I shall never forget you, my love.
Cold
I adore you.
For the brother I once had.
Here lies a woman who loved her husband, her daughter, her country.
Excuse me, where is the tomb of Jim Morrison?
Dearest Oscar, at last we meet...
on a sunny day at the cemetery gates.
- Good day - Good day, ma'am.
- We are filming the sepulchre of Proust - News? Nice.
- Have you read him? - Of course.
All of the Recherche?
No, only the first book.
- And you? - No.
I haven't either.
- But nevertheless you pay tribute to him. - Absolutely.
It takes a long time to read all of the Recherche.
But he is one of the greatest novelists of the last century.
- Certainly. - Thank you.
Have a nice day.
- Good day. - Good day, ma'am.
Have you come to see Proust?
I come here often to clean the grave, and water the plants.
I look after the sepulchre a bit.
Like so.
Someone has left behind a pen so that he may continue to write...
in the afterlife.
I believe Proust still has living relatives.
Usually there are more flowers. Now there aren't very many.
Some times more than others. Sometimes there are splendid bouquets.
Look, this one's been here a long time.
- See what's written on that ribbon? - No, what?
'For Marcel, from your faithful friends in Slovenia. '
I put this photo on the sepulchre.
- Really? - Yes.
Very beautiful.
There, now it's all tidy again.
Do you come here every week?
Often, two or three times a week.
I come here every day.
- And you, ma'am? - Often. To water the roses.
I come to water the roses on my neighbor's sepulchre.
- And why do you come? - For my husband.
He's next to Morrison.
We are in Morrison's district.
How do you feel about that?
We have no problems with it.
While my husband was still alive, he'd say: 'We will never be alone. '
And he was right, we get many visitors.
But the crowds aren't what they were in the beginning.
Then you could see swarms of people.
All those Northerners with bottles of booze in their hands.
Girls and boys all over the ground.
It was a bizarre spectacle.
- And why have you come here? - My husband.
How long has he been deceased?
15 years.
I detect an accent. Where are you from?
Spain.
Ah, from Spain.
- From what part? - Madrid.
How long have you lived here?
- Almost 60 years. - 60 years?
Why did you come here?
Because of Franco.
Because of him, we had to leave our country.
If you had other ideas...
then you went to prison or you were shot.
It was terrible.
Terrible.
For fifty years his gang ruled. Nobody rose up against him.
The house where we lived...
had a terrace overlooking the cemetery.
One night we heard shrieks from the prison ambulance around the corner.
My sister and I ran up to the roof terrace.
The prisoners were shackled hand and foot.
And we saw the Civil Guard shoot them.
When they were on the ground, the priest would give them a mercy shot.
With a pistol.
And for that reason, I do not believe in God.
Because if even a priest kills people...
then there is nothing.
There is no God.
I am infinitely grateful to France.
France is dearer to me than Spain. It is sad but true.
Because Spain is my homeland. But such is life.
Do you come here often?
Since I've been in France I've come 3 or 4 times.
- Why did you leave your country? - I left, because...
Are you making a film about Sadegh Hedayat?
What sort of film is this?
It is a film...
about the importance of art in life.
That is why we are standing at the grave of Hedayat.
Yes, he was a great 20th century Iranian writer.
An extraordinary man.
When...
In one of his books he writes about why someone leaves his country.
It is in The Blind Owl.
It goes something like this:
I am so tired...
of these people all around me.
He was tired of others.
He was tired of it.
His surroundings, everything he saw going on around him...
That's why I left Iran. I was also a bit tired.
How long have you been in France?
18 years.
Had you read Sadegh Hedayat's books when you lived in Iran?
How old would I have been?
I first read Hedayat...
when I was twelve years old.
That is young.
The first thing of his I read was called:
The Stray Dog.
The title in Persian is: Sag-e Velgard.
The tale is of a dog...
suffering from too much heat.
Or perhaps too little warmth.
It's about a dog...
wandering towards his destiny in the streets.
He's hungry, looking for food.
He has no house, no owner.
But as I've read, he had no dog.
He was talking about people who were left in the lurch, like this dog.
He wrote about things about which others dared not speak.
And what are you doing here in Paris?
- I live. - How?
Doing what?
Hm, doing what?
At the moment I'm a taxi driver.
That's how I make a living.
But what I really live for...
what keeps me alive, is the singing...
classical Persian music.
- That's what you live for? - Yes, that is my passion.
This is how I keep living in France
Through music I keep a link with my Iranian background.
Thus I keep the culture alive in myself.
Do you sing?
I try.
Yes, I love singing.
It's a way of letting it all out.
Letting it all out?
To vent.
To let your feelings flow completely?
Yes, with music.
Would it be possible for you to sing something for me?
Right now?
No, I couldn't do that.
I really couldn't.
My voice is not warmed up.
What would you have me sing?
I've no idea, I don't know Persian music.
I have my book with me. I'll choose something.
Are they songs?
Poems of Hafez...
Sa'di and Khayyam.
Do you always carry them around with you?
I always keep this book in my car.
From a poem by Hafez.
I come often to water the flowers.
As you see, he has a very flowery sepulchre.
- Do you enjoy doing this? - Yes, very much.
He dies in the First World War.
He was hit by shrapnel...
but later, he died of the Spanish flu.
There was a pandemic then...
that claimed many victims.
His work...
He was a writer and poet. He wrote the most beautiful poems.
He also penned many calligrams.
Here you can see a heart, a reproduction of one of his calligrams:
'my heart is like a flame reversed'
Many people leave something inside the heart...
as a sign that they've visited his grave.
By chance I came by a book with all his calligrams.
Poems in the form of boats, pine trees...
airplanes, palm trees. He wrote an awful lot.
I found the book at a market booth along the Seine…
and bought it at once.
Unfortunately I don't have it with me right now.
His mother came from Poland.
Nobody knows who his father was.
That happens. That sort of thing happens.
He has a beautiful tomb.
I do not know all the details of his private life, but...
Here is a beautiful poem by him. Shall I read it?
I almost know it by heart.
At last I am freed from all worldly cares
I can die, no longer sin
And what nobody has ever felt I have felt, have touched
And I have penetrated things which nobody has ever imagined.
And I have weighed even imponderable life.
I can die with a smile.
Accustom yourself, as I have To the wonders which I proclaim
To the bounty which will prevail To the suffering which I endure
And you will know the future.
It's good, isn't it? Apollinaire...
Very beautiful. And his heart there...
Beautiful.
Did you know the name of my husband? Oxenaar.
I'll be on my way.
- Where are you from? - Armenia.
- Yes, I see the cross there. - An Armenian cross.
This is the cross from Haitap, the region where my father was born.
We call it ' khatchkar'.
Mother and I put it on his grave as a symbol of our roots.
That is important to us.
I do this every week.
Even in winter. Then I bring water from home to clean the grave.
Otherwise I wouldn't be happy.
When did your father die?
He died in 1996.
Almost ten years ago now.
Now we meet each other in this way.
- Do you also talk with him? - Certainly.
About what's going right or wrong. He knows it all.
I hope he hears me. But if not...
no worries.
- Do you speak of politics with him? - Yes, more than anything else.
I tell him whether I agree with it or not, then I say:
'I'll believe what you do, papa. '
Does he advise you about film and music as well?
Music, yes. I never go to films; but to museums, yes, often.
I tell him everything. I think that is important.
He was an artist, in his own way.
And I tell him all the beautiful things I've seen.
He was a man who loved beautiful things...
so he gladly listens to me.
What did your father love?
My father was himself an artist.
He was a world-renowned bootmaker.
He was even awarded the title of best craftsman in France.
He left great works behind him.
There is even a special room devoted to him in the International Shoe Museum.
He was an artist, and showed great respect for other artists.
A fascinating world.
That's why beautiful things always gladden my heart.
They make me happy, as they did him.
It is wonderful to be surrounded by beauty.
How does it feel being the only one in the whole Louvre?
Very refreshing.
But actually I am not alone.
I have the feeling that I am surrounded by a large family.
What is so wonderful...
is that I can really examine each work...
can take each one in.
Can really...
enter into the works.
Which you can't do when surrounded by people?
Not as much.
I feel a concentration today...
that I don't always have.
A concentration that carries me very far back in time.
As a little girl I always thought that all these figures lived...
and at night they'd come alive...
when all the people went away.
Asleep here in the museum; a crazy idea.
This painting has fascinated me for years. I don't know how long.
This is Caroline Rivière...
a girl of thirteen years.
Ingres painted it one year before she died.
She lies buried at Père Lachaise not far from Ingres himself.
She looks very much like a woman.
That's precisely what is confusing.
The composition displays a certain tightness.
An immobile, but looking deeply into the spectator.
At the same time I am sure that Ingres...
has stylized his model.
He has accentuated all the curves.
In the hair, the eyebrows...
and the neckline.
And ultimately, it's... How shall I say it...
The form is more importance than strict resemblance.
Form prevails over realism.
And that is what you find so interesting?
Yes. Imitation of reality is an illusion.
The painter seeks what lies behind appearances.
But the work of art always keeps its secrets.
For my son.
A memory never dies, it simply falls sleep.
For my uncle.
He chose this spot because he wanted his final resting place...
to be near the tombs of Simone Signoret and Yves Montand.
There names are her, and are a bit blurred.
I can't even remember my first visit to a cemetery.
I was so young.
My very first memory is of the cemetery where I went with my grandfather.
Thursdays after school...
He took me often to a small cemetery near his house.
Perhaps because there were no parks nearby.
What I remember is: We, together with his partner...
just the two of us strolling through an old romantic churchyard.
A bit like this.
For those of his generation, it was quite normal to go walking in a cemetery.
For us death is something secretive...
because it's something we'd prefer to disguise or evade.
Previously it wasn't so unusual to see a corpse. People died at home.
The burial procession always passed through the centre of the city.
There was a ceremony, a ritual.
Death was much more a part of everyday life.
Did you go willingly with your grandfather to the cemetery?
Yes, those walks have a special place in my heart.
I think what I learnt in the cemetery is important.
I read all those births and deaths...
and understood how long people had to live.
My first alphabet was a stone alphabet.
I consider myself lucky that I discovered cemeteries before I knew what death was.
I don't see death here.
Death is elsewhere, everything on the outside.
But not in the cemetery. Here it is hidden.
If we would show the cemetery in its true nature...
it would be unbearable.
I don't have a broom with me.
There is an engraved moth...
which refers to the book that he wrote.
An important book in Iranian literature...
that has been translated into French.
I give him his eyes back.
Many people put two cherries.
Because he's placed near a wild cherry tree.
The cherries are mainly eaten by the crows.
So cherry pits are all over.
Can you see the good eyes?
He is not blind anymore.
You know the book well.
- I've heard of it, yes. - The Blind Eye.
We have to stop at the stoplight.
Can you hear the bell?
That is the signal that we may cross over.
Which system is it? 'Accessibility' or 'Talks'?
I don't know anymore.
Is that the voice of 'Jaws', or is it a woman's voice?
- It sounded like 'Jaws'. - Then it's 'Talks'.
That's what it sounds like.
Then it's 'Talks'.
- Are you all right? - Fine.
We've rented a movie: Les Diaboliques.
A film by Henri-Georges Clouzot.
You must hear that music.
Typical fifties music.
You can tell this is an old film.
By the sound.
- They're brooding over something. - So it seems.
It sounds like they got thrown in the water.
- What is that? - No idea.
- A bottle, I think. - Yes.
They're trying to work up their courage.
Pastis.
Perhaps Ricard.
They're giving him a sleeping potion.
A really good plot.
What did he do?
He boxed her ears.
A good tap, yes.
We've got to get out of here.
It's impossible.
I can't go on anymore.
Then leave.
And what about you? I can't go alone.
You don't need me.
I'd rather be alone.
No, please, don't.
She keeps getting closer and closer.
Good film.
You hate me, huh?
Not even that.
What a great actress, that Simone Signoret.
Phenomenal.
She has a whole different style.
When we sing of the time of cherries,
gay nightingales and mocking blackbirds...
will celebrate,
pretty girls will have folly in their heads,
and lovers, sunshine in their hearts.
When we sing of the time of cherries,
the mocking blackbird will sing better.
But it is short, the time of cherries
Where one goes to pick them in dreams
Earrings
Cherries of love on the same dresses
Fall on the leaf in drops of blood
But it is short, the time of cherries
Coral-pink things that one picks in dreams
I will always love the time of cherries
I keep this time in my heart
An open wound.
This is the tomb that moves me the most.
I've watched it over the years, slowly eroding.
Lucky...
Somebody still thinks of her.
Elisa died when she was just 25.
Her mother was inconsolable.
So she had some of her daughter's poems engraved on the tomb.
But time has erased everything.
Twenty years ago you could still read this poem.
But now everything is blurred.
There is still a fragment of this poem visible.
But tomorrow the brook will refresh the roses
They will be seen moving in the mirror
And I, as a budding flower that blooms
Death will hide me under the wings of the evening
I am cold, and would cling to life
With this heart that loves you ignite into flames
As a traveller shaky after his many farewells
A final look at the beloved homeland
Her total oeuvre covers three volumes.
That's pretty good, given her short life.
In my tours of Père Lachaise...
I always linger longest with her...
How do you mean?
I always give more time to her...
than to Chopin, Yves Montand, or Molière.
- A bit of the 'other' world... - Yes, a bit.
That you may feel a bond not only with famous people...
but also with people you've never heard of.
Her flame flickers yet.
Soon there will be nothing left of her tomb but a little debris.
Actually you need a brush...
because it's stone.
With a cloth I get very dirty.
Not as much this way.
This is the grave of Modigliani.
A great Italian painter.
He was born in Livorno...
and died in Paris at a very young age.
He's buried here with Jeanne Hébuterne.
She was not his wife, but his model, his companion.
One day after he died, she leapt out of a window.
She loved him so much that she couldn't live without him.
- Are you familiar with Modigliani's work? - Yes, very much so.
- I paint in his style quite well. - Oh, really?
Yes, I'm good at painting.
Look, someone has left a brush for him.
Nice, huh?
Look, there it is.
May I see it again?
Sometimes I leave behind some paint, but that doesn't last long.
- Did you place this brush here? - No, somebody else did. Nice, huh?
Now I have to water the plants.
Melancholy artists: be consoled!
It is very special to be here now.
I only come here once a year.
To this very special monument.
Then I depart.
And again I experience the finest moment that Père Lachaise has to offer.
At a young age, I was about 15, I had the good fortune...
to meet a girl that was as special as the cemetery itself.
Through her...
I learned a whole different way of looking...
at Père Lachaise and at life in general.
They say that people who experience a serious accident...
at the fatal moment...
they see their whole life flash before their eyes.
In a fraction of a second they relive it all.
On that day with her, I had an opposite experience.
I saw my whole future unfolded for me.
And the future looked more beautiful than I had ever imagined.
I was seized with the certainty...
that there was a feeling I would never know:
Boredom.
I knew that certainly I would feel emotions like sadness or anger.
That I would experience nasty, negative emotions such as hatred...
but that I would never fall prey to boredom.
When I met her, I had already gained a fair amount of knowledge...
about this cemetery. Practical information...
such as names and dates...
but she added a new dimension to it: feeling.
- She gave me the key. - What sort of key?
The core of what she said to me was:
'Bertrand, if your life is full of Chopin's music...
'of Balzac's novels...
'Musset's poems...
'then you will never be alone. '
Farewell Maria.
Rest in Peace.
Maria, you are always in our hearts.
When did your passion for Proust begin?
It actually began with a distaste for Proust.
The first time I tried to read Proust, meaning, the Recherche...
I was in the Navy, in Africa.
I had just broken my ankle.
Shackled to my chair I did what so many do:
I finally got around to reading the Recherche.
I got not further in than fifteen pages.
I found it totally unreadable, a waste of time.
- 'What should I do with this book?' - How old were you then?
That was in 1977, I was 20.
But then my wife aroused in me a new interest in Proust.
- How long ago was that? - 15 years, I was 35.
I took up the Recherche and began to read it again...
not at all for my own pleasure...
but to convince her what a tedious, snobbish, dusty book it was.
I don't know why, but on a second reading a spark caught fire.
Naturally I had changed, I was 15 years older.
I had loved, suffered, mourned. Everything that makes one human.
The Recherche is a quest for the self, but you must already be somebody.
When I was 20 my self didn't exist, there was nobody to discover.
As I progressed through the Recherche, something crazy happened to me.
Without noticing it, I had brought home piles of art books from the library.
For proper understanding of Proust, you need the visual arts.
I thought: I'll look for a comic book of the Recherche, because as a draughtsman...
it must be documented.
The Recherche is such a visual feast, Proust is actually a painter.
It should be illustrated, I thought...
What do you mean by 'Proust-the-Painter'?
In fact he was something of a painter.
He thinks in pictures, but cannot sign them.
He is like a blind painter.
He describes the images in his head using words.
For me, Proust is an impressionistic writer.
He writes the way an Impressionist painter paints.
So I went into a bookstore, the owner's a good friend...
and I ask for the Recherche as a comic strip.
He goes into his computer and it says that no such thing exists.
'Why isn't there such a thing?' I couldn't believe it.
'Then I'm going to make one. '
My first comic I've signed for the Proust-lovers.
Want to know how Aunt Léonie's house looked?
Want to know how the cavalry was dressed in those days?
I wanted a visual reference.
The first year I was expecting about 500 readers.
There were 5000 in the first month.
My publisher was shocked: they sell like hotcakes.
Many readers probably thought:
Now I want to know about the 'madeleine'.
- What about them? - It is an important episode in the book.
That 'madeleine' is really a monument.
'This is my Proustian madeleine', we say of particularly strong memories.
- A madeleine is a biscuit? - Right, it looks like this.
- Usually, with a ridged top. - Like that there?
In this scene he came home. 'No, I'll not need any tea, mama. '
Then he sees the biscuit.
And he dipped the madeleine in some tea in his spoon.
A wonderful feeling enveloped me...
without my understanding why.
Where was the overwhelming joy coming from?
It was related to the taste of the tea and the biscuit...
but it was of a far greater and different nature.
The truth that I'm looking for, is within me and not in this taste...
whatever it is.
I had to try ten more times..
What is palpitating in my depths must be the image, the visual memory which...
being linked to that taste, has tried to follow it into my conscious mind.
Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory?
And suddenly the memory returns.
The taste was that of the madeleine which on Sunday mornings...
my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of lime-flower tea.
And just as the Japanese amuse themselves by filling a porcelain bowl with water...
and steeping in it little crumbs of paper which the moment they become wet...
stretch themselves and bend, take on colour and distinctive shape...
become flowers or houses or people, permanent and recognisable...
so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann's park...
and the water-lilies on the Vivonne, the good village folk and their little dwellings...
and the parish church and the whole of Combray and of its surroundings...
taking their proper shapes and growing solid, sprang into being, town and gardens alike...
all from my cup of tea.
Proust's 'inadvertent memory'...
- is something other than the memory. - What then?
It is not a conscious memory of something.
As they say: This puts me in mind of something.
'Yes, now I've got it:'
'My grandmother's stew. '
That is a recovered memory.
An involuntary memory arises out of a sensory association...
and you just disappear, you're no longer there.
In a fraction of a second, you're taken back...
to your grandmother's stew.
In that sense Proust gives you eternity.
If you are able to be the child that you were on your ten...
then you are eternal.
Then you are immortal.
All the moments of your life have been preserved. Until you're dead.
An extraordinary discovery of Proust.
In Search of Lost Time is also a story...
of a man searching his entire life for happiness.
First he seeks it in his family, his mother...
then amongst his little circle of friends...
and then in love, and in society.
But he eventually finds it in art.
'The real life is art,' says Proust.
Because Proust's eternity...
- But that's not true. - But it is.
Take Leonardo da Vinci... Spend a day at the Louvre...
you will see 4 Cubans, 10 Chinese, 15 Dutch and 20 French people...
who have come to stare at this woman he painted.
The painter is no more, but both continue to move us.
Is that not immortality?
Is that not the strength of art?
Creator of the cinematic spectacle.
It always touches me when I'm here.
I have kept in my heart thanks to the cemetery.
A singer who was taken from us by cancer.
She was not yet 28 years old and had just begun to gain a reputation.
I remember vaguely that I heard about her when she died.
- How old were you then? - 19
one day I walked by chance down this lane...
and saw her name, her photo.
It was such an unknown grave where you walked past.
In books about the cemetery there's nothing about it.
I became curious about her music.
She had two LPs.
I couldn't believe what I heard.
- Why? - I really love the French chanson.
I have high standards.
And since I discovered a whole new oeuvre...
that even after 20 listenings remained as good as the first time.
And I discovered a singer-songwriter who was totally unknown.
Unjustly.
That voice that is about to break...
so fragile...
who sings about topics that concern everyone, but never banal.
She had her admirers.
I remember coming to lay a flower on her grave. It was the 10th anniversary.
And on this remote spot on the cemetery...
stood a woman at her grave. She had from Lorraine.
She had come 400 km..
to be with her that day.
Other than that woman, I've never seen anyone at her grave.
I think it is a nice idea...
this grave, which nobody visits.
She is your special concern?
Something like that yes. And that I must do something for her.
That I should make her work known to a wider audience.
Because it is so terribly unfair.
I am writing you with my left hand.
The hand the never said anything
She hesitates, she is so awkward
I always kept her hidden
I kept her in my pocket
There in the dark
To take notes
And invent stories
I am writing you with my left hand.
The hand that never counted
It was the one that made the mistakes
At least, that's what they said
I tried to silence her
In order to find the straight path
A life without mystery
What each hand does not give the other
I really love...
all the portraits he painted in his short life.
There's is an enormous number of them.
There is a huge force in his paintings...
and also a serene sadness.
To me that is very important, because I work a lot with faces.
- Do you know the paintings well. - Yes, through my studies.
I studied art history at university.
I have studied his paintings.
His form, his color...
and especially how he shapes woman.
That is something I consider to b an inspiration for my work.
He makes no realistic portraits. He distanced himself from realism.
He paints people who mean something to him.
With his models, the faces are mirrors.
It's not about making a faithful likeness...
but the appearance of the person. He painted experiences.
What do you do for work?
- I'm a thanatopracteur. - What's that?
I preserve and care for bodies of the deceased.
The face is also very important in my line of work.
The face is the last thing...
the survivors hold in memory.
That is why it is so important.
For Modigliani the face had great significance.
He painted so many of them.
And in his way...
The way he plays with light, the colour used in those faces...
I find it very beautiful.
So are you a painter as well?
Yes, I try to paint.
You must bring back the face to its former state.
You should try...
in a sense...
You must try to put in place of the family...
to find out what they expect...
and to know what you can give them.
But that is often incompatible.
They almost expect you to bring the dead back to life.
This is Elizabeth.
A beautiful woman.
I see her natural beauty.
I see everything in a face, even the defects.
It is not my job to make them disappear.
And also not to, what is frequently demanded of me...
to make the deceased look prettier or younger.
It is my work...
to make the deceased look...
just as they did at the moment of death.
I must ensure that suffering or sickness disappears from the face.
I must remove those things.
I have to help the family understand that that person is dead.
They must accept that...
I cannot make the person more beautiful or perfect.
Does your work ever cause you to cry?
No.
I am not someone who cries easily.
That is not in my nature.
Not that I feel nothing, but I keep it at a distance.
Not for people I don't know and never will know.
I have no emotional bond to them.
I also have blocked tear ducts. I am incapable of shedding tears.
Even if I wanted to...
I could cry.
If at each treatment...
I were to become emotionally involved with the dead...
I'd be exhausted every day.
I must protect myself.
Death is not a clean thing.
But death is part of our lives. Whether you like it or not.
We must unfortunately live with death.
You cannot wipe out death.
It surrounds us, our families.
It's omnipresent in the daily news.
People who are afraid of the death are probably afraid of their own death.
If one comes close to death...
one is usually frightened of the loneliness to come...
and frightened of their own death.
- Good day. - Good day, madam.
- It is a beautiful day today. - Lovely.
- Have a fine day. - Same to you.
- Whose is this grave? - My husband's.
He died very young.
Of a bee sting.
We had been married exactly two months.
We had lived together for three years.
We got married on 2 July 1999.
On 8 September he died.
- That's terrible. - Yes, it was a huge blow.
We married for pure love.
I was 20 years older than him. He was 34 and I 54.
We were very deeply linked to each other.
The great love every woman dreams of, I found at 54.
I'd been married before, but that was only...
because I wanted children.
But still...
Yes, I had three years of intense happiness.
Many women never have even that.
Mine was of very short duration.
But in any case I have known happiness.
Our love for each other was very deep.
- He did not know... - That he was allergic? No.
He had lived 17 years in Africa.
He never imagined that he would die of an ordinary bee sting.
We were in Guadeloupe when it happened.
- May I ask his name? - Thierry.
And I am Michele.
In the beginning I came here every day, now once a week.
I realise now that he is gone forever.
- You possess great strength. - Thank you.
Thank you.
You hear about death every day, but when it happens to you...
it is very heavy.
Thank you.
Ladies and gentlemen, good evening.
And a warm welcome.
We have the pleasure and honor of being able to listen to...
Yoshino Kimura.
Interpreting for the first time in public...
Nocturne No. 8 in D maj. Opus 27, No. 2...
of Frederic Chopin.
Ladies and gentlemen: Yoshino Kimura.