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Return to Cherbourg Station

Return to Cherbourg Station Geneviève finds Guy at a local café, not the gas station. This time, there is no "super or ordinary" gas to act as a barrier. They talk—really talk—for the first time since 1957. Guy confesses his trauma from Algeria and his limp, explaining why his letters stopped. They realize they didn't stop loving each other; they simply stopped hoping. Guy: (Stirring his coffee, his eyes fixed on the spoon) You look different without the car. In the snow last year... you looked like a painting. Something I wasn’t allowed to touch. Geneviève: I felt like a ghost. I’ve been a ghost for years, Guy. Every time I put on those silk dresses, I felt like I was putting on a shroud. I did what I had to do for the baby. For my mother. But I never stopped looking at the door, waiting for a mechanic with grease on his hands to walk through it. Guy: (He lets out a bitter, short laugh) The mechanic died in Algeria. I remember lying in a field near Oran, my leg shredded, looking at a sky that was too blue to be real. I wrote you in my head every night. But the letters I actually sent... they were heavy. I didn’t want to send you my blood and the sand. I wanted to send you the man I used to be. Geneviève: Why didn't you? I would have taken the sand. I would have taken the limp. I just wanted you. When the letters became short, my mother told me you had found a woman there. A girl in the sun who didn't cry as much as I did. Guy: (Looking up, his voice cracking) There was no one. Only Madeleine, later, because she was the only one who didn’t ask me to be the old Guy. She just fixed my soup and let me be silent. (He leans forward) But when you pulled into my station that night... I realized I’d been holding my breath for six years. I didn't want to meet Françoise because I knew if I saw your face in hers, I wouldn't be able to let you drive away again. Geneviève: (She reaches across the table, her hand trembling. She doesn't pull back this time.) Roland is a good man, in the way a bank is good. He is safe. He is sturdy. But he is not the rain in Cherbourg. He is not the smell of the garage. Guy: We have lives now, Geneviève. We have children. We have people who depend on our "practicality." Geneviève: (With a sudden, fierce spark in her eyes) We’ve been practical since 1958. We’ve been "sensible" and "mature." And yet, here we are, in a cafe at midnight, because we are starving. I don't want to be sensible anymore. I want to be the girl who stood at the train station and thought the world was ending. Because it did end, Guy. Everything since then has just been an epilogue. Guy: (He covers her hand with his. His palm is rough, a stark contrast to hers.) If we do this... if we try to find the color again... it won't be a movie. It will be hard. People will be hurt. Geneviève: Let them be. I’ve spent a lifetime making sure no one else got hurt while I bled in silence. (She smiles, a real, tired smile) What was the name of the gas station? "Esso"? It’s such a cold name for a dream. Guy: (A small smile touches his lips) Then we’ll change the sign. We’ll paint it pink. Or orange. Or whatever color you remember the umbrellas being.