Who is Mr. Schmitt?

A man ate an identity card. The police told him that he was a German man, and he was caught up in the flat of a German man. A dermatologist. He was an optamologist, though. He couldn't open the door to get out of this home. And the furniture wasn't his either. Especially the picture of a German Shepard on the wall. There was actually a picture of his grandmother at that exact spot. But where did it go, indeed? 

His wife was with him all this time, trapped in this little prison in the form of a flat. They were stuck in this reality together. A dictionary filloiwed the police, other people, except for his wife, were plotting against him. Or so he thought. "L'enfer, c'est les autres" wrote a blogger in a French blog about this play. The only person zho spoke the truth in all this was his son.

"I cannot put up with racism" his wife cried, when Mr. Schmitt saw a black young men whom others told him was his son. Neither him nor his wife had a tint of colour on their pale skins. His son told him who he was: a man full of shit, obsessed with success. In a short time, in huit-clos, we could share only the perspective of Mr. Schmitt. In a flat in Luxembourg, stuck between the two separate identities of a French and a German doctor, Monsieur Schmitt was looking for who he is.

Praise to Sébastien Thiéry for the scenario, and thanks to the Theatre of Nicosia Turkish Municipality for bringing it to us.