Every Tuesday morning, Dominique Bretodeau goes to buy a chicken.
He usually roasts it and has it with sauté potatoes.
After carving the legs, the breast and the wings, he loves picking the hot carcass with his fingers, starting with the oysters.
But not today.
Bretodeau won’t buy a chicken.
He’ll go no further than this phone booth here.
Bretodeau is seen walking down the street, and looks to the phone booth wherein the phone is ringing.
He looks around, somewhat bewildered at a phone ringing in a public booth. No one else shows any interest.
He turns back to it, and with some hesitation, moves toward the booth, opening the door and entering within. It rings again, he reaches for the phone and brings it to his ear.
The shot switches to Amélie, who quickly puts her phone down.
Bretodeau is surprised to hear no one there, and puts the phone back on the hook.
He glances down and sees an aged and worn metal box. It is orange in colour and bears the name ‘Bergamottes de Nancy Lefevre Georges’; it is an old candy box.
Amelie looks on from her vantage point.
He gives it a little shake, hearing the sound of some contents within.
Is it familiar?
He opens it, sees a photograph of a football player, and a stunned realization crosses his face.
He looks around quickly, looking outside the booth . . .
Amélie continues to watch, her breath fogging the glass at the window.
He looks back at the box, draws the photo aside, revealing various items, clearly treasures from his childhood. He grabs the toy cyclist, and chokes back sudden tears.
In a flash, it all came back to him.
. . . . . . . . . .
Bretodeau leaves the phone booth and enters the café, where Amélie is standing at the counter.
It’s amazing, what just happened to me.
It must be my guardian angel.
It’s the only explanation.
It was as if the phone booth was calling me.
It rang and rang.
Bretodeau takes his cognac with vigour.
Same here. The microwave’s calling me.
I’ll have another cognac.
He looks about the bar, somewhat shaken by the events.
He notices Amélie.
To a kid, time always drags.
Suddenly you’re 50.
All that’s left of your childhood, fits in a little box, a little rusty box.
Have you got kids, miss?
Amélie, half looking away, shakes her head, no.
I have a daughter.
She must be about your age.
We haven’t spoken for years.
I heard she had a child, a boy.
His name is Lucas.
I think it’s time I looked them up before I’m in a box myself.
Don’t you think?
Amélie quickly drains her drink, as does Bretodeau.