was a great opportunity.

It was noon,
and Mario Santiago had this superstition

that it was bad luck
to start drinking before noon.

We met at twelve o'clock precisely,

so he ordered a beer.

And Samuel Noyola was dressed
in true North Mexican fashion,

with boots and a belt with a big buckle.

Mario Santiago was captivated

by this young poet with a cowboy look.

He remembered the movie Midnight Cowboy,

and since the clock had just struck noon,

he signed that copy,
"To Samuel Noyola, the Midday Cowboy."

It's hard to say why he kept
that nickname, Midday Cowboy,

but…

Also, Roberto Bolaño gave great prestige

to the figure of the savage detective.

THE SAVAGE DETECTIVES

To Roberto Bolaño, the savage detective

is the most radical researcher of reality,

the one who pursues
different areas of experience,

a researcher of life.

Therefore, that person is a poet.

One of the worst things that happened
to Samuel was being in jail.

INQUIRY AGAINST SAMUEL NOYOLA

DETAINED UNDER CHARGES OF TRESPASSING

RELEASED ON PAROLE

There was a robbery
at an office in La Condesa.

Some papers from that office
got scattered on the street.

Samuel gathered them, thinking of helping
those people get their papers back,

and maybe he also wanted
to get some kind of reward.

He was living off the kindness
of strangers.

ENTRANCE CONTROL

That got him arrested
as a suspected accomplice.

So, what happens to very sensitive people

when they end up in a place

where they can only survive
if they forget their human essence?

OBSERVATION AND CLASSIFICATION

Then came the process
which drove him into a marginal life.

He started to drink
the worst kind of booze.

The few times I saw him,
when he was already…

sleeping on the streets every day,

those meetings were very painful.

I mean, he'd see me
and immediately start crying.

He couldn't even have
a normal conversation with me.

I order you to appear…

before me.

Look, these rooms were built

to be pigsties. We raised pigs here.

I've saved you from the justice
of the world of the living

so you can remain at my service.

When he arrived here, the bastard said,
"I've reached my lowest low."

POET AND DISCIPLE

Samuel and I put that cross there.

We chose it to protect this house.

It's a crooked cross for crooks like us,
who are a bit…

damaged, right?

I curse you!

No, wait!

There's this movie…

That was one of my most fun moments
with that bastard Samuel Noyola.

The movie
was called Dr. Satan Versus Black Magic.

Samuel was the type of guy with whom
you could enjoy things like that.

We've obeyed your orders.

Samuel and I were…

That damn movie was so crazy.

Since we had no work to do,

we had no money for booze,
and I like drinking too.

So, Samuel wasn't drinking.

Then, little by little, he regained…

his sense of humor,
his serenity, his clarity.

He was really ingenious.

He was always writing poems.

Samuel would always leave
a trail of chaos in his wake.

When someone speaks ill of him,
I reply, "Okay, but he's my friend."

He's my friend. I don't care much
about what people say about him.

He saved my life.

Zombies.

Disgusting.

Being called Samuel Noyola's disciple
is a compliment to me.

In his daily life, he wasn't going around
announcing himself as a poet.

Because something changes
when you say you're a poet.

Something changes in people's minds.

They start thinking
you're some sort of clown.

But he saved my life.

Yeah, because he gave it meaning.

He did that for me,

who, in every job I had,
found everything annoying.

Everything felt decrepit to me.

At a factory I worked when I was underage,

they asked me,
"Why are you reading those damn books?"

"You'll end up roaming the streets naked
if you keep reading so much."

They mocked me.

"What's that damn book you're reading?"

"The Unbearable Lightness of Being?"
"What's that shit?"

Yeah, they mock you
as if the book were offensive to them.

They do.

If there's a city where being a poet
is worth it, that's Monterrey.

Why? Because of all the adversity
you see around you.

If you're a full-blooded northerner,
or if you know the city well,

one of the things you miss the most
about living in downtown Monterrey

is the atmosphere on Madero Avenue.

Madero Avenue was the quintessential place
to have a day out with your family

before there were shopping malls.

Hi, guys, how are you?

If you walk down Madero Avenue,

you'll find one of the restaurants.

The Al.

"Al" is what remains.

Its name is "Al" by chance,
it used to be called "Alaska."

Part of its sign fell off,
and that's what was left, "Al."

I'd like to point out something first.

I only met Samuel one night.

POET

And it wasn't a…
romance nor anything of the sort.

The first time I went for a walk
with Samuel, we went down this street.

This is Madero Avenue.

These facades,

everything covered with things
that no longer exist,

decayed shops.

Yeah.

Even if you tried to pretend it's not,
you won't be able to…

Monterrey is a decayed city.

It was in 2006.

We were just kids.

We must have been 21 or 22 years old.

All the guys at that table
were smart-asses,

and from Mexico City, to top it off!

Samuel knew
the wonderful world of Mexico City,

with its literary circles
and all that shit.

We chatted a bit.
"Hi, where are you from?" "Monterrey."

"Oh, me too!" "What's your name?"
"Samuel Noyola."

I used to ask him about that one writer,
or that other poet, and such.

And he knew them all,
whether he liked them or not.

He'd speak fondly or ill
about any of them.

He was a bit left out
at that table at the Covadonga bar.

This photo was taken there.

That was at the beginning of the night.

Everyone was having their fun.

Maybe he didn't care
about how the rest was having fun.

But he wasn't like everybody else.

Another Saturday, another party.

Someone suggested
that we should go have more beer.

Another guy said, "Take Samuel with you."

Gaby said, "Wait, I'll go to the toilet,"
and gave them a pink bag.

Samuel took it and joked,
"So you're using me as a coat rack?"

And he hanged the bag around his neck.

I thought it was really funny,
and then I took that photo.

That's strange…

How come there are no more pictures of him
after this one?

This is from 2006.

We were very drunk already,
it was morning,

so we went to the Internacional bar.

Those poor bastards
were cleaning the place already.

But since they didn't kick us out,
we had some beers…

And I have never seen him again since.

What's up, bro? Is there any chance
I can get a beer around here?

We went to get some beers,

and Samuel pulled out a wad of bills.

He said, "No, this one's on me."

At 6:00 or 7:00 a.m.,
dawn was almost breaking,

and someone yelled, "My purse!"

"I lost my rent money!"

And I thought, "Shut up."

So I told him, "You know what?"

"There's no future for you here anymore."

"Leave town and don't come back,

find something somewhere else

because you've burned
all your bridges here."

He had misbehaved too much here,

too many people had complained about him.

When you realize that you can't get by
in a city anymore,

you'll have better chances elsewhere.

I think that guy ran out of chances here.

We had one or two more beers,

and I haven't seen him again ever since.

That was all of Samuel Noyola in my life,
I never saw him again.

His disappearance
had also to do with a context…

of literary contempt.

It wasn't about the drugs.

Samuel wasn't the only one who did drugs.

There was also a segregation.

Ranks were defined…

and well, he was left out.

I've known this street
for more than 15 years.

I used to sell chewing gum here.

Come, let's get a room.

Come.

If Madero Avenue could talk,

well, Monterrey would explode.

Ask me anything, darling.

What do you like to do most here?

I only know how to prostitute myself…

SEX WORKER

…get people to like me, and satisfy them.

See them leave happy.

They find here on Madero
what they can't get at home.

That's it. Anything else?

This guy I told you about…

He's been missing for eight years.

We don't know where he is.
We're looking for him.

You're looking for him,
but you don't know if he's dead or alive.

My family didn't know anything about me
for more than ten years.

They thought…

I was dead.

If he doesn't come back or doesn't want
to be found, he must have his reasons.

In my case,

the streets treated me better
than my family.

It is like my family, in fact.

Anything else? Sorry.

This poet, Noyola,
made the streets his home.

He also felt pain and suffered
because he had been abandoned.

All sorts of different worlds collide
on the streets.

I'll give you one of his books,
I think you might--

I can't read.

I AM NOT AFRAID OF THE DOGS
THAT GREET ME AT THE BACK OF NIGHT

LIKE CHILDREN HUNGRY FOR THE MOON

BECAUSE MY DAYS HAVE RISEN
AGAINST A CITY BEJEWELED WITH BEGGARS

WHERE CERTAIN NUDES MADE OF CANTERA STONE

REVOLT WITH THEIR VIRTUE
OF THIGHS AND BREASTS

AT THE CENTER OF THE PUBLIC SQUARE

BUT WITH THE GRIMACE
OF AN ASTONISHED MEDUSA,

ALREADY TURNED TO STONE
BY THE GLEAM IN THE MIRROR

AND LULLED BY TERROR, AS TRANSPARENT
AS THE CITIZENS' BREATH

WHEN A SPIRIT DRINK RUNS
AND SPLITS THE BLOOD

OF OTHER NYMPHS WITH DUSKED WAISTS

THERE WHERE THE HORIZON STARTS TO OPEN UP

A GHOST TRAIN WHISTLES,
ITS WHEELS SPARKING

AS IF SETTING A TIME OF PROFANE CATHEDRALS
ON FIRE

I AM NOT AFRAID OF THE DOGS
THAT GREET ME AT THE BACK OF NIGHT

SAMUEL NOYOLA, THE WANDERING POET, IS DEAD

I can read you the article if you want.

"Mexico City."

"Samuel Noyola, the quintessential
unrepentant Mexican poet,

someone who's brilliant every time
he has a pen in hand,

and a confessed mythomaniac."

"Whenever he has nothing to write about,
it's because he's outgrown reality

and feels the need to embellish it."

We will certainly miss

the courage and clarity of his thinking,

his wide knowledge,

and the strength

and beauty of his verses.

"That year, Octavio Paz died."

"He was his patron."

"He considered Samuel
the most inspired poet of his generation."

"That was a terrible blow to Samuel,

who turned his gaze
to pain and alcoholic delirium."

The Unomásuno magazine editors

meant to write an article about Samuel,

wondering if he was missing or dead.

But they forgot
to add question or quotation marks.

What the article intended to talk about

was Samuel's death as a writer.

He lived in a Volkswagen Caribe.

Samuel doesn't like to be defined
as a "cursed poet."

In fact,
he considers himself a blessed poet.

"I'm blessed because I keep walking,
because I'm breathing."

"Even if I don't have money
to take the subway, I can still walk."

"I find walking alone exhilarating,
it's my therapy."

"And let me tell you
why loneliness is not a maze."

"Even if I stumble because I'm drunk,
I'd rather go alone."

"If I fall down, I fall down on my own."

"I've learned to walk in the darkness."

"I just get blinded by a flash for a while
from time to time."

The interviewer asked him, "Does living
on the streets help you as a poet?"

"Now my muse is reality itself,
but I've been left alone."

"My life is quite strange."

"I wonder if I'm a Martian,
a Catholic Martian."

To some, in Samuel Noyola's story,

the facts got mixed with the ink,

and we can't know what is a fact
and what is ink anymore.

Whoever looks for him

only has to follow
the trail of piled-up wine boxes

through his favorite places
in the Narvarte neighborhood.

NARVARTE ORIENTE NEIGHBORHOOD

You might find him there.

BENITO JUÁREZ BOROUGH

THE SALSA PALACE

Shall we go to Samuel Noyola's bedroom
at the La Maraka ballroom?

Samuel used to sleep here.

We'd knock on his door.

He'd tell us to knock on these tubes
so he could come,

open the chain for us
and let us enter his bedroom.

We couldn't go back there
in order not to get his blankets dirty.

I admired his poetry,
I had read Tequila con calavera.

SCULPTOR AND PROTECTOR

And…

I knew I was in front of an artist,
a poet.

I immediately brought him in

from his bedroom at La Maraka

to this place where we are now.

Samuel has left some hints behind.
The mattress he slept on,

that blue blanket,
the first one I gave him to sleep with.

I asked him why he drank so much.

He answered

that he was depressed
because Octavio Paz had died.

Samuel felt alone,

but here, in his loneliness,
he found some happiness.

He'd go out at dawn for booze,

and we could hear he was outside
because he recited poetry out loud,

so the neighbors knew that Samuel
was the entertainer of that night.

Here, in front of the house.

Samuel made us sit here on the sidewalk,

side by side,

and then said,

"Now I want a beer
if you want me to start the sonnet."

Sometimes, at one of the stores,

he exchanged some poems for beer.

I had a shop here. You can imagine, he was
my customer, but he didn't pay a thing.

Every day, we'd give him sodas or beer.

He's Luis.

He also knew Samuel.

We, his friends from the streets,

encouraged him to keep writing.

What do I remember about him?
Well, that he used to read for us.

He taught us that.

He wrote poems for the guys, so they
could give them to their girlfriends.

May we read one of the last known texts
by Samuel?

-Sure.
-He even talks about the Noyolotzin in it.

"Octavio and the Suburban."

"Noyolotzin Hotel."

WRITER AND EDITOR

I was the editor
of the online version of Letras Libres.

Samuel started to offer me some texts.

"At some time,
in the winter of my thirties,

I lived in a blue Suburban SUV
from the '80s."

That SUV where Noyola used to sleep
was parked here for eight years.

He lived there for six years.

He told me he had lived in an SUV
for a long time,

that it used to be his home.

Yeah, this car was his hotel too.

-Did he fit in there?
-Sure! Yeah…

Yeah, he was quite tall.

But he'd arrange the seats
and get in there.

My daughter used to sit with him
on the sidewalk to talk.

He told her, "Let me help you write,"
but she said, "No."

TACO VENDOR AND FRIEND

She took the pen from him
and said, "You can't write."

This is my good friend Samuel's book.

He signed it, "To my dear Héctor Verón,

Ivonne," that's my wife,
"and Monse," that's my daughter.

"Narvarte, 18th February, 2005."

That was shortly after they organized his…

his book presentation.

One day, when Samuel was living in my SUV,

a guy from the Fine Arts Institute
came to see him.

He came to bring him a letter

because they were organizing a ceremony
in tribute to Samuel Noyola.

You'll see me in the movies.

On the day of the event, we took out
a hose so he could take a shower.

A neighbor gave him a pretty shirt.

Another one gave him neat trousers
so he could be well dressed.

My wife and I
had the pleasure to befriend him.

Mr. Fernando.

-Good afternoon, Paco, how are you?
-Fine.

We were invited to his book presentation.

That's why we had this signed copy,

with a little drawing of his face

he did himself.

Despite living on the streets,

he was very well educated and well read.

We had a lot of trust in him,
so we went to see him, and it was true.

We the neighbors were very proud
to have such an artist in our alley.

Here Samuel used to guard parked cars.

"Before leaving my new job,

I thought of marking the spots
at the nonexistent parking lot."

So he painted these lines?

-Yes.
-Did he paint them himself?

He came up with the idea
of painting the lines.

"I started walking around La Maraka

after sitting in the cold
and seeing that incredible party

with my deep eyes."

We're looking for a missing poet

who used to work around here.

"Manager Alejandro, in his freaky suit,
offered me a job."

Well, offering him a job? Not really.

But he was around here for a long time.

In these texts, there was a point
when he made a sort of confession.

He told how he was offered
a job as a car guard,

which was quite… limited
in terms of money.

But he wrote, "I did not care
because it was something real."

And he wrote "real" in capital letters,

as if he were trying to emphasize,
as much as he could,

the difference, let's say,
between being and nothingness,

and the dividing line between them
was working as a car guard.

"I remembered my tour around Mexico City."

"Coming back to the same place was magic."

"Working as a car guard
at a parking lot for artists

was something really sincere."

"At least, while living in hell,
it was something real."

Poetry is about dying or disappearing.

There cannot be a great poet

without a great work,

but there cannot be a great poet either

without a myth that sustains them.

In 1996, a book was published

which included a conversation I had
with Samuel Noyola.

In it, I asked him
about his life and his work.

WRITER AND FRIEND

I'll read you
the part where he answered that.

"Since I came back from Nicaragua,
I've lived in shamelessness,

without having any shame."

"I think this has happened
because I have no other option."

He was at war with himself

and could not get away from it.

"Monterrey is an industrial city,

and, even if people deny it,
it's a Protestant city as well."

"There's no choice."

"The only thing they teach you
is how to work,

but to work for the five or four families
that have plundered this city."

Isn't that the man from the gas station?

-Which one?
-The blond one.

TRUCKS ENTERING AND EXITING

He entered a bar, saw me…

Bring me a beer.

…and then said,

"You're an idiot, man."

"I'm not interested
in putting on a flower-patterned tie

to feel like a salaried yuppie

who is, in fact,
just a slave with dandy aspirations."

"But, Samuel, what is this all about?"

"Man, I already told you," he said.
"If you want, we can take this outside."

I think he couldn't find his place,

which, in my opinion,
is a sign of sensitivity too, right?

"Poets have no place
in contemporary society."

"They either are born rich
or work for the cultural bureaucracy."

"Then, they either kill themselves
or become idiots."

"I'd rather rely on women for money

than living under the protection
of a state

that's more shameless than me,

or of the most miserable rich people
on the planet."

Have you seen the man who is usually
at the gas station?

There he comes, look.

Samuel arrived. He looked magnificent.

WRITER AND FRIEND

That was the first time I saw him.

I had a plush jacket on.

A pink plush jacket.

It had a bar code adhered to it.

He told me, "Guillermo, how are you?"
and opened up his arms to me.

I'm sincere, I don't pretend to be nice.

So I told him, "Who are you?"

-Let's see…
-And he got really mad.

-Hello.
-Good afternoon.

"I'm Samuel Noyola." "Oh, the poet!"

"Pleased to meet you."
But he was mad already.

What will you ask him?

He grabbed the bar code

and stuck it on my forehead.

I had two reactions. On the one hand,
I wanted to punch him in the face.

On the other hand, it made me laugh a lot.

It was such a sarcastic gesture,
to stick the bar code on me,

as if he were telling me,
"You're a product of marketing."

Are you Mr. Samuel?

We're looking
for a man named Samuel Noyola.

Mr. Samuel Noyola.

Yeah?

And he threatened
to punch Carlos Martínez Rentería.

I'm the opposite of a bouncer.

JOURNALIST AND ENEMY

They bounce drunks out, I bounce them in.

We made an issue of Generación magazine.

Samuel told me,
"Let me help you with the sales."

He sold about 80 copies.

Rentería told him,
"Okay, let's talk about numbers."

But he replied, "No, I'm leaving."

"Look, here are the numbers."

He gave him the magazines back
and ran away with the money.

He ran away and I said, "No way."

I mean, I thought he was kidding, man.

So I went after him, but when I got out,

he was already at the corner.

What the fuck?

I thought it was
some extraordinary accounting work, right?

Noyola manages to balance

the worst and the best of a drunkard.

The worst,
because he does all kinds of shit.

He can be violent, rude,

thieving, disgusting.

What's your name?

That's the camera I stole
at Stanford University.

When they were announcing
that damn war, do you remember?

And he can also be subtle, intelligent,

lucid, loving, and brotherly.

The person we're looking for is a poet.

That man from yesterday?

-No, he--
-You are a poet, man.

But a poet of the Holy Death.

This is the voice he heard.

He's leaving now.

He lost his homeland, his family,
everything.

I've been thinking a lot about Samuel.

I've been thinking about…

what might have become of him.

I know you've looked for him everywhere.
I did too.

You know, a friend of mine told me
that the last time she saw him,

he was in La Condesa, sitting,

waiting for a bookstore to open.

She saw a sort of dark energy in him.

I asked her,
"Why do you say it was dark?",

and she replied, "He seemed ill,
like someone who is about to die."

I saw him more and more sporadically…

and he was almost always injured.

It showed he had been beaten.

TRUTH IS NOT ASHAMED OF ANYTHING
BUT OF BEING HIDDEN

Many of us protected him, fed him,

paid for his beer,

and he, in retribution,
defied us to fight.

He thanked you by spitting in your face.

That resentment he created towards him

caused that people
started making up stories about him,

that he stole a TV,

that he drank everything
in Sonya Garza Rapport's drink fridge,

that he made collect calls from the USA…

People made up stories
to make him look bad

because they resented him a lot.

And he seemed to enjoy their hatred.

I think, in the end,
he had no money even for food.

So, I…

think… well, I sometimes think
that Samuel is no longer with us.

He's not here in Nicaragua.
Least of all now.

I have a theory…

I've been working around it.

Samuel wasn't a poet here.

He became a poet here.

But then he fell into the hands…

of Octavio Paz.

I wish him the best.

I wish him what we'd call a normal life.

But I also have
to come to terms with the possibility

that something might have happened
to him and nobody knows about it.

We looked for him at community kitchens
and under the bridges,

we walked around Barrio Antiguo.

He wasn't at prisons or jails either.

Up to now,
he hasn't been in prison for any crime.

They know nothing about him.

If he were in jail,
we'd have found him already.

So far, we haven't had any news.

I AM NOT AFRAID OF THE DOGS
THAT GREET ME AT THE BACK OF NIGHT

We've made searches
in every database the state has available,

that of the Ministry of Public Security,

that of the Forensic Medicine Service,

and we've taken into account
the evidence we have already,

like the DNA results.

Up to now, regarding the tests
made on unidentified corpses,

so far, we've had no match yet.

Killing Samuel…

I think it'd have been too easy.

He gave you motives, you know?

Imagine he went to Chilpancingo,

entered a bar
and got into a fight with six guys.

They made him disappear,
as simple as that, right?

I think he was murdered

and his body was dumped somewhere,

in one of the many mass graves

that our governments
considered necessary to foster.

Where is he?

I don't know why,
but I suspect that, in every action,

Samuel is always trying to be memorable.

And he achieves it, in his own way.
I don't know if he does it consciously.

But he'll surely do something
that nobody will forget.

I really think that,
if I haven't heard of him in years,

the guy is no longer alive.

Yeah. Do you think he is?

Shuffle the deck, please.

Seven times.

I want you to think
about the person you're asking about…

FORTUNE TELLER

…so you can give out
the vibration of that person.

Cut the deck in three, please.

Of course, free spirits

are so detrimental
for a society like ours,

anti-philosophical, moronic,

coward, forgetful…

For such a society, a man like that
must have been troublesome.

It was easy to scare him.

Deep down, he was a scaredy-cat.

Because he was alone.

He was very aggressive,

like those dogs that have been beaten
or raped by other dogs,

that you look them in the eye and say,

"Poor dog, they've fucked with him a lot."

Put your hand on top of those three cards.

Say, "For him…"

-"For him…"
-"…for what we want to know…"

-"…for what we want to know…"
-"…and we want to know…"

"…and we want to know…"

-"…if this person…"
-"…if this person…"

-"…is dead…"
-"…is dead…"

-"…or where he is."
-"…or where he is."

Samuel and I were obsessed

with the idea that, as you grow old,
people start taking things from you.

And the only thing we got
from our literary lives was enemies.

He then came
with two bottles of Jack Daniel's

and started to browse my bookshelves,

and he noticed I had a lot
of books written by people we despised.

This text was written by Samuel Noyola.

"Out of our minds
due to an alcoholic frenzy,

we smacked them down."

Down the shelves, that is.

"Books of reflection, criticism,
and analysis."

"We also sentenced to the stake
kilos and kilos of newspapers,

photocopies and, behold,
some manuscripts from the author."

"'Those will be the first to burn,'
he had stated."

Let's see if this person
allows us to know where he really is.

In this terrible national tragedy,

we know that the people who disappear
are mainly victims

of this terrible circumstance
which is drug trafficking.

The political connotation
of the disappeared people,

which is the hard, vulgar,
shittiest part of all this…

I'd like to think
that didn't happen to him.

He wanted to disappear.

"Disappear" can be a very…

shitty word,

but disappearing can also be a poetic act.

Disappearing, man.

How did or does

the counterculture movement
see Samuel Noyola?

I think… Look, counterculture is not…

It's not a movement nor a political party.

Counterculture is an essence,
it's symbolic.

Counterculture is just an instant
in the movement of culture. Right?

When culture moves,
it becomes counterculture.

And I think we realize
that culture is dying

because it's more important to get rich…

It's more important
to idolize a drug dealer

than a poet.

And anyone who says
"I'm part of the counterculture" is lying.

I'm not part of the counterculture,
fuck off.

This shirt is from Zara.

Those who don't care
about literature, poetry, philosophy,

those who only want
to be immediately happy,

those are the people who are right,

those are the ones who better fulfill

what's most important
for any living being,

which is our survival instinct.

Those who defy
their own survival instinct are idiots.

Like Samuel, right?

Happy people are the ones who are right,
aren't they?

But…

But…

Noyola was counterculture.

Noyola is counterculture.

Okay? Enough with this bullshit.

Okay.

Enough.

The disappearance of Samuel Noyola

meant the end of the chance to be,

almost in the 21st century,

in front of…

a passionate reciter…

a crazy man.

That kind of writer

would be totally ineffective nowadays.

And if the last century…

was very hard
on Samuel's life and character,

even when Octavio Paz was alive,

the 21st century would be
absolutely intolerant of him.

If he suddenly came…

out of a sewer,
or jumped off a rooftop terrace,

truth be told, he'd find himself
in an even worse hell

than the one he already lived in.

I wouldn't wish him that.

He's a person with many mysteries, right?

He's a bit of a hermit.

He's alive.

I don't believe it.

I'm quite skeptical about that stuff.

The tarot cards say that…

I think you've already read his books,
right?

Did he write three books?

Did he?

I want you to notice the second book.

You should search

around the middle of the book.

Arcano cero,
which means "arcanum number zero."

There you'll find
the answer you're looking for.

Well, Arcano cero
is one of his greatest poems.

Besides, the arcanum number zero
is a tarot card.

MY BLOOD BURST INTO MY WRITING

AN ARTIST AMONG MIRRORS AT A BAR

AN ALCHEMIST OF ALGEBRA AND SOUL,

WHEN THEY PUSHED ME TO THE TEN

TO THE TEN

THE ZERO

I BARELY MANAGED TO SEE THE ZERO

THE GONG OF EMPTINESS

I JUMPED

I JUMPED

MY FLAME BURNED ON A LASCIVIOUS SUMMER

I GOT DRUNK
WITH THE WINE OF A SICK AUTUMN

WINTER CAME, DRUNK WITH MISERY

He wanted to leave.

He asked to die.

ZERO'S MERRY-GO-ROUND SPINS
AND THE SEA KEEPS SOUNDING

I NEVER FEEL ALONE
AMONG THE WAVES OF WRITING

MY FLAME WANTS TO SWIM TO THE OTHER SHORE

But I can see…

he did everything he wanted.

But seeing him again? No.

For the record,

my gratitude

is…

And…

I just want you to remember me a lot

and…

to laugh at me.