Original subtitles

But as Aristotle says:

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

to the non-persuasive possible.

So it's not just a feature of contemporary aesthetics

to play on the borderline between reality and fiction,

which leads me at last to the next question,

didn't every period develop

its own modes of hybridization?

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

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

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

I've selected three...

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

Interiors, by Jean-Rachid Choukri.

A huis clos serving as the pretext for stunning reflections

on the fragilization of collective identities...

A bit more academic, but not without interest,

Oblivion, by Constance Duplere...

Let's hope this title won't be premonitory

because the author deserves better.

And finally, The Bathtub by Frederic Koska.

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

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

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

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

Trust me.

It will sell.

237 copies later.

What are you thinking about?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's like a reincarnation.

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

Silly.

Hello.

- Did you sleep well? - Yes, thanks.

But I was working.

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

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

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

Stop teasing him, Dad!

- Working on the next book? - Yes.

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

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

Make sure you don't screw up this one.

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

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

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

- Too bad. - Dad!

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

But I can't force people to buy it.

- Dad! - Thanks anyway, Gerard.

My pleasure, Fred!

The Old Bedsheets. By Damien Boulard.

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

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

so now he tries to kill me with boredom.

Really that bad?

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

No, an intern will send him a formal letter.

Yes, that famous letter.

"After reading your manuscript,"

"we suggest you change your job ASAP,"

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

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

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

The librarian from Crozon.

He decided to collect all the manuscripts refused by publishers.

- Original, right? - Great idea!

A library of rejected books.

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

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

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

Maybe it's contagious, who knows?

But I'm really interested.

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

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

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

MASTURBATION AND SUSHI by Sarah Dechamps.

CAVIAR FOR THE BRAVE ONES by Milan Ertaci.

THE LAST HOURS OF A LOVE STORY by Henri Pick.

- Well? - I feel like killing myself.

But you don't know the craziest part.

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

Oh really?

Writer and pizza-maker. Works well together.

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

At the cemetery.

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

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

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

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

- But what is it? Recipes? - No.

It's a novel.

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

- Who? - Pushkin, the Russian poet.

Look, Madeleine. You'd better read it.

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

To M.

It's very beautiful indeed.

But why would he hide it from us?

Maybe he lacked self-confidence and underestimated his talent.

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

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

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

your father was...

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

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

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

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

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

Where's his stuff?

PUSHKIN EUGENE ONEGIN

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

THE MYSTERY OF HENRI PICK

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

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

OK, Jean-Michel.

- Here. - Thanks a lot.

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

Let me see.

I hear nothing.

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

40 years? It's normal. See you.

- Shall we? - Hello, Jean-Michel.

Everybody's here. Let's roll.

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

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

Exclusively. No interviews elsewhere.

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

OK.

Can you do something about this whistling noise?

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

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

Infinitif is live like every Sunday...

You write, and you fail to be published.

All the publishers reject your manuscript.

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

Imagine a library that would collect all the texts

that publishers didn't want.

Well, such library exists in Brittany,

in the little village of Crozon.

It's called the library of rejected books.

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

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

discovered a manuscript which she immediately wanted to publish,

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

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

You'll talk in more detail about it,

and Wendy will take us, thanks to your report,

to discover this incredible, unique library.

For those who haven't read it yet,

The Last Hours of a Love Story

depicts the end of a relationship

that parallels with the slow agony

of the great Russian poet Alexander Pushkin

after he was wounded in a duel.

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

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

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

I think it resonates a bit with your own work

which established you as an ethnologist of eroticism.

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

but unfortunately, he left us two years ago,

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

- Madeleine Pick, good evening. - Good evening.

We are very happy to have you here.

Thank you.

You agreed without hesitation to publish this manuscript.

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

I ask you this because

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

which reminds us of the great Portuguese poet

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

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

Obviously not.

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

Madeleine... brings him back to life.

- To a certain degree. - Of course.

What kind of authors did your husband read?

Classics or contemporaries?

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

How come you never saw him reading?

You mean you never saw him reading or writing?

Don't you think it's odd?

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

Well, where exactly did he write in secret?

In the back room of your restaurant?

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

I have to specify to our viewers

that you and your husband had a pizzeria in Crozon.

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

just to see where your husband wrote his novel.

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

Crepes, then.

Tell me how do you feel about all this enthusiasm.

Well, I don't quite understand.

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

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

But you surely have nothing to hide?

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

At times one can question the authenticity...

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

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

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

- What's that? - Are you sure

that your husband really wrote this novel?

How come? I don't understand!

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

Well I say this because...

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

Pardon me, what are you insinuating?

What if this is just an incredible editorial coup?

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

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

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

Pure genius.

You understand why I ask this question?

So what is the truth, Daphne Despero?

The truth is very simple:

When I heard about the library of rejected books,

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

And once I was inside, it's strange,

I felt like a call. As if...

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

Just like St Theresa of Avila.

Enough with this circus!

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

No! Switch to the documentary on Crozon.

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

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

Spare us of this psychodrama!

Get this thing off me!

Can you imagine a Breton pizza maker

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

He was surely a nice guy, but...

How dares he to say that?

It's such a smug thing to say!

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

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

Lamartine was a bodyguard. Bodyguard. Kevin Costner.

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

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

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

I never said that!

That's enough!

Excuse us.

What's wrong? What's the problem?

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

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

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

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

- What? - They left.

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

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

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

- You're live. - Good evening.

We are back again...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Literature was everything to you.

It was your religion.

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

even on a large screen...

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

An existential shock? Really?

We're separating, Jean-Michel.

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

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

A separation can also be poetic.

This is what Henri Pick demonstrates in his novel.

Make an effort.

Are you serious?

Our relationship ended long time ago, you know it.

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

Too late?

Let it go. Follow Pushkin's example

when he understands that it's useless to fight,

and death will get him anyway.

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

I'll help you to pack a bag

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

WHO IS HENRI PICK?

Here's your Papa doble, Mr. Rouche,

Thanks, Julien.

Bad news?

Tonight my wife kicked me out like a rat,

and they just let me know via SMS

that I've been fired.

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

"And happiness was so possible..."

Cleaning!

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

And I disagree with you.

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

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

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

When she leaves the house,

and when she says...

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

THE LAST HOURS OF A LOVE STORY.

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

of all the texts received by Gallimard since 1992.

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

Oh, yes. OK, thanks a lot.

Henri Pick.

No documents found.

The Last Hours of a Love Story.

No documents found.

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

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

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

You should pay me royalties.

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

Who was that ghostwriter?

Because the guy is talented. Very talented.

They do this for footballers or reality-TV starlets.

Not for some obscure pizza maker.

Did you give it for an expertise?

But of course!

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

while we're at it?

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

Very funny.

Michel!

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

Never. I checked. None.

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

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

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

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

You know very well that all writers dream

that one day their talent would be recognized.

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

- Do you really think that? - Daphne Despero.

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

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

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

You know she sold the movie rights?

Apparently, the movie would be more about Henri Pick

than about his novel.

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

But you? Are you returning to the written criticism?

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

waiting for an issue of Figaro litteraire?

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

Actually...

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

OK?

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

Now you're turning this into a personal matter.

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

how it turned up in this unbelievable library,

but I'll find out.

Are you really gonna embark on this crusade

just to prove you're right?

- I'm coming down now. - Hello.

Mr. Rouche. What can I do for you?

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

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

It could endanger your career. You realize that?

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

- Shall we go? - Wait. Hello.

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

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

Maybe.

May I ask what you thought about it?

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

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

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

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

You're obsessed with it.

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

Henri Pick never wrote a line in his life.

I'll never let you defile his memory.

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

You touched on Daphne's sensitive spot.

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

A kind of omnipresent God she reveres.

Others don't matter.

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

How could I not be jealous?

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

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

Miss, let me tell you one thing.

Literary impostors always end up being exposed.

No offense, but you're a raving conspirologist.

Fred, wait!

It's indeed extremely well detailed.

The mores of the time are well rendered.

The author is surely an expert on Russia.

Maybe a historian who must speak Russian.

What makes you believe that?

He relies on a rather controversial book,

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

And that book has never been translated into French.

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

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

Could you please keep checking on my mail at Bristol?

I'll come for my things later.

Anybody there?

Yes, I'm coming.

This show is presented to you by Audible.

See me again next Sunday at another edition of Infinitif,

to talk about writing, reading and literature.

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

No. Leave me alone. Go away.

I've come to apologize, Madeleine.

I've travelled 600 km to see you.

Spare me just a moment. One moment!

Madeleine, you said that

this whole story, for you,

was an opportunity to bring your husband back to life.

Well, bring him back to life for me!

Bring him back to life for me!

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

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

Come in.

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

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

to never part again.

And that's what we did until his death.

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

And he rendered it many years later in his book.

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

Because Russia figures prominently in the book.

Well, he liked vodka a lot.

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

A real Russophile, this Henri!

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

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

You think he's smiling?

I know my husband.

It's harder to guess because of the mustache.

Behind his mustache, he smiles.

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

You seem to believe nothing of what I told you.

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

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

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

It can't be a coincidence.

We always find ourselves in a book.

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

Did they give you back the original manuscript?

Yes.

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

Madeleine, it's a misunderstanding.

Good morning, sisters.

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

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

Would you like to come with me for the visit?

Yes.

Come.

Your four-cheese pizza.

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

I wanted to thank you personally for ordering a crepe.

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

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

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

So we had to put it back on the menu.

Oh, yeah? Sit down, please.

You aren't too happy about it.

I'm specialized in crepes, not in pizza.

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

This damned book!

Did you know Henri Pick?

No. I took over the restaurant after his death.

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

Madam, can I have the check, please.

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

- Sure. Come with me. - Gladly.

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

- May I take a photo? - Sure.

We left everything as it was. Nothing was touched.

- Is this his office? - Yes.

- May I? - Of course.

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

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

Look.

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

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

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

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

And thanks again for the crepe.

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

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

Oh yeah?

- Here. - Thanks.

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

- Remove those that are faded. - OK.

What are you doing here?

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

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

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

Have a good day. Excuse me.

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

It fits.

I'm exhausted.

Why did you come here?

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

Try it. I'm tough as a tank.

Well?

Are you kidding me?

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

One must start somewhere.

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

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

- What do you think? - About what?

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

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

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

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

- Oh really? - Yes.

Yes, he wrote me a very beautiful letter

when I went on a school skiing trip.

That proves his talent.

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

I'm willing to take the risk.

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

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

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

I don't trust you, Mr. Rouche.

You're right.

It was on the left!

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

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

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

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

Go settle in the living room.

- Honey, take your snack. - OK.

Well, I thought it'd be easier.

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

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

Just kidding.

I'm really very impressed.

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

I sort them by theme using the good neighbor rule.

Often, when searching for a book,

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

- The Warburg method? - Exactly.

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

without Nietzsche being in the middle.

Sit down, don't touch anything.

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

Alright.

Are you separated from his dad?

- You are very nosy. - Sorry.

Yes, he dumped me last year.

That's it.

He attempted a comeback when he saw

that we were going to collect the royalties.

When he realized that everything was going to a charity,

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

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

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

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

To the foundation for Alzheimer's research.

Where did I put that letter, dammit!

You really don't want my help?

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

Funny. You have a Pushkin.

The Captain's Daughter.

Turgenev's novellas,

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

Maybe it's you, the fiendish mystificator.

- Are you serious? - Well, yes.

When your husband left you, writing was your catharsis.

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

of being the hero of a novel,

you didn't seek to publish it.

And I signed it with my dad's name

and I left it at the library? Clever!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not ruling out anything.

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

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

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

Here's a great classic of noir fiction.

The schizophrenic detective who investigates himself.

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

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

Grandma Donald!

What is "Grandma Donald"?

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

Grandma Donald's Good Recipes.

I've got it.

May I?

Sure. Help yourself.

"Sweetie, your letter pleased me a great deal.

"And besides you tell me lots of things.

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

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

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

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

"You're coming back Sunday."

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

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

Well, it's not exactly what I remembered.

Childhood memories aren't very reliable, unfortunately.

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

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

Duras... The economy...

Duras would have written: "The father writes.

"The father has decided to write to his daughter.

"Writing is not talking."

"Writing is silent."

"Writing is shouting silently."

"So the father writes to his daughter."

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

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

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

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

If we found Proust's shopping list,

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

Remembrance of Things Past.

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

Listen, I'm gonna be blunt

but given the style, the syntax,

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

I'm sorry.

Alright, I'll leave you now.

So if it wasn't him, then who?

I don't know.

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

Good night.

LIBRARY.

SLAVIC LITERATURE.

Good morning, madam.

Mr. Rouche, good morning, but...

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

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

Yes, of course.

Excuse me.

Follow me.

You were here when Daphne Despero found the manuscript?

The Last Hours of a Love Story?

Yes, she came one afternoon, and...

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

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

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

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

I read it right away and loved it.

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

- Here it is. - Good morning.

- Good morning. - Good morning.

Yes, it's the publishers' latest fad.

They send interns over here hoping to find another gem.

- Anything interesting? - Not really.

May I take a look?

Inflatable Dolls Don't Have Menopause Problems.

What about you?

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

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

How to Cook on the Engine of Your Car.

Oh, yeah.

I never understood the point of depositing texts nobody wants.

But when Mr. Gourvec fell ill,

he made me promise him to look after this place.

He said, "All these writers trusted us."

"We can't betray them."

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

- Gourvec? - Yes.

He founded this library.

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

He was so passionate about his work...

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

At the beginning, the media covered it a lot.

They even came here to make a TV special.

- Really? - Yes.

- Are these the internal rules? - Yes.

- May I? - Of course.

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

- Never. - Secondly,

"storing the manuscript is free."

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

"Poan ar re all so skanv da zougen."

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

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

May I? Carefully.

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

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

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

Pick was one of the first submissions?

Yes!

Was it you who registered it, perchance?

No. I came here afterwards.

Yes. May I?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can you give me the borrower's name?

Benedicte le Floch? Jean-Michel Rouche.

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

Ladies, we have a prominent surprise guest.

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

Delighted.

We're all your loyal fans.

Infinitif isn't the same without you.

We should petition for your return.

Yes.

But what brings you to Crozon?

I wanted to visit this famous library of rejected books.

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

5 years ago you borrowed a book from the library.

Eugene Onegin, by Alexander Pushkin.

- Did you return it? - Oh, yes!

I always return the books I borrow.

And then the book didn't really hook me.

You didn't like it?

No. I thought it was a thriller.

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

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

I have to tell you, Mr. Rouche.

Here, in our club, we only read thrillers.

Today, we discuss the latest Bjorn Olafsson.

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

- No. - Let's ask him.

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

- A corpse? - Yes.

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

No idea. Maybe I'll leave you now.

No way. It'd take a saw.

Or a chainsaw.

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

No. But maybe I should order one for Christmas.

But tell us, Mr. Rouche,

what were you looking for in that library?

Has it anything to do with Henri Pick?

You're still skeptical, right?

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

What really interests me

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

- Did you know him? - Of course.

And I knew his wife well too.

Was he married?

- I thought he preferred men. - Me too.

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

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

And then she moved to Paris.

And Gourvec never heard of her since.

Besides, I think that made him very unhappy.

- How was this Mrs Gourvec called? - Ludmila.

Ludmila? She was Russian?

Yes, she came from the USSR.

Good morning, Josephine. I came to say goodbye.

Leaving?

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

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

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

that you suspect of being a literary hoax?

Do you have a goat?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You prefer to keep an eye on me?

I really wish I knew one thing.

Why is it so important to you

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

What are you a knight of probity?

A guardian of French literature?

I lost almost everything because of this book.

I lost my job, my reputation and my wife.

And yet, irrationally,

this whole affair was my awakening.

I have to go all the way with this inquiry.

I see.

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

It's this book that upturns our lives.

Don't you think, Josephine?

I love to see you driving.

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

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

This secret is almost like a double life.

Do you realize how much rewinding I had to do?

Pretty destabilizing, indeed.

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

But not at all. She takes it very well.

I even think it helps her in her bereavement.

- So I follow her example. - Yes.

The difference is that you aren't a dupe.

As long as the opposite hasn't been proven.

The letter hasn't convinced you yet?

OK, forget the letter.

At least, admit that there are many inconsistencies.

If your father was so secretive,

why would he deposit the manuscript at this library?

Why would he use his own name?

Any time, someone could discover it.

It's like a message in a bottle.

Writing a book, leaving it somewhere,

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

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

One may want to protect one's secret garden

and at the same time, to dream of posterity.

He might've thought that no one would ever

look into this library.

Right, who cares about manuscripts that everybody rejected?

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

But the librarian Gourvec knew!

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

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

"No gaffes when you come to eat"

"a four-cheese pizza at the restaurant."

It's too weak a phrase

for a hidden talent of French litterature.

Ah! You see?

What are you doing tomorrow?

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

Why do you ask? Wanna join me?

Not at all. What makes you think that?

I think you're crazy about me.

- Good night. - Just an impression.

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

THE LIBRARY OF REJECTED BOOKS.

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

Half abandoned.

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

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

Then I decided to give a chance

to all the manuscripts rejected by the publishers.

Follow me.

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

Books orphaned of publishers. Books dreaming of a shelter.

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

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

one of my favorite authors.

Anyone can deposit their text, be it...

an essay:

How to Grow Flowers by Candlelight in a Hotel Room.

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

Sort of... Cuisine and Punishment.

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

Journey to the End of the Night,

Joyce's Ulysses, Swann's Way,

all of them were initially rejected.

For deposit requests, Minitel is practical. 361 5 Refusal

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

Some writers have travelled across the country

to unload here the fruits of their failure.

We could look at it as a mystical path.

The literary version of the Way of St. James.

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

Not bad, huh?

Look, Gourvec also uses a typewriter.

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

Maybe this confirms what I thought.

- Meaning? - Follow me.

- Meaning? - Follow me!

Should I get your stuff?

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

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

We're close. We're close.

Author: Jean-Pierre Gourvec.

No documents found.

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

What are we looking for?

That's it, I got it!

Look. Jean-Pierre Gourvec.

The Girl from Siberia.

So Gourvec did write a novel.

Which was rejected by Gallimard,

and probably by all other publishers,

and it ended up on the shelves

of the library of rejected books.

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

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

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

He rechristened The Girl from Siberia

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

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

Good question. Why would he do that?

So why would he do that?

Because he didn't want someone to believe

that all the energy he put into creating this library

actually had a strong personal motive.

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

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

Well, you told me, they were friends,

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

meant choosing a shadow force, totally unsuspectable.

Gourvec again! You don't think so?

No, but I'm curious.

How are you gonna prove this crazy theory?

Ludmila Blavitsky. His ex-wife.

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

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

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

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

So you are friends of Jean-Pierre's?

How is he?

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

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

For several years already.

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

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

Did you know he wrote a novel?

No, but he was an avid reader.

And I like listening to the music.

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

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

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

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

But why I'm telling you all this?

Gourvec wrote a novel titled The Girl from Siberia.

Do you originate from there?

My parents came from Warsaw,

but they were forced to leave Poland in '39,

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

This novel was inspired by you.

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

because he loved you.

- Jean-Pierre loved me? - He did.

The manuscript was just discovered and published under another title:

The Last Hours of a Love Story.

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

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

Of course.

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

The book is dedicated to M.

You have any idea who that may be?

M for Milochka, diminutive of Ludmila.

That's it!

Chapter One.

"Life doesn't want to escape me,"

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

- Are you convinced now? - Not at all.

Come on, haven't you seen her emotions?

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

By the end, she had tears in her eyes!

My mother had exactly the same reaction.

We always believe a good book was written for us.

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

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

in the depths of Siberia.

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

and The Girl from Siberia are the same novel.

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

Will you stop contradicting me?

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

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

My car is parked there.

- Good evening. - Thanks.

- Be discreet. - Why?

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

We're not discussing them now, not here.

Let's go.

I'm counting on you.

Good evening.

- Good evening. - Good evening.

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

Very well, thanks.

- Mr. Rouche... - Good evening.

I'm surprised you were invited.

I knew Ines de Crecy even before you were born.

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

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

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

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

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

- With pleasure. See you. - See you.

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

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

- Care for a drink? - Gladly.

Two champagnes.

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

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

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

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

Since one out of three Frenchmen dabbles in writing,

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

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

There are more writers than readers in France.

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

Sure. See you later.

Wendy, you're terrific!

Good luck.

I really don't have time.

- Why did you lie to me? - What?

I asked Ines what she thought of my new novel.

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

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

I only want you to keep your promises.

I'll mention it at the next reading committee.

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

We'll talk later, OK?

Thank you, does everyone hear me? Great.

Thank you all for coming tonight

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

The Last Hours of a Love Story.

Next to me is Daphne Despero, Junior Editor.

She is at the origins of this incredible discovery.

Welcome, Daphne!

Excuse me, I'm a bit nervous.

Thanks to you, Ines.

And thanks to everyone for being here today,

because it's you too who made it happen.

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

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

Tonight she seems much taller.

Maybe it's because of the heels?

No, because of the ambition.

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

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

tonight thanks to Josephine, his daughter.

Have a pleasant evening.

This is horrible.

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

Trust me, I also find it hard to believe.

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

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

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

By the way,

you never told me what you think about my novel.

- The Shower, is it? - The Bathtub.

Oh, yes, The Bathtub.

The Bathtub... Yes, yes.

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

I'm coming with you.

I see you won't let me go easily.

Your opinion means a lot to me.

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

- Here. - Are you crazy?

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

Why? Do I seem tense?

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

I'd rather have you in high spirits.

In high spirits...

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

Often, in debut novels, you get the impression

that the author tries to be too perfect,

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

Well, no. I haven't.

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

But the note card I was given was very complimentary.

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

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

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

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

I can imagine.

I can send it to you again.

Can you pass me the joint?

- Are you writing anything now? - Yes.

I've just finished a new book.

But tonight I found out that its publication was delayed.

It's not a good sign.

What about you?

Have you ever thought about writing

something besides literary essays?

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

I'm done with that.

Did you read my essays?

I read Prolegomenon or the Metaphysics of Narratology.

What was that about?

I confess I had to do a research

just to understand the title.

Let's go back in.

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

Come, Josephine.

Good evening.

Thanks for my father.

Thanks for giving me the opportunity to talk about him.

I often try to imagine him writing this novel.

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

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

Probably he took advantage of the silence at dawn.

That's when the best ideas came to him,

while kneading the pizza dough.

While the dough was rising, he was writing.

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

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

No, please go on! Excuse us.

You have a whole audience of journalists.

A perfect opportunity to reveal what you know.

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

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

What Mr. Rouche hesitates to say

is that he thinks everything here is just a masquerade.

And that Henri Pick is an impostor.

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

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

I have nothing to declare tonight!

Little jerk! Go away! Completely stoned!

So no statement tonight from Mr. Rouche,

and we're all very happy.

Josephine! Wait for me.

This night was a tribute to my father,

but you had to ruin it with your grandstanding.

Josephine, I'm sorry. Very sorry.

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

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

Do you realize the consequences?

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

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

recognized neither his wife, nor his daughter.

My mother almost died of grief.

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

But I need you to finish this investigation.

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

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

Good night.

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

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

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

to leave Paris as soon as possible.

You're impossible!

Here's a thought: Magali Roze,

the librarian. I think she knows something.

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

I need to know who my father was.

Do I smell weed on you? You smoked?

Not at all!

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

I haven't smoked since college.

OK. Buckle up.

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

Please don't talk.

Don't you wanna take a nap?

The Girl from Siberia, that rings the bell?

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

Yes, when he died, I gathered his things

to give them to his cousin,

and I found this manuscript in his desk drawer.

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

Your theory doesn't hold.

He could easily keep a copy with the original title.

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

I burned it.

You did what?

I burned it!

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

You burned it!

Magali, it's unthinkable to burn a book!

Usually, it's the Nazis who burn books.

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

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

No. I couldn't bring myself.

I thought he loved me. I really did.

But, actually, he never forgot that other woman.

Did he type it on his Hermes 3000?

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

Look.

The lower diagonal part is missing.

So what?

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

No way. She won't let you in.

Stop making that face!

- Well? - Wait.

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

3, 2, 1 ...

Oh, yes!

Yes, she's obsessive.

- Shall we go? - Yes.

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

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

Look at the K! It has the same flaw!

Here's the proof. This manuscript was typed

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

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

- Bravo! What insight! - Oh, shit!

This is the typewriter.

I don't get it.

Maybe they wrote it together, like Lagarde and Michard.

Excuse me.

This is the copy from the library!

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

To make everyone believe that Pick was the author!

- It's odd. - What?

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

So?

It means someone replaced the tape.

But who did this? It's incomprehensible.

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

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

I'm collapsing.

I'm at the end of the rope.

I'm completely in the dark.

Gourvec's cousin.

Maybe he can enlighten us.

His what?

His typewriter, Hermes 3000.

Oh, yes. Jean-Pierre treasured it.

But I sold it.

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

There were so many things I didn't need.

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

Some local guy, but who?

Take your time. It's very important.

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

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

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

Really?

Why did I say that?

Well, I don't know.

Yes, I remember.

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

Oh, really?

I never got a typewriter for my birthday.

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

Because he was on a bicycle.

So I offered to deliver the typewriter to him.

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

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

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

So where does he live?

In the last house on the tip of...

Where?

- Nurse? - We have a problem.

Wait.

Here you go.

The last house on the tip of...

We'll never succeed.

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

- Pen Hir! - Pen Hir!

Pen Hir Point.

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

Yes!

Hello.

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

Yes, so?

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

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

You're not gonna threaten us with the hoe?

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

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

Daphne Despero. It's shocking.

Daphne Despero...

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

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

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

Exactly.

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

Without me, Jean-Michel.

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

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

But we're so close to the end.

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

Get yourself a good book. Sit in the sun.

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

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

I thought you were ready to face the truth.

Sure I am. But my mother...

It's funny this obsession with...

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

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

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

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

- Great neurosis. - Jean-Michel!

OK, what do we do?

Promise to keep me updated. Me first.

But of course.

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

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

Hello.

- Hello. - I'll be back.

How are you?

What are you doing here?

Your father gave you a Hermes 3000 typewriter

which is exactly the same as Henri Pick's.

Come with me.

So what? There are many of those.

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

I have the proof.

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

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

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

You can't always run, Ms Daphne Despero.

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

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

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

I was afraid that no one would believe it.

So I decided to improve my chances.

So you went down to Madeleine Pick's cellar

to plant there your old typewriter

and a copy of Eugene Onegin?

Yes.

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

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

Go check it out. Ask the librarian.

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

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

Where would I hide the manuscript? In my panties?

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

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

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

Is everything OK? You seem to be elsewhere.

I'm completely lost.

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

Bravo, Henri Pick. Here's to you.

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

Yours friendly, Frederic Koska.

That little jerk!

I can't believe it!

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

Thanks for having read it at last.

Did you like it?

Yes. Yes.

It's very good for a first novel.

But your second novel is even better.

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

You've deepened your style.

Your signature which also betrays you.

And your obsessions, your themes:

Subjectivity, the clash between reality and fiction.

Your penchant for using free indirect style,

your rhetorical figures.

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

Why this library of rejected books?

Why all this mystification?

Why?

For the game's sake.

By chance.

For love, I think.

My first book's failure struck me down.

I was sure Daphne would dump me

because in her eyes I was just a loser.

Then I imagined the story of our break-up,

to ward off my fear of losing her.

And, like the poet Pushkin,

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

I lost Daphne. Probably because of my Russian roots,

fatalism runs through my veins.

Last year, I spent a few days in Crozon.

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

And when her father told us about that library,

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

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

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

I worked on my plan all night.

Just like a gangster preparing a big heist.

The only thing missing was my pen name.

So why did I take the name of a ghost?

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

Kafka, Kleist, Kundera, Koska.

I only found one with a K: Henri Pick.

And used a red folder to draw her attention.

Then it was enough to place

the manuscript strategically at her eye level.

And maybe with a little luck...

I confess it gave me a great pleasure

to re-read my book in front of Daphne.

- Well? - I feel like killing myself.

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

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

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

What? What's wrong with you?

It happens that "Pick" is me.

But why did you do that?

Because I had lost confidence in myself, in her.

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

or she published me just because she was in love.

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

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

How come?

Imagine, a lost masterpiece on the shelf

of a library of rejected books!

- What a story! - A masterpiece, really?

We must publish it as it is.

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

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

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

But the marketing idea behind it is even more brilliant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It'll work, I'm sure.

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

You'll explain the real origins of the thing.

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

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

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

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

And end up in the shredder?

Please! I assure you! Trust me!

The typewriter was her idea.

She wanted authenticity, and retyped the manuscript that night.

What Daphne considered brilliant

was that Pick was a simple pizza maker.

What's Mrs. Pick name?

M for Madeleine.

Everyone could identify with him.

There wouldn't be that barrier of intellectual elitism.

But for Pick to be credible as the author,

a few additional elements were needed.

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

I've never heard of it.

However, it had some critical success.

Maybe you could order it?

The book was a big hit.

Daphne was right, it went well above our expectations.

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

The Revelation.

Then all this completely overtook us...

Why did you lie to me?

Almost destroying us.

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

It's too late.

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

It was your idea,

I accepted it, and followed you blindly.

You used me. You're the manipulator.

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

You think that I'll accept it silently?

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

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

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

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

Come here.

This is it.

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

How do you envision the follow-up?

I have no idea.

It's a matter of chance, I guess.

And you?

See you on Monday. Have a good weekend.

You'll do it, right?

Have a good weekend!

See you.

- Good afternoon. - Good afternoon!

How are you?

You came here to read?

I feel like Chateaubriand.

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

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

I heard about it.

You know that the author refuses any interviews,

or meetings with the press?

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

It's true, it makes you wonder.

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

would hide like a hunted animal?

It's mysterious.

Translated by: Selaflaure Revised by: csillagokutjan//myloc@subscene.com