All language subtitles for En.therapie.S01E07.1080p.BluRay.DD+5.1.x264-SbR_track4_[eng]

See you next week.

Thank you, goodbye.

I came back.

Good.

Come on in.

You don’t mind the coffee?

I don’t have much time.

I have to optimize it to fit you in.

I’ve got a CrossFit session after.

I have to stay in shape in my job.

You should too.
Sitting down all day long...

You sit a lot in your job, right?

IN THERAPY

ADEL – TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 2015, 10 A.M.

As I mentioned last time,

I’d like things from the outside world
to remain there.

Here we work on the inner world.

You mean you’d like the entire
outside world to remain there.

I can see that,
with your old-style decor.

It’s like a bubble in here.

It’s nice, cosy.

But it’s an illusion.

The world won’t stay nicely outside.

You may not hear the Kalashnikovs,
but they’re still there.

You must have heard
the shooting from here.

I was asleep, actually.

You were asleep?

With shooting ten meters away?

You’re the sort
that refuses to see the reality.

One day it’ll blow up in your face
and you’ll be shocked.

It’s already started
blowing up in your face.

Is the mobile phone okay?

It’s not too intrusive?

Relax, I didn’t bring my gun.

Do you know where?

In the trunk of my car,
with the rest of my gear.

So if any trouble happens,
too bad for me!

That was the deal, right?

Have you taken the medication
I prescribed?

Has it helped?

I’m okay, yeah.

I’ve been sleeping the last few nights.

Okay, I think it’s done me some good.

I’m back, what more do you want?

The deal is for you to say
whatever comes to mind,

even if it seems trivial.

We’re beating around the bush here.
Let’s do some work.

I’ll be honest, I like you.

But this thing about getting me to talk
makes me laugh.

I don’t believe in it.

We all know what to say in debriefings

so that the shrinks will leave us alone.

It’s one of the first things
the experienced guys teach us.

So I’m warning you...
I know what to say.

You don’t believe
analyzing your feelings can help?

No.

Everything is clear to me.

I’ve learned how to analyze, think,
draw conclusions, improve myself.

I’m in control of the process.

You think I’d have got where I am
if I wasn’t?

Okay, then.

I won’t disappoint you,
what shall we talk about?

Hercules?

Oh, that!

I don’t like that American way
they ask you for your name.

I never say my real name.
It depends on my mood.

- Why Hercules this time?
- Why not?

- It’s not a very common name.
- You mean not very Arabic?

No, I mean it’s a name
that comes from Greek mythology.

The name of a demi-god.

Maybe that’s worth looking into.

You’re barking up the wrong tree.
It’s not even my idea.

One of the technical guys calls us that
because of our training.

We did an operation last Tuesday
and he said over the radio,

“Good luck, all you Herculeses!”
So that’s why.

That popped into my mind
as it was only last week.

You know about that operation
last Wednesday?

You’ll have seen it on the news.

- In Saint-Denis?
- Yeah.

Can we talk about that,
it’s not off-topic?

Anything that comes to mind.
That’s the process, as you said.

You don’t do much, then.

Anyway...

Okay, let’s go.

I got a phone call
at two in the morning.

I’d seen you, and I was fast asleep
thanks to your pills.

I even struggled to pick up my phone.

was told to get there ASAP,

so I hurried over and got kitted up.

A quick briefing.

They’d located two guys,
holed up in an apartment.

The RAID group went in,
all guns blazing.

There were no hostages to save,
just terrorists to neutralize.

Well, they neutralized them.

It lasted seven hours.
5,000 rounds fired.

Anyway, Akrouh and Abaoud...
out of commission!

The woman too.

She knew what she was doing,
she got what she deserved.

Are you shocked by that?

It’s easy to criticize.

That’s all your intellectual pals do.

But number one: nobody knows
what the RAID guys’ orders were.

And two: it’s easy to talk
when you’re nice and safe.

Would you like to change places?

How did it feel to be part
of a violent scene once again?

It’s my job.

In the police you see stiffs.

You can’t go sobbing that you can’t bear
the sight of dead bodies.

If you’re in an intervention squad,
you intervene.

Like you, I suppose.

You chose this job,

you can’t whine about all the bullshit
you have to listen to.

Or maybe you do.

What do your other patients tell you?

You’re not going to say?

Confidentiality, right?

So, to answer you,
no, it didn’t traumatize me.

My colleagues fired,
the ceiling fell in...

Know what bothered me the most?

Their dog got killed.

What are you thinking about?

It’s stupid.

Come on, just take me at my word.

When I was little, we had a bird.

It was my dad’s. The only thing
he’d brought from Algeria.

A goldfinch with a beautiful song.

That’s not allowed any more.

I loved it.

I’d take the sheet off its cage
and listen to it sing.

We lost it when I was seven.

What happened?

It was the start of term,

I was having breakfast
with my mom, and...

my dad came upstairs
after finishing a batch of bread.

He was a baker.

We were listening to the bird, and...

my dad came in,
he stood there at the door,

and he gave me and my mom this look...

I don’t know how to describe it.

Then he walked to the table,

opened the cage, took hold of the bird,

went to the window and let it go.

Then he went to bed.

You’ll laugh at me,
but I really grieved.

I ran to the window
and saw the bird flying away.

It must have got eaten by... I dunno.

I cried for days.

Anyway...

I’m not here to talk about my childhood,
my nasty parents, all that crap...

Let’s be clear about that.

If we can talk about your coffee cup
and CrossFit, then why not that?

Because of your theories.

I bet you’re already making stuff up.

If we have to waste my time,

let’s talk about my coffee cup.
It’s pointless but harmless.

Are your childhood memories harmful?

You brought the subject up.

You took me at my word,
as you yourself said.

That’s too easy.

Open up your heart.

Why did you come back, Mr. Chibane?

Not to please me.

You know why! So I can go on
functioning normally.

Everyone’s uptight at work.
That leads to mistakes.

I need to clear my head.

So far operations have always gone well.
It has to stay that way.

Can you do that, Doctor?

I don’t mind
going on about my childhood,

my dad, the bird, and so on,
but we’re just wasting time.

Why do you think your head isn’t clear?

- Want to hear about this weekend?
- For example.

These are confidential matters.

It’s not just
the little patient-doctor privilege.

That confidentiality
isn’t a “little privilege”.

It’s a sacrosanct rule
of the profession.

Breaking it is even a crime.

Okay.

I didn’t mean to offend you.

You can imagine the pressure
since the 13th.

The media, politicians...
and the buck stops with us.

So we’re doing raids everywhere.

All these beardies
are seeing the police rocking up.

On Saturday we were backing up
an anti-terror squad

at a Salafist imam’s place.

Early morning, a residential area.

Our job is to get the door open,

secure the site,

and keep things calm
while the search is underway.

Picture the scene.

It’s not even 6 a.m., still dark,
we trot up to the house.

The anti-terror guys are behind us,
backs to the wall.

We’re around the door,
the first guy has the shield.

The next one has the “door-raider”,
the battering ram.

In two seconds, bang!,
we’re in the house!

The imam’s there in his boxers,
freaking out.

Three minutes later, it’s all done,

the site is secure, he has trousers on,
our colleagues can come in.

They start the search.

This guy’s saying it’s a family home,

but there’s nothing there,
practically no furniture.

In the cupboards there are only
prayer mats and robes.

It’s clearly a place
for budding Salafists to get together.

Our colleagues take down
the false ceiling, they look everywhere.

I’m standing at the door,
watching the street.

This lady signals to me.

She’s a neighbor, with a tray
of coffee and little cakes.

Our colleagues
are looking at documents they’ve found,

but they’re in Arabic,
and no one speaks it.

Things are so messed up that the bosses

sent specialists
in Corsican and Basque terrorism.

So they’re like, “What’s this?”

And the imam says, “They’re recipes.”

With this grin that makes you want
to smash his face in.

One of the guys asked if I could help.

I told him to fuck off.

I said we were there to secure the site,
not to do paperwork.

In any case, he knows very well
I don’t speak Arabic.

Then what happened?

Nothing.

But...

this imam was staring at me
the whole time.

Keeping watch on me.

Every time I looked over, I saw him,

staring at me with this knowing look.

The dunce!
Looking at me as if we knew each other.

I even started wondering
if maybe I’d seen him...

not at work, I’d have remembered,
but maybe in Saint-Michel...

As a kid I lived in Bordeaux,
the Saint-Michel neighborhood.

I wondered if I’d seen him there.

But no.

That’s impossible.

It sounds very stressful.

Nightmarish, almost.

Yeah.

After a three-hour search
they finally take him away.

And as he’s going past me
he whispers something.

- What did he say?
- Something in Arabic.

My guys asked me what it was,
I said I didn’t know.

What is it? What’s bothering you?

What?

That’s what he said to me.

It means “traitor”.

- I thought you didn’t speak Arabic.
- I know a few words.

We bug phones, you remember words,
but I couldn’t say I speak it.

So you understood this word...

because you’d heard it before?

Yeah, but we’re not going to spend
all day on this!

But you denied understanding it.
Do you know why?

- What are you afraid of?
- Afraid?

I’m not afraid! I just didn’t want
my colleagues to know I’d understood.

You chose to hide it from them,
yet you’re very close.

I didn’t want them to know
I’d understood what that dunce said!

You felt embarrassed that they’d witness
his attempt to connect with you?

Like a turning of the tables,
over which you had no control.

What?

In this story,
which is really powerful and disturbing,

the person you’re guarding
holds you in his gaze,

imposing that on you.

You didn’t say
he was “keeping his eye” on you,

but that he was “keeping watch” on you.

Like he was... holding you prisoner.

I just didn’t want
my colleagues to know. End of!

Were you afraid they’d think you knew
each other, that you were like him?

Stop it, I told you I’m not afraid!

Ashamed, then?

That’s a big thing.

You felt reduced to an identity
which isn’t how you think of yourself.

I’m thinking too of your equipment.

It’s armor,

a shell, which protects you
from external danger, real danger.

But that armor

also conceals

your human weaknesses and fragilities.

And it makes you all identical.

But I think it’s also
an armor of the imagination.

It’s the character you create
to face the world.

Your character is the warrior,
the combatant, the protector.

Hercules.

But this man you went to arrest

was able to destroy all that
with a single word.

And you were ashamed because you
suddenly felt naked before the others.

- Reduced to an Arab identity.
- Arab?

I’m not a Muslim, I’ve told you.

I’ve never been to Algeria.

I grew up in a fucking French bakery
in Bordeaux!

It’d piss my dad off to say I’m an Arab.

But you do understand a bit of Arabic.

Speaking about your childhood
isn’t harmless, but it isn’t pointless.

What do you think?

You always have to be right, is that it?

There’s a psychiatrist joke.

You know the saying,
the customer is always right?

Well, we tend to think
the patient is always wrong!

Maybe I’m not very amenable
to shrink humor.

But I understand.

Know what we call the first time
we question a suspect? Bluff time.

They lie through their teeth,
and we let them get on with it.

For the next session
we confront them with all their lies.

It’s like you.

We’ll see what you manage to prove
at the end.

We’ll see.

Okay, I get it. Let’s do
the big childhood-memory thing.

You won’t get much, I’ll tell you now,
but anyway...

I’m listening.

I grew up above the family bakery
in Saint-Michel.

And I mean a French bakery.

Baguettes, traditional bread.

My dad baked great baguettes.

Our flat was above it.

You could smell bread all day long.

It’s a weird job being a baker.
You’re there without being there.

Present but always out of synch.

You’re cut off.

My dad was like a ghost.

My mom did the cash register.

She was a wonderful woman.

Gentle, always smiling...
Everyone loved her.

My dad was the opposite.
Never a smile.

He loved nothing and no one,

had no faith in anything..

A lonely man.

But...

before judging him,
you have to know something.

All my dad’s family,

and I mean all,

his parents, three brothers,
nephews, aunt,

all of them...

were massacred

at the beginning of the “black decade”,

in the early ’90s.

It was one of the first massacres
committed by the GIA.

All of them were killed.

How did your father survive?

He wasn’t there.
Or he’d have died with all the others.

He’s never been back.
He never talks about it.

Then who told you this story?

I just know.

When there were massacres,
like in ’96,

you’ve heard of the massacre
of the monks of Tibhirine,

my dad...

would always say,

“That’s what Arabs are capable of.”

Maybe you understand better now.

I understand.

But wait. Had you already been born
when that happened?

How old were you?

I don’t know.

Seven, maybe.

- The year of your grieving.
- What?

You said you grieved
at the age of seven.

No, that was for a bird.

And the police dog killed in Saint-Denis
made you think of that.

You’re reaching.

Do you remember when that happened?

No, not really.

We didn’t talk about it at home.
Well, not when my dad was there.

And he practically slept
in his bread oven.

Was it always like that?

Was your father always that ghost?

You learned this story
some way or another.

Even in silence.

That’s how it is in families.

Like the Arabic words you understand
although you say you don’t speak it.

It’s in the shadows, but it’s there.

And in certain circumstances
it comes out.

This is the point of talking,
to open up paths we can follow.

Well, this path stops at my dad.
He’s a cul-de-sac.

He doesn’t talk,
and don’t count on me to force him.

It’s obvious you don’t know him.

I won’t stir up the shit
about something unrelated to me.

You had a very strong reaction
inside the Bataclan.

So strong that you thought
it might hamper you in doing your job.

- But I did my job.
- At what cost?

It’s impossible not to react.

You should have seen the guys
in my group.

You’re right, but not everyone reacted
in the same way.

You told me that the silence
and the smell made you freeze.

It was like a veil
descending over your eyes.

You felt that you had
a moment of absence.

You even thought
you might have been shot

and that you’d passed out.

All of that is very strong
and very specific.

Unless you were in there
you can’t understand.

I’m listening to you,

to help you make the connection
between different events,

like the event in your family
that made a mark on you,

even if you weren’t aware of it.

Maybe now you have some clues
which prove it left its mark on you.

You’re like my wife when you do that.

Always trying to understand everything,
mixing everything up...

Sorry, you’re a real woman!

Is that an insult,
to be compared to a woman?

To be compared to your wife?

That’s what I came here
to talk about today, my wife.

I’m listening.

I got in late last night
and she was asleep.

I’ve barely seen her for about ten days,
as we’re on high alert.

We’ve barely spoken
since 13th November.

So... I get home.

Everyone’s asleep, it’s quiet,

there’s the smell of home,
but-- How can I put it?

It’s not familiar, it’s like
I’ve entered someone else’s home.

Someone I know, but not my home.

The place was a total mess,
with toys everywhere,

dirty dishes in the sink...

You can’t say Audrey is very houseproud.

There she was, asleep on the sofa.

I looked at her
like when we were a young couple.

Relaxed like that, she looked so young,
I barely recognized her.

She’s always tired just lately.

But there she almost looked
like the young woman I married.

I looked around and there was
all this stuff, none of it mine.

Even a judo suit by the entrance.

I didn’t know my son
had taken up judo again.

You mentioned how the hours your father
worked cut him off from family life,

making him a ghost in his own family.

I’m not hiding downstairs
in my bread oven.

I’m outside, on the ground.

I understand that,

but I seem to be hearing
the same feeling

of living apart from your family.

You connected
your father’s distant manner

to his family tragedy.

That trauma isolated him
from his own family, from you.

Some things aren’t easy to share.

Have you talked to your wife
about what you felt in the Bataclan?

No, I...

She asked me if I was okay,
I said yes, that was that.

It wouldn’t help
if I told her what it was really like.

Meaning?

She’s been nagging me
to get a transfer to the sticks.

Since the Bataclan she seems annoyed
all the time, like it’s my fault.

She says she doesn’t want
to raise the kids without a father.

You seem angry with her,
yet her concerns are legitimate.

She knew who she was marrying.

I was already in the police,

and I’ve always wanted to be part
of an elite intervention squad.

That used to excite her,

now she wants something
that I can’t give her.

She refuses to understand.

What doesn’t she understand?

I have a mission to accomplish.

Who gave you this mission?

We did! Society, the government, you!

Our mission
is to let you sit here splitting hairs

while we sort out
all the shit that’s happening.

So you can have a nice quiet life,
in your bubble.

We don’t get much help doing it,

but I’m not here
to have a political rant.

I wanted to talk about my wife
because when I saw her sleeping there...

in that home
where I didn’t recognize anything,

I finally understood something.

I knew I was going to leave.

I needed you
to help me formulate it clearly.

They’ll be better off without me.

I’ll tell you a story.

Don’t worry, it’s not a joke.

It’s in the early days
of psychoanalysis,

in bourgeois Vienna
of the early 20th century.

By exploring the subconscious,

Freud opened up a new world
to his patients.

No one was prepared for that.

The effects could be quite considerable.

And he asked his patients

to commit to not making
any important decisions

for as long as his treatment lasted.

I’d like you to consider that.

This work can be destabilizing.

Maybe it’s not a good time
to make overly radical decisions.

I understand your story.

But number one: I’m not convinced
about this “work”, as you call it.

And two: I’m not an early 20th-century
bourgeois, I’m a man of action.

That’s what I do, I decide and I act.

It’ll stop me hanging on
and making my family unhappy.

I’ve seen colleagues,
it always ends in divorce.

You have to end it
when the times comes. Bang!

Bang?

Yeah, it’s just an expression.

I have to go.

Thank you, Doctor.

What do I owe you?

60 euros, is that okay?

Yeah, that’s fine.

Please think about what I said
about making that decision.

There’s no hurry, give yourself time.

The world’s collapsing
but there’s no hurry?

The world has always been-collapsing.
See you next week?

We’ll see. If I’m still alive.