Paris, January 6, 1940.
Again, she wrote all night.
She stretched, looked out at the rising sun...
then bundled up against the early morning chill.
As if drawn by some invisible force...
she headed off across the waking city.
Her cravings were vague,
poetic.
She was expecting someone.
Her excitement growing,
she ran through the treelined park to the banks of the Seine.
Out of the mist,
she heard that familiar sound...
with oars dipping
into the frigid water.
The creak of the skiff
powering forward,
cutting arrow-straight through the still river.
As she watched him...
she asked herself...
how could a man she'd never met
fill her with such longing?
She knew the answer.
lt was precisely this feeling
she had been starving for,
to fall in love in such a way
that the mere sight of a man,
even a block away,
would make her tremble and soften and melt.
l think it's the best work l've ever done.
l'd like you to try and sell it.
There is no business.
lf l were you, l'd consider going home.
This is not a time to be in Europe.
No.
No, l can't.
l haven't gotten what l've come here for yet.
l loved your book.
Your book is wonderful.
Good luck on the tour.
Hell of a party, Marcel.
All l had to do was tell people the liquor was free.
- They're your friends. - God bless them.
To the two most beautiful women in Paris.
To our gifted but naughty guest of honor.
And to Marcel, our host, agent extraordinaire,
who blessed my life with his belief in me.
Thank you.
Watch out.
Elena.
Marcel.
l thought you were working.
My muse must have gone to the beach.
l haven't had a single coherent thought all day.
- Do you mind? - No.
l know you.
This morning...
and the morning before that
and the morning before that...
on the bridge.
l write at night,
and at sunrise, l take a walk along the river
before l go to sleep.
l know.
What else do you know about me?
Elena Martin, American,
came to Paris four months ago to be a writer,
works hard, keeps to herself,
could be shy,
could be a recluse.
Well, you have me at a disadvantage.
For now.
Beautiful, isn't he?
And dangerous.
The truth is, l only consented to this little going-away party
because l hoped Marcel would persuade you to come.
Now here you are.
Time stood still.
We could have been on the dance floor for 1 0 minutes
or two hours.
l don't know.
Tell me about your book.
l hate it.
l know what you mean.
Do you?
He talked about his work
and his upcoming tour,
how he was leaving for New York at the end of the week,
how he didn't want to go,
and right in the middle of it all,
he began telling me stories.
He spoke the way he writes-- clear and precise...
shocking at first, then beguiling.
l was at a dance like this once in Saint-Tropez.
l could see it all.
Everyone was drinking themselves blind--
townspeople, society people,
mixed with fishermen, artists,
whores.
Bonsoir, mesdames et messieurs.
The band was hot,
jungle-hot,
then the bandleader announced this...
special dance.
When the music began again, it was wild, hypnotic.
Then they turned out the lights,
first for five minutes...
When the lights came back on,
some people left.
The rest waited, as if for a storm.
They waited for the lights to go out again.
Then the lights went out for 1 0 minutes.
Pretty soon, you couldn't tell the difference
between the whores and the town girls.
They were all in the same state--
hot...
giddy at the prospect of being caught by the light.
Some were bare-breasted,
their dresses torn.
And finally, for 1 5 minutes, when the lights came back on,
all you could hear was a woman's moan,
rising in ecstasy,
lost to the world,
perched on the edge of a cliff.
She refused to relent
until she achieved final and complete release.
Flesh.
She was hunger and flesh.
Workers of the world, unite!
Chaos, madness.
The scent of war has created hysteria.
Every party turns into a political rally,
and every rally turns into a party.
Communists and fascists...
red banners and gray shirts.
This is the wrong time to be in Europe.
lt doesn't matter.
l just thank God l'm here.
Lawrence!
Lawrence.
Harry.
Lawrence.
What a delightful surprise.
Millicent, this is Lawrence Walters.
How do you do? Your book is wonderful.
- And... - Elena Martin.
Charmed. l published his first manuscript four years ago.
Caused one hell of a stir-- the entire moral league up in arms.
- Churchgoers, concerned housewives. - l remember it very well.
Now he's so famous, every publisher wants him.
l love your work.
Come on, Elena!
- l'll see you in New York. - Talk to you, Harry.
l'll be at the Plaza.
This is ''Liberty,''
your English-speaking broadcasting system.
Used to be the stairwell.
When the stairs fell apart,
they closed it off and turned it into a flat.
Perfect.
- Do you mind? - Be my guest.
Ahh, l love whiskey.
Whiskey... and women on bridges in the early-morning fog.
Too much whiskey.
Before tonight, l entered each room
looking for a miracle,
which never took place.
Now here he is,
asleep in my bed.
Before tonight,
l was growing sad with restlessness and hunger.
l felt that nothing would ever happen to me.
l felt desperate with desire to plunge into living.
- Merci, monsieur. - De rien.
l passed out.
Look around you. Tell me what you see.
What do you mean?
Tell me a story,
like you're writing it-- describe it to me.
l see...
l see a wealthy man...
who's returning home from a visit to his mistress.
He's sad...
because his arthritis has been acting up again
and he knows that she's grown bored with him,
taken on a younger lover.
There they are,
kissing...
just like their grandparents kissed
and their parents kissed...
and the way...
we kissed last night.
Your turn.
l see an adventurer...
a dreamer...
a very good writer.
How would you know?
l peeked at one of your stories on Marcel's desk
when l was at his office the other day.
l swiped another when l left this morning.
You what?
''Something... in her had created a perpetual defiance
of the very possibilities of experience,
an urge for flight.
She had stood many times on the edge
and had to run away.''
Your work makes me jealous.
Of what?
Your spirit.
Your potential.
Would you like some tea?
Tell me what you feel.
Your body... pressed against mine.
Does that excite you?
Oh, yes.
Do you want me to make love to you?
Yes.
Ah...
Jean-Luc.
Elena, Jean-Luc.
How do you do?
- Please, please. - Thank you.
Sometimes l come here to sleep,
sometimes to write.
lf there's a God,
l think this is the closest l'll ever get to Him.
l can't believe you're leaving.
lt breaks my heart.
Come with me.
l can't.
l need to work.
Death to fascism!
Death!
Death to fascism! Workers of the world unite!
So, so...
the crusader-- he puts a chastity belt on his wife
and gives the key to his best friend.
Yeah?
And he's barely riding a mile
when his amigo comes galloping up shouting wildly--
''Stop! Stop! You gave me the wrong key.''
Why do you always ruin the hit line for me?
Punch line!
Punch line, darling.
So how's work?
Good.
Bad. l don't know.
Meanwhile, l spent my last cent on an angel.
Miguel has a proposition for you.
My life drawing class needs a new model.
Everyone's modeling nude.
- lt's the rage. - No, l don't think so.
l've done it a trillion times. lt's liberating.
A body is a body is a body.
lf it doesn't work, you can always take up prostitution.
Oh, Donald.
lt's what you all want, isn't it?
You must be joking.
No, you do nothing but have sex all day,
someone else pays for everything,
a villa in the country,
l mean, life is grand.
lt's made, and someone else is paying for it.
You are a vicious,
vicious, vicious little man.
Elena? Elena?
You should work for him.
You have a beautiful body.
l see a woman surrounded by men
on a cold Paris street.
l see a soldier...
who's frightened of leaving the only world he's ever known.
l see a boy dressed as a soldier,
whose mother, when she dropped him off
at the train station yesterday morning,
remembered sending him off to his very first day of school.
l see a red-headed woman
who knows the boy's thinking,
''What if l die...
without ever having made love to a woman?''
So beautiful.
l've never let anyone look at me before.
No, not there yet.
Softly.
l can taste myself.
l love it when you kiss me.
l want you inside me.
The world is now shut out.
There's only this sound,
this feel,
these fleeting moments that are left.
By this time tomorrow,
he'll be gone.
lt's only a question of time
Before you are all mine
For, my darling, can't you see
You belong to me?
And it's only a question of...
Ah, that's sweet.
'Cause the love that lives in your heart...
The man of the hour.
l love that man.
Beautiful,
don't you think?
Sublimely, terrifyingly, gorgeously,
dangerously so,
with just enough madness in him to keep him interesting.
...to me.
Thank you.
You were great.
Thanks.
Thank you.
So... where is he?
- Saying good-bye-- - Don't say it.
- What? - Pay no attention to him.
He's just jealous.
l was just saying goodbye to an old friend.
Why her?
l asked you a question.
Because l have a passion for self-destruction.
Because she means nothing to me.
l don't know what l expected.
Please, Elena.
l want to talk to you.
l'm sorry about what happened on the street.
l don't know what l expected.
Please.
l don't want to leave like this.
He was gone now--
out of Paris...
and out of her life.
The fall was much greater than she had ever known,
'cause she'd ventured so far into emotion
and had abandoned herself to it.
The most terrifying aspect of her feelings
was that she was unable to shrink back as before
to shut out the world.
She realized that he had not only penetrated her body,
but also her very being.
Please, Marcel,
if you can't sell my stories,
just give me some work.
l don't care what it is--
technical manuals, translations, anything.
We're in a depression. Nobody's publishing. Nobody's buying.
But you could try.
l heard from Lawrence. The tour is going well.
How nice.
He's worried about you.
Take this.
No.
Merci.
But l could never.
- l've never been so nervous. - Good.
l've always believed one should confront
that which frightens them the most.
Open your eyes, Elena.
Put your hands on his hips.
Put your head against his back
and look out.
Pierre, Elena.
Elena, Pierre.
Be happy.
Bonjour. Oui.
For you.
No, not until you've paid your rent.
Fooled you.
Hello.
Marcel.
Yeah.
When?
Ciao.
You sold it?
Sold what?
Oh, the story. No.
But you said you had good news.
Perhaps.
lt depends on your reaction to what l have to propose.
l received a call from someone yesterday,
a person who collects erotica.
l wouldn't normally have thought of you
for this type of assignment, but it pays rather well.
- How well? - 200 francs a page.
That's a fortune.
What kind of a pervert would pay that much for a dirty story?
lf that's your reaction,
then this isn't the job for you.
Who is he?
Let's just call him a serious collector.
Who is he, Marcel? l want to know.
He wishes to remain anonymous.
Where does he live?
You are such a pain in the ass.
He lives in a villa that he inherited from his family.
lt's crumbling and surrounded by vineyards.
There was a time when he had wild parties.
He was a ladies' man.
And?
And... something happened.
Something horrible.
A neighboring farmer one day looked out his window
and saw his cypress tree burning.
The collector's car, an old Bentley,
had crashed into it and exploded into flames.
The farmer pulled him out, but he was badly wounded.
Now he's crippled, and his face is scarred.
He stays inside. He doesn't go out.
He reads, he yearns,
and he dreams.
l'll do it.
Elena went to a dance
at a seaside pavilion in Saint-Tropez.
All anyone could hear was a woman's moan
rising in ecstasy above the sudden silence.
Flesh.
lt was hunger and flesh.
''Dear anonymous,
l was intrigued
when Marcel suggested you write erotica for me.
What man wouldn't want access
to a woman's innermost thoughts,
to be permitted entry to that secret place
where fantasies are born?
lmagine then my disappointment when l read your story,
which was trite
and revealed nothing profound about a woman's desires.
Obviously you are so frightened of intimacy,
you neglected to sign your name.''
Look...
l want to prove that l can do this,
even if it's only to myself.
He paid me for a story,
so l'll deliver a story.
lf he likes it, l'll do more, and if not,
at least l'll feel better about having taken his money.
Okay?
l had forgotten how young you are.
Monsieur.
Forget about books.
l am what you want.
lt's okay.
lt's okay!