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WHAT'S IN A NAME?

Bursting from this dark tunnel is Jean-Jacques.

Jean-Jacques is lucky. He isn't superstitious.

He can walk under ladders, open an umbrella at home

after a rain or see black cats, without a thought.

Good thing, too. This first Saturday in October

brings him to a special place.

He's going to 15A Impasse Bertholon in Paris' 9th district.

And by chance or fate, if such a thing exists,

to get there,

whether by St. Lazare, Opéra,

Gare du Nord or Pigalle,

Jean-Jacques must endure a veritable hell.

He'll have to take Rue La Bruyère.

A great French author, who died of apoplexy, in pain,

alone, penniless, forsaken.

Then he'll take Rue Lamartine.

Another great French author who died of apoplexy, in pain,

alone, penniless and forsaken.

He'll turn into Rue Hippolyte Lebas,

architect of the infamous La Petite Roquette prison,

where condemned criminals awaited execution.

Then it's up Rue des Martyrs, very aptly,

for that takes him to Rue St. Georges,

himself a famous martyr,

who was boiled alive,

peeled like a tomato,

drawn and quartered, crushed on the wheel,

then decapitated.

True,

arriving at Impasse Bertholon

obscure physicist

who was struck by lightning in an early experiment,

Jean-Jacques might see the macabre route as a bad omen,

might be tempted to turn back.

That would be a mistake.

For he would never discover this tucked-away street

where, partially hidden by plants, tended lovingly

by co-op members,

the storied door to 15A lies in wait.

He'd miss 5 flights of winding stairs

never wipe his feet on a horsehair mat, souvenir of Turkey,

never partake of the family gathering to take place right…

here.

That is…

if someone answers the bell.

- 42.90 please. - What?

2 specials, 1 calzone?

14.50 for the special? What's on it, caviar?

No. Ham and mushrooms.

For 14.50?!

You realize that means 95 francs?

What? Think I got solid gold faucets?

No idea.

You know what?

A country with 3 or 4 million unemployed,

and you want 250 francs for a few miserable pizzas!

That's indecent. Disgusting!

- What is it? - The price of their special.

- You ordered pizza? - No, why?

So why open the door? Polo will get out!

Didn't order?

He rings, I answer. I'm civilized!

I looked all over. Must be in your office.

I looked!

What a jerk.

15 is next door. This is 15A. Bye.

Elisabeth Garaud-Larchet is a middle school French teacher.

Theater club treasurer, she directs the school play.

She's an active member of FSU, whose motto is her own:

"Secularism, justice and charity."

… left Paris in 1645.

Thomas, texting Molière?

Battling academic decline,

she has no time to change sweaters.

Not Monday, not Tuesday,

not even Wednesday.

She's off Fridays.

Academic decline is no fatality. It's her daily battle.

Stop that! What's the matter with you? Mora!

Principal's office, now!

At times she has grave doubts about the future of public education.

Lose the cap.

In a jaded and selfish world,

she fearlessly perseveres.

A chronic absentee.

I think this kid has something.

Elisabeth, open your eyes. He's a loser.

No, Matthias. He's made progress.

A 35 average!

Up from 25.

Not going to change?

Who touched my mess?

Pierre Garaud is a Sorbonne Literature professor.

A Renaissance specialist,

he's a beacon of French higher ed,

thanks to his rapier wit.

It's as simple

as distinguishing asyndeton

from parataxis. Right, Mr. Bertrand?

Fortyish and flamboyant, idolized by his students,

corduroy is like his second skin.

There's his Monday suit, the brown one, his favorite.

Tuesday is the midnight blue.

Wednesday is the tan one, not easy to wear.

Star author of the "Jalons Critiques" series,

Pierre likes going to Vrin Books, to soak up the love.

And with each new academic year,

he wonders if he'll beat his legendary record,

527 copies sold of "Pyrrhonism and Montaignism,"

the enormous success of which got him lectures as far away as Moscow.

Right, Mr. Cherkassov?

In short, like his model Montaigne,

Pierre's research leaves no stone unturned.

What is Polo doing here?

Find them yet?

What a mess.

Despite all their differences, their fortuitous flaws,

- Find them? - No. I found your bell.

Where are they?

They love each other Mondays, Tuesdays…

If it's Maria, she's fired.

… and every other day.

Shit! The semolina!

- Answer that? - You answer!

It's for you!

I got my hands in semolina!

It's for you!

I got my hands in semolina!

Hello?

Hi, Françoise.

Françoise Larchet, mother of Elisabeth and Vincent.

A bright and elegant woman with impeccable decorative taste.

She has a beautiful alto voice, but she's a bit talkative.

I mean incredible!

Pretty talkative.

You must go!

Very, very talkative.

When she lost her husband, people worried.

This early Mitterrandian fought back,

despite the naysayers.

She left Paris for pictorial pursuits of staggering proportions.

And here in La Castide, in the Alpilles,

tending her garden,

she found happiness again.

I'll put her on. Hold on, Françoise.

Babu, your mother!

The harissa. In the sauce or separate?

Does Anna eat spicy?

Who knows? She never eats!

Mom, hi!

For seffa, you put the raisins in first?

Oil the plate, pour the grain off.

Just the raisins, Mom.

Too early they swell, too late they shrivel. Got it, thanks.

OK, love you.

The Rosenthals came!

How is his hip?

And how's Suzie?

And the dog?

Shit!

The lawn mower?

He buys German? He's a forgiving sort.

But they still bought presents for the kids.

The kids are Myrtille, 12, and Apollin, 4.

Myrtille is thin, smart, fragile.

Some hard-to-place nostalgic quality

makes her mysterious and admired by her father.

Isn't Mme. Bovary totally neurasthenic?

Totally, yeah.

Tom-Tom and Mrs. Dubouchon have an Oedipal thing, right?

Totally.

Apollin likes dressing up, Playmobil, and Amélie Mauresmo.

Toilet trained late,

he had many sessions with a well-known child psychologist

who Elisabeth found really swell.

Pierre immediately abhorred him.

What an asshole!

Really?!

What now?

Distraction. Opens your mind and boom, it comes back.

Set the table, that's distracting.

I was talking to Pierre.

They're coming with Claude.

No, you won't disturb us.

Mom, I'm…

I'm telling you to call. I wouldn't say it if…

Right. Love you.

Mom, that's them! Love you!

So discreet it's a bother!

That's your mother!

- Pierre. - How are you?

Rosé goes with everything.

Babu is doing a Moroccan buffet.

- It'll do as a Sidi-Brahim. - No, a Boulaouane.

Sidi-Brahim is Algerian, a colonial wine.

Smells delicious.

Claude Gatignol,

first trombone of the Radio France Philharmonic.

Libra, Libra rising.

True to his astrological sign, he is temperate and constant.

For Claude, life is pure wonder.

With each passing day some detail delights him.

Perfect shower temperature.

The muffled whoosh of an iron over a silk shirt.

The dizzying flavor of home-made clafoutis.

A happy man, of muted temper, defined better by what he's not.

Not angry,

not weird,

not dishonest.

"Not" is sort of what he is.

Hey, look at me. You got highlights!

You miss nothing.

- Lovely. - Pierre hates it.

I do not.

Elisabeth and Claude are long-time friends.

Starting in Mme. Derveau's ballet class.

Claude was the only boy.

They've been inseparable ever since.

Summer, fall, winter, spring,

their friendship is ever renewed.

His sensitivity makes him

a shoulder to cry on.

He can listen without judgment.

As if he could read you, like an open book.

What did you play?

Bartók. Concerto for…

- What? - Babu lost the cellar keys.

Some emergency?

Drives me nuts to mislay things.

What do I win if I find them?

- My eternal gratitude. - Oh! Well then.

The children?

In bed!

Was Marseilles good?

- They offered me a job. - Down there?

Obviously. Their trombonist drowned.

- But you're not going. - I might.

What do you mean?

I'm thinking it over.

I thought it over. No!

- It's so far away. - It's close.

You said that for Toronto.

Not nearly as far.

It isn't?

3 hours' commute.

The Ostrias moved to the burbs. We never see them.

And that's a good thing.

Babu, I haven't made a decision yet.

Marseilles must be nice.

Near La Castide. Françoise would love it.

Yeah, I hope so.

Codes haven't changed in 10 years. Forgot them?

Too bad. We'll eat without you.

Vincent.

I'm magnanimous. One hint.

First one is Marignan.

Yes, right.

The second is Austerlitz.

Vincent, come on, Austerlitz.

Cher and Hautes-Alpes.

The Department, not the singer.

I'll take pity on you. 1805.

And now the irresistible, the one and only

Vincent Larchet.

Françoise's son, Elisabeth's brother,

Pierre's best friend, Claude's childhood friend.

Semi-pro tennis player, crack golfer,

Vincent is attractive,

especially in his black lycra wife-beater.

After acing middle school with honors, Vincent became an agent

A luxury real estate agent.

Merciless but extremely courteous,

a paragon of elegance and modesty zooming along

like a train in the night,

like a jungle puma,

like a rocket in space.

Always ready to dive in,

Vincent thought his future was mapped out until one August 15

when destiny took a turn.

- The right of way! - Such a guy thing to say!

Vincent Larchet.

Anna Caravatti.

Both were bowled over.

And soon Anna would be expecting Vincent's child.

Vincent Larchet. A sort of modern hero.

In a word…

Get an elevator.

Me!

Mr. Know-Nothing.

- You OK? - Yeah.

Cheval Blanc '85?

Wow, thanks.

No sweat. Gift from a client.

You should decant it.

I forgot my costume!

I forgot you were funny.

Put a rag on your arm, you could serve.

- Where's Fatso? - Kitchen.

Not her Moroccan buffet!

Where are the carafes?

Haven't moved in 10 years.

Cheval Blanc '85, wow!

From a client.

- The kids? - In bed!

8:14. It's Saturday.

You don't know Austerlitz? Friedland, Iéna, OK.

Austerlitz!

I should memorize Metro stops? I never use it.

That driveway OK?

- Might get a ticket. - Do they tow?

I don't think so. They'd need a tank!

Insurance problems with your Renault?

I scratched a red car, left your number.

- Mine? - Yeah. You don't care?

No, great. Can't wait to turn you in.

I'll bet.

We kid, but 4-wheel drive must be handy on the left bank.

All those hills, and when the Bièvre's at high water.

It's not a 4-wheel drive, actually. It's an SUV.

A crossover, if you like.

No, too much English.

Can't be good.

Pretty nice here. You got a deal.

I could get you 9,000 a meter, easy. Without an elevator!

You said it was all addicts and immigrants.

It used to be. That's what you leftists do best.

You dare to invest in high-potential areas.

What are you doing? Can I play?

Looking for the cellar keys.

What do you win?

His eternal gratitude.

For that, I'll look.

- You read Russian? - I started again.

I started Italian.

- Really? - I watch tennis on RAI.

My kiss hello?

Your husband's treasure hunt!

- And Anna? - Coming.

Some Japanese clients.

- I like your haircut. - Thanks, Pierre hates it.

I do not!

So didn't Anna have her ultrasound today?

What? What is it?

There's good news… and bad news.

What?

The good news is it's a boy.

The bad news is he's dead.

I'm putting you on. He's fine.

Fine! Check out my beautiful son!

- That's not funny! - Sure it is. Look!

Don't joke like that. Let me see.

My nephew.

A new record.

So young and already so rich!

What's wrong with you?

- Uh-oh! - What?

What is it?

He's tilts like his dad.

Moron.

Called Françoise?

I tried, it's always busy.

I spoke to her. She wants to know when you're coming.

How should I know? 8 months away.

Look, in any case, you come whenever you want.

We'll be there with the kids, from July 5th to the 20th.

They stay with Mom until Aug. 6th.

Then Michel and Cristelle come. But you come when you want.

Between the 11th and the 12th.

Vincent, you could when we're there.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. No.

You could change your mind. But give her an idea.

The weekend of the 36th.

She's always there anyway. Same crap every year.

Maybe she has friends to see.

- She can do that all winter. - She does.

Rosenthals one week, then Uncle Hector another.

I know when I'm not coming.

Well…

- Should we wait for Anna? - Save her some smokes.

She smokes now?

What can I say? Only woman who started smoking when pregnant.

Prenatal stress.

I don't want to butt in, but… it's bad for your son.

Tell her later.

- He'll be tiny. - He'll be a jockey.

We didn't know the sex.

You mean how to do it?

We decided to preserve a level of mystery.

I was afraid I'd project, skip a stage.

The more precise an idea you have,

the more you fantasize, the harder it is

to meet the real child.

What did your shrink say?

That birth has surprised men for thousands of years.

Babu should have your 3rd in the woods, a twig in her teeth.

Stop.

You throw that at your students?

- Table's ready! - A little room!

- What do we have? - What have we?

- A put-down. - Let me put this down.

Move those books.

- Careful. - Great.

I'll explain. Could you get the pita?

Now. Those are parsley briks.

Pastilla, tchoutchouka,

mechouia salad, eggplant caviar, Zaalouk…

A little carrot salad. Hope you like cumin.

Disgusting.

Say "I don't care for it."

I say it's disgusting.

That's hummus.

- I made a plate for Anna. - What a relief.

- Not enough? - Expecting Claude's orchestra?

Double is barely enough!

When we were kids, every crumb was counted.

Come on, it wasn't Biafra!

Defending his mommy.

It's true.

Now, do you have ideas for the name?

We actually have a precise idea.

- Can we know? - Guess!

No, we should wait for Anna.

It'll pass the time. Guess.

Not Henri, like Dad and Grandpa!

No, of course not.

But I'm sure it's classical. Matthieu or Paul.

No, not an apostle.

Neither is Paul.

Paul's not an apostle?

Not one of the 12.

A pinch-hitter?

Think of his tastes, what he likes.

Shame "Rolex" isn't a boy's name.

You jerk.

What's first? Cheval Blanc or Fontaines de Provence?

To drink or wash our hands?

Nice for Claude.

He knows music, not wine.

- Christophe! - Less common.

- Camille. - No, a boy.

- Camille is both. - Mine's only boys.

Lancelot!

Thaddeus. Caesar.

- Basil? - No.

- Igor? - Less Russian.

Bartholomew!

Balthazar!

- Give us a hint! - No!

- Be nice, Vincent. - No.

One hint!

OK. I'm magnanimous. One hint. It starts with A.

Anatole!

- Alexander. - No!

- Albert. Arthur. - Alban, Agnan, Artemis…

- A real name! - Aurelio!

- Antonin? - No.

We thought of Aurelio. But Aurelio Garaud, too many O's.

Good point.

Delicious.

500 a bottle!

- 500 what? - Pesetas, dingbat.

- 500 euros. - It's not for mass.

Or I'd go more often!

- Where were we?! - Aurelio Garaud.

- Right, we liked Aurelio. - But it's no. So?

Aymeric?

More familiar.

- Antoine? - More original.

- Albator? - What are you, crazy?

Alphonse?

Not bad!

- It's Alphonse? - No.

But warmer.

OK, wait. Alphonse,

Phonce, Once…

Nonce!

- Nonce? - It starts with an A.

Anonce.

Starts with an A!

I'll finish the seffa. Wait for me.

- Not easy. - No, it isn't.

- Anicet. - God no!

I said wait for me!

Asterix?

Not completely stupid. It is a literary reference.

Aramis?

Arsène.

Literary? D'Artagnan.

Out.

- Aragon? - Not a last name!

Not Anatole?

Alain?

- Abbas? - Are you stupid?

Amphitryon! I don't know.

You really suck.

Give up?

We give up, totally. Well?

So what is it?

Adolphe.

Very funny! But seriously, what is it?

Adolphe.

- You're not calling him Adolf? - Yes.

You're not calling him Adolf.

Yes, I am.

Adolf?

Yes, for the character in Benjamin Constant's novel.

You can't call your son Adolf. Seriously.

I'm serious. Like Julien Sorel. A name famous in French literature.

The romantic hero, right?

Vincent, you can't.

You're putting us on… Right?

Tell me the truth, it's a joke.

In bad taste, but it is a joke.

- Name your son after Hitler! - No, not after Hitler!

You know very well, Adolf Hitler is with an F.

My Adolphe, the French one, is spelled PHE.

It's the same!

F and PH is the same?

I thought you'd care more about spelling.

It sounds the same!

Adolf, Adolphe. Same thing!

Vincent, Pierre means people won't hear Adol-PHE.

They'll hear Adolf,

as in "elephant."

Nice being talked to like a retard.

Only a retard wouldn't understand why you can't name your son Adolf.

Stop yelling. I'll explain if you want.

If not, drop it.

- Vincent! - Pierre, hear him out.

I was reading Adolphe, Constant's novel,

and so was Anna, when we met.

We loved it.

We loved that character. The book defined our meeting.

We decided if it was a girl, we'd call her Ellénore.

A boy…

Fuck, he's going to do it.

He read one book in his whole life. It had to be that one.

You gave it to me.

When did you start reading what I give you?

Achilles! I'm sure it's Achilles!

What happened?

You said it when I wasn't there.

Achilles, right?

No, Babu. Not Achilles.

But you said it.

Not nice. I said to wait.

- That's not the problem. - Not for you!

- Your brother… - I don't care.

- Babu. - I don't care!

Look…

Forget it. You wouldn't wait.

- You don't want to know? - No!

- I'll tell you! - I won't listen!

Babu, stop.

That's enough.

That's why Bedouins don't eat with their wives.

Adolphe. Hear me? Adolphe!

What?

Adolphe! He's naming him Adolphe Caravatti-Larchet.

Then what is it?

Changed your mind?

No, but he won't have Anna's name. Just Larchet.

That silly fad.

Garaud-Larchet is silly?

A little.

Adolf is OK, but not silly fads.

My name is Vincent Larchet.

Why should my son be named Caravatti-Larchet?

Or keep it all. 2 generations and your ID will weigh a pound!

Spain or Portugal…

Screw Portugal! He's calling his son Adolf! Got it?

Who cares what he puts after it?

Why be hostile?

Your brother is naming his son after the Führer.

And I'm hostile?

You're really calling your son Adolf?

For the 40th time, I'm calling my son Adol-PHE.

You can't do that.

Imagine at school. For a short kid…

Stop that already.

- How will the teacher call him? - By his name!

I couldn't.

As a teacher, maybe. But as an aunt, no way,

I couldn't.

I couldn't say…

Your snack is ready, A…

See? I can't!

Sorry. I'll call him something else.

Yeah? What?

I don't know. I'll find a nickname.

Cutems! There. "Your snack's ready, Cutems."

Cutems.

Cutems will have to learn that another Cutems invaded Poland.

It's not funny!

It is, a little.

You'll call my son Adolphe, his name,

after the great romantic hero of the 19th century.

And history's worst tyrant.

Adolphe came before Adolf.

But your Adolphe comes afterward.

Look. His arm is raised. A Nazi salute!

You think Adolf was Adolf because his name was Adolf?

Say that again?

You think Adolf…

Maybe we could eat and change the subject.

Babu, it's important.

Adolf Hitler didn't become Hitler because his name was Adolf.

If his name had been Michel or Pepito,

he'd have been just as bad.

"Hail, Pepito!" And I would have no problem.

Probably, but his mom and dad, whose taste must've been like yours,

called him Adolf, not Pepito!

Adolphe doesn't answer for what Adolf did!

You're speaking of the death of millions of people!

He didn't swipe a fucking bicycle!

- What language do you understand?! - Try German!

Stop yelling.

You'll wake the children.

That's enough now.

I'm putting olives in the tagine.

Then we'll talk of something else.

No one touched my mechouia.

Vincent,

people have forgotten Adolphe.

Only Adolf Hitler remains.

Adolf killed Adolphe.

What counts is what people think?

Exactly.

Even when wrong?

It's a categorical imperative. A morally indisputable principle.

"Act according to that maxim held as universal law."

What if I don't agree?

Read Constant? Now read Kant.

Groundwork For Metaphysics… Thrilling.

So Kant thinks I can name him Starsky or Hutch? Not Adolf.

Starsky and Hutch didn't exterminate 6 million!

Pierre! The children.

It's making excuses for crimes against humanity.

We won't let you do it. You have no right.

So you feel that some names are forbidden?

Of course!

Let's make a list.

Let's make a list!

Could I write here? In Myrtille's notebook?

If I have to change, let me get it right.

OK, I'm listening.

What? Only Adolf?

Still at it?

Looking for a name. Any ideas?

What about Joseph? It's classical, sounds nice.

Joseph's no good.

- Why? - Joseph Stalin.

I know it's Jesus' father's name. Well, his step-father.

An honest carpenter,

but then Stalin came. Too bad, according to Pierre.

So long Joseph.

So long Benito.

Franco.

Augusto.

So long, Paul.

Pol Pot!

Khmers count! Not the same spelling, but hey.

Babu, change your cat's name.

It's Polo.

Let's not nitpick. Do I get Adolpho? No.

No more Paul.

More. Pétain kills Philippe.

Saddam!

Come on! You must suck at Jeopardy.

Vincent, listen…

Is there a kill limit?

Because there are serial killers.

Jack the Ripper.

Francis Heaulme. Contemporary, but efficient!

I think we got your point, Vincent.

Really? We have Carlos, the terrorist.

And Ben Laden. So long Ben, so long Benjamin.

Babu's cat, my son. Not much is allowed.

I have Bernard or Raul.

Babu, it's up to you. The cat was born first.

He's your son. Do what you want.

- No, he can't. - Yes, he can.

No, he can't do what he wants!

He's the father, he can.

But?

But name your son after Hitler,

you better warn the Rosenthals.

Why would I? Did they consult me for their kids?

- That's not the same. - It is!

The Rosenthals are educated. They can distinguish

between Adolf and Adolphe.

Stop acting like an idiot!

Call your son Adolphe,

it's either mindless or a provocation.

One or the other!

Maybe you're honest,

but after this conversation

you can't pretend you didn't know. That's over.

You can't claim to be hurtful out of carelessness.

From now on, you know. It's a deliberate act.

You can't wear a Nazi uniform and say you love to dress up.

If you call him Adolphe,

I will consider it a fascist act.

A position statement!

There!

Discussion over.

OK, you're right.

Can't call my son Adolphe.

And you always say he's a stubborn ass!

I'm proud of you.

Now.

The tagine course later?

All together.

Fine.

When I get back, we'll talk Claude out of Marseilles.

Picked a neighborhood?

I said wait so fucking wait!

You were right, Pierre.

Can't ignore other people.

Know what convinced me?

The dressing up.

A private act which, willingly or not, becomes public.

All is political.

All is display. Neutrality doesn't exist.

I believe so.

So you're right.

The more I think about it,

the more I think…

I'll name my son…

Adolf, with an F.

What?

You opened my eyes.

Dressing up. That's what did it.

Chaplin!

Chaplin and his little mustache!

Who was the greatest anti-fascist artist? Chaplin!

He had it licked.

He wouldn't even let Hitler have the aspect! There.

Thanks to you, I'm naming my son Adolf with an F.

You're insane.

I won't give in for lack of courage or to conform.

I'm making a break.

I'm standing in the road in front of a tank

like in Tiananmen Square.

I say to Hitler,

"You took Alsace and Lorraine, but not our names!"

Your simplistic view

tends to make him a myth, an immovable icon.

You deify him.

- I deify Hitler? - Absolutely!

Had Picasso named his son Adolf,

it would've been a greater message for peace than Guernica.

- What crap! - You convinced me, your turn.

Here: Imagine a very ugly girl, poorly dressed,

a leftist spokesperson.

Like the one you vote for.

Now imagine her name is Marilyn.

She'd soil the memory of the star we admire.

Then why is it

this can't operate in the other direction?

My son will be a great guy. He'll beat fascism.

He'll break Hitler's monopoly, knock him off your pedestal.

I'm speechless before such nonsense.

Claude, what man do you hate most?

- Hitler, I guess. - No, living.

I hate no one.

Make an effort.

There must be one person who merits your disdain.

- You don't know him. - Who?

The new Radio France administrator.

Ambitious little prick.

See? You can hate. Keep it up,

in 10 years you'll be normal. His name?

François Chocard.

You think, perfect name for an asshole.

But not when it's St. François d'Assises.

Or François Mitterrand.

Or François Mauriac.

François Villon, François I.

You, Claude!

Nor Claude François!

Therefore, though François Chocard

out of idiocy could, within Radio France,

erase kings, presidents and great authors,

then Adolf Larchet will undo Hitler!

Adolf is dead, long live Adolf!

What is this?

Adolf just won another battle.

- Again? - Thanks to François Chocard.

- What? - You had to be there!

Sorry I'm making dinner!

You walk out every 2 minutes.

I shop, mind the kids, do laundry, the dinner, everything,

one question gets me yelled at!

- I didn't mean that. - You said it!

Wait. Stay with us. We like having you here.

What if I like serving dinner hot?

Babu…

It's a sex game with them. I think she spanks him.

You never stop.

Hey, Babu started pitching those fits at 8.

I'm sorry. It's your brother.

Get the fuck out of here!

No! Scat! Get away!

Dona may smile, and say the while, 'Oh little fool'

No! Not Mallarmé, it's not fair.

I really believed.

- What? - Adolf.

You should. I'm serious.

I just saw the book, under the Buddha.

You put it back wrong.

The professor sure did bite!

"Discussion over!"

Did you read it?

No way.

The blurb on the back.

- Don't give me away. - I don't enter pissing contests.

You'd be afraid to lose?

I won't talk.

But I won't lie, so figure it out. Just keep me out of your…

How Swiss can a person get?!

Even Adolf respected Swiss neutrality.

One point for you.

Discussion over.

- So what is it? - What?

The name you picked.

Henri.

After your father?

Françoise will like that.

I hope she will.

Be nice to Babu. She went all-out for this dinner.

The lovebirds!

Is Anna here yet?

Yes. Not to wake the kids, she climbed the wall.

5 months pregnant.

She'll have to catch up.

- Where do I sit? - Anywhere, darling.

So Apollin says, "Why does Dad have hairy breasts?"

Funny.

Seconds?

If they're not sloppy!

That brings back memories.

It feels good to laugh.

There was no call to argue.

I agree.

Sorry, but what is call to argue?

- Pierre! - Come on, let him answer.

What's important enough to merit argument?

We don't have to argue at every dinner.

We don't have to.

You didn't answer my question.

Well? Come on.

What should we discuss?

Must be boring on the sidelines.

Well,

pick a topic for us.

What's funny?

Obviously, fascism bores you.

No, but you didn't speak of fascism.

- Oh? - What did we speak of?

Not seriously anyway.

You're having fun, pretending.

Role-playing, like kids.

Role-playing?

Like "Cops and Robbers," or "House."

Social issues serve as matchbox cars.

What'll it be? Mosque at ground zero, right to strike?

You've always done that.

Same argument 50 times, but you don't believe.

I find it rather amusing but I'm not a referee.

We amuse him. Which is contemptuous, but nice.

No, Vincent. He's above all that.

I'm above your arguments. Not "all that."

Switzerland awakens!

Could you step off the pedestal and be with us?

Us, your friends.

Aristotle, out of your cave!

- The cave allegory is Plato. - Right.

Aristotle, too. He stayed inside.

You're in luck, same era.

Aren't all philosophers of the same era?

A freshman exam question!

Which I failed!

Hey! Guess who I had a drink with yesterday!

6 p.m. at the Café Beaubourg. Guess who I had a kir with.

A kir?!

At the Café Beaubourg!

Come on, guess.

Old acquaintance?

Ancient!

What do we win, besides your eternal gratitude?

I don't know, a bottle of champagne?

Dom Pérignon?

Antoine Flemmadon.

Shit!

How'd you guess?

You look like you drink kirs with him.

That's crazy.

- I gave him your number. - What?

He's more your ilk, right?

Get out of here!

No! Pierre!

- Sure he is. - Oh I see.

Darling, we're starving!

Of course we waited!

You're such a jerk!

What are the codes?

I'm magnanimous. One hint: First is Marignan.

1515, and?

Austerlitz!

OK, be right up.

She knows Austerlitz.

What's she doing with me?

We all wonder.

I'm curious, how did you find Flemmadon?

He found me on Facebook. I took pity.

- Still got hair in his eyes? - Still as hairy!

You saw him shirtless?

Now this!

Having fun?

Yes, Apollin is asleep.

Your shrink said to let him yell.

Our shrink also said you should be more present.

We don't have to talk about this now.

I don't have to get up each time!

I'll go next time.

What's the shrink like?

- Pricey jerk. - More pricey or a jerk?

Good question.

She's right there.

- How are you? - Sorry I'm so late.

No problem.

They're so beautiful!

Managed the 5 flights?

Listen, I'm sitting all day.

Wow, highlights look great!

Thanks. Pierre hates it.

I do not!

You waited for me!

The Larchet's are well-behaved.

- See how pretty? - Yes!

- You shouldn't have. - We'll keep them!

My husband is in fine form tonight!

Haven't gained an ounce!

Never said that when I was pregnant.

Sure I did.

You gained 50 lbs.

I did not!

You lost almost all of it back.

5 years ago!

It looked great on you.

I never gained 50 lbs!

Looks delicious, Babu!

Relax, plenty of briouats left.

I saved you a plate.

Have a seat.

Apollin is 5?

So how are you?

Fine.

Fashion show season. It's crazy.

When does it end?

End of March. Then June is winter collections.

Without me this summer.

Why does the fashion world flip-flop winter and summer?

To prepare the next season.

Not everyone wears corduroy in August!

True, but who wants to buy swim trunks in March?

No. The question is, who still says swim trunks?

What else is there?

Suit. Bathing suit.

A bathing suit isn't necessarily a brief cut.

He's always been a briefs guy.

- Very briefs. - Very!

He's Mr. Briefs!

Yes, I favor briefs, but…

No buts about it. I've never seen you in boxers.

Me neither!

Darling, ever seen Claude in anything but briefs?

Conversation's reached new heights!

With the orchestra suit, I have to wear briefs.

Right! Your little trombone's fault.

Here.

Babu, I can't eat all that!

You need strength. You're eating for two.

Right, there are two of you!

Two is right. And not just any two.

Pierre, please. Don't start in again.

What's going on?

Our friends didn't love our son's name.

- You told them? - Yes.

He was so proud of it.

And… you don't like it?

No, Anna. They don't.

We were mostly surprised.

Right. It was mainly the surprise.

Not for me.

Sorry, Anna, but I mostly didn't like it.

I'm the one who's sorry.

We thought… the allusion would please you.

The allusion?

It's the allusion we didn't like, Anna.

The allusion!

It's a misunderstanding.

Anna understands very well.

I think so, yes.

What I don't understand is your reaction.

I'm surprised as well.

That Vincent thought of it, maybe.

But you! That's beyond me.

I'm the one who suggested it.

That's true.

You realize who it is, what he did!

What he did?

I don't know, I never met him.

Can she hear herself talk?

"She" is right here, so talk to her!

You're a crazy, stupid girl!

Enough! Vincent, this is getting ugly.

This is what comes of a name like that!

Mind your business! How dare you take that tone?

He didn't mean to…

- No? He's a French professor. - Exactly!

I know what words mean!

Fuck you!

- No. - I'll name my son what I want!

No, you won't.

I won't be lectured by a guy who names his kids Apollin and Myrtille!

Stop!

It was a joke.

Honey, I…

I led them to believe we'd decided to call our son…

Adolf.

Silly.

Funny, but silly.

But very funny!

Your face…

It was funny, right?

That's the source of Pierre's anger.

We're actually naming our son Henri.

Like Dad and Grandpa. Anna's "allusion" was to Dad.

Now let's calm down, take a seat,

stuff our faces with falafel, tchoutchouka, pita.

And all hug each other.

- No, honey. - Shut your trap.

OK, it was idiotic.

Very idiotic. Really.

I'm a jerk and I'm sorry.

Anna, sorry.

Pierre, sorry.

Please accept my apologies. OK?

I think I spoiled the mood.

Could you do a number on your…?

Babu, help me out. Enough, it's not like I…

Anyone for mint tea?

Me.

You just let it slide, as usual.

Let what slide?

The whole joke was to show us how ridiculous our kids' names are.

No way, Pierre. It was a joke!

It was just a joke. I saw Adolphe on the bookshelf.

And The Brothers Karamazov. But you chose neither Ivan nor Dmitri.

Would've been less funny.

We're all hysterical.

Pierre, he apologized.

Anna didn't.

Keep calling me "stupid girl" if you like.

Darling, please.

Pierre, no one said your kids' names were ridiculous.

No, she said she wouldn't be lectured

by a guy who named his kids Apollin and Myrtille.

She was upset, come on.

What did she mean?

That she wouldn't be lectured. She's old enough to decide.

I got that part. But the end puzzles me.

What are you asking, Pierre?

It's pretty clear.

What I think of his kids' names.

Exactly.

She thinks they're just fine.

- Really? - Really!

We think Apollin and Myrtille are very cute.

I wondered if you'd do it.

- Did what? - Your frown.

What frown?

The one you make when it's "Who cares?" or "If you like,"

but it's really no.

- Bullshit. - You do make a frown.

Stop it, Pierre!

You're upset because you got fooled. Let's move on.

Listen…

How was it with the Japanese, love?

No idea, love. I was with Koreans.

How was it with the Koreans, love?

- You mean you care? - Of course.

You don't usually ask questions.

Look how you act when I do.

Sure I care about your work.

All right,

then what's my partner's name?

What's-his-name.

That guy. The one who annoyed you, you know.

Sure, I know.

- So do I. - So do I.

Even I know.

I know, too. Very well. That weirdo name of his…

Tip of my tongue!

See, you did it.

- What? - Your frown.

Fuck off. What is it? Show me.

I don't know. Sort of like this.

Tip of my tongue…

I do that? Really, do I?

See, I told you.

It's not that, but you do frown.

Now you're starting?

Sorry, but you do make a frown.

Well, I'd say a pout.

Right, it's more a pout.

What kind of pout?

Sort of like this.

Yes, that's right!

Oh say, I like your new hair-do!

That's exactly it.

Pierre, that your Renault downstairs?

Renault is so classy.

Right, exactly it!

So, so classy!

No, we think Apollin and Myrtille are very cute.

Exactly it.

- No way. I don't do that. - Yes, I swear.

Looks like a duck!

More like chicken butt.

Chicken butt.

- My mouth's like chicken butt? - A bit.

You think it's funny?

OK, if you like…

There!

If you like…

If my frown means I'm fed up,

yes I frown. Clear enough?

Don't get mad. You asked.

Babu, get off my back.

Ever thought of theater?

I do some, with my 8th graders.

Your 8th graders are lucky. You're so observant.

That little grin is so him.

So…

So what now?

So Apollin and Myrtille are ridiculous?

Please, get off my back.

I don't get it.

Quit playing dumb. You know they're not normal names.

Apollin and Myrtille. Sounds like a Tom Lehrer song.

My daughter, your niece has an abnormal name?

What's normal, Vincent Larchet?

Classical. Not "original," if you like.

Better than "abnormal."

Play with words.

We have been, for a while now. But tell me,

is Adolf normal or original?

It's an existing name.

Existing?

Apollin and Myrtille exist, since we named them.

I'm sick of Apollo and Myrtille.

It's Apollin, not Apollo!

No mistaking that.

Excuse me?

He looks like you.

My son is ugly?

Not yet, he's 4.

He's ridiculous and ugly?

He's not ridiculous, his father is. You are.

It's ridiculous to make hyphenated last names,

for some parity's sake.

Yes, made-up names are ridiculous.

This originality contest like post-its stuck on the forehead!

"Remember I'm different."

"Remember I'm not classical."

"Here resides a family of bright liberals,

"with a TV Guide subscription, but no TV!"

To me, that's ridiculous!

"Henri Larchet" does evoke SUVs and The Economist.

I don't care!

I don't care what image I project.

Or what people think of me.

But you are obsessed with your image, and worse,

with the image your children project.

Think you're original? You're just a snob!

I'm image-obsessed and you don't care?

Funniest thing you said tonight!

It is a laugh!

The dessert buffet.

- Still hungry? - Those lokums are incredible!

It's incredible that you would say that.

You, the quintessence, the purest concentration,

the very substance of selfishness.

Me?!

Pierre!

I'm selfish?

No, not selfish. You are selfishness itself.

I knew I had a dozen faults, but that one…

A dozen? At the minimum!

- Vincent is rather generous. - Thank you.

Your selfishness isn't basic, not just anyone can see it.

Thanks!

I meant at first you don't say, "Vincent's so selfish."

It's much subtler than that.

You can't see it right away, but it's there.

You understand?

Your flights of reason are inaccessible to me.

Sure you understand, and very well.

You're much more intelligent than you look.

Then explain how I'm selfish.

How I'm selfishness itself!

I'm interested. We all are.

You are absolutely obsessed by your own person.

All your sentences begin with "I,"

you can't stand not being at the center,

and you'd do anything to be there.

Of all the people I've met in my life,

no one better defines the word: Selfishness.

Think I've always been that way?

Perhaps not always, but for a while.

- When? - When what?

What did you first notice it?

Stop this! It's unbearable!

When?

Claude, say something!

Well? When?

Thanks!

It started with Moka.

Moka?

The dog. B.B.'s dog.

- Who? - B.B.

Beatrice, Dad's sister.

The tall blond, who plays cards. Who married a banker,

that jerk with hair on…

OK, B.B.'s dog. So?

Don't make that face. You know what I mean.

B.B. had a poodle, a horrid thing she treated like her child.

Kept kissing it. Horrible.

She perfumed it, too. She sprayed it with…

It was a very hot day.

One summer. The adults took a nap. Vincent and I were bored stiff.

How old were you?

11 or 12.

We were 13.

Your memory is back.

B.B. told us that Moka was afraid of water.

A real aversion, like a cat.

What a stupid dog he was.

Remember, Claude?

Sure, the dumbest dog on earth.

There was a pond.

We were tossing rocks. Moka rubs up against my leg.

He's not a dog person.

So I got this idea.

I said to Vincent, "Let's throw him in."

As an experiment, for laughs. Like you do when you're 13.

Vincent wasn't crazy about it. He thought it was a dumb idea.

Wasn't it dumb?

Yeah, very dumb.

He's not a dog person.

I didn't think. I kicked the dog straight into the pond.

What?

He sank like a stone. A few bubbles, then nothing.

You killed Moka?

I'm the one who killed Moka.

Horrible.

No, that's not horrible. It's just stupid.

What's horrible is Vincent took the rap for me.

Sorry I saved your butt.

See? He was the same at 13. He trapped me.

I thought it was friendship, but no. Know what he did?

He stole my murderer status from me.

He wouldn't even leave me that. He evinced me.

Know why?

To build his legend, to hog the spotlight.

I drowned the poor mutt but he turns to B.B.

and says, with incredible aplomb,

"B.B., I killed Moka."

We should film this.

You were Don Quixote again, and I was Sancho Panza.

Sancho, you remember the beating I took, don't you?

Sure. We all remember, Vincent. That's why you did it.

Just like Adolf, it's only there for us to remember.

To make a mark. Selfishness itself.

Because I wouldn't share the spanking?

"Egocentric, egotistical, self-centered, narcissistic,

"caring only for oneself,

"recognizing only the reality of one's own existence."

You are the definition of "selfish," Vincent.

While you have the dictionary, turn to S again.

S.

As in stingy.

What?

I'm looking for your adjective.

Stingy? The best you can think of?

Maybe not the best, but I think of it…

rather quickly.

There. One set all. It's a draw.

- A pause in the cock fight? - I'd love it.

- No draws in tennis. - What?

You said, "One set all, a draw." That's meaningless.

You're a pain in the ass.

A big pain, in matters of language.

Right. You know what words mean.

- It's who I am. - Listen.

I was relativizing.

If you want back in the ring to get stuck some more,

put your tights on and go right ahead!

Mr. Stingy!

Stop this!

Pierre's not stingy.

"Ungenerous,

"niggardly, penurious, tight-fisted with money."

You're generous and I'm stingy?!

Because you gave Myrtille an iPod for her 4th birthday?

Sorry I don't have your money!

- Those wood things were cheaper. - Pick-up sticks, asshole!

My money wouldn't change you.

I won't spoil kids.

You sweat every dime you spend!

Look at you with your little change purse.

You take one coin out of it, it's like extracting a nail!

You're a tightwad!

The tightwad invited you.

Your wife did.

Pierre is not a tightwad at all.

I'd even say he's…

when there's…

What's the word?

He's really…

A spendthrift? What's Switzerland got to say?

Well I…

What? You agree? You think I'm stingy, too?

Let's say you're someone who's cautious.

Right! That's it, he's cautious.

Claude-speak for "Pierre is a tightwad."

But it's what you think. Enough, Claude.

Enough.

I'm glad to see, thanks to me, you two found common ground.

Now that you're so close,

so honest and open with each other,

Claude must know Vincent's nickname for him.

No, Pierre! That's enough now!

You're both the same.

- Monopolizing the evening. - Right!

Did you even ask if we were interested?

Did either of you praise Babu for dinner?

Of course.

- No! - Sure we did!

- When? - In the kitchen.

Right, sure.

What's my nickname?

- No, stop with that. - Claude, don't you start.

- Vincent? - Drop it.

I'd like to know.

You don't want to know.

What does it matter?

Exactly! What does it matter?

I just want to…

Why won't you trust me?!

Stop it. You're better than these two morons.

Vincent, what's my nickname?

- I forbid you! - What?! I'm dreaming!

Claude, please!

I want to know!

The plum.

Pierre!

What?

Nice, Pierre! Very smart.

He calls you the plum. Happy?

Plum?

Like a perk?

As in Sugar Plum Fairy.

Sugar Plum Fairy? I don't get it.

Don't play dumb. You get it.

We love you as you are.

What do you mean?

Sugar Plum Fairy. You really don't get it?

No, I really don't get it.

A fairy.

A fruit.

A queer.

A pansy, a fag if you like. Get it now?

You think I'm a homosexual?

You know…

I feel better having told the truth about Moka.

Sorry, but I'm not homosexual at all.

You're the last one to know.

Did you hear what I just said?

- You can tell us. - If he wants to!

It's his life, after all.

If I were I'd say so. There's no shame in it.

But I'm not. I can't…

Come on, Claude.

You're a bachelor, a musician.

You live in the Marais, wear orange.

Who wears orange? Outside of Guantanamo.

You make clafoutis, you drink kir.

You get manicures, you like Freddy Mercury.

Mercury, for fuck's sake!

You burn incense.

Papier d'Arménie.

- Whatever, it's perfumey. - So?

If you don't eat meat, you're vegetarian.

Ride a bike, you're a cyclist. It's just a fact.

I can't get over you all.

I'm speechless before such rampant stupidity.

I like boys because I wear orange shirts. You realize?

I like Visconti and Cary Grant. You missed that!

- We weren't judging you. - No!

Sure…

Well, obviously…

We were wrong. Sorry.

Vincent, please.

Sorry, I didn't know he liked girls.

Because I mean…

you like girls?

There's one I love.

What?

You met someone?

Yes.

And you're together? For real?

Yes, Babu.

What's she like? Tell us.

Tall, short, blond, brunette, big breasts, tattoos?

Vincent, don't be vulgar!

We have to know. Claude, tell us!

- I'm in no mood tonight. - Why not?

You were all for role-playing. It gets serious, you hide.

You dodge us.

Maybe you're not a fag, but you are certainly a coward.

OK, ask away Vincent.

- Don't play his game. - What game?!

30 years, we know nothing of him.

He's mum. Like a court reporter.

This is it, ask me your questions!

- Is it really a girl? - Yes.

How long has it been?

Several years.

What? And you never told me about her?

What does she look like?

Gorgeous.

Stop it, Claude. Not like this.

Why shouldn't he tell us?

Because, Babu.

He doesn't answer to us.

Hang on, Anna. You know her?

Yes, Anna knows her.

So do we know her, too?

It's not Antoine Flemmadon, is it?

No, not Antoine Flemmadon.

Someone much closer.

Much closer?

Much closer.

Closer than anyone, in fact.

Closer than anyone?

That's it, Claude. Tell them the truth.

You went too far.

It can't be.

Don't drag this out. Say it!

It can't be.

It can't be.

- Tell them, or I will! - I'll tell them.

Hang on!

You shut up. What?

I'm sorry, Vincent.

I can't believe this. You didn't do that.

Do what?

The two of you!

Are you a complete moron? Vincent!

Sure?

Of course! What did you imagine?

That's not it at all, Vincent!

Scared the shit out of me!

I really fucking believed it!

So did I.

Not at all.

You're so stupid!

I could never do such a thing.

Then who is she?

I am…

seeing Françoise.

Françoise who?

Françoise…

your mother.

Her mother what?

I'm seeing Françoise, Vincent.

Who's Françoise Vincent?

No! Françoise! Mom!

What, you're seeing Mom?

We're together.

Oh fuck.

I thought we were close.

We are close, Babu.

I thought you trusted me.

You didn't tell me.

But I do trust you.

Not as much as Anna.

- That's different. - How long?

Babu, it's your business. I'm not involved.

How long have you known?

Vincent…

Say my name again, I'll shove your horn up your ass.

How long have you known?

Vincent, I know you're hurt.

I even see why you feel betrayed.

No one meant to hurt you.

Quit playing social worker!

How long have you known?

It's your mom and your best friend.

I see why it's hard to accept, but I have nothing to say about it.

She's right.

It wasn't up to her to say it.

It was up to you.

Your mother wasn't ready. She thought you wouldn't understand.

That's another matter.

With anybody else, I don't care. It would be the same.

What?! He's sleeping with Mom!

Stop it with the "Mom, mom." Grow up!

You're not 8 anymore.

Your mother loves another man. So?

Dad should've quit smoking!

I've been Claude's friend for 30 years.

Not a day went by without a call, or a letter.

All those nights we spent talking…

How could you?

How?

Babu…

Try to understand, it wasn't against you.

It was his secret, that's all.

Maybe he just needed time.

It takes two to make a secret.

I'm telling Claude I wished I were that person.

I always tell him all.

Nobody tells all. Nobody.

Everyone has secrets, moments we don't share.

- Chunks of hidden life. - He knows all!

The good, the bad.

Giving birth, the kids' problems, the hurts, the tears!

All of it!

- Even when you had that thing. - What?!

Are you crazy?

What?

That's intimate? Private? Personal?

What good are friends if you can't tell them what matters?

I often wanted to tell you, but I couldn't.

Then why did you tell Anna?

Babu,

he didn't tell me. No one told me anything.

I just found out.

You found out? What are you, a medium?

There was no confiding.

Anna found us one day in the pool…

Stop it, stop it!

I was afraid you wouldn't understand the love

Françoise and I have shared.

Françoise is…

Stop!

You're speaking of my mother!

Mom, who took care of you at La Castide, as a kid.

Made your snacks.

Gave you presents. Henri's wife, my mother. Ring a bell?

- You're torturing yourself! - I will if I feel like it!

You can't understand…

What can't I understand?

Dad loved you so much. Defending you, feeling sorry for you.

That kills me. Know what?

You disgust me.

Vincent, calm down or leave.

I'm leaving.

No! Calm down and stay!

You wanted him to talk. Now we listen.

Vincent!

Every single day I think of your father.

I keep seeing that moment…

your parents at the instant I first saw them.

In the apartment on Rue Monge.

Before Christmas. Your dad on a stool, hanging ornaments

on a huge tree.

He was trying to. It was a catastrophe.

Françoise laughing.

They were so good together, it was incredible.

It was truly magical.

Something I had never seen before.

That day, your parents took me in.

You all did.

Babu became my best friend.

An extension of myself.

Vincent, you protected me.

You always teased me, always kept your distance,

but you did it like a brother.

Françoise got me into music. All those years,

helping me along.

Thanks to her, I became someone.

Right after Henri's death, it all changed.

It all came to the surface.

I knew that…

I loved a woman I had no right to love.

I stopped seeing her. For you.

I had to forget her.

So,

I needed to get away. I said yes to any tour.

And I left.

For Canada.

I was running away.

Françoise thought Henri's death had driven me away,

that I didn't care for her anymore, that I threw it all over.

It was just the opposite.

I really tried to forget her,

to drive her from my thoughts.

But as months went by, I was wasting away.

I couldn't play. I quit.

I came back to Paris, I was going crazy.

One evening,

in the middle of a concert,

right in the orchestra pit,

my hands started shaking.

I lost it.

I got in the car and drove straight to La Castide.

I had to see her,

to speak to her.

I had to let it out.

I arrived at dawn.

A fog enveloped the house. You couldn't see 6 feet.

There was a clanging.

The sound of a door.

And Françoise appeared.

She didn't look surprised.

She waved me over, like she'd been expecting me.

Like she'd always expected me.

We stood there,

I don't know, maybe a minute, in the cold, face to face.

I was a wreck.

Exhausted, but… I felt all right.

I was where I belong.

Understand?

You understand what I felt?

It was stark, so simple.

It was obvious.

The rain started to fall.

Raindrops on Françoise's face.

Streaming like tears.

Or else maybe they were tears.

It was beautiful.

Then

Françoise took my hand.

And she said…

Come.

I want you.

I want you.

Shut the fuck up!

Oh shit!

Vincent! What is wrong with you?

Claude, let me see.

You chipped a tooth.

Great! Thanks a lot.

Now you'll get a visit from the tooth fairy.

What's going on, Mom?

Nothing. Uncle Claude tripped on the tablecloth.

It's noisy.

Then wear earplugs!

Calmed down yet?

You realize what you did? What a state you're in!

Telling me so won't calm me down!

Right. I can't say a word!

Fine, Anna.

What you just did isn't fine!

It's nothing, Anna.

He decked you, don't defend him! Maybe you're OK, I'm not!

I want him to apologize. He will.

Yeah? Or else?

You want to play that? Look out.

He should apologize. He started it!

Started it? Can you hear yourself?

That can't be you talking!

Not the man I've lived with for 2 years. The man I love.

You get that I'm in love?

That's why I've tried for an hour not to hate you. But it's hard!

You like me childish, selfish, making faces?

I'm expecting your child?

So you say.

What?

Any more revelations?

I never lied about us.

How do I know? I'm Thomas, I believe what I see.

Keep it up, you won't see your son.

Right, give me a break.

Think it's funny?

What? You want me to apologize?

OK. Claude, sorry for decking you, though you deserved it.

Sorry you took it hard, but I don't need your permission.

We got that.

Françoise and I are both adults.

She sure is.

A 30-year age difference!

26.

I see why Françoise wouldn't tell you.

You discussed it?

Of course. Dozens of times!

I said, "Trust them. They'll understand."

I was wrong! Look at you!

Stop yelling now.

The kids are in bed, I'm going too.

Yes, I'll put her on.

Babu,

it's your mom.

Hi, Mom.

Listen… Really great.

The mood was very high.

Dinner was delicious.

Yes, I followed your recipe.

Loved it. I'm holding the empty platter.

The raisins, no. Not swollen, not shriveled.

Maybe a little squashed now, on the rug.

Why?

It's sort of a long story.

After Vincent told us he's naming his son after Hitler…

The dictator, Mom.

Then he and Anna, who arrived an hour late,

said they thought our kids' names were ridiculous.

You might say, no big deal compared to Moka's murder. But hey!

Moka, Mom. B.B.'s dog.

Right.

I forgot! Your darling son, who hates the Rosenthals,

will be there on the 36th and 37th.

Although now that he broke your lover's nose, maybe not.

Claude, Mom.

How many have you got?

I'll put him on.

It's Mom.

All right.

Yes and no.

More no, actually.

I'll call you back.

Right.

All right.

Me, too.

Françoise will be in Paris tomorrow.

Faster than for her grandchildren.

Babu, call back and apologize.

Apologize? You want me to tell my mom I'm sorry?

Listen…

And me? Who apologizes to me?

Who will it be?

Will you?

But I…

Why look so stricken? I'm crazy, too? That it?

Or body language so they think you're bewildered?

You just go wide-eyed and you're off the hook?

That others will say, "Poor guy, with his hysterical wife!"

You should see your face.

Same as school kids cheating.

The text book is open in their lap,

the math formula is written on their palm.

But those eyes say, "I don't know what you mean."

What can I say?

No idea what I'm getting at? Nothing occurs to you?

I don't know. Start with how I sacrificed my thesis,

so you could write yours.

While busy with Montaigne, who graded your papers?

Prepped your classes? True, I had maternity leave,

so I had lots of time!

The children. Let's talk about them.

Who begged me to have them, cause they're a blessing?

You never care for them. Yes, you do!

That's not fair.

Sunday nights, at times, you play with them for 15 minutes.

Get them all wired.

Right before bedtime.

Then I get them, overexcited, sweating,

book bags to prepare,

stories to tell, pee-pee, nightmares.

You're in your study because, hey…

Seriously, those brats get tedious.

I'd like to have time to read now and then, too. No!

Babu can't.

No, Babusky doesn't have time.

What good would it do me?

You never took me along to a conference.

Because in truth, you're ashamed of me, too.

My little job, little school, in a little suburb.

Nothing to crow about, the poorly dressed wife!

With her big ass, 50 lbs heavier since the kid was born!

So who will apologize to me?!

Who will apologize to me?

Not you, Pierre.

I can see that.

Claude,

I have nothing to tell you. You know it all already.

Though it's a one-way street.

As for you, Anna…

I won't say anything. You and I never found much to say.

You, Vincent.

The words I long to hear?

Will you admit you got away with murder?

Mommy's little boy. Daddy's little clown.

Allowed to suck in school, leave the table without permission.

Answer back, sleep over! Who was allowed anything!

Because Vincent's so much fun!

And girls just adore him!

Must be hard being a little playboy.

Poor darling, he shouldn't get worn out clearing the table.

Your sister will do that.

Don't you worry, my big boy.

She won't mind. She likes playing maid, your oafish sister.

No worries, Vinny boy.

Screw up all you want. We forgive you in advance.

Well?

Get the picture? Yes?

No?

No apology on the horizon?

Perfect.

That's fine.

We're all the same then.

No apologies tonight.

My bitterness, my sorrow, my hard feelings and I are turning in.

You do the dishes for once.

Pierre, stay on that couch. If the kids cry, you get it.

I'll take a handful of Ativan and sleep 2 days.

Go fuck yourselves and good night.

I just made one joke.

Well,

I'm going home.

You're OK?

I'm great.

I'll drive you, Claude.

I'm taking your car, get a cab.

Excuse me?

That a problem?

See you tomorrow if you're calm. Otherwise forget it.

I'm dreaming.

Did you hear her?

She wants to have the kid alone? Fine. Let me laugh.

Want some?

Explain something to me.

Why do women all adore that guy?

I don't know.

Musician?

A trombone player.

The trombone, come on.

It's for marching bands.

Truly disgusting.

Small and drab, just like him.

He's a total bore. Ever hear him crack a joke?

Typical step-father.

Holy shit.

Just imagine, Mom is sleeping with the plum.

Any luck, they won't have kids.

I'm going to see Babu.

- Hey, you stay. - I'll go to a hotel.

Don't be silly. Stay and help me clean up.

You're good at sweet-talk.

You'll see, it's a good couch.

Sleep on it often?

Now and then.

What?

Fantastic!

- Give me your eternal gratitude? - No.

I'll lend it to you. I'm a tightwad, don't forget.

- Couscous in your hair. - Whose fault is that?

Sorry about the table.

That's nothing.

Only wood.

You could make pick-up sticks.

Right.

Night, Sancho.

Night, asshole.

- Sancho! - What?

Did you know Gary Grant was a homosexual?

Yes.

And it's Cary. Cary Grant.

With a C, as in Cari-bou.

Night, Mr. Know-Nothing.

Sancho!

What now?

I just wanted to say,

you know, we all have our little problems.

That night,

my head heavy from mixing fine and crappy wine,

my back pulverized by Pierre's couch of torture,

as I read the first pages of Benjamin Constant's novel,

I had no doubt our family had reached a point of no-return.

But life went on.

Four months and six days later, Anna's water broke

at a crucial board meeting, with those same Koreans.

Babu, Pierre, Mom, and Claude all rushed to the clinic

to meet our new son.

It turns out, there was no son.

Blow!

Scissors… Quickly.

Hurry up!

- What's going on? - Don't worry.

Is there a problem?

Good. Everything's fine, just fine.

Don't worry.

Your little girl is gorgeous. She's fine.

We'll clean her up and bring her in.

Fuck.

After thanking hospital staff…

Years of medical school, you can't tell a boy from a girl?!

Did the redhead get his glasses yet?

Needing a coat of pink paint for the blue room,

needing to purchase all the baby's things again,

we were nevertheless ecstatic, hugging this new life,

when we had a revelation.

What's the little marvel's name?

Fuck!

Don't worry, you have time.

I'll be back.

We no longer had a name.

There we were, wrung out,

all caught up short,

and Anna got the idea.

The right idea. The one that had to be.

Proving the mother of my child is truly a wonderful woman.

Well?

The good news is the baby is fine.

The bad news…

is it's a girl.

And she is gorgeous!

You scared me!

A little girl cutems!

- Is she pretty? - Ravishing!

- How big? - 7 pounds.

And her name?

Plum!

You wouldn't!

Actually, her name is Françoise.

You bastard!

Mom gave me a big hug,

Babu had tears in her eyes, Pierre cried for joy.

Anna's idea.

Claude shook my hand and said,

"Wonderful idea, Vincent."

That's when, on my friend-turned-step-father's face,

I thought I saw a frown.

Well, not a frown.

More like a little pout.