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a film by Aleksey Uchitel
Here, take some medicine.
Now lie quietly. Better now?
- Has it helped?
- Not yet.
It's alright. Shut your eyes.
I'll talk to you.
We haven't talked for ages.
Look what I've found.
Galia gave you this. Water?
Galia bought it with her own
money while Marga was staying.
God, to think of all we've
been through together!
Galia, Marga, Lionya...
Lionya was in love with me,
you know. He courted me.
But I couldn't love him.
I've never been able to love
anybody, except you.
Yes, I know you loved Galia.
Here, drink some water.
I knew you'd realize one day
that you hadn't anybody but me.
Of course you hadn't. Nobody
else would have put up with you.
Do you suppose
I enjoyed our life?
It was a terrible life.
But now it's going to change.
You'll write, I'll type for you,
we'll live together, quietly.
It'll be like old times.
perhaps not quite.
You're getting old.
And I'm glad in a way.
You won't go running off.
Look, I've untied this
Jan, are you asleep?
Jan, do you hear?
What's the matter?
Oh my God-wait.
Get up. You must get up.
I'll help you.
Get up! You're so heavy!
Jan, get up!
How did it start? That autumn
Jan seemed years younger.
He had his hair cut short,
and shaved off his beard.
We went off to Grasse.
The three of us.
He always gets his own way.
I started keeping a diary,
to stop myself going mad.
He told his friends
that Galia was his student.
All he told me was: from now on
she's going to live with us.
Galia, you're blocking the sun.
- The sun's not shining.
- What?
I'm sorry to bother you.
I'm looking for Mr Bunin.
He's swimming.
Ah-yes. The name's Gurov.
I'm a writer.
I'm from Pskov.
pleased to meet you.
- You must be Madame Bunin!
- I am Madame Bunin.
- I'm so sorry.
- What can I do for you?
I have a letter for Mr Bunin
from the Nobel family.
How's that?
Have they moved to Pskov?
No, I lived there.
I've just come from Stockholm.
Here's Ivan Alekseyevich.
My dear Ivan Alekseyevich!
How do you do?
What a great privilege it is
to meet the last Russian genius.
Allow me to use the occasion...
- What's that?
- Some writer.
Gurov. Leonid Gurov.
- Didn't you write to me?
- Yes, but never mind that.
I've brought you a letter
from the Nobel commission.
Ivan Alekseyevich! You've been
nominated for the Nobel prize!
I'm sorry I can't receive
you properly, Mr Gurov.
I'm wet, as you can see.
And I detest meeting people
when I'm bathing.
Perhaps I picked a bad time...
It's his third nomination.
Nothing ever comes of it.
It just makes him irritated.
- A genius...
- Do you think so?
- I'm sorry if I've offended you.
- It's alright.
The Nobel prize is a taboo
subject in our household.
There are many odd things
about our household.
- I'm sorry...
- It's alright.
- She's Galia Plotnikova.
- Careful...
A student of Ivan Alekseyevich's
He teaches her to write poetry.
- She's not from Kiev, is she?
- Probably.
He's not how I imagined.
Somehow he seems...
- Smaller?
- Yes! No!
- That Nobel chap's staying here?
- Ssh! What do you suggest?
We can't throw him out. Where
would he go? He's all alone.
He says his father was
a vice-minister under Kerensky.
He ended up as a doorman in
Stockholm, and died in poverty.
The usual story.
In my experience
emigr,es are always ministers
at the very least.
The waitress is invariably
a duchess, and every coachman
- Or do I mean taxi-driver? -
turns out to be a general.
God knows where the Russian
army found so many generals.
- I bet he's a fraud.
- Quiet!
There's no need to get angry.
He really admires you.
He says he analyzes the harmony
of your prose using algebra.
- Algebra?
- Yes. - Another crank.
- Jan!
- Sorry, Vera.
Hurry up.
We're coming!
Leonid, give us some news.
news? Well your chances...
Ivan Alekseyevich,
show our

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