Courage fuyons

"Letting courage

"be his only guide,

"albeit a very silent one,

"he decided

"not to intervene."

COURAGE - LET'S RUN

Already in bed?

Cigarette?

No.

What's your plan?

To smoke first and kiss me afterward?

Oh, sorry.

Who are we?

Beg your pardon?

I can't hear you with your hands on my ears.

Where are we?

In Amsterdam.

We're 2 strangers,

naked in Amsterdam.

What's your name?

Martin Belhomme.

What'll happen next, Martin Belhomme?

I don't know.

Take me.

What is this? Do you know them?

No.

-Maybe you should go and see. -Me?

The door is jammed.

Kick it in or something. Want me to go?

Oh no.

The door wasn't jammed...

I was.

Once again,

just when I'm about to brave sudden danger,

my own self prevents me from doing anything.

The cowardice I'd experienced since birth

had been passed down by my father,

who'd inherited it from his father.

And if I may be so bold, if my life were a film,

in order for you to understand,

we'd need to go back to a 1915 newsreel.

April 1915.

On the Champagne front, a French officer

paces up and down, trying to comfort his men

before the attack.

This is my grandfather, Lt. Yellowbelly Émile Belhomme!

On April 11, at 4:25 PM,

he and his men pitifully surrendered

to 2 young, dumbfounded Germans who had fired a burst by mistake

while cleaning a machine gun.

1936.

While young Farouk of Egypt

succeeded his father, King Fuad I,

while Margaret Mitchell published "Gone with the Wind,"

and while black athlete Jesse Owens

roused Hitler's ire during the Berlin Olympic Games,

in France, the Popular Front won the elections,

people festively occupied factories,

and Léon Blum arbitrated the meeting

between the CGT and the CGPF.

Before a learned assembly of bigwigs,

my father, Adrien Belhomme,

a smallwig plant owner in Issy-les-Moulineaux,

declared as everyone applauded:

We won't give in!

The following morning, he gave in,

giving the stunned workers pay raises

beyond anything they had hoped for,

even extending, in a moment of distraction,

paid vacations to match the length of school vacations.

Six months later,

a competitor acquired the bankrupt factory for a song

and my father became unemployed.

Meanwhile, I had begun my panic-stricken life

by ratting out fellow kindergarten classmates,

to everyone's consternation.

Belhomme!

By cowering before "the fittest,"

I earned a reputation as the school coward.

June 1940.

No matter how hard he looks, Hitler won't find us in Paris.

We're in Toulouse

hiding at the house of some Jewish friends.

Later on, my father became assistant carter

on a farm in the middle of France.

Until 1944,

our parents feared for a German or Italian air raid.

We were therefore the only children in school

wearing camouflage.

By "we," I mean myself and my little brother, Franckie,

a born miser.

This licorice'll cost you!

By age 8, he was dealing on the black market.

1948.

France got its colors back.

I was 20.

Nobody danced the cucaracha as well as I did.

That's how I came to intrigue Mathilda.

I met her at a nightclub where I played the piano.

She eyed me like Humphrey Bogart eyed Lauren Bacall

in "To Have and Have Not."

We danced

and hit it off.

Things went very fast.

She started following me everywhere.

Go away!

When you're done with this military crap,

drop the music career

and resume your pharmaceutical studies.

-Stop pretending I'm not here. -Please go.

Also, we're getting married.

Like lions going into battle...

Then Dad'll buy us a drugstore.

Like lions going into battle...

By the way, I'm pregnant.

What? One night...

Wait up!

But...

You're kidding me?

We'll all die standing

Whether from the south or north

Spilling our blood is an honor

We opened our drugstore and had 2 kids:

Pierre-Martin and Monica.

Did we actually love each other?

A 2-person survey would have given:

Yes: 0. No: 0.

No opinion: 2.

I'd dreamt of someone else, that is, of being someone else.

If only life hadn't decided otherwise.

-Why are you staring at me? -I'm watching you fatten up.

Stop teasing your sister! Or do I have to slap you?

Idiot!

I'm bumming one, pal.

-He didn't write that one? -Yes, they're all his.

Should be chilly now.

Champagne?

Not too much.

There.

Dad died in the spring of 1968.

His death caused Franckie a lot of sorrow.

And also some financial troubles.

Big brother!

Franckie!

Remember?

Remember him?

Of course I remember him.

We haven't discussed who'll pay what for the funeral.

I'm going to the drugstore.

I think it's best

if I pay for the flowers.

That way you can do as you please for the rest.

What do you mean by "the rest"?

I don't know...

Thinking about it is so painful.

There's the ceremony,

the announcements...

-The service... -Shut up.

Of course, the flowers are a daily expense...

Not necessarily.

I know a guy

who makes plastic geraniums.

You can put them on the grave and they last years.

On top of that,

they're now on sale.

Oh, big brother...

Franckie...

...are currently firing teargas...

Close up, Mrs. Berger.

Do you mind?

There we go! They're nearby.

...barricades are in flames. Firemen just got here.

Hello.

So sorry.

Sorry about that.

It's up to the French...

-Hello, sir. -Hello.

...to stress the importance of the decisions that were made.

Hey!

It's intolerable!

There are posters all over the neighborhood!

Hello, Dad.

A few guys and I started a volunteer group

to clean them up, but no politics.

We simply want a clean city. Operation Clean Paris.

This afternoon, we painted over 207 words and 28 slogans.

You wouldn't believe the things we read:

"When tomatoes fly, deans believe they're swallows."

That's not nice to professors who've devoted their lives

to their trade.

"Buenas noches," Doctor.

Good, the elevator's there. Bye, Martin, Pierre-Martin.

The real problem is money. Paint isn't cheap.

Jelly, semolina, pasta shells...

-Is Paris burning? -No, all is good.

-What are you doing? -Having fun.

-What about my books? -You never read them!

I'm running out of storage space.

Hello, chickadee.

Hello.