Original subtitles

My dear Ida.

What are we doing in this garbage dump?

Come.

I wanted you to soak this all up.

This mechanical symphony.

Listen!

I'm listening, I'm listening.

And it starts over.

It repeats itself.

It hypnotizes.

Do you hear it?

It becomes... almost painful.

Painful, yes, that's the word.

And this music...

The march of time moving forward.

This, music?

No.

Not like that.

Ravel!

I cannot...

- I'll be late, Mom. - No, no.

Perfect. You'll make it, Maurice.

Think so?

Everyone will recognize what I've always known:

your excellence.

Your life will change.

Almost ready.

Mr. Ravel.

Eliminated in the first round:

Alavoine,

Brizeux,

Longeat,

Ravel...

You could have died.

It's just a prize, honey.

I don't care about their prize.

I heard an Oriental melody in the courtyard.

Wind whistling through shingles.

I stepped closer to listen.

How silly of me.

I forgot we were on the second floor.

I swear.

I didn't want to die.

Those idiots on the jury will come to regret this.

Maurice!

- Champagne's no good? - It's fine.

Remember when we first met?

I was clumsy and bumbling!

You were the only person to approach me and to reach out.

I've never regretted it.

I regret only that you never became part of the family.

You'd have made my sister happy.

The one thing she's not lacking is husbands.

Mrs. Natanson, Mrs. Edwards, Mrs. Sert...

Mrs. Sert?

Not for long. José Maria moved his mistress in.

Misia acts proud,

but the situation's untenable.

She's an extraordinary woman,

stuck in an ordinary life.

And yet, we want to save her from herself.

You're still hung up on her.

Pity you're wed to music.

Perhaps I should cheat on music.

You should.

Where's La Rubinstein?

You didn't see the painted bird?

She's expecting you. You're all she talks about.

Maurice Ravel, I've been looking for you.

Are you hiding behind this column?

You're so surrounded, it's impossible to reach you.

You look so...

You look so smashingly dashing.

Time goes by and you remain eternally young.

You're the eternal one.

You naughty nice little flatterer!

We're toasting our future collaboration.

Is that so?

Smashingly so. You'll write the score for my next ballet.

Look at you, a little chick fallen from the nest.

Don't worry. I'm asking very, very early,

because I know you need time.

What kind of ballet? Have you an idea, an argument?

Argument...

Who cares about arguments?

We'll see later.

I want something carnal.

Bewitching.

Erotic.

I know that exists in your music.

- Erotic? - Yes! Erotic.

The sensuality of the south.

The scent of poison flowers.

A modern Carmen!

Wasn't your mother Spanish?

Basque.

Even better.

Rarer.

Think it over.

No, don't think. Compose.

Smashing surprise seeing you here!

- What are 3 Russians? - A White, a Red and a Jew.

What are 3 Frenchmen?

A perfect marriage.

Bravo.

A triangle is the true geometry of the couple.

- My darling brother. - Misia.

And you, my darling.

You're still here.

Shall we dance?

You know I have two left feet.

I crossed all of Paris to dance with you.

Come now.

You're not so bad at all.

You're barely hitting my feet.

Your husband didn't come?

No, he stayed home with Roussy for anatomy class.

Don't make a face. I'm not jealous. You know it.

You've changed perfume?

Yes, Shalimar.

It suits you.

Hot pepper, my little Basque boy.

Hot pepper!

She's amusing.

A bit tiresome.

Amusing women are rarely soothing.

Right?

- Maestro, the musicians are waiting. - I know, I just can't.

Maurice, it's just a rehearsal.

No one cares if you wear town shoes!

I care.

It's you who forgot your patent leathers.

Mrs. Revelot is on her way.

I was sure I took them.

Am I going mad?

Not at all. Don't be childish and go to the orchestra.

Sir?

Here they are, sir.

Mrs. Revelot, thank you!

Have a seat, you're out of breath.

Marguerite, pour her some water.

Sit, sit.

Don't die on me.

Thank you.

Are these the right ones?

What?

What is it?

I don't know if you realize

the extreme precision this waltz requires.

Maintain an impeccably rigorous tempo!

The melody distracted you.

Don't anticipate the lead into the final crescendo.

Must I write music-less music to teach you rhythm?

Let's start from bar 96.

There.

This is no waltz of joy. It must end in disaster.

Actually, everything ends in disaster.

The execution was splendid, the final crescendo... overwhelming.

You let loose your volcanic side.

A volcano of ice?

What happened,

earlier?

While you were conducting?

Oh, you noticed?

A kind of absence.

Listen, Maurice,

this trip to America is not reasonable.

It's better to die on the road.

I'm not joking.

You really frightened me then.

You seemed so lost.

I think I got lost in my own music.

It happens, you know.

My waltz seemed foreign, and it wasn't unpleasant.

It's as if I were dead.

Released from myself.

Maybe one day you'll learn to like your music.

Dear Ida,

I had an idea.

What if I re-orchestrated, for your ballet,

Albeniz' Iberia .

It exemplifies the violence and nuances of your temperament.

If you're titillated, I'll attack it on my American tour.

Tell me.

I hear some people call me "the Swiss watchmaker".

But I must say, my little watches

require long gestation periods.

I only gradually come to see

the form and trajectory of the work.

I obsess for years without writing

but once the idea arrives,

the writing comes quickly.

I'd say...

the bird takes flight.

Have you ever heard jazz?

...popular, rather simplistic music.

It's far more complex.

It was gripping, beautiful.

Contrapuntal to the melody, but...

there's a sort of drunken syncopation.

Maurice, I didn't mean to interrupt.

Hello, gentlemen.

Misia...

What are we drinking?

What are you doing slumming in cafés?

You're not cloistered composing for La Rubinstein?

You saw her? Is she stalking me?

She tells everyone you're finishing her Spanish ballet.

She even told the press.

I haven't written a single note.

- Nothing? - Nothing at all.

Her exoticism doesn't inspire you?

Don't believe in muses?

No, not in muses, just in music.

I worship music and pray to it,

it doesn't always answer.

Maybe you should direct your prayers elsewhere.

Will those prayers be granted?

You won't know until you've tried.

Let's stroll along the Seine.

A walk may chase my insomnia.

So we walk till dawn?

What can I say? I hate sleep and it hates me.

Let's walk to a taxi.

A taxi will come too soon.

Must you really head home?

The other man in my life is jealous like a tiger.

If you like wild animals, start a circus.

I don't like only tigers.

I like cats too.

But you leave them alone at night.

I'm not like you.

I have no genius, no talent.

What you ask of music, I ask of love.

Do you at least get an answer?

You don't trust life enough, Maurice.

Take risks. Taking risks does you good.

25 rue Lamarck.

Ladies...

Mr. Maurice.

How lovely, it's been ages.

I was in America.

America. Fascinating!

Come and tell me everything.

Calm down, girls.

You have men waiting.

If you don't mind.

No need, I don't intend to undress.

Not at all?

- Really? - Yes, really.

I'm too young for you.

All right.

So what do you want?

- Just to watch? - No, wait.

Come sit.

I'd like you to put on these gloves

as slowly as possible.

Let them make music to your skin.

That's all?

Slowly.

What do you think?

That you're beautiful.

- You like the gloves? - A lot.

Are they satin?

Yes, satin.

Like my bodice.

You're even more charming when you blush.

I like this color.

Think I'm frivolous?

No.

Beauty is a serious matter.

As serious as childhood.

My husband.

Let's go this way.

Cipa!

My darling sister.

- How are you, old chap? - So so.

Like the atmosphere here.

Play something to rouse these zombies.

The piece you wrote for me!

Silence, please, or I'll get my whip!

Where does such beauty come from?

I don't sleep.

Nor do I, but no beauty springs from my head.

I take no credit.

The music is in my head. It decides.

Your music has good taste.

Sleeping Beauty? Shall we play?

This is no good at all.

I feel no mutual attraction.

No flesh.

I'm sure you never slept together.

What was that?

- Ravel, we're friends. - Hands off.

Nothing reassures a husband like me more than a man like you.

Meaning?

You live in the loftiness of art. An intangible world.

You know nothing. Music is concrete.

Misia darling,

you'll be going home alone.

I'm off to dinner

with a young actress who needs a patron.

That man is such a boor!

It's my fault. I married for money.

That's the only reason?

You're a woman of taste.

Taste can be poor.

Misia, stop hiding behind your wordplay.

You deceive only yourself.

You're one to talk!

Don't go there. To cheat, you must know how to love.

More pirouettes.

I'm free, alive, I do as I please.

You're in no place to sermonize.

You're free to claim you're happy. We know it's not true.

So? What do you care?

You know full well.

Better we meet some other time,

when we're in better moods.

Find us a taxi?

- I'll see you home. - Drop me off somewhere on your way.

You want nothing else? Really?

No.

You've given me a lot.

Here.

Thank you.

You'll come back?

I hope so.

My God! Ida!

- Ida? - The ballet.

- You haven't finished? - I haven't started!

I'm stuck. I procrastinate. It's a nightmare.

She sent me ten letters, twenty telegrams.

Nags me since I got back.

If she sees me feeding my birds...

She'll disembowel you for sure.

Behind the calm facades, Russian women can be terrifying.

- Which turns you on. - You know me well.

I'll be right back.

My dear Ida.

Thank you, Mrs. Revelot.

What a lovely surprise.

So you're still alive? I'm relieved.

Yes, I'm embarrassed. Forgive me, but...

you know how consuming creation is.

We're forced to become hermits.

We forget about time, friends, acquaintances.

I thought I was unforgettable.

You are!

And the ballet?

My goodness.

I'd say it's coming along well.

Smashing!

Play me a few bars, for the pleasure.

Sorry, I never let anyone hear my works in progress.

It would be like...

receiving guests in socks.

I find men in socks so beguiling.

A few notes, just a few.

I can't, not yet!

If you're dysfunctional, I understand.

Men do at times dysfunction, right? Even geniuses.

I'm not dysfunctional.

Not at all.

The orchestration is almost done.

I have the verticals,

and I'm in the middle of polishing the horizontals.

Then I'll eliminate all chromatics,

and concentrate on the minor tetrachord.

It takes some time but it's exciting, right?

Yes.

The minor tetrachord!

The sound of origins, the primitive foundation!

Smashing!

In the beginning was rhythm.

The trance, the annihilation.

And I dance!

And I dance!

Everything's ready.

The Opera has been reserved.

We open in October. Rehearsals in September.

In a month? I need at least four.

Or three, what would you say to three?

Two, not a day more.

You smell that sea air, salty and invigorating?

That of my birthplace.

I think you'll work just fine in your birthplace.

Making sandcastles?

No, just going for a swim.

Yes, of course.

I can make sandcastles if you want.

I'll take anything to distract me from work.

Start by helping me take off my medallion.

I wouldn't want the waves to steal your gift.

It's tangled in your hair.

Well, untangle it, please.

Thank you.

I'll come along with you.

It's dangerous to swim unsupervised.

What?

I like that gesture you make.

This? Why?

I don't know.

You could do it forever. I'd never grow weary.

It will have to cease.

Yes,

it will have to.

And then what happens?

Nothing.

Nothing. It will just be the end.

The end?

So it will be sad.

Not necessarily.

After it ends, it starts over.

I have bad news, Maurice.

About your ballet.

The rights to Iberia are taken .

What? By whom?

Enrique Arbos.

Arbos.

I'm sorry, I spoke to his lawyer. Nothing doing.

What's wrong?

I must go to Paris.

We just got here.

Stay if you want. I'm leaving.

Maurice!

Your patent leather shoes!

Do you know Madame Volvodeskaya?

She is smashing.

Good day.

Madame Volvodeskaya is very unsettled.

Come, Maurice.

The future bodes poorly for our ballet.

She says it's doomed. I fear I was wrong about you.

I don't know her and... astrology be damned!

As for me,

I believe in human effort, in nascent ideas.

There's one lurking inside me. I need to grab hold of it.

Is that vodka?

To ideas waiting to spring forth.

Madame Volvodeskaya says only a Russian can halt the march of time.

By the way, believe it or not,

Stravinsky is coming to dinner.

He admires you a great deal, you know?

Well, it's mutual.

I'm telling you because Madame Volvodeskaya thinks

a Russian like Igor could finish my ballet in time.

There's no harm in asking. It may be a good idea.

Really?

Are you encouraging me?

How long does this lady think your ballet should last?

I don't know... About twenty minutes.

That's long.

15 minutes?

You're haggling.

17 minutes.

17 not a second less.

Time is of the essence.

I must create the dance, rehearse over and over...

Over and over, yes, that's the key .

I won't arrange an existing work like a parasite.

I'll compose an original piece.

We're in Spain.

La plaza, the beating sun, heels, the zapatero.

A fandango?

A Sevillana!

Madame Volvodeskaya says do as you please.

I'm trapped like a rat, Marguerite!

Colette waited eleven years for my Enfant et les Sortilèges!

Yes, but there was a world war.

17 minutes in 2 weeks?

I need to pull a minute of melody a day from my brain.

No, it's inhuman!

Calm down, Maurice! You'll have an attack.

You won't compose it bedridden.

I'll never manage.

It's the end of my career.

The end of Maurice Ravel.

Maybe it's better. I'll know calm, all my passions tamed.

Endless peace, like death.

Sure.

March 17, 1916

Mother dear, don't be angry, please.

I pulled strings to get enlisted.

People usually pull them to get exempted,

but what can I say?

I couldn't stay behind

as my friends and brother fought on the front.

They didn't want me in aviation.

I was assigned to sanitation.

Today I saw a critically wounded soldier.

He looked like an angel.

Time stood still,

for him in pain,

for me in music.

What kind of music do you like?

Me?

Well...

I like yours, of course, but...

Speak freely. I won't bite you.

I guess I'd say...

I like popular tunes too.

Which ones?

I don't know...

Valencia, for example!

It's very lively, charming.

I like that little tune.

It's heartwarming.

- Really? - Yes.

Doesn't this theme have a kind of persistence?

How will you develop it?

I don't intend to. Or not in the usual way.

The melody lasts one minute. I'll repeat it 17 times.

I'll have my Spanish thingy.

You'll repeat it?

17 times?

Couldn't that get boring?

I mean...

nagging, at least.

Nagging? Yes.

Like an effect of mounting hypnosis.

Interesting, right?

Yes, interesting.

I can't promise it will be a hit.

Success isn't bad, but it wins you enemies.

- He hates it. - Why do you say that?

Lalo is a friend of my husband's. An ally at least.

This time he'll write a good review.

Pierre!

You know our dear Ravel.

Were you enchanted?

- A pretty piece. - Sublime.

Fairly well-constructed.

Admirably well. So you'll write that.

Without the grumpiness of your last article.

Debussy's influence is at times too plain.

I'm sorry, you even stole the pizzicato from his Cello Sonata.

I stole nothing. I wrote this quartet 10 years ago.

So Debussy stole it from you?

No, I'm just saying that

we share a pizzicato, but mine came first.

Mr. Ravel, an idea belongs to the person who uses it best.

You're a brilliant technician,

but unable to convey a single emotion.

That will always be the difference between Debussy's music

and yours.

Your lack of emotion may come in handy

when you read my review.

Good evening,Misia.

Maurice, you're crazy!

- Do you have a copy? - No.

My God, this is unbearable.

What's unbearable?

I can't get rid of this Bolero.

It's in my head.

It exhausts me, haunts me, possesses me.

It won't let you go.

Sing it to me.

You once said you couldn't say no to me.

If I said something so silly...

And it repeats,

it starts over, repeats, continues,

then goes off the rails, explodes...

and it ends.

Like life.

- It's a metaphysical work? - Yes.

No... I don't know.

It's a brazen tune.

Right? Captivating.

Give it a chance.

- What's gotten into you? - Nothing.

I'm out of breath. I should quit smoking.

Your heart is tired?

My heart? No.

That would surprise me.

I rarely if ever use it.

Are you sure you feel better?

I'm not surprised you fainted in this horrid place.

I was looking for the perfect spot

to give you this.

So I was right to believe in you.

How tiresome to always be right!

Why did you bring me to this hell hole?

To plunge you in the spirit of this ballet!

I conceived it as an ode to modernity!

A metaphor of the mechanical world.

Actually, the set could be a factory.

A factory at the Opera?

Yes.

What a smashingly diabolical idea!

I see the stage. I see the modern, the never-seen.

You and I, Ravel,

are ineluctable, irresistible, we are the revolution!

Are we in a whorehouse?

So?

What?

What do I think?

I think, dear Ida, that...

you don't give a fuck what I think! You proved it!

What's lacking?

Oh yes, your factory.

The factory was a detail, a Bolshevik coquetry.

It wasn't worth it.

To be discussed when workers go to the Opéra.

You should thank me for sparing you that vulgarity!

You? You dare bring up vulgarity?

You turned my ballet into a bacchanalia!

Into the whore of Babylon!

It's not your ballet, it's mine.

I commissioned it.

I saved you from yourself

when you came up dry. Right, Marguerite?

And you, sir, you should learn to read a score.

The tempo must remain the same from beginning to end!

The same!

I must ask you to leave, Mr. Ravel.

Don't bother asking!

Hard to believe you composed this!

The Bolero is a carnal piece of music!

Flesh!

Ever heard of flesh? No!

You're blind to it all!

And deaf to yourself!

I'll tell the director I oppose the production!

- Think it over. - I did.

You were right, it's nonsense.

A stylistic exercise, not music. Good for the garbage!

You're going too far!

Here you go.

Don't bother, keep your money.

Are you sure you don't want some company?

After all, why not?

I'll see to it.

No, wait.

Teach me to dance instead.

There's no music.

There's always music.

Listen.

Hear it?

You smell good.

We can't spend our lives dancing.

Why not?

You're awfully quiet today.

So are you.

Men are supposed to entertain women.

According to what law?

The law of universal attraction.

You dislike it?

Do you prefer men?

What an idea!

So it's me you don't like?

You know I like you.

Such soft skin.

Let it breathe once in a while.

You really are unique.

Is that a compliment?

Maybe it is after all.

It sounds pretentious, but all men try to seduce me.

Except you.

Do you like that I don't try?

Kiss me.

I could kiss you, Misia. I'd be lying if I denied wanting to.

But it's something...

any man can do.

I prefer to write music for you.

That doesn't mean you can't kiss me.

Maybe it does mean that.

You're one strange bird, Ravel.

- Impossible to pigeonhole. - At times I wish it were possible.

Dear Mother,

It's raining cats and dogs.

How long since your last letter?

I asked for a leave

and hope to hug you after the holidays.

Morale is high,

even though I feel music inside me

that I cannot let out.

Maurice, is that you?

I was waiting for you.

I didn't want to leave without seeing you again.

I'm here, Mum.

I'll be staying with you now.

Yes.

Mum?

Everyone's waiting, Maurice.

I don't have my shoes. I can't find them.

I'll get them.

Why did no one tell me she was ill?

You all lied to me.

She swore us to silence.

That's what's so terrible.

What would you have done besides worry?

I could have...

I could have... I could have deserted!

Think.

So...

who discovered the Indies?

- Magellan. - Yes.

What is the capital of Venezuela?

- Colombo? - No, come now, Maurice.

- Caracas. - Yes!

When was the Battle of Austerlitz?

Around 1810?

Actually, I don't know.

Here's an easy one:

Mozart composed Shall I Tell You...?

Shall I tell you... Who?

Mum?

PRIX DE ROME Music scholarship

Maurice Ravel, unlucky candidate...

My dear Maurice, congratulations. Yes, congratulations.

Not getting the Prix de Rome 5 times

when you're today's most reputed composer...

What a feat! Really.

To Maurice!

What can I say?

I've always preferred losers. They're the ones with panache.

Winners, with their smug grins

and false modesty make my hair stand on end.

So... to failure!

To failure!

Do you intend to give it a sixth shot?

Come back, Maurice.

I can't.

My music maddens me, not the ballet.

Do it for me.

Congratulations, Mr. Ravel.

Bravo, it was magnificent.

A masterpiece, Mr. Ravel.

Mr. Ravel, it was divine.

- Got a cig? - Paris has adopted your masterwork!

The Bolero, my masterwork?

Pity it lacks music.

Congratulations, Mr. Ravel.

Not him.

You're close to winning me over.

It's a truly interesting piece of music.

At first I thought:

you really didn't rack your brains with this rhythm!

But I admit that, since only fools don't change their minds,

your systematic affectations which once irritated me

give this piece a dimension...

How do I put it?

...an erotic dimension

I didn't think you capable of.

Thank you.

Who'd have guessed?

I read your last piece.

I find you've made very little progress.

All right, good evening.

Mr. Ravel.

Maestro, your music electrified me.

Would you sign this program?

Scribbling out of alcohol or emotion?

Marvelous, marvelous.

Bravo, maestro, a thousand bravos!

Well... bravo.

And forgive me.

I fear our placid natures caused some unnecessary sparks.

I regret having spoken to you too kindly.

As for the Bolero, I admit there is surely

something smashingly sexual

I hadn't noticed on my own.

If there's one thing I hate,

it's gillyflowers. Put them there.

So?

In the end, you didn't dislike the little whore of Babylon?

Don't be modest. We can call that whore many names,

but certainly not "little".

You naughty flatterer.

Smile, please.

One more!

You really want to skip the party?

Ida will be disappointed.

Your admirers await you.

Not me. They await Maurice Ravel.

Who are you if not Maurice Ravel?

Not much, I fear.

Is success making you sad?

Perhaps.

Maybe dreams should stay dreams.

Your husband's at home?

Yes.

His lady friend doesn't like classical.

You haven't had much luck with husbands.

Things might be different had you married me.

Think so?

Who knows?

We'd have been Paris' most perfectly matched couple!

Madame Revelot,

I broke another cup.

I'm afraid I've assassinated

Mother's Haviland porcelain service.

Marguerite...

Yes, Marguerite. Since you never come to Paris,

we have to come to you.

There are pieces all over.

I'm so clumsy.

Your mind's in your music, as always.

Probably.

Actually, Wittgenstein commissioned a piano concerto.

Paul Wittgenstein? The pianist?

I thought he lost an arm in the war.

You're right, he did.

That explains it!

He commissioned a concerto for the left hand.

You don't say!

I don't know what it is. Doctors neither.

I don't think I have much time.

Don't talk nonsense.

Not to live, but to compose.

It's getting harder to transcribe music.

I hear it very clearly,

but before I jot it down...

it escapes me.

Don't be sad, Marguerite...

I believe firmly that joy is more productive than pain.

What's more, the end is not imminent.

I have a piano concerto in the works.

For the left hand, you told me.

Another one.

For 2 hands, 10 fingers. In G-major, mind you, like Mozart's 17th.

The mounting first theme sounds oddly like the opposite of the Bolero.

That's exactly what I wanted. An anti- Bolero!

That ditty will swallow up my other work.

All they want to discuss is the Bolero.

As if I hadn't done anything else!

This is what I'd like:

you'll perform the concerto,

we'll record it and go on a world tour.

What do you think, Marguerite?

What are you talking about?

Ida?

Yes, Maurice?

Have you been here long?

Ever since we finished Mrs. Revelot's delicious guinea fowl.

Are you unwell?

Nothing works anymore.

The machine is broken.

If you confuse me with that ageless schoolmarm,

it really is time for you

to discover the healing power of rest.

How about we take a trip?

Somewhere more conducive to relaxation than your office.

I have little time. It's all escaping.

Gestures, words, notes.

I falter...

I cannot leave.

There you go.

Pretty as a star.

Cipa!

Yes, of course!

Pleasure to see you!

It's been ages. It seems like it's been ages.

Yes, indeed.

Let me give you a hug.

You haven't changed.

You still have your good, handsome face.

This good face that reassured me.

Come, please...

We were supposed to go to a restaurant, remember?

Yes, of course.

What an excellent idea.

Let's go.

Thank you, Mrs. Revelot.

That tune follows you everywhere.

Like syphilis?

Maurice, come now.

I'm teasing.

I'm just annoyed it succeeded better than me.

It couldn't have without you, though.

Sometimes I wonder.

What did I do? Nothing.

I wasted my time.

Ravel,

can we have 9 minutes of this, 13 of that?

Ravel, write us something...

Moldavian or Spanish or...

in an antique style.

For the left hand, the right foot, and I...

I never wrote what I wanted to.

Don't say that. You're unfair with yourself.

Anyway, there's no question about it.

The neurologist says I can't transcribe,

that I can no longer compose.

How is that possible?

It's a mystery, old chap.

A very rare disease.

I guess I should feel flattered.

There must be a cure. For sure.

Ida suggests I get operated.

I don't want a surgeon poking around my brain.

Who knows what he'll find?

At the same time,

what have you got to lose?

Not much in fact.

Except my life.

- Here she is. - Ida?

It's me, Misia.

By the way, you left your gloves in the taxi.

The other night.

So I have them.

I thought I did.

What taxi?

You know.

Maybe you don't.

When was it?

In what life?

I can't remember.

What if we went to the park?

You know, the one... with the lake.

You almost kissed me here.

Remember?

Why did you come, Misia?

To be with you.

I've missed you.

So you love me a little?

A lot more than that.

In that case, nothing is impossible.

What are you doing, Maurice?

I'm waiting.

What is it?

Who wrote it?

You did.

Did I really write that?

Yes.

It wasn't bad.

Is your valise ready?

No... Are we in that much of a rush?

Yes, a little bit.

You don't need all this in hospital.

So...

Wait!

You're kind, Mrs. Revelot.

I don't really need them anymore.

Bring them to me later.

Every 15 minutes, someone on earth is playing Ravel's Bolero.

Subtitles: Andrew Litvack

Subtitling TITRAFILM