All language subtitles for 2.24

Yes?

What do you want?
A package for you, Monsieur..

What is it?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Belkis!

Yes, Monsieur?
Who brought this box?

A rider, Monsieur.
When

Tonight, just now.

A man or woman?

I don't know, Monsieur. It was dark.

Did this person of unknown sex
say anything when leaving the package?

Yes, Monsieur.
It would help you with your work.

The book I'm writing on Delacroix?

Probably, Monsieur. I don't know.

Do you know or recognize this person?
No, Monsieur.

But it's someone who knows me?

I don't know, Monsieur.

Belkis?
Yes, Monsieur.

Have you a potion for a toothache?

There are dentists in Marrakech,
right up to the medina,

who can pull out your pain
with pliers..

The package you were given last night

contained a box of slides.
Yes, Monsieur

Ah. You knew that?
No, Monsieur.

They were exactly the same make
as I use in my machine.

How could someone know
the requirements of a projector

that's old-fashioned?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Do people come in while I'm away?

I don't know, Monsieur.

It's said that long ago,
the Pasha of Tazert, in the morning,

his eyes still dreamy, would impale
their female parts

the little concubines,

whose nightly service
hadn't entirely satisfied him..

It seems like the pain
I'm suffering amuses you.

Haven't you got a heart?

Answer!
I don't know, Monsieur.

Calm down. That's fine.

Let's have a closer look back in the shop.

Gently, gently.

Voila! And now I'm here.

And I'm writing.

I'm writing...

that I'm not here.

That I'm wandering through
the labyrinth of the medina,

looking for...

looking for an object, little"a":

lost...

Unless, once again, it concerns my double.

Aahh!

Can I help find what you want?

Yes. Look,

to be frank, I had a rendez-vous, now, with
a young blonde woman.

I'm surprised she's not here.

A young blonde woman had come in Monsieur,
I would have surely noticed..

What is this person's name,
if I'm not indiscreet?

In all honesty, I don't really know.

Ah, I see.

In any event, I can show you
some gifts for young ladies

Silver Berber necklaces,
slave bracelets, indiscreet jewelry..

Right now,
I'm looking for a lady, not gifts.

I can help you there as well.
I know excellent houses of pleasure.

No, no. I'm meeting
a specific individual.

Specific and anonymous.

Listen, while you're waiting,
I can show you authentic harem items,

from most gentle to most cruel.
Executioner's axes a century old,

as well as instruments for a more
intimate torture, if you see what I mean.

A century. That's not very ancient.

All the more interesting.

The fact that it's so near to us
makes things more exciting.

I can even get you
into private performances

of a somewhat... special nature.

No, I'm already late
for my rendez-vous. Thanks.

Here, my friend. For God's grace.
Thank you.

Tell me, did anyone go into
this shop just before me?

No, sir, no one for at least half an hour.

You didn't see a young
blonde woman just before me?

Alas, sir, my eyes died centuries ago.

But man or woman,
blonde or brunette, I'd have heard.

No one's gone in, you can trust me.
Fine. I made a mistake, then.

Naturally, they're fakes.

You're an expert?
A bit, a bit.

And I know an antique dealer
who'd let you have

authentic Delacroix drawings
cheap, since you're interested.

How do you know what interests me?

The blind are gifted with second sight.

Come with me. You can trust me.

I don't know the exact address,
but I'll find it. Let's get a taxi.

This isn't a taxi!
It's a taxi, you can trust me.

His cab sign is
at the electrician's.

I recognized it right away
from the sound of its motor.

The motor's off!
Now.

But I heard it
when it pulled up and parked.

Put on my dark glasses.

The antique dealer
is an important and very secretive man,

who doesn't like anyone knowing exactly
where his treasures are hidden.

These glasses of yours
are completely opaque!

Oh, I wouldn't know
I'm totally blind, you know.

As for the beautiful blonde lady
you saw enter the shop,

they say that the medina

harbors the ghost
of a lovely golden-haired person,

beheaded at the beginning
of the last century

for having been seduced
by a Frenchman passing through.

Perhaps you noticed that

her graceful steps made
no sound touching the ground?

That's quite possible, maybe.

Well, maybe it's her, who you saw.

In any case you'll easily find
in all the souvenir shops the axe

the executioner beheaded her with.

So many different models exist,
in different shapes,

to satisfy connoisseur's varied tastes.

Some stories say
it wasn't an axe in fact,

but a saber or even a simple dagger.

They're all available in the souks,

with certificates of authenticity..

We've arrived.

Give me my glasses.

Go up the steps just in front.

The door's ajar.
Push it. Turn right

A young servant, very discreet,
will meet you

I'll wait in the taxi,
which you'll need to get back.

You'll pay later.

Could I...

Listen, Justine, you're still
very young, obviously.

You needn't be so melodramatic.
You'll see. I'll show you.

Sometimes it's even very...

Enough! She'll obey!
We paid for her.

I expected you. I was told, of course.

Please share our modest meal, as you
haven't lunched. It's nearly over...

Oh, that's right, I forgot.
A little dental problem.

We'll look into that as well.

I'm a bit of a dentist on occasion.
One has to do everything in this metier.

Claudine. Come here.

Let's go have a look at those watercolors
you're so interested in.

You're to show us the jewels
from our secret stock.

Madame Elvira
will take care of the girl.

Persuasion
is her least deniable speciality.

Wouldn't you prefer a gentler method?

For me, personally, yes, of course.

Go on, show the way,
and don't meddle in this.

Training cell number 7.

The severe method. No permanent marks
on the more interesting areas.

Don't worry. We won't damage
your fragile little virgin.

We'll give her back intact,

smiling, accepting everything obediently.

You're charming and pretty
but don't think your youthful appeal

will shelter you from your fate.

Doctor Anatoli is a sentimentalist,
but I'm the school mistress here.

Aahh!

We have here, among other things,
a school of dance, acting,

and finishing school
for young girls destined

for careers in cinema, fashion,

deluxe commerce or escort service,

as well as models
for photographers or painters.

These young ladies
must be rehearsing an improvisation.

Learning to scream, it seems,
is one of the most difficult things.

AAhh!

All these drawing show
just how far Delacroix

was sensually attached
to his graceful model,

who he was ravishing between poses.

Something bothers me
about their authenticity.

There's no other example
of this kind of erotic detail

in his other Moroccan sketch books.

The nearly scandalous nature
of these sketch books

kept them sheltered from prying eyes.

Either by the artist himself or by the pasha who coveted the beauty,

believing he had rights over her,
unwilling to see her in the arms of another.

A Frenchman, moreover.

No one's ever mentioned
the Moroccan affair

Delacroix supposedly had.

You'll be the first to do so,
my dear John.

The rediscovery
of the two missing sketchbooks

will shake up the whole art world.

AAhh!

Harder!

Harder. Harder!

How do you know my name?

Every expert knows
your name and books, Monsieur Locke.

But I've never been published.
You were waiting for this moment.

And as you're on the trail,

don't tell me it's by chance

that you've set up
your research laboratory

on the exact spot where
the final drama took place!

And what place is that?

Tazert's old Casbah,
half in ruins today.

What could one do up there,

other than
research on our Eugene's Gradiva?

You call her Gradiva?
Her name was Leila,

but notice the care
with which the artist

painted her foot
in its peculiar position.

The young Delacroix
might well have seen the bas-relief,

allegedly Pompeian,
in the Vatican museum.

and made the connection
himself with the beloved

little foot of his graceful model.

Aah!

Harder.
Aah!

Harder.

And what do you mean by
"final drama"?

Don't play the fool,
Mr John Locke.

You surely know better than any of us
about this distressing story.

It's clearly not about
the eruption of Vesuvius,

but rather the execution
of the very seductive Leila,

punished for having loved
a passing foreigner.

That's something else.

Many of Fernand Cormon's studies
for his"La Favorite Dechue".

I thought you were going to say

it was a sketch done on the spot during
his beloved mistress' execution.

Don't joke, Monsieur.
These horrible things existed.

And probably still do.

I'll give you an analgesic to relieve

your odontontalgy instant
and prolonged relief.

It's in a very sugary drink
to avoid any hypoglycemic vertigo.

Remember, you haven't eaten
since morning.

Then you'll rest in a discreet hotel
that's part of our establishment.

No, don't worry. It'll pass.

Aahh!
Harder!

Sweet Claudine will take you to the hotel.

It's a bit unusual but very comfortable.

Here's the key to your room.
It's number 13.

I hope you're not superstitious.

Sshh.

Go on John, it's for the best.

You're not armed?

No, of course not!

So this is your first time here?
Yes, it's the first time,

but...

Then take this,
as an identification symbol.

Don't go anywhere without it.

Ten...

Eleven...

Twelve...

Aaahh!

No, let go of me!

I didn't do anything wrong!

Aaahh!

Where was I?

Aaah!

What are you doing?

As you see, I'm writing.

And to whom, if it's not indiscreet?

Oh, I don't know. To myself, in a sense.

I'm writing my memoirs.
I'm telling my own life story.

That makes no sense.
You're still much too young.

What could you have experienced?

No, an old soldier writes his memoirs

about meeting de Gaulle
or Winston Churchill.

Not at all. That was in another time.

One wrote about one's past life.
It wasn't at all creative.

Or it was to lie then,

in order to arrange things
to one's advantage.

"We set out as 500,
but with rapid reinforcements

we arrived at the port 3000 strong".

When in reality,

the poor lads, seeing it was going wrong,
disappeared down the side streets,

and what he calls the troops
arriving at the port,

were two baldies
and three stubble-heads!

Now, that's all over with.

You've got to write your memoirs
as soon as possible,

and project yourself into the future
with an epic 700-page volume,

published by Macmillan,
making you an instant celebrity.

It's only after that,
you can easily

become a romantic singer,
admiral of the fleet,

subversive psychoanalyst
in a mass-circulation fashion magazine

or the world's underwater
spear-fishing champion.

And us, in your account of the future,

you put us in there, too?

Anatoli, me, Madame Elvira?

But of course, because it's a true story.

I can't make you disappear by magic.

An example:

If I write that the blonde man
who's following and watching me

is just now riding slowly along
on a big shiny motorcycle,

well... it immediately becomes reality.

Are you a little mad?
Not at all!

What would be madness

would be to allow
external events to happen

without intervening.

Belkis!
Yes, Monsieur?

Who put this photo on my table?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Did anyone come in
while I was in town?

I don't know, Monsieur.
It's a big house.

Does anyone beside me
have the key?

Yes, Monsieur, of course.
Your landlord.

Do you know him?
No, Monsieur, he lives far away from here.

Where, exactly?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Ahhh!"I don't know, Monsieur.
I don't know, Monsieur."

Just what do you know?

What use are you to me?

What are you good for? Well?

For what?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Leave me alone, for now.

Please.

Yes, Monsieur.

Aren't you cold at night
in such a light dress?

It's been a long time, alas,

since my body's felt
either hot or cold.

This attire, henceforth,
is mine for eternity.

It was that of my execution.

The bloodstains, though,
have disappeared.

My innocence

washed the blood from my wounds.

Who are you?

I was a white slave,

from Andalusia,
where I spent my childhood,

and probably before that,
even further back still.

Why"I was"?

Because"I am" no longer.

You're no longer a slave.
So they freed you, then?

In one sense, yes,
they freed me by the blade.

But I'm still a slave.

Only now, it's of my past.

What do you mean?

That spirits are condemned
for all time to repeat

their tragic destiny.
Didn't you know that, John Locke?

You know my name.
As you know mine.

Could you be the one
the legend speaks of,

who posed for the French painter
more than a century ago?

A century ago, two centuries ago,

or ten centuries
and all the centuries of centuries,

as time has ceased to flow.

Did you know Eugene Delacroix?

Yes.

To my sorrow, I knew him.

He called me Gradiva,

for what reason I don't know.

Now, I have to go.

Will you return to sing
in the ruins tomorrow night?

There is no tomorrow night.

All nights are the same night.

The one when the dagger pierced my flesh.

You shouldn't question me any further.

Talking to the dead brings bad luck.

Didn't you know that, John Locke?

What are you doing there?
Still asleep at this hour!

Get up.

Yes, Monsieur. Forgive me.
I had a terrible dream.

Don't dream too much.
It's out of fashion.

Yes, Monsieur. I won't anymore.

A young lady friend of yours
is on the terrace of the Lost Cats Cafe.

Thank you.

I don't want to disturb you.
Oh no, not at all. Sit down.

But you're with a friend.

What!? You can see I'm all alone!

In fact, I don't quite remember who you are.

But I remember quite well
meeting you at a friend's party,

and found you charming.
But where was it exactly?

Come on, it was last night,
at Anatoli's,

the antique dealer who has the sketches
attributed to Delacroix.

In effect, that rings a bell.
You're a friend of Georgios Anatoli,

interested in orientalist painters'
love lives. Exciting.

But Georgios is no antiquarian.

Where'd you hear that?
He's an art lover

and a collector of all sorts of things.

And a director as well.
Hey, you must come see me perform tonight.

You're an actress?
Yes, a sort of actress.

I don't act every day, thank God.

Tomorrow I pose for fashion photos
on the sea coast.

Essaouira, you know it?

An ancient city the French
once called Mogador.

Your dear Delacroix stayed there
with a ravishing Moroccan, a Leila.

Who had a tragic end.

Come with me there.
I'll show you her grave.

Delacroix never went to Mogador.

Oh really! Sketchbooks were recently found,

clearly done in well-known
parts of the old city.

You said you perform tonight. What theatre?
The Golden Triangle.

It's not a typical theatre.
And"secret".

But any taximan in the know
will get you there. For a tip.

Come at ten.
Ask for Madame Elvira, the boss.

Say you're Georgio's friend
and Claudine sent you.

And now I've got to run.
I'm thrilled to have seen you again.

I'm sure you'll love the show.

And we can have a drink afterwards.

See you tonight.

By the way, I forgot.

Doctor Anatoli gave me this for you.

It's sovereign for toothaches.
You'll see.

What are you doing here?

Nothing, Monsieur.

Waiting for the bus to go home.

The old waiter is my uncle.
He gave me some water.

You had errands in town?
Yes, Monsieur.

You forgot to tell me?
No, Monsieur.

After you left
I thought of things we needed.

I'm going back, too.

Would you like a lift?

I don't know, Monsieur.

Then, come on!

It's an order.
Yes, Monsieur.

You'd rather caress white skin?

What's all this?
She's meeting you tonight.

She kissed your mouth when she left.

Not my mouth. My nose!

So you're spying on me now?

And it was just a little kiss.

Dry and friendly.

Monsieur?
Yes?

do you tie her to the bed
to do things?

That would probably be quite nice.
What do you think?

I don't know, Monsieur.

Nothing else to say?

Be wary of that young woman.
She sleeps with your landlord.

How do you know that?

Do you know her?
No, Monsieur.

So, talk!

This morning, just after you left
a policeman came,

a Commissaire Mahmet
or something like that.

He showed that Frenchwoman's photo.

He asked if she came to see you.

He's also the one who told me
she was the house owner's mistress.

But why? What's the connection?

What's he want, this cop?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Do you like me kissing you?
I don't know, Monsieur.

I feel like a little drowsy

and my vision's blurry.

This toothache is exhausting me.
I need to think.

I'm going to take a little walk
to clear my mind.

Prepare dinner for seven.
Yes, Monsieur.

She gave you a medicine,
and you drank it. It was poison.

Since you claim
this pretty lady loves me,

why would she want to poison me?

She's obeying someone else.
And some poisons kill only the soul.

You're talking nonsense.
Yes, Monsieur. No, Monsieur.

I feel much better. I'll be able to walk.

Is dinner ready?
Yes, Monsieur. It's waiting.

Fine. Let's go.

Shine the torch on me.
Yes, Monsieur.

What's this chain?
I don't know, Monsieur.

What time is it?
Nine o'clock, Monsieur.

Call me a taxi.
I have to go into town.

No, Monsieur.

Yes, Monsieur.

Don't go, Monsieur. I beg you.
I have to go.

I don't know why.

Are you the taxi I rang for?
Of course.

I don't see a meter.
It's being repaired.

And you haven't asked me
where I want to go.

You have to be
at the Golden Triangle at ten.

How do you know?

All taxi drivers work for the police.

Didn't you know that, John Locke?

I don't see the connection.

Orientalist shows
are forbidden, in principle.

But they're tolerated
if the theatres collaborate.

Like high-class whores,

naked young actresses
furnish precious information

on illegal activity.

Traffic in fresh meat...

the usual criminal tendencies.

And it's the police who pay the taxis?
Why do you say that?

The last time you drove me
you didn't ask me to pay.

Last time? This is the first time
I've driven you, Monsieur Locke.

You're not armed?
No, of course not.

Fine, you can go in.

I'd like to speak to Madame Elvira.

Welcome, Monsieur Locke.

Orientalists are always appreciated
at our shows.

And your presence here
is a great honor.

You flatter me, Madame.

Joujou will take you to your seat.

Does my little pupil suit you?

She's been whipped? For what reason?

Please! It's make-up.

Our actresses are waitresses
during intermission.

wearing the costumes
they were admired in, onstage.

That's strange. They look like fresh welts
from a real whipping.

Our make-up girl's an artist.

It's a shame you weren't here
for the evening's first tableau.

There were even two magnificent
black horses onstage.

Take Monsieur Locke
to Commissaire Mahdi's table,

and introduce them
with the respect they deserve.

Remember what happens
if you commit the least mistake!

Yes, Mistress, I remember.

You can touch, to see
if they're real or not.

Those are make-up, obviously.
The real ones are on the other side.

Much closer to the pubis.

When my mistress is very excited
she whips my privates

to make me scream.

Your skin is very soft.

Is it very painful?
Yes, a bit.

There, where the strap hit too hard.

What had you done wrong?

I accidentally broke a glass, serving
a drink with my hands chained together.

That can't be very practical.

No, but it's fun.
And the orientalists love it.

Professor John Locke,
Commisaire Mahdi ben Mochrane.

Top marks, my girl.
You've learned your lesson well.

Not too hard on the left side,
Commissaire. It's a bit sore.

Please.

How kind of you,
my dear Monsieur Locke,

to have granted
my request for this interview.

What? But you never...
But of course I did!

Admittedly
in a somewhat devious manner,

so as not to ignore courtesy
and hospitality due visiting foreigners.

I don't understand.

What do you want?
Nothing in particular, don't worry.

Likely a series of sad coincidences.

Second tableau:"La Favorite Dechue"
by Fernand Cormon..

Let's talk straight, then.

All right, some pretty girls disappeared
from and around a mountain village

very close to your residence.

At least one appears
to have been raped, and then

murdered in a cruel fashion.

What's more,

we've found your fingerprints
on the handle of a dagger,

the blade of which
was stained with human blood.

A woman's, to be more precise.

Thank you.

Third tableau:"The Death of Gradiva"
by Edouard Manneret.

Drink.

I've had you come for your opinion
on my new discoveries,

since you're especially interested
in Delacroix's horses.

I absolutely have to show you
these sketches,

which are very personal,
if you know what I mean.

I might even be inspired by them
for my next performances.

You see, they're clearly preliminary studies
for"The Massacre at Scio",

which must have comprised
a series of paintings.

You've seen this one.

Do you feel unwell, Monsieur Locke?

Leila.

Gradiva.
No.

Our star isn't called Leila,
but Hermione.

Her clear likeness to the young
white slave who posed for Delacroix

inspired our writer
to use her in a few tableaux,

executions or preliminary torture,

more or less connected to her tragic end,
of which exist, as you know,

many versions.

It's late. I must leave you.

I have to go the cemetery,

as I do every night,

to pray at the graveside
of that other me,

my unfortunate twin sister.

Forgive me, sir, but at times you resemble,
in a horrible way,

her murderer.

What does it mean,
this story about the cemetery

and the murdered twin?

Nothing at all. She's raving.

Tell me more!?
Don't mind her.

Hermione is sometimes strange
these days.

She never had a sister,
let alone a twin.

Three nights ago,
she was attacked backstage,

something anodyne,
which can happen sometimes,

with slightly unstable fans.

But she imagines
that she met that night

the sadistic criminal
sought by the police,

who didn't stab her stomach
several times,

but that of her double.

Her imaginary double, you understand?

Doctor Anatoli, who was her titular lover,
before I arrived,

is keeping a close eye
on her neurosis.

He thinks she may be acting.

This criminal, you talk about,

is it true I look like him?

Who knows?
No one's ever seen him.

You have to go to bed.

Our car will take you home.

A blue taxi.

Why do you say that?
There's not one blue taxi in Marrakech!

As for Mogador, the photographer
will pick us up at the Lost Cats Cafe

at ten on the dot.

You waited for me?
Yes, Monsieur.

I thought you'd never come back.

Monsieur?

Yes.

If it would give you pleasure...

Well, go on.

What I meant...

You could whip me, if you want to.

All the men do that,
with their little bed slave.

To punish you for what?

I don't know, Monsieur.
They always find a pretext.

The girls are bad,
they must be whipped occasionally,

so they don't forget
who they belong to.

Would you like that?
I don't know, Monsieur.

Monsieur?

Yes?
At night, Monsieur...

What:"At night"?

The song that comes in, at night,
through the window...

You know where it comes from?
No, Monsieur. But it's not from here.

What do you mean?

It's neither Arab nor Berber.

And so?

It's Death, Monsieur, who's calling you.

Belkis...
Yes, sir?

Do you love me?

Oh, yes, Monsieur.

Good morning.
Claudine's not here?

She forgot something important
at her place.

But she'll be right back.

Do you model for fashion shoots, too?

Yes. Sometimes I do,
for fashion or other things.

But that's not my metier. I'm an actress.

Yes I know.
I saw you onstage last night.

That's right! What a horror!

No, but the theatre's
not my metier either.

So, you're in film?

Neither film nor theatre.
No, I'm... a dream actress.

That's interesting.
Just what does that involve?

As the name suggests,
I act in people's dreams.

How is that possible?
In the most natural way.

The dream world is as real
as the conscious world.

Didn't you know that, John Locke?

You mean it's just as material,
just as tangible?

Indeed, yes,
Perhaps even more so.

Your questions are so strange.

In fact, the world of dreams
resembles very much the other.

It's its exact double, its twin.

There are characters,

objects, words,

fears, pleasures, dramas.

But everything there
is infinitely more violent.

Erotic dreams?
All dreams are erotic.

That's what's so exciting for actors.

It must be a difficult craft.

It can be learned.

There are schools,
examinations, diplomas.

And the nonprofessionals
are quickly eliminated.

What's taught in these schools?
All sorts of things.

Corporal expression, voice training,

narratology, psychoanalysis,

penal law, orientalist painting,

the principal of causality,

contradiction as the motor of history.

Why penal law?

We have to know exactly
what's legal and what's not,

and the sentences incurred.

Dreams are strictly monitored
by the police.

You know, for example,
anything involving minors,

young boys or prepubescent
adolescents is strictly forbidden.

And it's a pity.
I knew a gorgeous young girl

who wanted to act
in a big-budget sado-lesbian dream.

The writer agreed,
her parents and lawyers agreed,

but the producer was intransigent.

Invoking his moral responsibility,
child labor laws,

health risks, and I don't know what.

Morals! He didn't give a damn!

In reality he was just worried
about his cash.

I find that shocking. Don't you?

Yes, yes, of course.

But... murder

is permitted?
Happily, yes!

Including aggravated murder
with unlawful imprisonment and torture.

That's all that's left to ban.

Mind you, they did try a few years ago.

A high-minded government,
during an election.

That caused a riot in the profession.

But, with the threat
of a general strike,

and occupation
of the collective unconscious,

the governing powers pulled back. Imagine.

Nobody would be able
to dream anything anymore.

Doctors said that people
would die en masse.

That's ignoring

the rich, who would just relocate
their dreams to oneiric paradises

which flourish in the Middle East
or the Bahamas.

To save face, the government decided

the costliest dreams would lose
their full National Health cover.

Double standards as usual!

I find it totally unacceptable.
Don't you?

Sure. Of course. But...

tell me, these dreams,
you invent them for people?

Ah no, not at all! The public
would never want that.

There are writers who specialize in that.

They're called oneirographers.

And they earn a pretty good living.

Who collects their royalties?
The Writer's Guild, as usual.

It qualifies as mental
representation rights.

But the actors have their
governmental agencies

to distribute royalties as well.

Of course. How stupid of me!

In confidence,

Mademoiselle Hermione,

have you ever performed in my dreams?

Of course. Often, in fact.

Particularly, since
you've been living in Morocco.

In fact, that's why you recognized me

so quickly last night,

and called me Leila.

Do you remember, John Locke?

The sole of my upraised foot

vertically...

Do you remember, John Locke?

Aah!

Aaahh!

Monsieur Locke.
Excuse me. I'm a little late.

We'll pick up the photographer
on the way.

Are you tired?
Yes, a bit. It's nothing.

I just slept very badly last night.

Did you have nightmares?
That's a big word.

I have dreams, like everyone else.

Careful.
The police are watching you.

Yes, I know. It's nothing serious.

I don't agree with you.

It's Commissaire Mahdi
who loaned us his car and driver.

Come on dear friend.
The sea is calling you.

That blind man, begging there,
isn't he our driver?

Yes, as you can see.

Here's poor Gradiva's grave.

Eight. Nine.

Room twelve.

Ten...

Eleven...

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Come in, John. I've been waiting.

No, I'm sorry. It's a mistake.
I can't find my room.

But I wasn't trying to force the lock
on the door next to mine.

Besides, I didn't know
that this one was yours.

No, don't get upset.
It's all going as planned.

Come in, since you can't
do otherwise. Come in.

You're not working tonight?

Ah no. The photo session's over. Thank God.

No, I didn't mean that,

but your strange profession
as dream actress.

That must be more of a night job,
I would imagine.

Not entirely.
But tonight, as it happens, I'm working.

Which is to say, I'm performing...
at this very moment.

What do you mean?

You're asleep, John. In room twelve

I'm playing a character...
in the dream..

you so innocently wandered into.

In fact, I'm indisputably the heroine.

This is absurd!

I'm looking for my room.

I'm definitely not dreaming..
Or else, prove it to me.

Just look at your clothing.

You dream you're Eugene Delacroix

after one of those amorous adventures
he was so fond of.

And this adventure is me.

But it goes wrong.

Watch out.

Okay. If this is a joke...

I'm sleepy and I've got to get back.

Oh no, John, it's not a joke.

Anyway, there is no room 12
in this hotel,

which is in the parallel universe
of our dreams.

In the"real" hotel,
in the conscious world,

which we checked into, last night,

it's obviously room 13 that's missing,

as in every establishment,

frequented by superstitious
American tourists.

You even said so when we arrived,

that the hotel
in which you'd be sleeping

didn't overlook the sea, unlike this one.

Your room is probably
just on the other side.

That's just what I'm saying!

We're here on the other side
of the real world.

Eugenio! Eugenio!

You're not armed, I imagine.

Take this, then, as a sort of talisman.

This is a dangerous place at night,
Monsieur Locke.

I don't trust blind drivers, and
I'm wary of their presents.

It's not a present, Monsieur Locke.

The dagger belongs to you.

You left this compromising object
in a blue taxi

a few days ago.

Remember!

Aaahh!

Aaahh!

Photographs.

Clean up.

Belkis.

Belkis.

#It's Death, Monsieur, who's calling you. #

Why?

Little Belkis..

why did you do this?

I don't know, Monsieur..

English version: David Aronson

Subtitling Titra Film Paris and karagarga. net
timing by janatas aka therthe