The Body of My Enemy (Le Corps de mon ennemi)

Train 2: The fast train number 125, coming from.

The Gent-Lille-Roubaix-Tourcoing train is now entering the station.

Please keep your distance from the train.

The body of my enemy.

Dispose of your waste here.

René, look.

Stay calm.

A pack of Marlboro.

Hang the murderer!

- How much do I owe you? - 10.70 francs.

He didn't recognize you.

Does the Hotel Commerce still exist? On Moncey Street.

Of course.

- To Moncey Street. - Mine or yours?

That's a good one.

- What if I now told something about that family? - What do you mean?

A few jokes... My brother lives in Paris. If

he gets bored, he just calls a random number.

He asks: 'Are you standing?' The other says: 'Yes',

and then he says: 'Sit back down.'

A prediction for Munich?

It won't be easy.

The Germans at home should never be underestimated.

Not even away.

A. Beaumont-Liegard Hospital.

Is this new?

How long have you not been here?

Seven years.

I regret that the conditions have not been lifted.

It is for your own good that I say this, but your return is not desirable.

It is not advisable.

We are almost there. To go to the Hotel Commerce, we have two choices:

through the old town or via the highway, then I'll show you the new things.

- What do we do? - As you wish.

I get off here. Take my luggage to the hotel and book a room in my name.

- Is that enough? - Says the whale

that hides in the water. That's a good one, huh?

'Is that enough?' says the whale in the water.

- It's even too much. - It's fine, keep it.

In whose name should I book the room?

Leclercq! I wasn't expecting to see you.

- Am I disturbing you? - No, of course not.

Come in.

Incredible. Not even three days

ago I was talking about you with my wife.

Yes, I'm married. Everyone gets married at some point, you know how it is.

No.

Sit down.

- Have you had breakfast yet? - In prison.

Yes, of course.

- When did you get out? - Right after breakfast.

- That was quick. - Yes, of course.

My wife is still asleep.

I'll wake her up, she'll be happy to see you.

She's still asleep, it's early too.

She has trouble falling asleep.

She takes sleeping pills and such. She's very tense.

That's why she's still sleeping in the morning...

- I'll make coffee. - No need.

It won't take long.

- Was he at my trial? - The court!

We can discuss it.

François Leclercq, I have questions about your identity.

You were born on 18 November 1933 in Cournaix.

Did you shave off your moustache?

Yes, what do you think?

What does he care?

He hasn't changed at all.

Even better than before. He doesn't care.

Not even a friend, just a classmate.

We were in the same class but not in the same group.

On Sundays we mocked him, in the arms of Mrs Ramington.

We called her the typist, his father's second wife.

Son and stepmother embraced like

fiancés, at the depot and consignment office.

He probably wants my help,

but we weren't that good friends, were we?

I give him some change

25 should be enough, right?

It's already ready, drink this.

I buy coffee at the coffee house. They roast the beans themselves.

François...

I wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable in front of an old classmate.

If you want to ask something...

Yes.

Do you sleep with her?

You didn't come to ask me that?

Of course.

And here we go again. So no, I wasn't an idiot.

I knew you were laughing at me with her.

But no. She used to be very beautiful,

a bit faded... I mean, pastel.

What can I say? I didn't like it, but she wanted it.

To show she meant it. And that the son agreed.

- I don't know... - That you were happy.

That's it.

After my father's death... both in the same room

doors closed...

- You can't hold back. - Exactly.

Don't think anything happened.

And then she started aging... slowly...

She still kept taking care of her appearance.

And one morning... she was there.

Everything changes, expansion, we live like in America.

Not only the city changes, but also the people.

You won't recognize anything anymore, François. I don't recognize it either.

If you go on a trip for six months, you don't recognize

the neighborhood anymore. Every day expansions.

The population has even doubled.

Twice as many idiots, that can't be right.

Nothing changes, it doesn't remain a real city.

Nevertheless, it is a district with

the prosperity and grandeur of the textile industry.

It's not sugar, nougat or cars, here it's textiles.

You can't escape it, everyone here lives off textiles.

A life sentence through textiles.

Textiles and football... factories above, football below.

The factory for money and the stadium for honor.

Young people wave banners, but not symbols.

COJAC! COJAC!

Serge Cojac, Hungarian footballer, 16 international caps,

transfer fee 500 million francs.

A strike costs even more.

We have a prosperous country, so a fine is possible, so we pay Cojac.

We can't be bastards, because we are French champions.

On the question: Is he guilty of the murder of Karine Lechard?

The answer is: yes.

On the question: Is the accused responsible

for the murder of Serge Cojac?

The answer is: yes.

On the question: Were the murders premeditated?

The answer is: no.

On the question: Can the defendant claim mitigating circumstances?

The answer is: yes.

The court finds you guilty and sentences you to 10 years in prison.

The region is flooded...

The shopping street has become a huge supermarket where everyone mixes together.

The city has gone mad...

Like a gadget fair with a huge mirror,

plexiglass doors and impressive slogans.

Bargains, sales, discounts.

Things sold purely to get rid of them and that

serve no purpose except to be bought.

Always the cheapest! Thousands of items available!

The best discounts in France.

1 vehicle for one hour free, minimum purchase: 1200 francs. Cheap.

I remember in a distant past, in that

shop where I once made a purchase.

Bookstore - Stationery.

Good morning, sir.

- What can I do for you? - I would like to buy a notebook.

I would like three notebooks with

hard covers, a sketchbook and colored pencils.

Absolutely, miss.

- And a pencil sharpener. - Good, miss.

- May I put it on account, miss? - Gladly.

- Goodbye, miss. - See you later.

Sorry boy, it's the daughter of the Liegards.

From then on my hatred began, I think. Because they treated me like that.

Because of the rich who could afford everything. Me: you.

She: yes, miss, absolutely, miss, on the miss's account.

Later, much later, justice came, when I shared the bed with her.

It's strange, I can still remember the swans,

the beautiful lawn, the twilight, basically everything.

Except myself. I looked different then, it was 12 years ago.

With such a muddled memory as I have now, I keep

comparing my younger face back then with the one now.

- Am I at Miss Liegard's? - Yes, sir.

- Is madam present? - What is it about?

I heard the house was for sale, is it possible...

- What is it about? - It's about the house, madam.

- If you're from a real estate agency... - Not at all.

Friends of mine are looking for a house in the area, and since you're selling...

That's possible, it's an idea that comes to me in every bad season.

But that idea disappears as soon as spring begins. Would you like a tour?

- Do we start upstairs or downstairs? - By the stairs.

How do you know the house is for sale?

A Dutch gay friend.

- I don't know any. - Dutch people?

That's your room, don't say no, because it suits you.

Even if you hang your dress out the window and wrap yourself in the curtains

it wouldn't change anything...

- What's this story about the friend? - I don't have a friend. - And so?

- I came to see you. - You've seen me.

There's no point continuing the tour.

On the contrary, it's essential. Can you imagine your staff's reactions?

Who was that?, A madman?, What did he want?,

To see me., A satire?, Maybe..

We must call the police, and they do.

In the local paper you'd be described as a militant virgin.

Fine, let's continue the tour.

Fine, let's pretend, it's an old trick, right?

Mine too.

Yours, mine, as long as you have your heart in the right place.

Do you remember? For charity.

The work was called: the hand on the heart.

It was meant to look like a good cause.

The manager always had to be a son of the textile industry.

He didn't study well, he wasn't a good boss.

He always warned us: “Never give money to the poor…”.