Original subtitles

When you hear the ship's bell tonight,

it will be exactly 2200 hours.

From that moment on, no counter-order is to be expected.

Then you'll go ashore, all of you.

And you'll be back tomorrow morning at ten o'clock sharp.

And then you might go back ashore

and then you'll be back on deck at exactly the same time again.

Or maybe you won't go ashore again and we'll set sail.

Or maybe we'll set sail in three weeks

or in three months or tomorrow.

Until we actually set sail, you will go ashore.

And you must report here every day.

Our mission is secret.

Even for me. Even for the shipping company.

So I'm hiding nothing from you.

Only God and the minister know when we'll sail.

Or only God, for those who prefer.

Tell me, Jessen. What is it?

What is it?

I live 75 miles from here.

If I take the night train

and tell my wife to pick me up,

I just have time to say, "Hello, sweetie" before I have to go back.

I didn't know you were married.

Well, as good as.

I'm much better off that way.

You know, Wes,

I think it's mean if you just do it out of habit.

You're a husband, it's expected of you.

I'll leave Lizzy if it ever becomes a habit with her.

It's no use taking the night train.

What about tomorrow? Or the day after tomorrow?

-I'm sorry, but I can't take you with me. -That's okay.

They say it's Africa.

The natives are getting restless.

That soldiers are coming tonight and tomorrow night to keep watch.

-Where do they get that shit assignment? -They learned in the war.

There is no war, at least not an official one.

In Korea, a submarine once got an assignment like ours.

Report every day, ashore, report.

For ten days.

On the 11th day, they had to leave. Only the captain and the enemy knew.

When everyone was on board with the accommodation ladder stowed,

the MiG attacked.

Have you been to Korea?

No, I haven't been to Korea.

Then how do you know about the submarine?

I don't remember exactly.

I must have read it in a book or heard it somewhere.

So you weren't there.

No.

But sometimes it feels like I was.

Today it feels like I was there.

In that submarine in Korea.

Tomorrow it might feel like I was present at something else that happened.

Sometimes it really feels like that.

Join me for a drink?

No, thanks. I'm staying here.

Jessen.

Let her come here.

Rent a room and have her come here.

Aren't you Pierre Wesselmans?

Yes.

Last year, we were neighbors.

My heart.

Our profession is bad for the heart.

It's nice that you're home.

Yes.

Last stop.

Hello?

-Hello. -Pierre?

Hello?

-Hello? -Hello, yes.

I thought the line had gone dead.

-Where are you now? -I just got off the boat.

Did you get my last letter from Southampton?

I got two letters.

The one in which I wrote about my hair?

No. What's wrong with your hair?

Nothing. I wanted to surprise you, but ended up writing about it.

Did you dye it?

No, I had it cut.

It looks very nice, Pierre, really.

Do you mind?

If it suits you, I don't mind, no.

Come quickly. Take a cab.

I'll take the tram, as always.

You're stubborn, as always.

Don't take line 5. It only goes halfway because of the broken sewage system.

Then you'll have to catch another tram or walk.

It's late. There won't be many trams to choose from.

Are the kids asleep yet?

-Yes, should I wake them up? -No, don't.

I'll see them tomorrow.

Yes, fine.

Why are you laughing?

How long have we been playing this game?

You get off the boat and call me.

No, first you take the bus, then you call me and we say hello.

I say, "Take a cab." You say, "I'll take the tram."

You ask about the kids. I say, "Should I wake them up?"

-You say, "No, I'll see them tomorrow." -Is that okay with you?

It's lovely.

The whole ritual?

The whole rite.

Pierre, come soon.

See you later.

One, two, one, two.

And even higher.

You and your teeth.

There's nothing you're so proud of as your teeth.

Would you like another book?

Yes, fine.

-What kind of book do you want? -I'll get one myself.

I want to carry on like this my whole life.

Like what?

I want to pack your bags all my life.

Every time.

When you come home and leave.

You were happy when I was posted to the Gambetta.

Yes, happy and relieved.

I often feel alone now.

But these three years have been heavenly compared to the four before.

Months with half wages or no wages at all.

I was happy when you finally joined the Gambetta.

Sailing isn't only leaving.

It's coming back, as well.

As long as you sail, I know you'll come back someday.

Can you get me that book? I'll just go see the children.

Is there time for a coffee?

Yes.

Are you taking a cab?

Yes, as always.

Coming home by tram and leaving by cab.

It's all part of the ritual.

And what else is part of it?

Everything.

This whole goodbye.

It's one of the ten moments in the year that keep us going.

Do you really want to take the suitcase?

I have to.

I don't like to sail without my stuff.

You're not sailing.

No, maybe not.

They never let you go ashore for one night.

It's against their principles.

If you take your suitcase, they might invent something to keep you on board.

I didn't know you were so superstitious.

Why do we keep talking to each other from different rooms?

From the bathroom to the bedroom, the living room to the kitchen.

Maybe it's part of it.

Of what?

The ritual.

That short hair looks very good on you.

Do you like it better than before?

Yes.

I definitely like it better.

-Did you think about my hair last night? -Not just about that.

First, you'd say I was beautiful. And then

You've never come home like that. You used to take time for it.

You'd behave as if you had all the time in the world.

But last night…

I have to go now.

And then you'll come back.

You leave and come back, all in one day.

And tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow.

You'll be with me every night and leave the next morning.

And yet not really leave.

You're dreaming, aren't you?

Does that Mr. French still live here?

Frenkel. Yes, he does.

Hello, taxi? 22 Beethovenstraat.

Yes.

Thank you.

-See you tomorrow. -All right.

-Hello. -Yes, hello.

-Thirsty? -Yes.

I thought so.

Put your shirt right.

I slept on a bench last night.

I slept on a hard wooden bench.

You shouldn't have to.

On a bench.

Come on.

Come in.

-Greetings. -Please, come in.

I heard the children playing in the yard this morning.

So I didn't pass by the school.

Oh, good. How silly of me not to tell you.

I got up very late.

I tried to leave as quietly as possible.

Yes, at five past ten.

You were really quiet, but I heard you.

I should have told you they didn't go to school today.

Their father came home.

Wonderful.

Will I have the pleasure of receiving him this time?

Probably.

Cheers.

-To your husband. -Cheers.

-Will he stay long? -For a while.

I didn't see you last night.

When the bell rang, I walked upstairs, but you were gone.

I waited for you. I waited for the last man to leave.

-Where? -In the radio room.

I looked for you on deck and then in your cabin.

But I wasn't in the cabin.

Another beer and I'm off.

I'll be expecting your husband.

-Would you like some soup, later? -No, thank you.

But I know you are an excellent cook.

How would you know? You never eat my food.

I smell it. You cook well.

And you're a very kind woman.

Really. The kindest I know.

Then you'll have to eat when I ask you.

Will you, the next time I ask?

When my husband is back at sea.

You cook for the children.

That's not the same thing.

Willy,

why look for me last night?

Maybe I just wanted to ask if you knew any more weird jokes.

What jokes?

Like that submarine in Korea.

Just tell her to come here, Willy.

I can do that. I'm going over there and telling the whole story.

You can call her right away. At mine, if you want.

I have to explain it myself or she won't understand.

Understand what?

That she needs to take a few days off in order to get here.

And sit here waiting for us to leave.

Careful with your glass.

Remember Rio?

I saw you smash a glass on the pavement.

They say you have a closet full of broken glass

and every shard is a souvenir for you.

They say that, too.

Here we are. And we wait.

And we don't even know what for or for how long.

Imagine you never sail again.

Never again.

You just don't know it.

Every day you think, "We're going," but then it's back to shore.

And the next day, year in, year out.

You don't even know if it'll go on like this forever.

You don't know anything.

It's so damn funny knowing you don't know a thing.

What will you do now, Willy?

Pay.

Pay and take the train.

That one is for you.

-Hey, Willy. -See you tomorrow, Wes.

Wait, I'm going with you.

You can sleep on my couch.

She was like her eyes.

Once in the basement, she begged me not to do it.

I didn't.

From that day, it felt as if I had done it all.

It was just as binding.

I didn't do it later at the beach, either.

You'll never return.

She knew as much as I did.

On the couch,

I said goodbye to her.

Here, in the air above my head, is where the couch had been.

Mommy!

Mommy, Daddy's here.

Has the alarm gone off yet?

She floated on the surface like the fuel oil on the dock water.

At the police station, I wanted to know who she was. I wanted to ask her name.

But I didn't.

I asked if it was murder.

The officer said they had decided it was suicide

and that she was only 26.

Maria Morella. For hours I wandered around with the name on my lips.

I said Maria to the shadows in my cabin, to the equipment in the radio room,

to the night wind over the deck and the quay,

to the girl at the bar.

Maria Morella.

So you know her?

I said, "I'm getting to know her," but he didn't like my answer.

Yes or no?

I said no, although I would have liked to say yes.

She's from your town. She's 26.

Maybe he wanted me to know all the 26-year-old women in my city

and to have slept with all of them,

because he wanted to know if I knew about the birthmark on her left hip.

I said I wasn't paying attention to that.

When weren't you?

I said, "When they pulled her out of the water or at the police station."

And again I spent hours with Maria Morella.

I felt more at ease with this dead girl I didn't know

than with the living people I did.

At the embassy, they wanted to force me to know her.

Again I said no, although I wanted to say yes even more than the first time.

…or don't you know her? We're convinced you do.

We got a letter from her mother.

He was talking about the letter they had received

from her mother about Maria.

Only the fingerprints the police had weren't right.

Probably a wrong thumb on a wrong card.

The fingerprints weren't right.

I said, "She's Maria Morella."

"You know very well there's no doubt about that."

Don't make us wait any longer.

I said, "If she's not Maria Morella, then who is she?"

She's nobody.

I had loved her, I had had breakfast with her.

I had even seen her naked.

I had called her Maria,

even though she might have been someone else.

Farewell, Maria.

Maybe you really are Maria Morella

and everything about your thumb and your death was a mistake.

Maria.

Maybe I once knew you, back in our town,

but I forgot you.

Maybe I did love you, we did have breakfast together

and we went to bed, and I called you Maria

when your name was Marleen or Leonore. Who can say?

As no one knows for certain that you're Maria Morella.

I won't forget you, ever.

Farewell, Maria.

What time is it?

Lie still.

Just lie still for a moment.

Listen.

What?

The sea.

Very far away.

No, very close.

Right under my hand.

If we stay so still, close to each other

we may never have to move again.

You look like Marc.

Marc's blue-green eyes

in Marc's face.

Without these lines here and there,

you could well be Marc.

You've gotten younger, haven't you?

No, really.

You look much younger with your hair so short.

Are the children going to school today?

Yes.

Let them go to school.

So you're not leaving?

Maybe I am. Maybe I'm not.

They never go to school when you leave.

Who says I'm leaving now?

If for a whole month you leave and yet you don't,

you go to the boat and back, I can't keep them out of school for a month, can I?

I thought you said they were going to school.

That's what you decided.

Oh, well. Then let them go to school.

Mind the ash.

I'll see you later, boy.

See you later.

-Are you coming straight home? -Yes, Mr. Frenkel is picking us up.

Today I'll take the tram.

-That's what I thought. -Did you?

The children are at school, your suitcase is on board.

There's no need to take a cab.

It doesn't seem like a goodbye anymore.

It's like you're going to the office.

You'd prefer that, right?

Then you'd be sure I'd come home later. You'd be sure about everything.

About later,

tomorrow

and the day after tomorrow.

No, Pierre. Even then, I wouldn't be sure.

Not sure about what?

Whether you'd always come back.

See you later.

-Litinski. -Yes.

-Sanon. -Yes.

-Wesselmans. -Yes.

Jessen.

-Psaradellis. -Yes.

-Dianca. -Yes.

-Bouwmans. -Yes.

-And Hensbergen. -Yes.

-See you tomorrow. -Yes, till then.

-Fancy a drink? -I'm waiting for Jessen.

It's stupid of Jessen. If he doesn't show up in five minutes, they'll jail him.

-He'll be here. -Okay.

-See you tomorrow? -Yes.

Jessen!

Willy.

Willy!

Willy, come out.

Willy, they drove to the other side.

Willy, get aboard. There's a ladder.

Get on board, Willy.

Why did you jump into the water?

-Go away. -They can't do anything to you on board.

Do you hear? You're in the service of the government.

I should have taken you home the other day.

Go away.

Come to the car factory tonight at ten o'clock.

I'll bring you clothes, food and shoes. What size are you?

-Good evening, Mr. Wesselmans. -And to you, Mr. Frenkel.

Would you like tea or coffee?

Yes, thank you.

-Coffee, then? -Yes.

Richard Tauber, Rigoletto.

May 1927.

Do you cook yourself?

I do.

Sometimes I dine out somewhere where the food is particularly good.

I don't eat much, you know.

-Do you take sugar, Mr. Wesselmans? -Yes, thank you.

Believe me,

it gives me immense pleasure to meet you.

The last time, I was abroad

attending one of those tedious congresses

a music critic is sometimes obliged to go to.

I would have been so sad if you had left again

without me receiving you.

-She's beautiful. -Yes, she's beautiful.

She looks like Laure.

I have a letter from her.

I can't let you read it, I'm afraid,

but here it is.

She wrote to me the night she sang Desdemona.

I also have one from the man who played Othello

at the same performance.

But he wrote his letter the day he was Siegfried.

I have a lot of letters. For instance

Well, that was just in time.

Would it have been bad if it had broken?

No one can destroy something like that and go unpunished.

Is there a greater crime

than destroying something that's perfect?

This would have been just an accident, right?

At the root of every accident lies a mistake.

Come, now. It's just a little vase.

One bomb would be enough.

Just one.

As if this was not just a baked lump of earth,

hollow on the inside and as imperfect as ourselves.

You probably sacrificed a lot for it,

you cherished it

and it was very important to you, much more important than a woman.

But you don't even know what's going on in the world.

If we were bombed tomorrow,

there would only be shards of broken glass left here.

A vase like that would take my mind off such things.

It stops me from thinking about what awaits us.

The destruction we probably cannot escape

and the uncertainty,

which is our only certainty.

Do forgive me, I let myself go.

-I have cake. -No, thank you.

-I have to go back downstairs. -Would you like a drink?

No, thank you.

Here, for the children.

-Oh, Mr. Frenkel. -You have lovely children.

-Thank you very much. -And your wife is very kind.

Good night.

Is he married?

-Who? -That Jessen.

No, he's not married.

But he is with a woman.

I put your brown shoes in the suitcase.

They're as good as new, but you never wear them.

-Do you think they'll fit him? -I don't know. Maybe not.

But it's only for now.

Would you like to be with a woman you weren't married to?

I'm with you.

And as far as I know, we're married.

Would it have changed anything if we hadn't gotten married?

No, I don't think it would have.

Not between us.

Then why are you married?

-Why? -Well, most people get married.

And you were pregnant. With maybe more children to follow.

Then it's obvious that you think about getting married.

-Did you just do it for the children? -No, you can't think like that.

But we had to for the children and I wanted it for you.

I just never thought of not getting married.

Would you ever have abandoned me if we hadn't gotten married?

Would you have always come back?

Always?

I don't know.

But if I'd stayed away,

it wouldn't have had anything to do with being married.

Nothing at all.

So marriage is not a certainty, either.

No. To be honest, I don't know.

It depends on what you mean by certainty.

But I don't think it's a certainty, getting married and all that.

Why are you asking all this?

Maybe…

Maybe because you're gone so much.

I sometimes wonder if you'll be back.

Then I think, "Of course, we're married."

You can't think I won't come back one day.

It wouldn't be because of you.

It wouldn't have anything to do with you.

-That I didn't love you anymore. -So what, then?

-Pierre, I want to dance. -Now?

You don't have to turn on the radio. This music is good enough.

-But I have to go see Jessen. -That can wait five more minutes.

You know I'm a bad dancer.

Dance.

Yes, but…

-Good evening. -Good evening.

A beer.

Here you go.

You're not drinking.

Right. Well, I'll come back sometime.

The bus to the city is only due in 15 minutes.

Yes, but I'm not going into the city.

Well, not immediately.

What time is it?

A quarter to ten.

Do you play the harmonica?

No.

Not as far as I know.

But I do like music.

And I like to dance, too.

But not with just anyone.

It can't be easy.

-What? -To love someone.

No, but it's not hard either.

It's not easy and it's not difficult.

It's just like singing or dancing.

You need to be good at it.

Right.

I have to go now.

But maybe I'll be back sometime.

Yes, please do. I'd really like that.

We might get to dance.

Jessen.

Jessen.

The old farmer said it was time to go to the bailiff.

In the village, they already knew that his son Lucien had died.

The postman had entered the vineyard

and said that Lucien was a hero and had not suffered. He died instantly.

At home, the old man had sat down with his wife and said,

"Lucien is coming. He'll be here today or tomorrow."

After a while, she had asked, "When?"

And again the old man had said, "Today or tomorrow."

It's a long journey across the country, from north to south.

I had fled from the war in the north

to the south, where there was no war.

Not yet.

"Your wife will notice," said the bailiff. But the old farmer said it didn't matter.

The bailiff said he had looked everywhere,

but the uniform he had found was long out of date.

Once again, the old man said it didn't matter.

He said, "She can hardly see anymore. She won't see the difference."

The bailiff told me to put on the suit

as I had to go see my mother.

I said, "She's been dead for six years."

"All I have left is my father."

"It's probably too big," said the bailiff, "but that's okay."

"She doesn't see well anymore, your mother."

I wanted to go back and say I wasn't Lucien.

I wanted to say that Lucien was dead, that I was Pierre Wesselmans

and that I wasn't dead at all.

Lucien is here.

A thousand kilometers I had traveled across the country from north to south

to be her son.

"Mother," I said.

And for a moment, I wondered if this was a lie.

And while I wondered, it automatically stopped being a lie.

Farewell.

You should pay us a visit. We still live on Van Damplein.

My wife would be very happy.

After all, we're old neighbors.

Yes, I should pay you a visit.

-Bring your wife with you. -Yes.

Yes, that-- Yes.

-Where do you live now? -22 Van Beethovenstraat.

My wife's family still lives there.

Her cousin, I think. Yes, that's right.

At number 63, I think.

-You should come yourself, too. -I'd love to. Thank you very much.

My heart's not too weak for that.

Tomorrow I have a few hours off. Maybe I'll come round.

Well, see you tomorrow, maybe.

Get home safely.

I'm going home to say goodbye.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow

I'll really say goodbye.

After that, I'll never say goodbye again.

See you in a bit.

Bye.

-Hello, ma'am. Is your husband home? -No.

He left this morning.

-Don't you recognize me? -No.

-Van Damplein. -Oh, yes, come in.

No, I don't have much time. I just came by.

-I have to get to work. -How's your wife?

She's well. All right, thank you. Bye, ma'am.

I hope I'm not disturbing you.

Oh, it's you. Please, come in.

Please.

-Would you like some coffee? -No, that's okay.

The heart. Our profession is bad for the heart.

I talked to your husband on the bus last night.

Yes, he got the last bus home.

And now he's gone.

Gone?

Since this morning.

-Are you sure about that? -Yes, I'm sure.

Well, it's just that the ship's still docked at the quay.

That could be. It's quite possible they'll only leave tonight.

But the crew has been aboard since this morning.

No.

I know from a colleague who was on duty this morning.

They all went ashore.

He'll probably be home any minute.

When I rang the doorbell, I thought, "I'm sure he's home now."

Maybe he just went to a pub.

But

he doesn't drink, does he?

Yes?

-I beg your pardon. -Please, come in.

My husband didn't leave.

And he didn't come home, either.

Let's go look for him. Maybe we'll find him.

-His mates will know where he is. -That's useless.

Just in the regular pubs. Sailors have no secrets from us.

It's late. Your wife might be worried.

We're old neighbors. I'm sure she'll understand.

-The children. -Don't worry.

I'll stay here with them.

Cheers.

It's no fun to be looked at in every pub.

-They undress you with their eyes. -You'll get used to it.

There's no point in looking for him if I have to say goodbye later.

You don't believe that. Do you really want to give up?

We could run into him, but that doesn't mean we found him.

That's no reason to give up.

You're right. We shouldn't give up.

Do you have a room for tonight?

-Just for you? -Yes.

You shouldn't drink any more.

I shouldn't, no.

Let's call it a day.

Are you sure they disembarked?

They come here, too.

Don't have another drink.

You can't just walk into a pub without having a drink.

Come on.

-Thank you. -Thank you very much.

Cheers.

Why are you doing all this for us?

No reason. I don't know.

-It's not always easy. -What isn't?

To love someone.

How's the Gambetta?

How's the bus?

Night shift?

I'll buy you a beer.

Got into a fight?

We've been looking for someone from the Gambetta for hours.

Why did you jump into the water?

Last night, he went to the car factory. He waited till the last bus.

He had shoes for you. He asked for them specifically.

And a shirt, as good as new.

It was a little tight around his neck, but I thought

He was on the last bus. I told him, "Get home safely."

And that scared him.

It scared him because I said, "Get home safely."

Does that make sense to you?

That night we were docking with the Gambetta,

he told a crap story about a submarine in Korea.

I asked him if he'd been to Korea. "No," he said.

But he felt like he'd been there, on that submarine.

He felt he'd been present at lots of things like that.

Does that make sense?

Yes.

It makes sense to me.

Do you know where he is?

No.

It's like you're afraid of him.

I can't imagine anyone ever being afraid of him.

It's kind of funny, actually.

That he goes home for three days

and then sneaks out,

while I sneak out for three days, and then

Yeah, we're getting married.

I told her to come over. To get married.

If possible, before the Gambetta sets sail.

Saying goodbye every day.

Coming back every day.

-Every day, until the Gambetta sails. -Until she sails.

-And then come home anyway. -Or not.

You talk like him.

Sometimes I do. Probably because we're married.

Yes, I guess so. Goodbye.

Do you think it's possible? That he'll just come home?

He loves you.

Yes, I believe so, but that's not enough.

Not always.

On the contrary, I am certain it's enough.

Laure.

Are you tired?

No. Maybe a little drunk, but not tired.

Was there anything else?

Whatever happens, you should not give up.

No. See you in a while.

Water.

Thank you.

I'm okay.

Taxi.

Did you have breakfast this morning?

No.

-Where are the children? -At home. Mr. Frenkel is with them.

-Don't they have to go to school? -Not today.

Pierre, shall I prepare something nice when you get home?

-Pierre? -Yes, that's fine.

You're not warm, are you?

-Is this better? -Yes, it is.

It's okay now, isn't it?

I have to go now.

See you later, Pierre.

Say it, Pierre.

See you later.