In a bar in Santiago, two old men talk over their past. This is a strange discussion. In fact, they talk of themselves as if they were dead. We don't know what is true or false, what is dream or reality.
Marcel Proust (1871-1922) is on his deathbed. Looking at photographs brings memories of his childhood, his youth, his lovers, and the way the Great War put an end to a stratum of society. ... See full summary »
Once upon a time there was a man. He lived with his mother, and worked as the caretaker of a large country house in Chile. One day the man found a bone in the garden. The bone had holes in it - it was a flute. The man took the flute and began to play it. The music turned into a song, and the voice singing the song begged the man to look for the other bones of a body scattered here and there. So the man and his mother set off following every path - that of God and those of the devil -, looking for the bones so that they could put the skeleton of the Christian man back together again and give him a Christian burial. And they saw what they saw, and lived what they lived. Many a story. And although they never told their tale to anyone, others told it for them.