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LIE WITH ME

Based on the novel by Philippe Besson

Mr. Belcourt!

Gaëlle Flamant. Sorry, we came as fast as we could.

- Allow me... - No, it's fine.

Follow me.

- You had a good trip? - Yes.

Good.

It's good to meet you at last. In the flesh.

When were you last here?

35 years ago. When I left.

Well then tell me if it's changed. I've always lived here.

This way.

Sorry about the car.

Ours broke down on the way out and this is all we had.

It'll be fixed when we arrive, in 45 mins, give or take a tractor.

Thanks, Thierry. This is Mr. Belcourt.

- Front seat? - I prefer behind.

Oh really?

Very good.

I thought they'd never arrive.

Your story's superb. We were thrilled.

I have more if you want. For Paris.

I already sent some to your publisher.

Here's a memo pad so you don't get lost.

First up is a signing at Texte Libre. The owner's a big fan, you'll see.

They're offering a copy of your story with every one of your books bought.

Tomorrow it's interviews, local TV and press.

This afternoon is the speech rehearsal to familiarise yourself with the space.

Usually, we invite visual artists for our special blends,

but for our bicentenary, a writer seemed just perfect.

Especially a homegrown one!

Oh and there's a guided tour of the cellars for our US importers

if you'd like to join?

Oh no thank you. I already did it a thousand times as a kid.

Of course, I understand.

- Andrieu, move it! - I'm coming.

Hurry!

Come alone.

Thanks, Thierry.

Okay?

- Okay, Lucas? How's it going? - Great. Perfect.

Mr. Belcourt...

Let's slip in before the group. Follow me.

Hello, this is Mr. Stéphane Belcourt.

Hello, sir. Just fill this out...

No, it's booked under the vineyard: Baussony.

For the Americans' passports, Mr. Andrieu has them for you.

- Gaëlle, please. - Coming!

If you could drop your things off,

we leave in 15 for the bookstore.

See you later.

Room 15, third floor.

Mr. Belcourt, may I?

Come on, sit down.

Was I dreaming or did you eye me up back there?

You like me, right?

Yes.

You've already done it?

No.

You?

No.

Not with a guy.

You tell no one.

Okay.

C'mon, follow me.

This stays between us.

See you.

- You arrived safely? - Yes, fine.

All going well?

Sure, even if I'm wondering what the hell I'm doing here.

It was your call. I didn't force you for once.

So we received the short story. They did a great job.

Yes I saw.

I sent one to Mertot. He wants to add it to a collection.

No, it's just a commission!

About the landscapes, cognac and its history, the soil...

They aren't even my real memories.

Maybe that's why it's so good!

Thanks a bunch.

You could write more. You never published short stories.

This could be the new direction you wanted.

- Oh, you still haven't sent any. - Any what?

- The chapters you promised to send. - Actually...

- You forgot? - I deleted them.

You could've sent them anyway. It's a great idea.

- You know... - I don't get you right now.

Sorry, I have to go. Can I call you later?

Are you a connoisseur?

No, not really. It's an old model, isn't it?

It was my father's.

Lucas. Nice to meet you.

- Stéphane Belcourt. - Yes, I know.

- Really? - You're our guest of honour.

Mr. Belcourt?

I'll park her up before I get yelled at.

I was looking everywhere for you!

May I introduce our chairman, Mr. Dejean?

We're delighted to have such a revered author with us.

I'm delighted you invited me.

I admit at first I was skeptical.

Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against men who like men.

I was just concerned about our brand.

You know, tradition, eternal France...

I was scared you'd be too...

modern!

But then I found out my wife was a big fan.

She even wept over one of your books, so I thought, well, this could work!

Anyway, I'm delighted you accepted our invitation.

In any case, see you tonight!

With the Prefect!

- The Prefect? - Yes it slipped my mind.

There's an informal dinner at Baussony Manor.

The Prefect's lovely. You can call me for help.

Your readers are waiting. Let's go.

I'll just get my coat.

- Be right back. - All right.

- You scared? - No.

We came as fast as we could.

This is Stéphane Belcourt.

And this is Mr. Teicher, our genial host today.

It's an honour to have you here. I've tried many times to organise this.

Take a seat, everybody.

I am...

I am very happy to welcome Mr. Belcourt.

As you know he's a prolific writer, writing as many as two novels a year.

So prolific even, that I struggle sometimes to keep up.

But there's been a two-year gap. An eternity!

Dear Stéphane, you are often described as the great writer of love.

Whereas I find you are a great writer of the end of love.

Nobody captures romantic ruins better than you.

If I may quote you,

"When, following grace,

"there is nothing but gaping holes opening up ahead."

Mr. Belcourt was due to read from his short story,

but he would prefer to dip into an earlier novel to celebrate his homecoming.

The Betrayal of Thomas Spencer.

Say stop.

"In the photo, Thomas is smiling.

"Slightly.

"Awkwardly.

"I asked him to pose for the camera.

"His discomfort under the lens's scrutiny is obvious.

"He doesn't like this intrusion, the indecency of it.

"He makes an effort for me. An effort to smile.

"It's a photo from when we were young.

"A moment captured.

"Almost nothing.

"The photo

"says something about him.

"His beauty, of course.

"His singular virility.

"But also his shyness.

"The photo also says some...

"thing

"about the two of us.

"The urge to keep a record,

"to testify that happiness existed, since it is there...

"Since it is there in the photo."

Is that it?

Sorry about the other day.

We can't risk it, you know.

C'mon, you won't be disappointed.

Amber memories...

among friends.

Thank you, Alexandre.

- What's your name? - Geneviève.

- There. - Thank you. Goodbye.

Can you sign these for the Americans?

Sorry, I know you're finishing up.

No, no problem.

But they won't understand. It's in French.

Perhaps you could write in English? I saw you lived in San Francisco.

Among other places.

I'll start with you.

Okay, with pleasure.

- You work at Baussony? - In the Los Angeles office.

The visitors are our best stockists, so I'm looking after them.

And how's it going? Not too hard?

Not at all. They're delighted to see what they talk about every day.

Make them laugh, and you've struck gold!

I see. Bravo.

So...

Lucas, if I remember right?

And your last name?

Andrieu. Lucas Andrieu.

That's funny.

Because I knew a...

Thomas Andrieu in high school.

Well, there weren't 150 of them. Must've been my father.

You knew him well?

More or less.

You were classmates?

No, we did our senior year together.

That's crazy. He could have told me he knew a celebrity.

Everything's relative.

I wasn't one back then.

He didn't make the connection.

Come on, a writer!

I'm not that surprised. My father never said much.

So you didn't stay in touch?

No. After finals, he moved to Spain.

And I was born there.

My mother's Spanish.

All right.

Then when my grandparents needed help on the farm,

we came back.

I see.

So is he well?

He died last year.

Sorry to tell you like this.

No, it's just...

That's a young age to go, no?

It was sudden.

Excuse me, but the bus has arrived.

OK, I have to go. I'm sorry.

Actually we're doing the cellar tour. Want to come?

I don't think Mr. Belcourt is too keen.

Okay, I won't insist.

Hold on, why not? It may have changed.

As you wish. I'll send those up to your room.

All right. Thank you.

Well then, they're waiting for you!

Well, you took your time.

I was about to leave.

- I could've ridden with you. - And have people see us together?

It's fine here. There's no one.

You'll like this.

Come on!

Hold on.

What's up?

What?

Do what I do.

Watch out!

Sorry, my apologies.

You look bored.

I feel bad dragging you along.

No, not at all.

But nothing's changed.

Sure, that's tradition for you.

It makes a good cognac.

I don't like raking over the past.

You either feel nostalgic or disappointed.

I like nostalgia.

Really?

But you're too young for it.

Not at all.

In any case, you can't escape your past, right?

Here.

Thanks, but I don't drink.

Oh really? But you write about it so well.

Sure but...

Internet was my friend on that one.

- Be right back. - Sure.

Actually, my father mentioned you once or twice.

I think we had one of your books at home.

Really? Which one?

I don't remember.

The cover was a drawing or painting

of an American house. Red.

With wheat around it.

The Betrayal of Thomas Spencer.

Funny... I read from it earlier. Have you read it?

I began it but I was young and it was too psychological for me.

But I'll have another go.

How do you come up with all those stories?

Do they just come to you like that?

What's the inspiration?

I always wondered how you guys do it.

Do you dream it up or...

Or do you find inspiration in reality?

Your life?

Your memories?

- My father maybe? - Oh no.

No, not at all.

Talk about me? And expose my so-called traumas?

No, I like making things up.

As a kid I loved watching people and imagining their lives.

I was like that as a boy.

My mother always said, "Stop with the lies."

But I was only telling stories.

It's not lying, making up stories, right?

Unless you don't make them up.

- You sure there's no one here? - My parents get home late.

It's cool. It's what you wanted, no?

Come on.

You listen to that?

Yeah, I like his lyrics.

I prefer Téléphone. They rock.

- What's that? - Nothing.

- You wrote it? - No, please, they're terrible stories.

It's cool.

What?

How did it go?

Never gets boring, huh?

Shall we go test the mics?

I planned to write my speech.

- You haven't already? - No.

I always wait until the last minute to...

To let the present inspire me.

Oh well then I hope it hits the mark!

I mean the present, not your speech.

Well... Take your time, I'll take care of the mics.

See you later.

Want to come with me?

Sorry?

I messed up with the cellar tour,

and I don't like to fall short, so...

Hold on, I said I was writing my speech.

Sure, but it's now or never.

They're free now, and I'll be busy later.

And you too. So let's go.

- So you like the USA? - Sure, it's cool.

It was a golden opportunity to see the world,

yet still be here for Grandma.

I'm all she has now.

What about your mother?

She went back to Spain a long time ago.

She was never really happy here.

Galicia has more going for it, right?

- You have brothers and sisters? - No, I'm an only child.

Mum tried talking Dad round but it was non-negotiable.

Poor woman got the short straw.

She wanted six.

- Your father didn't want more? - He never gave in.

Maybe they had me too young.

They hardly knew each other when Mum became pregnant.

Abortion wasn't an option with super catholic grandmothers.

So, shotgun wedding and done.

Can't say I was a child of love.

Well?

We'll go down this way.

It's an old clay quarry that filled up.

The earth's too acidic for plants or fish.

That explains the colour.

Dad didn't share much with me but he brought me here.

His secret hideout.

Do you like it?

- You okay? - Yes.

- You don't look it. - It's nothing, just...

You're so unlike him.

Yeah, I took after my mother.

Physically, personality...

It's odd, all from one parent, nothing from the other.

Tell me...

What was my father like?

Meaning?

When he was young?

It's hard to imagine your parents before you.

Before you existed, I mean.

So I was wondering.

I don't know what to say.

For example, was he brainy?

Or a flunk at school?

Was he serious? A party monster?

Did he muck about?

Or with you even?

- Did he get on with you? - He was a good student.

I'm not really bothered about that.

I was thinking...

You might know stuff he never told me.

He was my father, after all.

He never told me anything.

Look...

He was quite reserved, that's true.

But...

He was very popular.

- Really? - Of course, I mean...

With the girls, especially.

Y'know, the usual. Popular with girls. Or just popular.

But he preferred hanging out with his mates.

Really?

I can't imagine him having mates.

At the farm, it was all work and no play.

Nobody ever came by.

Yes, he really helped your grandparents.

You knew them?

No.

But he told me about the farm.

You're his first friend...

The first one I've met.

What are you doing here!?

- You've been off school all week. - My Dad's sick.

Seriously, you're nuts.

Did I say you could come?

Life here and with you are different things.

They're different worlds.

- Can't you have friends? - Not like you. Look at you.

- What does that mean? - Nothing...

- It's just... - You're ashamed?

Ashamed of me?

No.

If they see us, they'll wonder.

- You know... - Wonder what? Say it!

You started this. Why choose me? Why with me?

I'm not with you!

I told you all along.

- This stays between us. - Yes but...

Go.

I can't start without thanking Baussony

and the elixir that made our town famous worldwide...

Cognac, a town.

Cognac, an elixir.

To Lucas Andrieu...

To the young man, I don't say,

"You wouldn't be related to..."

Nor do I say,

"If you had any idea how close I was to a person with the same last name..."

I say, "Funny that. I was at school with a Thomas Andrieu."

He shoots back,

"There weren't 150 of them. Must've been my father."

He's astonished his father never told him about me.

I act indifferent, poker-faced.

"Celebrity? Everything's relative. I wasn't one back then."

I was just a 17-year-old, hiding behind his glasses.

A young man madly in love with his father.

Who lived only for the moment

when he'd be with him again.

Of course, I don't tell him that.

Actually, what can I say to him?

How can I talk about him without talking about us?

My bedroom had become our kingdom.

Our nest.

Where nobody could ever reach us.

I think I love you.

What?

Ich liebe dich.

Te quiero. Je t'aime.

You don't say stuff like that.

Sure, you do.

If not, how do people know you love them?

It's something you feel.

- Something you feel? - Yeah.

Well I'm feeling nothing.

C'mon say it, for me.

- No. - Yes!

- Say "I love you." - No way.

You unromantic old fart.

Say I love you.

No way.

Stéphane, are you home?

- Stéphane? - Yes!

I didn't feel well. I left early. Is everything ok?

I'm working. I'm coming.

Don't. I'm going to take a nap. See you later.

Sleep well.

What a fairy! Come on, out.

Shit! You idiot.

That hurt.

Sorry.

- You need help. - I can't get caught.

Then what?

If it happens, it won't kill us.

You don't get it.

You have it easy. You know you're gay.

Right... because you're what?

It's not the same. I can go with girls.

I "can" too, but I don't want to.

There you go.

I wanted to, and I will again.

Well that's great.

So if you're not gay, get out.

Get out while my mum's asleep.

Come on. You're not in a coffin.

You don't get it.

You'll take off and I'll stay behind.

No, you can leave as well.

It's impossible. I'm an only son.

If I don't work the farm, it dies.

If you go, nobody dies.

You'll be a writer.

- You'll meet someone who's... - Stop it.

I don't know what I'll be.

But staying's a death sentence. For you, too.

We'll come up with something.

Okay?

At last!

You all know Gaëlle Flamant.

But allow me to introduce our great writer, Stéphane Belcourt.

This is Mrs. Burdo, the Prefect, and her husband.

Mr. and Mrs. Debauchies, regional director of tourism.

And now your most fervent admirer,

my wife Eléonore.

It's a real pleasure.

The feeling's mutual. I'm here thanks to you.

Which is thanks to your books!

That's them, our happy band of American importers.

We've organised a mixology workshop.

They're cocktail crazy there.

- Let's go in for a drink. - With pleasure.

Gaëlle, where's the bathroom?

Just on the right.

Mr. Belcourt! Come join us.

- May I? - They'd be delighted.

What an idiot! You idiot!

May I?

Be my guest.

I hear you're hard at work on your speech.

If you need to re-read it...

No, it's fine, thanks.

I'll stick to tradition. You'll be very pleased.

Well you know, tradition must be respected to make a good cognac,

but life is a different story.

I'll let you in on a secret.

My daughter wanted to be a cognac master-blender.

But I stopped her as traditionally it's a man's job.

Result: she moved to Australia after severing ties here.

And now she makes whiskey.

It's fair to say that tradition made me stupid.

So for your speech, feel free.

Let it out!

Actually,

make my wife cry again.

You're very good at that.

I'll try.

Young blood! You know our dear Lucas?

Yes, we met already.

His future with us is bright.

Without him, you wouldn't be here.

Really?

- It's not thanks to your wife? - She sealed the deal.

But it was Mr. Andrieu who proposed we have you as guest of honour.

He knows all your work by heart.

Well, it wasn't exactly like that.

Don't be so modest!

Lucas was born to work here.

His father was one of our winegrowers. His grandparents likewise.

We really are a family business.

All good with our friends?

Yes, great. Actually, I should get back to them.

Of course, I'll drop by. Let's go!

- More wine? - No thank you.

Yes, the idea is to celebrate the Charente over Christmas

through a whole series of choral songs from regional folklore.

Right, Gaelle?

Yes, we did some research and discovered many, many songs,

very pretty ones-

From the Charente?

With lots of patois, yes.

Music unites hearts.

Ideas separate them but music unites hearts.

It's a universal language.

Excuse me...

- I'll be right back. - Of course.

I've seen some beautiful festivals in Cognac.

I've seen some magnificent things.

- Care to explain? - Not here.

- Someplace else then. - I have to stay with them.

- So let's stay. - I can't talk. I'm working here.

You just have to smile! You've never tried that?

Talking trash about bemused foreigners with a big smile? Check this out.

Smile... Smile!

That's good.

So what's the deal? What the hell?

You said you barely started one book.

That's Dejean, he's always exaggerating.

Really? And what about the invitation being your idea?

You could have said something. I feel like it's...

deception or even lies. Or am I making up stories?

Smile! They're looking.

Cat got your tongue?

Turns out, you're as stubborn as your dad.

Got any other surprises up your sleeve?

He is dead, at least?

What did you say?

What did you just say?

I didn't mean it.

I'm sorry.

Sorry.

Wait!

Stop!

Stop, please!

You really want to know?

I was always struck by my parents' wedding photo.

My father's expression.

Wondering what he was doing there.

He only ever brightened up when you were on TV.

He said you were a school friend. He had all your books.

When you were on TV, we had to shut up. It was sacred.

My mother didn't watch.

Books didn't interest her. Dad's earlier life even less.

But I stayed.

Watching Dad watch you with a smile.

I wondered what you meant to him.

And why it was that only you could make him smile.

What was he to you?

- What did he say? - Nothing!

My dad never talked but I need to understand.

Because this chapter you both had, it ruined our lives.

He walked out on us.

What? We were 17!

I never saw him again, ok? His walking out wasn't my fault.

I'm sure he went looking for you. That's what I need to hear.

To know if the chapter was worth it.

This is crazy! I last saw your dad 35 years ago.

And now you rock up, throwing all this at me. Can you hear yourself?

- Was it worth it or not!? - No, it was not!

You got that? It was not worth it!

Then why write so much about it?

What?

In 'And Finally Farewell', you're writing to a man who left you.

It's a woman writing! My heroine. I make things up.

- I want to go back to the hotel. - Wait here while I...

No, I'll wait outside.

The protagonist, Thomas Spencer in 'His Brother', it's Thomas Andrieu!

Who are you kidding?

Why won't you talk, dammit?

Because like you, your father dumped me. Not a word, no explanation.

But it's in the past now. I suffered enough, so leave me alone!

Mr. Belcourt, is there a problem?

It's been a long day. I need rest for my speech.

- But you can't just go! - Tell the Prefect I felt unwell.

- I'll come too. - Don't bother!

I insist!

- Lucas? - I have to email LA.

Thierry, let's go.

Mr. Dejean was worried about your speech. I said you were on it.

He mentioned it and didn't seem too worried.

Oh okay then.

- The main thing is you're happy. - Well I'm not.

I suffered a lot here.

Do you know what a small town is like when you don't fit in?

The short story was a miracle already. And now a speech?

So then why come back here if you suffered so much?

At least your suffering has paid well. Others weren't so lucky.

What? What's wrong?

Mr. Belcourt slings mud at our town when he should be grateful.

It's his only subject.

It's getting a bit old. Perhaps it's time to turn the page.

Lucas, that's enough.

No please! I always listen to my readers. It's very instructive,

and Mr. Andrieu knows my work by heart.

So young man, you think it's repetitive?

Yes, lately, you've been going round in circles.

- You should know. 2 years without a book. - There's the short story!

Oh, true. Yeah we lucked out there.

Not brooding works for you.

- Lying works for me! - So then keep it up!

I've no idea what's going on, but it's awkward, so let's calm down!

And we stay focused on tomorrow's ceremony.

I'm sorry, Mr. Belcourt, and I apologise for Lucas.

Lucas, whatever came over you, we'll discuss it later.

Silence, I said. And stop taking me for a fool.

What's going on? Tell me.

It's fine.

I'll tell you later.

Congrats.

You too.

See you tomorrow?

I can't. I'm going to Spain.

Every year I help my uncle's family out on their farm.

How long for?

All July.

Can we call?

Not really.

Anyway, I'm in the fields.

You can't write either.

But I'll write to you.

When will I see you?

I get back early August.

I'm away with my parents, back on the 18th.

See? You'll make me wait.

Here, look...

Let's meet on the 18th at 1800 hours.

So it's easy to remember.

At the pool like the first time.

My parents gave me a camera for my finals. Wanna try it?

They gave you a gift before the results?

They weren't in any doubt...

Okay then.

I'll get my bike and let's go.

Get some sleep. Tomorrow's your big day.

Actually... I barely ate earlier. Any idea where I can find something?

It's a small town here.

Luckily for you, I can pull strings.

And you, don't you ever sleep?

We shuttled everyone back.

I was taking five. I live around the corner.

So we have crisps and raisins.

Or almonds.

A feast! Thank you.

I love it when everybody's asleep and all is calm.

Thanks, but I don't drink.

- You're no fun, are you? - How come?

I dunno. You're just no fun!

I can be very funny you know.

- Oh yeah? - Sure!

For example, if I...

If I...

Yes, hold on...

Now that's funny!

I wanted to apologise for earlier.

What for?

What I said about small towns was unfair.

You were right.

Life in a small town is harder when you don't fit in.

I should know.

I got out at the first chance.

And I soon came back because this is where I feel best.

But I made a promise to myself.

To live life my way and love who I wanted.

It cost me part of my family.

Some friends.

But I made others.

Staying doesn't mean caving in.

To those who stay then.

Why did you accept our invitation if coming back was so hard?

When I received it, it was...

a year ago?

My life was...

in the dumps.

I'd just broken up yet again.

My fault as usual, apparently.

"A wonderful writer about love who's incapable of love."

My ex's last words.

My writing tanked, too.

I'd forgotten why I was a writer, if I ever knew. Anyway...

The invitation came and I thought...

Maybe it's time to call up some ghosts.

Then the year flew by and I arrived totally unprepared.

You already knew Lucas?

No.

I'd no idea he existed.

But...

I knew his father well.

We were 17.

He was your ghost.

He was my first love.

Did you know him?

When Lucas started with us, they'd lost touch long ago.

But I went to his funeral.

- Really? - Yes. Lucas began with me.

He's kind of my protégé.

But I'd never been to such a morose funeral.

There was no one there.

No friends, no coworkers.

Just Lucas and his grandmother.

He took care of everything. Paperwork, the cemetery...

Everything.

Where's he buried?

Their village. Javrezac.

The toughest part is his father left nothing.

No letter, no explanation.

Normally if you do that, you leave a note, right?

You didn't know?

I'm sorry.

How did he do it?

He hanged himself at home.

Are you okay?

Morning, Lucas.

Can I sit down?

Go ahead, I'm nearly done.

Gaëlle told me about your father.

She thought I knew.

Yeah, she said. It's okay.

I'm sorry.

He really left zero explanation?

Is it any of your business?

You couldn't talk about him and now I have to?

You know what?

You were right.

It's all in the past.

I could never have your father. He wasn't for me.

He was made for the girls.

In the schoolyard, he stood out.

I noticed him right away but I'd never have dared.

Then, one day...

He came over to me and...

I still can't believe it.

I couldn't tell anyone. Those were his terms.

We'd go up to my bedroom.

It became our kingdom.

We talked.

We made love.

I thought it would last forever.

Then he went to Spain and never came back.

I always wondered why he chose me.

If he'd loved me...

even just a little bit.

All he left me were questions.

But I loved your father like crazy.

Good evening,

may I speak to Thomas, please?

He's not here. Who's calling?

Vincent.

A classmate.

Yes.

When will he be back?

I don't know. He lives in Spain now.

How come?

He stayed on to work with his uncle.

Can I give him a message?

From Stéphane for Thomas.

Stéphane's not answering his phone. It's for the press interview.

He's not in his room?

Yes?

Where?

Now you tell me! I've been looking all over.

All right. Thank you.

He asked Thierry to take him to Javrezac.

There you are. We were looking all over.

- Did I miss something? - Local TV and press.

Shoot! I should get back.

It's too late.

But they'll be there tonight.

Great.

I never expected to see him again.

Especially here, like this.

He never let me visit.

The time I tried, I'll never forget.

I never saw his farm or his parents.

Never saw his room.

I knew nothing of his life, in fact.

Before you...

I knew nothing of his life.

Will you tell me what happened?

He never let me read your books.

He said they were for adults.

Sure enough, as a student in Bordeaux, I went into the first bookstore,

and bought all they had.

That's when I...

When his first name kept cropping up, or even his full name,

the idea took shape in my mind.

I knew you were gay.

You never hid it in interviews.

One weekend, when he was alone in his workshop...

I told him I'd read all your books

and that his name kept coming up.

He just brushed it off,

and kept doing what he was doing.

I asked him if he knew why.

And what you meant to him.

He looked up, and you should have seen that look.

That's when I knew it was real.

My father was in love with a boy.

Next weekend, in the kitchen, he told us he was leaving, and to not look for him.

My mother begged, my grandfather threatened,

but it was no use. He had it all organised.

He gave up the farm, everything.

He told me I was a grown-up and didn't need him anymore.

He took a bag and his motorbike, and he left.

But he didn't come looking for me.

Yes, I know that now.

Are you coming?

It's me, Granny.

Granny, are you home?

Hello, sweetie, how are you?

I'm good, and you?

Fine, thanks. This is a surprise.

Sure. I'm showing a friend around...

- How about that? - This is Stéphane.

- Ma'am. - Hello. Nice to meet you.

You work with Lucas?

No, he lives in Paris.

He's here for the bicentenary.

Take a seat. Can I get you anything? A pineau?

With pleasure.

Well, in that case, I'll fetch the bottle.

- How are things in the US? - All good still.

- That's great. - I'm happy there, you know.

That's the main thing.

With my little Americans.

They're here visiting. I'm showing them around.

- Great, thanks. - I'm looking after them.

So they're depending on you.

- They're depending on me. - Good.

- You went to choir this week? - Of course.

What did you sing this Wednesday?

'The Time of Cherries'.

- Did you enjoy it? - Yes, you bet.

- You were with Bernadette and Michèle? - Sébastien played 'La Java Bleue'.

- Yep, yet another one! - I know.

But our Michèle was sick.

She couldn't come so...

We miss her because she's our conductor.

It's nothing serious?

No, just exhaustion. It happens, doesn't it?

- She'll be back? - I hope so...

After he died, I cleared his house.

And found this.

I always wondered if he'd received it.

We took it after our finals results.

Your father hated having his photo taken.

But for once he didn't argue.

Perhaps he knew we'd never see each other again.

And I didn't know.

On his computer, I found lots of emails.

All from the same man.

His lover, apparently.

In fact, my father moved to Brest.

They met there and...

had a secret relationship.

But this guy couldn't take it anymore.

He wanted to love in the open.

His last email was an ultimatum.

Three days later,

my father was found hanging in his garage.

You know what hurts the most?

Not my father loving men. I mean c'mon...

No, it's him hiding it his whole life.

He never overcame his shame.

What hurts is...

He was a coward till the end.

This was in his study.

It was blank, so I thought it was his last wishes.

But no.

It's a letter he never sent.

Dated August '84.

I think it has your answers.

I'll be outside, ready to go.

Stéphane, Lucas, let's go.

Quick, it's started!

- You can change there. - It's fine. Give me that.

On the left...

Quick, the stairs on the left!

- Do you have my shirt? - Yes it's here!

Straight ahead!

We're here to celebrate this elixir of fraternity,

of conviviality,

and of warmth that brings us together.

And to celebrate the excellence of the art

that constitutes this elixir.

"Time, suspend thy flight, and at auspicious hours..."

You know how it goes.

But it is with great pride that I invite to join me

the man who uniquely captured the nobility of our region,

its past and values,

Mr. Stéphane Belcourt!

Thank you.

Good evening.

Naturally, I cannot begin without thanking Baussony

and this elixir that made our town famous worldwide.

I say "our town" since I grew up here.

Writing this short story,

I wanted to give pride of place to certain values.

Knowledge that Baussony has preserved for 200 years and...

the preservation of knowledge...

For knowledge is...

It's also...

Actually, I'm really happy to be back.

I always delayed doing this, but I have no regrets.

It was full of surprises.

So yes...

I've spent 25 years writing books.

So many characters, places and scenes I've dreamed up.

As a boy, I'd watch people and invent lives for them.

It worried my mother, who'd say,

"Stop with the lies."

She meant, "Stop telling stories."

It stuck with me.

But...

Behind the lies you tell, there is always some truth.

Our own truth.

The one we keep hidden.

As for me...

I kept hidden the existence of a boy.

We met here.

And we were 17.

He was the first one to look at me.

To give me self-confidence.

To know before me that I'd be a writer.

And then life separated us.

Until this weekend when I learnt he ended his life

because he couldn't overcome his shame

about loving men.

It was his son who told me.

Yes...

He had a son.

He had a "normal" life.

Or tried to at least.

Like so many others.

I've known men who have hidden their whole lives

because telling their truth seemed insurmountable.

Because they were simply ashamed.

After always being told it's wrong, unnatural, deviant,

they wound up believing it.

Thomas...

His name was Thomas.

...was one of those men.

Even if he spent his life lying,

I can't help but think, that's not what he wanted in death.

It's true.

He could have erased any trace of his story, but no!

He left letters, emails, a photo.

So the finder would learn the truth. His truth.

And he knew that would be his son.

Sure, he did it in his own way.

Like a puzzle.

But he knew his son would piece it together.

It's easy to criticise him

but he never doubted his child.

No, never.

Through his death,

he overcame his shame

and found the strength to tell his son...

"This is who I am."

Like finally being able to say,

I love you.

It's crazy,

to have spent all these years inventing stories,

while denying the whole point.

You always write to someone.

You write because they're far away, because you've gone,

because you've fled, and space and time separate you.

You write to someone

to give back what they gave you.

The warmth of the day on your skin.

The thrill of having a body and feeling it vibrate.

The joy of feeling that you exist at last,

when they look at you.

You write to someone so that they know.

You write to someone to make them present again.

Present for us as well as themselves.

Present for life.

Even if it doesn't always work.

But at least

you have to try.

Again and again.

And again.

- Hi, Stéphane. Sleep well? - Very well.

I'll get my bag and meet you at the car.

See you there.

If ever you come to California, let me know.

With pleasure.

And if you come to Paris...

You'll write about this, won't you?

You can't help it.

Never about my life. You know that.

I have your permission?

I'm sure he'd have liked that.

Thanks.

Thank you.

- I gotta go. - Sure.

Stéphane...

I'm in Spain and I won't be back.

Not so soon, anyway.

You'll move to Bordeaux.

And I bet you won't stop there.

You know what I think.

You're made to go places.

So...

Our paths separate here.

I know you'd want it to be different.

For me to find the words to reassure you.

But I couldn't.

One day, you asked me,

"Why me?"

I should've said, "Because you're different,

you'll go away and we'll stay behind."

You'll go away.

And you'll tell all you see. You'll find the words.

Unlike me.

At the end, I tell myself, you know.

Ich liebe dich.

Te quiero.

But we couldn't go on. Your life's waiting for you.

Without me.

Because I won't change.

I'm writing to tell you I was happy in these months together.

And I already know

I'll never be this happy again.

LIE WITH ME