The War Is Over

1

THE WAR IS OVER:

You made it.

Once again you see

the hill of Biriatou.

Once again you have that stale,

anxious taste of crossing the border.

You drove all night.

Your mouth is dry from too little sleep

and too much tobacco.

Once again you cross this border

in the shimmering early-morning light.

The sun rises behind you

over the Elizondo peaks.

Once again, you'll make it over.

It's all right.

You'll make your train.

All night I was afraid

we might break down.

But there was no reason.

I had the car checked.

An obsession.

You know how it is.

At night, the stretch

between Burgos and Miranda...

miles of desert around us...

No offense, but service stations in

your country leave a lot to be desired.

I didn't dare push the car too hard.

I was afraid.

If it weren't for you,

I would have played tourist today.

A good meal

in a seafood restaurant.

Crabe in a hot sauce

with a nice white wine.

Or roast pig at Bottine's,

behind the Plaza Mayor.

And in the afternoon,

a bullfight, of course.

I generally don't get the time

to see the towns I go to.

Believe it or not, I haven't even

set foot yet in the Prado in Madrid!

I can tell you now...

last night when you said

we had to rush back, I was furious.

That wasn't hard to see.

We usually spend the night talking, but

last night you acted like I didn't exist.

I'd arranged to be away three days.

My wife was going

to run the bookshop alone.

Today the Prado.

Tomorrow Toledo and Aranjuez.

A three-day vacation,

in other words.

So last night when you read

the letter I brought you...

and then said we had to set out

immediately, I was fuming!

So I ruined your trip, eh?

Take it up

with the Spanish police.

- There's a crowd already.

- Easter. They spend the day in Spain.

Easier for you.

They have less time to check passports.

- How did you manage it before?

- Before?

When the border was closed.

When there were no tourists.

We crossed over

through the mountains.

Sometimes we ran into

the Guardia Civil.

- And then?

- Then we'd shoot our way through.

- You're no problem at all.

- Why?

No one hearing you talk

would take you for a Spaniard.

Even I forget sometimes.

The last buddy I drove over

didn't speak a word of French.

He pretended to be asleep.

If they had asked him a single question,

our goose would have been cooked.

With you it's a cinch.

Please park your car

and step inside the station.

- Why? Listen, I'm in a hurry.

- Police check. Pull the car up there.

Come on, let's go.

- What's all this about?

- I've no idea either.

You think it's a random check?

You sure your papers are okay, Carlos?

Remember what we said.

It'll be all right.

Leave the key in the car.

Follow me.

- What about our bags?

- Never mind. Leave them.

Have you got something

against Citroens today?

Thank you.

So that's it.

I bought some books in his shop.

We struck up an acquaintance.

And so, Mr. Rene Sallanches,

you were there on vacation?

Yes.

- Alone?

- Yes, alone.

And you live in Paris

at Rue de I'Estrapade, number 4?

No, number 7.

And you met Mr.Jude

in his bookshop in Hendaye?

That's right.

And Mrs. Jude...

What's her first name again?

Marie. She's charming.

Do you have

a telephone in Paris?

Of course.

Medicis 33-74.

Call this number right away.

It's Sunday morning.

You'll wake up Nadine.

I told her nothing's wrong, but

she's worried and wants to speak to you.

What's wrong?

Did you run over another old lady?

- Everything's fine.

- Why did he call?

- A simple formality.

- Busybody.

These things happen, you know.

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