Reluctant to go out, Rousselot said he felt feverish and nauseated, but his excuses were futile.
Rousselot got to know two old Buenos Aires writers whom he considered his masters.
The Argentine writer was called Riquelme and he was happy to hear from Rousselot.
The meal went on much longer than anticipated, and Rousselot began to feel ill.
On the third such occasion, the bum suggested a pose, which Rousselot accepted without quibbling.
The next morning at breakfast, Rousselot was stunned to discover that he had no money left.
At some point during the night, Rousselot realized that both he and Riquelme were behaving like adolescents.
It would probably be true to say that Rousselot had never felt so good in his life.
Rousselot told him the name of his hotel and mentioned that he was just going to bed.
Although Rousselot prudently refrained from asking about the plot, Riquelme explained several sections of his book in detail.
They parted with the understanding that Rousselot would call the publisher and arrange to have dinner one night.
When Riquelme finally appeared, Rousselot hardly recognized him: he seemed taller, less blond, and he was wearing glasses.
Rousselot found him to be very bright (as well as able to speak better French than he did).
The second was to ask if Rousselot was still interested in meeting him.
By the time they reached the fourth floor, Rousselot was out of breath.
It had been a while since Rousselot had read any of his work.
When Rousselot went back to the living room, Simone was paying the old woman, who then took her leave of Mme.
Such a spectacular response was the last thing Rousselot had been expecting.
Rousselot offered him a bill if he would consent to be photographed.
Rousselot had to remind him and explain part of the story again.
The stay in Frankfurt was enjoyable, in spite of the weather, and Rousselot spent all his time with the pair of old writers.
After feeling annoyed for a while, Rousselot told himself that it was better that way, if Riquelme had lost interest in the whole business.
Finally, the publisher stopped in front of a glass-fronted bookcase full of manuscripts and asked Rousselot if it was his first time in Paris.
Both films were released in Argentina, and Rousselot was relieved to discover that neither bore the slightest resemblance to anything he had ever written.
Feeling embarrassed, Rousselot decided to stop annoying people with his letters and suspend his investigations until at last he got a chance to visit Paris.
He had blond hair, rather too long, and resembled his mother, although Rousselot noted that there was already something thoroughly manly about his childish features.
Such cases are not unusual among lovers of literature like Rousselot.
Having thought it over carefully, Rousselot decided not to do anything.
Frears and his superb cinematographer, Philippe Rousselot, establish a dark, portentous visual mood, but the script stubbornly refuses to deliver the horror-movie payoffs that it promises.
Rousselot felt a deep sadness overwhelming him, as if he knew that, come the end of the day, he would have to look into an abyss.
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