4 Days in France (2016) - full transcript

FOUR DAYS IN FRANCE

...understand them

and instil from the inside

a new way

of approaching thought.

How could we talk about

this deconstruction...

On the 14th, I was happy

I suck...

I suck cock and take it up the ass

just outside Sens

Me too

Jean-Pierre speaking.

Hello, I found your number

in a washroom on the A5.

Which rest area?

The Montard one, I think.

Take the next exit.

Then follow the main road to Sens.

In Villeneuve-l'Archevêque

turn left

onto the D84 to Les Sièges

and Les Cerisiers.

Carry straight on out of the town

until a junction

and turn left onto the D141,

to Coulours. Got that?

Yes.

As you leave Coulours,

turn right at the crossroads

onto the D54 to Vaudeurs,

then the second on the right.

Take that road, Rue Du Bel Air,

then Rue des Quatre Vents.

I live at number 9,

a white house

with a tall lime tree.

The door is always open.

I'll be waiting.

Second on the right...

Road closed

Navigation.

Country of destination: France.

Town: Vaudeurs.

There. Street...

Turn left.

I turn left.

Turn right.

I turn right.

Let's see...

At the end of the street,

turn right...

Hello?

It's you, Solange.

A bad time?

I'm leaving. Can I call you

back?

Any time.

Sorry. I'll call tomorrow.

Goodbye, Paul.

Così at 8 at the Opéra Comique.

Forgotten?

In 45 minutes outside?

Hello.

My car's broken down

and I have a work appointment.

- Can you help?

- If you like.

Where are you going?

I don't know.

I'm going to Montargis.

It isn't far.

Ok, get in.

Thank you.

I'll just get my things.

Wait a second...

Sorry.

I don't like being touched.

No, I should apologize.

I'm not a very good hitchhiker.

Can you read the road signs?

All right...

Warning.

Danger or something.

Wild animals.

Say the first thing that comes

to mind.

I don't mind silence.

Don't think about it.

Kylie Minogue.

Again.

Blank page.

Projection.

Politeness.

The single.

I still have it.

Well, I had it.

Grass.

Lungs.

Say.

Say nothing.

Camille Maurane.

Fauré.

France.

Fire.

Odd ring-tone...

What does it mean?

Your turn.

Quick.

Bitch.

Spring is a bitch.

Steak. Disease.

River. Matter. Stump.

The ring-tone.

Again?

It's getting excited.

We're approaching a town.

End of the 70 kmph speed limit.

I don't see the connection.

It's like a satnav

that signals all connected

and available men,

indicating their exact position.

There are obviously

more messages in urban areas.

Pick up the phone.

Take a look.

- I press here?

- Go on.

Let me see...

"Jean 243.

Nice pecs.

482 metres away."

He writes: "Hi", then "U", then

"N2", with a question mark.

Ok...

Should I answer?

If you want.

Write, in full:

"Unavailable, sorry."

He didn't ask that.

Ok...

So write...

"Quick hook-up.

Versatile.

Anal. Safe."

Versatile?

I can be active or passive,

depending on Jean,

the mood,

the moment...

So you have no set desires?

Sometimes.

Rarely.

I desire what the other desires

of me.

I play the role he wants me to.

In that case,

if he has no set desires,

what do you do?

We can switch roles.

Or, in some cases,

there's animal recognition,

like for dogs

who instinctively know

who'll be what.

You mentioned Camille Maurane...

Yes.

He's France's greatest baritone.

The greatest for mélodie anyhow.

- Do you like music?

- Yes.

Do you sing mélodies too?

No.

In retirement homes, it's more

old French songs or standards,

or even Michèle Torr today.

I started in church,

with choral singing,

then lieder and mélodies,

then...

I lacked discipline and talent,

so I work in retirement homes.

I used to love it.

I love old people and country

roads.

Now, I see only the ugliness.

Smocks, chairs, door handles...

Those huge handles,

like curved tubes...

Maybe they're easier to

decontaminate.

And the colours...

those yellowish hues...

Hideous.

They had no effect

on a 25-year-old face and mind.

But now...

Anyhow...

Anyhow,

as the Queen of England said...

Thank you.

Do you want to see the show?

I could do Clair de lune for

you.

No, thank you.

I'll wait here.

I'll be an hour or so.

Good evening.

Good evening.

Sorry, my car broke down.

A stranger and his guitar

On a street shrouded in fog

Sang, yes sang, a song

Repeated by his two companions

Marjolaine, you're so pretty

Marjolaine, spring blooms with

you

Marjolaine, I used to be a

soldier

But today I return to your side

She had told him: I'll wait for

you

He had said: I shall come back

Still a child when he left

He is a man on his return

Marjolaine, you're so pretty

Marjolaine, I didn't lie to you

Marjolaine, I was a soldier

But today I come back to you

He went away for ten years

But ten years changed everything

Nothing is the same and on the

streets

He recognized nothing but the

sky

Marjolaine, you are so pretty

Marjolaine, spring quickly flees

Marjolaine, I know all too well

That a lost love never returns

A stranger and his guitar

Vanished into the fog

And his two companions as well

Carrying off their song with

them

And his two companions as well

Carrying off their song with

them

And his two companions as well

Carrying off their song with

them

They've found me a room.

Sorry, I made you wait for

nothing.

That's all right.

Where will you sleep?

Someone offered me a bed earlier

on Grindr.

Don't worry.

France is huge,

full of men, full of possibilities.

Thank you.

You're welcome.

I don't know your name.

I'm Pierre Thomas.

I'm Diane.

Diane Querqueville.

"Department of the Loiret.

Cepoy Lake.

Tree-lined tracks and grassy

paths.

Descend and head into the bushes

towards the shore.

Frequent evenings and nights only.

Walkers and families by day.

Meeting point: La Roche aux

Fées,

a small dolmen."

"A10 motorway.

Bellevue rest area.

Rest area just after Orléans

on the way to Blois and Tours.

Hook-ups

in the washrooms

or beneath the lime trees at

the back,

behind the truck parking area.

Possible hook-ups

with resting truck-drivers."

"Les Carmes Cinema, Orléans.

"Had a wild time with unknown

guy,

mutual jack-off,

choose screening with smaller

audience,

French movie for instance."

"Château of Sully-sur-Loire.

Château car park,

occasionally cars are there,

headlights on.

What are they looking for?"

Excuse me, is this seat free?

No.

I think it was unoccupied

during the first half.

It's mine. I have a ticket for

it.

See?

I buy one seat for me

and one for the silence

as I can't abide promiscuity.

I don't need to justify myself.

I'm in the back row of the

upper circle.

I can't see a thing.

You're monopolizing a dress circle seat.

It's not very fair.

As fair as paying 20 euros for

a foldaway and wanting a 150-euro seat.

And you don't mind bothering

those who finance the production.

Take both. Real value for money.

You disgust me.

Sir...

I don't want your seats.

I offer them willingly.

I can't listen to another note.

You're from Paris?

Yes.

You're not afraid to swallow cum?

No, I trusted you.

You trusted me?

How old are you?

Twenty.

Pick me up on your way back?

From what?

Your trip.

I'd like to see Paris.

Paris would love to see you too,

I'm sure.

But I'm not going back.

I'm sorry.

You'll have to arrive

at the station alone,

like every young gay guy

from around France.

It's just as good, you'll see.

Knowing nothing,

letting chance guide you,

you'll instinctively

find the right place

and your face will do the rest.

And 15 years later,

I'll leave Paris by car.

At first, you'll return

to Bourges for Christmas,

a little sickened

by the reunions and the proximity,

but happy to bury yourself

in your province again.

Then...

Then, I don't know.

Everything is possible,

especially for you.

Beauty authorizes everything.

And maybe one day, true,

you'll set off.

If nothing and no one holds me

back.

On the contrary.

Will you be going

through the Alps?

I've no idea.

I know a woman

who lives in the mountains.

Could you take her something,

if you go near her place?

All right.

Good night.

Good night.

I'd like a car for today.

For this morning,

I can offer you a Golf.

Bigger...

I have a minivan.

No, not a minivan.

A station wagon then, a Volvo

V60.

- That's all?

- In that category, yes.

All right, I'll take it.

How many days?

I don't know. Two or three.

Can I extend it?

Any extension depends

on the vehicle's availability.

You have to call us.

Where will you leave the car?

I don't know that either.

I need to know the return

agency.

Put Clermont-Ferrand.

Can I change that too?

Drive safely

Here's the letter

with her name and address.

Marie Pilâtre de Rozier,

Valpréveyre, 05460 Abriès.

And here's the parcel.

I'd like a photo of her.

It's ages since I saw her.

All right.

I asked for less theatre,

not less poetry!

Another of your dumb phrases...

No!

Paul! Why are you here?

You're alone. Where's Pierre?

He left yesterday without a

word.

Left, left?

Yes, left, left.

Any idea where he is?

I can't tell you anything.

It's sad for you.

But maybe happy for him.

- It's his business, not mine.

- I'm worried.

Of course!

Outside your little ghetto,

anything can happen.

- What'll you do?

- Find Pierre.

He uses a phone app.

We can locate him.

As he could be anywhere,

I need to go to the centre of France.

It's a small town,

Bruère-Allichamps.

Bruère-Arlichon...

That's ridiculous.

I never give advice but...

But?

Listen, work it out!

Work it out.

You get on my nerves!

Judith, please.

Don't run after people.

It's degrading for them,

humiliating for you.

Besides, it's not very virile.

- Seen Médée?

- Not Corneille's best.

I agree.

Frankly, Paul...

Liberty.

Dignity.

Virility.

The Education of Rabbits

I gave you private French lessons

for four years.

Miss?

Yes.

Miss... That's me.

What brings you to Issoudun?

I'm here by chance.

And you?

Remember how I loved Rimbaud?

"At four on a summer morning,

The sleep of love still lingers

In the groves, dawn dispels

The festive night's scents

But down in the huge workshop

Near the Hesperidean sun,

In shirtsleeves

The carpenters are already

astir."

Wonderful.

I came to research Paterne Berrichon

who married Rimbaud's sister.

I met a man,

I stayed,

he died a few years later

and I stayed.

Everything here is simply

average.

But one easily becomes engrossed

in the ancient matter.

In Paris, I felt like someone,

but wasn't.

Here I am someone,

but I feel I'm no one.

Anonymous life is phenomenal,

you know.

Take a book. I owe you one.

You virtually funded my thesis.

The blue envelope from my

mother...

And the money I counted

in the lift with such pleasure.

I thought you'd become

a professor.

I imagined you at the Sorbonne.

My mother and uncles

were minor civil servants

and they'd say,

"Our pay arrives every month."

That disgusted me

and I rejected civil service.

Who is Pierre-Joseph

Luneau de Boisjermain?

A local man of letters

during the Enlightenment.

Author of a revolutionary method

for teaching geography.

He also wrote a book on

rabbit education

and the art of domestic warrens.

If you're interested,

I can offer you

a copy of the original edition

of his spelling manual.

It dates from 1783.

Thank you, but I want nothing.

Besides, I no longer

have a bookcase.

Will you accept a Minute Maid?

Yes?

Here...

The only thing I miss here...

is the spectacle of men.

We hardly ever see them.

They're handsome here,

marked by the old

rural world of Berry.

People talk of genes,

but it's the landscapes,

the towns,

the air we breathe

that forge bodies and faces.

For example, you lived on

Avenue Mozart.

Yet I felt you had an air and

an outline

of Brie or Gâtinais.

You never realized but...

I'd observe you.

You were a very pretty boy.

In your final year,

I thought you'd go, as some do,

from prettiness

to a man's true beauty,

but...

even now I see only

your adolescent grace.

A little wrinkled.

But that change...

However hard I look at you,

no...

Still not yet.

Don't bother, Miss.

There's no blue envelope today.

I'll take it after all.

You're welcome.

- What'll it be?

- Peppermint cordial.

- Will grenadine do?

- Fine, thank you.

I need a room for the night.

Les Tilleuls, just outside town.

And closer?

I had three rooms,

but I closed them.

No more customers

because of the sheer number

of centres of France.

There are seven now,

as good as none.

In 50 years, France has lost

its centre,

Bruère, its visitors,

and me, half my income.

- But I still have my rooms.

- You don't rent them?

No, they're for Compostella

pilgrims.

The Vézelay route is 8 km away.

Could I have one tonight?

You don't look like a pilgrim

to me.

- All right, follow me.

- Thank you.

Thank you.

My bag!

There's nothing of value in it.

So why care about it?

They're personal belongings.

Briefs, a toothbrush...

A manuscript that I cherish...

- It's just a bundle of pages.

- Good, I need paper.

- Please.

- Go to hell.

You stop people sleeping!

We fear instead of living!

Like disease and accidents,

you destroy everything

without even needing to occur!

If you're afraid of thieves,

lock your car.

I fight fire with fire!

So stop following me like a dog

and leave me the bag.

Thank me.

I could get an electronic tag

for removing your rich-boy anxieties.

No!

Happy now?

You've saved your briefs!

I've just lost my morning's

takings.

Give me the bag.

Hand it over.

Come with me.

Sit down.

Cashmere...

Persol?

Keep the CDs.

They're worthless now.

You're fond of them?

I'll take two then.

Nothing... Thank you.

Tell me...

Your watch?

Let's carry on.

What's this?

"The Principles of Reading,

Spelling and Pronunciation."

Take it, it's an antique.

It's worth a lot.

"A question mark goes at the end

of an interrogative sentence."

What's this?

It's not mine.

The famous manuscript.

"The Key is on the Hook".

Not a great title.

I'll keep it.

Because it seems

it's the most precious thing.

I think that's all.

No, what's this?

A hard disk.

With the backed-up manuscript?

I didn't look in here...

A back-up of the back-up...

Give me the manuscript!

I mean it, give it back!

Is this a bad time, Aunt?

Not at all, I'm in my dressing

room.

Racine?

No, Corneille... Médée.

One last time, then I quit.

I can't abide directors anymore.

They're parasites.

I can hear you, Judith.

Fools who believe the greatest

geniuses

need their petty ideas to shine.

Pierre...

Listen to me.

I know why you're calling.

The first few days,

the freedom is delicious.

Deliciously fresh.

Each instant is a morning.

One is intoxicated to feel the air

of this vast world on one's face.

One believes oneself to be

in the most isolated lands,

in the furthest-flung provinces.

"Fancy,

I could have lived here.

I could have been that woman

behind the curtain."

Yes, I could have.

I've done a great many tours

all over France.

By train,

by bus,

most often alone in my car.

I've known empty hotel rooms,

nights of drifting and chance.

Pretty boys that you take upstairs

after giving the receptionist a smile.

All that,

thanks to the stage.

"Take the road!"

was Breton's order.

And I certainly took it.

However,

on certain days,

the sky is ashen,

the milky light crushes

everything,

and the things that seemed so

profuse,

the roads, France,

the world, life itself,

suddenly appear empty.

And then...

without any ties,

without a home,

without a safety net,

the ground slips away

and one falls.

That's exactly

why you're calling me, Pierre.

So listen...

I never give my opinion or

advice but...

say nothing, not a word.

Take a breath, a deep breath.

And take the second left,

then the third left,

then the first right.

And then...

let fate guide you.

Above all, watch carefully,

carefully,

for it's the last time.

This point in reality,

this intersection, the sun, the shadows,

the asphalt,

the grass,

the bricks, the foliage,

the facades, the windows...

You'll never see them again.

Judith, let me take you home.

Second left.

Then...

third left.

First right here...

All right...

No hanky-panky with boys!

Beautiful.

Thank you.

Sorry, I can't return the

compliment.

My boss didn't choose the Mégane

for its style.

- It must have other qualities.

- Yes.

But I'm like you.

I love Italians.

- Petrol, I presume.

- Petrol.

170 horsepower, double clutch.

Good night.

Five.

Four.

Am I disturbing you?

No, I was just resting.

Sorry to impose, I've always dreamt

of driving an Alfa Romeo.

Would you give me that pleasure?

Gladly.

Let's go.

You seem very focused.

I'm trying to feel the car.

There's a bend coming that I

like a lot.

Did you feel it?

The chassis has to hug the curve

while giving a sense of freedom.

Rigour and flexibility.

Only a car, a well-designed car

that is,

transmits the least variation in the road

to the body and mind.

Neither trains,

nor horses, nor walking

offer such contact.

Bicycles perhaps.

Then again,

the physical effort is such that

you sense the landscape less

and pay less attention

to the land.

So, you became a salesman

for the road?

No, for sales.

At first the road was the means.

But the roles soon switched.

And you?

Me? The road for the road's sake.

My realm...

The same sector for 12 years.

From Moulins,

100 km to the north,

to Mende,

just under 100 km to the south.

To the west,

the Aubusson-Aurillac-Rodez line,

to the east,

Roanne-Le Puy-en-Velay.

There,

the lights to the left,

that's the south Clermont zone.

La Pardieu,

Aubière, Cournon...

Back there, out of sight,

the Allier flows.

On the other bank,

Le Puy-Saint-André, Mirefleurs...

In the foreground,

the Grande Limagne plain

with the A75,

the Auvergne Zénith,

Gamm Vert, Intermarché...

The black mass on this side

is the Livradois foothills.

The lights of the zone.

At first, my customers

used to be in towns.

But I prefer the zone, as you call it,

where most of my sales are now.

There's more air.

I breathe more easily.

More space, more emptiness.

More corrugated iron,

more plastic,

more roundabouts...

More absence.

You're just outside the world.

Nothing can happen.

I'd really like to kiss you.

I'd rather go back.

I'll drive.

Can you get a CD from the glove box?

Any one will do.

It's a Roman marker.

It showed distances between Bourges,

Châteaumeillant and Néris-les-Bains.

Did you find what you wanted?

Anywhere you like.

Got pics?

Pierre...

That's Pier...

...hotel or anywhere.

Sending pic of me now.

Hey, you!

What are you doing there?

You're preparing the night patrol?

Doing your dance all alone?

Waiting for the others?

Get lost! I'll call the cops!

I m sick of it.

You pollute nature here!

You pollute me!

I can't take any more, ok?

You've made an insomniac of me.

With your noise at night,

the goings-on, the squealing tyres...

I can't take any more!

I'm sick of seeing your mugs

wandering in the night.

I have a dog, Jeanjean.

He picks up the filth,

the stuff you dump after...

It's everywhere,

he sniffs it all out.

Before, nature was wonderful.

I could

breathe,

breathe in the scent of the flowers.

Now it reeks of piss!

I can't take any more.

You pollute us!

You queers pollute us!

What is it?

Can't you find a soulmate?

You have a pretty face.

- You're not bad.

- Thanks.

Hurry then.

After, it will be too late.

Off you go.

I won't call the cops this time.

I haven't damaged or dirtied anything.

Everything's fine.

- That's all.

- What were you going to do?

- What was I going to do?

- Yes.

- Pee?

- Goodbye, madam.

We're going, Jeanjean.

I chased him off.

I'll chase them all off now.

And we'll go walking together.

Get the hell out of here!

Shit, I don't believe it.

That's it, he's ruined my day,

that one.

Disgusting!

Thanks for everything.

Hello.

We're closing.

But...

- Everywhere is closed.

- Exactly.

- I'd just like some ham.

- I've put it away.

- Sausage then?

- None left.

What's that pie?

Meat pie, a local speciality.

But it's too hot to cut for now.

Give me what you want then.

Black pudding?

Yes.

You can eat it raw?

It's cooked.

Otherwise, it's called blood.

I meant, I'll eat it cold.

You're from Paris?

- Yes.

- I can tell.

My wife will ring it up.

Francine!

Customer at the till!

No idea where she is.

I'll ring it up.

- Francine, can you hear me?

- Goodbye.

2,565...

47...

That's kind.

Come to see me later?

My break's from 4 to 6:45.

Maybe.

The Coffee's as foul as ever.

The Bourbonnaise de

Menuiserie...

The other way...

Hello, madam.

Do you need anything?

- What did you say?

- Do you need any help?

- Are you lost?

- No, I'm going to the grocer's.

Can I drive you there?

If you like.

- Get in.

- All right.

Do up your safety belt, please.

- What did you say?

- Your safety belt.

Yes.

I'm deaf in one ear, that's why.

You seem lonely.

No.

You're lucky.

There's so much loneliness

in the world.

No doubt.

Do you believe in God?

No.

Which village is the grocer's

in?

- Does it bother you, talking about God?

- Yes.

It burns, that's why.

Stop, leave me here.

I'll help with your trolley.

No, don't bother. Goodbye.

Excuse me...

Have you seen a man

in a white Alfa Romeo?

- What did you say?

- A white Alfa Romeo.

I don't know what that is.

Can I help you?

Can I drive you somewhere?

If you want.

I'll put my safety belt on.

What?

I said, I'll put my safety belt on.

All right.

You're a bit hard of hearing?

No, you speak softly.

I'm a bit deaf in one ear,

that's why.

Tell me, didn't you meet anybody

on the road today?

Of course I did.

I met the priest, Jeanine,

Kevin...

I meant a stranger.

In the Forest of Babel...

You seem very lonely.

Yes, I have been for three days

now.

I'm not talking about that

loneliness.

Stop, leave me here.

Fucking Auvergne!

- Here...

- Thank you, sir.

Enjoy your stay with us.

My word,

for someone from the provinces

You're doing pretty well

And there's no small merit

in making a debut like this

You have lost...

I don't believe it!

It stinks!

Your whole body stinks.

Sorry, I've been driving three

days.

I slept in the car at the pass.

I couldn't find a hotel.

A hotel. What a joke.

- Can you pay for breakfast?

- Yes.

- Petrol?

- Yes.

Then get out of here.

There's a spring opposite

to freshen up.

Thank you.

Do you often sing at the Paris

Opera?

It happens now and then, but

rarely.

Frankly, that's a bit mean of

you.

I sang there not so long ago,

quite a lot this past season...

We do Bizet, Berlioz, Gounod

and I finish with Bolena.

Here he is!

- Something to drink.

- A soda.

The house cocktail.

I washed in the stream,

but I can take a quick shower if you want.

No, forget it.

The moment has passed.

Too many words between us now.

Too many words between us.

Horrible!

It's too late.

We've already moved on to "us",

to acquaintance,

exchange,

sharing...

Those shrink and priest notions.

Soon I'll say my mother's dead,

and you'll tell me you feel guilty

for cheating on your guy,

or prefer cats to dogs.

I need silence to get hard.

Ignorance,

distance,

solitude,

and a skin free of smells,

but you know that already.

You know a lot about me.

You know where I live,

where I work...

Yes.

I even know your establishment

helps the "P'tit Col",

the social cohesion bus

for local relations.

Yes.

It goes from village to village

and stops at this bar once a month.

The "living-together" bus.

What an expression!

And dying alone?

The "dying-alone" bus?

The local council isn't keen

to subsidize that one.

I guess it doesn't need a subsidy.

It's self-powered.

Where's the toilet?

- Sick of listening to me?

- No...

- I bore myself.

- I really need to piss.

Back there.

- There's a boy in the toilets.

- My godson.

He lingers in the kitchen and toilets,

doing God knows what!

François! It's time!

Stay with us for dictation.

I've made you a sandwich.

Have a seat.

- This is...

- Pierre.

- An old acquaintance.

- Hello, sir.

So today,

geography and spelling?

That's right.

- I'm listening. The towns first?

- Yes.

Parthenay, Remiremont,

La Charité-sur-Loire,

Forges-les-Eaux,

Forges-les-Eaux...

La Mûre,

Moudeyres,

Sospel... Clisson,

Grandville... Puylaurens...

Étampes, Écuisses,

Issoire and Malaucène.

Perfect.

Remiremont?

A small town in the Vosges,

north of Belfort.

Issoire?

In the Puy-de-Dôme, south of Clermont,

in the Allier Valley.

La Mûre?

A small town in the Isère,

south of...

south of...

Lyon?

- In...

- Grenoble!

South of Grenoble.

Napoleon passed on his way from Elba.

Ok, that's not bad.

Dictation now.

I'll be going.

- Scared of doing badly?

- No.

I have to get going.

If I come back,

we'll do dictation.

I promise.

Goodbye, François.

Goodbye, sir.

"This is the rock

where I used to sit

to contemplate from afar...

This is the rock

where I used to sit

to contemplate from afar

your pleasant dwelling.

These sharp stones

were my chisels...

These sharp stones

were my chisels

to carve your name.

Here,

I crossed the icy mountain stream..."

Hello, madam.

My name's Pierre Thomas.

Matthieu from Bourges sent me.

For you.

You're here in time to help me.

Come closer.

My Princesse...

I found her dead

in the kitchen yesterday.

I'll bury her up the hill

in a meadow.

Take that spade there.

I'll take the little shovel

and I'll carry the basket.

You have the wrong shoes.

Never mind. Follow me.

- You know Matthieu well?

- No.

I met him two days ago.

As I was passing through,

I brought his letter.

You can't pass through.

Valpréveyre is a dead-end.

The whole region is a dead-end.

The road ends where you parked.

There's tarmac...

and then nothing.

France ends here.

You see,

no need for hiking boots.

I see hikers pass by all summer,

the professional trekkers,

in outfits bought at Le Vieux

Campeur.

In brown, khaki, fluorescent

pink...

All that in synthetic fabrics

that are too tight or too baggy.

They're an insult to the landscape

they claim to adore.

Even mountaineers...

And skiers.

Even the locals.

As if...

the mountains and the snow

and the dangers they represent

were an excuse for ugliness.

But on the contrary...

Clothes like that are for the

blighted suburbs of Paris, not here.

If that!

If that!

Marie,

Instead of this letter,

I would have liked to come to your door

to embrace you in the scent of morning.

I am stuck in Bourges,

Rue des Machereaux.

Nothing has happened here

in six years.

The rain, the mud, the wind

and the sun.

And then sport,

a few boys,

Father Roques' sermon every

Sunday

and the books you gave me

before leaving.

Most of the time,

the days pass by

without any link between things.

Some days, fortunately,

I feel everything

falls into place

and then I understand

what I must do.

But I don't do it

as there is always

something urgent

and, on that pretext,

we neglect what matters most.

And so life passes,

full of occupations,

forgetting the only thing

that could save us.

My respects to Miss Princesse.

And please,

accept this bouquet of bittersweets

sent by your faithful

Matthieu.

Stop.

That'll do.

Princesse isn't that big.

My father had a pond dug

And the frivolous wind blows

Three white ducks swim upon it

There is a lover in my heart

And the frivolous wind blows

The wind blows

Frivolously.

The king's son hunts them down

And the frivolous wind blows

He aimed for the black,

killed the white

There is a lover in my heart

And the frivolous wind blows

The wind blows frivolously

Oh, son of the king, you are

evil

And the frivolous wind blows

For killing my white duck

There is a lover in my heart

And the frivolous wind blows

The wind blows frivolously.

After the rain comes blood

And the frivolous wind blows

After blood, gold and silver

There is a lover in my heart

And the frivolous wind blows

The wind blows

Frivolously

Matthieu wanted a photo of you.

May I?

Just a second.

I'm not just a woman of the

woods.

There, I'm ready.

You know Poussin's great

landscapes?

There's always a meadow

or clearing in the distance.

I've found it.

We're there.

His landscapes were less craggy.

He was a Norman.

But the impression of space

is the same.

This is the Poussin meadow.

That's what I call it.

And I'd like to be buried here

too.

Will you explain that to

Matthieu?

Draw a plan for him?

Next to Princesse.

My ashes mingled with the soil.

That will be perfect.

I have to give you a box from

Matthieu.

- I'll fetch it from the car.

- No, don't bother.

There's a hiker's sign

at the spot where you parked.

Just leave it there.

I was to deliver it in person.

You never know...

I'm telling you to leave it

at the foot of the sign.

All right.

Goodbye.

Farewell.

Happy Dough

Five euros a blowjob.

That's kind,

but I can just give you five euros.

I'm not begging.

I'm not a down-and-out. Forget it.

No, all right.

Go and park over there.

- You're clean, I can swallow?

- Yes.

Going back to Paris?

Yes.

- Do you wash your hands before serving?

- Don't worry.

Shit, Mélanie, what?

What about the customers?

I needed a breather.

I'm outside.

Yes, I'm pregnant.

Understand the sickness now?

That's kind of you.

See you in a minute.

Shit, she's a drag.

Poor Mélanie.

She hangs on,

doing all she can to keep it going.

You said it.

Give up, Mélanie.

Let yourself go.

She has to drop it.

I have to go.

It's the only difference.

Near Sisteron.

You?

Agnel Pass

Found you Sorel 1502.

Agnel Pass...

Coming...

Meet me at La Colle

Saint-Geniez 0420

"I prefer dogs. Pierre."

What an idiot.

It's Matthieu. I'm in Paris

on Rue Sainte-Croix de la Bretonnerie.

You must know it.

There are men everywhere

with beards.

I'm going to Notre-Dame tonight.

Bye.

"In Aries, along the Alyscamps

When shadows are red beneath the roses

And the sky clear

Beware of the softness of things

When you sense a fruitless fight

In your overly heavy body

And may the doves fall silent

Speak in a whisper to speak of love

Alongside the tombs."

Just in case you're in Aries.

Goodbye!

Hello, this is Florence Rochapi.

Sorry to bother you,

but we were due to meet yesterday

at your Sorbonne office at 8:30,

but I found it closed.

I remain at your...

Così at 8 at the Opéra Comique.

Forgotten?

In 45 minutes outside?

Drat, the box!

- Didier?

- Yes.

- Paul.

- Follow me.

My mother.

- Hello, sorry to bother you.

- Have a seat.

- I have a bit of stew left.

- I'm ok, thank you.

This is where we are.

- When Sorel answered...

- No, Pierre.

Pierre answered from here,

at Agnel Pass.

Then he moved.

I followed him by phone, along the N94

to the Serre-Ponçon Lake.

Then he took either the motorway

or the main road to Château-Arnoux.

He went to Digne.

To eat or sleep.

Or Manosque.

The Soubeyran gate is pretty.

There's a pick-up spot?

You can talk in front of me!

Yes, there's a bar...

But I think he's probably near

Peyruis.

A rest area?

Yes.

- There is a rest area...

- How far is it?

- 45 minutes away.

- Go, if you want.

No, call the hotels. I'll go.

No, take my son. I'll do that.

- He knows the area, he'll help you.

- All right.

He's 36, Pierre Thomas,

brown hair, not very tall.

Please call every hotel.

- There aren't a lot, it won't take long.

- Thanks.

- Call me if you find him.

- Sure, sure.

Nothing.

Did your mother call?

It's screwed.

He must have gone to Aix

or Castellane.

Don't you want to wait a bit?

Been together long?

Five years?

Ten years?

Fifteen?

I promised you something

for helping me.

- You struck it lucky, pal.

- He's just a friend.

Seen a guy in an Alfa tonight?

A Parisian?

No, only regulars.

I'll leave you.

You'll tell me about it.

Do you forgive me?

Over there, the Lérins Islands

and the tip of the Cape of Antibes.

The Napoule Gulf and Cannes Bay

can't be seen,

like the Fréjus Gulf,

to the west.

Behind us, the Estérel Massif.

The rock is red, porphyry red.

I used to come to this spot in summer.

I was six the first time.

We had to get here early.

My mother said

the sea washed at night

and dawn was the only time

to enjoy that.

I was intoxicated by the scent

of the pines, the rock-roses,

by the remnants of sleep.

We would be alone for an hour,

sometimes two.

After that, people would arrive

and we would leave.

The walk back up was tough.

You know Honorat d'Arles lived in

a cave here before exile on his island?

She carves a roast chicken

One Sunday as night falls

In the big garden, the nettles

Hail the distant Mont Ventoux

The night

The wind

In the forest of expectations

In the hills of Besançon

On the streets of Annecy

The gilded light of the houses

Everywhere

Nowhere

On Vaisseaux Brûlés Highway

On Departure Dock

for the Unknown

Inn of the Dreamt Life

Belvedere of Naked Men

Here

There

The scent of the eucalyptus

trees

On Croix-des-Gardes Hill

Rendezvous at the Russian church

At dawn, I cannot wait

To the east

To the west

A Vittel at the Café de France

A kiss on Place du Hasard

The tall flag of departure

Flutters in the air of

Saint-Médard

By day

By night

A dead fox at the roadside

Marker 33 of the A10

A rapidly erased patch of blood

At the Total service station

outside Nice

One more bend before Blois

One more sleeping village

One more stupid roundabout

One more tollgate in the night

Vroom, vroom

Vroom, vroom.