All language subtitles for Les.Jours.Ou.Je.N.Existe.Pas.(Fitoussi.2003).DVDRip.x264-HANDJOB

Come in.

It's Laure from downstairs,
Antoine's friend. She's come to see you.

I'm leaving, my child.

The one who has been
can no longer not have been:

Henceforth that mysterious
and deeply obscure fact of having been

is its ticket for eternity.

I'll wait for you by the gate.

WILL HAVE BEEN

THE DAYS I DON'T EXIST

So, you take him, but...
you don't take the high-speed train.

Yes. As we are not expected
for two days,

we won't go by high-speed train.
We'll stop off at my castle

and go very exactly by car, by boat,
on foot, on horseback, on foot,

by railcar.

Very well.

Will you excuse me for a moment,
I'll be back.

Mecenas was a gentleman.

He said somewhere:

<< Make me impotent, legless, gouty,
armless, as long as, after all,

<< I live, it's enough,
I am more than happy.

<< O death, never come:
We tell you as much. >>

Look children!

We think 2000 less 1920,

that's eighty years of life.

Well no: In his eighty years of life,

this man

has lived only forty.

And not only has this man
lived only half his time,

but this grave, his grave

is empty.

Totally empty.

There is no one under there.

That man,

who lived in Montmartre
and whose name was Antoine,

like you Antoine,

that man lived only every other day.

During twenty-four hours,
from midnight to midnight,

he lived like we all do,

and during the next twenty-four hours,

his body and soul went back to nought.

As he kept no memory
of the dead days,

and that full days fused
with full days in his memory,

life seemed short to him.

So much so that he strove
to make it gloomy.

To exist only every other day
is revolting

to common sense.

It shocked Antoine himself.

He believed it was dangerous to have
the world accept such an absurd reality.

That's why when he came to town,

he did his best in order that
the secrecy of his discontinuous life

shouldn't perspire.

And during ten years
that seemed like five to him,

he perfectly managed.

Now, we go to Sophie Vaudin
for a traffic update.

The first traffic jams on the A6
at the Villefranche-sur-Saône toll.

5 kilometres of tailbacks
north of Lyon.

On the Riviera motorway,

there are 50 kilometres
of slow-moving traffic

between Valence and Montélimar.

Antoine didn't have to earn his living.

His uncle Alfred
that you saw at the cemetery

gave him an allowance that enabled him
to meet the needs of his half-existence.

In his situation,
it was an uncommon piece of luck,

for there are few jobs
that give the opportunity

to work only every other day.

And maybe there isn't even any.

He lived in Montmartre, Tholozé Street.

On the 6th floor,
he had a little 2-bedroom flat

that he had furnished himself at low cost

and the annual rent was 48,000 FF.

He was a quiet tenant
who never received anybody

and avoided conversations
in the staircase.

The neighbours
never complained about him,

and the woman caretaker
had a high opinion of him

because he was quite handsome.

The days he existed...

The days he existed,

it seemed to him he had fallen asleep
not 2 days before

but the day before,

and his heart sank at the thought
of this day during which he had not lived.

By listening to
what the passers-by said,

he wondered what the world
might have been doing without him.

The word yesterday that he overheard

stirred him with curiosity,
longing and regret.

It was for him
the most painful time of the day.

Sometimes he felt overwhelmed.

To know nothing
but the day during which he was living,

without yesterday
and without tomorrow,

seemed to him to be
the most terrible of all tortures.

Antoine was trying to push away his last
memories of the day before yesterday

to leave some space
to the events related in the papers.

Something else upset him:
The time going by.

When reading yesterday's news,
time slipped away at a frightening speed.

He avoided the centre of Paris

where the variety of the show
didn't even enable him to spy on

the minutes evading.

One of his favourite walks

went from the north side of La Chapelle
to the Ourcq Canal, at Pantin.

Walking up Riquet Street,
he would come out on landscapes

of gasometers,
railways, freight stations

that in their desolation had

an infinite unwinding.

In his best days, it seemed to him

that time slipped away more slowly

in these iron plains than anywhere else.

Suddenly, he would find out
that one hour had passed by

and he didn't notice.

Then he would lose his mind,

resume his walk,

see the hands of his watch dance

and end up using tricks

of his own invention.

Pretending, say,
that he had to catch the train,

he would arrive on the platform
one hour early,

hoping that the time
would seem incredibly long to him.

But the virtue of his trick
had worn out.

And taking the suburban tramways,
outside the rush hour,

even on a day of drizzly rain,

couldn't fool him more.

The hands speeded up around the clock

and all his efforts to hold time back

only helped to accelerate its escape.

He had tried to stay
in the flat part of the day

and by staring at the wall,
keep his mind

still.

But his thought wandered
against his will

and the walls
got lively

as if he were at the cinema.

The only moments of optimism
Antoine had

were at lunchtime.

After having bought some food
on the Abesses Street market,

he would go back home
and cook his meal.

His morning walk opened his appetite

and eating

a beefsteak or a portion of chicory

would somehow comfort
his melancholy.

Every other day, he would think,

it may not be a lot,

but it is still better
than not existing at all.

It is better than being dead

or not being born.

When you think of all those
who could've been born

but who didn't get the opportunity,

of all those who didn't even have
one day to taste life,

nor half of one, nor a quarter,

you can't complain.

But wisdom and good reasons

wouldn't comfort him for long.

When the satisfaction of his stomach
didn't support them any more,

they turned into basically nothing.

And the afternoons
weren't less cruel than the mornings.

At midnight,
he would disappear suddenly,

to reappear twenty-four hours later
at the same place

and resume his dream.

Quite often, Antoine had had
the curiosity to stay awake and wait for

the unimaginable moment
when he wouldn't exist any longer.

He had never observed
or perceived anything,

not even a move.

If during the second preceding midnight
he was buttoning his pyjamas,

the second after, he was

busy doing the same.

But one full day had passed by,

and he only had to go down in the town
to find evidence of that.

As he wasn't allowed
the sensation of that dead time,

he had decided
to go to sleep before midnight

to avoid the torment
of a useless expectation.

In short, there were little chances

that anyone would ever know
about the mystery.

Antoine would've had to be reckless
enough to find himself at midnight

in a crowded place

and he carefully avoided it.

Falling in love was one of the things
he was the most afraid of.

When he saw a pretty woman,
he cautiously looked down,

fearing an affair might have
unfortunate consequences.

How would a woman put up
with a man such as me? he'd think.

It's certainly not pleasant for a woman
to be a widow every other day.

And what will I look like
the days I don't exist?

One day of September,

at a butcher's of Abesses Street,

25 francs. Is that all?

Yes, that's all.

- Miss?
- A little slice between 20 and 25 francs.

She had such a sweet smile

that Antoine couldn't help

but confess his love.

I love you too,
since the day of the entrecôte.

My name is Clémentine.

I live here, 100 Lepic Street.

My name is Antoine
and I live Tholozé Street.

I am quite glad.

About to leave her, in Lepic Street,

he thought he couldn't do less

than ask her for a date.

If you wish, I am free tomorrow,
all day.

Impossible. Tomorrow...
I am not there.

But the day after?

Clémentine, I have something else
to confess to you.

I exist...

only every other day.

He saw in Clémentine's gaze
that she didn't quite understand

and he explained it all to her.

There you are.
I'd rather you knew about it.

Obviously, every other day
is not a lot...

It is! It's not so bad.

Of course, it'd be nicer to be together
all the time, especially at first,

but that's how life is.
You don't do all you want.

And the day after next,
Clémentine left her room Lepic Street

to move in Tholozé Street.

In the first moment of disappointment,
she almost got cross at him

for disappearing
without even leaving a little smoke,

but her love almost immediately
inspired in her the worry

that he might not come back.

She found it hard to imagine
he'd stopped existing,

even temporarily.

And truly, it was something
unimaginable.

Clémentine couldn't help but think
that he was in the sky

and also a little bit in the bedroom,

like the dead prowling everywhere
to overhear the thoughts of the living.

I'd rather believe he is here.

How can I believe he'll come back
if really he's nothing any more?

So?

So? Well! Nothing...
Do you understand? Nothing.

I didn't exist more
than you did 100 years ago.

For me, all day yesterday
is dead time.

But for you it's just past time
and you remember it.

Tell me yesterday, tell me your day.

How do the hours go by when I don't
exist? How do days adjust to days?

Give me back what escapes me, what
can't find a place in my semi-existence.

The newspapers say
almost nothing about it.

They don't know...

they talk about yesterday for people
who have already lived it. Tell me...

This morning, I got up at 8.

Yes, but since I stopped existing?

I can't say how you disappeared...

suddenly I saw nothing any more.

I still felt your warmth, the pressure
of your hands and you were already gone.

I wasn’t frightened, as you'd warned me,
just a minute of surprise.

Stupidly, against my will, I raised
my head and looked for you in the room.

There was a blue fly
buzzing around the lamp.

Don't blame me,
but I almost wondered if it wasn’t you.

Oh, no, certainly not.

I remember having seen it too,
just before midnight.

If I were a blue fly, on the days
I disappear, I'd consider myself happy.

You know, I can't find that natural:

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday...

Thursday... Friday... Saturday, Sunday.

I'm so used to Monday-Wednesday-
Friday-Sunday-Tuesday-Thursday...

That is natural!

Luckily, weeks have an uneven number
of days or I wouldn't know them all.

In one month,
you have 30 days of bliss

and I have 15.

But we end the month together,
that's what matters.

No, I don't have 30 days of bliss.

When you're not here, I'm bored.
I'm even sorrowful.

The truth is, she could easily stand
the days of solitude.

She caught her breath, enjoyed
the pleasures of meditation and fidelity.

Her love had a whiff of wisdom
and friendship

that tended to moderate
Antoine's fervour.

After two years of union,

it led to a disagreement
that remained long secret,

at least for him,

as Clémentine had enough time

to meditate over the strangeness
of their situation.

Her love
that had been lasting for two full years

didn't have the freshness or eagerness

of Antoine's only one year old.

Besides...

Your raw vegetables, sir.
Enjoy your meal.

Besides, the days of widowhood
encouraged thoughts,

judgements,
examinations of the conscience,

which best moderate a passion.

Antoine sometimes had a swift feeling
of being out of touch,

but he lacked time
to give it more thought.

Michel Cifre, 61,
resurfaced satisfied,

after two and a half months alone
in the cave of Clamousse.

He says: Under the earth, you know,
I no longer have a past,

at least I don't think about it,

and when I go back up,
I don't try to catch up with lost news:

yesterday I learnt by chance
that Yeltsin was no longer president.

You should meet him.

You were right, it's lovely here.

But a bit far, isn't it?

Yes, I love to come here.

We shouldn't go too late.
I don't feel like disappearing here.

It's true, the countryside is lovely.
It makes a change, doesn't it?

You often come here?

Yes. When you don't exist,
I don't like to be home alone.

So I take the train and come here.

I'm glad you're here today.

You... come here every other day?

Almost, it depends.

And... have you been coming here long?

It has been two years.
Since we met.

For you, one year.

But what do you do
when you come here?

Nothing, I walk.

It's deserted, isn't it?

Today a little,
but it is usually more crowded...

It's pleasant.

I'd like to go home.

Then, that Fray Luis de Leon,
after 5 years of jail,

went back in front of his students
and addressed them very naturally:

We were saying yesterday...

You see? Just as if these 5 years
had counted for nothing!

Clémentine?

My darling?

Sorry, but I went to the cinema
and the film ended later than I expected.

Are you cross
because I went to the cinema?

I swear if I knew
I would come home so late...

No. Why would I hold it against you?

You're free to go to the cinema,
I imagine, and even anywhere you want.

What you do when I don't exist is your
business. I have nothing to do with it.

Even if I were aware
of all your moves,

am I allowed to judge them
without having lived these days myself?

You're free to do as you please.
Your life belongs to you.

It's not because from time to time,
it coincides with mine...

Why do you say from time to time?
Our lives coincide every other day.

Oh, I know it's not your fault.

You do what you can.

He suddenly felt the deepness
of that dead time he had no control over

and all the events it might hold.

A near and unreachable hereafter,

on which he had had until then
only information,

became a reality,

almost perceptible.

Clémentine's absence, that seemed
to him to have lasted 2 minutes,

plunged into that other world,

had been going on for hours.

There was in his beloved's behaviour,
in her physiognomy,

something unusual and distant,

a languidness,

an inattentive manner,

and maybe a regret,
Antoine thought,

as if she were dwelling on the memory
of that other world she had just left.

That was the way
she probably undressed

on the days he didn't exist.

Her clothes fallen,
she appeared in an irritating nudity

that certainly didn't lack presence

but still seemed to move around
in a strange glow.

It was too easy
to imagine her with a cortège.

Antoine hardly slept that night.

He listened to Clémentine's
peaceful breathing,

thinking about the ghosts of the day
haunting his companion's sleep.

What had been accidental

became a habit

and at least once a week,
Clémentine came home after midnight.

These delays exasperated Antoine

but gave him only weak excuses
to get angry.

One day, by chance,

I met Clémentine
by the banks of the Seine

which became
our regular meeting place.

And the evening before yesterday,
were you on time?

My delays exasperate Antoine

but give him only weak excuses
to get angry.

Every minute late is for him
like an intrusion of dead hours

in his already shrunk existence.

He became taciturn

and remained so

until the day he decided
to become jealous.

The suspicions

he tries to keep away

finally seemed reasonable to him.

A man that exists only every other day

is fated to be a cuckold

and for his wife to stay faithful,
she'd need to have such a dark virtue

that you'd hardly dare to praise it.

That doesn't stop Antoine
bombarding me with questions

that are also reproaches.

I protest by saying: Come on,
now you're imagining things.

My serenity drives Antoine mad.

He grinds his teeth, sniggers, sobs,
embraces me passionately

and asks the same questions again.

I think he has become quite unbearable,

but I wait,

considering that I'm alone
at least every other day

and that my fate is still enviable.

Look,

the night has almost fallen.

And we feel so good here
that we didn't even notice.

And you haven't been home since?

No, it's been a week
since I last saw him.

A week?

But for him it is only 3 days.

3 days is just about all right.

And does he exist today?

Today?

No.

You know, I have an idea
to help you both.

Are you sure
he doesn't exist today?

If he doesn't exist, he won't realize
if he doesn't exist any more.

And for him no longer to exist, his space
just has to be filled before he reappears.

But that's terrible:
You want to erase him!

You can't erase someone
who doesn't exist.

On the contrary.
It is his worries I erase.

It is 4 o'clock,

we have only 8 hours left.

It's for his own good.

Help me.
We need to compact the most we can.

See, there should be no chink left

so there isn't the slightest space
for him to exist.

And I even wonder whether
we shouldn't sink all this in concrete

to be 100 per cent sure.

I already don't see
how he could come back.

Still, don't you have
some plaster or something?

There you are,
it'll soon be over.

With that we can be sure
he won't reappear again.

The place will definitely
be well occupied.

Are you sure
it's gone midnight?

It's even gone one o'clock.

Serge left Claire to take me
to live with him in New York.

After one year, it turned out bad.

I came back last week.

I remembered Antoine,

but I was remorseful

and I didn't dare go back to Montmartre.

And I was told that the neighbourhood
was being pulled down.

Antoine must have
completely ceased to exist.

I remember now

what he said once in the car,

when for the first and last time
we went on holiday.

He didn't want to go.

He was always afraid to travel.

It necessarily generated for him
lots of complications,

and he was always afraid

to disappear in a place he didn't know,

especially if there was a risk
of being seen.

Yes, he was right.

Actually...

Yet he'd come to accept the idea

that people
must also take holidays and travel.

I think he was afraid
I would decide to go without him,

and that something might happen to me
on a day he doesn't exist.

So once, we went on holiday.

When my eyes are closed for ever,

they won't see the divinely,
magnificently real landscape

appear any more.

After my heart has stopped beating,

my throat contracting,

my lungs filling with air,

after my blood has stopped
pumping through my body

and has started thickening, drying

inside my arteries and veins,

after my skin has stopped
feeling hard, and soft,

and cold, and warm,

but has become thin and crackly

like a cigarette paper

to let the dead entrails slip through;

after my bones have come apart

and smashed into powder like stone;

after water, fire, the grains of sand,

the oxides,

the roots of the trees,

have worn everything out,
gnawed everything,

smashed everything under their weight.

After the generations of other men,
the wars, the civilizations,

have thus been and gone on earth,

breathed the same air as me,
drinking the same water,

and fed with parts of my body,

will there still be anything

tenuous, thrilling, tiny left,

not even a pain or a joy,

but a ghost,

a confused and distant memory

that will give me a soul?

And after these very generations
have passed,

after the last men have disappeared,

after the earth and sun
have been swallowed,

have blended with the void, like me,

will there be anything left of me
in the smallest part of an atom?

Will there even be a speck of dust
floating in absolute space

that will bear the sign
that I have lived?

And that I have thought
about these eternal things?

Well, we're not late today.

The cellar still needs cleaning.

A coffee, please.

Saturday 29th April 2000

Friday 27th April 2001

- Excuse me, sir...
- Sir?

Summer 2000,

is it over?

Indeed, this is spring 2001.

You understand me? No, you don't!

People like me belong to a world apart.

A whole half of my life escapes you,
you'll never know it.

Because that half
has nothing in common with your life.

It is outside.

Tell me what they say
about Jack Hammer.

In the lead at the start,
she looked certain to win then.

But Giésolo de Lou,
still seen in her wake,

dominated mid-straight,
then appearing as a potential winner.

But that was without allowing for Jack
Hammer who ended stronger with 1 '14",

a good time
on that 1,000-metre track.

But today with the rain...

I see Three Wizards in the 7th.

I won on Midy-Mouse
in the 7th today at 11 to 1,

everybody bet on Le Mage!

Well done. I know about it!

I advise you to look
at Artas' last performance in the 3rd.

His owner is the boss of a pizzeria

where my wife and I sometimes go.

I always play this one.

Are you a gambler?

No, I don't have time to,

I don't exist enough.

I... almost don't exist.

I'll have a half-pint please.

I have just spent a year in limbo,
one year without existing.

Usually I exist
only every other day.

I had ended up finding that not so bad.
But one year...

Notwithstanding
what I heard an hour ago.

It's not enough that the average man
lives every calendar day.

Some privileged people
even have an additional existence!

I pity that girl whose lover has such
a numerous life that half escapes her.

I complained about existing
only every other day, and in reality,

when I don't disappear for a year,

I only exist one day out of four...
maybe less...

There must be a category of men even
more blessed than that man at the café.

I wonder why I didn't think
about it earlier.

While I was living 1 day,
Clémentine was living 2,

the guy from the café 4,
another 8, and so on.

I come to the conclusion
that I exist 1 day out of 1,000.

I exist so little
that it's not worth it.

How much do I owe you?

Twelve.

There's a bit missing.
I'll just go to my uncle Alfred's

and bring back the rest.

Thank you.

It's amazing, isn't it!

The stories people can think up.

I think he has Saturn
in his Pluto square.

Poor guy.

Hello. A hot chocolate
with a lot of chocolate, please.

I tell you.

He must have left
in less than a quarter of a second!

He was there.

I'd just brought him a coffee,
he asks for the bill,

I come to get it here, I turn around,
gone! And no one saw him go!

He went from there to there
without being seen.

Well, he forgot his jacket.
If he comes back, we must get him.

So, in case I'm not here,
his bill is here.

All right.

I'll have to pay for it!

But frankly, the chap was quick,
I say bravo.

Tell me, is it possible
to book that table for tonight?

Two of us, around 11 o'clock.

- Around 11?
- Yeah.

All right.

A coffee please.

What time is it?

Midnight.

So, dear Antoine, we agree on this.

Without her,
my micro-existence is impossible.

If she wishes,
she may come to unbury me.

Otherwise I have only one regret:

Not knowing any more
what will happen.

Abandon the world in motion,
like in the middle of a serial: No.

I wish to come back from nought
every 10 years, not more.

You'll just have to be here
and do as we said:

One night, remove the soil
that keeps me from reappearing,

and sit up until midnight,
until I resume existing again.

Then in the morning
I'll go to a newspaper stand

and I will buy some.

You will give me your news.

I will ask nothing more.

My papers under the arm,
pale, skimming the walls,

I'll come back to the cemetery.

I'll read of the world's disasters
until nightfall

before disappearing again, satisfied,

sheltered by the reassuring grave,

for 10 years.

Or less if she changed her mind.

It won't be long.

And don't forget!

For you, tomorrow,
I'll be 23 years old.

The day after, 33.

And by the end of your week,
83 years old.

Sous-titrage: C.M.C.