All language subtitles for brico

THE LITTLE SOLDIER

For me, the time for action is past.

I'm older now.
The time for reflection begins.

Lake Leman divides
the city of Geneva in two.

Three days ago...

secret agents from several countries

openly engaged in mortal combat
here on neutral territory.

Eight hundred dollars.

I suddenly thought of myself:
Bruno Forestier...

reporter for
the French News Agency...

looking for anything important
around here.

MORE TERRORIST ATTACKS
IN GENEVA

GENEVA PROFESSOR DIES
FOLLOWING ATTACK

They're at it again. Shit!

They're completely crazy!

Geneva, May 13, 1958.
What was it Aragon wrote?

'May without sorrow,
June stabbed in the heart.”

LOVE ONE ANOTHER
1 Peter 1:22

- Things okay, Mary-Lou?
- Someone called for you.

You said I was here?

Damn it! I said not to!

The dark-blue sky reminded me
of that Klee painting.

“Where did you come from?
“Where are you? Where are you going?”

“Da dove? Dove? Verso dove?”

- What's going on, man?
- Hi.

- What are you doing here?
- A nice Paul Klee.

My date's nicer.

- What date?
- I asked you 10 take pictures of her!

What if I don't want 10?

Come on.

I'm going to the Brazilian consulate.

- Go tomorrow.
- I don't want to!

Girls like lots of chit-chat.

The Danish girl with Michel yesterday?
- You know her?

No, he told me about her.

I bet you'll want to lay her.

She has a mouth
like Leslie Caron.

No, I only sleep with girls
I'm in love with.

Then I bet you'll fall in love
in five minutes.

- How much?
- I don't know.

- $50.
- If you want.

$50 says I don't fall for her.

The first time I met her...

she looked right out of a play
by Jean Giraudoux.

Veronica!

Kill a guy from behind
with a gun or a knife - okay.

But not a bomb.

Killing a guy from a distance
is a disgrace.

You know nothing about it.

What are you two talking about?

What are you talking about?

Lachenal, the art professor
killed yesterday.

They planted a bomb in his car.
- Who did?

The French.

What do you know?

You don't know
what you're talking about.

It gets on my nerves.

Students are all the same.

I know his daughter.
She comes to the skating rink.

You're right. It's awful.

Aw, shit!

What's wrong?

This is a real bore.

They thought I'd said “war.”
I said it was the same thing.

She stared at me once more.

I'll see you.

We can do the pictures
tomorrow at 5:00.

Where are you going?

- It's a mystery.
- You really are mysterious.

Yes. I'm a secret agent.

Do like this with your hair.

Here's your $50.

Where are you going?
Is it important?

You never know what's important.

I was still very young and foolish.

Would it be nice weather?
Or rain? No telling.

Up to now
my story has been simple:

a guy with no ideals.

What about tomorrow?

I asked if he had a light.

I asked him again for a light.

Ever hear the one
about intelligence?

No.

For 15 years...

a tall tribe and a short tribe

play soccer in the jungle
every Thursday.

Without fail, the short guys win.

One day, the tall tribe's
council of elders decides

to send one of their men

to look into it.

“Go and investigate.”

So their man goes to the short tribe

and tells them
to summon their elders.

“We've played you for 15 years,
and you always win.

You have some kind of secret?”

The short chief replies,
“Yes, we have intelligence.”

“Intelligence? What's that?”

“It's simple.”

He calls for an anvil
and a sledgehammer.

He puts his hand on the anvil
and tells the guy...

“Hit it with the sledgehammer!”

“No, I couldn't?”

The chief insists.
“There's nothing to fear.”

So the guy swings,
and the chief pulls his hand away.

He says, “That's intelligence.”

“Wonderful! Good-bye!”

“No, you're our guest.
Please stay.”

“But I must get back
before I forget.”

“No, you're our guest.”
So he stays.

After 10 days of fruit and women,
he escapes.

He hightails it home and shouts,
“Summon the council!”

So they do.

The tall chief arrives.
“Did you learn their secret?”

“Yes, they have intelligence!”
He's really exhausted.

“What is intelligence?”

“Bring me an anvil.”

“We don't have an anvil.”

“No anvil?
Do we have a sledgehammer?”

“Yes.”

So they bring the sledgehammer.

So he tells the chief,
“Take the sledgehammer...

and hit right here.”

“The Acorn and the Pumpkin,”
a poem by Jean de la Fontaine.

Sometimes I feel
like I've wasted my time.

Veronica...

were her eyes Velazquez-gray
or Renoir-gray?

Alfred Latouche
or his brother Etienne usually met me.

But they'd been caught.
Where's that leave me?

Then there were clashes with the CRS,
who used tear-gas grenades.

Paratroopers joined in
around 8:00 p.m.

That's the latest information
from Algiers...

- Hello, Jacques.
- Hello, Bruno.

Go on, get in.

The antiterrorist commando
I belonged to was financed

by an ex-Poujadist legislator
who'd enjoyed some glory under Vichy.

How are you?

- You know Jacques?
- How are you?

I didn't know the other guy.

- Is that him?
- No, the one in back.

- Who's that?
- If anyone asks, you don't know.

Good luck!

Go-betweens, bankers, car salesmen,
paratroopers, rich daddy's boys -

the secret war jumbled men and ideas
together at an ever bloodier pace.

- Are we early?
- We're fine. It's ten to 5:00.

If his car's there,
stop by the fountain

where I showed you yesterday.

It's a '57 Nash convertible.

Well, Bruno?
- What?

What are you thinking about?

I don't know.

You have to know.

What were you going to say?
- Nothing.

Go on. Say it.

I changed my mind.
What's that book?

- Thomas the Imposter.
- Jean Cocteau?

Listen to the end.
It's wonderful.

“William flew, leapt,
and ran like a hare.

Not hearing the shots,
he stopped...

and turned around, out of breath.

Then he felt a sharp jab
in the chest. He fell.

He became deaf and blind.

'A bullet,” he thought.

Vm lost...
unless I pretend to be dead.

But with him,
fiction and reality were one.

William Thomas was dead.”

Great stuff.

Yeah, I'd like to die like that.

Don't worry.

You may get the chance soon.

What's with you?

Why?

Because you're
a pain in the ass, big boy.

We've been looking for you
since Saturday.

What were you doing in Annecy?

I was hoping to take
Veronica to Brazil.

I'm opening an art gallery.

I went there to buy
three small Modiglianis.

You're lucky I don't ask
with what money.

I'll pay it back. I'll sell them
for seven million in Geneva.

We're here.

“Oh month of flowers
and metamorphosis

I'll never forget
the lilacs or the roses”

Why was I obsessed
with that poem?

Turn the radio down.

You know that speaker?

- Arthur Palivoda of Radio Geneva?
- That's right.

There he is.

I quickly guessed they suspected me
of being a double agent.

Let's go.

...a war of Arabs against Europeans,
not Muslims against Christians.

You are at this moment
dying of that illusion...

To think his show is called
“A Neutral Voice Speaks”!

That kills me.

You ever seen Palivoda, Bruno?

- Before today?
- Yes.

No.

- Get a look as we drive by.
- Why?

You have to kill him.

Why me again?

I got the order from Paris.
Just passing it on.

Jacques said it was real easy.

Just drive up
alongside him like now...

and fire when
you're across from him.

Roll up the window!

- They're sure he works for the rebels?
- Of course.

I'm surprised. He's Swiss.

I'm not surprised.
It's less dangerous...

to talk on the radio than to fight.

The Swiss have never been
very courageous.

Just look how they drive.

They even signal
to pass a cyclist.

It's infuriating!

To the hotel?
- No.

Later. The office.
- Is Latouche really dead?

Yes. They found him
in his bathtub Tuesday

at the Bristol Hotel

with his tongue cut out
and his eyelids ripped out.

There was blood everywhere.
Scared, are you?

You think I enjoy shooting people?

You can borrow the Peugeot.

It hasn't got Geneva plates.
You'll be less conspicuous.

Too dangerous.

Why me? Why not Paul?
- Because you...

I don't want to kill him.

- Why?
- I don't know.

A moment ago, sure.
But not now.

I don't know why.

I suddenly feel
like it would be a defeat.

That's not important.

It is.
Victory's better than defeat.

The Spanish Republicans' salute.

It's beautiful,
because it's not wicked, like this.

It's proud.

Did you know Benjamin Constant
and Madame de Stag) lived there?

We chose you precisely
to see if you were afraid.

I'm not afraid in the least.
You're crazy.

I just don't feel like it.
I won't do it.

We'll make you.

No, you won't.

Even a soldier
can't be forced to kill.

What's gotten into you?
It's easy.

The Swiss know you're a deserter.

The slightest slip
and they'll send you back to France.

[ Mustn't look down.

Then it's a court martial.
No one will save you this time.

Kill him or it'll be your turn.
Ask Jacques.

Then kill me.

Twenty-six is awfully young to die,
little prince.

If they force me, I'll kill Palivoda,
but not before.

That's what I told them.

I'll get out here. So long.

So I can count on you?

No, because I'm a pain in the ass.

That's not funny.

Jacques!

What do we do?

I felt the important thing in life
was not to be defeated.

After that,
I phoned the Brazilian consulate

about visas for a Frenchman
and a Russian girl.

They were already closed.
I'll call again tomorrow.

I drove around. The city silhouetted
against the starry night sky

ls always very moving,
both hard-edged and mysterious,

in the image of mankind
and what lies beyond mankind.

She pretended not to see me,

and I didn't stop. I was scared.
Besides, I'll see her tomorrow.

Later I noticed a car following me.

It took some doing to lose them.

Now... “All is still.
The enemy in the shadows rests.”

Summer wasn't far off.
yet to me it felt like winter.

Paul, what are you doing here?

Her place wasn't bad.

It's practically empty.
I just moved in.

No, it's not bad.

Yesterday I wasn't with you,
but I was thinking of you.

Today I'm with you

and I'm thinking
of something else.

Is this all you brought?

Yes.

- I thought you'd need lights and -
- No.

This is very fast film.

It's Agfa Record.
When you photograph a face -

look at me -

you photograph the soul behind it.

She had rings under her eyes.
Her eyes were Velazquez-gray.

- Where should I stand?
- Anywhere.

It doesn't matter.

Do what you like, and I'll shoot.

I'll ask you questions
and you answer.

Easier that way.

You look scared. Why?
- Yes, I am.

You needn't be.

It's like I'm being questioned
by the police.

She was less pretty
than the day before.

Yes, a little.

Photography is truth...

and cinema is truth
24 times a second.

Your name's Veronica what?

She didn't answer right away.

Veronica Dreyer.

You're Finnish - no, Danish.

No, I'm Russian...

but born in Copenhagen.

Are you here in Geneva
with your parents?

No, I'm all alone.

A foreign woman speaking French
is always lovely.

Where are your parents?

They were shot during the war.

Really? By whom?

None of your business.

The Germans?

The Russians, then?

It's none of your business.

Why won't you tell me?

Just because.

Lift your hair up.

Veronica's charm was all her own:

the curve of her shoulders...

the worry in her eyes...

the secret in her smile.

It's funny.
My father was shot too...

during Liberation.

He was a friend
of Drieu La Rochelle.

Move around.
Don't just stand there.

What should I do?

Whatever you want.
Light a cigarette.

Take a shower.

- Yeah, right.
- Why not?

She turned around abruptly.

You never shower?

I said whatever came
into my head.

I'd like to get pictures
of you showering.

You really don't want to?

- No.
- Why?

Because I think it's stupid.

Afraid of me seeing your body?

What were you going to say?

What are you thinking right now?

Move around a bit.

Do you ever think about death?

She gave me an anguished look,

and I suddenly had
the extraordinary feeling

that I was photographing Death.

Then everything was normal again.

Have lots of guys been chasing you
here in Geneva?

Yes. Why?

Just asking.

I'm sure you've posed
in a bathing suit before.

No, never.

Now what are you thinking?

Are you thinking about me?

Yes.

What do you think of me?

Why don't you answer?
You seem scared.

Pull your hair back.

Hold that album sleeve
in front of your face.

Do you believe in freedom?

No.

Would you be afraid
to kill someone?

You're getting on my nerves!

- Any brothers and sisters?
- One brother.

- What's he do?
- He's in Moscow.

He's a student
at the Stanislavsky Theater.

- Russians are always studying.
- What?

Russians are always studying.

Funny, you wanting to be
an actress.

She lit a cigarette and asked why.

Why?

I think actors are stupid.
I despise them.

Tell them to laugh, and they laugh.

Tell them to cry, they cry.

Tell them to crawl, they do it.

I find that grotesque.

I don't see why.

I don't know.

They're not free.

- Look.
- What?

An Actor.

Yes, it's a Klee.

You like Paul Klee?

Yes.

What's important
isn't how others see you...

but how you see yourself.

- Did Klee say that?
- No, I did.

Got any records?

Yes. What would you like?

Bach?

No, it's too late.
Bach's for 8:00 in the morning.

A Brandenburg Concerto
at 8:00 a.m. is wonderful.

Mozart? Beethoven?

Too early.

Mozart's for 8:00 at night.

Beethoven's music is very deep.

Beethoven's for midnight.

No, what we need is some Haydn.

Good old Joseph Haydn.

What are you thinking about?

Same thing as you.

You know what a doodle test is?

No.

A bit of drawing
that reveals a person's personality.

I'll draw one for you.

I used this often with women.

They love it
when you call them 'little girl”

and suggest children's games.

Do anything you want to it.
Just finish the drawing.

Did Hughes tell you
about our bet the other day?

- When you gave him $507?
- Yes.

You don't know why I gave him $507?

You do one too.
I'd like to know your thoughts.

Okay.

I'll show you.

I LOVE YOU

Jacques and Paul were parked
in front of the Century.

I pretended not to see them.
Veronica and I talked about art.

She said van Gogh was
a lesser painter than Gauguin,

which is wrong, of course.

Who's the girl?

A cover girl.

Are you staying with me or not?

I don't know.

I don't know, Bruno.

Coming out of Club 58...

you remember?

You took my arm.

Shouldn't I have?

- No.
- Why not?

Because it made me want
to sleep with you.

Now you seem to be saying
that's impossible.

You shouldn't offer your arm to men
you don't want to be with.

Good-bye.

- Goon.
- You think it'll work?

Yeah, Bruno's a coward.

Paul took my car.

He and Jacques
made good on their threats

and staged a scene
to set the Swiss police after me.

Go on!

Go on!

My Pontiac!

You bastard!

Stop him! Police!

It's a German song.
Shall I translate it for you?

“O radiant dawn...

you announce my early death.

Soon the trumpets will sound...

and then...

I'll have to leave
this beautiful life behind.”

7:00 a.m.

Snapshots taken around the world

pass before me like in a bad dream:

Panama...

Home...

Alexandria...

Budapest...

Paris.

The bad dream continues.

“We went off to war
like schoolboys to school.”

So began one of Bernanos's novels.

[I remember the title:
Humiliated Children.

FEAR DESTROYED THIS COUPLE

I relit my cigarette.

This morning I feel like
one of those schoolboys. Why?

Perhaps asking questions
ls more important

than coming up with answers.

Give me a puff.

I'm hungry.

I had a nightmare.

I dreamed I went to the theater...

and ran into the devil
at intermission.

He was very well-dressed.

It really was the devil...

with hairy legs and horns.

He was wounded in the thigh,
a great red gash.

It was awful.

Who is it?

Where are you going?

Go back to sleep.

God, she was beautiful.

I wondered if she was only
pretending to sleep.

Police.

Bruno Forestier?
- Yes. What's going on?

- Get your coat and come with me.
- I haven't done anything.

Don't play games with us.
You're wanted in France.

I deserted, but my papers
here are in order.

Just put on your coat.
We'll see about that.

All right.

“Hit-and-run is a serious offense,”
the inspector said.

“If charges are filed,
you'll be expelled from Geneva,

and, as a deserter,
turned over to French authorities.”

As I knew nothing yet,
I denied everything.

Look there.

Sir...

Please.

You shouldn't have fled
just because you're French.

I wasn't there.

He's French? Those bastards
think they can do anything!

Were you there or not?

Never look down with the cops.

- You don't know?
- What an ass I was! Too late.

- This gentleman has witnesses.
- In that car.

I caught on too late.

The crap had begun
for my not killing Palivoda.

Should I go back to my beat?

I'd lost my first major battle.

You want to press charges?

A great feeling of loneliness
flooded over me.

But maybe remorse
is the beginning of freedom.

- Where'd you go?
- To get cigarettes.

Did you take a bath?
- I didn't feel like it.

A woman's shoulders
are very pretty and noble.

- You're acting strange.
- Yes, I've become a coward.

What?

I've become a coward.

It's strange.
When I look at my own face...

its like it doesn't match
who I feel I am from inside.

In your opinion...

what's more important,
the inside or the outside?

It was a beautiful object...

black, mysterious, incorruptible.

It's what my friend Raoul Coulara,

the most brilliant
of French cameraman, called...

'the law of the greatest fuckup.”

Every time I was ready to fire,
some unexpected event stopped me.

And every time the coast was clear,
with no witnesses,

I hesitated a few seconds...

and once again it was too late.

If you're not a professional,

it's hard to keep trying.

It's like trying again
after a failed suicide attempt.

After a while I'd had enough.

I don't think it was
the business of killing someone.

I'd done that before,
though not often.

And I've always felt conscientious
objectors were Just posers.

So what was it, big boy?

Just that you do some things
at certain moments in your life

and not at others.

Paul's a busy beaver,
always on the go.

Being lazy,
I admire him and Jacques.

They never lack for ideas.
Real secret agents.

Nothing fazed them,
not even a stupid idea...

like having me kill Palivoda
in front of crowds of people.

Accused by friends of being a traitor,

eliminating an enemy
was my only way out.

As [ drew my revolver,

I felt Paul aiming his at me.

How's your Danish girl?

Shit! They're getting away.

You won't shoot him.
It proves you work for them.

Me? Absolutely not.

Then what are you
daydreaming about?

I've had enough. Go to hell.

Pursued by the French
and unmasked by the Arabs,

I was doubly screwed.

Yes.

No, I'm going to take a bath.

Later, at Club 58, if you want.

Why?

I can't stay in Geneva.

I'm off to Zurich tomorrow.

I'm catching a plane to Brazil.

Veronica...

why don't you say something?

I don't know what to say.

Lie to me.

Say you're not sad I'm leaving.

I'm not sad you're leaving.

I'm not in love with you.

I won't join you in Brazil.

I don't send you a big kiss.

I packed quickly and left for Zurich.

It was no longer the lights of Geneva
but those of Rio.

I wondered
if I was happy to feel free

or free to feel happy.

Jacques?

No, this is Paul.

It's Bruno.

Better be careful, big boy.

That's right.

Tragedy today is politics.

No, Napoleon said that, not me.

Listen, Bruno - Let me talk!

I'm just calling to say
your car's outside the Century.

My head hit the ground so hard
I blacked out.

I forgot to count the stairs
to know what floor we were on.

Mr. Palivoda called for you.

He'll be at the airport at 10:00 a.m.

The consulate called...

Who were you calling at the garage?

- Are you going to torture me?
- You're scared.

- Of course I am.
- His passport.

Who issued this?

The French consulate here?

I'm remembering an Arab joke.

A guy picks up the phone
and says, 'All67”

The other guy says, “No, it's Ali.”

- Strip him?
- Yeah.

If I shouted,
they'd knock me out again.

Better to just take It.

- Who's this?
- I don't know.

- And this guy?
- Never seen him before.

Jacques Aurélien Mercier.

Former volunteer in Indochina.

We lost track of him
during the piastre smuggling affair.

We picked up his trail
in Rotterdam in '57

when the freighter Aramis
was blown up...

and again in '59 in Frankfurt,

when Professor Dietrich
was assassinated,

and now here in Geneva.

It's him you were calling.

What number did you dial?
What number?

“I'm not opposed to telling you,
but I don't feel like it.”

That's what I told them.

They asked me to work for them
but wouldn't give me an advance,

so I told them to go to hell.

This guy, Alfred Latouche,
refused to talk too.

And here's his brother Etienne.

Want us to do the same to you?

Poor Etienne must have lowered
his head to protect his throat,

So the razor caught him
right across the chin.

I hope you're brave.

This is gonna be tough.

I don't know if I'm brave...

but I'll soon find out.

Take him in the bathroom.

Stand up!

“You slip ever further
from among the living.

They'll soon strike you
from their lists.

It's the only way to share
the privilege of the dead.

What privilege?
To never die again.”

Torture is monotonous and sad.

It's hard to talk about It,
so I'll say very little.

What number were you calling?

You're scared.

Why are you doing this?

Sometimes you must have
the strength to clear a path...

with a dagger.

“One spark can set the entire plain ablaze.”

I'd seen people tortured before
in Budapest.

I had wondered then
if I'd be able to bear it.

Now my moment had come.

The faucets.

I know that others endured worse,

but I've never encountered
martyred comrades in the hallways

or heard screaming through the walls,

so [ can't discuss it

I only know
I forced myself not to cry out

and that I soon stopped struggling.

Quick, think of anything
to avoid the pain.

The sea, the beach, the sun.

Think so fast you're no longer
thinking of anything.

Quick, write to Veronica!
Don't think about the pain.

Quick! Write faster.

Beat the pain with speed.
A letter even more beautiful

than the one
from Robert Desnos to his wife.

Veronica...

What happened?

You passed out.

Did I cry?

Why do you ask?

What's going on?

It's funny.
He's asking if he cried.

I wonder why he wants to know.

Because it's important.

Between torture sessions,
we talked serious politics.

They said it was stupid to hold out
when I had no ideals.

And like all
self-respecting revolutionaries,

they tried to indoctrinate me.

The French use torture too.

“Prisoners waited in darkness
either for prison

or for an attempt to escape -

that is to say,
a hail of bullets in the back.”

Djamilla's fiance...

died that way.

There's no doubt that force
is superior to intelligence.

You have to be strong, it's true -
but to fight force.

Again I thought of other things -
vacation, a bicycle ride

'In the shadow
of young girls in flower.”

Why not tell them the phone number?
I can't even say.

Out of dignity?

I don't know what that means anymore.

The phone number.

When I was worn down,
I cried out for help,

but I didn't realize I was so weak

that I couldn't be heard
two yards away.

I thought I was shouting
when I was only whispering.

I wondered why he put those shirts
on the edge of the tub.

Palivoda?

It's Cavalier F4.

Air can't penetrate cloth
that's fully saturated with water,

so it's impossible to breathe.

“The revolutionary thrust
is like a ship...

already visible
on the far-off horizon.

It's like the disc of the sun
whose burning rays...

already pierce the darkness.

It's like a child...

who'll soon see the light of day.”

Did he tell you
the phone number?

No, nothing yet.

But we'll get something
out of him with this.

No.

Mustn't leave any marks.

Why kill myself?

I should have just given them
the information.

That's how the French got
such a bad reputation.

I took the blade in my teeth

because I couldn't manage
with my hands.

For better or worse,
they came in before I succeeded.

Then...

then came the electricity.

I recognized the guy
who brought the equipment.

Now I remember:

He gave Veronica a little dog
the first time she and I met.

Is it working this time?

Shock treatment is very simple.

They attach electrodes [to your body
and turn on the current.

You don't die from it,
but it breaks you down.

Remember what Lenin said:

“In the revolution,
there are no easy tasks,

no easy ways of fighting.

This political line
must be followed without exception.

The victory of the revolution
is certain.

It will triumph.”

They said to get dressed.
I couldn't take any more.

I suddenly thought
of jumping out the window.

If it was the second floor, great.
If not...

What are you thinking about?

Pierre Brossolette.

I heard how he died.

It was in 43
at Gestapo headquarters.

He'd been tortured for two months.

They'd put his eyes out.

One day they led him to a room
to question him again.

He'd suffered so much
he knew he'd crack.

He sensed there was
a window in the room.

So as they questioned him...

he edged toward it...

bit by bit...

feeling his way.

The moment he touched the glass...

he hurled himself through it.

I was lucky.
It was the second floor.

I holed up at Veronica's.
She told me she worked for the Arabs,

but that she would flee
to Brazil with me.

Excuse me.

You still haven't seen
our friend Forestier, miss?

No.

All right. Thanks.

I'm sure he's up there.
- Why? She'd tell us.

I don't trust her.

Why did you prefer to die
rather than talk?

They'd have killed me anyway.

Oh, I don't know.

Lucky for me
it was just the second floor.

You look better without makeup.

I watched her sit down.

I love the way
she lights a cigarette.

That's not true.

Yes, it is.

Why's this place empty?

Because I was leaving.

I was going away.

We didn't dare look
in each other's eyes.

There are no marks.

No, just some burns here.

They were very careful.

With the U.N. considering
the Algerian question,

Cairo probably gave them orders.

No one's come around
asking where I was?

Yes, just as I came in.

I ran into your friends again.

What friends?

They came around yesterday too...

from the French consulate.

The thin one looks
like an elevator boy,

and the other one
looks like a gigolo.

Who are they?

It was Paul and Jacques.

I'm sure of it.

We're the ones
who killed Lachenal.

Why did she turn her back?

I think that was stupid.

Palivoda, yes...

but Lachenal had done nothing.

He felt the Algerian war was unjust.

But that's all.

Yeah. I don't know.

You always say that.

Of course I'm listening.

Mohamed Messousa...

16 Chemin Chapelit.

Where can I call you?
Why not?

Okay, big boy. You call us.

I gave them the Arabs' address
for two diplomatic passports.

Tell the photographer
to go have a look.

You have anything
in your files on a girl named...

Veronica Dreyer.

You'll call me back?
Veronica Dreyer.

And what about me?

Why do you work with the FLN?
Out of political conviction?

It's hard to say.

Bit by bit...

But it doesn't worry me.

Anyway, I could see
that the French were wrong.

The other side has an ideal...

but the French don't.

It's very important to have an ideal.

Fighting the Germans...

the French had an ideal.

But with the Algerians they don't.

They'll lose the war.

You think so? I don't.

Yes, they will.

Funny how everyone hates
the French today.

I'm very proud to be French.

But I'm also against nationalism.

One defends ideas, not territories.

I love France
because I love Joachim du Bellay...

and Louis Aragon.

I love Germany
because I love Beethoven.

I don't love Barcelona
because of Spain.

I love Spain because
a city like Barcelona exists,

and America
because I love American cars.

I don't like Arabs
because I don't like the desert

or Colonel Lawrence,

and I like the Mediterranean
and Albert Camus even less.

No, I like Brittany...

and I hate the south.

The light in Brittany is very soft,

not like in the south.

Besides, Arabs are lazy.

But I have nothing against them.

Or the Chinese.
No, I'd like to ignore them.

But it's terrible today.

If you just calmly do nothing...

you get hell
precisely for doing nothing.

So we do things without conviction.

And it's a pity to wage war
without conviction.

Why is the Vatican anticommunist?

Funny guy, the pope.
They believe the same thing.

All men are brothers.

I'm not the brother
of a streetcar driver in Peking

or San Francisco.

I couldn't care less about him.

Maybe one day...

I'll want to know how he's doing.

But he's not automatically
my brother or my friend...

just because he has
eyes and ears like me.

And vice versa.

Look at certain objects.

Some you like, some you don't.

Or colors.

For example, I hate dark red.

It's the same with people.

You can't be forced
to love them all.

Or else, as Guitry said, “You don't know
where to commit your heart.”

She looked at me.

In my opinion,
women should never pass 25.

Men grow more attractive
as they age,

but not women.

I think it's extraordinarily unfair
for a woman to age.

And I've noticed something strange.

When women commit suicide,
they always leap somewhere -

under a train or out a window.

They're so afraid they'll get cold feet
that they hurl themselves forward.

That way there's no turning back.

Men never do that.

Men rarely throw themselves
under the subway.

Women rarely slit their wrists.

I find it brave of them,
but cowardly too.

I don't know.

Life sides with women...

but death sides with men.

Death is what's important.

Van Gogh said we'll ride upon death
to reach another star.

There's something more important
than having an ideal...

but what?

Something more important
than not being defeated.

I'd like to know exactly what it is.

In school I used to admire
the word “pathos.”

Now I despise Wt.

“Taciturn.”

There's a beautiful word,
like “Guillaume.”

I'm lost
unless I pretend to be lost.

Because I figure
everyone has an ideal...

so there's something more important
that everyone's missing.

'M sure God
doesn't have an ideal.

There's a very beautiful quote.

Who said it?
I think it was Lenin.

“Ethics are the aesthetics
of the future.”

I think that's very beautiful
and very moving.

It reconciles
the right and the left.

What do people
on the right and left think?

What's the point of revolution today?

The right wins
and then applies leftist policies,

and the other way around.

I win or lose, but I fight alone.

Around 1930,
young people had a revolution.

For example, Malraux,
Drieu La Rochelle, Aragon.

Now we have nothing.

They had the Spanish Civil War.

We don't even have our own war.

Apart from ourselves...

our own faces and voices,
we have nothing.

But maybe that's the important thing:

to come to recognize
the sound of your own voice

and the shape of your own face.

From inside it's like this...

but when I look at it, it's like this.

So people look at me
but don't know what I'm thinking...

and they'll never know.

Right this moment: a forest in Germany.

A bicycle ride.

That's gone now.

Now... the terrace
of a café in Barcelona.

Now... that's gone.

I try to trap my own thoughts.

And speech -
where does speech come from?

Maybe people talk on and on
like gold prospectors...

to find the truth.

But instead of dredging in a river,

they dredge
among their own thoughts.

They eliminate
all the words of no value...

and end up finding just one.

But a single word by itself...

is already silence.

Why do you love me?

I don't know.

Because I'm crazy.

Who are you calling?

French News Agency.

Please hold.

It's Bruno Forestier.

Put him through.

Hello? Who's this?

Who is it?

It's Bruno.

Who is it?

What's going on?

I don't know.

Bruno Forestier!

Wrong address?
What do you mean?

Maybe they got suspicious
and moved out.

Paul and I just went there.

There's no Mohamed Messousa
at that address.

So no passports
for me and Veronica

unless I agree to kill Palivoda.

Okay. Come over now.

You're brilliant.

Thanks. Good work.

Okay. See you next week.

You were right, Paul.

A girl all alone in life
is either a whore or an informer.

She must know
the Arabs' new address.

Let's go.

Lock yourself in.
You never know with them.

Do they know you were tortured?

Yes.

I'm happy.

The police found my Chevrolet
on a Swiss highway.

- When will you be back?
- I have 10 find Palivoda.

Maybe tonight or tomorrow.

That's a cute dress.

It was a present.

From the guy who gave you
the little dog when we met?

Did you sleep with him?

He's been chasing me for ages.

It's not important.

Yes, it is.

Hasta luego.

See you soon.

Who is it?

It's Bruno.

Who's there?

ls that you, Bruno?

Then everything happened quickly,
and what seemed very complex

played out very simply.

While I went to meet them,

the French shut Veronica away
in a lakeside villa

and tortured her badly

to get the Arabs' new address.

But I didn't know that yet.

Jacques only said
he was holding her hostage,

and I'd get her and the passports

once I'd killed Palivoda.

Sometimes you must have
the strength to clear a path...

with a dagger.

It was after killing Palivoda
that I learned Veronica was dead.

I had no choice
but to learn not to be bitter.

I was just glad I still had
so much time ahead of me.