The Salamander

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A color film in monochrome.

Hello? Paris?

May I speak to Louis Roy?

Louis Roy, like your

King Louis, backwards.

Exactly.

Louis?

It's Pierre.

I'm fine, thanks.

Brazil?

Two months of lovely weather,

and otherwise ghastly.

You'll have them in a month.

Three articles, like we agreed.

What bullshit!

The Paris newspaper won't

take me on at the moment.

Didn't they promise, more or less?

Not definitely.

They've got financial problems.

And I will too, soon.

Won't they pay for the Brazil

articles?

Yes, but not much.

I'll have to freelance.

Take up Bernard's offer

for that television job.

Oh, right.

I can't write a script for Bernard

and my Brazil articles.

Write it with someone else.

With whom?

I don't know.

Your hairy writer friend, Paul.

Not a bad idea.

Paul?

Paul! A call for you.

Who is it?

Richard Nixon. Or Leonid Brezhnev.

I don't know which. One or the other.

That's fine. Thanks, Paul.

See you soon.

I might not come to work

on Monday morning.

Or Monday afternoon.

Maybe not for the whole month.

We're fed up with your

comings and goings.

That's our arrangement,

I'm not at your beck and call.

He works when he feels like it.

Great! Isn't it?

Elsewhere, I work harder for nothing.

That's your business.

Exactly, that's my business.

You got on our nerves

with your mucking about.

Pack it up!

Paul lived in a secluded spot,

but not for love of nature.

He appreciated tranquility,

but it was a small house,

and the rent was only

100 francs a month,

and he appreciated that even more.

We find ourselves in the

country's western frontier,

two steps from the border,

and Switzerland seems to be left

behind.

We turn our backs on her.

On the other side of this

no-man's land lies France.

A country where one never

knows what the next year,

or month, will have in store.

Despite appearances,

which one should never trust,

Paul was not a plasterer,

or a singer,

but a writer.

This was October 25th.

The weather was rather dull.

Come in!

Come in!

You've brought a suitcase?

Are you gonna take the job?

- Have you decided?

- No.

But I live 10 miles away, and it's

cold.

I've brought my things, in case I

stay.

Good thinking!

Well?

You know Bernard, the guy from TV?

- No.

- Nevermind.

He's a friend. I'm doing a job for

him because I need the cash.

I've got to write a story, a script,

based on a year old news item.

He wants to film it, and

he'll pay in advance.

But since I have to write

my Brazil articles,

I'd like for you to help me with it.

OK?

- It depends.

- Depends on what?

Lots of things.

Has your scribbling ever brought

in 2,000 francs in a month?

Not counting the poems your wife

writes!

Listen. We'll make 4,000 francs.

We can do the job in one

month, they've allowed three.

What more do you want?

I'd like to know the subject,

and how we tackle it.

I don't work to order.

- Tell me about the event.

- Very simple.

A story which fizzled out.

A man whose niece lived with him

claimed she shot him with his Army

rifle.

The bullet hit him in the shoulder.

She denied everything.

She claims the old man hurt

himself cleaning his rifle.

There were no witnesses, they

both maintained their statements,

and the case was dropped.

That's all.

Strange.

There's a press clipping about it, up

there.

Bernard would like a sort

of sociological study.

The girl's name is Rosemonde.

Rosemonde? I'd forgotten that.

Doesn't sound bad, Rosemonde.

So?

Hold on.

Are you staying?

- Interested?

- Yes, I am.

How will we work?

Together is more complicated.

We'll make it however you like.

Have you got a calendar

with Saints' Days?

- Saints?

- Yes, saints.

Maybe in my diary...

Yeah, here they are...

- What are you looking for?

- Hold on.

Here. I found it.

April 30th, St. Rosemonde. As

I thought, it's a calendar name.

So what?

- That explains it.

- Explains what?

That the girl wanted to kill her

uncle.

Our names are in the calendar,

but we don't kill uncles.

Let me explain.

It happened like this:

Rosemonde comes from a big family.

In big families, when the usual

names have been exhausted

on the first-born brats,

the parents run out of ideas,

and start using calendar names.

Thus:
a big family...

...a swarm of noisy little brats.

A big family means a country family.

They couldn't afford the

housing racket in town.

So they live in the country,

but not any old stretch of country,

Catholic country, still a little

backward.

Contraception unknown, calendar

saints, and all that.

The father's a blockhead,

education leaves a lot to be desired.

And why does Rosemonde live in town?

That's easy:
the father can't make

ends meet.

He'll never make a go of things.

Salvation:
a brother in town,

comfortably off,

room to spare, easily put upon.

So he's landed with the girl,

and there's one less at home to feed.

What does Rosemonde do in town?

She does miserable jobs, unskilled

jobs.

She starts to run wild.

Uncle tries to straighten her out.

They quarrel.

One day he's cleaning his army rifle,

and inevitably, Rosemonde being who

she is,

a shot's fired.

Not a bad story.

I'll stay. What's your opinion?

Not bad. There's just one little

problem.

Which is?

What about the facts?

I've been stating the facts for five

minutes,

apart from some minor details.

I feel I've earned my living, today.

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