Tonight when you hear the ship's bell, it will be 22:00 exactly.
From that moment on, no new orders are to be expected.
Then you go ashore, all of you.
And tomorrow you return, at ten o'clock sharp in the morning.
And then tomorrow perhaps you go ashore again.
and the third day you'll return here on deck at exactly the same time.
And perhaps then you won't go ashore again and we'll set sail.
Or perhaps we'll only sail in three weeks, or in three months.
Or tomorrow. As long as we don't sail, you go ashore.
And you report here day by day.
Our mission is a secret mission, for me also. For the company too.
So I do not keep secrets from you.
When we sail, only God and the minister know.
Or only God, if you prefer that.
Out with it, Jessen. What is it? - What is it?
I live a good 120 km from here. Suppose I take the night train
and call me wife to meet me at the platform,
that would give me just enough time to cry "Hello, sweetie" and return.
I didn't know you were married.
Well... practically.
It's much better for me, really.
You know, Wes, I think it's mean if you just do that habitually.
You're a husband, it's expected.
If it ever becomes a habit with Lizzy, I will leave her.
It's no use me taking the night train. And tomorrow? And the day after?
I'm sorry, but I can't take you.
Never mind.
They say it's Africa, that something's foul with the negroes.
That soldiers will come tonight and after that to patrol too.
Where do they get that bloody order? - Learnt it in the war.
There's no war in the vicinity, at least not an official one.
In Korea they once had an assignment just like ours on a submarine.
Report every day, go ashore, report.
For ten days. On day eleven they had to set sail, but nobody knew,
except the captain and the enemy.
Everyone had just boarded, the ladder had gone,
and then the Mig took a dive.
Were you in Korea? - No, I wasn't in Korea.
Then where did you get that bit about the submarine?
I don't know exactly anymore.
Read it in a book, or heard it told somewhere.
You weren't there.
No, but sometimes I've got the feeling I was involved.
Today I feel like I was there.
At that submarine in Korea.
Tomorrow I've the feeling I may've been involved with something else.
Sometimes I have that feeling very badly.
One more hour. Shall we go for a drink? - No, thanks. I'll hang around for a bit.
Jessen.
Have her come here. Rent a room and have her come here.
Aren't you Wesselmans, Pierre Wesselmans?
I am.
We were neighbours only last year.
The heart.
Our profession is not kind to it.
How nice that you are home again. - Yes.
Last stop.
Hello?
Hello. - Pierre?
Hello?
- Hello, yes.
I thought we were disconnected.
Where are you now? - I've just left the ship.
Did you receive my last letter from Southampton?
I got two letters. - The one where I wrote about my hair?
No. What about your hair?
Nothing bad. At first I wanted to surprise you, but I wrote it after all.
Did you bleach it?
No, I cut it. It looks very good on me, Pierre, really. Do you mind?
Well, if it looks good on you, I don't mind, no.
Come quickly, take a taxi. - No, I'll take the tram, as always.
You're stubborn, as always.
Don't take line 5, for that only goes halfway with the dug up sewer.
And then you'd have to change or walk.
It's already late. There won't be much choice in trams anymore.
Are the children already asleep? - Yes, shall I wake them?
No, leave them. I'll see them tomorrow.
Yes, alright.
Why do you laugh?
For how many years have we played that game?
You leave ship, go to the phone.
No, first you take the bus and then you go to the phone and we cry 'hello'.
I say: Take a taxi. You sayt: No, I'll take the tram.
You ask if the children are asleep. I say: Yes, shall I wake them up?
You say: No, I'll see them tomorrow. - Do you like it that way?
Bliss.
The whole rite?
The whole rite.
Pierre, come quickly.
Well, see you later.
One, two, one, two, one, two, one, two.
And higher still.
You and your teeth. Nothing makes you more proud than your teeth.
Pierre, do you want to take a book?
Yes. Yes, that's fine.
What sort of book you want to take? - Yes, I'll get it myself.
I want to carry on all my life.
What with?
All my life I want to pack your suitcase.
Every time again.
When you come home and leave.
You were very glad when I joined the Gambetta, weren't you?
Yes, happy and relieved. Now I often feel alone.
But these three years have been heaven compared with the four years before that.
Months with half wages or no wages at all.
Yes, I was happy when you'd finally joined the Gambetta.
Sailing is not just leaving, sailing is also coming home.
As long as you sail, I know that one day you will return.
Would you fetch that book for me? Then I'll go and see the children.
Will we be having coffee? - Yes.
Will you take a taxi?
I will. Same as always.
Come home by tram and leave by taxi.
It's all part of the rite.
And what else is part of it?
Everything. This whole farewell.
It's one of the ten moments a year that we use to support ourselves.
Do you really want to bring your suitcase? - I'll have to.
I don't like to sail without my stuff.
You don't sail.
No, maybe not.
They never let you go ashore for just one night. It's against their principles.
If you bring your suitcase, they might make something up to keep you aboard.
I didn't know you were so superstitious.
Why do we keep talking to each other from different rooms?
From the bathroom to the bedroom, the living room to the kitchen.
Perhaps it's all part of it. - Part of what?
Part of the rite.
Really, I think it's very good, the short hair.
Do you like it better than before?
I do.
I definately prefer it.
Did you think of my hair last night? - Not just of that.
First you said you thought me pretty, and then...
You never came home like this before. You always used to take your time.
You always pretended you had seas of time.
Just tonight... - I have to go now.
And later you return. You leave and you return, all in one day.
And tomorrow, and the day after.
Every night you will be with me and leave the next morning.
And yet not really leave.
You're dreaming, aren't you?
Does that mister French still live here?
Frenkel. Yes, he still lives here.
Hello, taxi? Beethovenstreet 22.
Yes.
Thank you.
See you tomorrow. - See you tomorrow.
Hello. - Yes, hello.
Thirsty? - Yes.
Yes, so I thought.
Se to your clothes.
I slept on a bench last night, on a hard wooden bench I've slept.
Well, that can't be.
On a bench.
so.
Yes.
Greetings. - Come in.
I heard the children busy in the garden this morning.
That's why I didn't walk past the school.
Good, how silly of me not to tell you.
I got up very late. I tried to leave quietly.
Yes, at five to ten. You really went very quietly, but I still heard you.
I should have told you they did not go to school today.
Their father came home. - Perfect.
This time will I have the pleasure of receiving your husband?
Probably.
Cheers.
To your husband. - Cheers.
Will he stay long? - At least a while.
I didn't see you anymore last night.
When the bell rang, I went up, but you weren't there anymore.
I waited for you. I waited until the last man had left.
Where? - In the radio room.
I went to your quarter. First on deck, then in your quarter.
But I wasn't in my quarter. - No. Another beer and then I go.
I wait for sir.
Would you like some soup later? - No, thank you.
But I know you cook deliciously. - How can you know that?
You never eat it. - I smell it. You are a good cook.
And you're a very sweet woman. Really. The sweetest I know.
Then you should eat of it when I ask you.
Will you do it when I ask again?
When my husband is at sea again. - You cook for the children.
That is not the same.
Willy...
Why have you looked for me last night?
Maybe I just wanted to ask if you knew any more of those morbid jokes.
What jokes?
Like that submarine in Korea.
Let here come here, Willy.
I can. I go there and tell the whole story.
You could phone her at once. At my place if you like.
I must explain it myself, or she would not understand.
Wouldn't understand what?
That she should take a short holiday to come here.
To wait here until we're gone.
Careful, your glass.
Remember in Rio? I once saw you throw a glass to the rocks.
Aboard the say you have a cupboard full of shards.
And each shard is a souvenhir to you.
They say that too.
Here we are. And we wait.
And we don't even know for what or how long.
Suppose you will never sail again. Never and never and never again.
Except that you don't know it.
Every day you think: Here we go. But you fly back up the quay.
The next day again, year after year.
You don't even know if it'll go on the rest of your life. You know nothing.
And it's so damn funny to know that you know nothing.
And what are you going to do now, Willy?
Pay.
Pay and take the train.
Yes, take that too.
Say, Willy. - Well then, see you tomorrow, Wes.
Wait, I'll come with you.
Willy, you can sleep on my couch.
She was like her eyes were.
Once, in the basement, she begged me not to do it.
I didn't do it.
And everything between us was from that day as if I had done everything,
just as binding.
Even later at the beach I did not do it.
You will never come back.
She knew as much as I did.
On the sofa I took my leave of her.
Here in the air above my head the sofa had been.
Mama. Mama, papa is here.
Have you heard the alarm clock?
She floated on the surface like fuel oil on dock water.
At the station I wanted to know her name. I wanted to ask: What's her name?
But I didn't ask.
Her name is Maria Morella.
Suicide.
I asked if it was homicide.
The officer said they judged it suicide, and that she was only 26.
She's from your country.
Maria Morella. For hours I wandered with that name on my lips.
I said Maria to the shadows in my quarter, to the equipment in the radio room,
to the wind at night on deck and on the quay,
to the girl at the bar. Maria Morella.
You know her then.
I said: I'm beginning to know her. But he didn't think that an answer.
No, or yes?
And I said no, even though I would've liked to say yes.
She's from your town. She's 26.
Perhaps he wanted me to know all the women age 26 who lived in my town
and that I'd slept with all of them
because he wished to know if I knew about the mole on her left hip.
I told him I did not pay attention.
When didn't you?
I said: When she came from the water, and neither later at the station.
And again I spent the hours with Maria Morella.
I felt more familiar with this dead person I didn't know
than with the living whom I did know.
At the embassy they forced me to know her.
Again I said no, although I wanted to say yes even more than before.
...or don't you know her? We're convinced that you know her.
We have a letter from her mother.
He talked about the letter they got from her mother about Maria.
Only the police's fingerprints did not match.
No doubt a wrong thumb on a wrong card.
The fingerprints did not match. I said: She is Maria Morella.
You know perfectly well there's no doubt about it.
Let's not wait any longer.
I asked: If she's not Maria Morella is, then who is she?
Then she must be nobody.
I'd loved her, I'd had breakfast with her,
I'd even seen her naked. I'd called her Maria.
Even though she may've been someone else.
Adieu, Maria. Perhaps you really are Maria Morella
and everything about thumb and death was a mistake.
Maria.
Perhaps I have know you, there in our town, but forgotten you.
Perhaps I've loved you, we've had breakfast together
and slept with each other and I've named you Maria
while you're called Marleen or Leonore heette. Who can tell?
Now that no-one knows for certain if you are Maria Morella,
I will not forget you anymore, never. Adieu, Maria.
What time is it?
Lie still.
Will you lie still.
Listen.
What?
The sea. Very far away.
No, very close.
Just below my hand.
If we keep still like this, close together,
then perhaps we may never need to come into motion.
You look like Marc.
Marc's blue-green eyes
in Marc's face.
Without the lines here and there
you might as well be Marc.
Say, you're become younger, haven't you?
No, no, really. You really are younger with your hair so short.
Are the children going to school today?
Yes, let them go to school.
So you're not leaving?
Yes, perhaps I do. But perhaps I don't.
They never go to school when you're leaving.
Who says I'm leaving now? - If for a month you leave,
...and yet you don't leave, go aboard and return...
Surely I can't keep them from school for a month?
But you said they were going to school.
That's what you decided. - Very well. Let them go to school.
Remember your axis.
See you later, boy.
Seee you later.
Will you come straight home from school? - Yes, mister Frenkel collects us.
Today I take the tram. - That's what I though.
You did?
With the children at school and your suitcase aboard,
...there's no reason to take a taxi anymore.
Actually it doesn't look like a farewell anymore.
It's as if you're simply going to the office. - You would prefer that, right?
Then you would be certain that I would come home later, certain of everything.
Or later, tomorrow and the day after.
No, Pierre, even then I wouldn't be certain.
Not certain of what? - If you would always come back.
See you later.
Litinski. - Yes.
Sanon. - Yes.
Wesselmans. - Yes.
Jessen. Jessen.
Psaradellis. - Ja.
Dianca. - Yes.
Bouwmans. - Yes.
And Hensbergen. - Yes.
See you tomorrow, Wes. - Yes, see you tomorrow.
Will you come us for a drink? - I'm waiting for Jessen.
Silly of Jessen. If he doesn't show up, he'll be put away as a deserter.
He will come. - Okay.
See you tomorrow, then? - See you tomorrow.
Jessen.
Willy.
Willy, come out.
Willy, they rode to the other side.
Willy, come aboard. There's a ladder.
Come aboard, Willy. Why did you jump into the water?
Go away. - They can't get at you aboard.
Hear me? You're in the service of the government.
I should've taken you with me the day before yesterday.
Go away.
Come tonight to the car factory at ten o'clock.
Then I will bring you clothes, food, and shoes. What size are you?
Good evening, mister Wesselmans. - Good evening, mister Frenkel.
Would you like tea or coffee? - Yes, thank you.
So, coffee?
Richard Tauber, Rigoletto, May 1927.
Do you cook yourself?
Yes. Sometimes I go out to eat in town, where it's especially good.
I don't eat much, you know.
Do you take sugar, mister Wesselmans? - Yes, thank you.
I can't say how much it pleases me to make your acquintance.
Last time I was abroad to attend one of those boring conventions,
...that a music critis is sometimes required to do.
It would've been a great pity if you had left once again...
...without me receiving you.
She's pretty. - Yes, she is pretty.
She looks like Laure.
I've got a letter from her.
Forgive me, I cannot have you read the letter, but here it is.
She wrote it to me the evening that she sung Desdemona.
I have another one from the man who played Othello in the same show.
But he wrote his letter on the day that he was Siegfried.
I have many letters. For example...
Well, that was close.
Would it have been bad if it had broken?
No-one can destroy a thing like that and remain unpunished.
Is there a bigger crime than the destruction something that's perfect?
This would've been just an accident?
At the root of each accident there is an error.
Now, now. It's just a little vase after all.
One bomb will suffice.
Just a single one.
As if it was not just a lump of heated earth,
...empty on the inside, and just as imperfect as we.
Yes, you've probably sacrificed a lot for it, you've treasured it,
...and thought it important, much more important than a wife.
But you don't know half of what's happening in the world.
If a bomb comes tomorrow, you'd have nothing more than a shop of shards.
Just one little case can make me forget all of that.
It keeps me from thinking of all that's in store for us.
Of the destruction that we probably cannot escape...
...and the uncertainty, that is our only certainty.
Forgive me, I've let myself go.
I have some cake. - No, thank you.
I'd better head back down. - Would you like a drink?
No, thank you. - Here, for the children.
Mister Frenkel. - You have sweet children.
Thank you. - And also a very sweet wife.
Good evening.
Is he married? - Who?
That Jessen.
No, he's not married.
But he has a woman.
I put your brown shoes in the parcel.
You never wear brown shoes anymore anyway.
Do you think they'll fit him? - I don't know. Perhaps not.
But it's only temporary.
Would you have a woman whom you were not married to?
I've got you. And as far as I know, we're married.
Would it have changed anything if we weren't married?
No, I don't think it would've changed anything. Not between us.
Then why did you marry?
Why? - Why, most people marry.
And you were with child. Perhaps there would be more.
It's only natural that you think of marriage then.
Did you do it just for the children? - No, don't look at it that way.
But I had to for the children, and I wanted to for you.
I simply never thought of another possibility.
Would you ever have abandoned me if we hadn't married?
Would you always have returned? - Always. Well, I can't say that.
But if I would stay away, it would have nothing to do with the fact...
...that we were married or not. No, it would've had nothing to do with that.
So marriage isn't a certainty either. - No, to be honest, I don't know.
It depends what you mean by certainty.
But I don't think it's a certainty, marriage or the rest either.
Why do you ask so many questions now?
Perhaps...
Perhaps because you are away so often.
Then I wonder sometimes: Will he come back?
Then I think: Of course, we're married, aren't we.
You mustn't think that I would not return one day.
It wouldn't be for you.
That wouldn't have anything to do with you.
That I didn't love you or anything. - Then what with?
Pierre, I want to dance. - Now?
You don't need to turn on the radio, the music in the wall is sufficient.
But I have to go to Jessen. - It can wait five more minutes.
You know I am not a good dancer.
Dance.
Yes, but...
Good evening. - Good evening.
A glass of beer.
There you are.
You don't drink.
There. Well, I'll pass by sometimes.
It's nearly a quarter before the bus to town leaves.
Yes, but I'm not going into town.
At least, not immediately.
What's the time?
Quarter to ten.
Don't you play the harmonica?
No.
Not as far as I know.
But I do like music.
And I like to dance.
But not with everyone.
It's not easy at all.
What? - Loving people.
No, but it's not hard either.
It is not easy, and it is not hard.
It's like singing or dancing. You need a bit of talent for it.
So.
I ought to be going.
But perhaps I'll be back some time.
Yes, you should. I would like that a lot.
Perhaps then we'll dance.
Jessen.
The old farmer said it was time to go to the bailiff.
In the village they already knew his son Lucian had been killed.
The postman had taken the letter up into the vineyard, and had told
...that Lucien was a hero and had not suffered. He died instantly.
At home, the old man had sat down with his wife and said:
Lucien is coming. He'll be here one of these days.
After a while she'd asked: When?
And again the old man had said: Today or tomorrow.
It's a long journey straight accross the country from top to bottom.
I was a refugee from the North, where there was a war,
...to the South, where there was no war. Not yet.
Your wife will notice, said the bailiff. But the old farmer said it didn't matter.
The bailiff said he had tried very hard,
but the uniform that he found was out of date for a long time.
Again the old man said it didn't matter.
Her eyes aren't good anymore, he said. And she doesn't know the difference.
Then the bailiff told me to put on the costume,
...because I had to see my mother. I said: My mother's died six years ago.
I've only got my father now.
It's probably too large, said the bailiff, but that doesn't matter.
She doesn't see well anymore, your mother.
I wanted to walk back and say that I wasn't Lucien.
I wanted to say that Lucien was dead and that I was Pierre Wesselmans
...and not dead, not by far.
Lucien is here.
I'd walked a thousand kilometers, straight accross the country from top to bottom
...to be her son.
Mother, I had said.
And briefly I wondered if this was a lie.
And while I was wondering that, it had stopped itself being a lie.
Goodbye.
You should come and see us. We still live at the Van Dam square.
My wife would quite like that. We're old neighbours after all.
Yes, I think I should.
You should bring your wife. - Yes.
Yes, that... Yes.
Where do you live now? - In Beethovenstreet 22.
A relative of my wife used to live there. Her niece, I think.
In nummer 63, I think.
You should come by soon yourself. - Yes, that would be nice, thanks.
My heart isn't so bad.
Tomorrow I have a few hours off. Perhaps I will drop by then.
Well, see you tomorrow maybe.
Get home safely.
I'm going home to say goodbye.
Tomorrow...
I'll truly say goodbye.
And after that never no more goodbyes.
See you later.
Bye.
Good morning, madam. Is your husband at home? - No, he left this morning.
Don't you recognize me anymore? - No.
Van Dam square. - Ah yes, come in.
No, I don't have much time. I just dropped by.
I have to get to work. - How is your wife?
Good. Fine, thank you. Goodbye, madam.
Pardon me. - Is it you? Come in.
There you are.
Would you like coffee? - Take no trouble.
The heart. Our profession isn't kind to it.
I spoke with your husband last night on the bus.
Yes, he came home on the last bus. And now he's gone.
Gone?
Since this morning.
Are you sure of that? - Yes, I am sure of that.
Well, it's just that the ship is still docked at the quay.
Could be. It's quite possible that they only sail tonight.
But as of this morning, the crew stayed aboard.
No. A pal of mine told me who was on duty on the line this morning.
They all went ashore again.
He can probably drop in any moment now.
When I rang just now I thought: He's sure to be home by now.
Perhaps he just went boozing for a while.
But he doesn't drink, does he?
Does he drink?
Yes.
Excuse me. - Come in.
My husband didn't leave.
And he didn't come home either.
Let's go search him. Perhaps we'll find him.
His pals must know where he is. - It's no use.
It's the usual pubs. Sailors have no secrets for us.
It's already late. Your wife will be worried.
We're old neighbours, aren't we. She'll understand because we're old neighbours.
The children. - Don't you worry.
I will stay downstairs meanwhile.
You're a brave man.
Cheers.
It's no joke being stared at in every pub.
They undress you with their looks. - You get used to it.
It's no use searching for him if I have to say goodbye again soon.
Surely you don't believe that yourself. Would you really give up?
We may meet him, but who knows if that means we've found him.
That's no reason to give up.
You are right. We mustn't give up.
Do you have a room for the night?
A single room? - Yes.
You shouldn't drink anymore.
Not really, no.
Let's put an end to it. Are you sure they've come ashore?
They sometimes come here too.
You shouldn't drink any more.
You can't just barge into a bar without drinking something.
Thanks. - Thank you.
Cheers.
Why are you doing all this for us?
For no reason. I don't know.
It isn't always easy. - What?
Loving people.
How is the Gambetta?
How is the bus?
Night shift?
I buy a beer.
A fight?
We're searching for someone from the Gambetta, since half the night.
Why did you jump into the water?
He was at the car factory yesterday evening.
There was a pair of shoes in the parcel. And a shirt, as good as new.
A little tight around his neck... - Stop.
He was on the last bus. I told him: Safe return.
And that scared him.
He was scared because I said: Safe return.
Do you see?
That night we docked with the Gambetta
he told a rotten story about a submarine in Korea.
I asked if he had been in Korea. No, he said.
But he had the feeling he had been there with that submarine.
Sometimes he really felt he had seen it all. Do you see?
Yes.
I understand.
Do you happen to know where he is?
No.
It's as if you're frightened of him.
I can't imagine anyone would ever be frightened of him.
It's funny, really, that he comes home properly for three days, and
then he slips off for three days and I slip off for three days and then...
Yes, we're getting married. I've sent for her. And we marry.
If possible before the Gambetta sails.
Saying farewell every day. - Coming back every day.
Every day until the Gambetta sails. - Until she sails.
After all, you come back from that too. - Or not.
You talk like him.
Sometimes, yes. Probably because we're married.
Yes, I guess so. Goodbye.
Do you think it's possible? That he simply comes home again?
He loves you.
Yes, I think so too, but that isn't enough. Not always.
Yes, I'm convinced it's enough.
Laure.
Are you tired?
No. Perhaps a little bit drunk, but not tired.
Was there anything else?
On no account must you give up.
No. See you later.
You are a brave lady.
Water.
Thank you. Thank you, it will pass.
Taxi.
Did you have breakfast this morning?
No.
Where are the children? - At home. Mr. Frenkel is with them.
Shouldn't they go to school? - Not today.
Pierre, shall I cook you something nice when you get home?
Pierre? - Yes, that would be nice.
You aren't warm, are you?
Is it good like this? - Yes, this way it's good.
It's good like this, right?
I have to go now.
See you later, Pierre.
Say it, Pierre.
See you later.