Original subtitles

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As if drawn by some invisible force...

she headed off across the waking city.

Her cravings were vague,

poetic.

She was expecting someone.

Her excitement growing,

she ran through the treelined park to the banks of the Seine.

Out of the mist,

she heard that familiar sound...

with oars dipping

into the frigid water.

The creak of the skiff

powering forward,

cutting arrow-straight through the still river.

As she watched him...

she asked herself...

how could a man she'd never met

fill her with such longing?

She knew the answer.

It was precisely this feeling

she had been starving for,

to fall in love in such a way

that the mere sight of a man,

even a block away,

would make her tremble and soften and melt.

I think it's the best work I've ever done.

I'd like you to try and sell it.

There is no business.

If I were you, I'd consider going home.

This is not a time to be in Europe.

No.

No, I can't.

I haven't gotten what I've come here for yet.

I loved your book.

Your book is wonderful.

Good luck on the tour.

Hell of a party, Marcel.

All I had to do was tell people the liquor was free.

- They're your friends. - God bless them.

To the two most beautiful women in Paris.

To our gifted but naughty guest of honor.

And to Marcel, our host, agent extraordinaire,

who blessed my life with his belief in me.

Thank you.

Watch out.

Watch out.

Elena.

Marcel.

I thought you were working.

My muse must have gone to the beach.

I haven't had a single coherent thought all day.

- Do you mind? - No.

I know you.

This morning...

and the morning before that

and the morning before that...

on the bridge.

I write at night,

and at sunrise, I take a walk along the river

before I go to sleep.

I know.

What else do you know about me?

Elena Martin, American,

came to Paris four months ago to be a writer,

works hard, keeps to herself,

could be shy,

could be a recluse.

Well, you have me at a disadvantage.

For now.

Beautiful, isn't he?

And dangerous.

The truth is, I only consented to this little going-away party

because I hoped Marcel would persuade you to come.

Now here you are.

Time stood still.

We could have been on the dance floor for 1 0 minutes

or two hours.

I don't know.

Tell me about your book.

I hate it.

I know what you mean.

Do you?

He talked about his work

and his upcoming tour,

how he was leaving for New York at the end of the week,

how he didn't want to go,

and right in the middle of it all,

he began telling me stories.

He spoke the way he writes-- clear and precise...

shocking at first, then beguiling.

I was at a dance like this once in Saint-Tropez.

I could see it all.

Everyone was drinking themselves blind--

townspeople, society people,

mixed with fishermen, artists,

whores.

Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs.

The band was hot,

jungle-hot,

then the bandleader announced this...

special dance.

When the music began again, it was wild, hypnotic.

Then they turned out the lights,

first for five minutes...

When the lights came back on,

some people left.

The rest waited, as if for a storm.

They waited for the lights to go out again.

Then the lights went out for 1 0 minutes.

Pretty soon, you couldn't tell the difference

between the whores and the town girls.

They were all in the same state--

hot...

giddy at the prospect of being caught by the light.

Some were bare-breasted,

their dresses torn.

And finally, for 1 5 minutes, when the lights came back on,

all you could hear was a woman's moan,

rising in ecstasy,

lost to the world,

perched on the edge of a cliff.

She refused to relent

until she achieved final and complete release.

Flesh.

She was hunger and flesh.

Workers of the world, unite!

Chaos, madness.

The scent of war has created hysteria.

Every party turns into a political rally,

and every rally turns into a party.

Communists and fascists...

red banners and gray shirts.

This is the wrong time to be in Europe.

It doesn't matter.

I just thank God I'm here.

Lawrence!

Lawrence.

Harry.

Lawrence.

What a delightful surprise.

Millicent, this is Lawrence Walters.

How do you do? Your book is wonderful.

- And... - Elena Martin.

Charmed. I published his first manuscript four years ago.

Caused one hell of a stir-- the entire moral league up in arms.

- Churchgoers, concerned housewives. - I remember it very well.

Now he's so famous, every publisher wants him.

I love your work.

Come on, Elena!

- I'll see you in New York. - Talk to you, Harry.

I'll be at the Plaza.

This is ''Liberty,''

your English-speaking broadcasting system.

Used to be the stairwell.

When the stairs fell apart,

they closed it off and turned it into a flat.

Perfect.

- Do you mind? - Be my guest.

Ahh, I love whiskey.

Whiskey... and women on bridges in the early-morning fog.

Too much whiskey.

Before tonight, I entered each room

looking for a miracle,

which never took place.

Now here he is,

asleep in my bed.

Before tonight,

I was growing sad with restlessness and hunger.

I felt that nothing would ever happen to me.

I felt desperate with desire to plunge into living.

- Merci, monsieur. - De rien.

I passed out.

Look around you. Tell me what you see.

What do you mean?

Tell me a story,

like you're writing it-- describe it to me.

I see...

I see...

I see a wealthy man...

who's returning home from a visit to his mistress.

He's sad...

because his arthritis has been acting up again

and he knows that she's grown bored with him,

taken on a younger lover.

There they are,

kissing...

just like their grandparents kissed

and their parents kissed...

and the way...

we kissed last night.

Your turn.

I see an adventurer...

a dreamer...

a very good writer.

How would you know?

I peeked at one of your stories on Marcel's desk

when I was at his office the other day.

I swiped another when I left this morning.

You what?

''Something... in her had created a perpetual defiance

of the very possibilities of experience,

an urge for flight.

She had stood many times on the edge

and had to run away.''

Your work makes me jealous.

Of what?

Your spirit.

Your potential.

Would you like some tea?

Tell me what you feel.

Your body... pressed against mine.

Does that excite you?

Oh, yes.

Do you want me to make love to you?

Yes.

Ah...

Jean-Luc.

Elena, Jean-Luc.

How do you do?

- Please, please. - Thank you.

Sometimes I come here to sleep,

sometimes to write.

If there's a God,

I think this is the closest I'll ever get to Him.

I can't believe you're leaving.

It breaks my heart.

Come with me.

I can't.

I need to work.

Death to fascism!

Death!

Death to fascism! Workers of the world unite!

So, so...

the crusader-- he puts a chastity belt on his wife

and gives the key to his best friend.

Yeah?

And he's barely riding a mile

when his amigo comes galloping up shouting wildly--

''Stop! Stop! You gave me the wrong key.''

Why do you always ruin the hit line for me?

Punch line!

Punch line, darling.

So how's work?

Good.

Bad. I don't know.

Meanwhile, I spent my last cent on an angel.

Miguel has a proposition for you.

My life drawing class needs a new model.

Everyone's modeling nude.

- It's the rage. - No, I don't think so.

I've done it a trillion times. It's liberating.

A body is a body is a body.

If it doesn't work, you can always take up prostitution.

Oh, Donald.

It's what you all want, isn't it?

You must be joking.

No, you do nothing but have sex all day,

someone else pays for everything,

a villa in the country,

I mean, life is grand.

It's made, and someone else is paying for it.

You are a vicious,

vicious, vicious little man.

Elena? Elena?

You should work for him.

You have a beautiful body.

I see a woman surrounded by men

on a cold Paris street.

I see a soldier...

who's frightened of leaving the only world he's ever known.

I see a boy dressed as a soldier,

whose mother, when she dropped him off

at the train station yesterday morning,

remembered sending him off to his very first day of school.

I see a red-headed woman

who knows the boy's thinking,

''What if I die...

without ever having made love to a woman?''

So beautiful.

I've never let anyone look at me before.

No, not there yet.

Softly.

I can taste myself.

I love it when you kiss me.

I want you inside me.

The world is now shut out.

There's only this sound,

this feel,

these fleeting moments that are left.

By this time tomorrow,

he'll be gone.

It's only a question of time

Before you are all mine

For, my darling, can't you see

You belong to me?

And it's only a question of...

Ah, that's sweet.

'Cause the love that lives in your heart...

The man of the hour.

I love that man.

Beautiful,

don't you think?

Sublimely, terrifyingly, gorgeously,

dangerously so,

with just enough madness in him to keep him interesting.

...to me.

Thank you.

You were great.

Thanks.

Thank you.

So... where is he?

- Saying good-bye-- - Don't say it.

- What? - Pay no attention to him.

He's just jealous.

I was just saying goodbye to an old friend.

Why her?

I asked you a question.

Because I have a passion for self-destruction.

Because she means nothing to me.

I don't know what I expected.

Please, Elena.

I want to talk to you.

I'm sorry about what happened on the street.

I don't know what I expected.

Please.

I don't want to leave like this.

He was gone now--

out of Paris...

and out of her life.

The fall was much greater than she had ever known,

'cause she'd ventured so far into emotion

and had abandoned herself to it.

The most terrifying aspect of her feelings

was that she was unable to shrink back as before

to shut out the world.

She realized that he had not only penetrated her body,

but also her very being.

Please, Marcel,

if you can't sell my stories,

just give me some work.

I don't care what it is--

technical manuals, translations, anything.

We're in a depression. Nobody's publishing. Nobody's buying.

But you could try.

I heard from Lawrence. The tour is going well.

How nice.

He's worried about you.

Take this.

No.

Merci.

But I could never.

- I've never been so nervous. - Good.

I've always believed one should confront

that which frightens them the most.

Open your eyes, Elena.

Put your hands on his hips.

Put your head against his back

and look out.

Pierre, Elena.

Elena, Pierre.

Be happy.

Bonjour. Oui.

For you.

No, not until you've paid your rent.

Fooled you.

Hello.

Marcel.

Yeah.

When?

Ciao.

You sold it?

Sold what?

Oh, the story. No.

But you said you had good news.

Perhaps.

It depends on your reaction to what I have to propose.

I received a call from someone yesterday,

a person who collects erotica.

I wouldn't normally have thought of you

for this type of assignment, but it pays rather well.

- How well? - 200 francs a page.

That's a fortune.

What kind of a pervert would pay that much for a dirty story?

If that's your reaction,

then this isn't the job for you.

Who is he?

Let's just call him a serious collector.

Who is he, Marcel? I want to know.

He wishes to remain anonymous.

Where does he live?

You are such a pain in the ass.

He lives in a villa that he inherited from his family.

It's crumbling and surrounded by vineyards.

There was a time when he had wild parties.

He was a ladies' man.

And?

And... something happened.

Something horrible.

A neighboring farmer one day looked out his window

and saw his cypress tree burning.

The collector's car, an old Bentley,

had crashed into it and exploded into flames.

The farmer pulled him out, but he was badly wounded.

Now he's crippled, and his face is scarred.

He stays inside. He doesn't go out.

He reads, he yearns,

and he dreams.

I'll do it.

Elena went to a dance

at a seaside pavilion in Saint-Tropez.

All anyone could hear was a woman's moan

rising in ecstasy above the sudden silence.

Flesh.

Flesh.

It was hunger and flesh.

''Dear anonymous,

I was intrigued

when Marcel suggested you write erotica for me.

What man wouldn't want access

to a woman's innermost thoughts,

to be permitted entry to that secret place

where fantasies are born?

Imagine then my disappointment when I read your story,

which was trite

and revealed nothing profound about a woman's desires.

Obviously you are so frightened of intimacy,

you neglected to sign your name.''

Look...

I want to prove that I can do this,

even if it's only to myself.

He paid me for a story,

so I'll deliver a story.

If he likes it, I'll do more, and if not,

at least I'll feel better about having taken his money.

Okay?

I had forgotten how young you are.

Monsieur.

Forget about books.

I am what you want.

It's okay.

It's okay.

It's okay!

What do you want?

- I wanted to talk. - I'm listening.

I'm a writer.

You want to know if I feel anything...

if I still take pleasure.

Yes.

I remember you now...

that night in the street.

Have you been wondering all this time?

Wondering what?

Why Lawrence spent his last night with me.

I'm sure you made him nervous.

Are you in love with him?

I thought I was.

And so Bijou,

feeling a growing compassion for Elena,

took her with her to see a clairvoyant...

a big man from West Africa.

Except for his everyday gray suit...

the man looked like a magician.

He gave Bijou a heavy stare...

then stepped away to take off his overcoat.

You are in love with a man that makes you suffer.

Yes.

He has peculiar habits.

Yes.

You are unhappy...

and compensate by being unfaithful.

Go to sleep.

He never touched her,

but she could feel his hands inches away--

warm and dry,

heavy and electric.

He never touched her.

Naked, he towered over her,

magnificent and tall, like some African king.

He took her over completely,

and she surrendered.

Flesh.

She was hunger and flesh.

She was hunger and flesh.

''I was impressed with your story

of the red-headed whore and the clairvoyant.

So much so, that I am enclosing

payment in advance for your next literary effort.

I must, however, caution you on one point.

Leave out the poetry. Concentrate on sex...

only sex.''

Does anyone experience pleasure

from reading clinical description?

Don't you know that words carry colors and sounds

into the flesh?

The language of sex has yet to be invented.

The language of the senses has yet to be explored.

Concentrate, don't drift.

Dare to take it further.

I have given you a voice, a rich voice,

an extraordinary voice.

I have given you a background.

I have sat for hours and wondered how you look.

If you have closed your senses upon silk,

light, color, character,

you must be by now completely shriveled up.

Who I am is of no concern.

Concentrate on the people who live in your mind.

I want graphic description,

hard-edged, unadorned.

No less, no more.

I think it would be best

if we didn't pose together anymore.

Did I do something wrong?

No, no.

It's just that you excite me,

and it shows.

It's embarrassing to me.

Pierre was a dangerous man--

selfish and all-consuming.

He liked to meet Elena in dark places

so that before they could see each other's face,

their hands became aware of each other's presence,

lingering in the warmest curves,

knowing by touch the places where the skin was softest.

His passion was so intimate,

Elena sometimes wondered if he was real

or a figment of her imagination.

Your imagination is real to me.

Don't be frightened.

His desire was imperative and unexpected.

He could not wait.

With him, she learned hasty departures from restaurants,

wild drives in curtained taxicabs.

Her breasts undulated like waves under his hands,

painfully awake,

sensitive, aware.

And her body began to tremble,

and so did his.

And his semen came inside of her

and mixed with hers

like little waves breaking over sand,

one rolling in after the other.

Moaning, breathing heavily,

she awakes having experienced a little death,

a dazzling little death

that no drug or alcohol could give.

First there was the word,

and the word was made flesh.

I feel a growing immediacy in your work.

Take me inside.

Let me become part of you.

I live in perpetual expectancy.

You have broken down the veils of flesh

and all the cushions that protect the nerves.

The effect is delirium,

brief and stolen.

I come away with pieces of you sticking to me.

Late at night...

when I can't sleep

and my skin tingles at the thought of you,

I lie in bed

and feel you pressing your weight against me,

entering me.

Sometimes the image is so powerful,

I wake with your scent all over me.

I see...

a wealthy woman...

who has a lust for the unknown.

She's interested only in men that she's never seen before

and will never see again.

Her husband devotes his life to satisfying her caprices.

His pleasure comes from watching her.

Her pleasure comes from knowing she's being watched.

There you are.

We were about to report you as a missing person.

- Where have you been? - I've been working.

I can't seem to stop, it's just pouring out of me.

I'm writing the way I've always wanted to.

It's so addictive, I can't get enough of it.

Breath of night comes with no warning

Devouring the twilight air

Prowling, the shadows are calling

To the girl...

Elena, you, too, have invaded my sleep.

I see myself as the men in your stories.

I look for you in all the faces of the women I pass.

I feel your excitement.

Dare to take it further.

You have given me the world.

For the first time, I can hear my own voice.

I'm consumed with emotion, fear, and excitement,

white heat and hunger.

The fascist wore a heavy worn belt

that came undone with a snap.

Using it as an instrument of submission,

he wrapped it around Elena's wrist

and drew her to him.

He dared her to run.

Elena stood her ground.

A great sadness washed over Elena

as if all the despair she ever felt

was rolling itself into the core of her being,

gathering force, waiting to explode.

I was both alarmed and delighted

to discover the darkness that lurks inside your imagination.

Another surprise for me,

another layer revealed.

What's happened?

Hitler has invaded Belgium and Holland.

They are massing at our borders.

The world around her was turning dark,

The world around her was turning dark,

but Elena could not see it.

but Elena could not see it.

Instead, she allowed herself

to be led still deeper into the unknown...

to a secret place

where opium smokers went to seek release...

to indulge in their desire for dreams.

Leila sings in a different way.

She tears your serenity to shreds.

She spreads anxiety and regret

and nostalgia everywhere.

Shh.

They kissed until the kissing became a torture

and the body grew restless.

Time stretched, elongated.

She could only see things in parts.

Nothing was whole.

As Elena felt herself drifting off to sleep,

the last thing she can remember thinking

was that locked inside all women

was the same secret place where fantasies are born.

She understood then

that her quest to find her own secret place,

her Delta of Venus, was the quest for permanence,

the desire to be forever linked to that hidden part of herself.

Here.

It's good.

Believe me, he'll be pleased.

He's worried about you.

He wants you to leave Paris.

No.

What if he stops paying for the stories?

I'll write them anyway.

What if I refuse to be the go-between?

Who is he, Marcel?

Is it you?

No, it isn't me.

Marcel refuses to reveal your identity--

you, who knows my secrets, my darkness.

It hurts too much to know that we can never meet,

never touch.

I want you to leave Paris, Elena.

Hitler is advancing.

The fall of France is inevitable.

If I leave, the link between us will be broken.

You'll be lost to me forever.

Then you will leave me no other choice

but to stop buying your work.

Last night, German bombers targeted Lille airport,

causing air-raid sirens to be sounded in Paris.

French air force pursuit planes were successful

in bringing down one of the bombers.

Both French and RAF planes

are already fully engaged in air battles with enemy aircraft...

I just keep thinking what's going on is just a bad dream.

Don't be fooled. Get out while you can.

Don't be fooled. Get out while you can.

What are you going to do?

We've made arrangements to go to Mexico.

I have family there.

Maybe we can join you.

I can see it now.

An entire country

filled with nothing but exquisite deviants

from around the world.

To the only family I've ever known.

Amen.

- Lawrence. - Elena.

- Donald. - Stranger.

Miguel, guapo.

Leila.

Ariel.

I missed you all...

very much.

It's only a question of when

We'll be together again

For, my love, it's our destiny

For you to belong

To me.

I'm worried about you.

Me...

or that girl who used to watch you row each morning on the Seine?

Are they that much different?

You have no idea.

With the rapid advance of the Third Reich

towards the French borders,

and the increasing threat of bombing raids on the capital,

we are receiving reports that there is considerable panic

in the streets of Paris,

and the beginnings of a mass exodus from the city.

Restaurants and markets are closing.

Food is becoming scarce.

French Nazi sympathizers

are becoming increasingly militant.

Violence is increasing rapidly.

The police appear to be unable to control the situation.

It has been reported by Reuters

that French aerodromes and military bases

have been the targets of escalating air attacks by the German Luftwaffe.

The French government has ordered all French officers on leave

to return to their posts immediately,

and a general mobilization

of all French army reserves and enlisted men

has been put into effect.

Lawrence asked me to talk to you

on his behalf before I left.

He thinks he can just walk back into my life?

Not a letter, not a post card.

The whole time he was gone, Marcel.

What does he expect?

He cares about you. That's why he came back.

Do you really believe that?

I believe we should always try

and retain at least a little hope.

Take care of yourself, Marcel.

I hope you don't mind

my asking Marcel to talk to you on my behalf.

It broke my heart to see him go.

Before he left,

he stopped by my hotel

and delivered your last story to me.

''They kissed...

until kissing became a torture.

And the body grew restless.

Time stretched, elongated.

She could only see things in parts.

Nothing was whole.''

You've turned into an amazing writer, Elena.

How could I have been so stupid?!

Elena, I can explain.

Listen to me.

Elena!

Please.

Elena.

Please, let me explain.

It wasn't until I left that I knew how much you meant to me.

- Marcel said you were desperate-- - Desperate?!

I'm not desperate! I've never been desperate!

Money, money is what I'm talking about!

I knew you'd never accept a loan, so I had to come up with something.

Bullshit!

Bullshit? Bullshit?!

You want to talk about bullshit? What about your first piece?

- That was your story! - My story?

Saint-Tropez, the orgasm that wouldn't end?

That doesn't matter. Every story you wrote after that was wonderful.

Who the hell are you to judge me?!

Look at me. Look at my eyes.

You turned me into a crazy man-- you want to know why?

I can't deny it anymore.

I'm not only in love with your work,

I love you.

I love you.

Let go of me.

For you,

my American beauty...

to wear next time we're together.

- You don't like my present? - I don't think she does.

Hey...

I don't think I like you.

That's your prerogative, my friend.

Friend?

Did you say ''friend''? Did you say ''friend''?

- Yes. - Did you?

- Yeah. - Did you? I'm not your friend!

Get him! Get him!

Get him! Get him!

Get him!

Bastards.

Your stories were all real, weren't they?

It was all real, wasn't it?

Everything I write is real.

I'm the woman in all my stories.

Why him? Why the fascist?

Because I loved the smell of his sweat.

Because like my mentor, the collector,

I wanted to know what it was like

to feel passion without love...

to take what I wanted.

Is that what you want?

Is it?

You really do love me, don't you?

He was condemned to lose her.

They would not stay together...

but he was in her being for good.

Elena had once written to him,

''You have given me the world.''

It's true. He did.

He opened up her eyes and ears,

her mind and heart.

From now on, nothing could keep her from creating.

From now on, good or bad,

she knew she was capable of many loves.

There it is. It's a heart beating.

If I move, this person knows it.

If I drop away,

this person feels it.

I exist in him. That is life.

There's something happening there.

I am the words you dare not speak

I am the need that keeps you weak

The salvation that you seek

I am

I am the wound that will not heal

I am those scars you can't reveal

A holy shrine at which you kneel

I am

And after each disaster strikes

The tragic yet polite goodbyes

I'm left with all the bitter tears

That crucify

In every hopeful lover's breath

Ascending from each little death

I rise to find that I am left alone

Leave me your darkness, I'll make it light

And all your wrongs, I'll set them right

I'm your candle in the night

I am.

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