The Good Inn Page 5

  Daylight seems to be flooding in from above and his second self is surrounded by people. He is watching his other self on the bed, now watching him in return.

  Soldier Boy begins to shake. He lifts up his trembling hands and opens the piece of paper in the flickering light. This is what the first line reads:

  Soldier Boy looks back into the hole, and before he can open his mouth to say what his mind was about to make him say, his second self speaks it first.

  OTHER SOLDIER BOY: Well, that’s a relief.

  Looking back into the hole, Soldier Boy sees the back of a man dressed in a suit. He is balding with a distinct swirling mustache curled at each end. He stands next to a camera that is pointed directly at his second self, who is now speaking on his behalf at the edge of the bed.

  Soldier Boy looks down at the paper to see what it says next:

  Soldier Boy turns his head and looks out of the corner of his eye into the hole. Nothing changes.

  He reads the next two lines:

  Before he can read the next line, there is another, more insistent knock on his door.

  He looks away and stands up, shoves the paper back into his pocket and opens the door. It is Nicole. She forces her way in and throws Soldier Boy down on the hard wooden floor. She climbs on top of him. She takes off all of her clothes and proceeds to do the same to him. He forgets himself and pulls her up against him. They become one.

  The light projecting through the hole covers them in a flickering display. Soldier Boy lifts Nicole up by the waist and they crash into the wall against the hole.

  SOLDIER BOY: There are two of us.

  NICOLE (in between heavy breaths): Yes, I know.

  SOLDIER BOY: No, two of each of us!

  NICOLE: What are you saying?

  SOLDIER BOY (singing a capella): I’m losing my mind, I don’t want to die, anything goes . . . down in this hole!

  As they slide down the wall Soldier Boy’s eye aligns with the hole and he finds himself looking at a mirror image of himself and Nicole. They are entwined against the wall on the opposite side of the hole.

  SOLDIER BOY SCREAMS and smashes his fist through the breach, blotting out the light. As he removes his arm from the unwanted peephole it drips with liquid. His eyes roll backward in his skull.

  CUT TO BLACK:

  INTERIOR/SOLDIER BOY’S ROOM/NIGHT

  Nicole lights a candle. Soldier Boy lies on the bed and Nicole wraps his bloody hand in a bandage. He stares dazed at the now-dim light in the hole.

  NICOLE: When I was a little girl, I wanted to leave this place. I wanted to go somewhere bigger.

  SOLDIER BOY: Yes? And why didn’t you?

  NICOLE: My mother told me I had to wait my turn. I didn’t know what she meant. Years later, my father took me to Paris. It was only for a day. I mainly waited in carriages. I saw the city from the frame of the carriage window. It was like a picture, but it was moving. Can you imagine? I saw these moving pictures of Paris, but really I was just in a coach seat, watching the world through a window. I didn’t understand, but we had only gone to the city to find my mother. She left my father for Paris.

  Nicole stands up and walks to the door, then turns back.

  NICOLE: But I never did.

  SOLDIER BOY: I’m sorry.

  NICOLE: Don’t be sorry. I could have had my turn.

  SOLDIER BOY: Maybe you still will.

  NICOLE: Can you see the future, Soldier Boy?

  SOLDIER BOY: I don’t know. Sometimes I think I see what occurred in my past, but it only comes in flashes. I was born in Paris, I know that much. I had an aunt who raised me until I was old enough to join military service. Once I told her I remembered my birth and that it was very bright. She said that it would not surprise her. I was born at the great fair, on a night that lit the sky over Paris so bright, it seemed like it was day. I’d like to see that again, but I think that a night that bright could never happen again.

  She smiles, and then looks sad. Nicole closes the door behind her. Soldier Boy is alone.

  He pulls the paper back out of his pocket and opens it, beginning to read the last two lines:

  Returning to the hole, Soldier Boy puts his mouth up to it.

  SOLDIER BOY: Hello? Can you hear me? Hello?

  He peers inside but there is still no response. He continues to read . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  The Blue Movie

  Daylight shines through the window. The Soldier Boy wakes up naked and bathed in a harsh light that makes his entire body glow. Next to him lies the Innkeeper’s daughter, her body spread out across him, wearing nothing but the bedsheet, which barely covers her. She too is incandescent from the bright light that covers them.

  A voice yells out, “Cut!”

  An arm reaches out to the man in the bed, holding clothes. George dresses casually. The clothes are not those of a soldier. As he dresses, NICKIE LOUISE WILLY sits up and shouts.

  NICKIE: Are we done or are we taking a break? That was really easy. I could do it again. Albert? Are you out there? Was it good? It felt good!

  INTERIOR/WAREHOUSE SET—SOUTH OF PARIS/DAY (in color)

  The room is exactly the same as what Soldier Boy saw through the hole, but the ceiling is open to the sky. There is no roof. In front of the bed is a thin tripod. On top of it there is a moving picture camera. Standing around the camera are three men. Behind them, the warehouse is empty and seems to expand forever in all directions.

  The three men ignore Nickie Willy as they fiddle with the device. Farther behind them is the man Soldier Boy saw through the hole. He sits in a wooden chair watching the men work. Nickie Willy, from the bed, continues to speak.

  NICKIE: Albert, did you hear me? I said it was quite easy!

  Albert Kirchner, the director, pulls out a pipe and lights it. His bald head and mustache are in full view. This is the same man from the sitting room at the inn.

  One of the men walks over and stands next to him, watching the actors dress.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: I thought it would be strange. It’s no different than taking pictures of animals on a farm or a train pulling into a station. It’s really quite easy, isn’t it?

  LÉAR (yelling out): Call me Léar, woman, LÉAR!

  NICKIE (to George): What did he say?

  GEORGE: He wants you to call him Léar. He likes to be called Léar.

  NICKIE: Why?

  GEORGE: He’s said so a hundred times. Does it matter?

  NICKIE: But it’s not really his name.

  Léar stands up next to the Cinematographer and they walk back into the emptiness away from the set.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: What are you going to do with this one? One for the arcades? I doubt this could be played anywhere in public, you know. Gaumont just reopened his Palace theater. I don’t expect that they would play this there. So what is the plan? Have you thought about that?

  LÉAR: I have thought about it.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: I didn’t think it would really work. I didn’t think you’d find anyone to do it, but you did. How did you do that?

  LÉAR: Haven’t you heard? Everyone wants to be in pictures!

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: The Lumière brothers will never show this either. Ever.

  LÉAR: We can’t sell these pictures to other people to show. We have to show them ourselves. When Edison put the first sound on a cylinder, he didn’t count on anyone else to figure out how to play it back. No! First, one must figure out how to capture it, then how to release it. One step at a time. What we do, my friend, is make pictures. Not just pictures, but pictures of the naked truth. These pictures we collect when sewn together will tell stories the likes of no one has ever seen or experienced before. I’m creating something new here. More than a mere succès de scandale. We are going to bring sexuality to cinema!

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: Where did you find them?

  LÉAR: Find who?

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: Your actors.

  LÉAR: Oh, those two? Here and there. A little more there than h
ere. Our investors look bored. You should go and entertain them.

  The Cinematographer darts back to the camera that the two men are still admiring.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: Gentlemen, what did you think? We believe that, with your help, we can shoot two of these a week with a triple return of your investment. We just need the equipment for three days a week.

  GENTLEMAN 1: Why not just go through Pathé?

  GENTLEMAN 2: I’m told he’s built six.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: Well, first of all, the Lumières refused our previous offers of ten thousand francs for a camera alone; Pathé wanted fifteen! And with film stock going for up to fifty francs a meter . . .

  LÉAR (suddenly stepping between the two men): Pathé! Pathé wants to own anything that’s shot with his cameras. Edison wants to own it whether it’s shot with his cameras or not. The Lumière brothers won’t show anything they don’t shoot themselves. Nobody wants to share and nobody but LÉAR would be bold enough to put their name behind this. Why would we want to share what is sure to make more money than they could ever imagine making? We are not making their tedious drawing room dramas and light farces. This is the future. This is art.

  GENTLEMAN 2: Art. Are you sure? Is that really the idea? I would think this would appeal more to the lower class.

  LÉAR: Why shouldn’t the lower class have art? Maybe that’s just what this country needs. An art that will humble the upper class and bring them to their knees. Let’s get everyone on the same level for a change. The lower class is just the upper class without a sitting room. I’m going to get everyone into the same room, I promise you.

  GENTLEMAN 1: It doesn’t look very hard. Couldn’t anyone do this?

  Léar turns to them and grabs their collars, pulling them toward each other. All three of their faces are inches from each other. Spittle flies as Léar speaks.

  LÉAR: It’s easy to shoot pictures of people naked. Anyone can shake their ass in front of a camera. You fellows with your little pricks could even do it. What is difficult, gentlemen, is telling a good story at the same time.

  Léar releases them and walks away. The men straighten their coats in shock. The Cinematographer smiles a nervous smile.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: That’s Léar. Don’t take offense. He’s an artist.

  The Cinematographer escorts the men to a door at the edge of the warehouse and watches them shuffle out at a loss for words.

  INTERIOR/WAREHOUSE SET/SAME

  Léar sits on the edge of the bed staring at the camera in front of him. The investors and actors are gone now and the Cinematographer is carefully packing up the delicate machinery.

  LÉAR: So they agreed?

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: Yes, they did, no thanks to you. If we are going to be asking people for things, you might want to work on your joie de vivre.

  LÉAR: When you get back into town, I want you to write to Bernard Natan in Romania. I will arrange passage for him. He will be able to help us.

  CINEMATOGRAPHER: Very well. So the film is finished then?

  LÉAR: No. The film is not yet finished. What do we have? We have a soldier who comes upon an inn, has his way with an innkeeper’s daughter, and then something happens. Something that changes everything, but what? I shall have to think about the grande finition!

  INTERIOR/SOLDIER BOY’S ROOM/SAME

  (in black and white)

  Soldier Boy backs away from the hole and collapses next to it. He is sweating and shaking. There is a hard knock at his door.

  SOLDIER BOY: Go away!

  INNKEEPER (offscreen): I will not. You haven’t come out of that room in two days! If you’re going to stay any longer, you’ll have to pay! Now! Come on!

  Soldier Boy looks back to the hole, which is now double the size it was before.

  SOLDIER BOY: Leave me alone. I’m not well.

  Soldier Boy can hear whispering on the other side of the door. It sounds like Nicole is whimpering and pleading with her father, who continues to bang on the door. The door begins to shake and rattle as the Innkeeper slams into it with all his weight.

  Soldier Boy looks down at the last lines on the paper the Professor gave him.

  Without having even finished reading the lines, Soldier Boy has decided. He runs back to the table by the side of his bed and grabs his shirt and his pouch of coins. He punches the hole, making it larger. He steps back to look at the large hole in the wall. A cold, airy, damp darkness within seems to expand without end. The Innkeeper is moments away from busting the door off of its frame. Soldier Boy looks down at the paper one last time, drops it, and then jumps into the hole. He squeezes his midsection through the giant slit; it is just big enough for him to fit through.

  The Innkeeper stomps in to find the room now empty and a large hole in the wall. He looks into the nothingness.

  INNKEEPER: What can this be? This is impossible. There is a giant hole in my wall! What did he do? Where did he go?

  Nicole stands in the doorway, her face swollen from crying.

  NICOLE: If I had to guess, Paris.

  The Innkeeper notices the paper on the floor and picks it up. The last thing the paper says is:

  If one traveled south with the bustling city at one’s back, out of the safety and security of the lights of Paris, across a rickety bridge, and down the last paved street, which leads to roads of dirt and soot that slowly run off into the tiny veins of the Seine, most would think they had made a terribly wrong turn somewhere along their way.

  Unlike most, however, Léar was very familiar with this part of town, a string of warehouses owned by questionable characters who wouldn’t ask questions, with the understanding that the favor would be returned.

  One particular building was in between uses, having been recently acquired in a questionable game of chance by said questionable characters. Soon, this giant building would be home to one of the many unregulated absinthe distilleries that now dotted the waterway below the city. This was a new venture for men who were always ready to exploit the latest condemned social activity.

  In this case, a green liquor had come under attack. The public had been led to believe that the reason was safety. This very popular drink was apparently driving people crazy. At least one case of insanity had been proven when an innkeeper had come home from drinking and murdered his wife. The fact that there was no way to prove he had been drinking absinthe wouldn’t stop the wine merchants from taking their fight against this menace to the highest court. That the wine merchants had everything to gain from absinthe’s being condemned wouldn’t ever be questioned. In recent years, absinthe had crossed the boundaries of class and had become the preferred beverage of every man, cutting a hole in the deep pockets of the winemakers of France.

  In the end, the real beneficiaries of the coming absinthe ban would be the same people who had ended up causing the green fairy’s fall. Léar knew these men, who had been making bootleg bottles with questionable substitutes for the more expensive ingredients. But he also knew men like the Lumières and Mr. Pathé. After years of infighting, backstabbing, and failed business affairs with his cinematic peers, he had finally come to the conclusion that if he wanted to be a successful artist, he was better off aligning with the criminal “entrepreneurs” of the Paris underworld than with his old colleagues, whom he would often refer to in conversation as “uninspired, bloated old businessmen.”

  But Léar’s new alliance was sensible. They were going into business and both of them needed holes in the roof.

  A space in the ceiling had already been carved out for one of the many vents that would be needed for the liquor fumes. Léar couldn’t believe his luck. He had to find an out-of-the-way place to shoot his picture. The location needed to be open to the elements so the sun could reflect off his subjects’ skin enough to burn a bright image into his film. A warehouse with a giant hole in it, in a part of town that no one wanted to go to, in a building that didn’t officially exist, was a triumph.

  A door opened on the side of the warehouse, and out
of the darkness walked Nickie—she was the woman who played the Innkeeper’s daughter—followed by George, the actor who played Soldier Boy. They stood in the frozen morning air next to each other in awkward silence.

  “Well,” George said.

  “Well, well . . . ,” Nickie replied.

  “Adieu, then,” George said, applying a top hat and walking off in the direction of the city looming in the distance.

  Nickie yelled after him, “It was a pleasure! We should do it again sometime!” She laughed wildly, then did a little dance in place, then laughed again, and then she bowed.

  Nickie was far more comfortable performing for the camera than George was. She was used to presenting her body for men at a very popular show at one of the many theaters that line the streets of Montmartre. All the girls were doing it. It was not so much a reach to dance on the stage in thin garments and then do so on film. Many of the girls had already posed for their friends who painted their bare flesh on walls, canvases, and posters.

  Nickie herself could be seen all over town plastered on pillars and side-street walls in Monsieur Chéret’s latest poster, an advertisement for the show palace where she would dance. However recognizable her image presently was, it was her name that she wanted the world to know. Having spent the better part of a decade as the backstage inspiration for her many talented friends, she was ready to become more than a muse; she was ready to be the main attraction.

  It was one of these images, posted on a side street below Léar’s flat, that gave him the idea, and he had to have her! Originally, when he approached Nickie, she turned him down. She had worked with Léar once before and it had not conjured all the wonders he had promised. Léar did not like being turned down. It wasn’t something he accepted on any occasion.