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Lies are just another way of telling the truth.

The texts that accompany the upcoming images

are extracts from Vivian Barrett's diary.

Finally, today I've been able to speak to Léon on the phone.

Before doing so,

I put on that red lipstick he likes so much.

I miss his hands,

my head laying on his chest,

his fingers caressing my hair,

laughing,

listening to records together...

I think they had problems at the border yesterday,

but he didn't want to go into the details.

He has said to me that he feels much safer

when he is alone thousands of feet in the air

than surrounded by people with his feet on the ground.

He has also told me that sometimes,

when he flies,

he feels like a feather

that wants to crash brutally against the ground

but can't.

When Uncle Paul left us this house,

I immediately imagined Léon and myself with five or six children

all playing happily in the garden.

At the time I didn't know I couldn't have children.

I didn't know my belly was like a man's,

as barren as arid earth.

The dry branch of the tree.

I have just realised that I haven't written since September.

It's been really hard these last nine months since the accident.

But Léon is recovering little by little.

Yesterday we went for Léon's medical checkup.

There's no solution for his hearing problem.

He's been told he'll never be able to fly a plane again.

It's the first time I've seen him cry.

We'll be going to France on Thursday.

We are visiting a friend of Léon's who's a pharmacist.

He wants to talk to him about a business proposition he has in mind.

Jacques has offered him a partnership in a company

which will market a unique medication.

A pill that will be made with a plant

that only grows in the area of the Popocatepetl volcano.

Last Tuesday,

I went up to the attic and found a box with some of Uncle Paul's things.

I was struck by an untitled red book.

It's by a certain Paravadin Kanvar Kharjappali

and it was published in Mexico in 1919.

On the first page it says:

God also doubts about your existence.

I have started reading it and it fascinates me.

It says, for example:

The problem with a crowd that shouts is that it's almost impossible to know

whether each individual is yelling because the rest do so

or whether they'd also yell if they were alone.

The closest bond that exists amongst human beings

arises from hatred towards a common enemy.

That's why us misanthropists love each other.

In war the most radical fighter on one side

seems to ignore

that had he been born and raised on the other side

he would be just as radical,

but defending the opposite.

I'm equally surprised by the fact we don't spend all day killing each other

as by the fact we don't spend all day making love.

The first clinical trials went well.

If it passes the final tests,

Lovedyn will start selling very soon.

Dexamyl's competition is strong,

but Léon thinks they can beat it.

It's the first time we have been getting on so well together

since the accident.

Very well actually.

Almost everybody has already arrived

and the house is perfect.

Olivia and Peter arrived today.

Peter is horrified by the whole Lovedyn idea.

I don't see why.

To me happiness,

whether artificial, temporary or deceitful,

is always welcome.

As Kharjappali says,

we live searching for ways to forget our vulnerability

and if not through Lovedyn,

through tequila, butter, a lover, God or war.

Yesterday we played the Elderly Whistlers.

Léon was asked if he was selfish.

He said he wasn't.

Then he was asked to face the following dilemma:

Imagine yourself or Vivian

had to jump off a cliff

in order to save mankind.

Would you let Vivian jump or would you jump yourself?

He said:

I would hold Vivian by the hand and jump off with her.

There comes a moment while skiing rapidly down the ski run

when I feel that there is no end.

It feels like I could keep going down, down and down

until Iosing sight of the whole world.

At night I feel something similar.

But for different reasons.

I have the same nightmare over and over again.

A giant owl stares at me from the bedroom door.

I'm desperately looking for a place to hide,

but the room is completely empty.

I want to get out, but the door has turned into a wall.

Suddenly, I realise there's no way out.

And then I wake up drenched in sweat.

We all had quite a lot to drink yesterday

and Rita told me a story that has affected me deeply.

It seems that Kati had a sister, Eva,

who died in the bombing of Schaffhausen.

It was on April 1st, 1944,

on Rita's birthday.

It was a mistake.

The Americans thought they were bombing Germany.

They could have been Germans

thinking they were bombing America.

Léon's boat is finally finished.

Tomorrow we go out for the first time.

I don't like the boat very much.

But it's the first time I've seen Léon as enthusiastic

as when he used to fly.

It's wonderful to see him like this.

We're going to spend all our holidays on the boat.

It's been a week and I already want to go home.

Léon is continually obsessing about the boat and the camera.

I'm fed up with him only looking at me through the lens.

It's as if he was aiming at me with a gun

and was about to shoot me at any time.

I've asked Léon to teach me how to drive the boat.

Not only do I enjoy the steering,

I also don't get sick when I do it.

The bad thing is that Léon hardly lets me do it.

He also taught me how the camera works.

But I prefer to write.

I think filming is

one of the best forms of self-delusion.

It's also a desperate struggle against solitude.

And a beautiful way to vanish

and become animal or God.

If you film, you don't have to live.

Nor do you have to give explanations.

I don't know anymore

whether we film what we do

or whether we do the things we do because we film them.

The same thing happens to Léon when he films and when he drives.

This satisfies a sexual urge,

and he feels he's defying death.

According to Kharjappali, life is a mixture of play and prison.

The proportions of each element

vary according to the creature and its circumstance.

We saw a beautiful black pig by the sea today.

Well, I saw it.

Léon filmed it.

He's still obsessed.

Tonight, there's a party all over the island.

Léon's going to shoot the fireworks from the sea.

Yesterday for the first time I kissed a man that wasn't Léon.

I was dragged towards him without thought or any will power.

He's Mexican, but he lives in Majorca.

His name is Leonardo.

Well, they call him Leo.

I'm safe if I say his name in my dreams.

I feel guilty for not feeling guilty.

I can't help feeling happy.

I should feel remorse.

I really should.

But I prefer to follow Kharjappali's advice:

Desire is not something to be wasted.

I just sent him a letter.

I no longer can tell what I remember from what I project.

Neither memories nor desire.

Is that death or is it freedom?

When we get home, Léon's going to America for a month.

Lovedyn has been well received there

and they want to expand the points of sale.

I've told Léon

that I'm afraid of going on such a long trip by boat

and that I'll go later by plane.

It's a lie.

I'm going to Majorca to see Leo.

I can only think of seeing him again.

Today I'm leaving for New York to meet Leo.

Sorry, I meant Léon.

It was hard to say goodbye to Leo.

But I also miss Léon.

And now I can say that remorse is unstoppable,

and grows relentlessly in my gut.

I never understood the urge to climb to the top of a mountain,

but I always understood the urge to move away from everyone.

The temptation to disappear without leaving a trace.

One day my uncle Paul told his wife

he was going out for a short walk

and that he would be back for dinner.

He came back 40 years later.

When his wife opened the door and saw him,

all she said was:

Your dinner got cold.

Léon's instructions:

First pretend you don't see me.

Then look at me and smile.

I realised yesterday there would never be anyone

who knew absolutely everything about me.

At first, I felt puzzled,

then I felt a sort of relief

and finally a profound anxiety came over me.

Then I thought of that Kharjappali sentence I love:

Lucidity submerges you into absolute darkness.

This wonderful city isn't an island

but it could be one.

Lovedyn sales continue to rise.

Its side-effects are almost non-existent

and so Dexamyl is on the verge of disappearing.

I'm happy for Léon.

It's the first time I've seen him in action

and I discovered his trump card when selling.

Like an unconfident seducer, he indulges in excessive flattery.

And flattering someone is the most effective defense weapon.

I've just found a note that Leo had hidden in my handbag.

I want to forget everyone, including myself, except you.

Léon's managed it!

Lovedyn will be the official sponsor of the Mille Miglia this year.

Leo has proposed that I go to live with him.

I haven't slept for several nights.

I think I've reached a decision

but it's hard for me to accept it.

I'll go to live with Leo after the Le Mans.

About the decisions we make, Kharjappali says:

Avoiding wrongdoing for fear of God

doesn't show kindness

but cowardice.

Regarding suffering, he says:

The eternity of an instant of pain

lasts much longer

than the eternity of an instant of pleasure.

Both myself and Léon are trying to go on as normal.

We're doing our best to avoid the subject.

But we're both still devastated.

Instead of sleeping, I get exhausted speculating in vain.

What if we hadn't,

what if instead of, what if that day, what if that man, what if

all of this has also pulled us apart.

For the first time I'd prefer the freedom of oblivion

to the slavery of memory.

Léon insists that I take Lovedyn,

but I don't want to.

I feel angry and sad in equal measure.

And I think anger can move

as many mountains as faith.

Even if it doesn't lead them anywhere.

K. about death:

When faced with death

we curious people have an added advantage.

And:

If human nature implied living forever,

we would devote all our efforts

to discovering how to die.

Today I found Leo's last letter in a drawer.

The one I had never dared to open.

It remains unopened. And in the drawer.

I can't neither open it

nor throw it away.

I wonder how he's doing.

If he's still alive, if he remembers me.

I don't know if I regret not having gone to him.

What would my life have been like if…?

The lake has frozen over.

It looks like a dream, a tale, a painting by Bruegel.

The last time it happened was in 1929.

On Sunday I opened a box I shouldn't have opened.

There was a bracelet inside,

just like the one Léon gave me for my birthday.

Olivia came by this morning to pick up some documents.

She was wearing the bracelet.

As soon as she left,

I looked in the drawer and I saw it was empty.

Sometimes I look for signs that things will turn out well or not.

Signs can be numbers, colours, shapes, words or actions.

For example, today we'll be boarding the Queen Mary in Southampton,

bound for New York.

I think to myself:

If the first number I see is an odd number,

everything will be alright.

The first thing I saw was number 10.

Then I tell myself just to be sure:

If I take nine steps without hearing the barking of a dog,

that will mean everything will be alright

and we'll reach New York safe and sound.

I carry on like that until I put the square peg

into the round hole.

One day I thought:

If when I look out the window I see a bird flying,

that will mean all this signs business is a lie.

I looked out the window and a bird flew by.

I still haven't found the opportunity to tell Léon that I know about Olivia.

But every time I remember,

I feel I'm vomiting black smoke when I speak with him.

And I want to be young again and be with Leo.

Places in the middle of nowhere.

Places without a heart.

Places you forget while you're still there.

Places that don't breathe.

Places that don't move.

Places that neither smell, nor bleed, nor bite, nor speak.

Places that can go right through you without touching you.

In spite of Lovedyn's success,

Léon hasn't fully got over with not being a pilot.

I don't think he ever will.

Every time we go into the cockpit to say hello,

the pilots stare at us with restrained panic.

I think we're starting to seem doolally.

On Molokai Island an old man died without ever having seen the sea.

The island is about 600 km2.

Living on such a small island and not having seen the sea,

fascinates me.

I think we all live on Molokai

surrounded by sea we've never seen.

Why is it so hard for me to tell him he has hurt me?

It's devouring me.

I always preferred to desire rather than to be desired.

And I find both things equally vain.

But now I feel the need to be desired by Léon.

It seems he's trying to make up for his lack of desire

with excessive attention.

And that annoys me.

Today I remembered what Kharjappali calls sweet death:

when everything is moving around you,

and you drift off.

Personally, at times, I experience the opposite:

I'm the only one moving,

and everything else around me disappears.

In every island there's something ferocious I like.

I had a weird dream tonight.

In my dream I know I'll die the day the Pope dies.

I find out about his death in Venice.

At first, I don't care.

But suddenly I'm aware,

I feel terrified

and embark on a journey to flee from death.

Suddenly, I notice death approaches.

And eventually, it finds me.

Leo's grandmother once told him:

We can't see death

because death is always walking.

The phone rang about an hour ago.

It was doctor Baumann.

He's told me the cancer has reached a very advanced stage

and that nothing can be done.

He took for ages to tell me

that I have two or three months left to live.

Léon wanted to surprise me and has brought me to...

Majorca.

Something has moved inside of me

and I'm incapable of putting it back where it belongs.

I try to hold on to memories,

but my hand burns and I have to let go.

I no longer understand anything around me

and that makes me feel detached, far away from everything and everyone.

Leviathan.

As soon as I resolve an uncertainty, hundreds more emerge.

Which reminds me of Kharjappali's epitaph:

Thank you for everything, Lord.

But I didn't understand a thing.

Vivian Barrett died in Switzerland in 1969.

Léon Barrett died in Mexico in 2010.

Lovedyn was taken off the market in 1971

upon discovery that it was placebo.

In 1983, Guru Kharjappali's texts

were found to have been plagiarized extracts

from the works of other authors.