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But as Aristotle says:

From the poetic point of view,
the persuasive impossible is preferable

to the non-persuasive possible.

So it's not just a feature
of contemporary aesthetics

to play on the borderline
between reality and fiction,

which leads me at last
to the next question,

didn't every period develop

its own modes of hybridization?

The one who'd answer yes
risks knocking on an open door.

That's my feeling. We seem
to be running late...

So I'm moving quickly to
this week's new releases.

I've selected three...

- You think he liked it?
- I'm sure. Relax.

Interiors, by Jean-Rachid Choukri.

A huis clos serving as the pretext
for stunning reflections

on the fragilization
of collective identities...

A bit more academic,
but not without interest,

Oblivion, by Constance Duplere...

Let's hope this title
won't be premonitory

because the author
deserves better.

And finally, The Bathtub
by Frederic Koska.

We'll talk about it next week.
Sorry, we're live.

- Have to yield to the next program.
- I can't believe he did that!

See you again next week. Until
then, I wish you pleasant reading.

You don't need a good TV critique
for your book to sell.

Trust me.

It will sell.

237 copies later.

What are you thinking about?

You must have loads of unsold copies
of The Bathtub left.

- When will they go to the shredder?
- Don't worry. Not right away.

- They'll let you know in advance.
- Why?

In case I'd like to witness
the murder of my work?

- But it's a beautiful death.
- Sure.

Broken, torn, shredded?
It'll be awesome. All of it.

No! They'll be recycled
to make new books.

It's like a reincarnation.

I hope you won't send me
to the shredder as well.

Silly.

Hello.

- Did you sleep well?
- Yes, thanks.

But I was working.

I mean, I didn't wake up just now.

For all I care, you can sleep
until noon if you want to.

That's what's good about your job.
No regular hours.

Stop teasing him, Dad!

- Working on the next book?
- Yes.

Is it true, it's like a parachute jump?
The second is the hardest.

I've no idea. I never did
a parachute jump.

Make sure you don't screw up this one.

I mean, The Bathtub was good
but a bit too claustrophobic.

At some point, one wishes
the guy'd get out of the bathtub.

Yes. I thought about it.
But I didn't do it.

- Too bad.
- Dad!

I did what I could. I put it
in the bookstore.

But I can't force people to buy it.

- Dad!
- Thanks anyway, Gerard.

My pleasure, Fred!

The Old Bedsheets.
By Damien Boulard.

- That Boulard really got to you?
- I don't know.

I must've done something
to his ancestors in a previous life

so now he tries to kill me
with boredom.

Really that bad?

It's you who'll tell the poor guy
he's been rejected?

No, an intern will send him
a formal letter.

Yes, that famous letter.

"After reading your manuscript,"

"we suggest you change your job ASAP,"

"in order to maintain the mental health
of our reading committee,"

"and for the good of
all of the humanity."

There's a man here who had
a funny idea a few years ago.

The librarian from Crozon.

He decided to collect all the
manuscripts refused by publishers.

- Original, right?
- Great idea!

A library of rejected books.

- Is this library still there?
- I think so.

Let's go there tomorrow.
I'd really like to see it.

Right now, I'm not really into
rejected books.

Maybe it's contagious, who knows?

But I'm really interested.

Hello. I'm looking for
the rejected books room.

It doesn't work. Anyway, nobody
comes here anymore.

- Well, I'll leave you here.
- Thanks.

MASTURBATION AND SUSHI
by Sarah Dechamps.

CAVIAR FOR THE BRAVE ONES
by Milan Ertaci.

THE LAST HOURS OF
A LOVE STORY by Henri Pick.

- Well?
- I feel like killing myself.

But you don't know
the craziest part.

The author, Henri Pick, was
a local guy. He owned a pizzeria.

Oh really?

Writer and pizza-maker.
Works well together.

Dad, do you know
where I can find Henri Pick?

At the cemetery.

He died 2 or 3 years ago.
Madeleine, his wife, is still alive. Why?

Because I'm gonna publish
her husband's book.

Frankly, I doubt it. I can't
imagine Henri writing a book.

Maybe he just didn't dare
to tell you about it.

- But what is it? Recipes?
- No.

It's a novel.

It's a love story set against
the backdrop of Pushkin's death.

- Who?
- Pushkin, the Russian poet.

Look, Madeleine.
You'd better read it.

I'm sure you'll recognize
your husband's voice.

To M.

It's very beautiful indeed.

But why would he hide it from us?

Maybe he lacked self-confidence
and underestimated his talent.

Really, can you see Dad writing
between two loads of pizza?

Can you imagine him philosophizing
about Pushkin? Dad and Pushkin?

- And all the sex scenes...
- You know, beneath his modest exterior,

your father was...

OK, let's talk about it
some other time.

- But I'm interested...
- Finish your chocolate, dear.

And this library...
Doesn't that surprise you?

I doubt he even knew that
there was one in Crozon.

Maybe he left the novel for us,
to remember him by.

Where's his stuff?

PUSHKIN EUGENE ONEGIN

"Happiness was so near,
so possible..."

THE MYSTERY OF HENRI PICK

Wendy, how many times must
I ask you to number the cards?

As a college graduate, you can
surely count to 10?

OK, Jean-Michel.

- Here.
- Thanks a lot.

There's a whistling noise.
It's stressful.

Let me see.

I hear nothing.

Of course. How long have
you been on this job?

40 years? It's normal. See you.

- Shall we?
- Hello, Jean-Michel.

Everybody's here. Let's roll.

- 20 seconds.
- Jean-Michel, do you hear me?

- Yes, I hear you.
- So, Madeleine Pick.

Exclusively. No interviews elsewhere.

She's stressed and nervous.
Don't screw up.

OK.

Can you do something about
this whistling noise?

- Live in 5, 4, 3, 2...
- Live.

Good evening everyone, welcome,
and thanks for your loyalty.

Infinitif is live
like every Sunday...

You write, and you fail
to be published.

All the publishers
reject your manuscript.

Don't despair. This show's
just for you.

Imagine a library
that would collect all the texts

that publishers didn't want.

Well, such library exists
in Brittany,

in the little village of Crozon.

It's called the library
of rejected books.

It's right there that a young editor
at Grasset, Ms Daphne Despero,

who's with us tonight, thanks
for accepting our invitation,

discovered a manuscript which
she immediately wanted to publish,

The Last Hours of a Love Story
by the mysterious Henri Pick.

The book was published a few weeks ago
and is already a literary sensation.

You'll talk in more detail about it,

and Wendy will take us,
thanks to your report,

to discover this incredible,
unique library.

For those who haven't read it yet,

The Last Hours of a Love Story

depicts the end of a relationship

that parallels with the slow agony

of the great Russian poet
Alexander Pushkin

after he was wounded in a duel.

The author mixes love, death, in
an unsettling pas de deux.

It's a truly remarkable novel.
I'd say it's a little masterpiece.

- You've read it, I suppose?
- Yes, it's very powerful.

I think it resonates a bit
with your own work

which established you as
an ethnologist of eroticism.

We'd have loved to have
Henry Pick with us tonight,

but unfortunately,
he left us two years ago,

but I'm pleased to welcome
Madeleine Pick, his wife.

- Madeleine Pick, good evening.
- Good evening.

We are very happy
to have you here.

Thank you.

You agreed without hesitation
to publish this manuscript.

Do you think that was
what he'd have wanted?

I ask you this because

he seemed to be a bit of a recluse
who desired to stay in the shadows,

which reminds us of
the great Portuguese poet

Fernando Pessoa, who rarely used
his own name. What do you think?

How do I know if he wanted or not?
We can't ask him now.

Obviously not.

If you allow me, by agreeing
to publish her husband's novel,

Madeleine... brings him back to life.

- To a certain degree.
- Of course.

What kind of authors
did your husband read?

Classics or contemporaries?

I don't know.
I never saw him reading.

How come you never
saw him reading?

You mean you never
saw him reading or writing?

Don't you think it's odd?

If he wrote in secret,
maybe he read in secret too.

Well, where exactly
did he write in secret?

In the back room of your restaurant?

Yes. He spent there all the time.
His office was there too.

I have to specify to our viewers

that you and your husband
had a pizzeria in Crozon.

By the way, it seems people
from all over France come

just to see where your husband
wrote his novel.

They wouldn't be coming for pizza,
since it's a crepes place now.

Crepes, then.

Tell me how do you feel
about all this enthusiasm.

Well, I don't quite understand.

All the newspapers want to interview me,
they search through our life...

I even found a reporter in
my garden perched on my apple tree.

But you surely have
nothing to hide?

- No, why?
- No, it's... how to put it...

At times one can question
the authenticity...

of this novel's origins.
You know what I mean?

- What?
- What are you playing at, Jean-Michel?

I'm just asking out loud
what many people say quietly.

- What's that?
- Are you sure

that your husband
really wrote this novel?

How come? I don't understand!

- You don't?
- Cut it off, Jean-Michel!

Well I say this because...

One can't read this novel
without being seized by doubts.

Pardon me, what are you
insinuating?

What if this is just
an incredible editorial coup?

Yes, it's a remarkable novel.
But the story of the novel...

The story of the novel,
the entire set-up...

This idea of a literary gem
found in the heart of Brittany,

Pure genius.

You understand why
I ask this question?

So what is the truth,
Daphne Despero?

The truth is very simple:

When I heard about
the library of rejected books,

I intuitively felt the need
to give it a closer look.

And once I was inside,
it's strange,

I felt like a call. As if...

As if Henri Pick's ghost had
designated you, is that right?

Just like St Theresa of Avila.

Enough with this circus!

- You're mocking my husband!
- What she's done to us!

No! Switch to the documentary
on Crozon.

The little village of Crozon
became a place of pilgrimage...

You're not gonna leave the set
just like that?

Spare us of this psychodrama!

Get this thing off me!

Can you imagine a Breton pizza maker

who never wrote a line,
to produce a book of this caliber?

He was surely a nice guy, but...

How dares he to say that?

It's such a smug thing to say!

Many authors were doing something else
before they began writing for a living.

Bukowski was a postman, Kafka was
an insurance clerk, and Lamartine...

Lamartine was a bodyguard.
Bodyguard. Kevin Costner.

- And who are you?
- I'm Josephine Pick.

The daughter of that Breton pizza maker
who never read a book in his life,

and who tells you to piss off
from beyond the grave!

I never said that!

That's enough!

Excuse us.

What's wrong?
What's the problem?

I'm just doing my job
as a literary critic.

No. You're a presenter. You present
and nothing else is required.

Come to your senses, apologize
and we'll finish the show! Come on!

- Bring them back, please.
- They're gone, Serge.

- What?
- They left.

I'll apologize, but I'm not
a presenter.

- No one talked to me like that!
- Live in 5, 4...

- I'll tell you one thing...
- 3, 2, 1 !

- You're live.
- Good evening.

We are back again...

- So you attack old ladies now?
- Not at all!

Don't you see this story
doesn't stand scrutiny?

You've read the book.
You see what I mean?

- You've become so cynical!
- Not really.

You believe in nothing. You don't see
the beauty of things anymore.

Remember? When we met,
you were so passionate...

Literature was everything to you.

It was your religion.

Since you began working on TV,
you've got smaller

even on a large screen...

This book overwhelmed me.
It was like an existential shock.

An existential shock? Really?

We're separating, Jean-Michel.

We're not gonna separate
over a book. It's ridiculous.

Don't get all worked up.
Let's part nicely.

A separation can also be poetic.

This is what Henri Pick
demonstrates in his novel.

Make an effort.

Are you serious?

Our relationship ended long time ago,
you know it.

- Can we take time to think it over?
- It's too late for that.

Too late?

Let it go.
Follow Pushkin's example

when he understands
that it's useless to fight,

and death will get him anyway.

He accepts it and goes serenely.
It's so powerful!

I'll help you to pack a bag

with a few things, for now,
so you too can go serenely.

WHO IS HENRI PICK?

Here's your Papa doble,
Mr. Rouche,

Thanks, Julien.

Bad news?

Tonight my wife kicked me out
like a rat,

and they just let me know via SMS

that I've been fired.

- I'll take another one.
- Coming up.

"And happiness was so possible..."

Cleaning!

Brigitte? It's me.
I thought about it last night.

And I disagree with you.

What you find poetic,
seems violent to me...

This woman's cruelty, as
she was leaving home...

Wait a moment,
I'm looking for that passage.

When she leaves the house,

and when she says...

Wait. I can't find
that passage. Call me back.

THE LAST HOURS OF A LOVE STORY.

There it is. On this computer
you will find the list

of all the texts received
by Gallimard since 1992.

- And before 1 992?
- It's here. Starting from 1 91 9.

Oh, yes. OK, thanks a lot.

Henri Pick.

No documents found.

The Last Hours of a Love Story.

No documents found.

You can't imagine how much buzz
you created for us, Jean-Michel.

The book was already selling
like crazy but now...

Since your show, the bookstores
are running out of copies.

You should pay me royalties.

- You want... Small? Large?
- I want the truth.

Who was that ghostwriter?

Because the guy is talented.
Very talented.

They do this for footballers
or reality-TV starlets.

Not for some obscure pizza maker.

Did you give it for an expertise?

But of course!

Should we also do a DNA test
or carbon dating...

while we're at it?

You know what? Let's also
ask for Pick's exhumation.

Very funny.

Michel!

Did you know that he never sent
the manuscript to any publisher?

Never. I checked. None.

It emerged in the library of
rejected books without being rejected.

- Don't you find that curious?
- So what?

It's not forbidden to keep your
novel to yourself. Take a seat.

They praised the qualities
of a man who never sought glory.

You know very well that
all writers dream

that one day their talent
would be recognized.

Honestly, if this whole story
were a hoax, I would know.

- Do you really think that?
- Daphne Despero.

I can't see her being able
to dupe me like that.

I assure you, when she
brought Pick's manuscript,

she had that twinkle in her eye,
like as if she'd discovered Peru.

You know she sold
the movie rights?

Apparently, the movie would be
more about Henri Pick

than about his novel.

- They paid, they do what they like.
- Our era is really obsessed with form.

But you? Are you returning
to the written criticism?

And we'll shake in our boots again
every Thursday,

waiting for an issue of
Figaro litteraire?

- Did I really terrorize you?
- Not me. The others, yes.

Actually...

Here. Come to celebrate Pick's
success with us in a dignified way.

OK?

Ines, I'll prove that Henri Pick
can't be the author.

Now you're turning this
into a personal matter.

I have no idea who wrote this book,
why he used Pick's name,

how it turned up in
this unbelievable library,

but I'll find out.

Are you really gonna embark
on this crusade

just to prove you're right?

- I'm coming down now.
- Hello.

Mr. Rouche.
What can I do for you?

I just spoke with Ines de Crecy.
You didn't lie to her, I hope?

- Why would you say that?
- That'd be a dangerous game.

It could endanger your career.
You realize that?

You continue with your insinuations!
Sorry, I'm expected for lunch.

- Shall we go?
- Wait. Hello.

Frederic Koska. You were supposed
to review my book on your show,

my first book, The Bathtub,
but ran out of time. Remember?

Maybe.

May I ask what you thought about it?

- Yes, you may.
- Fred, I only have 30 minutes for lunch.

- Just a sec, please.
- I'll wait for you over there.

But why do you run from me?
What are you afraid of?

It's presumptuous of you to think
you're intimidating me.

You're obsessed with it.

The book has found its audience.
Everyone loves it. What bothers you?

Henri Pick never wrote
a line in his life.

I'll never let you
defile his memory.

Don't lose your temper. Some
may think you're being defensive.

You touched on Daphne's sensitive spot.

You know, Henri Pick became
the most important person in her life.

A kind of omnipresent God
she reveres.

Others don't matter.

What's got into to you?
Are you jealous or what?

How could I not be jealous?

OK, you have no time.
I'm not hungry anymore. Bye.

I hope you'll have the opportunity
to speak about my book next time.

Miss, let me tell you one thing.

Literary impostors
always end up being exposed.

No offense, but you're
a raving conspirologist.

Fred, wait!

It's indeed extremely well detailed.

The mores of the time are
well rendered.

The author is surely an expert
on Russia.

Maybe a historian
who must speak Russian.

What makes you believe that?

He relies on a rather
controversial book,

which gives a different take on
the circumstances of Pushkin's death.

And that book has never
been translated into French.

Brigitte, you never called me back.
Don't bother. I'm leaving.

I'm leaving Paris and I'm not sure
if I'll have coverage over there.

Could you please keep checking
on my mail at Bristol?

I'll come for my things later.

Anybody there?

Yes, I'm coming.

This show is presented to you
by Audible.

See me again next Sunday
at another edition of Infinitif,

to talk about writing,
reading and literature.

- Who's there?
- Jean-Michel Rouche.

No. Leave me alone. Go away.

I've come to apologize, Madeleine.

I've travelled 600 km to see you.

Spare me just a moment. One moment!

Madeleine, you said that

this whole story, for you,

was an opportunity to bring
your husband back to life.

Well, bring him
back to life for me!

Bring him back to life for me!

Tell me why it's so obvious
to you that he wrote the book.

Be nice, Madeleine.
Open the door. Madeleine, please!

Come in.

1 6 months spent on a warship
in the middle of the Indian Ocean!

Can you imagine?
And when we met again, we swore

to never part again.

And that's what we did
until his death.

I think Henri kept in him
this fear of losing me.

And he rendered it many years later
in his book.

- Did your husband speak Russian?
- No, why?

Because Russia figures
prominently in the book.

Well, he liked vodka a lot.

And he made a red chilli pizza,
and called it the Stalin-style.

A real Russophile, this Henri!

- Was he a bit depressive?
- Not at all. Why'd you say that?

- He looks very serious in that photo.
- Don't you see he's smiling?

You think he's smiling?

I know my husband.

It's harder to guess
because of the mustache.

Behind his mustache, he smiles.

- I believe you.
- You don't look like you do.

You seem to believe
nothing of what I told you.

It's normal to feel that way. You were
told your husband wrote a book,

so you search for traces
of your own life in every line.

Don't you see the connection between
my memories and his book?

It can't be a coincidence.

We always find ourselves
in a book.

Just as I thought: I didn't convince
you. I'll see you out.

Did they give you back
the original manuscript?

Yes.

I'd really like to see it,
if possible.

Madeleine,
it's a misunderstanding.

Good morning, sisters.

Here. Thanks a lot!
Goodbye! See you soon, I hope.

- Are you finished with it?
- Yes, it was very good.

Would you like to
come with me for the visit?

Yes.

Come.

Your four-cheese pizza.

- Everything's good, sir?
- Very good. Delicious. Thanks.

I wanted to thank you personally
for ordering a crepe.

That's nice of you. But in a
creperie, normally...

Yes. But since Pick's book,
people who come here

think it's still a pizzeria,
and they order pizza.

So we had to put it back on the menu.

Oh, yeah? Sit down, please.

You aren't too happy about it.

I'm specialized in crepes,
not in pizza.

It ain't easy, you know? My wife
says I should see a shrink.

This damned book!

Did you know Henri Pick?

No. I took over the restaurant
after his death.

- I'll get you a liqueur. It's on me.
- That's nice.

Madam, can I have the check, please.

Would it be possible
to visit you-know-what?

- Sure. Come with me.
- Gladly.

- Here's where he wrote it.
- Oh, yes...

- May I take a photo?
- Sure.

We left everything as it was.
Nothing was touched.

- Is this his office?
- Yes.

- May I?
- Of course.

Remember, in the book, when
Pushkin agonizes on his deathbed,

from the window of his room he could
see the village bell tower.

Look.

- I can't see anything.
- Lean back.

- Lean some more!
- No, I don't see it.

- Farther back!
- Yes, you're right. Indeed.

- Have a glass of chouchenn.
- Thanks, very kind of you.

And thanks again for the crepe.

- You think I could charge for the visits?
- I don't know.

Well, the cemetery guard
isn't shy to ask for money.

Oh yeah?

- Here.
- Thanks.

- It's over there.
- Many thanks. Have a good day.

- Remove those that are faded.
- OK.

What are you doing here?

My mother just told me on the phone
that you harassed her at her home!

Now you have the nerve to come here!
What's wrong with you?

- Who do you think you are?
- OK, I'm leaving. Sorry.

Have a good day. Excuse me.

- You want me to feel pity for you?
- Not at all. I'm a bit lost.

It fits.

I'm exhausted.

Why did you come here?

Well... I'm not sure
you'd like it.

Try it. I'm tough as a tank.

Well?

Are you kidding me?

And where did you hope to
find evidence? On his grave?

One must start somewhere.

- Where do I take you?
- Hotel du Port.

- Oh, no!
- It won't take long, dear.

- What do you think?
- About what?

My father's book?
It's none of your business.

What makes me doubt it is that
he never wrote anything else.

If we could find a greeting card,
a letter, a postcard...

I've got his letters.
What do you imagine?

- Oh really?
- Yes.

Yes, he wrote me
a very beautiful letter

when I went on a school
skiing trip.

That proves his talent.

If you read it, you would be
forced to recant.

I'm willing to take the risk.

Yes, but I have no idea
where I put it.

Yes, I put it in a book.
But which one?

- I can help you look for it.
- Now really!

I don't trust you, Mr. Rouche.

You're right.

It was on the left!

The faster you read the letter,
the sooner you'll leave.

And then, I'd rather
have you in my view.

- Can I come in?
- Stop playing on your phone!

- Should I close the door?
- Yes, please.

Go settle in the living room.

- Honey, take your snack.
- OK.

Well, I thought it'd be easier.

What did you think, that
country people don't read?

Not at all, on the contrary.
That's all you can do here.

Just kidding.

I'm really very impressed.

However, I can't figure out
the logic of your classification system.

I sort them by theme using
the good neighbor rule.

Often, when searching for a book,

the one you really need
is the one next to it.

- The Warburg method?
- Exactly.

Which lets you put Henry Miller
and Anais Nin side by side

without Nietzsche
being in the middle.

Sit down, don't touch anything.

Melville, please, go get your
things. Your father'll be here soon.

Alright.

Are you separated from his dad?

- You are very nosy.
- Sorry.

Yes, he dumped me last year.

That's it.

He attempted a comeback when he saw

that we were going
to collect the royalties.

When he realized that everything
was going to a charity,

he dumped me again.
He's that kind of guy.

I don't get it. You don't
want the royalties?

- No.
- You know, it's a lot of money.

May I ask you to which charity
you'll donate the money?

To the foundation for
Alzheimer's research.

Where did I put that letter,
dammit!

You really don't want my help?

OK. Go ahead,
but don't mess up anything.

Funny. You have a Pushkin.

The Captain's Daughter.

Turgenev's novellas,

- Anna Karenina...
- Yes. So what?

Maybe it's you,
the fiendish mystificator.

- Are you serious?
- Well, yes.

When your husband left you,
writing was your catharsis.

But since you didn't want
to give him the vain pleasure

of being the hero of a novel,

you didn't seek to publish it.

And I signed it with my dad's name

and I left it at the library?
Clever!

You do have imagination. Obviously.
You just forget one detail.

- I wouldn't be able to write a novel.
- What's your ex-husband's name?

- Marc.
- But the book is dedicated to M.

He'd be the last person I'd dedicate
a book to.

- M for Melville.
- Well then maybe he wrote it.

And dedicated it to his mother.
That's very cute!

I'm not ruling out anything.

- That's it, you wrote it.
- Me?

Why would I then come to Crozon,
to the end of the world,

to find out what I already knew? It's
from the realm of psychiatry.

Here's a great classic of noir fiction.

The schizophrenic detective
who investigates himself.

You really write very well.
I was reading you in Le Figaro.

I was listening to you at The Mask and
the Pen. You really made me laugh.

Grandma Donald!

What is "Grandma Donald"?

That was my fist cooking book,
my father gave it to me.

Grandma Donald's Good Recipes.

I've got it.

May I?

Sure. Help yourself.

"Sweetie, your letter
pleased me a great deal.

"And besides you tell me
lots of things.

"I'm glad you're in the same
room with your friend Hortense.

"I hope you're no longer
afraid of the chairlifts,"

"and you'll return
with the first prize."

"If not, who cares. We miss
you a lot. Enjoy your stay."

"You're coming back Sunday."

"It's been raining since you left.
It's sad. Daddy."

"P.S. Thanks for your sketch of
the mountain. It's very beautiful."

Well, it's not exactly
what I remembered.

Childhood memories aren't
very reliable, unfortunately.

After all, you could
say it has a touch of...

- A touch of Duras.
- Yes, in the economy of style.

Duras... The economy...

Duras would have written:
"The father writes.

"The father has decided
to write to his daughter.

"Writing is not talking."

"Writing is silent."

"Writing is shouting silently."

"So the father writes to his daughter."

"He really hoped she would get
the first prize."

"He never received awards. That is
why he hoped his daughter gets one."

This usually makes people laugh. But
now it's probably not the right time.

A letter to a child and a novel
have nothing in common.

If we found Proust's shopping list,

we wouldn't recognize in it
the author of...

Remembrance of Things Past.

Yes, but they found Proust's shopping
list, and it looks great.

Listen, I'm gonna be blunt

but given the style, the syntax,

it's totally impossible
that your father wrote that book.

I'm sorry.

Alright, I'll leave you now.

So if it wasn't him, then who?

I don't know.

But when I find out,
I hope you'll forgive me.

Good night.

LIBRARY.

SLAVIC LITERATURE.

Good morning, madam.

Mr. Rouche, good morning, but...

It's an honor to have you here.
What can I do for you?

I'd like to see the library of rejected
books if that's possible.

Yes, of course.

Excuse me.

Follow me.

You were here when Daphne Despero
found the manuscript?

The Last Hours of a Love Story?

Yes, she came one afternoon, and...

before she left, she asked me
if she could borrow a manuscript.

- It was Henri Pick's.
- Are you sure it was that one?

Yes, she showed it to me. I thought
it was a beautiful title.

- And then, when the book came out,
- Yes?

I read it right away
and loved it.

- Did you like it?
- Yes, very much.

- Here it is.
- Good morning.

- Good morning.
- Good morning.

Yes, it's the publishers'
latest fad.

They send interns over here
hoping to find another gem.

- Anything interesting?
- Not really.

May I take a look?

Inflatable Dolls Don't Have
Menopause Problems.

What about you?

- Mr. Rouche, pleased to meet you.
- Pleased to meet you.

- It's a bunch of nonsense.
- May I?

How to Cook on
the Engine of Your Car.

Oh, yeah.

I never understood the point of
depositing texts nobody wants.

But when Mr. Gourvec fell ill,

he made me promise him
to look after this place.

He said, "All these writers trusted us."

"We can't betray them."

So, since he died,
I've kept everything as it was.

- Gourvec?
- Yes.

He founded this library.

It's him. Look.
He was an exceptional man.

He was so passionate
about his work...

Yes, one must be passionate
to create a place like this.

At the beginning, the media
covered it a lot.

They even came here to make
a TV special.

- Really?
- Yes.

- Are these the internal rules?
- Yes.

- May I?
- Of course.

"First, the manuscript must
have never been published."

- Never.
- Secondly,

"storing the manuscript
is free."

Eightly, ninthly...
Oh! What does that mean?

"Poan ar re all so skanv da zougen."

- It's in Breton.
- And it means what?

It means: "The pain of others
is easy to bear."

May I? Carefully.

"The pain of others is easy
to bear"...

- Do you have a registry of entries?
- Yes, of course.

Oh! The Last Hours
of a Love Story...

Pick was one of the first
submissions?

Yes!

Was it you who registered it,
perchance?

No. I came here afterwards.

Yes. May I?

- Are you of Russian origin?
- Not at all.

- And Jean-Pierre Gourvec?
- 100% Breton.

I ask because you have a fair amount
of Russian novels here.

It's funny you have everything by
Pushkin, except Eugene Onegin.

You must have it because
it's his best known work.

Eugene Onegin was borrowed
5 years ago, but it was returned.

It should've been here,
I don't understand.

Can you give me the borrower's name?

Benedicte le Floch?
Jean-Michel Rouche.

- Come in, please.
- You're adorable. Thanks a lot.

Ladies, we have a prominent
surprise guest.

Let me introduce you to the members
of the Crozon Book Club.

Delighted.

We're all your loyal fans.

Infinitif isn't the same
without you.

We should petition for
your return.

Yes.

But what brings you to Crozon?

I wanted to visit this famous
library of rejected books.

It's a bit complicated
what I'm gonna ask you.

5 years ago you borrowed
a book from the library.

Eugene Onegin, by Alexander Pushkin.

- Did you return it?
- Oh, yes!

I always return the books I borrow.

And then the book
didn't really hook me.

You didn't like it?

No. I thought it was a thriller.

Because there was a guy
with a gun on the cover.

It turned out to be poetry.
It's not my thing.

I have to tell you, Mr. Rouche.

Here, in our club,
we only read thrillers.

Today, we discuss
the latest Bjorn Olafsson.

A Smell of Blood and
Cut-off Bones, did you read it?

- No.
- Let's ask him.

You think one can dismember
a corpse with an electric knife?

- A corpse?
- Yes.

Let's say the body of
a man of your built.

No idea. Maybe I'll leave you now.

No way. It'd take a saw.

Or a chainsaw.

Benedicte, have you got
an electric knife in your kitchen?

No. But maybe I should
order one for Christmas.

But tell us, Mr. Rouche,

what were you looking for
in that library?

Has it anything to do
with Henri Pick?

You're still skeptical, right?

You know, here in Brittany,
we see even stranger things.

What really interests me

is the former librarian,
Mr. Jean-Pierre Gourvec.

- Did you know him?
- Of course.

And I knew his wife well too.

Was he married?

- I thought he preferred men.
- Me too.

It was more than 50 years ago.
She used to give me piano lessons.

In fact, she lived here
one year, two years at most.

And then she moved to Paris.

And Gourvec never heard of her since.

Besides, I think that made him
very unhappy.

- How was this Mrs Gourvec called?
- Ludmila.

Ludmila? She was Russian?

Yes, she came from the USSR.

Good morning, Josephine.
I came to say goodbye.

Leaving?

Yes, I have to go back to Paris
to check on a couple of things.

And there's a reception tomorrow
night at Grasset. I'd better be there.

Isn't it hypocritical to
celebrate the success of a book

that you suspect of being
a literary hoax?

Do you have a goat?

No, it's Juan, the
neighbor's billy goat.

Aren't you going too?
They invited you, though.

I got an invitation, but I'm
not going, I don't know anyone.

- But you know me.
- Why? You need a ride?

No. I'll take a bus and a train.

- Have a good trip.
- Have a good day.

Get in. I'm going with you.
I want a change of scene.

You prefer to keep an eye on me?

I really wish I knew one thing.

Why is it so important to you

to prove that my father
didn't write the book?

What are you a knight of probity?

A guardian of French literature?

I lost almost everything
because of this book.

I lost my job, my
reputation and my wife.

And yet, irrationally,

this whole affair was
my awakening.

I have to go all the way
with this inquiry.

I see.

But you're about to upturn
our lives in the process.

It's this book that
upturns our lives.

Don't you think, Josephine?

I love to see you driving.

It's like my past has taken on
another dimension.

Like a landscape you look at
from an opposite point of view.

This secret is almost
like a double life.

Do you realize how much
rewinding I had to do?

Pretty destabilizing, indeed.

I was worried about my mother.
I thought it'd finish her.

But not at all.
She takes it very well.

I even think it helps her
in her bereavement.

- So I follow her example.
- Yes.

The difference is that
you aren't a dupe.

As long as the opposite
hasn't been proven.

The letter hasn't convinced you yet?

OK, forget the letter.

At least, admit that there
are many inconsistencies.

If your father was so secretive,

why would he deposit
the manuscript at this library?

Why would he use his own name?

Any time, someone could discover it.

It's like a message in a bottle.

Writing a book, leaving it somewhere,

and hoping that someone, some day,
will discover it.

- It's completely illogical.
- True. But it's human.

One may want to protect
one's secret garden

and at the same time,
to dream of posterity.

He might've thought that
no one would ever

look into this library.

Right, who cares about manuscripts
that everybody rejected?

It's the best hiding place.
Lost amongst the others.

But the librarian Gourvec knew!

They knew each other, and he
was sworn to silence.

I can picture that scene:
"Jean-Pierre, my friend, I count on you."

"No gaffes when you come to eat"

"a four-cheese pizza
at the restaurant."

It's too weak a phrase

for a hidden talent
of French litterature.

Ah! You see?

What are you doing tomorrow?

I have to go to the National Library
to check the audio-visual archives.

Why do you ask? Wanna join me?

Not at all. What
makes you think that?

I think you're crazy about me.

- Good night.
- Just an impression.

I'm going there too.
Don't get wrong ideas.

THE LIBRARY OF REJECTED BOOKS.

When I started here, the
library was in a deplorable state.

Half abandoned.

I put a lot of energy into
bringing this place to life.

So the mayor's office honored me
with an extra room.

Then I decided to give a chance

to all the manuscripts
rejected by the publishers.

Follow me.

Careful... After all,
they're books too.

Books orphaned of publishers.
Books dreaming of a shelter.

Well, here it is:
The library of rejected books.

The idea came to me from a
novel by Richard Brautigan,

one of my favorite authors.

Anyone can deposit their text,
be it...

an essay:

How to Grow Flowers by Candlelight
in a Hotel Room.

A book of recipes of all the dishes
mentioned in Dostoevsky's novels.

Sort of... Cuisine and Punishment.

The rejection itself can't be indicative
of the book's quality.

Journey to the End of the Night,

Joyce's Ulysses, Swann's Way,

all of them were initially rejected.

For deposit requests,
Minitel is practical. 361 5 Refusal

I don't know why
it isn't working now.

Some writers have travelled
across the country

to unload here the fruits
of their failure.

We could look at it
as a mystical path.

The literary version
of the Way of St. James.

Since our first year we've received
almost a thousand manuscripts.

Not bad, huh?

Look, Gourvec also uses a typewriter.

Yes. It's a Hermes 3000.
Just like my father's.

Maybe this confirms what I thought.

- Meaning?
- Follow me.

- Meaning?
- Follow me!

Should I get your stuff?

- Where are we going now?
- I need to check something again.

So, you won't tell me where
we're going. Nice. Good atmosphere.

We're close. We're close.

Author: Jean-Pierre Gourvec.

No documents found.

- Are you gonna explain it to me now?
- There's nothing.

What are we looking for?

That's it, I got it!

Look. Jean-Pierre Gourvec.

The Girl from Siberia.

So Gourvec did write a novel.

Which was rejected by Gallimard,

and probably by all other publishers,

and it ended up on the shelves

of the library of rejected books.

I don't see the connection
with my father's book.

It was Gourvec who wrote it!
You still don't get it?

He simply changed the title
and the author's name!

He rechristened The Girl from Siberia

as The Last Hours of a Love Story.
And signed it "Henri Pick".

OK, that's your hypothesis,
but why would he do that?

Good question.
Why would he do that?

So why would he do that?

Because he didn't want
someone to believe

that all the energy he put
into creating this library

actually had a strong
personal motive.

And yet, he created that place
as a tomb for his novel.

- Gourvec, unbelievable!
- Why did he choose my father's name?

Well, you told me,
they were friends,

Choosing your father to become
the guardian of his most precious property

meant choosing a shadow force,
totally unsuspectable.

Gourvec again!
You don't think so?

No, but I'm curious.

How are you gonna prove
this crazy theory?

Ludmila Blavitsky. His ex-wife.

She'll confirm it.
She's The Girl from Siberia.

- If she's still alive.
- She lives on Rue de Monpensier,

in front of the Palais Royal Theatre,
and we're invited for tea.

I take no credit. She was in
the phone book. Let's go.

So you are friends of Jean-Pierre's?

How is he?

Well, so so.
Well, he's... Tell her.

I'm sorry to tell you,
but he's dead.

For several years already.

For me, he'll always be the
handsome 20-year old man.

Impossible for me to imagine
that he may grow old... die...

Did you know he wrote a novel?

No, but he was an avid reader.

And I like listening to the music.

So, here it is...
an incompatible couple.

Yes, it couldn't work.
Is that why you broke up?

We weren't really a couple.
It was a sham marriage.

I needed papers, and
he was willing to marry me.

But why I'm telling you all this?

Gourvec wrote a novel titled
The Girl from Siberia.

Do you originate from there?

My parents came from Warsaw,

but they were forced
to leave Poland in '39,

and went to Siberia.
Yes, I was born there.

This novel was inspired by you.

Your leaving. All the words he
didn't know how to tell you,

because he loved you.

- Jean-Pierre loved me?
- He did.

The manuscript was just discovered
and published under another title:

The Last Hours of a Love Story.

I'd really love to read it,
but I'm losing my eyesight.

- We could read it to you.
- Would you do that for me?

Of course.

This way you'll tell us
if you recognize yourself.

The book is dedicated to M.

You have any idea who
that may be?

M for Milochka,
diminutive of Ludmila.

That's it!

Chapter One.

"Life doesn't want to escape me,"

"preferring to stay in my body,
and let me suffer."

- Are you convinced now?
- Not at all.

Come on, haven't you
seen her emotions?

She kept saying
"It was so much like him!"

By the end, she had tears
in her eyes!

My mother had exactly
the same reaction.

We always believe a good book
was written for us.

- Of course.
- Ludmila isn't even Russian,

- she's Polish.
- She was born in Omsk,

in the depths of Siberia.

Meanwhile, nothing says that
The Last Hours of a Love Story

and The Girl from Siberia
are the same novel.

You have no proof. Don't forget
the typewriter found at my father's.

Will you stop contradicting me?

I've no reason to deprive
myself of such pleasure.

- Where are you going?
- Over there. That's all.

My car is parked there.

- Good evening.
- Thanks.

- Be discreet.
- Why?

- All those crackpot theories...
- Why do you say that?

We're not discussing
them now, not here.

Let's go.

I'm counting on you.

Good evening.

- Good evening.
- Good evening.

Good evening, Josephine. It's great
you could come. How are you?

Very well, thanks.

- Mr. Rouche...
- Good evening.

I'm surprised you were invited.

I knew Ines de Crecy even
before you were born.

It's funny, because she never
spoke of you.

I've been wondering if you weren't
at the origins of this whole story,

but it's possible you were duped
like everyone else.

He's at it again. Don't mind him,
he's a bit obsessive.

I want you to meet someone.
Please come with me.

- With pleasure. See you.
- See you.

- Jean-Michel...
- Ines, how are you?

- Tell me, you came as a friend?
- Of course.

- Care for a drink?
- Gladly.

Two champagnes.

- Well?
- You saw they emulated us at Albin Michel?

They fished out some poor guy
who'd been rejected 32 times

just so they could put it on the cover:
"A novel rejected 32 times".

And Jack Lang wants to establish
the Day of Unpublished Authors.

Since one out of three Frenchmen
dabbles in writing,

there'll be a lot of people
out there in the streets.

That's the happiness and
the unhappiness of my profession.

There are more writers
than readers in France.

OK, I'll leave you.
See you later.

Sure. See you later.

Wendy, you're terrific!

Good luck.

I really don't have time.

- Why did you lie to me?
- What?

I asked Ines what she thought
of my new novel.

I told you to wait before talking
to her. You're so annoying.

- Why did you say she'd read it?
- You put so much pressure on me!

I only want you to keep
your promises.

I'll mention it at the next
reading committee.

I have to go back.
They're waiting for me.

We'll talk later, OK?

Thank you, does everyone hear me?
Great.

Thank you all for coming tonight

to celebrate with us the great success
of Henri Pick's book,

The Last Hours of a Love Story.

Next to me is Daphne Despero,
Junior Editor.

She is at the origins
of this incredible discovery.

Welcome, Daphne!

Excuse me, I'm a bit nervous.

Thanks to you, Ines.

And thanks to everyone
for being here today,

because it's you too
who made it happen.

- She's beautiful!
- Good evening, how are you?

Funny, when I first met her,
she looked rather short.

Tonight she seems much taller.

Maybe it's because of the heels?

No, because of the ambition.

Of Henri, which I
would've liked to know.

But I said to myself
that he's a bit with us

tonight thanks to Josephine,
his daughter.

Have a pleasant evening.

This is horrible.

You still don't believe it?
It's stronger than you.

Trust me, I also find it
hard to believe.

And rightly so, for all this is
just an enormous masquerade.

It's obvious that Henri Pick
did not write this book.

- Who wrote it then?
- Too soon to reveal.

By the way,

you never told me
what you think about my novel.

- The Shower, is it?
- The Bathtub.

Oh, yes, The Bathtub.

The Bathtub... Yes, yes.

I'm gonna go to the bathroom
and will tell you afterwards.

I'm coming with you.

I see you won't let me go
easily.

Your opinion means a lot to me.

You can't imagine what you
represent for a young author.

- Here.
- Are you crazy?

- I haven't smoked since college.
- Trust me, it'll relax you.

Why? Do I seem tense?

No, but if you're gonna tell me at last
what you think about my book,

I'd rather have you in high spirits.

In high spirits...

It takes time to understand
how the text breathes...

Often, in debut novels,
you get the impression

that the author tries to be
too perfect,

- as if every phrase...
- You haven't actually read it?

Well, no. I haven't.

I get hundreds of debut novels.
I can't read them all.

But the note card I was given
was very complimentary.

Who knows? Maybe you'll be curious
to read it some day.

But where did I put it?
Maybe it's in my office.

Well, in my old office.
I mean, at my wife's.

I mean, my ex wife.
It's complicated.

I can imagine.

I can send it to you again.

Can you pass me the joint?

- Are you writing anything now?
- Yes.

I've just finished a new book.

But tonight I found out that
its publication was delayed.

It's not a good sign.

What about you?

Have you ever thought about writing

something besides literary essays?

- I mean fiction.
- I wrote fiction in my youth.

I'm done with that.

Did you read my essays?

I read Prolegomenon
or the Metaphysics of Narratology.

What was that about?

I confess I had to do a research

just to understand the title.

Let's go back in.

Now I'm inviting his daughter,
Josephine Pick, to join us.

Come, Josephine.

Good evening.

Thanks for my father.

Thanks for giving me
the opportunity to talk about him.

I often try to imagine him
writing this novel.

He always left early in the morning,
long before I woke up.

Today I understand why he liked
so much to be alone in the restaurant.

Probably he took advantage
of the silence at dawn.

That's when the best ideas came to him,

while kneading the pizza dough.

While the dough was rising,
he was writing.

His flour-covered fingers
gave each sentence... something...

You, in the back, what is it?
You have something to say?

No, please go on! Excuse us.

You have a whole audience
of journalists.

A perfect opportunity to reveal
what you know.

Will you stop it? No, I have
nothing to say, go on!

If you have something to say,
go ahead, here's a mic.

What Mr. Rouche hesitates to say

is that he thinks everything here
is just a masquerade.

And that Henri Pick is an impostor.

Then, Mr. Rouche, tell us
who is the real author

of The Last Hours of a
Love Story, we want to know!

I have nothing to declare tonight!

Little jerk! Go away!
Completely stoned!

So no statement tonight
from Mr. Rouche,

and we're all very happy.

Josephine! Wait for me.

This night was a tribute to my father,

but you had to ruin it
with your grandstanding.

Josephine, I'm sorry.
Very sorry.

Maybe it's wasn't my father who
wrote it. But you got no proof.

Stop telling it to everyone.
It makes you look ridiculous.

Do you realize the consequences?

You just can't face reality.
You're deluding yourself.

My reality is that my father died
in a state when he no longer

recognized neither his wife,
nor his daughter.

My mother almost died of grief.

So deluding oneself, as you call it,
is just a mean to survive.

But I need you to finish
this investigation.

- You're like my Dr. Watson.
- Why are you Sherlock Holmes?

- Because it's my investigation.
- But Henri Pick was my father.

Good night.

- What are you doing here?
- I'm coming with you.

- I'm going home, to Crozon.
- Very good. Wonderful.

After tonight's mess,
I think it's best for me

to leave Paris as soon as possible.

You're impossible!

Here's a thought: Magali Roze,

the librarian. I think
she knows something.

I think you're right.
I need to know the truth.

I need to know who my father was.

Do I smell weed on you?
You smoked?

Not at all!

Your eyes are all red.
You're completely stoned.

I haven't smoked since college.

OK. Buckle up.

Damn, it'll be a nice trip. How many
hours do we have on the road?

Please don't talk.

Don't you wanna take a nap?

The Girl from Siberia,
that rings the bell?

You knew that Jean-Pierre Gourvec
wrote a novel, didn't you?

Yes, when he died,
I gathered his things

to give them to his cousin,

and I found this manuscript
in his desk drawer.

- That title alone!
- That means he didn't change it!

Your theory doesn't hold.

He could easily keep a copy
with the original title.

You surely have a spirit for
contradiction. Where's the manuscript?

I burned it.

You did what?

I burned it!

I couldn't bear that he wrote
a whole book about her.

You burned it!

Magali, it's unthinkable
to burn a book!

Usually, it's the Nazis
who burn books.

- You were in love with him?
- Well, yes.

But at least, you'd read it
before burning?

No. I couldn't bring myself.

I thought he loved me.
I really did.

But, actually, he never
forgot that other woman.

Did he type it on
his Hermes 3000?

- Yes, of course.
- Have you seen the letter K?

Look.

The lower diagonal part is missing.

So what?

I have to go to your mother's
to see the original manuscript.

No way. She won't let you in.

Stop making that face!

- Well?
- Wait.

You'll see. She's like
a Swiss cuckoo clock.

3, 2, 1 ...

Oh, yes!

Yes, she's obsessive.

- Shall we go?
- Yes.

Really! It's like the Zeus temple
in Pergamon.

Did I give you the permission
to mock me? I don't think so.

Look at the K!
It has the same flaw!

Here's the proof. This
manuscript was typed

on Gourvec's typewriter
and not on your father's.

- Check.
- That's what I'm doing.

- Bravo! What insight!
- Oh, shit!

This is the typewriter.

I don't get it.

Maybe they wrote it together,
like Lagarde and Michard.

Excuse me.

This is the copy from the library!

Gourvec must've given it to your
father along with the typewriter!

To make everyone believe that
Pick was the author!

- It's odd.
- What?

The ink should've been dry. The typewriter
has been in the cellar for years.

So?

It means someone replaced the tape.

But who did this?
It's incomprehensible.

In any case, not Gourvec.
He's been dead for over 10 years,

- so your theory collapses.
- Not only my theory collapses.

I'm collapsing.

I'm at the end of the rope.

I'm completely in the dark.

Gourvec's cousin.

Maybe he can enlighten us.

His what?

His typewriter, Hermes 3000.

Oh, yes. Jean-Pierre
treasured it.

But I sold it.

On a garage sale, after
I'd found it in his house.

There were so many things
I didn't need.

- Remember whom you sold it to?
- Oh, hold on.

Some local guy, but who?

Take your time. It's very important.

What did he look like? Small
or big? He had a mustache?

- Normal, a family guy.
- He was with his children?

- No, why?
- You said he was a family guy.

Really?

Why did I say that?

Well, I don't know.

Yes, I remember.

It was a present for his daughter.
For her birthday, I think.

Oh, really?

I never got a typewriter
for my birthday.

You said he was a local guy.
Why did you say that?

Because he was on a bicycle.

So I offered to deliver
the typewriter to him.

If you delivered the typewriter,
you know where he lives.

- Well, yes.
- Why didn't you tell us right away?

You asked me who he was,
not where he lived.

So where does he live?

In the last house on the tip of...

Where?

- Nurse?
- We have a problem.

Wait.

Here you go.

The last house on the tip of...

We'll never succeed.

- Let's try to read his lips.
- The lips, sure!

- Pen Hir!
- Pen Hir!

Pen Hir Point.

- It's Gerard Despero, the bookseller.
- Daphne's father?

Yes!

Hello.

Mr. Despero, you gave your daughter
a typewriter for her birthday?

Yes, so?

- The noose tightens...
- Stop harassing my daughter.

What do you want? To make
her lose her job? Leave her alone!

You're not gonna threaten us
with the hoe?

It's a weeding hoe, with two prongs
on the other end of the blade.

Whatever. Anyway, you said
what I wanted to know.

Daphne Despero. It's shocking.

Daphne Despero...

- Do you think she wrote the book?
- No idea.

But sometimes the solution is so
obvious you don't see it.

Like in Poe's The Purloined Letter.
After all, it was under our noses.

Exactly.

We have to go back to Paris,
and to talk to Daphne Despero.

Without me, Jean-Michel.

The vacation is over,
I'll take back Melville tonight,

and the kids from my class tomorrow.
Wouldn't be better to stop here?

But we're so close to the end.

You just came and are leaving again.
When will you stop running?

Get yourself a good book.
Sit in the sun.

Exactly as I thought:
You're crazy about me.

You don't want me to leave.
Yes, yes!

I thought you were ready
to face the truth.

Sure I am. But my mother...

It's funny this obsession
with...

No, please! Let's not
start again with my mother.

- You have...
- I don't like you talking about her.

- I don't mean to meddle, but...
- I don't want to.

- Simply...
- I don't want to.

- Great neurosis.
- Jean-Michel!

OK, what do we do?

Promise to keep me updated.
Me first.

But of course.

- I'll drop you at the station.
- I don't mind taking the train.

- At the bus station.
- You have a difficult character.

Hello.

- Hello.
- I'll be back.

How are you?

What are you doing here?

Your father gave you
a Hermes 3000 typewriter

which is exactly the same
as Henri Pick's.

Come with me.

So what? There are many of those.

Yes, but the manuscript was typed
on this very Hermes 3000.

I have the proof.

My father got it at a flea market.
Anyone could've used it before.

OK, but then explain why
it turned up in Pick's cellar.

Listen, I'm very busy,
so please...

You can't always run,
Ms Daphne Despero.

I'm not running, I'm doing my job,
that's all.

OK, then I'll go to Ines de Crecy.
I'm sure she'll be interested.

When I learned that Pick was
a pizza guy, not the writer type,

I was afraid that no one
would believe it.

So I decided to improve
my chances.

So you went down to
Madeleine Pick's cellar

to plant there your old typewriter

and a copy of Eugene Onegin?

Yes.

But I swear I really found it
in the library of rejected books.

How do I know you didn't
plant it there?

Go check it out. Ask the
librarian.

I'm surprised
you haven't done it yet.

And besides, I didn't even
have a bag with me.

Where would I hide the manuscript?
In my panties?

I really have to go back.
I've a lot of work to do.

Henri Pick took his secret
to the grave. Accept it.

- Here, Mr. Rouche, your Papa Doble.
- Thanks, Julien.

Is everything OK?
You seem to be elsewhere.

I'm completely lost.

I have the impression
I'm back to square one.

Bravo, Henri Pick.
Here's to you.

THE BATHTUB
If some day you're curious...

Yours friendly, Frederic Koska.

That little jerk!

I can't believe it!

Good morning. Take a seat.
It's nice of you to come.

Thanks for having read it at last.

Did you like it?

Yes. Yes.

It's very good for a first novel.

But your second novel
is even better.

You've made progress with
The Last Hours of a Love Story.

You've deepened your style.

Your signature
which also betrays you.

And your obsessions,
your themes:

Subjectivity, the clash
between reality and fiction.

Your penchant for using
free indirect style,

your rhetorical figures.

But what I'd like to understand
is why Henri Pick?

Why this library
of rejected books?

Why all this mystification?

Why?

For the game's sake.

By chance.

For love, I think.

My first book's failure
struck me down.

I was sure Daphne would dump me

because in her eyes
I was just a loser.

Then I imagined the story
of our break-up,

to ward off my fear
of losing her.

And, like the poet Pushkin,

I predicted in my novel
what was gonna happen to me.

I lost Daphne. Probably
because of my Russian roots,

fatalism runs through my veins.

Last year, I spent
a few days in Crozon.

I took my text with me to re-read it
and to make some corrections.

And when her father told us
about that library,

I thought it would be
a unique occasion to test Daphne.

- Is this library still there?
- I think so.

Let's go there tomorrow.
I'd really like to see it.

I worked on my plan all night.

Just like a gangster
preparing a big heist.

The only thing missing
was my pen name.

So why did I take the name
of a ghost?

Daphne used to joke that
she liked authors starting with K.

Kafka, Kleist, Kundera, Koska.

I only found one with a K:
Henri Pick.

And used a red folder to draw
her attention.

Then it was enough to place

the manuscript strategically
at her eye level.

And maybe with a little luck...

I confess it gave me a great pleasure

to re-read my book
in front of Daphne.

- Well?
- I feel like killing myself.

- What do you think?
- It's intense, gripping!

It's exactly for this kind of
discoveries that I chose this job!

It's the book I've dreamed of
publishing and I'm gonna publish it!

What? What's wrong with you?

It happens that "Pick" is me.

But why did you do that?

Because I had lost confidence
in myself, in her.

I wanted to know if she really
thought I had talent,

or she published me
just because she was in love.

- So you've tricked me.
- You don't hate me?

No, because, unwittingly,
you came up with a fabulous idea.

How come?

Imagine, a lost masterpiece
on the shelf

of a library of rejected books!

- What a story!
- A masterpiece, really?

We must publish it as it is.

- I don't understand. You mean...?
- We'll publish it under Pick's name.

If my novel is good, why
to hide that I'm the author?

- It's stupid!
- Fred, your book is great.

But the marketing idea behind it
is even more brilliant.

You know, nowadays it's increasingly
difficult to stand out.

Moreover, with The Bathtub's
failure it'll be even harder.

- It was just a joke, Daphne!
- But maybe I know.

However, my excitement when
I found this treasure was incredible.

That's what we should give to people:
This whole story around it.

- No, we don't need that.
- Listen, I'll publish it.

It'll work, I'm sure.

After that, you'll write
the story of the novel.

You'll explain the real
origins of the thing.

And the revelation that Pick is you
will be in the form

of a new novel, it'll be
a new success.

I don't like your plan. Frankly...

it's absurd! Please,
let's do it properly.

And end up in the shredder?

Please! I assure you! Trust me!

The typewriter was her idea.

She wanted authenticity, and retyped
the manuscript that night.

What Daphne considered brilliant

was that Pick was a simple
pizza maker.

What's Mrs. Pick name?

M for Madeleine.

Everyone could identify with him.

There wouldn't be that barrier
of intellectual elitism.

But for Pick to be
credible as the author,

a few additional elements
were needed.

- The Bathrobe?
- No, The Bathtub, by Frederic Koska.

I've never heard of it.

However, it had some
critical success.

Maybe you could order it?

The book was a big hit.

Daphne was right, it went
well above our expectations.

And I did what she told me.
I wrote the story of the novel.

The Revelation.

Then all this completely
overtook us...

Why did you lie to me?

Almost destroying us.

You never wanted to reveal me
as the author, I know now.

It's too late.

If we reveal the truth now,
we'll look as great manipulators.

It was your idea,

I accepted it, and
followed you blindly.

You used me.
You're the manipulator.

You started all this.
You tricked me, don't forget.

You think that I'll accept it
silently?

That I'll be happy to
be a failed novelist?

I don't care. I'll expose
everything.

But you'll be able to
write many other books!

If you do that, I'm finished!
It's my whole life, Fred!

Come here.

This is it.

Now you know all about...
the mystery of Henri Pick.

How do you envision the follow-up?

I have no idea.

It's a matter of chance, I guess.

And you?

See you on Monday.
Have a good weekend.

You'll do it, right?

Have a good weekend!

See you.

- Good afternoon.
- Good afternoon!

How are you?

You came here to read?

I feel like Chateaubriand.

It's Brittany...
The power of the elements...

- What are you reading?
- An extraordinary first novel.

I heard about it.

You know that the author
refuses any interviews,

or meetings with the press?

It's a bit odd, isn't it?

It's true, it makes you wonder.

Why an artist of such caliber,
such a promising talent,

would hide like a hunted animal?

It's mysterious.

Translated by: Selaflaure
Revised by: csillagokutjan