The War Is Over Page #4

We'll mix Bill's photographs

with drawings by Folon and Topor.

Agnes and I are doing the layout.

Bill's off to Brazil...

so we're choosing some

of the first pictures before he goes.

We're taking advantage

of the Easter holiday.

We've set up shop here,

where it's so peaceful.

They'll wonder

if you don't come and say hello.

Want something to eat, Diego?

No, I ate on the plane.

The weather was beautiful.

The fountains are still there.

Fountains?

What fountains?

On Piazza Navona.

The Pincio fountains.

All the fountains.

- Haven't you ever been in Rome?

- Rome? Yes, of course.

- What took you to Rome?

- Work.

Didn't you know

that I work occasionally?

A conference sponsored by UNESCO.

Teaching in underdeveloped countries.

You haven't grown tired

of working as an interpreter?

It pays well. No taxes.

You work six months a year.

You travel.

I'm not ambitious.

It's late.

It's time we left you two alone.

Yes, it is late.

It seems things in Spain

are stirring.

Yes. As Marianne says, "It's forever

stirring but it never changes."

And what do you say?

Nothing.

I'm your friend, Diego.

Nobody would like

what I have to say about Spain.

I'm not even sure

I like it myself.

Poor, unhappy Spain.

Heroic, gallant Spain. I'm sick of it!

Spain's become the lyrical

rallying point of the left.

A myth for veterans of past wars.

Meanwhile, 14 million tourists

vacation in Spain every year.

Spain is nothing but a tourist's dream

or a civil-war myth...

all bundled up with Lorca's plays...

And I'm fed up with Lorca's plays.

Sterile women and peasant dramas!

And you can have the legend too!

I was not at Verdun, or Teruel,

or at the front at Ebro.

And the people now doing what counts

in Spain weren't either.

Twenty-year-olds, inspired

not by our past, but by their future.

Spain is no longer the dream of 1936

but the truth of 1965...

however disconcerting.

Thirty years have gone by,

and veterans give me a pain in the ass!

I'm sorry.

It's all sort of muddled.

Working tomorrow?

I'll see you then.

Right. See you tomorrow.

- Good night.

- I'm staying.

- You are?

- Yes.

I should help Marianne

put away the photos.

Then I'll drive you home.

Agnes lives in St. Cloud, and there are

no more trains at this hour.

Good night all the same.

Why was that little b*tch

asking all those questions?

You talked about Rome

and UNESCO.

Just ten minutes earlier, I said you were

in Brussels with the United Nations.

If they think I'm a liar,

too bad!

You? Why just you?

If you lied, so did I!

It's our life that seems like a lie.

Didn't you hear Agnes?

A fake couple living a fake life!

Maybe that's what it seems like.

But it's not true.

For me it wasn't a lie.

You spoke of the fountains.

I was happy.

The Piazza Navona

must be deserted now.

You can hear

the water splashing.

- Where are you going?

- To take Agnes home.

Can't the little b*tch take a cab?

She's broke. I promised.

St. Cloud is a long way away.

I wonder if it might not be better

to tell the truth.

Sure. Let's put an ad in the paper!

But we can tell

Jeanine and Bill anything.

And your Agnes too?

You think they don't suspect

when you go on like you did earlier?

No, Bill doesn't.

He's a photographer.

He does his work.

Anyway, we can't tell

anybody anything.

- It's a question of principle.

- Your principles scare me.

There have been arrests in Madrid.

Many of my colleagues have fallen.

I want a child by you.

This is no life!

What is a life?

A child by you. Can you imagine?

We'll discuss it calmly.

My child. It's not something

to discuss calmly.

Afterwards you can go away, leave me,

even forget me if you like.

This isn't the time.

Yes, it is the time.

Those arrests.

When did they start?

Thursday, three days ago.

What does it make you want

when things like that happen?

Want? What do you mean?

Does it make you want to go on

doing what you're doing...

even if you're left all alone?

One is never left all alone.

We must let them know that we exist.

That the work still goes on.

That's right.

I'll be back.

Agnes? Are you ready?

"Hello, Patrick!"

Now, to remove the photo.

A lucky star, madame.

A tiny little star

for personal use.

A starfish for every purpose.

All right. This goes here...

and this goes over there.

My expenses.

Dinner in Madrid, 230.

Gasoline, 635.

Breakfast, 42.

For patience and irony...

are the chief virtues

of a Bolshevik.

"My name is Nana."

And mine is Sunday.

Six months

without seeing you, Diego.

It's not possible.

If you had to stay here...

I don't know...

If things became too dangerous for you

to go to Madrid, would you miss it?

I would miss Spain.

I really would.

Like something

you would miss terribly...

whose absence

would be unbearable.

The people.

Strangers who open a door who

recognize you and whom you recognize.

Being part of something together.

Spain. Your people.

That's your life.

The other day

I almost slept with a man.

Why?

I thought I wanted to.

No. I mean why tell me?

Would you tell, Diego?

I don't know.

Why didn't you?

Because...

the moment always comes when

you're through sleeping with a man.

When you're through making love.

At that point...

he should be gone.

He should have disappeared.

To wake up

beside anyone but you...

is unimaginable.

It's only later

that things get complicated.

Don't you agree?

I'm hungry.

I thought you ate on the plane

from Rome.

Nine years ago,

I was the one you told your lies to.

A torrent of lies to hide who you were

and what you were doing in Rome.

Of course.

You told me

your name was Francisco...

and then Rafael...

and then Carlos.

I spent months,

both in Rome and in Paris...

sorting out your truth

from your lies.

They weren't lies.

They were barriers.

Against what?

Falling in love isn't on the agenda

for a professional revolutionary.

What is?

Patience.

Above all, patience.

I'm starved.

Don't you have anything to eat?

Next year, if you're still spending

half your time in Madrid...

I'm going to move there.

Move there? What do you mean?

Live there. Find some work that

lets me follow you around.

I like having houses

in different places.

In Madrid? You barely speak

ten words of Spanish.

I learned French well enough.

Anyway, what kind of work?

Same as here.

They publish books in Spain too.

Well, we wouldn't get far

on my 800 francs a month.

I thought you got a raise.

You're right. 875 francs.

And what do you make here?

Three thousand a month?

- You'd never make that much there.

- I don't need to make that much.

I need you.

Anyway, it's out of the question.

A girlfriend in the same city where I'm

working in the underground? Too risky.

Was it serious this time?

Did they arrest people from Paris?

People I know?

- You know Juan...

- Juan was arrested?

No, not yet.

That's why I came back.

I'm sure they have his picture.

Ivry, Porte des Lilas, Six-Routes...

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