Original subtitles

-- Zakarian, Hagop. -- Yes, sir.

Zakarian, Araxi, n�e Bouloutian.

Anna and Gayan� Bouloutian.

Zakarian, Azad, son of Hagop and Araxi Zakarian.

STATELESS

I remember my 20th birthday dance and the signet ring of real gold

which still weighs down my finger with a few tons of love.

Mayrig, Anna, and Gayan�-- all my mothers,

and you, my father, my old soldier of the difficult years.

I remember the happiness we shared at being together

on Rue Paradis that promised us eternity,

even though each of your white hairs

foretold a springtime grave.

Good, it's very good.

I just want to remind you that that last scene

was witten in three tempos, like a waltz.

First tempo: surprise at the outrageous present--

a signet ring "of real gold," as they say in poor families.

Second tempo: while admiring your ring,

you realize that your mother no longer wears

her big, old-fashioned wedding ring, the one the never took off.

Your father's ring has also disappeared from his finger.

From this, you can guess the price of your signet ring.

Third tempo: this is the moment of thanks.

You're afraid of spilling out

just any of the words which are choking your throat.

So, in place of those words that escape you,

to break your bashful silence--

Give me the playback!

You grasp your mother in a romantic waltz,

sweeping... majestic.

Give me slow motion.

Be more supple...

...relaxed, happy.

You see?

Follow the three-quarter time,

the tempo of shyness that's going to transform embraces into a waltz.

Otherwise, it's a boy who just received a gift

and is going to dance with his mother to thank her,

and that street used as a ballroom becomes laughable.

You understand? But it'll be all right, it's okay.

-- Good morning, Pierre. -- Good morning, Eve.

Is it looking good?

If we had eight more days, it would be better.

That's the classic answer.

-- Ready to go? -- Whenever you want.

Jean-Paul, we're ready when you are.

Eve, just five seconds, and you're on.

Five, four, three...

And so here we are.

We have just watched a scene from The Signet Ring by Pierre Zakar,

and when the curtain falls on an improvised dance,

the hero of the piece is 20 years old.

Pierre Zakar, you called yourself then by your real name, Azad Zakarian.

In the 20 years since, your plays have been seen

on stages all over the world:

The Man from Nowhere, Rendezvous in Syracuse,

The Stateless One, The Green Fish.

What else... Elektra or The Phoenician Woman.

And your latest piece you've entitled The Signet Ring,

probably after a ring which, it is said, has never left your finger.

So can't we ask ourselve if The Signet Ring

isn't more than anything else an autobiographical work?

I hope not!

But why this wish to erase yourself?

You can't know how much the word "me" weighs down a story.

The "me"s are unbearable in a work.

So, when you use "I"...?

It's someone I've known well,

but who is no more important than the other characters.

Me, I'm the narrator who remembers and tells the story.

So, Pierre Zakar, I will pose a question

that may have already been asked hundreds of times,

but no matter, it'll be just one more time.

I would like you to explain why, at age 20,

having earned a superb degree in engineering

that assured you security for all of your days,

why, suddenly, did you decide to drop everything

to turn to that most uncertain of careers, the theater?

These things never happen "suddenly," you know.

Sometimes you have to go way back to turn up a bolt from the blue

that haunts you and finally throws you for a loop one day...

the way life works.

And your own bolt from the blue?

Greta Garbo in Queen Christina.

QUEEN CHRISTINA

I was then years old.

It's a film by Roulben Mamoulian He's an Armenian.

-- You haven't seen this film? -- I've never been to the movies.

Come on!

-- Good morning, Carole. -- Good morning, Eve.

-- How's it going? -- Very well.

So, what do you think of the play?

Very good, as usual.

I just think you talk a little too much about those hard times,

the immigrant family.

I don't know if you're aware of it,

but that's the subject of my play, my dear.

Oh, really, Pierre, I know your play.

I'd simply like for you to be careful--

I'll take off since I have a ton of things to do.

-- Pierre, thank you. Good-bye, Carole. -- Good-bye.

See you soon.

I'd just like you to be careful about...

I'm afraid that a certain audience wouldn't like that.

But it's precisely to warn those people, so they won't come.

It's more honest, isn't it?

All right, all right.

Before I forget, your mother called.

Your father arrives tomorrow morning to attend your opening.

He's coming alone?

Yes, one of the two has to stay to take care of the store.

I got him a great suite at the Royal Elyse�s.

You can very well do that for your father.

Of course I could "very well do that for my father."

He doubtless would have preferred the tiniest room in his son's house

to the chandeliers and gold leaf of a grand palace.

But Carole had decided otherwise for him.

Carole took care of everything.

Carole, everywhere at once,

freed me gracefully from the daily chores,

keeping to perfection her house, her children, and her husband.

Carole, who made all my friends envious,

found in me only one good quality, that of having married Carole.

But... had I married Carole?

In hindsight, I know now that one never marries Carole,

it's Carole who marries.

I had met Carole at the Royal in Evian.

It was the year we lost Aunt Gayan�.

Gayan�, my grand lady,

who faded slowly and as modestly as she had lived.

I had treated my mother and father to three weeks of rest at Lake Leman,

promising that I would join them as soon as I could.

Azad!

I thought you weren't coming.

You know this is the last day of the season, that the hotel's closing?

Yes, Mayrig, I know. But I couldn't come any sooner.

Tell me, how was it?

Magnificent!

The room is sumptuous, the food is excellent.

You know, the chef asks me every day,

"So, when is your son coming?"

And Papa?

He stayed three days.

When he saw the prices posted in the room, he left right away.

It's true, it costs a fortune.

I called you in Paris to tell you

that three or four days were more than enough.

But they told me you couldn't be reached

and that I should wait for you here.

Mayrig, someday it would be good for you and Papa

to admit that I'm an adult,

totally responsible for my action and very aware of what I can spend.

Do you remember the box on the counter?

It had all the family's money in it.

You would tell me, "Take what you need."

And then you would leave me alone with that moneybox,

whose exact contents nobody knew.

Yes, but even with all that was in that box,

we wouldn't have been able to pay for one day at this hotel.

But look... people are crazy!

They want to be delivered to the hotel by helicopter!

No, it's unbelievable.

But how did you get here?

Oh, a little way by train, a little way like everybody else.

Azad, I knew I had a son who's a little bit crazy.

And you've found out he's a liar, too.

I just picked this up. I suppose it's yours?

I'm sorry, thanks a lot.

The pages have no value in themselves,

but my puzzle would be seriously incomplete without them.

I don't know what the puzzle will be called,

but I hope it is as successful as Rendezvous in Syracuse.

I love that play.

The ending bowled me over.

I was in tears.

This one, how does it end?

Two possibilities.

One, it has a long, long run and brings in a lot of theatergoers.

Second version: it runs for 30 shows and then closes.

It'll run for a long time, you'll see.

Good night.

Thank you.

Azad, you've been there?

I don't know what's the matter with me.

I've never slept so much in my life.

It must be the lake climate.

You're at least 40 years behind in your sleep.

One day, I must have been ten,

Madame Delmas, our grocer, told me,

"At night, your parents always forget to turn off their lamp."

I didn't dare tell her that underneath that lighted lamp

was that night's lace work.

That was a long time ago!

The conductor is saying hello.

You know there were 12 musicians until yesterday?

Twelve musicians! But that must have been splendid, Mayrig!

Oh, Azad, stop! You're always joking!

I didn't mean it was the Berlin Philharmonic.

Stop it. It's ridiculous, Azad.

Mayrig, we're alone. The hotel is closing down for the year.

There is no one else here.

-- Good night, Azad. -- Good night, Mayrig.

And if you go out, put on that sweater.

There's a terrible wind!

Take care of your manuscript. I won't always be there to look after it.

I learned her first name upon returning to Paris

from a postcard the hotel forwarded.

She was in Stresa on the shores of Lake Maggiore.

She wrote: "One lake after another, but they don't look the same.

Here there's no blue pages on the park grass."

It was signed "Carole."

A few months later, I ran into Carole at the opening of my play,

The Stateless One.

She had just divorced.

She had come with the "I don't know anymore who" line.

We met again without the "I don't know anymore who."

And things developed in the most natural way.

She went with me that day to a famous tailor

who dressed all the Parisian arts in-crowd,

or, more precisely, it was I who followed Carole.

She had gently suggested it, as she said, "To change my look."

During my childhood, I'd developed serious preferences

for poplin, zephyr, broadcloth, oxford, or cotton crepe.

Incredible. Mr. Zakar, you speak like a true specialist in dress shirts.

May one ask where you acquired that expertise?

It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell it someday.

For your suits, are these three all right?

Madame found these a bit austere.

They're my usual colors.

Very good. Please follow me, and we'll take your measurements.

Dark gray, dark blue, iron gray.

Let's brighten those at least with a dash of color,

with these bright ties.

Oh, sorry, Pierre. I'm being ludicrous. It's ridiculous.

I don't know what got into me. I just talked to you as if I were your wife.

Three months later, we were married.

Papa, I tould you to take the sleeper car.

You know, even in bed, I cannot sleep on a train

with the other passengers seated.

We were only three in the compartment.

The main thing is to be able to extend one's legs.

Give me.

Anyway, I told your mother,

"Above all, don't give him my arrival time.

He'll show up at the station, and with all he has to do today--"

Papa, it wasn't Mayrig that gave me your arrival time.

There's only one morning train.

But anyway, Azad, I know your address.

-- I still know how to take a taxi. -- Well, that's the thing.

I think that, in regard to the address, Carole has a surprise for you.

Carole resorted to sumptuousness to make us all forget

we weren't having my father stay at our house.

First bedroom. If you would follow me.

Your second bedroom and the two bathrooms this way.

No, thank you, I think that's enough.

Very well, sir. I wish you a good stay, gentlemen.

Put it there.

Thank you, sir.

Well, then, sit down, Papa.

Tell me, Azad, did you let them know I was alone?

Evidently, Carole went a little overboard,

but when it concerns you, she's always excessive.

Do you want something to drink?

No, nothing at all, thanks.

How are the children? When can I see them?

They have a few days vacation from school.

Carole took advantage of it by sending them for some fresh air.

In Normandy, at her mother's.

Of course. It'll do them a lot of good.

It's for Carole.

It's superb, this silk shawl.

Mayrig's hands did the rest, right?

This is for our little man,

and this robe is for our little Charlotte.

And this is for you.

You're spoiling me with beautiful silk shirts.

I must be on my third dozen this year!

Your mother is afraid you might order them elsewhere.

It would make her sick.

Some baklavas.

Some bourmas.

This, you mustn't touch.

It's for Adrian and Charlotte. They like this.

And this... your favorite, dolmas.

Azad! What's the matter with you?

Why are you talking that way?

It's because I have my mouth full, Mayrig.

No one but you can make grape leaves so rich and delicious.

It was Madame Zepur who harvested them from the first sprouts.

They were all very delicate and transparent.

That's why they melt in your mouth.

But tell me, aren't you a bit nervous about tonight?

Mayrig, tonight will be like any other night,

with six billion people on earth who will be going to bed or getting up,

laughing, crying, or dying.

And, somewhere, a few hundred people are going to see another play.

It's called a "non-event."

When you say simple things in a complicated way, it's because--

It's because I'm terrified!

But nothing can go wrong because you've sent me Papa.

I'm taking him to lunch at Maxim's.

Carole will join us.

Good. Of course we'll telephone you.

Thanks for all the wonderful things you sent us.

Okay, a big kiss, Mom. Good-bye.

My father had always sensed when I secretly wanted to be alone.

After lunch, he had disappeared under the elegant pretext

that as a bachelor and Parisian, he would visit the city.

THE SIGNET RING

I knew that he would spend his afternoon on the boulevard,

contemplating his son's name written up in lights.

No, no one.

But this gentleman insists. He says he's your childhood friend.

Alexander Pages.

Alexander of my seventh year.

A simple calling card had just sent me back more than 30 years.

It was snowing in Marseille that day,

one of those snowfalls that, in the inhabitants' memories,

happened only every 40 years.

It was Aunt Gayan� who came for me.

-- Here, quickly, put this on. -- But I'm not cold.

You don't feel the cold right away.

It penetrates quietly into your bones, and before you know it, it's too late.

I said I'm not cold.

All right.

Madame!

Good day, madame.

I'm Alexander's mother. This must be your son, this big boy?

This is not my mother, madame.

"This is not my mother, madame."

I could have added, "It's my Aunt Gayan�,

but she's like my mother."

I didn't say it,

our of cowardice because of her tight cloth coat

as compared to one of silver fox.

Come on, get in, Alexander.

I fostered the belief for an instant that I, too,

had a maid and a cook to fetch me.

I walked without tilting my head to avoid Gayan�'s unbearable smile

in light of my ingratitude, which she hadn't even noticed.

Aunt Gayan�, I have to tell you something.

Can't it wait till we get home? You'll get cold if we stop.

No, it can't wait till we get home.

What I have to say is something terrible.

It must be kept a secret.

Tell me.

What did you want to tell me?

I wanted to tell you that...

...you were right. I think I am a little bit cold.

You see, I told you.

Come on, run, we're here.

She didn't say why she wanted to talk to me personally?

But how did she seem?

She didn't have time to seem.

As soon as she knew I wasn't his mother, she left.

Tell me, Azad, have you had any problems with a schoolmate?

No, I have no problems.

Maybe you said something hurtful,

and it's a mother who wants to complain.

No, I didn't say anything hurtful.

You sure?

Yes. Very sure.

Tomorrow, you just have to pick him up from school.

Then you'll see what she wants from us.

The next day, it was Mayrig who came to get me.

There we were with our formless fears,

like two passengers lost in first class with a second class ticket,

terrified of being unmasked and humiliated.

And Mrs. Silver Fox arrives.

Don't turn around yet, but there she is.

She had changed animals to cover herself with.

She needed several pelts to cover all of her.

-- Mrs. Zakarian? -- Yes, madame.

I'm Alexander's mom.

I'm getting together some of his schoolmates

for a little tea party this Thursday afternoon,

and we'd be delighted to have your son be one of them.

Thank you, madame. It's kind to have thought of him.

Thank you very much.

So, let's say 3:00, then?

I nearly fainted, with all her perfume choking me.

We live at 412 Rue Paradis.

Thank you.

There were at least two or three thank-yous too many.

But then again, that was Mayrig,

exaggerating the least kindness in order to thank again.

The preparations commenced

the Sunday before the little prince's tea.

It was decided in the family council that my offering to the queen mother

would be the king of oriental pastry -- baklava,

which, if made according to the rules of the art,

takes at least a good half Sunday to prepare.

Gayan�, the syrup!

Two or three days beside the window to glaze the sugar around each piece,

and it will be perfect for Thursday.

The glorious day had arrived.

During the week, they washed me in stages and separately...

the head, the face, the neck, the arms,

descending bit by bit to the feet.

The all-in-one cleaning job was reserved for Sundays.

But that Thursday, the Sunday bath was advanced three days

in honor of the prince's tea.

I could only fit 17. Is that enough?

Yes, that's fine.

There, a brand-new shirt!

Of course, when they serve the baklavas, you don't take any.

You say you have plenty at home and that all those are for them.

Of course! I'm not going to eat what I've just given them.

Azad, put on these long socks.

You're not going to put long socks on me?

Of course. You know how cold it is outside?

But I won't be outdoors. I'll be inside.

But before you're inside, you'll have to be outside.

It's less than two days since it snowed.

But it's stopped snowing In fact, it's wair outside.

Exactly! When it's very fair, that means it will snow again.

Put those socks on.

But what will people think?

They'll think that you have a family that wants to protect you

from winter illnesses and poultices on your chest.

Alexander's mother had told us, "We live at 412 Rue Paradis."

She had said 412 as one would have announced

the Duke and Duchess of Alexander.

That numerical arrogance was due to the geographical placement

of the house in the noble part of the street.

If they offer you a dish, the first time--

I know, Mayrig.

The first time, I say, "No, thank you, madame."

The second time, too.

Not until the third time,

if the mistress of the house insists, do I accept.

Keep this package upright because of the syrup.

If they thank you, you say, "It's nothing, madame.

It's just a secialty of our house."

Go on, then.

How do I get home?

Don't worry, I'll be waiting for you. Have a great afternoon.

After the silver fox lady's invitation,

I knew very well that I would not emerge unscathed from these revels.

I was not a friend of her son Alexander,

and he wasn't a friend of mine.

So what was the meaning of this farce?

Well, come in, young man.

If you would please give me your coat.

This is a little specialty of my country.

Ready, set, go!

It's Miss Zakarian.

Yes, miss, if you would please enter.

Travajda, the Arab woman

Travajda bono

Dip your finger in the soup bowl and tell me if it's hot

The original version said, "Dip your ass into the soup bowl,"

but at Alexander's they said "finger" and thought "ass."

And tell me if it's not

To your rubber bands!

Listen to me, Alexander,

there's something that I've been wanting to tell you for a long time.

Don't touch anything!

It's very nice, your train,

but it won't arrive on schedule.

Master's tea is served.

So, everything's all right, children? You have everything you need?

Yes, madame!

Thomas, you'll tell your mother that I haven't forgotten,

I'll send her Rose as soon as she finishes with me, okay?

How are you, sweetie?

So, Arnaud, your little brother didn't come?

He's in bed with the flu.

Well, this is the season for it, right?

I ought to pull your ears, hmm? Shouldn't have done that.

I understood the allusion:

my box of baklava had arrived well at its destination.

With everything that I must do, I'll never find the time.

There, I'll leave you, children. Have fun and behave, okay?

Yes, madame!

Oh, boy, meringues!

No, thank you.

My polite Eastern refusal was the last,

because there were no second or third chances for me.

They had undoubtedly thought that I really didn't like them.

How about that, guys? Zakar doesn't like the meringues.

He prefers rahat-loukoum.

And Ali Baba's couscous.

They were mixing the East with Africa.

The ailing locomotive had been forgotten,

and our dear Alexander had once again

found his little spoiled-boy cruelties.

I had resisted their petty meanness

by thinking with secret jubilation of my coming triumph:

the arrival of my sublime baklavas.

Well, my friends, a bit of patience.

Crush and chew your insipid meringues

and drink your fruit juice whose taste has been obliterated in water.

My hour of glory approaches.

-- Joseph, have you served everything? -- Yes, sir.

Then we're done!

I'd like my coat, please.

Wait for me in the hallway.

At first, I had naively concluded that the "Alexanders"

had been purely and simply robbed by their servants,

who were gorging themselves in secret.

As I descended the stairs,

it seemed unthinkable that the butler and chambermaid

would permit themselves to swallow more than half a box of pastry

without the permission of the mistress of the house.

More so since I recalled very clearly having seen the butler

go up to Alexander's mother's room with my package.

Much later, I imagined what followed as though I had been there.

Madame, the little Armenian boy brought a package.

A package of what?

I don't know.

It is a square package. It seems to me it's a metallic box.

Well, then, open it, Joseph.

So? What is it, Joseph?

It's a sort of cake, madame.

The sides are all black, it's soaked in sugar...

...and it smells of cinnamon.

Good Lord, how awful! God knows how all that was made.

Well, if you're brave enough, share it with Martha.

One never knows, maybe it's edible.

Well, tell me about it!

You know, they liked the baklavas so much that not one was left.

As Aunt Anna says, they were so good, they ate their fingers along with them.

-- Let him in. -- Yes, Mr. Zakar.

Oh, Pierre!

You know, you haven't changed a bit?

Well, we've grown up.

Let's say you in height and me in width.

Tell me, you remember me anyway, don't you?

Of course.

I have, of course, followed your entire career,

but why would I suppose that Pierre Zakar was my friend Zakarian

from Saint Hillaire Grammar School?

It's my son, you know?

He reads all your plays, he's read all about you,

he can quote you by heart.

It's he who told me, "But, I swear, Papa, you went to school together."

Have a seat.

You do remember me, right?

Yes, absolutely sure, yes.

It's that... I know him.

What's his name... Jacques...

His name is on the tip of my tongue.

I go to see all his films, all his plays.

He's very good.

Now, what's his name? I saw him the other day in...

He was with... Oh, help me, I...

His name is Jean Anouilh,

and he hasn't acted in his films or plays nor in anyone else's.

In any case, he really resembles him, right?

-- Who? -- Well, the other guy!

I shouldn't take too much of your time, right?

As you may have noted on my card, I inherited my father's shop.

He left us suddenly, quite suddenly, poor man.

That night, the whole family was at his birthday dinner.

We had just started on some seafood that I can't even describe.

The sea urchins were this big, stuffed with red caviar.

The mussels were so big and plump, you'd think they were scallops.

And what's more, all of Rue Paradis could smell our salted codfish.

In short, my poor father was happy, full of plans.

The next day, boom! He's gone.

So what can one do but face it, right?

Anyway, what can you do? That's life.

In one night, you find yourself, just like that, in charge of 50 workers.

End of the month,

you have to work on accounts payable, the company's expenses.

That's just the beginning.

You know the drill, surely.

Well, all in all, I don't complain too much.

I still have my mother.

Do you remember my mother?

Yes, very well.

I won't tell you how much she worries me.

She can't handle old age.

She, who was so happy, so full of life,

now she sits in an armchair, talking about her wrinkles for hours.

Twice already, she's had...

But...

Each time, it fell again, worse than ever.

Things aren't looking good. She gets worse each day.

That's it.

Otherwise, well, I have my routine... married.

You know to whom?

To Regis' sister. Regis, remember him?

Yes, Regis. Regis Chocolates for Diabetics!

Anyway, the routine... married, two children.

A girl and a boy. Here, look at him.

It's not because he's my boy, but he is really brilliant.

He just barely failed his college entrance exams.

For the third time. Here

-- The mail, Mr. Zakar. -- Yes, give it to me.

Continue.

Well, listen, it's...

Generally, it can be said that our town has changed a lot, you know.

Concrete has killed all that was picturesque.

It's no longer the same.

Last week, we lost Monsieur Noblet.

You remember him, surely.

He was our school principal.

Well.

All his students went to the funeral.

Lots of successes in our class:

Mercier, Martin, Delfour.

He's Delfour Bathrooms, the old family business.

Bonifay became president of the PTA.

You know, last year it was me,

but I told them, "Not always the same ones!"

By the way, it's hot in here, isn't it?

Pierre... between us childhood friends, I won't beat around the bush.

As I say, straight to the point.

It's about my son. Imagine what he's gotten into his head!

I'll give it to you fast.

Slow is okay. He wants to be an actor.

I told him, "Let me handle it." It seems he wrote you.

Nope.

Rest assured, the best thing your boy can do now

is wait bravely for Papa to bail him out.

But how did you know he wanted to be an actor?

They usually do.

Mrs. Sedro? You can come fetch the mail, thanks.

Personally, I would prefer that he come into my business.

And someday you'll leave him everything like your father did for you.

Well, yes, exactly.

Only it doesn't seem right to go against a vocation.

His mother, his sister, everyone were... all with acting bugs!

Confidentially, I'm somewhat persuaded

that there's money to be made in that business.

You've heard what they paid Belmondo or Depardieu or Brando.

Precisely. I even thought they were mistaken by a couple of zeros,

the salaries were so enormous!

So I ended up telling him, "You want to get into that business, son?

"Well, then, do it!

Hey, do it, but listen, you'll need someone to give you a leg up."

Oh, pardon me!

-- Sorry. -- No, it was me.

Thank you, Mrs. Sedro.

-- Excuse me. -- Yes, of course.

Yes, so I told him, in this business,

you need someone to give you a little boost, right?

And without thinking at all of you, I said,

"Someone like Pierre Zakar, for example."

And what do you find out?

Pierre Zakar, he's Zakarian from school, your classmate.

Exactly. Actually, better than that... a childhood friend.

So I took the bull by the horns, caught the first plane to Paris,

and here I am.

I almost forgot to tell you, by the way,

that I am very tied in with the financial groups in my area.

Whether they're the soap makers of Marseille or the sugar refiners,

they all listen to me.

You understand what I mean?

So if one day, to produce a play, you have a need for capital...

Well, I don't have to say more.

You know what I mean.

Can I open the window a little, just for a moment?

-- Of course. -- Excuse me.

There was something pathetic about this Alexander of my childhood.

Sweaty, gesticulating, mortgaging the past for the present gain,

going so far as to throw in some corruption

in aid of his slightly disgusting son.

Childhood has its odors.

Mine suddenly fetched me a whiff

of cinnamon and of crushed nuts with an aftertaste of baklavas.

Tell me, Alexander...

Why did you invite me that Thursday to your tea party?

What tea party? When?

Think back. We were in the sixth grade.

Oh, then... I don't remember anything from back then.

It was such a long time ago,

and then I had so many parties at the house.

Of course. That's the ticket.

So, what do I tell my big guy?

Tell him that it's time for him to pass his entrance exams.

Even if just barely.

At any rate, I can't do a thing for him.

I'm leaving for the United States in a few days.

And when do you return?

Not for five years.

Five years?

Well... five years.

No way, huh?

No, there's no way.

It was the absolute truth.

I just exaggerated the time I'd be gone.

This trip excused me from dealing with this man from another time

who'd come to buy a slot for his son with a little baksheesh.

Come to think of it, he would've liked to add that to his list of oriental words:

baksheesh, couscous, loukoum, Travajda la moukere.

Well, then.

Thanks for seeing me despite...

Congratulations for everything.

But, tell me, what happened at that party?

Oh, nothing important.

That day, you broke your brand-new locomotive.

Well, those were the good times, right?

Well, happy to see you again, and have a good trip.

When I shook his limp, humid hand,

his face was that of the seven-year-old

looking at his broken train.

He was sad about his locomotive.

All the in-crowd jackals are there, behind the curtain,

ready for the carnage.

The regular public would have to attend

before the true verdict could be known.

In tonight's crowd are those who've come because it's the place to be.

There are the prototypical celebrities who bustle about too much,

conspicuously kissing each other and calling back and forth loudly.

There are those who hope it will be a flop,

those who've gone out of town

and given their seats to their maid or manicurist.

Hairdressers have invitations of their own.

Ah, Georgette Sylva, stuffed into her premiere gown.

Don't know if she is writing anymore or for whom she's written,

but nobody better forget about her.

A living replica of a Jean Cocteau character,

she carries with her a veritable cabinet full of makeup

for restoring her facade prior to curtain time.

Carole, in the loge with her guests.

My father, in the first ten orchestra rows.

Mr. and Mrs. Chambord-Martin, who always arrive in threes.

The critic Louis Maury, who speaks to no one

to underscore his independent judgment.

Albert Saint-Maxen who, with a farmer's stubbornness,

introduces his son ten times in the same evening.

The son is a clod.

Stupidly serious, stupidly jolly,

he's convinced that reaching the age of 20 is a sign of intelligence.

And there is the precious F.F., Fran�ois Fortville.

Once a week on the television, at an hour when everyone's sleeping,

he pours out a stream of uninterrupted pithy platitudes,

each word attached to a string of ringing, qualifying,

superlative, and comparative adjectives--

blithering sounds no one listens to,

but that wind up giving the impression

that he has something to say.

Ah, there.

Georgette Sylva has completed her reconstruction.

There really wasn't enough time to scrape off the old application,

but the new layer will hold for three acts.

The curtain can go up.

Let's go. Break a leg, break a leg.

From all these good wishes for my success,

there springs the smell of latrines.

"Break a leg" for tonight.

"I dip my pen in Cambronne to tell you...," etc.

"I have stepped on that four-letter word to bring you luck. Fondly..."

What is it?

Oh, no, miss, this is not a good time.

Excuse me...

...just a moment of optimism.

I forgot that I'm one of those for whom it is never a good time,

whatever time it is.

Was it very important?

I just realized that it isn't.

I only wanted to be the first to tell you that your play was very good.

You see, it was pure vanity.

No, it isn't vanity It's more like colossal nerve.

You're talking about a play opening right now,

and you're not even in the theater.

I saw your play 14 times in little bits and 8 times in its entirety.

That's impossible. Rehearsals were closed to the public and press.

Then you're right. It really is colossal nerve.

Paul, a beer, please.

-- Draft? -- If you like.

I'm sorry for earlier.

Oh, no, don't apologize. It's me, I...

It was silly of me to congratulate you for a play that hadn't opened yet.

Don't you go to your openings?

Never.

Yes, I'd like some.

-- You're an actress? -- Oh, no!

Then you've written a play, and you want my opinion?

I'm absolutely incapable of writing any kind of play.

You're a journalist.

Very, very little.

What does that mean, to be "very, very little" a journalist?

My name is Astrig Setian, and I write for an Armenian newspaper

that is published once a month and has 6,500 subscribers.

But statistics don't tell you how many actually open the paper.

What's the name of the newspaper?

Horizons. Plural.

Horizons.

A moving name.

In one short and simple word, there's a promise,

an ambitious undertaking which seems to say, "Read me."

Here, take it.

My father founded the paper.

He says that the horizon is a symbol of inaccessible knowledge.

He added the "s" because Armenian is lyrical.

Do you read Armenian?

Do you write it?

With some spelling errors.

The Armenian alphabet is beautiful.

38 unique letters

which transmit 1,600 years of the memory of a people.

And there's nothing stronger than that memory

because it draws whoever strays a little back to their roots.

Was that your case?

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be indiscreet.

Not at all. I didn't answer because I was just thinking

of a personal experience.

You see, at the beginning of The Signet Ring,

there's the classic situation -- an author's search for a subject for his play.

He cooly examines his past to see if, by any chance,

there's not some little memory lingering here or there he can use.

He reverses the hourglass

and, little by little, this past gone cold,

a little faded,

this past flows back with a half-century of a humble family's life,

with their enduring smiles,

their family gatherings.

And then through this absolute love, all of a sudden,

the cathedral bells of the world's first Christian people

begin to peal in his head to remind him that he is Armenian.

And in the space of one play,

Pierre Zakar once again becomes Azad Zakarian.

It's something like that, the memory of a people.

On parting, Miss Setian spared me the clich� "Later, maybe,"

which obliges you to write down a telephone number you'll never call.

With discretion and simplicity,

she had shared my first-night anxieties

along with her ham sandwich.

Rats! I forgot to pay the bill.

I ate and drank at Miss Setian's expense,

and I didn't have time to correct my boorishness.

I have just one word for you: fan-tas-tic!

Gonzague had said only one word,

but he had divided it into three syllables with such jubilation

that I immediately understood-- they didn't like my play.

Okay, we'll meet at Fouquet's.

I've reserved a private room. See you in a minute!

-- I forgot my father. -- You forgot him where?

I told him to meet me somewhere, but now I don't remember where.

Here, take the keys. I'll join you.

Are you thinking of taking him to Fouquet's?

-- What's the problem? -- Nothing.

I simply thought the poor man would be bored.

Anyway, do what you want.

Valentin?

You haven't seen my father by any chance?

But I don't know your father, Mr. Zakar.

Impossible.

Come with me.

-- Papa, are you here? -- Yes, I'm here.

Valentin, could you turn on the lights, please?

Well, Papa. They're about to close the theater doors.

What are you doing here?

You told me, "At the end of the play, don't move from your seat.

Let everyone leave. I'll come get you."

I thought I'd said something like that, but...

Forgive me.

It's my fault, a night like this.

I could have gone by myself, but like an imbecile,

I didn't get the name of my hotel.

Sit down for a minute.

Nothing to say?

I've always known how to share your silences.

Besides "fantastic," in one word or three,

you can tell me anything you please tonight.

I'll point out to you that you're the one who's pushing.

I am.

At first I had the impression that people were pointing at me, saying,

"He's the author's father."

So I slumped down more and more into my seat.

Of course, no one was looking at me.

And then, little by little...

...I forgot I was in the theater...

...and I went back to our happy times

with your mother...

...our Anna, and Gayan�.

And then, all at once, I was stricken by panic...

asking myself what could be interesting about this life

of unimportant people...

who have learned to forget

that somewhere, they may have had a certain importance.

I had an impression that we were all there...

unbearable...

with our hearts full of love, overflowing,

trying to do our best...

with our sorrows... and our little joys.

Like that waltz with your mother the night of your signet ring.

The curtain fell there, the lights came on.

And I found myself once again in the theater.

Here. This is for you.

What is it?

A little present.

The experts assured me that it's middle 18th century

and had belonged to the famous troubadour Sayat Nova.

But you're crazy. It must have cost a fortune.

Tell me, Papa, I didn't dream this.

You once played well, didn't you?

Oh, very well... I played.

Each day before you went to sleep,

instead of a story about ogres or Cinderella,

you wanted me to play a sad tune, always the same one.

From time to time I tried to change it,

but you'd immediately wag me a big "no" with your finger.

And then one night I had to quit

because it disturbed the next-door neighbor.

Do you remember that tune?

Sure.

It was a lament.

Play it, Papa.

No. It's been a long time, I wouldn't know how.

Come on, it's just us.

Superb!

Tell me, Papa. You still like seafood?

Sure, I love seafood. But I don't understand.

There's nothing to understand. I have a huge urge for seafood.

I'll take you to a little bistro, just the two of us.

We'll gorge ourselves with all kinds of oysters, clams,

big ones, little ones, fat ones-- a real seafood feast.

Not tonight, Azad. I'd love to another time.

But you're not going to leave me alone on a night like this?

Really, Azad, you're not alone.

What about Carole and all your friends who must be waiting for you right now?

I need to stretch my legs a little, it'll do me good.

And also I have to phone your mother.

By now she must be jumping out of her skin.

Okay, come on, we'll call Mayrig together.

Azad, I'm sure you're up to no good.

Papa, listen to me, please.

It may be that I could've done better tonight.

Valentin, thanks! You can turn off the lights!

How could they do this?

I work like a dog screening your press coverage.

I sift out what to publish, I throw out the junk,

I negotiate exclusives.

And, look, your father and mother screw it all up

by sneaking into an article in Match!

A lousy article in that lousy magazine.

Hiding, of course, their beautiful apartement

you bought and furnished for them.

My poor Pierre, I never understood

why you always hid those payments from me,

the ones the bank sends to your parents each month.

I knew all about it from the start, and I think it's fine.

What I find intolerable on their part

is coming across in these photos

as if we had abandoned them to poverty.

You know how much I love and respect your parents,

but I'm telling you this for your own good.

You cannot allow your family to intrude on your professional life.

And that's it, I can't do it for you.

Hello, I'd like to talk to Mr. Zakarian, please, suite 2930.

My father listened to me without saying a single word.

Under the pitiless eye of Carole,

my words greatly overstepped my thinking.

I had forgotten that wise old saying he often repeated to me:

"Speak as if there were no tomorrow

to take back what you said the day before."

Good morning, Serge. Is my father upstairs?

No, sir, he's left.

Did he say when he'll be back?

He checked out, sir. But he left a letter for you.

He probably caught the 1:45 train.

"My dear Azad,

"When you read these lines,

"I'll have left this stressful city that crushes and destroys little people.

I am one of those little people."

-- Sir? -- Mr. Zakarian's bill, please.

"Two times two beds to sleep on, 14 easy chairs for me to sit in,

"so many bathrooms to wash my old carcass--

"it's way too much.

So I am returning to our house where we all lived together..."

Mr. Zakarian paid his bill, sir.

How is that possible?

My wife had left instructions with management.

I'll look for my colleague who took the payment.

"Do you remember our house, Azad?

"Our door and our table always open to a passing friend?

"One day, some people came and told us

"they were friends of our son.

"So we opened the doors a bit wider than usual

"and naively thought the photos were for souvenirs,

"photos to laugh over, for your eyes only.

"After your phone call, I bought that magazine.

"I sadly leafed through it,

"thinking that you may have confused your father

"with a fool grimacing for his press photo.

"You talked of grotesque pride that you may have seen in my face.

"That was because, at that moment, they were talking to me about you."

Good day, Mr. Zakar.

Your father insisted on paying, assuring us it was fine with you.

He asked for the exact amount and left.

A half hour, an hour later, he returned with the amount in cash.

All right. Thank you.

"During your tantrum on the phone,

"you probably didn't dare remind me of your monthly check.

"So, know this, my son, that all these sums from the first franc

"are safe inside the cardboard box you know so well on the buffet shelf.

"That money is yours. We've never touched it.

"It has served, in our eyes,

"the illusion that we could stop working whenever we wished,

"thanks to our son.

"In order not to hurt your mother,

"I told her you'd received me like a prince.

"That's the absolute truth, reckoning by the square meters

"of the beautiful suite Carole reserved for me.

"That's it, son. I have to go.

Your old father, Hagop."

Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come, they will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses,

as we forgive those who trespass against us.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

For yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen.

My father took with him the secret of my abominable phone call,

and I will bear for the rest of my life

the gnawing remorse of my stupid, unjust words.

I had written him:

"My dear papa of the happy days,

"According to our old customs,

"let me kiss your hand and raise it to my forehead

"to show my respect.

"You see? I haven't forgotten the old days.

"I just dozed off for an instant.

See you very soon, my dear old papa."

I had forgotten that "dear old papas" are as fragile as mimosa.

That morning, in the mail that Mayrig hadn't opened for several days,

I recognized my handwriting on an envelope.

My father had left us

before having read my letter.

Pierre, stop blaming yourself.

Your father had already had two attacks that they kept from you.

My father came looking for a little warmth.

We put him up in a luxurious, glacial palace.

He left with a chill in his heart.

So, you see, there's really nothing to feel guilty about.

My poor Pierre, your grief torments you.

I would suggest we have your mother come to Paris for a few days,

but she would be bored.

Here she had her friends, her routines.

And, well, in our house, it's unthinkable.

But I do think so.

Carole, for years I've put up with your dad's giggly mistress

and their imbecile friends.

I've laughed at that digestive tube

stuck to a spinal cord they call your brother.

We've welcomed your idiot sisters and their strings of husbands.

I think it's about time for me to pay some attention to my mother.

And, believe me, she'll take up less space.

Air-Inter 703, destination Paris,

boarding immediately, gate number 4.

Good morning, Nazareth.

I remember each one of you.

Except you, madame.

Stands to reason.

In your day, we didn't live in Marseille yet.

Well, there you have it.

And even if you don't remember me, Mr. Zakar, it's understandable.

-- It's been such a long time. -- I remember very well.

Didn't your father have a grocery store in Saint-Barnab�?

That's right. Absolutely.

There you are.

And you.

You're Levon, the jeweler who stealthily measured my finger one day.

Do you recognize your work?

I do.

That ring, Mr. Azad, it's tons of love.

I know, Levon. I know.

You remember my wife?

Don't tell me her name.

-- Aganouche? -- Vartanouche.

I wasn't too far off.

No, don't get up, don't get up.

I'm Azani, the druggist from in front,

who is no longer a druggist by reason of retirement.

Rose, my wife.

Yes, of course.

Mr. and Mrs. Azani, whose telephone helped us out so much.

Back then, being good neighbors,

people delighted in being there for each other.

Greetings, Engineer!

You must sew some shirts, Mr. Zakarian!

We'll sew them, Mr. Azani!

We'll sew them!

You didn't leave with Carole and the children?

I needed to stay a little while with you.

But I have plenty of company.

You know you have work to do in Paris.

Mayrig, I didn't say you needed me.

It's me who needs you.

You remember Dr. Philibert?

I no longer know whether it was for pneumonia or typhoid.

It was pleurisy. And of the worst kind.

Nowadays we can cure it quickly,

but back then, one could die of it, Mr. Zakar.

I remember you sounding my chest, tapping with your finger.

Dull thud on the healthy side, hollow on the sick.

And you weren't easy to sound.

With my head pressed against your chest,

each time I asked you to "Cough, breathe, say '33',"

the entire family leaned toward you,

coughed, breathed, and said "33" at the same time.

So, listening to five chests at once to find out what was wrong with you!

-- I thank you for saving my life. -- It's not me you have to thank.

We had little to work with back then.

They did it.

It wasn't your pleurisy anymore, it became their pleurisy.

The five of them attacked it, and they won.

Mr. and Mrs. Nys.

Our first and only boss.

I'd rather say we are friends of the family

from the first day you came into our shop.

-- Good morning, sir. -- Good morning, madame.

It's about the sign in the window.

You're a shirt maker?

We're three sisters.

If you lend us a sample, we promise to make a shirt exactly like it.

-- Come in, then, madame. -- Thank you.

And me. Do you recognize me?

Understandable. I've changed so much.

I didn't recognize you because, back then,

you spoke to me less formally, my old Apkar.

Oh, gosh, he did recognize me!

Back then was back then, Mr. Azad.

Just a second.

A couple of seconds to catch my breath.

You see, one of my lungs is missing.

And how are your lungs now?

My doctor told me that I was the living prototype of phti... of phtis...

-- Of phthisiology? -- Yes, that's it.

They started by taking out one lung,

and just when the other one was about to go,

a doctor somewhere invented a little white antibiotic tablet

to take with coffee every morning,

and so I got another chance.

Mr. Hagop... has he returned?

Nazareth.

You see, Mr. Azad, our little elf Nazareth,

he went to your poor father's funeral.

He carried two fall chrysanthemums in his arms.

In his disturbed spirit,

he doesn't understand the difference between life and death.

He only knows that it won't be the same as before.

All the words he uses are perfectly good and clear.

It's when he puts them together that they don't make sense.

He seems to come from a different planet.

Your poor father used to say

that with all the fantasy filling his head,

Nazareth lived out more than one glorious destiny at a time.

One day, he was a marshal of the Armenian army,

the next a great lawyer, an archbishop, or a cardinal.

One evening, he came dressed as the emperor of China.

The next morning, your father told me,

"You know, I dreamed I was the sultan

of I don't remember what country."

He added, "You see?

"We're all Nazareth at night.

"We have our absurd dreams

"during those hours when they disturb no one, in secret.

"The next morning, we wake up shirt makers again,

"without a ripple in the order of things.

"Nazareth is the opposite. He dreams by day.

That's what bothers people."

That evening, my mother had brought out embroidered bed linens

from Aunt Anna's time.

To forestall any objections from me,

she pretended to have just run across them.

"Look at that. I'd forgotten these."

Since that morning with our friends,

I'd rediscovered a multitude of pleasures.

Waiting for sleep that doesn't come,

I try to separate out each component of the smell of the past

that floats through the house.

Lavender that we picked along the roads of Provence

to put in little sachet bags.

Perfume of cinnamon that evoked the baklavas of my childhood.

Wisps of thyme and of basil.

And then the insinuating aroma of the incense

that we burned on Saturdays

in remembrance of those who had gone.

Are you asleep?

No, Mayrig. Come in.

I forgot to give you the sesame cookies you love so much.

Sit down for a little while.

They're so good.

It melts in your mouth.

It won't ever again be like when your father was with us.

Good morning, Mrs. Zakarian.

My deepest condolences. I just heard the awful news.

Thank you, Mrs. Crespel. That's very kind of you.

I know how it is.

When I lost my first husband, I thought I'd never get over it.

But what do you want? Life goes on for better or worse.

We wind up remarrying.

Now then, how much do I owe you, Mrs. Zakarian?

5 times 230 francs, madame, as agreed.

That comes to 1,150 francs.

Couldn't you take just a little something off, Mrs. Zakarian?

I ordered five shirts, and on my recommendation,

my brother-in-law and my son intend to come to you.

That's worth a little finder's fee, right?

Mrs. Crespel, when you ordered, I gave 20 francs off per shirt,

which is a discount of 100 francs.

When we worked as a family, it didn't matter so much,

but now I've had to hire a worker

because I don't see well enough anymore for handwork.

It is not a question, Mrs. Zakarian, of a discount.

I'm asking for a gesture on principle.

Let's just round it down to 1,100 francs.

For you, it's three times nothing, for me, it's no big deal,

and everyone is happy.

We'll make you even happier.

Here you are, madame.

You owe absolutely nothing, it's on the house.

-- But, sir, I'm not asking for charity! -- Yes, you are.

First, you begged 5 times 20 francs off on each shirt,

and just now, you've put your hand out for alms of 50 francs,

and that makes, if I calculate correctly, 150 francs.

So I say to you, put away your begging bowl.

Everything's free today. You may take your package.

You ill-mannered man! Never again, you hear?

Never again!

Never again will you set foot in this store?

Well, I should hope so. We've already generously donated.

You're a lout! A lout, sir!

Enough, Azad.

Go on, just one more step,

and you'll be off our premises with five free shirts.

I'm takin the shirts, but you'll be hearing from me.

My husband will settle this affair personally

and in his own way!

Tell him to sent 1,150 francs worth of roses to his shirt maker.

That might be a happy ending for an ugly story.

This Mrs. Crespel, trying to snatch a few francs payment

from needle-torn fingers,

left me with the souvenir of a promise to myself which I've always kept.

I would never again haggle over the price

of the labor of anyone's hands.

Mayrig, I'd better warn you right now.

You'll never get roses from Mr. Crespel.

I don't doubt it.

Just now, I was watching you behind your counter,

with your air of the dedicated, respectable seamstress,

faced with Crespel's pettiness.

Your face radiated such majesty that it's obvious you are the lady.

Stop it.

You've spouted enough foolishness for today.

I believe all the Mayrigs in the world

would willingly dress all the Crespels on earth for nothing...

just to hear that kind of foolishness at least once.

Mayrig has been with us for a month.

To convince her to stay, I had to formally promise her

that her stay would be provisional.

When the light is lovely,

my mother, with her white hair and black shawl,

Charlotte and Adrian with their pink cheeks,

and the many greens in our garden,

remind me of an artist's masterpiece.

That's when I see my daily Renoir.

This particular morning,

the phones were ringing off the hook like never before.

Carole would disturb me with things like,

"He's leaving any minute now. His car's pulling away."

This time, the call had been short

and immediately followed by a series of door slams

that announced the arrival of Hurricane Carole.

Pierre, I've come to tell you plainly and calmly,

either your mother leaves this house, or I do.

Well, then, I respond just as plainly and calmly,

you go.

Now, if you want to give me the solemn reasons

that have brought you to this blackmail, I'm ready to hear them.

I just received a phone call from your son's school principal.

When he's just my son, it must be something more or less unpleasant.

It's not just unpleasant. It's extremely serious.

Your son doesn't want to be known by the same name as his father anymore.

What is this idiotic story?

It's not a story.

Adrian went to see the principal and told him, word for word,

"I no longer want to be called Adrian Zakar."

Did he give a reason?

It was all wrapped up in gibberish and silliness,

mixing up pseudonym, pseudo name.

He didn't know what he was talking about.

And what does he want to be called?

Adrian Zakarian.

You have to admit that that's his real name.

Just now, when you came in, you said it's you or my mother.

What's my mother have to do with all of this?

Your mother has been here for a month,

and she's crammed their skulls with stories about their origins.

Adrian was proud to be the son of Pierre Zakar.

Now he wants his grandfather's name.

Charlotte, who understands these name stories even less than her brother,

wants to learn Armenian without even knowing what it means.

Isn't all that crystal clear?

Come into my office.

Tell me, Adrian... is it true that you want to change your name?

Don't lie, Adrian! Your principal just called.

I don' want to change my name since it's already Zakarian.

I've read it in the family documents.

"Adrian Zakarian, a.k.a. Zakar."

Zakar, that's Papa's pen name.

And who gave you these ideas?

Adrian, who gave you the idea to call yourself Zakarian?

Papa's play. I've seen it three times.

And you, Charlotte?

Why do you want to learn Armenian?

For fun. With Adrian, we can talk, and other people won't understand.

Go out and play, children.

Papa, will you be mad if I call myself Zakarian?

It's the most beautiful gift you could give me.

Well, that's just perfect.

The father will have one name, his son another.

His daughter, when she marries will have yet another name.

All that's left is for me to take back my maiden name, and we're done.

That might not be a bad idea.

ORIENTAL BOOKSTORE

Anyone here?

Good morning, Mr. Zakar.

Don't tell me your name.

Miss Astrig Setian.

Your newspaper is called Infinity.

No... Horizons, plural.

Our old bookstore won't ever forget this illustious visit.

Nothing illustrious here...

except these pyramids of books, recalling 1,000 years of culture,

humbling all the Zakars of the world.

In any event, thank you for receiving me more kindly

than I did you on a certain night.

That was understandable.

I have neither recriminations nor the excuse of a play opening.

What can I do for you?

Just an address, miss.

I have a ten-year-old son and a twelve-year-old daughter.

I'm looking for a teacher to come once a week to the house

so they can learn Armenian.

From experience, I'd recommend instead a classroom course.

What's the advantage?

You know, the first lessons are always a breeze.

They learn to say, "yes, no, good morning,

there are flowers in the garden."

And then along comes the complex grammar

with difficult declinations, exceptions to the rules.

At the same time, they're carrying a full load at school,

final exams to worry about.

In a group, they're less likely to become discouraged.

I understand. What's the address for this class?

There are several. Here's the list.

I see you teach at Arnouville?

All the others are excellent, too.

I don't doubt it.

But, if it's okay with you,

Adrian and Charlotte will go to your class.

With pleasure.

Annual Benefit Grand Ball for the UBESA.

What's the UBESA?

It's the Armenian Benevolent and Mutual Benefit Association.

I spent my childhood and part of my adolescence

in the shadow of those annual balls.

There was one every Sunday.

"Under the distinguished patronage of the Minister of...,"

which meant he wouldn't show up.

But, look, this is election time, so he might come.

As for "the exceptional artistic presentation,"

in my time, it was always a poetry reading

by someone with a messy hair and a face twisted in pain,

imitating Othello's accents and thundering out sweet, nostalgic verses.

There would always be the same poem by Tcharentz...

"Of my sweet Armenia, I love that sun-kissed name,

"I love the blood-red flowers and the infinite perfume of roses

"and the graceful dances of our Nairian daughters.

I love..."

"...the pensive walls, sad and black,

"of our thatched cottages in the night.

And the rocks cloaked in the time of our buried towns."

Unlike the opening night,

every evening performance of the Signet Ring was sold out.

Hello, Alain. Hello, Virginia.

Carole should be down there.

Carole celebrated the 350th show

by throwing a snobby lunch at a trendy place.

Mayrig, your dress is beautiful.

It's always the same one, and you always say the same thing.

Because every time it's true.

Azad, don't put me too far away from you at the table.

If I do something I shouldn't,

a wink will be enough to let me know.

Mama, you always do the right thing.

I'll go see where they've placed you.

Your mother-in-law is very elegant.

She can fool people,

especially if she sits next to her son,

who, with a wink, can let her know which utensil to use.

Hey, they're at opposite ends of the table today!

I've seated my guests according to age, status, affinities.

It's complicated enough as it is.

Mama...

your innate distinction sets you above stuffy convention.

So just pick up any utensil you like, and we'll follow your lead.

I suppose you're happy with that one-act play

you just put on for our guests.

There was no play, no act.

I extended my hand to a very old lady

somebody wanted to ridicule.

It's called assistance to a person in danger.

You're not going to make me responsible

for and incident that you carefully staged.

I don't know anything about it.

You can't possibly think

that I purposely put you at the other end of the table

to keep you away from your mother.

Pardon me, but after tonight,

I know exactly what you're capable of.

That's monstrous.

But why, after all, would I detest an old lady

who hasn't done anything to me?

Because that old lady is the only link

between me and a past that, for the last 15 years,

you've obstinately tried to erase.

You started with my identity.

My name was Azad,

the most beautiful name in the world because it means "free."

In Armenian, it's a first name.

I became Pierre...

like Paul, Henri, or Jacques,

by the luck of the calendar.

And on the heels of that,

you shaved off the last syllables of Zakarian.

Our friends are all from Carole's time.

Those from before Carole, those we meet now only by chance,

still stir fond memories.

But then I only have to look at you, smiling and warm,

to realize that I'll never see them again.

I admit you've spared my father and my mother.

I could see them, but only in tiny doses.

For 15 years without a break,

you've been working on my public image,

my "look," as you call it.

Well, tonight I took a good look at that image,

and I didn't recognize myself.

And it took you 15 years to see that I was that woman?

Oh, yes.

For all these years,

I've avoided challenging you.

From cowardice, so I wouldn't have to really see you.

And our busy life had a lot to do with not facing up to it.

The plays, rehearsals, openings in Paris,

premieres in New York or London,

social life, joint vacations,

and then the arrival of Adrian and that of Charlotte.

Friends with their "What would you do without Carole?"

So I put on a carnival mask,

and I disguised myself as a happy man.

And, okay, not even for an instant

did you think of the possibility that I could also love you?

Love? My poor Carole.

Among all our other problems,

we will never conjugate the verb "to love" in the same way.

You've always confused love and self-esteem.

Well, then...

After all that's been said, I will admit we need to take some time apart.

I'll go spend some time in Normandy at my mother's.

Or Saint Moritz, I don't know.

Of course you know. You'll go to Saint Moritz.

It's more fun.

Pierre, just one last word.

I beg your pardon for bringing this down to a purely material level,

but for the last two months,

no payments have come in from your play.

That's all right. I made a large purchase.

May I, at least in the name of our children, ask what you've bought?

I've bought a dream, a childhood dream.

My God. You've gone totally mad.

You are absolutely right.

It seems that dreams are celebrations for madmen and slaves.

I've bought that celebration.

I've made a good bargain.

Carole has been gone for six months.

I celebrated my renewed independence

by ordering five new suits at once,

in my favorite colors.

The children spent Christmas and Easter vacation with their mother.

The latest news is that she'll spend all winter on Maurice Island,

where it's summer all year long and the sea is turquoise.

She told me on the phone, "I am at Royal Palm,"

and she added, "to think."

But a woman who thinks for more than six months

in luxurious oasis facing the most beautiful beach in the world

is not thinking all by herself.

There are hard statistics on this.

Our hearts haven't much to do with this kind of separation,

which strictly involves accountants and lawyers.

Papa, Y�s hay�r�n gue khossim.

-- That's great! -- Did you understand?

-- Tell me what I said. -- "Papa, I speak Armenian."

My turn, Papa. Bard�ze?

"Garden."

-- Varte? -- "Rose."

Gueu sir�m k�z. That means "I love you."

-- Hello, Mr. Zakar. -- Hello, miss.

Children, go wait in the car.

They're making great progress, aren't they?

They're adorable, and very attentive in class.

I hope that keeps up. Anyway, we've really tried.

Right.

And your mother, how is she?

She's getting old.

She wants to go back to Marseille to be closer to her own.

That's sad.

Don't think that.

Mayrig takes the drama out of death by talking with great good humor

about her coming departure to the Land of Certainties.

And you? Do you believe in that land?

A dramatist never deprives himself of the slightest chance of eternity.

A premiere with God in the audience, what a consecration!

Thank you again for Charlotte and Adrian.

Good-bye, sir.

Miss Setian, along with Charlotte and Adrian,

we would be delighted to have you over for dinner one night next week.

And I promise you, this time I won't forget to pick up the check.

If you're paying, then...

I'll be returning to Paris Thursday. How about Thursday evening?

Thursday evening.

I took my mother to her city.

Going up Rue Paradis, I saw slices of our life parading by:

Number 109, with its room full of pins...

Number 168, where the shirt store has a "New Owner" sign.

Delmas' grocery store is gone.

Marble and neon have replaced the austere facade of our pharmacy.

I prefer the sign in the name of Mr. Joseph Hugues,

Pharmacist First Class, who, all through my childhood,

was the "almost-doctor without a stethoscope."

Toward number 300, finally, the glorious stretch of Rue Paradis,

which ceases being commercial and noisy

to become high society residential.

Number 412, Alexander's house,

the humiliating tea party and its staff who ate all our baklavas.

My mother must have wanted to know where we were going,

but she remained quiet during thfe entire trip.

What number did you tell me, sir?

588, please.

Remember, Mayrig?

More than 30 years ago, we lived at the other end of the street.

One day, we passed this gate as it was opening,

and you said, "Look, Azad...

"it's a little like our house, before we came to France.

Except the garden."

I asked what more we had in our garden,

and you told me, "Roses.

"Roses everywhere, so many roses smelling so sweet,

they made you dizzy."

I remember.

It was returning from the tea party at our friend's.

Alexander Pages, wasn't it?

We walked a long, long time,

all the way to where we couldn't walk any more...

to the sea.

Tell me, Azad, whose place is this?

Your place, Mayrig.

Mayrig didn't understand. Not at first.

She'd fallen behind the times.

She needed to be left alone to catch up to the present.

This basin with the coping on top,

we had one exactly like it in front of our house.

But, tell me now,

there weren't any roses nor a fountain when we saw this garden.

Fountains are like roses, Mayrig.

In 30 years, they sprout.

30 years to fulfill a childhood dream.

What a long journey from that obscure room in number 109 to number 588,

where the sun, in golden sheets,

covered the roses as it did there, before France.

Sit down, Mayrig.

So does this mean this is all yours?

No, it's yours.

And, from time to time, it'll belong to Adrian, Charlotte,

and to me, if you invite us.

You know, I would have loved

for your father, Anna, and Gayan� to have seen this.

When she started pursing her lips to prevent their trembling,

I knew she was fighting off the sweet tears

that would go slipping down her cheeks.

So I left the room... to hide mine.

Miss Anahide, I entrust our young lady to you.

Rest assured, sir, I promise you.

-- Good-bye. -- Good-bye.

You didn't have breakfast!

On the plane, Mama.

I'll be back very soon, Mayrig.

You're right not to stay away too long at my age.

You never know what surprise

an old person might have in store for you.

The next surprise for you is that Adrian, Charlotte, and I

are coming here for a long vacation with you in your beautiful home.

We might even bring Miss Astrig, the Armenian teacher.

Well, maybe, if she's free. If she accepts.

That would be so nice.

What do you want me to bring you?

You. And while I wait, I have the roses.

In Mayrig's last years, the difficult ones,

Mayrig, with her heart worn out with so much loving,

how many rose seasons remaining for her?

You've forgotten your sweater!

I've just rediscovered the Mayrig

of my childhood and of my adolescence,

with those sweaters she'd sneak into my bags at the last minute

to protect me from imagined chills.

Now the time has come when, wherever I may be,

some day or night, someone will call and say,

"Come quickly, sir. Your mother isn't well."

Then, at that precise moment,

I will no longer be a carefree seven-year-old.

And I'm sure that, on that day...

I'll really feel cold.