DECEPTION
London 1987.
I won't say my name,
but I'm 33.
My marriage gets more disastrous year-by-year.
Yet we have an adorable 4-year-old girl.
I met Philip a year and a half ago.
Philip is an American novelist who lives in London.
I never understood that willful exile.
Even though I pretend my lover's fame doesn't impress me,
I read all his books.
And deep down, I'm proud that an esteemed artist
found me interesting enough for secret trysts
in the afternoon.
Please.
Close your eyes.
I'm not going to be tied up!
My dear friend, who here ever suggested
tying you up so early in the game?
I read about it in books.
So?
Writers write those books.
Close your eyes.
All right.
Let's see if you've been paying attention.
Now describe this room.
To begin with, it has two nice French windows.
Looking out onto a lawn.
In the room's spare style,
the windows have no curtains,
so that nearby houses can see everything inside.
Mostly what they see is someone typing.
Or they see me reading.
They deserve to see something far more interesting.
There's a comfortable chair.
In it, sits a woman who should be at work.
Listening to her lament her marriage,
is a man,
sitting in a leather desk chair.
His desk, about three by five,
is a wood plank on a metallic pedestal.
Piles of papers all over:
an unfinished manuscript, stacks of letters,
and clippings about Israel from the papers
to prove to his wife that the British
are all anti-Semitic.
At a right angle to the desk is the typewriter.
It has its own special desk. Pica 72.
Excellent.
Behind, bookshelves.
"Heine's Jewish Comedy",
"Jew as Pariah" by Hannah Arendt,
"White Nights", Menachem Begin,
Only books about Jews,
by Jews,
for Jews.
Suspended above, a paper globe,
all dusty, Japanese.
A radio,
two chrome lamps.
A plastic mat for back exercises and adultery.
In the bin, take-out containers.
One sybaritic detail:
plaster floral ornamentation on ceiling molding.
Wonderful.
That all?
Yes.
Now close yours.
Okay.
Let's see how much attention you've been paying.
Go ahead.
Now...
describe me.
Autumn.
My husband's girlfriend gave him a present.
She's very pretentious.
A very jealous and ambitious kind of person.
She gave him a record.
A piece by Schubert, very well known, very beautiful.
Inspired by
the great passion of his life, a dazzlingly interesting woman.
All spelled out in the liner notes.
He could simply have said he bought it himself.
But no, he said his girlfriend had given it to him.
I was drunk one evening, I got a pink underlining thing.
I highlighted several particularly hilarious phrases.
"The greatest passion ever".
"Marriage of minds".
"Ecstasy".
Then calmly and with dignity,
I handed him the record cover.
Was that awful of me?
Why were you drunk?
I wasn't drunk, but I drank a lot.
You drink a lot at night?
- Yeah. - How much?
A large amount.
Nights when I'm alone, I drink nothing.
Otherwise, easily several doubles before dinner.
And wine in between.
But I never really get drunk.
Just a little elevated.
You lead such a bizarre life.
It is bizarre.
It's a mistake, but here I am.
That's my life.
How unhappy are you?
It goes in periods.
We have periods of ghastliness.
Then long periods of quiet and love.
You still sleep together?
I thought you'd ask that.
I don't intend to answer.
Good evening!
Good evening.
Have a nice day?
A wretched day of writing...
My poor, aggrieved hero.
Oh, a kiss!
Yep!
- We know each other. - Yes we do.
What are you doing?
Rereading my notes.
Don't come to bed too late.
I'll be there soon.
Very impressive!
What?
- I love you. - I love you.
You, a ribbon in your hair.
Don't like it?
I do like it.
Why aren't you happy with your wife?
Why isn't it enough?
Why isn't your husband enough?
I've told you lots about him.
Tell me why your wife isn't enough.
You're asking the wrong question.
What's the right one?
I don't know.
Why am I here?
Because I followed temptation where it led me.
I do that now that I'm older.
Why so anxious not to hurt her?
Why should I want to hurt her?
You don't seem free to do everything.
What's free? Are you free?
Free-ish.
Free-er than you.
Nonsense! Let's cut this conversation short.
Why?
Maybe only one adulterous partner
should complain about domestic dissatisfactions.
Making your dissatisfaction out of bounds.
Except your dissatisfactions with England and Englishness.
Can't it be that domestic dissatisfactions
have nothing to do with my falling in love with you?
Besides cultural displacement.
I owe this to cultural displacement?
Maybe.
So our story is a cultural one?
A genre I always find interesting.
Gentile women.
You're in love with anthropology.
There are worse ways to address anthropological differences.
The old standbys: hatred, xenophobia,
violence, murder.
Yes, my dear, you're...
you're the Albert Schweitzer of cross-cultural fucking.
Malinowski is fine, he'll do.
What's wrong?
Answer me.
I can tell something's wrong.
A nanny,
a child, two squabbling housekeepers.
And the usual English damp.
I don't think we can continue our liaison.
The days are too short.
Really?
That's too bad.
You don't agree?
Didn't our last conversation take that turn?
Oh, I see.
Whatever you want.
I think it's best.
You said it's driving you nuts.
What's driving me nuts?
All these sexual matters.
You said you weren't keen on just a romantic friendship.
I'll simplify it for you, if you want it simple.
Why the silence? I hate you when you're silent.
I'm here.
Get my letter?
Yes, I got it. That letter is... wonderful.
I tore it up.
Obviously, of course.
- It seemed the best thing to do. - Indeed.
Very strange to see you.
Stranger not to, right?
That I don't know.
You disappeared for a while.
You've changed too.
You do look a bit different.
- What happened to you? - I look that different?
Taller?
Shorter?
- Pudgier. - I don't know.
It's very subtle.
Something subtle?
Yeah.
I've missed you.
I'm freezing.
I behaved very stupidly with my husband.
He's had to put up with me terribly lonely
and depressed for years.
I didn't have affairs. I thought he was vulnerable.
Your husband doesn't sound that vulnerable.
Why not tell him: "If you don't give her up,
I'll sleep in the other room?
You're free. Either you fuck her or you fuck me.
Take your pick."
She's an important part of his life.
It would be selfish on my behalf.
Selfish on your part?
You think you that, then marry me.
It's lovely to hear a woman say:
"It would be selfish to ask my husband
to give up his girlfriend."
I think it would be though.
It's easier when I don't see you.
We get distracted, we forget.
None of this terrible comparing.
I wanted to explain what's going on in my head.
But...
I feel like I'm abusing.
Let's talk about it.
I like to know what's in your head.
I'm very fond of your head.
I had my mother for the weekend.
And he just disappeared.
Lunch tomorrow with my mother-in-law, who's so hellishly unpleasant.
You know what a cervix is?
I think so.
Well, I've got a lump on mine.
I must do a test or something.
My husband says I've ruined his sex life.
I so don't enjoy sex with him.
It's always...
hard and lonely.
That's the way it is.
It's life, isn't it?
Why not do your husband a favor and try to come?
I don't want to.
It's better than arguing.
I get so angry with him.
Don't get angry.
Your husband's fucking you.
Let him.
It's not under my conscious control.
Just be a whore for half an hour. It won't kill you!
Whores don't come.
Play the whore!
Don't be so serious about everything.
He's...
the type who thinks women must have multiple orgasms,
that we must come together.
Normal for young people, isn't it?
Once you acquire some history, resentments,
how can you explain losing interest in someone sexually?
Why not ask why it snows?
Not a reason for leaving him?
You know,
when I met you, you were ripe.
Ripe for the picking.
No, I was...
on the ground, rotting under the tree.
On the ground, rotting under the tree.
Is your husband safely in a hospital room?
Think the tootsie's there too?
"Tootsie" is such a wonderful word.
Yes, I thought you might like it.
I gave him unduly bad press.
He has many qualities.
But the truth of the matter is...
I haven't slept so well in ages.
I woke up this morning feeling absolutely normal.
He comes back tomorrow.
You're shaking. You ill?
I'm terribly excited.
What?
"And you give me
the pleasure of your eyes,
of your face,
of your flesh."
Maybe because it was Valentine's Day,
I woke up in the middle of the night
with a terrific sensation.
It felt like your hand was on my cock.
It was no one's.
It was a dream.
How did I end up being so hooked on you?
It's that you spend all day in this room.
You have no new experiences here.
No adventures.
I have you.
How long has it been now?
A year and a half.
I know nothing about you.
Sure, I do know a bit.
From reading your books. But not a lot.
We may as well be holed up in the Frank family's attic.
Yes.
Our lot in life.
What are you thinking?
I feel so urgently the need for solitude.
You look so damned tired.
What can I do?
I dunno, run away!
Excuse me.
Know what I'm doing on Tuesday?
No.
I'm seeing a solicitor.
About getting a divorce?
Just to find out what's up.
I'll get to your place in a heightened state.
I'm off.
It should be interesting.
When I lived in the country,
before spending time in the city,
I was so simple.
If you struggle a lot, that dies.
I used to be a lot of fun.
I enjoy you now.
What if he asks how you got the bruise?
He already has.
And?
I told the truth.
I always do. That way, you never get caught.
What did you say?
I said: "I got this bruise
in a torrid embrace
with an unemployed writer
in a flat,
a walk-up, in Notting Hill."
And?
It sounds silly and everyone laughs.
And you maintain the illusion of honesty.
Absolutely.
I was a little Czech girl.
I went to your hotel.
You asked me up to your room
to help you carry some books.
It was 10 o'clock in the morning.
And they were very rude with me.
They treated me like a whore.
And you, you made a scene!
You were kind.
Then I took you across the Charles Bridge
and you taught me tons of colloquial words.
We had dinner at your hotel.
You didn't care particularly about me.
I was about 21, 22.
I'm much older now.
What's that park at the top of Prague where we sat?
We didn't go there. That was someone else.
No, no one else.
I particularly did care for you.
You once telephoned me to invite me to an orgy, remember?
You did!
I wasn't brave enough to go.
You didn't miss a thing. Very boring.
You were always tailed.
When we sat in a restaurant,
that guy from the police always sat next to us.
We found it unbearable.
It was unbearable.
I worked at the American library.
My professor got me the job.
He said it would be great for us all
because we could get books...
Books.
And it was a fantastic job.
But in the end it became difficult.
I had to decide
to work for the Secret Service or to leave.
You're in London now. You can talk. Talk!
I'll tell you.
They told me...
We know that you like your job,
that you make lot of money.
They gave me a paper to sign.
The discussion we'd be having was a state secret.
If I spoke to anyone,
including my own family,
I would be prosecuted
and imprisoned for seven years.
Sentenced for what?
I risked prison anyway.
I was so scared, I told all my friends.
So I said:
"Why sign something I know nothing about?"
Sign it! Stop asking questions!
I can't sign anything I don't know about!
Your work, friends, country...
it's all over, you understand?
"No, I'll tell you straightaway, I can't,
I can't do it."
So they said: "You'll have to find another job.
There's no future for you here."
They didn't fire me immediately.
I went back to work. I didn't tell anyone.
Then the nightmare began.
The Americans did the same thing.
Said they were interested in me,
that I should spy for them.
Jana!
Same thing, I refused the Americans too.
By that time, my situation had become
absolutely awful.
They were both interested because I speak the languages.
I'm quite good at translating.
I always enjoyed literature.
I know.
I translated stories
for Czech papers.
At the library, I'd become so isolated I had to quit.
I left soon after.
That's why I married that stupid Englishman
who at least knew he wanted me.
1978.
You married to get out. No shame.
To leave the country,
you need lots of papers, it takes forever.
When I left Czechoslovakia, I no longer loved him.
When I got to England,
I just couldn't cope.
At first he was so upset to see me crying.
I felt miserable
and I missed all my friends.
I did every odd job.
And on the third day, I'd be thrown out
because I talked back.
I was still a Czech.
Your life story is more interesting.
Not at all. Go on.
The English husband... how did it end?
Badly.
I hated Czechoslovakia
because it had very set rules.
You couldn't breathe.
But I don't like England,
because it has another set of rules.
Of little houses and vegetable gardens,
and all their life is to get something like that.
I can't be like that.
Because I'm educated.
I have no place here.
None at all.
Hello. It's me.
Oh, it's you.
How are you?
- I'm fine.- What do you know?
Anything new?
No.
I have to do a tomography this morning.
It's quite a heavy day.
I see.
The tomography will tell you what?
How long I have.
No.
If the tomography shows tumors, it's bad news.
It means the drugs aren't working.
And if it shows nothing, I still need surgery
to see what's going on.
Results are on Monday.
So this is a big weekend.
Yes.
Pretty big.
Are you able to write anything?
The narratives crumble.
No, I've been doing yoga.
I eat macrobiotic.
Macrobiotic...
I'm just trying to live with what joy there is.
- How's your support system? - Great!
Even my father phoned from wherever the hell he lives now.
So it's not so great.
It is! A call from my father makes cancer worth it.
No, they're great.
All my ex-men are wonderful.
Very nice.
Very attentive.
Never coming back to America?
New York next month. I'll see you the day I get in.
Nice!
What's up over there?
What's London life like?
Not very different from 81st Street.
Put it here.
Thank you.
Still writing?
Yes.
I thought you'd give that up with any luck.
No. With my typewriter in my room.
And in the evening, cultural events, social events.
Very insipid, very English.
Social events are called dinner parties.
Yes.
Trouble is, I get seated by other men's wives.
Of course.
You know about other men's wives?
They're boring.
Very.
Unlike you when you were another man's wife.
Where's my book?
What book?
The book with me in it.
I like that one!
So do something interesting I can stick in there!
Me?
I may be dying.
You don't know that.
I'll know Monday.
I'll call Monday for your results.
Now I'm going to stop before I utter more platitudes.
Yes!
When I hear platitudes,
I prick up my ears!
Indeed!
Bye.
Have a good day.
Goodbye.
Winter.
Wait...
I'll write them down.
You begin.
What's it called?
I don't know. What do we call it?
"Questionnaire about dreaming of fleeing together".
Nice. "Questionnaire...
"about lovers...
lovers dreaming of fleeing together".
"Questionnaire about lovers dreaming...
middle-aged lovers - fleeing together.
- You're not middle-aged! - I am!
You seem young to me!
Add that to the questionnaire.
"Questionnaire about lovers dreaming of fleeing together."
"Fleeing together."
You begin.
First thing about me that would get on your nerves?
Are you a charming extrovert
or a neurotic recluse?
How long...
before you're attracted to another woman?
Or you by a man?
You mustn't get older.
You think the same about me?
How many men do you need?
Are you entirely heterosexual?
Do you have an idea
of what interests you in me? Be precise.
Have you...
ever lied to me?
Do you tell lies?
Are you against lying?
Do you think that being generous-minded
is a sign of weakness?
Do you care about being weak?
And you, about being strong?
How much money will you let me spend?
Would you let me have any power over your money?
How am I already a disappointment?
Are you going to die?
Are you physically and mentally sound?
What are your real feelings about Jews?
How inept would you be if my husband discovered us?
If he came in now?
Wait.
Seventeen. Any more?
I can't think of any.
- I look forward to your answers. - And I to yours.
I do have one more.
Yes?
Do you like how I dress?
That's straining.
Bastard!
Not at all straining.
The more trivial the defect, the more anger it inspires.
One last question?
I have it!
The last question.
Do you in any way,
in the corner of your heart, still harbor the illusion
that marriage
is a love affair?
If so, it can cause many problems.
I hated being pregnant. It drove me crazy.
I made a fuss about potential birth defects
that went undetected before delivery.
I asked the doctors:
"What if there's something seriously wrong with the baby?"
I was upset about a story on the news just before I was due.
About a woman with a handicapped child.
She stopped feeding it, to kill it.
The baby was adopted.
Creeps get off on others' misfortunes.
You're not one?
Are you? You don't even want a healthy kid.
One day, a doctor I saw told me in secret
you can suffocate a baby with surgical swabs.
I replied there must be a less cruel way
to get rid of a child.
It worried me so.
In England,
if a woman commits a crime within 6 weeks of childbirth,
she won't go to court.
I read this.
Our law has a clause stipulating that...
during that time women aren't sound of mind.
You can kill your kid and get away with it!
You'd have to be careful, but yes.
Honestly...
has the thought
ever crossed your mind
about jumping out a window?
Yes.
A lot?
Sometimes.
What stopped you?
It isn't that I want to die,
it's that I want to live.
I want life to be better.
So better to stay in it a bit longer.
You're not saying much.
I'm listening.
I'm an écouteur.
I'm an audiophiliac.
I'm a talk fetishist!
Very erotic.
You just sitting there, listening.
A new belt!
Very cozy with you on a snowy day.
Lying like this, the snow going round.
Quite wonderful.
Feel all right?
Sweet...
girl.
What are you thinking?
No thoughts.
Is that nice?
It's sublime.
Sublime...
Which do you prefer?
I can't answer that question.
But I want to know. Which do you prefer?
For fondling?
The uncircumcised.
It's interesting to move the sheath over the head.
Yes.
And for fucking?
Don't ask this of a nicely brought-up English female.
For fucking?
For fucking...
the circumcised.
Why?
It's like having it naked.
The naked penis.
Naked penis.
Why does everyone hate Israel so much?
Can you explain it to me?
I think I'd be able to.
Really?
I have an argument every time I go out.
And I come home in a fury and can't sleep.
I'm allied with the planet's two greatest scourges:
you and you.
Israel and America.
Let's grant that Israel's a terrible country...
But I won't, I won't!
But let's grant it. All right?
Still, there are many countries far more terrible.
I've never understood it myself.
It's one of the most curious freaks in modern history.
But why?
Tell me.
- Do you ever ask people? - Yes, often.
And what do they say?
How they treat Arabs is the greatest crime in human history?
Sure, that's what they say!
One of the most extraordinary pieces of hypocrisy
in the history of humanity!
The Czech director.
Olina meets me at the airport.
I bring her a Laura Ashley dress. Perfume.
She kisses me. There's dinner waiting.
Then the door opens.
A six-foot Black man. Shoes for 200 dollars.
Gold necklace, gold ring.
"This is Andrew.
Can he live in the spare room?"
"There's no future for all of us here."
Her: "Can he stay for dinner?"
It's my first night back, but okay.
You can't tell a Black man: "No you can't stay for dinner."
The next morning, my Olinka tells me:
"I love him. I want to marry him."
I was close to buying a hunting rifle.
Not a shotgun, a fucking hunting rifle.
I had a heart attack.
Terrible chest pains.
A week in the hospital, it cost me a fortune.
My lawyer laughs: "You and your wife got a joint account!"
You couldn't have?
I trusted her!
She was a little Czech girl!
Look at her.
Not an American bitch!
Ivan, I'm American...
This girl, a Catholic, was a virgin!
She went to bed in a long nightdress.
Never had an orgasm.
I'm not young, but I'm a good worker.
Nothing! Impossible!
Now she wants to divorce.
She loves that man, she suffers a great deal.
Okay, fine, perfect!
But he didn't fuck her like you did.
He fucked her for fucking.
You're more interested in listening than fucking.
I never fucked Olina.
You're lying to me, my friend.
She's lying, if she said that.
Fucked her 4 times in New York.
When we were such good friends after I came from Prague.
Not even once!
Stop! Olina told me everything!
"Why does he ask irritating questions?"
Stop, it's not true!
Deceitful bastard! You can't resist a story
even from the wife of this refugee friend.
It limits you as a friend and as a novelist.
My books stink too?
- Ivan, they're waiting... - No, get lost.
Don't shout at her!
What did you expect, you bastard?
That I'd help perfect your lousy art after you banged her?
Insult me if you like!
You insist on playing dumb.
Look at you! You're not even sweating.
Yeah, a great actor! But what a terrible novelist.
I'm not sweating because none of this is true.
When I'm guilty, I'm an awful actor!
Believe me,
I out-sweat Nixon!
Stop with this... Stop.
Her leaving you is obviously killing you.
It's awful. And professionally, things haven't worked out here.
And now you lose Olina.
Since the first time we all met,
you've been ogling her.
Yes, I ogled her! She's young and pretty.
But ogling isn't fucking!
You American shitface.
Pampered little liar!
Put that down! You'll have another heart attack!
Don't worry, American boy.
I won't shoot you in the trousers.
There's no cause to!
No, I'll shoot you in the ears.
The governor's pardon.
Yes it's me. How did it go?
A miracle...
No!
Yes!
No!
It's a miracle!
Tell me about the miracle.
The tomography showed no sign of pathology.
So this thing which was incredibly virulent
is responding to the treatment.
- This is wonderful! - Yes, wait.
The doctor's pleased. He'd given me a year.
The prognostic has changed!
Phew!
As you say.
You did all right.
Yeah, I did all right.
Know what this is called?
The governor's pardon.
But who's the governor?
No idea!
But clearly I must stay on his good side.
A tomography of your whole body?
No.
From the groin to the heart.
And the doctor said
if there was a tumor anywhere else,
there'd be a liquid, a shadow, in that area,
the starting area.
It's called...
"the preferred path" of these cancers.
Know about that?
"The Preferred Path".
Unbelievable.
This is terrific, this is terrific news!
Yes!
It's been quite a day.
I was scared.
I was so scared.
I thought there might be something...
hideous in my nature
that would make me weep at the news.
You're entitled to any reaction.
No preferred paths
for emotions.
So now I'll say goodbye.
Already?
What more is there to say?
I knew you'd react like this.
- Come on.- No!
We must remain friends.
Old friends.
Anyway, I'm not completely out of the woods.
So you can still be a little nice to me.
And once you're out of the woods?
Then you can be yourself.
All right.
Have a good day.
Goodnight.
Winter sports.
Remember me?
It's coming back.
Slowly.
Take your time.
You got thinner?
You got used to someone fatter.
It's great to see you.
I wish you could have come skiing.
It's so peaceful.
Going up the hill very quietly on the lift.
- You're with me on many mountains. - Me?
Yes, while riding the T-bar.
Me and the hiss of the T-bar.
That's right.
Everything's right at home?
Yes, perfect.
Nothing better for a marriage than an old boyfriend nearby.
Is that what you think?
Mother taught me never to sit cunt exposed.
And legs over a man's shoulders?
She never mentioned that.
I don't think she had any idea
I'd go in for that.
Smell this.
It really smells good.
You all right?
I'm going to have another birthday tomorrow.
- Not again? - Yes. No way around it.
Subtract 1929 from 1988,
you get 59.
Why take it so hard?
Listen to you!
You piss and moan about being 34.
I know why I take it so hard.
But you?
Because life will be over soon.
I'll be dead.
There you go.
Vodka?
Why do these Slavs come see you?
Because I like them.
Really? More than the English?
Why?
Because they suffer so much?
You know,
displaced persons have things to say. Sometimes you can lend a hand.
Soft spot for victims? From being Jewish?
I don't see myself as a Jewish victim!
You're among the few Jews born in this century
who miraculously escaped the horror.
So those who didn't escape, Jewish or not, fascinate you.
They don't fascinate you?
I'm curious,
but never would I go on holiday in those countries,
I must admit.
How did get you get into that?
By accident.
I'd finished a book, I was traveling.
It was '71.
My friend and I drove from Vienna to Prague.
I walked around a bit and I felt good.
I had a publisher there, so I figured I may as well meet him.
Next day, I go and introduce myself.
And the director
gathers all his staff around me
to toast me with slivovitz.
They were already plastered.
Then an employee comes and whispers to me:
"Our director is a swine!
He'll go rat on us to the regime."
I found that extraordinary and I felt even better.
A thousand stories later,
I got corralled on the street by the police.
This was in '75.
By then, I was used to cops tailing me,
especially when visiting writer friends.
But it was the spring,
two police approached me in the street and asked for ID.
I showed them my passport, visa, hotel form
and they declared I must go to precinct.
Then I saw a trolley stop
a few feet away.
I start shouting:
"I'm being harassed by the police!
I demand to be taken to the American Embassy."
The cop repeats: "Come to station."
He spoke in Czech but I got the fucking drift.
I refused to move, I kept shouting.
It went on for 15 minutes.
"No! No! No!"
The uniformed cop went up the street
to ask a plainclothes cop there.
Just then, a trolley stops at the station.
I think: "Why wait to get arrested? I'm stupid!"
I jump on the trolley.
My heart's pounding, I'm covered in sweat.
I change trolleys, run down streets.
I get back to my hotel, shaking.
I call my Czech friend.
And my friend bursts out laughing. He says:
"The police only want to harass you. They scared you."
Never again did I get a visa for Czechoslovakia.
The evening I left,
they arrested my friend, interrogated him all night long.
"Why does this writer keep coming to Czechoslovakia?"
Answer, you dickwad!
Why does he come to Prague?
Haven't you read his books?
He comes to Czechoslovakia
for the girls!
For the girls.
Was that true?
No, Czech jokes attracted me.
In England, it's the girls I'm into.
I feel like I don't have a cunt today.
I left it at home. Don't bring it up.
Okay.
- You want me to go? - Hardly.
Are you near tears again?
Yes, I feel teary.
Can I eat something?
I have strawberries, melons, wine, some bread.
Even marijuana.
A little of each, please?
Of course!
Imagine I die and, going through my notes,
a biographer comes across your name. He asks you:
Did you know him?
Would you talk to him?
It depends how...
how intelligent he is.
And if he's someone really serious.
He liked you a lot, I can tell you that.
Can you tell me something about him?
Why are you doing this?
I'm curious. What would you say?
He wrote none of his books.
A series of mistresses wrote them.
I wrote the last two.
Look, Miss, you're very sweet and very pretty.
But you're not telling me the truth.
What kind of affair did you have with him?
Very occasional.
- Was he in love with you? - No.
He'd want to know what you were like.
Or what I thought you were like.
I'd be wonderful on that.
Would you?
So what's the answer?
There's no short answer.
You were about to tell me what kind of man he was.
I won't tell you.
Even if I did, you wouldn't put it in the book.
What was he like to you?
He was...
very nice.
Can we stop?
No, not yet.
Did you go to the funeral?
Thank God, it was in the morning. My beloved husband gets home late.
So as not to be alone, I took my child to the park.
Had I gone to the cemetery,
I couldn't have shared it with anyone.
There, it would have been
his family, his friends, his wife.
A Jewish funeral which I don't think
he really wanted.
Can we stop now?
You're on fire, go on!
What did he love so about you?
Drop the "so" and I'll answer.
Okay, dropped.
I was young, I was needy, I was there.
Not very different from his wives,
but I was English.
And that...
made me a little foreign to him.
He liked the way I spoke.
Since his death, are you better?
Come, come...
Just fair...
My life began again for good, the day.
I gave up on him.
I felt much better.
But living this...
reliving this, in front of you,
in such a cold way,
fills me with sorrow.
For me, those times...
were tremendous.
Marvelous. I love you.
You should be the writer.
No.
I know what I'm in for. You have no scruples.
You're a friend?
Great. Have a nice day.
I dozed off.
Yes.
I dreamt about you.
It was the most wonderful dream.
The essence of you, my dear.
Can you speak louder?
I dreamt about you.
It's hard to say these things.
That's why your voice is so soft.
What happened to us in your dream?
Like in days of yore?
Better.
Must have been some dream.
Yes.
I was very in love with you.
- Are you sure? - Yes!
I must say...
that helps.
It's wonderful seeing you.
I wish you'd had the same lovely dream I did.
Write it out.
That way I can stick it in the book about you.
Don't be silly!
I'm not laying myself on the line.
You seem shaky.
I had chemo this morning.
Then I have that god-awful operation.
The after-effects are pretty grim.
Why does it get worse?
Because the poison is here, on the inside.
When do you get out?
Tomorrow morning.
They just throw you out, I swear.
Then I go home...
and sleep 14 hours straight.
You're pale...
and you're thin.
You are.
I wish I were thin.
I look bursting with health.
I lose my hair, but otherwise I look great.
You lose your hair. You'll wear a wig.
No... never.
I prefer these hideous babushkas.
Your hair will grow back.
Yes?
- It needs help. - You look good.
That must mean something.
Yes.
That I won't die immediately.
No but... the worst nightmare is that...
a surprise awaits the doctors when they open me up.
That they'll see I'm full of tumors.
- Is that possible? - I don't think so.
I don't think I should die.
You won't.
You said that in my dream!
See?
I can't be wrong twice in 24 hours.
- Say that again. - I can't be wrong.
Again!
You're not going to die.
One last time.
You're not going to die. You're going to live!
Thank you.
How are you?
Not bad.
What's become of the star of my seminar?
I can't seem to communicate to people.
There.
That's how I am.
- You? - Yes.
It's frightening. I can't seem to remember the past.
I remember you very vaguely.
Sorry.
It's because.
I had shock therapy. It made it worse.
What therapy?
It was actually pretty pleasant.
They give you sodium pentothal.
You're out. When you come around, you're groggy.
They didn't do much, twice a week.
I wasn't frightened.
I'm waiting for something...
an energy, to come back.
Actually, I feel... nothing.
When I speak to people, it's kind of...
a downer.
I need to make a huge effort.
Like right now with you.
Excuse me.
Philip, can I have an ashtray?
Are you on meds?
I was depressed. They gave me a combination.
I don't like that.
They said that...
the pills were all compatible, but with me...
no such luck.
Very bad reaction.
I became extremely paranoid.
So, re-hospitalized!
I thought the exam room was a torture chamber.
I remember they came into my room with a paper.
And they said: "Will you please
sign this paper saying you killed your mother?"
I threw fits.
How can you ask me to sign that?
How dare you?
It was in September.
It was a hallucination.
Now I'm on an antipsychotic to prevent it.
A small dose, but still...
What demolished you like this?
You were fine when I knew you.
Intellectually stubborn,
very shrewd.
Great flair in those black outfits, very Hamlet.
Your student pallor.
Does this now describe your burden?
That's what you said 5 years ago.
When you took me to that restaurant on 3rd Avenue.
I remember the dinner, not what we said.
You wished me luck, said I'd need it.
Why?
Because some people might find me irresistible!
I was so on edge, it was one of the few things I heard.
That I remember!
I wasn't very calm myself.
I couldn't have known. You were my teacher.
That's why I wasn't too calm.
You'd slink into class with that disheveled hair.
I remember all those egg-heads reading Kafka,
explaining howThe Metamorphosis and The Trial
derived from his relation to his father.
And you...
you said wearily "No..."
It was the opposite.
The source of his relationship to his father
is The Metamorphosis and The Trial.
Then you threw your haymaker.
"By the time a writer is 36,
he stops translating experience into fiction,
he imposes his fiction on experience."
At nineteen,
you were already somebody.
I was already crazy?
Not at all.
Maybe you were crazy too.
After one of my classes, you wrote me a note:
"I pray for only one thing, every night:
to be a good writer."
A good writer...
Tell me again what happened.
Make me understand the shock treatments, the hospitals.
The old, old story.
I was attracted to...
hypnotic womanizers.
And I went bonkers.
It was my punishment.
Is that an accusation?
No, no.
No, with you it was fresh.
Tender, so intimate.
It was inebriating.
You never had affairs that weren't...
so fraught?
Just pleasant?
Lots!
What happened?
What happened...
what happened was I got bored.
The trial.
Can you explain to the court why you hate women?
I don't hate them.
If you don't,
then why defame and denigrate them in your books?
Why abuse them in your work and in your life?
Neither in my work nor my life do I abuse them.
We've heard testimony from expert witnesses.
You argue before the court
that these experts with unimpeachable professional standards
are either mistaken
or lying?
May I ask something?
What have you ever done that's useful to women?
Why do you interpret
one woman's depiction as that of all woman?
You're not allowed to ask questions,
only to answer them.
You are charged with sexism,
misogyny,
woman abuse,
slander of women,
and ruthless seduction.
Sir?
Yes?
Why did you publish books that cause women suffering?
You never thought they'd be fodder for our enemies?
I can only reply
that the objectives of this self-styled equal-rights democracy
of which you're fond are not mine
as a writer!
We have no desire to hear you talk literature.
In your books, all women are stereotypes.
They're vicious perverts.
Why portray Mrs Tarnopol
is that how you pronounce it?
As hysterical and psychopathic?
Why depict women as shrews?
Why did Shakespeare do it?
You make it seem as if every woman must be extolled.
You compare yourself to Shakespeare!
Let's delve into your background.
You were a university professor, right?
That's right.
As such, did you engage in sexual practices with students?
Humiliating too?
Not for you?
They were honored to be chosen?
How often did you force them
to copulate with a teacher acting in loco parentis?
There was no need to exert force, trust me.
How many students did you influence and exploit?
Three!
Over the years I've had love affairs with three!
After patronizing us with a lecture on literature,
we must now bear another one on love?
From you?
- You practiced adultery? - I still do!
With wives of friends?
More often with wives of strangers, like you.
Who gave more sadistic delight?
Friends whose wives you ruthlessly seduced?
- Or strangers? - You're beautiful!
He's exploiting me in court!
No, you're delightful!
Brilliant!
I'm no "girl"!
This is fucking, baby.
This is pure pornography!
I'm fucking you in a court of law!
Follow me, ladies!
Spring.
When are you due at work?
In the afternoon.
I probably shouldn't come to you anyway.
I've been capricious.
I think you wanted to try something.
You tried it.
For me, you're not capricious.
I don't want to talk about it.
Then maybe...
it's best you don't come.
I'd love to see you.
I'm dying to see you.
You've really unsettled me.
Sorry if I've been a pain.
Don't be silly.
Did you miss me?
Of course I've missed you!
Terribly, this afternoon.
In fact.
What do you miss?
- Want to know? - No!
No dirty talk, please.
All right.
Here I am.
- I'm heavier? - Not quite the matron yet.
I don't worry about anything anymore.
- I'm not anxious anymore. - Since I disappeared.
I don't know since when.
So how are things on the home front?
How does he like them?
Plump and pretty?
I like them the way you were.
Thin and neurotic.
Things are much better.
Since you've been gone,
what's happened is a shift in the balance of power.
In my favor.
He behaves much better to me.
Excellent.
Thank you, Doctor.
Seeing me is difficult for you.
I should have warned you.
I'd have come anyway.
My old father lives at the boiling point.
An opinion on everything,
and often it's not mine.
With my father, I must sometimes
suppress myself from acting like a 14-year-old.
Last summer,
he got riled up when my brother's son decided to marry a Puerto Rican.
Since he can't hide his feelings,
he got the kid all riled up too.
I got into my car,
drove from Connecticut to New Jersey.
When I got there, he started in on me.
I listened half an hour.
Then I decided to give him a little history lesson.
I said, Listen, dear father,
your father, at the turn of the century, had...
3 choices.
One: stay in Jewish Galicia with Grandma.
Had he stayed, what would have happened to him,
to her, me, you, Sandy?
Ashes!
Dad! Ashes! Everything up in smoke!
- Don't you agree? - Yes, but stop!
I'll continue my logic. Choice two.
Your father could have gone to Palestine!
Two. Your father could have gone to Palestine.
You and Sandy in 1948 would have fought the Arabs.
At least one of you would have lost a leg, foot, arm!
In 67, I'd have fought in the Six Day War.
At least some shrapnel in my head.
- Sure, sure. - I could have lost an eye!
Your grandkids: Lebanon, '82.
Let's assume only one gets killed. That's Palestine!
Choice 3: America. The one your father picked!
Third choice!
Go to America!
In America, what's the worst thing that can happen?
Grandson marries a Puerto Rican!
Stay in Poland and accept the consequences!
Go to Israel and accept the consequences of being an Israeli Jew!
Or else you live in America! So?
What do you prefer?
What did he say?
He said: "Okay, stop! You're right! You win!"
I was thrilled, for once I outfoxed him.
I said, Dad, know what's next?
I'll go see that girl's mother.
She must be torturing her rosary.
I'll say, You want to live...
You want to live in Puerto Rico? So,
your daughter marries a Puerto Rican.
But you all have to live in Puerto Rico!
Otherwise, you live in Brooklyn,
and worst-case scenario, your daughter marries a Jew.
My father starts up again!
"Worst-case scenario?" Meaning?
Why worst case?
She should be thrilled who her daughter's marrying.
She should be thrilled who her daughter's marrying!
Yes, almost as much as you.
Me?
So? How did it end?
The marriage took place at St. Patrick's
with a rabbi in attendance
in case they tried to slip us a fast one.
What a story!
Why do they all magnify these things?
Why do you all try to minimize them?
In England, when I'm in a public place, a restaurant, a party,
if someone uses the word "Jew" the voice drops a bit.
Really?
You all say "Jew"
the way most people say "shit".
Jew.
God, you really are your father's son.
Whose should I be instead?
Your mother's?
Everyone I keep meeting these days says:
"I remember you at Oxford.
You wore transparent blouses and no bra."
So you're an ex-extrovert.
Everyone criticized my blue hair,
and because I exposed my breasts.
I haven't seen them exposed around here for a while.
I don't like them anymore.
I listen to you.
A lot.
Too much.
Why?
What is it?
I'm thinking that I still love you.
Despite?
Despite.
No, no...
Stop.
It's beneath you to stay married
because you think you can't get another job
and this way you have a meal ticket.
A meal ticket is not beneath anyone.
Yes, it's beneath you.
If the marriage is over, why not leave? I don't get it!
I don't want to.
There's your dignity.
There's no dignity without income.
Clever, but wrong!
Just the opposite is true!
Look.
I'll write you a check.
It's terribly nice.
I honestly can't take it.
Why not just cash it? Put it in your bank, or hide it.
Just don't put it in your joint account.
Can I frame it?
No.
Just don't lose it.
Can I put it in my Bible?
No, put it in the bank for a rainy day.
Why not think before throwing it out?
Thanks very much.
It'd be best if you took it.
I'll miss you.
I'll miss you a lot.
I'll think of you too.
It's a real damn shame for both of us.
The spouse.
Tell me what's upsetting you.
I can't come home from my studio to dinners like these.
You don't speak.
You look awful.
I don't sleep.
- Why not? Tell me! - I don't know.
Something to do with me?
I want to know...
and I don't.
Here we go.
What's this about?
You don't go to your studio to work.
You go to your studio to fuck.
You're having an affair.
You think so?
Yes.
There are no women in my studio, alas.
Apart from the characters in my novel.
Not your novel, your notebook.
You forgot to put it in your briefcase, so I took it.
Stupidly. I knew I shouldn't open it.
You're all worked up for nothing.
Because you saw a few notes?
Not notes. They're...
conversations with that woman.
- She's imaginary! - She isn't!
- She is. - She's real.
She goes to your studio.
She's why... for months you've been so distracted.
When I speak, you can barely stay awake.
But the second she opens her mouth,
you can't help taking note of every word.
Which are all wonderful.
"An écouteur."
"And audiophiliac."
What a load of pretentious crap!
Maybe it's because of the book I'm writing
that I'm less interested...
Admit it!
To what?
That you never loved me so much.
Because she doesn't exist!
If you didn't exist, I'd love you like that too.
Incredible!
I can't believe we're arguing over this!
It's absurd!
And I suppose
talking to Rosalie Nichols was...
was imaginary too?
But it's true.
You told me you'd spoken to her.
For Rosalie Nichols, I wrote some of what we said
and more of what we didn't
and that I made up.
I made those things up!
You read about my Czech friend?
Yes, I read it all.
I stupidly sat down and read it all!
My Czech friend Ivan, as crazy as he is,
never accused me of sleeping with Olina!
It's so much better not to know.
No, I don't believe this melodrama.
You get all worked up!
You won't listen...
You dramatize everything.
It's you who dramatizes everything!
I won't explain myself.
Or remind you that people's voices hold an appeal for me.
This notebook is proof!
I have imagined
a love story. It's what I do all the time.
That notebook is a real woman.
That notebook is as if Tolstoy had...
imagined himself in love with Anna Karenina.
Or Hardy with...
I follow my leads where they take me!
Not by you or anyone will I be censored!
Stop the self-righteous shtick, don't shout.
I cannot be screamed at, okay?
You're trying to confuse me.
I'm trying to make you see things straight.
Yes, Olina did bed down with a Black guy.
And Ivan told me about it.
But he never accused me of betraying him.
That's not how I go about it.
When I write, I need to compromise myself!
That's what motivates me.
As is proved by this fucking argument!
And the little American loony?
Control yourself! Think!
She thinks.
So go think with her.
Okay, okay, let's get the notebook.
We'll sit down, I'll explain to you line after line
what I've been up to,
supposing I'm able to understand it!
I'm to believe this Englishwoman doesn't exist?
So how do you know the things about English life
that this imaginary woman tell you?
Hey, it's my business to seem to know more than I do.
But it's so intimate.
Intimacy is interesting. It's a subject!
Are you going to publish the notebook?
I don't know. It's occurred to me.
Publish it as is?
I said I didn't know.
Mightn't it be advisable to change your name?
Can "Philip, an ashtray" become "Nathan"?
No, Zuckerman is my character in novels.
This is different. The notebook is me.
You just said it's not you.
It's me imagining. It's about an imagination.
Once published, no one will say it's about an imagination.
They say my fiction is autobiography.
That my autobiography is fiction.
Since I'm so dumb and they're so smart,
let them decide what it is.
Sounds like a fun game.
What if it humiliates me?
It's a game!
It's an impersonation of myself!
I ventriloquize myself, it's homo ludens.
Who'd know that besides us?
I cannot and do not live in a world of discretion.
Shame is not for novelists!
All you have to do is make the wretched American say:
"Nathan, an ashtray" and not "Philip". That's all I ask.
No.
- Going? - Out!
Being told what to write drives me crazy!
Don't go out alone! I'll come along.
It's over. It's gone far enough. I can't be hounded.
I write what I write, I publish however I want.
- Fuck what people get wrong! - Or get right.
This is a notebook, not a human being!
You are a human being, like it or not. So am I, so is she!
No, she is just words.
Try as I will, I cannot fuck words!
I'm going out.
Alone.
Epilogue.
Good, right on time.
They're preparing a table for us,
it's not ready yet.
So... how...
- How are you? - How am I?
I'm very good.
And you? How are you?
I wanted to see you to ask these fascinating questions.
So how are you?
Well, I'm doing very well.
I've tried calling, but your number's not working.
What country were you calling?
- Your studio in England. - I've left.
I'm in America for good now.
Listen.
How are you?
- I'm really very well. - Great!
I've been thinking about you.
I read your book, hesitated about calling.
- I thought about it a lot. - So did I.
And I wondered if it had any effects
on your marriage.
He didn't read it.
Wonderful. Of course.
Your table is ready.
So what's new?
Tell me.
I'm fine, aren't I?
Yes.
I don't know where to start.
Did you hate me for not calling?
No, not at all. I just thought it was a decision.
I think that the last time we spoke,
neither of us was very happy.
I figured you had to go your own way.
And I suppose I had to go mine.
It was two years ago, we went our own ways.
Yes.
Well, I'm very glad you called because I missed you a lot.
You said you were stopping because...
the love affair was over.
No. You said you wanted to stop seeing me.
- Really? - Yes!
More than once.
I have a good memory.
Indeed.
I was astonished.
Two people told me: "I heard your voice in the book."
- Really? - Yes.
Who said that?
I have friends who read literature and listen to me.
You have a distinctive delivery.
I was in love with you for 20 reasons,
and that was the most beautiful one.
For me, it was...
a long, delightful,
finally very sad, important...
I'd say the same.
No one had ever been so appreciated.
I was nuts about you.
- Really? - You knew it.
Don't turn English.
Well...
I worried a lot about you.
Really?
Should I start with the song?
Do you remember
that afternoon
when we tick-tick
we would meet up
you and me...
Yes, yes.
By the way, I'm not young anymore.
When I met you I was still young.
But when you hit 35, it's suddenly all over.
Not all over, but... some of it is over.
The glow has gone?
That was probably gone at 16.
I'm turning 37.
Yes...
I'll throw a party in the museum dinosaur wing.
Great idea. Great location.
You're invited.
I don't know how to explain it,
I'm starting to think of myself quite differently.
When you stop acting the lively adolescent.
It's a difficult transition for women.
I didn't call you before
because I didn't want to disturb your life again.
You and your husband,
you still live together?
We go about things decently.
I keep wondering what the big problem is.
Obviously there are intractable problems.
Like loneliness.
I feel terribly lonely.
I get bored at work.
But besides the big problems, I think it's all fine.
Do you have a lover?
No, no...
Listen,
I was astonished to see this character
so terribly passive.
I had no idea, insofar as it's me.
Insofar as it's you...
insofar... it's completely you.
Well, I'm not like that anymore.
Really?
I'm a positive person now.
Thank God I finished my book beforehand.
Positive people in books put me straight to sleep.
Yes, but... that passivity was terrifying.
Well, writing alters things.
I felt angry.
Like natives who say photographs steal part of their souls.
I knew you'd be angry.
Very angry.
And when did you get over it?
I probably haven't.
God, how I've missed
talking to you.
And not taking notes?
Of course.
I've missed it too.
I've missed it so badly.
I talk to you in my head.
I talk to you too.
"Freshfield" was not a good name for me.
You should have consulted me.
It's from an English poem, "Tomorrow to fresh woods..."
I got it, but it wasn't right. Too easy.
You haven't lost your bite.
So you live in America now.
Was it too Christian for you here?
True.
I was missing something here. I didn't realize.
Really? What was that?
The...
Jews!
We've got some here.
I'm talking about Jews with guts.
Jews with appetite, Jews without shame.
Brash, angry Jews who eat with their elbows on the table.
Insult, argument, impudence.
- Back in the bosom of the tribe. - Exactly.
- Isn't it odd? - Not very.
The one who's gone home.
You read "The Odyssey"?
An epic of exile and return. What's your role?
Nausicaä?
Calypso?
Homer.
I'll write on you.
Hurry up, I may write a second one on you.
You wouldn't do that.
Would you?
You'd dare?
Of course I would.
This conversation will be part of it.
You'd be scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Don't underestimate yourself.
You were a great barrel.
- For me, you were. - Was I?
I was so angry for months.
I was torn because after I read it, I couldn't be angry.
Why was that?
Because...
because it was so tender,
I think.
Unless I got it wrong.
You didn't get it wrong.
Good evening, ma'am.