A radiant autumn day, mist hanging low over the lake, a railway carriage. Two women discover that they are making the same journey: Lindau–Basel–Paris. They join forces in smuggling the heavy handbag belonging to one of them through the customs. Its contents? Bars of marzipan. Mainly for her son. The two women lose sight of each other when changing trains – only to land once more in the same compartment. All at once, they start talking. Secrets are divulged which are usually only entrusted to a father confessor – or, precisely, to a stranger. What is the truth about the model son, the recipient of the marzipan? The fact of the matter is that he broke off his contact with his mother several years ago. And while one of them talks, the other discovers, suddenly, a terrible familiarity in the other's narration. Thus a place usually connected with transience and fleetingness becomes the scene of a life drama. With shrewd irony and composure, Sibylle Mulot describes the ability which is as essential to human beings as the air is to breathing: the art of self-deception.