Ever since I was young, I was obsessed with the search for perfection.
Probably because "perfection" was a word
my architecture professors repeated all the time.
During my early years as an architect,
I became obsessed with designing beautiful buildings, proportionally accurate.
But 20 years ago,
I went through a huge crisis
that made me rethink the meaning of my work.
The uncomfortable truth is what we call "architecture"
is actually the business of designing
for the wealthiest one percent of the population.
It's not only wrong in terms of social justice,
but it's also a clumsy business strategy.
Fifteen years ago, we decided to change the recipients of our projects,
and we traveled to Rwanda with the goal
of building hospitals.
There we found a maternity clinic that was making mothers sick
due to faulty design. Quite a paradox, isn't it?
If we know that the simple view of nature can radically improve health,
then why not design a hospital where each family has their own view?
Designing hospitals following that logic was decisive, but...
helping the actual community build it with their own hands
was one of the most enriching experiences of my entire life.
Twenty years ago,
after a serious personal crisis,
I understood that perfection in architecture
is not about constructing beautiful buildings.
I truly believe that great architecture can heal
as long as it's focused on what's truly essential and forgets everything else.
Like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said,
"Perfection is achieved not when there is nothing more to add,
but when there is nothing left to take away."
Thank you.
Merci beaucoup.
Ciao.
Yeah, yeah, of course.
For Concha, here you are.
Bien, bien, désolé, Monsieur.
You'll have to excuse us.
I'll have to take Mr. Angust with me,
otherwise he's going to miss his flight.
Merci beaucoup.
Allez.
Your car is here.
OK.
Thank you for coming to Paris. I know you don't like it.
How could I? You don't even know what the sun is.
Still wearing it, Jeremy?
I can't forget her, Jean.
Well, it's been long enough. She left you 20 years ago.
Maybe I need a vacation, some rest.
I've been saying that for months.
You work too much. Go out, meet people.
I have to go.
OK.
Excuse me. Hello?
Hello, please?
Hey, I'm sorry to bother you,
but actually no one is paying any attention to me.
You wouldn't happen to be heading to the airport?
Well, if the traffic will let us.
This is so embarrassing, but I'm about to miss my flight
and there's not a single free cab.
Do you mind if I catch a ride?
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you.
Come on, get in.
Yeah?
Yeah!
Oh, God, thank you, thank you!
Get in. Don't mind him.
Thanks. I'm soaked.
I can see that.
Jeremiasz Angust?
Were you at my conference?
- No. Your name is on that book in your bag. - Of course.
- And so is your address in Warsaw? - Yeah, Warsaw.
I'm Texel. I'm Texel Textor. I'm Dutch.
Wow.
What, are you surprised by my name or by the fact that I'm Dutch?
Your name.
Yes, kind of odd, I guess.
Yeah, it is. But it has a nice ring to it.
Well, shit, you're the first person I've met
that likes my name.
Did you know, that Textor is.... Shit!
- What happened? - My suitcase.
You only had that bag when you got in.
Hey, stop the car, please!
- Why? - Damn it.
I know where I left it. It's on the corner where you picked me up.
And my passport is in there.
I put it in the doorway to protect from the rain.
Are you going to miss your flight?
Yeah, I'm afraid so. I was cutting it tight.
Okay, look, it's fine. I'll walk back.
Can you take a taxi?
I spent an hour looking for a free one.
- Thanks. - Yeah.
Jeez, he could have gotten out.
He just lost his tip.
Merci.
Do you want to know why I was named Texel?
I guess my parents really liked Texel Island.
It's in Holland. Do you know it?
I've heard of it, yes.
And my last name is Textor.
And Textor comes from the Latin "texere", which means to weave.
So it basically means words woven together.
But, you know, I prefer a more grand meaning like "the one who weaves text".
- Interesting. - You know, it's a shame with this last name I'm not a writer.
You can always start.
Do you think so?
We're here.
I have to run. It was nice meeting you.
Okay.
Hey! Good luck!
Shit.
Hi, Jean. I ran into some problems on my way to the airport and I missed my flight.
Seriously, you want me to come?
No, no, no. I don't need company for two hours. I can handle it.
Call me if you need anything.
Yeah, OK, bye.
Enjoy your airport.
Welcome to the VIP lounge, sir.
Thank you.
"Angust did nothing more than explain
what we had already read in his books. Disappointing."
We missed our flights.
We just have to wait.
How's your book?
I'm not reading a book.
Oh, yeah, I understand. I also can't read when there's so many people around.
- And I hate airports. Don't you? - I'm sorry...
They say you meet interesting people in airports,
but you know what kind of people you meet around here?
No.
What kind?
They're all executives on business trips,
and, like, a business trip is a complete rejection of a trip itself.
I think they should have called it commercial displacement.
- Don't you think? - It's an interesting concept.
Yeah, it is interesting,
even though I'm pretty sure you're here on a business trip.
Not exactly.
Well, you're definitely not here on vacation.
The truth is, I don't really feel like talking.
- How rude. - What?
I think you're being pretty rude.
I don't understand you. I brought you here and I missed my flight because of it.
Yeah, well, I missed mine, too.
And now you're bugging me.
So much hostility.
Who are you?
Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Texel. I'm Texel Textor. I'm Dutch.
And what the hell do you want from me?
I'm sorry, but talking isn't forbidden.
I can't stop you from talking, but you can't force me to respond.
OK, then I guess I'll just have to tell you about me.
Are you going to make me leave this lounge?
No, please.
Why are you doing this?
Because I feel like it.
- And I feel like... - Punching me in the face.
I wasn't going to say....
You don't have to. I can tell.
But by the way, physical punishment isn't legal,
and punching a woman on top of that,
now, that's particularly taboo.
Do you have any higher ambition than bothering people?
No.
- Well, I do. - No, you don't.
How do you know?
You look like a businessman, and earning lots of money
isn't a very high ambition.
I'm not a businessman. I'm an architect.
Really?
Look around.
This is my work.
Wow!
Are you the architect?
You see that model?
And we are... here?
No, we're here.
Oh... were you pleased with the result?
Not exactly. It was a long time ago.
I've polished my style over the years,
I think the original design had unnecessary elements, spaces...
Perfection is achieved not when there is nothing more to add,
but when there's nothing left to take away.
Are you sure you weren't at my conference?
Me? No...
Well, I think this building is incredible.
Hey, let's get a drink.
No, thank you, but I have a lot of work to do...
Please. Look, I know I bothered you and I made you miss your flight.
- There's no need. - Don't make me feel worse. A cocktail?
I'll take that smile as a yes.
Come.
I have a question. Why did you pick me to harass?
You inspire me.
I think there's a certain availability about you.
Don't kid yourself. I'm not available.
Oh, don't get me wrong. You seem curious about things.
- Curious? - In fact,
I think you're burning with desire to know my secret.
And you really think I'm that interested in hearing about you.
Oh, yeah.
Tell me.. have you ever killed anyone?
Excuse me?
I killed someone when I was little.
You're joking now?
I see you're interested in my stories now.
Perfect.
Then I'm going to ask you to close your eyes
and visualize the story I'm about to tell you
in complete detail.
It's a three-part story, the first disgusting,
the second scary, and the third one will end with love.
Are you ready?
Yeah, sure.
So I must have been about 10 years old.
And I was living in the suburbs of Rotterdam
in a tiny home with my mother, her husband and our three cats.
I know what you mean. I grew up in a neighborhood like that.
Always hearing the neighbors.
- No, shit! - What's wrong?
- What type of building are you imagining? - Who cares?
You're imagining a building from when you were a kid, aren't you?
Yeah. Typical Communist building.
OK, look, it's normal. When we hear a story,
we use pictures of our own memories to put an image together.
We basically become like the architects of the story.
That's a wise observation.
Yeah, but I can assure you
your building was not like the one I lived in.
Because I lived in a motorhome
on a campsite way far out of the city.
Remember I told you that the first part of my story would be disgusting?
When I was little, food was always a problem for me.
I couldn't stand many textures and flavors, and no one in my family could cook,
so the fish was either too rotten or the meat was really tough
and my mother was cooking all the time and Fatso finished it all.
Who?
Oh, that's what I used to call my stepfather,
because he always ate and he used to make a lot of noise.
It was disgusting. I always used to sit there in silence. I was a very quiet kid.
Oh, an aside, the three cats were strays, not pedigree.
I imagined you with glasses.
It's a stereotype. But yes, I did have glasses.
And with a sad face.
You're right. When a child doesn't feel love, their face can't hide it.
Nobody loved you?
My mother only ever spoke to me to tell me to eat.
And I tried, really, I did.
Eat up.
But every time I got to swallowing, I couldn't get anything down.
Fatso would get up and slap me across the face.
And your mother never said anything?
No. She came up with a new strategy.
Every time I didn't finish my plate,
I got the job of preparing the cat's meals.
You know what they like to eat?
Cans of slimy cat food,
all that leftover meat and sometimes even rabbit guts mixed together with rice.
Better than getting beat up?
No. In fact, I preferred the beatings
because I had to prepare all of that with my own hands.
Otherwise the stupid cats wouldn't eat it.
Did the new punishment do any good?
No. In fact, one day,
something unthinkable happened.
The cats were meowing and meowing,
and they were going crazy at my feet.
And then, suddenly, I took a fistful.
- How disgusting. - Mm-mm.
It was delicious.
I've never tasted anything so good,
but I was terrified.
I knew that somehow it wasn't me that wanted to eat it.
It was like an inner enemy made me do it,
an inner enemy a thousand times more powerful than a wimp like God.
I don't believe in God.
OK, you're right. There is no definite proof of God's existence,
but proof of the enemy within is palpable.
It's what crosses your path every day, destroying everything worthwhile.
It's what brings out all your loneliness
and that of all your friends.
It's what makes you feel disgusted with yourself.
You know what? There are doctors for cases like yours.
I'm sorry, I don't want to bother you anymore.
Hey, wait.
I'm sorry.
Are you hungry?
What?
I don't know about you, but I'm starving.
This is a personal call for Mr. Antonio Carrizosa.
Please, Mr. Carrizosa, go to Gate F12. Thank you.
Did I miss something or did that story not mention anything about you murdering someone?
I'm getting to that part.
So that was only the introduction.
It was absolutely necessary.
Of course.
You see, I was about 12 years old
and there was this girl in my class named Feline.
She was my only friend. Nice, charming, funny,
not the smartest in the class, but she got good grades.
She was the best ballet dancer there.
Now that, in my school, was key to popularity.
It was the same with my school with sports.
Franck Hoffman was the most popular. Everyone adored him.
- Yeah, you were jealous of him. - Me? No.
Oh, come on, Angust. I can see it on your face. You hated the kid.
Not at all. Actually, he was one of my best friends.
We played on the rugby team together. He was the captain.
No. Shit.
What's wrong?
What type of school are you imagining?
No, not again.
You imagine the school from your childhood,
but I can assure you that our schools are very different.
We wore uniforms and we'd never even heard about rugby.
My school was very different. It was like an old palace.
I'm sure you're familiar with the Dutch baroque, right?
The thing is everyone adored Feline. I loved her.
She was my friend, but deep down, I couldn't stand her perfection.
Oh, bear in mind, I was weak and sickly looking,
- Do you want some water, sir? - and always went out of my way to try to please people.
I wanted them to think I was nice and fun,
but I never managed to. I'm not like you.
People don't always like me.
Oh, come on. Sure they do.
Your driver was upset before when he picked me up. I mean, look at me.
What's the problem?
You can't be so politically correct all the time, Angust.
It's going to get you in trouble one day.
Mm.
- What? - Do you have to make so much noise?
Sorry, I don't have your manners.
The thing is, I started hating Feline more and more.
You know, she had everything.
A wonderful home,
tons of toys and family that, you know, really loved her.
But every time I was there, I really felt the urge to, you know, leave my mark.
And she didn't stop inviting you?
No! I think she felt sorry for me.
And then I did it.
Did what?
Well, here comes the scary part.
One night my mother and Fatso were arguing and insulting each other
and I was curled up in my bed trying to escape from the noise,
but I couldn't do that in the motorhome.
That night, I had a different goal.
I wanted to eliminate Feline's perfection.
The inner enemy again?
Exactly.
- Die, die, die, die... - Die!
Then the next day the teacher came to the class.
Plie and stretch and hold.
Plie, plie...
What...
What happened to her?
It wasn't your fault.
Of course it was my fault.
She was perfectly fine and then suddenly out of nowhere,
she died of a heart attack.
If it were that easy to kill I'm afraid
there wouldn't be so many people left on the planet.
I have no doubt that Feline's death was my fault.
There's nothing more powerful than a spirit driven by conviction.
My hate killed her. But later on, I lost that power.
So you think you have superpowers?
Don't make fun of me.
You just told me you killed a little girl half by praying. What did you expect?
OK, you're right. I'm not some kind of big time criminal.
I appreciate these moments of lucidity.
You have to realize I've only ever killed two people in my life.
That's a mediocre figure. You need to have higher ambitions.
The demon of guilt stopped me from going on.
After the second murder?
Yeah.
Are you OK?
I'm tired of all this talk about demons and murder.
I have a lot of work to do.
OK.
Have a nice evening. Take care.
Yeah, you too.
This is a personal call for Mr. Yoshihito.
Please go to the gate F42. Your flight to Frankfurt is about to leave.
Where did you get that knife?
I'm sorry, what knife?
Jesus, Angust, how would I get a knife in here?
Don't do that. There are people around.
I'll lower my foot when you take out your earphones.
Come on Angust, I've got one more story left,
and I promise you it's the best.
Who are you?
I'm Texel. Texel Textor and I'm Dutch.
That's all?
No, I have one more story left.
You lied to me.
I know I talk a lot, but I never lie.
You were at my conference and you knew who I was when you got in my car.
- Wow! That's really shocking. - What is?
How much that girl looks like me.
Please. She has your same figure. She's wearing the same socks. It's you.
Look, I swear, I don't know who that girl is.
- Jean? - What's up?
Could you check the list of the people who attended my conference
and see if there is a girl named Texel Textor?
- Texel with an X? - Sure, sure, what's it about?
I'll tell you later. Just do it for me. I'll wait.
God, if you find me, I will be so scared.
There's no Texel Textor on the list.
No, hold on a second, Jean. I'm sending you a photograph.
She's the one on the right. She has curly blond hair and is in her 20s.
Hey, it's not me.
Definitely she was at my conference.
Are you okay, Jeremy?
Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine. Just call me back.
Now, I understand why you're, like, repeating your name over and over again.
A lie always needs to be repeated more than the truth to be believed.
Did you know that lying has its own verb in almost every language in the world?
Mentir, menteur, lügen, klamac... But telling the truth doesn't.
- To be honest. - That's not the same.
Being honest is revealing the truth that was hidden.
If I tell you that it's seven o'clock right now,
I'm not being honest. I'm just telling the truth.
Yeah, Jean?
Yeah, the girl you mean is Alice Myers.
I think it's her. Alice Myers. Shall I spell it for you?
No. And do you know if they ask for I.D. at the conference?
Yes, of course. They usually do here. What's wrong? You OK, Jeremy?
Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it.
If I need anything, I'll call you. Thank you.
What is your real name?
Texel Textor, should I spell that for you?
I know your real name now.
Tell me. I would love to know the name of my twin in Paris.
You already know.
Oh, my God, what a nightmare.
Show me your passport.
No. If you don't believe me, then that's your problem.
If you really are Texel Textor, you should have no problem showing me a passport.
Do you want to hear my last story?
Before when you went in the men's bathroom
and after that when you put your food on my chair, what were you after?
Angust, I'm sorry, but....
do you think I'm hitting on you?
Aren't you?
What?
As you can see, my name is Texel Textor
and I am Dutch.
And no, I'm not hitting on you.
Although my last story is about love.
When you finish your story, believe me, I'll figure out what's going on here.
Mm....
Maybe.
Tell me, what is your wife like?
Oh, you don't love her anymore.
Of course I do. Why do you say that?
Because when we love someone, we talk tirelessly about the object of our love.
Then you must not love anyone either.
Oh, I love someone who is sublime.
And why waste your time bothering a stranger
if you could be with the object of your love?
They don't love me back.
Use your weapons of seduction.
- I've tried. - Try again.
It's useless.
What a coward.
This person is dead.
They were very much alive when we met.
Hm.
Angust, don't look at me like that.
You're right. The man of your dreams may be dead, but it's not the end of the world.
I didn't say it was a man.
Was it a woman?
Does it really matter?
Tell me, was it a man or a woman?
I think there's something a little bit morbid in that question, Angust.
Please go on.
It was the first time I ever really felt attracted to someone.
All those years I was so consumed in myself,
my mother moved in with a Russian guy and she left Fatso alone and devastated.
And what happened with the three cats?
They died without having any children.
And then I decided to move to Paris.
And that's where I met the most beautiful person in the universe.
Where in Paris?
Do you like cemeteries, Angust?
There's this grave in Monmartre Cemetery that I find especially moving.
It's right next to the tomb of Alexander Dumas.
And there's this statue on top of a gravestone
that's collapsed with its face on the ground.
There was this person admiring it with the exact same face.
Oh, did you pick a man or a woman for the mental picture?
I won't tell you.
Angust, are you going to play with me now?
I bet you picked a woman.
One day, I gathered enough strength to speak.
Did you.... did you act as the model for the sculpture?
And what did they say?
This person didn't deign to answer me.
So even still, I saw that face...
I never recovered from such an emotion.
It was like total perfection.
For once I understand you.
That gaze struck me so deep inside.
You've never been rejected by the love of your life, Angust.
You're a good-looking man. You don't know what it's like
to be thirsty and not have the right to drink.
Water is denied to you for the sheer fact that you're just not to their liking.
It sounds like a rapist justifying herself.
Indeed.
You know, there's something really exciting about following someone.
It's literally like chasing after a wish.
You should be a writer.
Well, then I should warn you, here comes the most thrilling part.
Oh.
It can't be true.
And then I dragged their lifeless body
to a nearby pantheon where I observed them.
I slid my hand under their skirt
and I felt their warm skin, even though it was cold outside.
They were still unconscious?
I thought so.
And the last thing I remember hearing was someone shout,
"Call an ambulance."
It was the end of December.
The first winter snow had fallen.
I was a virgin, but I don't think they were.
I feel sick to my stomach. You're insane. You need therapy.
Why would I go to a therapist when airports exist?
Why the hell are you telling me all this?
Is that all you have to say to me?
I also confirmed the victim was a woman.
Yeah, it was pretty difficult to keep it a secret for the whole story.
I don't get it. You feel guilty for having eaten cat food
and you feel no remorse for something like this?
What I did was flattering. I proved that I would break the law for her.
What you're saying is repugnant.
You attacked the first person you physically desired.
And when you feel like talking to someone, for me,
for example, you force yourself on me.
You're incapable of feeling empathy.
Typical of people who weren't loved as children.
You see? Now, why would I go to a therapist when I've got you?
Anyone knows that.
My parents didn't love me.
They abandoned me, and when you love someone, you don't do that.
Of course, I should feel sorry for you, but I can't.
I never touched or loved anyone in all those years.
Surely that type of total abstinence is romantic.
You're the least romantic person I can imagine.
Do you want me to finish telling you my story, Angust?
There's more?
I'd only just begun.
I scoured those streets of Paris.
Street for street. Cafe after cafe.
Restaurants, bars, nightclubs, bakeries,
everything you can imagine.
I know what you're thinking.
"Why are you so obsessed with that woman?"
Eventually, you'll find someone else.
Believe it or not, I also thought that once.
Stupid.
Then on one day, two years later,
I'd almost given up my search.
I was sitting, eating my most favorite hot dog.
I would have recognized her among four million women.
Time only made her more beautiful.
Hey!
Pardon?
I'm sorry, have we met before?
Oh, I'm sorry, I don't think so.
How could she not recognize you?
I don't know. I had longer hair.
I was wearing glasses.
Maybe she didn't see me in the sunlight. Maybe that was it.
Are you sure you don't remember me?
Oh, I'm so sorry. I'm very forgetful.
I imagine we met through my husband.
We go out to dinner sometimes with people he knows.
My name is Texel.
Texel Textor, I'm Dutch.
Oh, I think I remember. Was it in Amsterdam, maybe?
Yeah.
Somehow, she was confusing me with a Berg's partner.
It was a colleague of her husband's said they met in Amsterdam once.
- You both live here now? - Yeah.
That's great!
Maybe you two can come over for coffee sometime.
Sure. Yeah. Tomorrow?
Tomorrow?
Yeah. Sure.
It would be nice to see Berg again.
Definitely.
Would five o'clock be all right?
Five is perfect.
The address is 11 Rue de Rome,
third floor, door on the right at five o'clock.
11 Rue de Rome, third floor, door on the right.
Five o'clock. Got it.
OK.
I'll see you tomorrow. We'll see you tomorrow. Bye.
And I went to my wardrobe, then I pulled out this outfit
that I kept for that day only.
I almost threw it in the trash, but
who would have thought that after two years I found my love again?
Oui, j'arrive. Qui c'est?
It's Texel.
Who?
Texel Textor, you invited me over yesterday.
Yeah, of course.
- Hi! - Hi!
Where is Berg?
Berg got held up at the office.
Yeah. He says he'll come by a bit later.
You know what it's like living with a businessman.
Tell me about it. Come on, please.
Her apartment was very old fashioned, very bourgeois.
I think the designer must have been very meticulous.
Um, is your husband home today?
No, he works afternoons, so it's just you and me today.
Would you like sugar, Ms. Textor?
No. And please call me Texel.
Are you named after Texel Island?
Yeah!
She knew Texel Island.
I told her that I would love to be her tour guide
the next time we go there together.
What do you do now?
I work as a painter, I mainly do jewelry.
I hate that, you know? Small talk. I just want to cut right to the chase.
Do you like Paris?
Yeah, you know, more and more...
She said this line about having Stockholm syndrome in Paris.
I've been living here for the last seven years.
And I spent half of the time lying to myself saying I like it.
But I know it's a lie.
It's a kind of Stockholm syndrome in Paris,
but still Stockholm syndrome.
Having Stockholm syndrome in Paris.
Stockholm syndrome... in Paris.
Oh, what a notion.
I am so relieved you haven't forgotten me.
What do you want from me?
I've come here out of love. I've been looking for you all these years.
Please leave my house.
I haven't loved...
or touched anyone else all these years.
Please, can I give you a hug?
Get out!
She rejected me.
And then I realized she wanted revenge.
I'm sorry, I'm not going to hurt you, OK?
First, tell me your name and then you can kill me.
Get out!
If you kill me I'll disappear forever.
You're crazy. Kill yourself if you want to die.
No, no, I don't want to die, OK?
I need you to kill me. I need the story to have an ending.
I don't care what you need.
Oh! That's not a very nice answer.
What if I helped you kill me, huh?
I swear I'll do it. Go ahead.
Do it! Come on!
She died before I could call her by her name.
I'm sorry.
All these years, I thought my dream woman
was going to be called something mediocre...
like Cindy or Raymonde or Monique, but,
actually, she had a very charming name.
Isabelle.
Just like that, without even meaning to,
I had committed a perfect crime.
No one saw me go in.
And I must not have left many fingerprints
because the proof is
I'm still free.
Who told you that?
What do you mean?
I'm sorry, Angust. We're not done yet.
What is this whole game about?
You think this is a game?
Tell me what you know about Isabelle's disappearance.
Wow, you know Isabelle? Now that's what I call a coincidence.
Stop fucking with me!
OK. You're right.
This encounter is by no means a coincidence.
Come here as author of the facts.
Stop playing with me or I swear I smash your face in. Tell me you what you know.
You want to ally yourself with the enemy.
You're not the enemy.
I defend my right to be the enemy.
What exactly do you really want here?
You still don't know?
Tell me what.
To die.
This is a personal call
for Mr. Jeremiasz Angust.
Please, Mister Angust, go to the gate. Thank you.
Someone who knows my story told you
that if you came here and told me all this, I would kill you.
Too complicated.
Tell me or I'm not responsible for my actions.
Exactly, OK? It's time for action.
I just confessed to killing your wife. What are you going to do about it?
If you want to die, go ahead and kill yourself,
but leave me alone. Isabelle's disappearance was the worst thing that happened to me.
To both of us!
Is that what you really want from me? To kill you right here?
[woman on PA Again, this is a personal call for Mr. Jeremiasz Angust.
Your flight to Warsaw is about to leave.
I'm...
I'm sorry, OK, I'm really sorry,
but you need to help me resolve this or I have to call the police.
Go ahead. It'd be my word against yours.
I'd like to know the reason for all this torture.
I just told you the truth.
And now you're trying to convince yourself
that it wasn't me, so that you don't have to kill me.
A young stranger asked me to take her to the airport.
Then, after a series of disgusting confessions,
this teenager suddenly comes out and says that years ago she killed my wife.
I think that anyone would agree that you've been lying to me all along.
I'm not a teenager.
That's enough. My wife went missing 20 years ago.
So what?
You were just a kid.
This is a personal call for Miss Texel Textor.
Please, Miss Textor, your flight to Warsaw is about to leave.
The plane is another good place to kill me.
- What? - Yeah.
We're on the same flight.
Final call for Mr. Jeremiasz Angust and Ms. Texel Textor.
Gate F28 is closing.
I'm sorry. Good evening.
Thanks.
- Good evening, sir. - Good evening.
Cabin crew, arm flight then cross-check.
Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.
Firstly, I'd like to welcome you on board today's flight
from Paris, Charles de Gaulle to Warsaw.
Today's flight will have us cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet
with the wind en route being fine. We are...
Hey! Mister, Can I help you?
I have to get off.
Mister, please! You need to sit down. Mister!
- I have to get off. - You can't get off.
I can't take this flight.
Excuse me, we have shut the door and begun take-off protocol...
I can't take this flight. I have to get off.
You can't get off right now.
Excuse me, what's the problem, sir?
- Get your hands off. - Sir.
You don't have to touch me, all right?
I have to get off!
- You cannot get off... - Open this door!
Excuse me, sir, may I see your boarding pass, please?
Sir?
Is my wife dead?
I see you're interested in my stories now.
They're not your stories. They're mine.
Ours.
How's about this time you tell me your story?
Tell me where Isabelle is.
Quid pro quo.
Tell me your story and I'll tell you mine.
What happened to you?
It must have been in February.
We had moved to a new apartment.
We'd been married four years
and we were ready to start a family.
Is that it?
The last one.
Isabelle had been absent for weeks.
You taste like a pizza.
So what?
We should keep unpacking.
Frankly, I was worried.
We used to have so much fun together,
but those days were far behind us.
She was distancing herself from me.
What do you want me to do?
You don't have to do anything, Jeremy. Just give me space.
I am giving you this space.
- Oh, come on! - Now you are acting cold.
No, I'm not acting cold. You can't say that. It's not fair.
Fair?! There's someone else!
No! How you got... Ah!
Yeah! Run away, Jeremy! You're such a coward!
It wasn't the first time we fought like this,
but somehow it felt different.
I went back to work.
I tried to refocus on my airport expansion project.
A clear view of the runway.
That's what I particularly want to see in an airport.
The cars, moving planes, things in motion.
And maybe we could change the size of the windows, no?
What do you think?
Jeremy?
Oui, j'arrive. Qui c'est?
It's me, Isabelle.
I wanted to bring you these flowers.
OK.
How are you?
Would you like something to drink?
Then it all became clear.
Your love was going to leave you the next day.
But why would Isabelle abandon your perfection?
My perfection?
You couldn't bring yourself to ask about the plane ticket.
Your fear of failure won the battle.
Isabelle...
I love you.
Please...
- Please, Jeremy. - Yeah. I know.
You can't do that.
It's been so long.
- Isabelle... - Stop.
Stop.
Sorry.
She rejected you.
That was the last time I saw her.
After several days of not hearing from her
I came back to our apartment.
Isabelle!
I had hoped to find her home after her trip to Holland.
I needed to apologize.
Isabelle...
But she never came back.
Poor thing.
Tell me, what do you know?
Are you my daughter?
Is that what you think?
You tell me.
In a certain way, yeah. I am your daughter.
I told you right from the start that I'm Dutch.
Probably because you always wanted to believe that I was born in Holland.
You're driving me crazy.
I'm driving you crazy?
I'm sorry. You don't need any help with that.
- What do you want? - Shh.
Lower your voice.
Why?
Because you're still on the plane.
Hey.
Come on, Angust. Cheer up, enjoy the trip.
I'm over here.
I'm feeling rather... good.
Ask the stewardess for some coffee.
Good.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Excuse me, ma'am, I would love a cup of coffee.
Louder.
Excuse me, I'd like a cup of coffee, please.
Louder.
Hey! Excuse me, lady! I'd love a cup of coffee!
Louder.
Bring me some coffee!
Why did you tell me all the stories?
Because just like you, Jeremy.
I have a very well-developed cosmetic sense.
And I wanted to tell your story right from the start.
It all began when you started to wish that Frank Hoffman,
the most popular boy in class, would disappear.
And your horrible childhood?
It's the childhood you think I would have had if I had been born.
Why would I imagine you as a monster?
Because I'm a daughter worthy of you, Jeremy.
I would have inherited all of your sins and all of your violence.
It's not true.
So you don't remember when you met Isabelle at the cemetery?
You dreamed of raping her that night, it's all still in here.
What do you want from me?
Come on, Jeremy! She didn't love you.
Isabelle.
Stop. Stop.
Wait, wait.
We can't end this way.
What are you doing with the knife? Please don't do that.
I can't accept this, I just...
Come on, darling...
Wake up...
Come on, don't be lazy.
Repeat after me.
I killed what I loved most in this world.
I deprived my daughter of the most wonderful mother in the world.
Go away. I want you to disappear.
After you killed her, you drove to one of your construction sites.
You took Isabelle's body with you.
You had committed the perfect crime.
No one ever found the body,
and the airport is a tomb that can't be penetrated.
I didn't kill Isabelle. I was madly in love with her.
Who is talking when you talk?
You.
Do it fast.
I love you, Jeremy.
You didn't kill your wife.
She left you.
She is still alive.
Like Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said,
"Perfection is achieved not when there is nothing more to add.
But when there is nothing left to take away."