All language subtitles for transit-2018-1080p-brrip-x264-ac3-horizon-artsubs.en

Georg?

Why are you still here?

Paris is being sealed off. You won't
get out. -And you?

I leave tomorrow.
-For where? -Cassis.

Where's that? -Marseille.
I'm shipping out.

I have a "danger" visa for the USA.
-What is that?

A visa for people in great jeopardy.

You're in great jeopardy?

-Come on!

My articles? The newspaper?

You could do me a big favour.

There's some money in it for you.

Deliver these two letters.
-Why don't you do it?

They're for Weidel.
You know. The writer.

The great writer. Once great...
-I don't know him.

I asked
why you don't deliver them yourself.

-I tried.

But the hotel owner was weird.
-You got scared?

I'd say I was being cautious.

Who are the letters from?
-One is from his wife.

So, who cares?
-She seems to.

The other is from the Mexican Consul.

I was friends with Weidel.
We have the same publisher...

When do I get my money?

Once you've given him the letters.

Hotel Ryad, room 6.
I'll be waiting for you here.

How will you make it to Cassis?

You still letting Heinz drag you down?
-No.

Good. -What's good?

We have a spare place in the car.

But just the one.

You coming?

I'll come.

Excuse me?

Why didn't you wait downstairs?

I rang the bell.

I didn't hear it.
-Apparently not.

I'm looking for a room.
-Show me your papers, please.

Show me a room, please.

Take your pick.
There are hardly any guests.

Maybe you can advise me.

With a little morning sun...

nice and quiet,
with birds in the garden.

Are you German?
From the occupying authorities?

All guests are registered,
I was checked just two weeks back.

A little morning sun and birds
in the garden, please, Fräulein.

Please wait.
I'll get a key from downstairs.

Number 16, it's a nice room, my nicest...

two large windows facing south.

You can't imagine the trouble
the man caused me.

He came on the evening of the 15th,
just after the occupation.

I hadn't shut my hotel, I'd stayed.

My father always said not
to abandon property or it'd be destroyed.

Monsieur Weidel came to me,
trembling all over.

I found it odd.

When I gave him the form,
he asked if he could stay off the books.

As you know, Mr Langeron
still insists on registering all aliens.

Order must be maintained. Right?

This guy made a fuss
about his registration.

He and his wife had already
stayed in this room.

They loved it.

And when it comes down to love...
I just melt.

That's me, a Frenchwoman
through and through.

Only the one night is what I said.

He doesn't come down the next day.
So I open up with the night key.

And I find this filthy mess.

He was lying already stiff
in his own blood.

He'd slashed his wrists.

So where is he now?

I know someone at Saint Sulpice Police.
He took care of things:

Unknown corpse,
crematorium, unmarked grave.

He caused me more trouble
than the occupation.

What do you want to do with all this?

Would you like to take it?

I just want things to be in order.

Your papers.

He's there! There!

It's me.

Where were you? We were worried.
-Claire!

What are you doing?

They'll come and find the room.
-We'll say it's Jean's game.

His secret room.
He always wanted one.

The marzipan. I promised it to the boy.

Melissa's in Marseille with the kid.
He rests, then you make for the hills.

He won't make it!

I obtained morphine
and three jabs of penicillin.

Claire packed his bags.
-He won't make it, I say.

They're going house to house.

The neighbour's husband is police.

She saw the cubbyhole today.
She'll report it. They'll be right here.

They've set up camp at the Velodrome.
They're scouring the district.

They call it spring cleaning.

Son of a bitch.

I got a skeleton key for the door.
The trip will take four days plus, okay?

You can open the shutters on the way.

To get some light and fresh air.

But keep them closed at every stop.
You mustn't be spotted.

Okay?

When you get to Melissa's,
you wait a few days.

and then head out to Henry in the hills.

How am I to...
-You help him.

You're going to help them.

Here, I managed to get you this.

Thanks.

Go on.

The problem is, you have to subscribe...

We're going to...
Or hope...

And you wanted to go where?

Marrakesh...
-Oh, cool! -Some sunshine...

He no longer knew
how long he had watched over Heinz.

Finally he had opened the writer's bag.

He began to read out of pure boredom.

He sensed it was his language,
his native tongue.

He came across words
his poor mother had used to calm him

when he'd got angry and cruel.

In this story
there were a lot of mad folk,

really crazy people,

all of whom were mixed up
in terrible, nebulous stuff.

Even those who strove hard not to be.

All the people in the story,
and one of them resembled him himself,

didn't annoy him with their complexity,

as they would have done in life.

He understood their deeds
because he could finally follow them

from their very first thought
right till their inevitable conclusion.

Only because the now-dead writer

had described them in that way
did they seem less vicious to him...

Two letters were in the rucksack.

One from his publisher,
praising his story

but regretting that such work
was no longer publishable.

The second letter was from a woman
who must have been his wife.

It said he was not to expect her return,
their life together was over.

He remembered the letters
Paul had given him for Weidel.

They were still in his breast pocket.

One was from
the Mexican Consulate in Marseille

confirming that Mr Weidel
was welcome to come and live in Mexico,

a visa and travel funds
were waiting for him.

The other was from his wife
saying she had to see him again,

he was not to dither, she was waiting.

He must come to her in Marseille at once.

A confused letter.
But in orderly handwriting.

No, not orderly.

Immaculate.

COME AT ONCE, MY LOVE!

LET US BEGIN A NEW,
BETTER LIFE TOGETHER IN MEXICO!

MARIE

Heinz.

Heinz.

Heinz.

Get off!

Get off!

Look! A window's open!

Oh, the stench! He's dead.

Let go.

I'll get his things.
-Yes.

He reached Marseille the next day.

Blue skies, palms in the wind.

It was cold, the Mistral.

He was tired,

no one looked at him.
That's the terrible thing.

Not that they stare at you, your dirty,
tired face, your torn clothing.

The terrible thing is: they don't see you.
You don't exist in their world.

She tapped his shoulder
and he turned round.

That's when he saw her.

She looked at him,
lightly shook her head,

turned away and left.

He watched her go.

Her elegant black coat, her smart shoes.

Her tired gait.

Again she turned to him,

stared at him, then walked on.

In that instant,
a police siren sounded, then a second.

It was a raid. He ran for it.

Could you go in goal?

What time is it?
-About 11 o'clock.

Shouldn't you be at school?
-No.

Today's Sunday.

Want a game?
-I haven't played in ages.

You'd just be goalie.
-Just goalie!

How exactly would that work?
-Are you German?

Can you hear it?
-No, just that they love their goalies.

I don't know about that.
-But they're good, anyway.

Well, that's true.

And you, are you any good?

Yes.

Really good?

Yes, really good.

Give it here.

Flat as a pancake.

How come?
-How come what?

How come I didn't just score?

Because of your supporting leg.
It shows which way you're going to shoot.

Scheiße!

You speak German?

Shit, one-two pass, Borussia Dortmund.

Is that all?
-I can say a couple of other things.

I have to talk to your mama.

My name is Georg.
I'm a friend of your husband's.

We were on our way here...

He had a leg injury. It got infected.

He's dead.

He looked for a hotel,
somewhere calm where

he could hide.

All the hotels were crammed.

The seventh hotel had a room,

despite the "no vacancies" sign.

A week upfront.

A week?

If there's a raid, I'll be left
empty-handed again.

You have no residence permit.

But I don't mean to stay here.

But you have to prove that.

And how do I do that?

You go to the police station

and show them your visa
and ship's passage.

So...

I can only stay here if...

I can prove
that I don't want to stay?

How much?

He knew the woman would betray him.
Tomorrow, if not today.

He was exhausted. He almost didn't care.

The price the woman wrote down
was obscene.

It was all he had.

He saw the others hanging
around the lobby, anxious,

eager to tell him, the new arrival,
their stories...

and which country was issuing
transits or visas.

Later, up in the room,
he thought of the writer.

He picked up his last manuscript
but it no longer enchanted him.

He was famished
and his cigarette tasted foul.

He lay down on the bed,
tried to sleep his hunger away.

Tomorrow he'd take the writer's things
to the Mexican Consulate

and perhaps receive a finder's fee
and buy something to eat.

And then...

Something would turn up.

His hunger was excruciating.

This is my work contract.

Caracas.

I'm a conductor.
You know Caracas?

You see?
I'm supposed to start on September 1.

This...

is my visa.
It came punctually.

They want modern music.
I'm surprised myself.

I'm a known Reger and Nono specialist,
but modern music in Caracas?

Who listens to it there?

They want twelve passport photos.

Look: one, two, three...

four, five, six, seven...

eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
They're all there.

I'm not smiling, my ears are visible.

Those are both big mistakes.

Yes.
-I've had rejections.

And that cost me...
This is my ship passage.

The ship has two stops
in the USA and Mexico.

So I need the transits.
Maybe you're thinking

"That lucky chap is bound
to get his stupid transits".

But no.
They're afraid.

Afraid we'll disembark and stay.

Mhm.

Do you have anything to eat?
-What?

I do not.

He looked at the conductor.

And all the others
who wanted to tell their stories.

How they'd narrowly escaped death.

About the children, the men,
the women that they had lost on the run.

The horrific things they had seen.
He couldn't stand to hear it anymore.

Don't you dare say they're sweet.
I hate them.

I'd turn them into mincemeat if I could.

They belong to two Americans,
Amy and John Blumenberg.

They made a mad dash
for the last plane to Washington.

Can't say I blame them.
John's a Jew. Like me.

They couldn't take the dogs.
I'm to bring them by ship.

In exchange they'll vouch for me
and I'll get a visa.

So I'm stuck here
waiting for a Mexican transit

and the damn veterinary certificate.

I designed their house.

Then he thought, "This is Marseille.

It's a port".
-Look!

"And ports are places where stories
are told, that's what they're there for.

The people here
have every right to tell stories".

After all...
-"And to be listened to".

I don't want to stay in your Mexico...

I hate them. Them and their mutts.

That's going too far.
They're trying to scare us.

My life insurance. Shit.
-This is mad.

813.

That's you.

Yes.

Only the passport, thanks.
You wanted?

A visa?
-A transit visa.

To go to?
-America.

What are you doing?

These letters and this manuscript...

Your number, please.

This one?

What is your business here?

I am not the consul,
I'm just here to categorise applications

and transfer them accordingly.

I'm here about the Weidel matter.

Weidel the writer?
-Yes.

I am...
-One moment, please.

The Consul is expecting you.
If you would...

Your wife was just here.

The two visas. The ship passages.

A money order.

There's a branch of Western Union
on the Canebière. Open round the clock.

You only have three weeks
until your ship sails.

So hurry up and arrange for transits
for the USA and Spain.

They're building camps in Aix and Cassis,
the cleansing will begin.

Sorry, there's been a misunderstanding.

There is no direct passage to Mexico.

You need transits.
Everyone's afraid you'll all stay.

What was your wife's name again?

Your wife's name.

You can hardly have forgotten
your wife's name.

She comes here almost every day

to ask about you.

COME AT ONCE MY LOVE...

MARIE

Marie.

Right, Marie.

She cried and cried.

She left me.

One thing interests me.
It's more of a question.

Who is the first to forget,

he who is left,
or she who left him?

I'm interested in your opinion
as a writer.

I can hardly remember her.

It was on that afternoon
that I first saw him.

He'd cashed the money order,
was sitting at the window

eating warm slices of Margherita

and drinking a chilled rosé.

Outside, people were walking past
carrying shopping bags.

Fear and chaos will soon reign here,

and all they can think of
is going shopping, he said.

I told him about a film in which zombies
besiege a shopping mall.

"Yes", he said, "even the dead
are lost for ideas".

Feel like playing?

I brought you something.

I can't, I'm sick.

Is your mama there?
-She's at work.

Do you listen to the radio?
-It's broken.

Did it take a fall?
-I don't know.

Can you repair it?

I can try.

Will you help me?

So...

Okay...

Can you hold it? Like this?

Okay, and now hold it
over the flame.

Not too close to the flame,
where the temperature is lower.

Yes, that's it.

I'm borrowing this for a bit.

Okay...
A little this way...

Let's check if it works.

Don't hold your breath.
Breathe easy.

Like playing football.
Just breathe nice and calmly.

Now bring the spoon over...

Yes.

A little closer. Yes, okay.

Back!

Okay...
Looks good.

Then let's have a look.

What's wrong?

I know this song.

My mother sung me to sleep with it...

The codfish...

comes home

The elephant...

stomps home

The ant...

rushes home

The lanterns are lit

The day has flown

Mama's asking if this is your job.

Yes.

I'm a trained radio and TV technician.

Did you complete your apprenticeship?

No.

The fascists got in the way of that.

Can you sing the song again?

Mama wants to watch you sing.

The butterfly...

comes home

The little bear...

comes home

The codfish...
No, one second...

swims home

The lanterns are lit

The day has flown

Now comes the codfish.

The codfish...

swims home

The elephant...

stomps home

The ant...

rushes home

The lanterns are lit

The day has flown

Fox and goose...

come home

Cat and mouse...

come home

Man and wife...

come home...

He broke off.

It knocked the wind out of him,
as the saying goes.

He might have cried, he could feel it.

Melissa and Driss were looking at him.

Driss said that it was already late and
asked whether he wanted to sleep over.

He said he had urgent business, then
walked through the night to the hotel.

He promised
to spend the following day with Driss.

The song went
round and round in his mind.

All are dreaming
Thoughts do roam

Tales are weaving on their own

As the evening rests upon our home...

One second.

Papers. And residence permit.

On the table.
-Oh yes?

Then please show them to us.

We're in a hurry. Get on with it.

Mama, Mama!

Let me go!

Let me go! -Mama!

He saw the woman, as if snuffed out.

He heard the screams
of her husband and children.

He saw the others watching like him.

Were they without pity? Relieved
that it wasn't them?

He noticed the woman with the dogs
in one of the doorways.

Their gazes met. They looked
at each other for a long instant.

Then averted their eyes.

And he knew what was making everyone
so still and hushed:

It was shame.

They were ashamed.
Terribly ashamed.

The next day he went and picked Driss up,

who led him
to a dusty fairground by the sea.

Mama and I are heading for the mountains.
Will you join us?

If you manage...

If you manage
to shoot the can into the drain,

we'll go and train.

The drain there?
-Uh huh. -Okay.

Wait up.
We don't want it to be too easy.

Supporting leg...

Oh shit!
-Nah, you get another go.

No, wait, you're too close.
Back up a bit. Yes...

A chocolate sundae.

I have something to take care of.
I'll be right back, okay?

Where are you going?

Across the street.
To the place with the flag.

It won't take long. I'll be right back.

Want a bite to eat?

Mr Weidel!

Mr Weidel!

Yes.

Why didn't you try to get a visa
for the United States?

Many of your colleagues did.

You were afraid your application
for a visa would be rejected.

Am I right?

The series of articles
in the New Frontier

about the shooting of unionists
in Almería with the help of the CIA.

You had a part in it.

No.

The New Frontier is a communist paper.

I had no part in it.

Why Mexico?

You think they welcome communists?
-I said I had no part in it.

What draws you to Mexico?

What will you live from?

I'll try to practise a trade.

What trade would that be?

Radio and TV technician.

You don't want to write about all this?
-No.

But it's what writers do.

When I was a small boy,
I often went on school outings.

Some were great.

But unfortunately...

the next day our teacher
would have us write an essay:

"Our School Trip".

And after the holidays,
there was always an essay:

"What I did on Holiday".

Or

"The Best Part of the Holidays".

And even after Christmas,
the presents and festivities,

there'd always be the essay:

"My Christmas".

At some point it felt like
I was experiencing it all

just to write a school essay about it.

And for all the writers
who were with me in the camps,

all the terrifying and horrific events

were only material for their writing.

The camp. The escape.

Death.

The war.

I won't be writing
any more school essays.

That's a weighty confession
from a man such as you.

He's not moving.

Sorry.

Don't like it? Want something else?

Do you want to leave?

For America?

For Mexico.

When?

On the 23rd.

Aboard the "Montréal".

We could have ice cream somewhere else.
At the port, say.

Hm?

Or we go work on your support leg.

And then he noticed
that the boy was crying.

And how he was trying
to hold back the tears.

I have to flee.

He saw the exertion and wanted
to embrace and console the boy,

explain to him why he had to leave.

You can all go fuck yourselves!

How's the conductor?
-He didn't make it.

Can you buy me a meal?

Sorry?
-Can you buy me a meal?

The dogs are eating me
out of house and home, I'm broke.

I thought the vet's certificate
would come sooner...

Wait here.

The woman had given me a note.
She was apparently deaf and dumb.

I'll go...

Many refugees try to earn
a little money with such things.

They put notes and little toys on the
customers' tables

and ask for a donation.

But this woman was looking
for a doctor for her son,

and hoped to find one
among the Germans.

And off he went.
He asked around among the refugees.

He very quickly found a doctor
in a hotel at the port.

A paediatrician from Kassel.

Hello.
-Yes?

I understand there's a doctor here.

One second.

It's for you.

We urgently need a doctor.
-Who is we?

A boy. About eight years old.

What's wrong?
-I don't know.

He's having trouble breathing.
-Why not go to the emergency room?

He's illegal. He and his mother.

And you are not?
-No, I am, too.

Is it far?
-Ten minutes.

One second, I'll get my bag.

I'll see you later.
-Yes.

Was it something he ate?
-I don't know.

I haven't seen him since yesterday.

I'm not his father.

He's a friend's son.

The friend died. Not long ago.

His mother is deaf and dumb.
-What's the boy's name?

Driss.
-An African?

Melissa, his mother, is from the Maghreb.

Driss is asthmatic.

Try to breathe deep into your stomach.

You can get dressed again.

Were you outside a lot recently?

You have to spend a few days here in bed.

Tell your mother
to make you something good.

Do you have a favourite dish?

No, there must be something
you particularly like, right?

Pancakes, maybe?

Maybe your mother can make you some.

I'll fetch her.

Would you come here?

Only his mother.

He's had a bad attack of asthma.
He has to remain in bed.

These are some drops to be taken
three times daily after meals.

The Mistral is not good for him.

Mama and I are going to the mountains.
-The mountains will do you good.

What did you do to the boy?
-Excuse me?

You must have done something
for him to refuse to see you...

or even let you into his room.

I'm leaving him behind.

You aren't going into the mountains?
-No.

And he'd hoped you'd go with them
in his father's place.

And why aren't you going with them?

I'm leaving for Mexico.

What?

What?

I want to go there, too.
-So why don't you?

Are you still missing documents?
-No, I've got them all.

When does your ship sail?
-On Tuesday.

So what is the problem?

I have to leave someone behind, too.

Who?
-A woman.

May I buy you a meal?

We could have got away three weeks back.

You didn't need a damn visa
or transit back then.

It was all arranged,
I had the ship passages.

We were almost gone, the anchor
was being weighed, as they say.

Then she disembarked

and I followed.
-And now you can't leave.

I can.

I have a visa.
The transits. And a passage.

The Esperanza sails on Tuesday.
At 21:00 hours, from wharf twelve.

Via Lisbon and Montevideo.

I got the transits
for Portugal and Uruguay today.

And you will embark?

This will go to hell in two weeks.

They're already in Lyon,
as you probably know.

And you mean to leave her behind?

I have to set up a hospital.
They're expecting me.

It's my job.
I can't wait any longer.

And does she know?
-I told her.

I have to go.
People in need are waiting.

She knows it.
-I see.

You see?

Yes. I see.

You have a bad conscience
and want my blessing.

I doubt you're capable
of giving blessings.

Or even comfort.

Did you find him?

Here. Have a bite to eat.
-Thanks.

Go on.

You're the man who needed a doctor.

Yes... I am.

The gentleman here has made up his mind.

He's going to Mexico
and leaving a little boy here.

What the hell?

You made your decision.
Or am I missing something?

You love the boy, it's obvious.

I noticed how hurt you were
when he wouldn't have you in his room.

You love him yet you're abandoning him.
-He is not my son.

What difference does that make?
She is not my wife.

He heard her footfall,
the chiming doorbell, then she

vanished into the night.

He left the Mont Ventoux soon after.

As he turned back, he saw the doctor
sitting at his table, forlorn.

The doctor seemed to be crying.

Then he returned to his hotel,

to his own loneliness.

Yes?
-Georg.

From yesterday evening.

He isn't here.

You can wait. He'll be back soon.

Tea?
-Gladly.

Where is he, then?
-He went back to the boy.

Has something happened to Driss?

No.

He's just double-checking.

He's a good doctor. A great one.

Do you know a good second-hand shop
in Marseille?

What are you looking for?
-Nothing. I'm selling.

Have you run out of money?

That, too.

He might be late.

He will probably go
and confirm his passage, too.

So he's leaving?
-Yes. He really is.

And you're staying?

What choice do I have?

Do you want to leave?

He told me you almost left once.
What was it he said?

"The anchor was being weighed
as she disembarked".

Or something like that.
-Yes.

But now you would stay on board?

What changed?

Everything.

Who is the first to forget:

he who is left,
or she who left him?

What do you think?

He has forgotten me.
-Who?

My husband.

How do you know?
-The Consul told me.

Which Consul?

The Mexican one.

Had he suspected it?
-I said we had to go.

He sat with her, listened...
-He was smoking, writing, drinking.

... as she told how
she'd left her husband...

The Germans were at the city gates.
-... in Paris,

and had got into the doctor's car.
-... I met him there.

And fled the Germans.

It was easy to get in the car with him,

and to write my husband
a goodbye letter.

A final one.

She'd looked for him in Marseille...
-And he's here...

... at the Mexican Consulate,
in front of the American one,

on the Canebière,
at the Mont Ventoux.

Her desperate, pointless search.

... I've been looking ever since.

And everyone had just seen him.
-... Had just seen him.

At the Western Union.
-The Mexican...

The American Consul, the Mexican one.

I'm always too late.

They say that
those who were left never forget.

But it's not true.

They have the sweet, sad songs.
Pity is with them.

Those who leave,
no one is with them.

They have no songs.

Marie!

He did not forget you!

He's hiding from me.

Why did you disembark back then?

Did you want to go back to him?

I don't know.

Why are you looking for him, then?

He has my visa.

I can't get away without him.

I wrote him a letter, an acquaintance
brought it to him in Paris.

In it I wrote
that he should come to Marseille,

that our visas are here.

He received the letter.

I know he did.

Do you love the doctor?

I will take care of you.

Who are you?

What are you doing here?
-I wanted to see you.

Ah, yes?

The boy is feeling better.
The cortisone has taken effect.

He'll be playing again
in two or three days.

You brought rucksacks.

And hiking boots.

What you're planning is insane.

And what am I planning?
-You mean to cross the Pyrenees with her.

Have you already sold your passage?

Have you already sold your passage?

I can get Marie a visa
and a passage to Mexico.

You can go ahead.

I'll follow you with Marie.

On the 23rd. Aboard the "Montréal".

Do tell us how much you want.
Five thousand?

But let's say
you'll need two thousand in advance.

You have functionaries to bribe.

But you have great contacts,
we're lucky to have met you.

I don't want a thing.

That answer makes you less plausible.

Now please leave.

I need Marie's date of birth and so on.

We meet at Mont Ventoux at 2 p.m.

I'll bring the visa and passage.

He said he looked through the window
and saw Marie and Richard,

and then she had looked up as if
she knew that he was standing there,

and she smiled.

Later they sat together.

Visa... passage.
He had the visa and the passage,

and Richard was mistrustful
and went to the port authorities

to have the passage checked.

I'm having this checked.
-Yes. Do that.

The two of them sat there and waited.
One might have taken them for lovers.

I saw they were holding hands.

I also saw that Marie was crying.

He later said that with Marie
he never knew

if hers were tears of
joy or despair.

I saw that he kissed her.
And I saw that she let herself be kissed.

Then Richard came back.
They ordered pizza and wine.

And celebrated provisionally,
as Richard put it,

because the transits for Spain
and the US were still missing.

When does your ship sail?
-On the 23rd.

Of this month?

I doubt there'll be a ship next month.

You should have applied
for your wife's transit at once.

It will be very tricky...

Just enter her in the section marked:

"Person accompanying
the transit-applicant".

Are you telling me
how to do my job?

You are peculiar.

For wanting to emigrate with my wife?

You didn't want to a few days ago.

You spoke of real work

and the parasitic nature of writers.

How it repulses you.

And now you speak to me of true love?

Hm?

The two of you in Mexico,
a little house, a garden.

You come back from work,
and your wife,

whom I had the pleasure to meet

and who is extremely gracious,

she'll be sitting there

chopping herbs for dinner.

You'll watch her sitting there...
among the bushes playing in the wind

Perhaps you should be the writer.

You'll be able to collect the documents
in a few days on production of this.

Thanks.

One last question.

What was the last thing you wrote?

A man had died.

He was to register in hell.

He waited in front of a large door.

He waited a day, two.

He waited weeks. Months.

Then years.

Finally a man walked past him.
The man waiting addressed him:

"Perhaps you can help me.
I'm supposed to register in hell."

The other man
looks him up and down

and says:

"But sir, this here is hell."

Richard didn't want her to accompany
him to the ship,

but Marie insisted.

Richard shook Georg's hand,

then held the door for Marie

as if it were she who was leaving.

He told me that he then went upstairs
to wait for Marie.

The bottle of wine they'd drunk by way
of farewell was still on the table.

He sat down, drank again alone.

He smoked. He waited.

He went to the window. Opened it.

And then he saw her coming.

Wait a little.

Come.

Come.

I'm sorry.

For what?

What are you sorry for?

I'm not coming with you.

I can't go with you.
I'm staying here.

So what was the point of all this?

I wanted Richard to sail.

He has to go to Mexico.

And you?

I'm searching for my husband.

Georg.

Wait.

Wait.

Marie... your husband is dead.

No...

He isn't.

He said that Richard
had already been on board

when a group of French officers
had claimed the cabins for themselves

and he and a few others
were forced to disembark.

He had listened to Richard
and his depressing story.

Marie had sat down with Richard
to console him.

He was inconsolable,
completely destroyed.

He, Georg,
was still standing at the window.

It seemed to him that
he had been standing there all evening.

He had left at some point.
Left them there on the bed.

He couldn't remember
how he had taken his leave.

He had looked at Marie once more.
He said she didn't return his gaze.

Then he had walked through the night,
finally gone to his hotel.

There he lay and thought
that in a few days he would be gone.

Then the evening song
he had sung to Driss came to mind.

He had never before felt so cold.

Driss?

It's me.

Good morning.

I'm looking for Melissa and Driss.

But this is their apartment?

They're gone.

Where to?

Far away.

When did they leave?

Thanks.

Excuse me.

Sorry.

May I invite you to dinner?

Thanks.

Your health.
-Yes.

Your health.

Where are your dogs?
-Gone.

They ran away?

Dead.

I'm sorry. I didn't know...
-I don't want a conversation.

I simply want to eat and drink
and not be alone.

He said that she
had him roll her a cigarette,

paid the waiter after the coffee,
and they'd walked into the evening.

Rudy Ricciotti was the architect...

And that they did speak after all,
about an architect,

Ricciotti, whose footbridge

so brilliantly connects the
Panier district with the old fort.

Of how she'd looked forward
to being in Marseille because of it.

... And the blocks he had coated
with patterned concrete.

From the inside you can see out
through them. It's beautiful.

Can I have one, too?

They smoked together.
He said how...

he felt so at ease in that moment,

he could forget Marie,
everything was quiet and clear.

He spent the last days,
often laying there in his room,

waiting.

He said that all he now wanted
was to be gone.

He only went out at night.

He saw Richard once,
who seemed completely desperate.

He said he hid like a coward.

He said he was afraid of meeting Marie.

Then he packed.

It was the last evening.

The following afternoon
he was to embark and disappear.

At last I've found you.

Everyone turned to look at them.

This passionate embrace seemed to make
my patrons a little aggressive.

Folk don't like other people's joy
when they're suffering misfortune.

The mood in the Mont Ventoux was sombre.

Avignon was just being cleansed,
as they call it.

The camps were full
and the deportations beginning.

Now they were advancing
towards Marseille.

He later told me she repeatedly whispered
that he should take her with him.

That she had been so afraid
she might not find him anymore.

Then they went to his,
she didn't want to go back to hers.

She already had everything,
she said, pointing at her travel bag.

I am so thirsty.

I only have water.

That's fine.

He said she sat beside him on the bed,
exhausted,

and asked for a glass of water.

Later, in front of the bathroom mirror,

he again thought of
the unfortunate writer, her husband,

and wanted to tell her everything.

When he went back in,
he found her lying on the bed.

He looked at her,
so calm and gentle and peaceful.

It was the first time
he'd seen her like that.

She must've been walking about
for days and nights on end.

Day broke,
they had to go to the Consulate

and then quickly embark.

I'll be right back.

He said that he didn't doubt for a moment

that he would get the documents in time.

They still had three hours
before the ship was to sail.

He saw Marie down there, the morning sun
was falling on the corner,

and she was shielding her eyes
with a hand. -Mr Weidel!

Suddenly he remembered Driss,
who had sat there too...

Mr Weidel!
-... with ice cream he hadn't touched.

Yes!
-Then his name was called.

Marie!

To the port, please.

It's like going Christmas shopping
in New York.

You've been to New York?
-Yes.

He brought me the coat there.
-Richard?

No, my husband.

He'll be standing at the railing
and looking back at the harbour.

He sits backwards on trains, too.

Yes?
-Yes!

What railing?

The ship's one.

What ship?

Our ship. The "Montréal".

What makes you think
he'll be aboard the "Montréal"?

The Mexican told me.

You went back to the Consulate?

Imagine his face

when he's standing at the railing,

and I whisper his name
and he turns round to me.

He won't be standing at the railing.

He will.

He'll be there.

And he'll forgive me.

I know him.
He'll laugh and forgive me.

Hm?

You'll like him.

This is your passage.

And...

You still have to fill in
the number here.

This is the transit.

Okay?
-Thanks.

Take care of it.

Pull over, please.

What's wrong?
-I forgot something.

Georg...

It is important?
-I'll be right there.

Hello?

Hello?

Richard?

What is it you want now?

Shouldn't you be embarking?
-I have a passage for you.

Pack only bare essentials.
-I don't understand.

He said that Richard had stared at him

and he knew he'd have to make up
a story pretty quick.

There was no time for the truth.

So he asked Richard for money.

Richard asked no questions,
gave him the money.

Five thousand.
Almost all the cash he had.

He handed him the passage
and Richard hurried down to the street,

and he stood up at the window
with Richard below

waiting for the taxi.

And when it arrived,
Richard looked up once more,

and was there not
a little contempt in his eyes?

Richard thought he was a tout,
a human-trafficker,

someone who profited
from the misfortune of refugees.

He looked out to sea.
Finally the ship's horn sounded.

And then he saw the "Montréal" out at sea.

He carried on waiting even after
it had vanished over the horizon.

He looked at me with weary eyes.
He smiled.

I'm boring you.
-He asked if he was boring me.

What will you do now?
-I have money.

The doctor's hiking boots fit me.

I'll try to make it over the Pyrenees.

You yourself said it's insane.

Is Avignon occupied?

Yes.

Can I leave this with you?

Of course.

Marie...

Excuse me...
-Yes?

A lady was supposed to sail
yesterday on the "Montréal".

I wanted to ask you if you could...

Karim... Do number 12.
And hurry, we don't have much time.

Could you check the passenger list

to see if she really sailed?
-Her name is?

Marie.

Weidel. W-e...

E.
W-e-i-d-e-l .

Marie Weidel.
-Marie Weidel.

Yes.
-Yes? -She was on board.

"Was" on board?

I'm terribly sorry.

Normally
we'd deal with the relatives. But...

You know, they're at the city gates,
the raids will have begun.

What are you talking about?

I thought you knew...
-Thought I knew what?

The "Montréal" hit a mine this morning
just off the Balearic Islands.

It sank.
There were no survivors.

My condolences.

He sat with his back to the door...

and gave a start
every time the door opened.

He seemed to be willing himself
not to turn his head,

not to look up at the mirror.

And yet he did. Every time.

Marie might turn up

the way castaways come ashore
after some miraculous rescue.

Or the way a dead person's shade
might be torn from the underworld

by sacrifice and ardent prayer.

I tried to warn him,
offered him a place to hide.

The cleansing had begun that morning.

But he stayed sitting at the bar.

Waiting

for her.