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It was in the 90s, in Algeria,
that the Toxic Shock first struck.
The youngsters had been dating over a year.
They'd met in college, and were to marry next year.
Marriage would mean making love.
But they couldn't resist temptation.
One day, unable to wait, they hid right here, mad with desire.
When pleasure overcame them, they felt themselves slip away.
They died, thunderstruck by a Toxic Shock.
As the legend goes, the bodies remained and no one dared move them.
I was 13. This story was etched in me for good.
Sex was dangerous. Divine retribution awaited me.
But the image of the couple forever entwined was dreadfully arousing.
No Mom, I won't marry a good Muslim mother, a loyal good cook.
No Dad, I won't become a model French Arab sophisticate,
a pillar of tradition and Republic.
I won't end racism.
Dear parents, though I'm grown up,
I'm dedicated to pursuing pleasure, and feeling shame.
Pleasure and Shame.
Your work is done.
How could a dirty, perverted boy like me have been born to such a model family?
My father was harsh, and hard-working.
My mother was devotion incarnate.
They'd had three sons,
evidently conceived without an ounce of pleasure.
That's how they survived.
I realized, watching my family, that everyone braved the Toxic Shock.
Everyone got laid. But no one could know.
Turned out my two brothers were perverts like me.
The eldest, Hakim, came every Sunday with his housemate Boris,
so appreciated that he was invited every time.
My parents loved him.
More food, Boris?
In truth, Hakim was a faggot.
They lived together.
They had a son, little Angelo.
Everyone knew, no one spoke.
- You housemates get along, right? - Yeah, great.
- It's going well? - Of course.
You remember, Hakim,
I said I was nervous about you living with a man with a child.
- Didn't I? - But we get along.
- We're blessed. - You were right.
I'll admit when you're right. When I'm right, I'm right.
Honest truth. No Mom, sadly.
The second son, Djibril, passed as an honest street tough.
The State keeps us dishonest, with its double standards.
Breaking the law is legitimate to us.
Hustling and dealing are within your rights.
That's how we balance the scales. Nothing more.
Money wasn't his motivation, though.
Nature hadn't enabled him to attract women.
Whoring settled that score.
A lump of hash wasn't worth 200 francs,
it was sex with Sandra.
Obsessed with girls, yet terrified by the Toxic Shock,
I knew I had to stay away.
That's why I attended the pool, to ogle, from a safe distance,
real girls, clothes off.
I'd whack off discreetly, oblivious of hygiene.
Among the swimmers, I experienced my first orgasm.
More bubbles, Fatima?
Instantly, horrifically ruined.
Mom was in the pool.
This is perfect.
Had I impregnated my mother?
Enjoy.
I realized we were here for the same reasons.
Somewhat unknowingly, she enjoyed it.
My mother liked France, for that.
Aged 39, after three children,
my mother discovered sexual pleasure, non-solitary.
But sometimes, Dad wasn't at work.
There.
- Tony. - Swim coach.
For your wife. Her progress is amazing. Star of the pool.
Fortunately, the two-way shock neutralized the scandal.
Each resumed their business, without a word.
What's for dinner?
- Shorba? - 90 minutes. No later.
My masturbatory excesses caused me a lot of worry.
Would I not whack myself to death?
The anguish produced various imaginary ailments,
prompting weekly visits to the doctor.
Mrs. Selloum?
But consulting Dr. Cohen had an adverse effect.
Dr. Cohen had a daughter, Lena,
whom I was crazy about,
boosting the frequency and intensity of my self-abuse,
which only worsened my condition.
More fear meant more visits to the doctor,
it was a vicious circle.
Well, I see nothing.
I would cycle to Lena's gate,
hoping for a glimpse.
You're sick a lot.
What with?
Wait.
Close your eyes.
Close them.
Open.
A dizzying sight, Lena's private parts, trapped in those white cotton panties.
The fear of Toxic Shock overcame my desire.
Thereafter, I was set on losing my virginity.
I placed all my hopes on my father's wallet.
...relieves the gastrointestinal tract...
Gastrointestinal.
An hour with Sandra, for a day of work with Dad.
Seemed fair to me.
Famine...
...and the leitmotive of hunger...
Leitmotive, right.
I'd neglected another of our taboos. The Arab must not steal.
If he does, all Arabs are blamed.
What's this? Know what'll happen to you?
Look. Jean-Marie Le Pen. He'll take you away.
Thieving little Arabs? He cuts them up, and eats them.
Wake up. Honor the Arabs, honor the Algerians,
your mother, your father, all Muslims, even the Moroccans.
You'll honor France, or you'll bring h'shuma upon me.
Bring me shame.
You'll kill me. You'll be the death of me.
They were prompted to testify. Oddly enough, 28 years after the facts!
After all, since 1962, Algeria's been independent.
So I spilled the whole story to Lena.
How I'd tried stealing, to lose my virginity to a pro,
how I'd failed.
She might consent to do me the favor for free.
Dying with Lena seemed a delicious ending.
But God is great, moves in mysterious ways,
and I survived.
From Toxic Shock, by Youssef Salem, my guest
on Imaginary Library . This idea of a toxic shock,
as divine retribution, says a lot about how your characters
see sex and religion.
What's at stake here?
Pleasure equals punishment.
The driving concept behind any religion, any puritan doctrine.
My character, a child, buys into that.
And believes that J-M Le Pen is the Big Bad Wolf?
Because that's what he was!
Ask any 2nd-generation immigrant from the 80s.
We were convinced Le Pen would eat us.
It kept us in line.
Obviously, it didn't work.
Yet, the book is funny. It never gives in to resentment, hate, or anger.
Life, desire, pleasure always find a way.
My characters create their victories, their freedom.
Is Youssef free?
I hope so.
Who are you smiling about? Character or self?
Myself. I'm just answering you.
- Awkward? Suspicious? - Terrified. Go on.
You're known for two historical biographies.
Not best-sellers. Quite obscure, to be candid with our viewers.
Toxic Shock is your first published novel.
An intimate, personal story.
This family is so fleshed out, on every page, we think:
After "Madam Bovary is me," this is autobiography.
- Hold it right there. Absolutely not. - Not?
The man's name is Youssef.
- Gray zone. - No. Yes. It's a common name.
You didn't call him Karim.
I assure you it's made up. I invented it all.
Not an autobiography. T- hat's not a dirty word.
I like them. This isn't one.
I'm about wording, the 'tongue', the language.
And the fiction.
Such beautiful fiction. Toxic Shock, by Y. Salem,
our guest on Imaginary Library.
An instant favorite. We wish it a great success.
- You OK? - Thanks, Augustin.
You were great. And no offense.
I get it. But I'm strongly against people thinking that it's my family history.
Know what Philip Roth said about family? Quoting some writer.
"When a writer is born to a family, the family is screwed".
THE (IN) FAMOUS YOUSSEF SALEM
I should thank you. I'd never heard of him.
Thanks.
Let's do radio, too. The book deserves a push.
- You never reinvite writers. - Rarely. When I see potential.
- Go through me. - I'll get your number.
Gotta run.
Was that about me?
He's ecstatic. He wants you back, on the radio.
Could you give me an advance? For the train, my Mom's birthday...
- I could make advances, to you. - I'm lost. Several advances?
I'm kidding. You spent your advance. Publishing is a disaster. I just can't.
Take these macaroons I received. For your mother.
- Thanks, Lise. - You did well on the show.
We can stop here.
I don't know this area.
Here.
Not this dive!
I live here.
If my father reads it, he'll kill me.
Who does their father's bidding at age 45?
I do.
He believes I write about Algerian heroes.
His two passions: Algerian heroes and spelling errors.
That's why I left some.
Incidentally, you make me look like shit.
You could've told me before print. What publisher does that?
He likes to correct, and lecture me. I give him that.
So you want him not to read it, but you leave spelling errors for him?
That's right.
Safia, another one.
- Your whisky, Marguerite Duras. - Drinks all round. On me.
- OK. - Weren't you broke?
I have a tab.
Parents tomorrow, shitfaced today. It's tradition.
Come on and party!
Come on!
- That's from the Middle East. - No, LA.
You have a... I'm sorry, not to be pushy, but I love your haircut.
- I'm not joking! - She's beautiful.
Can I get the check?
You're paying his tab?
544 euros.
What's up?
- Youssef! How's the fam? - You good, Malika?
We missed you.
- Love to your folks. - See ya!
- Dad! - Youssef!
What's that?
Lilian, your sister's housemate's son.
He put make-up on me. I couldn't say no.
Great.
- Chrissa! Sorry. - No problem.
- How was the trip? - It went great.
And your biography of the Emir is moving along?
- Of course. - I corrected the beginning.
- And? - The spelling is impossible!
I almost died of shame. What'll people say?
We Arabs can't write French? You want that?
- Good thing you're there. - Your publisher read The Emir ?
- What's her take? - She's thinking.
- What do you mean? - Thinking.
It's not easy, finding a market for the Emir Abdelkader.
What 'market'?
- The Emir needs no market. - I keep telling her.
Algerian heroes need no market. You know that. Algerian heroes are...
Eternal. I know.
Mom, I hadn't seen you! Sorry!
- How are you? - You've lost weight.
No, I'm fine. Look here.
- Happy birthday, Mom! I didn't forget. - Thank you!
Happy birthday.
- What is it? - Macaroons, from Ladurée.
Don't gobble 'em, they're a delicacy.
See how we're treated?
- Double standards. It's always on us. - Hello.
No hello. We're humiliated, and you don't react.
It's gonna blow. Fair warning.
- What are you talking about? - Our anger.
It's legitimate. And it'll restore equality.
You're so thin!
- Enough of that. Am I? - You gotta eat.
- Way too thin. - Am I thin?
- Hyper-thin. - Hyper?
You lost weight.
- Has he eaten? - No, he'll lunch here.
There's the rascal!
- Your kid's so sweet. - He is.
I passed you.
You didn't mind the make-up?
Not at all. Your son is adorable.
When you became housemates... Remember, Loubna?
And I said, "Are you sure you want to live with a pregnant woman?"
- Yeah, I remember. - You were right.
Not a problem.
- No problem. - At all.
There you go.
Mouss is here!
Hi, Islam! How are you?
Give me a big kiss!
What's that?
Macaroons, from Ladurée.
- Why? - I bring the pastries. I'm a baker.
It's OK. Just a little treat for Mom.
I brought a strawberry gateau. Don't worry.
And we'll eat it. This is nothing, a little treat.
- Show respect. - Easy now.
- If it's a problem, we won't eat them. - I didn't say that.
You're stressed.
- No, we're good. - Go in the pool.
- 'To'. - When I'm tense, I go in the pool.
- 'To' the pool. - When I come back, I'm great.
You know who's still there?
- Tony. In the pool. - 'At'.
Still as...
- Good for you. - You remember Tony?
- Of course. - France is good. Caroline's good?
- "How is" Caroline? - She's fine.
Last-minute seminar, she couldn't come.
She sends love, and birthday wishes.
- Thanks. - Haven't seen her in 2 years.
That long?
We could get the idea you've split up.
Crossed my mind.
We haven't split up. We're still married, living together.
What's up with you?
- Nothing. You? - You.
Still no boyfriend?
- No husband? - I have high standards.
Too high?
- Got an itch? - No, you do.
Something in your eye.
- Close the door. - We'll close it.
- Close it! - Don't you worry.
We read your thing.
- What? - You know what.
What kind of garbage is that?
It's fiction. A novel. Made up. A romance.
- It's abusive! - You humiliated us.
Parents read that, they die.
The obese-pervert-dealer brother. Thought I'd miss that?
How could you? I put up with you mocking my weight,
but where'd you get the small-time drug dealing?
And I never screwed sex workers. You crazy?
- Mom never did the pool guy. - I know.
- Imagine Dad seeing that? - We should have you iced.
- Eliminated. Legitimate violence. - And why am I a male?
Why am I a faggot? You hate lesbians?
- It's not you. - Who, then?
Excuse me. I'm not even mentioned.
I'm not in it. I don't exist.
- Mouss, it's not about you. Shit timing. - Answer my question.
Why did you turn me into a faggot brother?
Because in your world, lesbians aren't sexy?
And fat-Muslim-shaming? Who do you think you are?
- I'm not in it. - You are. I mention your bread.
You mentioned my baguettes? You said,
"Bread doesn't need to be good, if it's a lot." Right?
- Maybe. - Un-grammatical nonsense.
That sums up how you've always seen me.
Mouss, enough. Let it go.
If they find out about Chrissa and Lilian?
- What then? - They won't.
- Don't like my quiches? - I do.
- What's that? - Nothing, hang on.
You're taking notes. He's taking notes.
Give that back.
What, you're at it again? You're a sicko!
A thief. A violator.
- He even steals our fights! - 'Fat-Muslim-shaming'.
Again? Trashing fat people, again?
We're tight. No betrayals.
What? Dina's my life!
You should be careful. See her over there?
- You were discussing me. - Not you.
- I care. - Right there, in the water.
It wasn't about you.
- I hate that. - C'mon. We're a team.
With this stone...
whiskers don't grow back.
So good-looking! We're rooting for Rachid!
A local, from Port-de-Bouc.
We're proud of him.
Where is he?
- Middle. - He's suffering.
But he's ahead.
- Not easy. - That's the idea.
Bravo, Rachid Bellac!
I love you!
- He's not the strongest. - He's ahead, though.
- The tribute to Alain Rey! - Dad, not that.
- Alain Rey! - Who?
- Don't know him. - I admired him.
- We didn't. - A great linguist.
We know. Change it back.
You want that too? Over Imaginary Library ?
- We're missing it! - You're a writer!
Literary talk-shows remind me of my failures.
Be nice to your children. Change it back.
- Come on! - You're all unbelievable.
- Thanks, Dad. - ...the Yak-Eye Challenge.
Ready, gentlemen? 3, 2, 1...
- Is that meat? Not halal? - It's an eye.
Even worse!
- You don't eat eyes. - Chew 'em, Rachid!
- No, just swallow! - You're an Algerian. Own it.
- They forced him. - Don't disappoint.
Go on, Rachid!
I hate Joachim. Bastard.
- French. - I didn't say French, I said bastard.
He lost!
- Bastard showed his tongue first. - He's grumpy, I eat macaroons.
- I wanted you to try my cake. - Don't start. Enough with your cakes.
Quiet. Council's on. Shut it.
On this paper,
the name you've eliminated tonight.
If he's out, we stop watching.
Shit! So goddamn sad.
Rising Sun Tribe voted you out. You must leave.
Eliminating the Arab. As usual.
- No! - Yes.
They target the strong. Rachid's the strongest, he's out.
Typical foreign white girl...
I assure you, they've researched it.
In the US, the strong guy wins. In France, it's the brain, the geek.
Can I be conclusive? The country's racist. France is racist.
- Shitful, racist country. - Commercials.
Never fails.
Dad, change it! Gimme that.
- Let go! - No more TV.
Is that you?
Move over.
- Good job! - It's not broken.
It's just the cable!
Just fix it.
- You can fix it. - Quit messing with it.
Careful.
Is it broken? Can you fix it?
Mouss, it might just be unplugged.
No more TV!
All this for a reality show.
- We'll replace it. - Ours is dead.
We can get a pay-in-four plan.
What'll I do without my cooking programs?
You'll read.
Get up, we're late.
I got an appointment with Dr. Cohen.
- What for? - Your illness.
What?
You can't have children with your wife Caroline.
We need to check all that business.
Will you get up!
Dr. Cohen must be getting old.
Mrs. Salem?
- What can I do for you? - Nothing.
Nothing?
The thing is, my son can't have children with his Caroline.
Something needs to be done. This isn't normal.
The poor boy's already 45. His father and I are crushed.
- I see. - I dream of this little one.
France would be so good.
I'd hold that child to my heart. You understand?
I'll examine him.
- Would you mind waiting next door? - Why?
So you can't have kids?
- We split two years ago. - Right.
Is she aware of that?
- Caroline? - No, your Mom.
No, she doesn't know.
- She'll be disappointed. - I won't tell her.
Are you as often sick as when you were 13?
Yes, but I don't see doctors about it.
By the way, I read it.
You've got some nerve.
- You could've changed the names. - It's fiction. A novel.
But one character has a beauty spot right here.
Coincidence.
- You didn't lose your virginity to me. - No.
- We never... Ever. - Never.
That's why I wrote it. To imagine what could've been.
Back to the examination.
And the tongue?
- The what? - Tongue.
- What, you want me to... - No.
The language, the writing.
That's very good.
Well written. No frills.
The alarm again. I'll prescribe something.
It keeps doing that.
Youssef Trapped
Now, for the second book
on our program.
This fall's literary sensation. The first novel
from Marseilles-born Youssef Salem, Toxic Shock,
published by LM.
You at L'Obs, loved it, Paul.
Absolutely. So what is this Toxic Shock about?
A charge against Muslim prudishness,
the false pretences of a generation of immigrants
riddled with angst...
You'll be proud of me. I banned any mention of autobiography.
I love you, Lise. Thanks.
It's all the more potent that he specifies that the narrative isn't autobiographical.
To me, it's a novel.
A true, authentic novel.
That's what I...
Meriem Djebel, were you shocked by Toxic Shock ?
Strong word. No, not shocked. I do feel pain.
To hear my colleague praise this 'novel',
and its questionable depictions. It's misogynistic.
Not misogyny again!
- Main issue here. - You say that every week!
I'm the only woman, I'd know.
Take the opening, with this boy ogling his cousins' butts as they clean house.
- How is this feminist? - I can't stand it.
Answer me, is that feminist?
- It's charming. - No.
What gets me is the self-loathing.
He hates the Arab in him.
A rare collection of racial clichés targeting minorities, specially Muslims.
It's judgmental, it's insulting.
A godsend to the racists in France.
Pierre de Choudens? Not because she said "racist"...
I feel you didn't like it, but for different reasons.
Mostly, it was hard to sit through.
- Bad writing, simple as that. - Not at all.
And incidentally, I stopped counting the bloopers.
- True that. - Couldn't the publisher proofread?
Might be a gimmick, the Uneducated Author.
You exaggerate.
If it generates any interest in the microcosm of the literati,
it'll be pure condescension.
Sex stories in the hood play to the café crowd, cheap-thrill seekers.
A mediocre read, it does describe the state of our suburbs.
It's an inconvenient truth.
Drugs, religion, separatism, anachronistic traditions...
- Told you: Racists love it. - How dare you?
One cliché after another.
Let's open this up, if you will, let's welcome the author,
Youssef Salem is here.
Neo-con weekly, helping him up.
- Give me a break. - Just saying.
Evening, Youssef Salem. You followed our debate off-stage.
You heard your critics, pretty merciless.
Self-loathing, mediocre style, and of course, the spelling issue.
Back to the self-loathing, that everyone spoke about, do you share that?
Was it part of your process?
What would be the opposite of self... loathing?
- Please tell us. - I will. Celebration, right?
In that case, I'd rather self-loathe than self-celebrate. Sorry.
I've attempted to describe a family.
As clear-sightedly as possible.
The family happens to be Arabic, and to have flaws.
Édouard.
- What? - Tweet storm?
There's talk. But not praise.
Bad buzz is still buzz.
I ask you, what example are you setting for French Arabs?
None. I represent nobody.
I even claim a right to mediocrity.
For myself, and for any Arab.
Mr. Salem, like it or not, you are an example.
French readers think, "Arabs are like that. That's them."
So?
You feel entitled to trash us, and pander to the elite?
I don't know you. Stop being piggish.
Sorry. It's the word 'piggish'. It's funny.
- Lame. Shows your level of humor. - Back to your book.
Miss, could I get a drink?
You're a White wannabe, a 'coll-Arab-orator'.
Betraying your roots, to curry favor.
So any Arab you disagree with, stops being an Arab?
- I didn't say that. - Apparently, that's the idea.
You're the thermometer of Arab-ness. You decide who's in and who's out?
An Arab...
who drinks, loses ten Arab-points on your roster?
Sex with a Frenchwoman costs what, 20%?
And not believing in God?
What's the penalty, 90%?
Like it or not, I'm an Arab like you. You don't get to decide.
I'll defend Mr. Salem on that point.
You'll defend nothing. Go defend yourself.
Let's talk about sexuality.
An important element in your book.
Your full-frontal approach is rare within Arab culture.
A cluster of obscenities. All positions. No description spared.
- Some nauseating. - And the tongue?
The tongue.
I hear nothing about the tongue.
- Please be specific. - This.
- Seriously? - Can't be more specific.
Enjoying this, sir? Enough! You know what you're doing?
Mr. Salem, this is blatant sexual harassment.
- Where's the obscenity? - Is this recorded?
I'll press charges.
Time to sign off!
- Horrible. - It's about literature.
Why sulk? You're everywhere!
I'm seen as a racist, a pervert, a drunk.
Nobody discusses the content.
They'll buy it for the wrong reasons. But they'll buy it.
Then they'll discover it's literature.
I'll change my profession. And my face.
I'd have paid those assholes to say that stuff, I swear.
- That's your stance? - Controversy sells.
It's the start. First tier of the rocket.
Journalists and intellectuals will weigh in your defense.
That's a literary event.
Second tier.
And ideally, we'd get a third tier.
Family psychodrama, revelations on your sexuality...
- Yeah, right. - Stay at two?
Yes.
You're not put off by this circus?
I had to sell half my stock to a publishing giant.
I'm meeting an author later, for the pulping of his unsold books.
All of them.
- Is it important, or not? - Very.
Then wait.
You know pulping?
Do you?
Can't stand this.
Wait! Thanks. Bye. Sit right back down.
We're going informal.
I'd rather not. I've told you.
Youssef Salem,
you are officially
shortlisted for the Goncourt prize.
Should I tell my parents?
Rachid! This is awesome!
- You happy? Want an autograph? - You bet.
- What's your name? - Nina.
- Want a hug, Nina? - Yes!
- Can I touch your muscles? - Go on.
- You're cute. - Have a good trip.
Rachid. Team Yellow, Ko Laboa.
- My pleasure. - Thanks, that's nice.
I don't mind.
Gotta please the fans. You get so much love...
Coconut oil.
You saw how they canned me?
- With my parents, yes. - You got parents?
Hold on. Parents like me.
Parents are into me.
- My pleasure. - Thanks.
All that tenderness is welcome, after what happened.
What's that?
The conspiracy.
I was sacked, and I was the best.
I was gonna find the immunity necklaces.
When I landed, no necklaces, wonder why.
Franck, Gina, Alfred. They were in on it. Even Fatou.
The Yak-Eye Challenge, when you gobble 'em.
I have proof. That shitbag's eye was made of marzipan.
Marzipan.
Found the pastry cook who made it. For a fee.
I bring my generosity, my love. They bring betrayal and lies.
That evening, they sacked me, 6 against 5.
Six against me, unforced? Not in this life.
It came from above.
An Arab can't win. Keeps his head down.
I need to work.
- We arrive in an hour. - I have work.
Wait a sec.
- I feel I know you. - Maybe.
You're being cagey. I get it. You're famous? Like me?
I was on TV recently. I'm a writer.
A writer?
Hot damn! That's just amazing!
Two star Arabs, power-meeting on the bullet train.
- I'm nowhere near that. - Gimme a break. I know the score.
Stardom is a gift. But an Arab star is a target.
- It's risky. Something else... - Gotta work.
Fate has placed you on my path.
I've searched for the right guy who's fit to write my autobiography.
Your autobiography?
You write your own autobiography.
I can't write. You write it. I got material.
You and I will expose Ko-Laboa-gate.
- Got a call. - Leave your stuff.
I need it to work.
- You'll be back? - Yes.
- I'll wait. - Sure.
Remember Tony, in the pool?
- Big strong guy? - Sorry Mom, and Dad.
I have an announcement.
- I'm a grandmother? - No, Mom.
Not yet.
- I got published. - Eat that.
Your publisher took The Emir ?
No, not The Emir. Another book, a novel.
A novel! A novel can't top the Emir!
It's a true story. It's incredible! An historical figure.
- Reality always goes beyond... - ... fiction.
That's right. I keep telling her.
She's so stubborn. And this book...
it sells.
That's good.
Wait.
I didn't proofread it.
Knowing you, that won't do.
What did she think of all the errors you must have made?
I forgot to show you. You'd be sick at my spelling.
Don't read that one. Please.
Don't open it. Though it is on the Goncourt shortlist.
Goncourt?
- Gone to court? - The prize?
- It's the ultimate recognition! - Dad, it's only shortlisted.
You'll get it.
Or I'll be disappointed.
Don't disappoint.
- What court? - The Goncourt.
It's the best of the prizes.
France is good, hamdullah.
Lovely.
Let's slaughter a lamb.
- 'Morning, Mom. - Sit and eat.
I'm not hungry.
I'm meeting Bouchra in the pool. Come along, like you used to.
- No time. My train's tonight. - You never have time.
Don't get proud with us because you got court.
Meet us afterwards, and kiss me goodbye.
All right.
Is Dad asleep?
He went in the bookshop, to order your Toxic .
He can't. I gotta call him.
You know he doesn't have a phone.
Good morning.
I'm the author. Youssef Salem.
Haven't read it yet, but it sounds great.
- It sells. - And please stop selling it.
- What? - You must take these off the shelf.
I'll explain, it's complicated. And urgent.
- No way. I sell books. I'll sell yours. - You can't. Please.
You could just buy them all.
- So, all of them? - I'm broke. Can't pay.
I hate that. Your petty writer's contempt.
- I beg you. - Without us, you're nothing.
It's life or death. Please. He's here. You're sold out. Please!
Good morning, ma'am.
Toxic Shock.
Is it about medicine?
I don't think so.
My son wrote it.
He was a slow learner in French literature.
But he came to realize the value of hard work.
- I bet. - He could've strayed.
At 13, I caught him red-handed. My wallet. My son, a thief? Never!
I'd die of shame. But a writer, yes!
I'm proud of him.
He impressed me. That, he did.
Next time, I'll bring him.
So he can sign it.
So what's the book about?
It's a family, from Port-de-Bouc.
A story about Port-de-Boucans, in... Port-de-Bouc.
Men and women from Port-de-Bouc, their lives...
in Port-de-Bouc.
Sorry, this copy's sold.
Quite a crowd this morning. As I said, this one's reserved.
Of course. The shortlist effect.
My son is successful.
- I'll save you one. - Thank you.
Goodbye!
- An infotainment journalist. - What?
I hung up on her.
Did she ask specifics?
She asked what was true, what wasn't...
- If you win the Goncourt, it'll be hell. - I won't win, no way. I'm so sorry.
You're not sorry, you're reveling in the shit you caused.
No, I'm truly sorry. I can't help myself.
Your coffees.
Here, sister.
- Chrissa. - Thanks, Mouss.
Take Mouss.
The only one unmentioned, he's the angriest.
- Not enough gossip? - What would I say about him?
I need falsehoods,
and shame. I write about dirt.
I lie out of necessity. Not for fun, not to write books.
When you're a lesbian, you'll understand the need to lie.
It's silly. I know our parents would accept your family.
They love Chrissa.
They do, as long as she's my housemate.
If they knew we rode each other's face, different story.
You OK?
I leave today.
I hate train food. It's disgusting.
Could you...
whip something up, like...
a quiche, a pastry?
I made you a bag. An eclair and a quiche.
Coffee eclair?
Coffee.
Don't you think we should talk?
Wash your hands.
- What now? - Get the dough.
Do like me.
Flour it first. Move.
Like that?
One, two...
and three.
- Go on. - I'm not getting it.
Don't punch it for nothing.
- I like doing that. - Just don't.
I see you bakers do it. Always wanted to.
- You like to smoke. - I do.
- Enjoy it? - It's great.
- Headscarf too? - I'm a Muslim.
That's not new. The headscarf is new.
- That pisses you off. - No.
That's even better!
Pissing off people like you. Way cool.
Know what? I'll keep it, I'll support the women who get to eat that shit.
The double standards.
You don't write about that. Defending Muslims, not your thing.
I don't write to defend people. I'm not Zorro.
I write to write. Get it?
We're treated like shit. You're blind, you're coddled.
Setting your privilege as an example.
You got a thing with Arabs. Our whole family's ashamed.
Mustapha goes by Mouss. Loubna, by Loulou.
I'm the only one who owns it. Bouchra. Beautiful.
- It's harsh. - No. I like it. Shut up.
- If that's your thing, be an Arab. - I'm proud.
- To be a wog in a racist dump. - Same here.
Ever fucked an Arab? You've done everyone.
- Never saw you with an Arab. - I've had plenty.
- Plenty. - Who?
- Like I'd tell you? Arabs. - Several? A harem? Who?
Neda.
- The Iranian? - Being Iranian isn't...
- They count. - No way.
Another bourgeois intellectual smart-ass,
who fled her country to lecture us, and ruin our religion.
That's what Iranian intellectuals do.
You hate Arab women.
- Know why? - You're the expert. Go on.
'Cause you hate yourself.
I never screwed an Arab because we're brainwashed: Sex is bad.
Getting laid is a crime to us.
Bury the body, get out of Dodge. That's why they turn me off.
First: We Algerians are not Arabs. We're Berbers.
- You knew that? - Berbers.
I'm ashamed of you.
Some writer. Don't know shit.
Moleskine notebook, Criterium click-pencil...
Just drop me off.
- Go die. - At the station.
Failed, tortured hack.
- Drop me off. - Yep.
- Right in front. - Saha Verlaine!
We're there! Get out.
- Bye, brother. Have a good trip. - Thanks, sister.
- Drive safe. - Yeah, take care now.
- You smoke a lot. - To lose weight.
- Quit smoking! - I don't.
Youssef Paraded
I am happy and proud to know you.
This feels like death row.
Sorry! It's not the woman in me, it's the publisher.
Your first impressions?
Your speech.
I want to thank my parents.
They have nothing to do with the novel, obviously.
- But I thank my parents. - And the Academy.
And the Academy, of course. Thank you.
Mostly, I want to pay homage to the act of lying.
Because...
lies are what reveal the truth.
The ultimate secret, that's what writing's all about.
A lie that asserts itself, and becomes a book.
Books are lies. Writers are spectres.
You're still out here? Come in.
Don't stay here. Come. Mom, you too. Let's go.
Help her.
Leave it. I'll take care of it.
Give me that.
Your name?
I'm the prizewinner.
- This's my parents. - "They are."
- They're my parents. - Whatever.
Their names?
I said, they're the Goncourt's parents. What's this about?
- Are they on the list? - Forget your damn list!
We're off the list, don't pester the lady. We'll wait.
No. My parents are welcome, this is wrong.
- We wait here. You're embarrassing me. - This is unacceptable!
Enough of that.
- You're not listed. - We're not listed.
- We're fine here. - Hurry, you'll be late.
Afterwards, you'll take us to Caroline's.
- We're staying over. - Haven't seen her in ages.
She's... abroad.
- Traveling with her parents. - Shame.
- We'll stay anyway. - This'll last long. There's a party.
We won't bother you, we'll make our way there.
Hand over the keys.
- They're waiting! - I'm coming.
OK, just wait. Wait for me here.
- Don't move. - We won't move.
With all that, I didn't get your name.
- Disaster. They stay at our place. - Our place?
The lavish apartment I don't own, with the wife who left me.
Money's a non-issue. Get them a suite.
We don't do that. To Arabs, it's insulting.
They visit their son. I must receive them.
No way around it.
I'll sleep in your dingy room,
and you treat them to my fine home, 2 blocks away.
That'd be... perfect. Thank you, Lise.
Be right there!
At last!
- Watch the door. - Don't worry.
Your place is huge!
What is this?
- Very cosy! - We try.
- Living room? - Settle in.
What a palace!
Beautiful!
I'm dreaming. Not you?
Mom. Bags off the couch.
And the baby's room?
If Caro's treatment works.
This is so tidy.
- Nice, eh? - She changed you.
I'll be on my way.
The Goncourt... Lise organized a party.
Lise who brought us here?
- My publisher. - What do they do?
- They publish. - Go. Don't make them wait.
Mom, if you could please not rummage around...
Really? Why not?
I'm off. Dad...
- We'll rummage? - Obviously.
I'm so glad!
I invited everyone who's anyone.
Publishers, writers, journalists. I'll introduce you.
Just don't drink.
Swear to it.
- OK. - Tonight, of all nights.
It's your night. You'll be scrutinized, smartphone-filmed...
Don't blow it, in word or deed.
You're offered champagne,
take a sip, think career, spit it out in the bushes.
- Same with girls. - Spit 'em in the bush?
Those jokes, they're out.
Robert!
- How are you? - Good evening.
This is Youssef Salem.
- Robert. - Congratulations. Can't wait to read it.
A genius.
Beatrice!
- Who got the Goncourt? - You did!
No, he did.
- He did? - Youssef Salem.
You're the rare bird?
- The genius. - The genius bird. Genius.
- Loved it. - Thanks.
Look. Little blonde lady... Pierrette, from Gallimard.
She rejected it, right?
- And how. - She's hurting. I'll nail her.
- Pierrette, darling! - Lise, darling!
- What an achievement! - I went on trust.
I read a draft, it was already a cut above.
That's our job: spotting talent.
And you do it so well!
- Pierrette Pinder, Gallimard. - A pleasure.
He sent you his manuscript?
- He might have. - I did.
We receive so many!
They just keep coming in...
And this way, other players get their chance.
- The minor ones. - For instance.
I'm delighted for you.
See you later.
- Daniel! - How are you?
- Congratulations. - To him.
I'm totally losing the plot!
- Sir? Dance with me. - I'm not allowed.
But I'm the boss here!
Not my glass!
He's stealing my glass!
The genius of your book, is pretence of absence of genius.
And it's terribly mediocre!
To choose mediocrity, there's the genius. You follow?
And the title!
Toxic Shock ! So pretentious, right?
Where's my Goncourt?
Where is my Goncourt?
There he is!
I love him! Genius!
I discovered him! This genius!
- They know. - Genius!
That's the last one. Last one.
- The kiss of gratitude. - Get water.
- Water. - Gratitude.
I'm grateful.
Sit near the exit, I'll get Édouard.
The Goncourt!
The night is mine!
Breathe.
There.
- Most beautiful day of my life. - I know.
I called you a taxi.
Worst day of my life.
Because I'm alone.
No, I'm there.
But you're not my lover.
- I'm your favorite writer. - Yes!
Watch your step.
Get in. Careful.
- I did it. - You did!
Watch your head.
Just a few paces. You'll be comfy.
Careful.
There. You good?
We're almost there! Wait a sec!
No, Lise.
I want to make love.
With my Goncourt.
I'm sorry, no.
Why?
Just no.
It wouldn't be right.
I want to.
Some other time. You're tired, get some sleep.
They eat that?
Fruit substitute. Like dried fruit to them.
What about this?
- What juice is it? - Detox juice.
Not a fruit I know.
- You love that stuff. - Acquired taste.
You're adaptable.
My goodness.
- Youssef Salem, Toxic Shock. - So good-looking!
I'll read it aloud to you tonight.
France is good.
The lamp's ugly, but Bouchra could use it.
Her place is too dark.
There's plenty more here!
Fatima! Come and look.
Cordless vacuum. Very practical.
Aïda could use it at the bakery.
It's too big, how will we carry it?
- What are you doing? - There you are!
- What's all this? - Youssef, you kept me up all night.
- Why? - Couldn't sleep.
I was too proud.
All my hopes fulfilled. I did it all for you.
For you to succeed. Did I do right?
Yeah, you did right.
Got a big bag? This stuff is for your siblings.
You're not taking all of it?
That's normal. Success must be shared.
- Family redistribution. It's only fair. - So beautiful!
- Easy. Those things break. - Little Assia might like it.
- Who's that? - The old neighbor's grandkid.
- You meant the extended family? - Humble, charming people.
The little one's so sweet!
- Lovely. - She'll be excited!
What's up?
She still asleep?
Sleep well?
I agree.
With what?
To your proposal last night. OK.
What proposal?
- Don't remember a thing? - No. What'd I say?
Nothing. Too bad.
- What did I say? - You said nothing.
I brought you some breakfast.
What did I do?
Nothing. You had a great time.
You drank a bit too much. All's well.
I hate being unprofessional.
This is so nice.
It's hot. Careful.
Excuse me.
You wrote that magnificent book?
This is too much! I'm so moved!
I read it 3 times.
- I identified. That family... - You're an Arab?
You crazy? I'm not an Arab.
I'm from Marseilles.
My accent was crazy strong. It faded here in Paris.
- All gone. - Done deal.
Sunshine's gone!
But you... You were hot stuff!
- Can I kiss you? - Please.
Crazy. Can I take a picture?
Be author-like.
- I love you. Oh, look. - Hello.
I'll read it aloud.
Too bad.
How is he?
What?
Look what your book did.
Proud of yourself?
What?
Salaud.
Meaning 'asshole'. Clearly.
- No, it was Bravo. - It was clear.
Wake up. I have so much to say.
- Salaud. - "Good show."
Mom, you heard him. It was salaud.
- 'Sorrow'. - Why would he say that?
- He doesn't want us to cry. - He said salaud . To you.
- He did not. - Did too. Don't shout near Dad.
- Don't fight! - What's with him?
- We're sick of you! - You're the one shouting!
You don't get it! Get out. I'll bust you up. No joke.
Get out!
- He'll wake up, he'll tell you. - Sure.
- You'll be sorry. - Write your books. Get off our ass.
He'll wake up. You'll see.
- Did you have to? - Don't. Just don't.
You OK?
I committed the perfect crime.
No blade, no blood.
He read my book, and...
Your dad suffered a stroke.
He's unhealthy, smokes too much,
a diabetic...
I'd understand a heart attack. He reads it, keels over...
But a stroke... that's impossible.
I shamed him, so bad.
He must've felt such shame.
With Arabs, it's always shame, shame...
Even me, I'm stuck in that rut. I only write about Arabs.
I'd like to write something universal,
something that doesn't humiliate anyone.
You about done? Just get off the constant Arab thing.
It gets really old.
Don't you think that life is just a tad bigger than that?
Look at us, we're here, we're happy.
There's a tree, the sky... That's Cassiopea.
The universe is expanding.
Someone watching from some star out there, what'd they think?
Here are two people.
Two earthlings.
That's a cop-out. Where I'm from, there's no earthlings.
We're not earthlings, no time for Cassiopea.
Or any of those things.
To me, your problem is,
you're grabbing a towel to dry off, while you're in the pool.
Get out of the pool. Take a step back.
There you go again. I don't understand.
I'll rephrase.
Man! Did you see that!
That's the divine wrath I'm talking about.
- That's my punishment. - Of course not.
Why bother being godless if you believe in signs?
I don't. That's God believing in me. It was aimed at me. Right behind us!
No. Effects have causes.
We made love, because it's been pending for years.
This place gets storms all the time.
Lightning often strikes here.
Your family's miffed 'cause you made fun of them.
Simple, logical, clear. No God.
Youss'!
I was worried!
He helped me find you.
- How'd you know? - I'm a local, remember?
- I don't. - I texted you!
I couldn't answer. Come on up.
My father was so scared I'd become a thief, that I did.
You're a writer. That was his dream.
I'm a thief.
- I stole his life. That's my achievement. - Not just his.
They played me. I get it now.
Why he won't write my autobiography. He already wrote it.
The kid from Port-de-Bouc, his dad works at Fos...
His brother Djibril jerks off all day.
Who is that? That's my life.
- You've read it? - No need. I looked at the back.
The summary. I recognized it, my dog's life.
My life is a best-seller.
I always said "Rachid, write your life down".
"Later, he announced he had to leave town."
What gets me is, I coulda written that sentence.
What if you had?
What if, officially, we said you wrote this book?
- I coulda. - Done. You wrote it. Let's just say that.
Glory, success, everyone's dream, my nightmare. They're yours.
- Careful, I'll say yes. - Please do.
Stop. You're upset about your dad. No way.
- I want my mediocre life back. - It wasn't.
I dream of telling my Dad someone else wrote it.
Are you in?
You're in?
Yeah. Of course.
How could I not think of that?
If I'm not the writer, that's not my family.
And I won't risk losing my father.
You'd give up authorship, not to hurt your dad?
Totally.
It's childish, but...
totally.
Youssef Freed
A little make-up,
can't hurt.
Thanks.
Tell me, when you're ready to...
So...
Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for being here.
I need to make an important announcement.
To tell you the novel Toxic Shock
previously announced as written by Youssef Salem,
in fact, that's not true, it was wrote by me.
Me, Rachid Bellac. I wrote...
the novel Toxic Shock.
You'll wonder why it wasn't released under my name.
Right before Ko Laboa, when I started writing,
I was in the right place. It was in my blood. I felt,
with words,
my words,
I could finally
make people happy.
That's it.
All I ever wanted.
So, this book...
is like a gift.
A gift to people.
A gift to France.
My gift to humankind.
So...
You can go on...
Keep buying it. Not the same writer, is all.
Same book. Nothing's changed, not one comma.
It's all the same.
It's just that...
I'm the star.
- Enough. - What's this shit?
You stupid? First you shame us, and now we're scammers?
So you didn't win the court, you liar?
Glad your father didn't live to see that.
- He was so proud of your prize. - I did win the 'court'.
- I'm lost. - I wrote the book.
And in it, I said things about our family.
It's about... us.
About you, about Dad...
and you.
I make fun of... Not mockingly, but I tell funny stories.
And I discuss the things that...
we don't talk about.
Like what?
Mom?
Could you sit down?
- Why? - Just sit.
Don't worry.
- You like Lilian? - I love him!
You know he loves you?
Cause you're his grandma.
Might as well be.
No, Mom.
You are his grandmother.
He's my son.
Chrissa's my wife.
I'm married to Chrissa.
I couldn't tell you, or Dad.
It's not just her. Many of my issues aren't discussed.
My depression.
My unfairness. And my bulimia.
And the quality of my bread. Rarely ever mentioned.
As for me...
Caroline left two years ago.
Two years. I have problems...
- I drink. - An alcoholic.
- Also with women. - A sex addict, your son.
He is.
There.
You OK, Mom?
Was 'addict'...
... called for?
- We've told her, it's done. - The whole thing.
Heavy. Why isn't she back?
We could've done a day each.
- Bouchra, could you go? - Why me?
- I'll go. - You go.
Sorry, children. I forgot the cut melon.
Never happens. What came over me?
Sit down and eat! Lise, join us.
- We're all hungry. - I'm hungry, too.
You forgot the melon?
- I did. - Very unusual.
You'll love that.
Lise, some chicken?
- Serve her first. - Drum stick?
- I'm not very hungry. - You are.
You have to eat.
- You'll love it. - Bread?
Using your fingers?
- He crafted it. - You think?
Join us, Mom.
- Eat with us. - Don't just watch!
Watching you eat, that feeds me.
Do they have books about bread?
- Surely. - Should be.
Youssef, come here.
Lise, how is it to meet us for real?
I like it.
Did you know your father kept a notebook?
It's yours, if you can use it.
I learned, from my father's notebook,
that he hadn't gotten past page 21.
And that he'd indeed tried to say salaud at the hospital.
Page 21, line 7, you misspell salaud as salop.
But salaud ends in a-u-d.
According to the Academy, etymologically,
salope is not the feminine of salaud.
One comes from sale , 'dirty.'
But the other derives from sale,
and ope,
the dialectal form of huppe.
The hoopoe, a bird reputed to be quite unclean.
So salope means "very dirty."
This meaning has evolved, to designate, insultingly,
a most contemptible person.
Although the feminine salaude does exist, common usage
has established salope as the feminine of salaud.
My father's notes ended there.
Now that I'd done my best to prevent him reading my book,
I was sorry he didn't get to finish it.
Youssef was circumcised.
Karim was circumcised.
His parents had not consulted him prior to the operation,
and the women he made love with
asked no permission to comment on the result.
It was a touchy subject for Karim
Paul had
THE (IN) FAMOUS YOUSSEF SALEM
In memoriam Djemel Barek
Revised and Synchronized by FAST TITLES MEDIA