The Good Inn Page 8

  The Stage Manager explodes . . .

  STAGE MANAGER: IMPOSTEUR!

  Soldier Boy stumbles backward and loses his balance as he reaches the edge of the stairs that lead down below the theater. He falls down the swirling staircase, picks himself up, and races back to the contraption that he fell down in the first place. Again, the stagehands are operating it and its wheels, sprockets, and levers move upward.

  He jumps onto the wooden slats that carried him down and ascends upward. As he does, he begins to choke. He can’t breathe. He is suffocating. He travels upward into the wooden water, rising from its depths and into a bluish-black abyss.

  EXTERIOR/SEINE RIVER/NIGHT

  He pops up through the wooden water waves and grabs on to concrete and steel. He uses it to pull himself up onto a bank. All around him, there is an expressionistic silhouetted cityscape, swimming in shadows.

  EXTERIOR/CUTOUT SET ON THE SEINE/SAME

  Soldier Boy stands below the numbers hovering in the center of his vision. “1910.” He walks under them. He touches them. THEY ARE REAL. He pokes them and they shiver at his touch, then fade into thin air before his very eyes. Ahead of him is Nickie. She is alone and running along the river, getting smaller as she disappears over the horizon.

  SOLDIER BOY: Wait!

  Before he can pursue her, something else catches his eye. A man standing on a bridge above the water. This man stares down into the water below with an anger and sadness Soldier Boy has never seen. This is a broken man. This is CHARLES-ÉMILE REYNAUD.

  Soldier Boy approaches him and stands beside him. Piled around him are many strange objects that the darkness hides.

  SOLDIER BOY: What is wrong, friend?

  Reynaud bends down and picks up a handful of the objects at his feet. Soldier Boy recognizes them instantly. They are zoetropes and praxinoscopes in all shapes and sizes, blueprints for unfinished works, moving picture wheels of every type of scenario. They are his inventions and he is dumping them, one by one, into the Seine.

  Soldier Boy, furious and panicked, grabs Reynaud’s arms and holds them down.

  SOLDIER BOY: No! What are you doing?

  Reynaud falls over onto his knees in furious tears.

  REYNAUD: These things brought me nothing but sadness and heartache. I have been passed over. I am penniless. I have nothing. I gave them the Théâtre Optique, but it is an unkind world to those who try to create with light. Life is a dark room where light matters, but no matter how we try, we are always left in darkness. Let me go!

  Reynaud breaks free of Soldier Boy’s grasp and continues to hysterically throw his life’s work into the black river.

  REYNAUD: Everything good will eventually float downriver when the next great thing floats from up it! They were all downriver from me, watching, waiting, and now they float over my achievements in giant grand ships while I drown. Like poor Méliès, who sits alone in Château d’Orly. Ah! The Mutuelle du Cinéma. [Subtitle: A pension fund for filmmakers.] Yes, they have built a home for those who are left in ruin by our much younger protégés who harness our light with the latest inventions, with the best of intentions, alas. Poor friend, he was the first to grow old in our field, and now he is the only occupant of the lonely house for the ghosts of old light.

  Reynaud has finished. There is nothing left at his feet. He solemnly stands over the water as they both watch his work float away.

  REYNAUD: C’est la vie.

  Before Soldier Boy can offer any response, he sees Nickie’s shadow in the distance crossing a bridge downriver. He runs downstream to catch up to her. Running and tumbling down an embankment, he follows the water in an attempt to get ahead of her.

  EXTERIOR/UNDER A BRIDGE ON THE SEINE/SAME

  Soldier Boy runs along the river but slows as he sees ahead of him another set of glowing numbers, hovering midair just above his head.

  Again he stops underneath it as he touches the bottom. This time, the numbers seem to giggle as if ticklish to the touch, and then again they fade away. Up ahead is some sort of gathering. Many people stand along the waterfront. Yelling and clapping echo along the set piece walls and the bridges overhead.

  COMMISSAIRE VALET, head of the Brigade Mobile, stands at attention, shouting a speech to the crowd.

  COMMISSAIRE VALET: We stand here today in solidarity to send a message to the flesh peddlers of Paris. You can no longer hide in your dark sanctuaries of sin. You can no longer fool the world into believing that you are undressing some hidden truth. Not all light illuminates, and the good men and women of France have seen the light! And with that said, we send these twenty-five thousand meters of pornographic material, confiscated in the many valiant raids organized by René Bérenger in his honorable improvement campaign of public morality, into the dark, where filth should live. It will sink to the depths away from all matter of light, forever, down the river, which will carry it into the sea, for the good of France and for the good of the people.

  On his cue, trumpets sound and a small brigade of soldiers begins to toss reel upon reel of film into the river.

  FLASHES BURN and send SMOKE into the sky from the many cameras held by the press corps, who have all been strategically assembled for this political “street theater.” It seems all the assembled press is well aware of the ridiculous scene that has been set up for them to report back to the public.

  One journalist steps forward and shouts out to the Commissaire.

  JOURNALIST: Will there be more public displays such as this to come? Will Père-la-Pudeur seek out similar fates for others as he did the actors and directors of the Ciné-Actualités, the company Bernard Natan founded whose thirty-one reels of film are now floating away from “the good men and women of France”?

  COMMISSAIRE VALET: The Seine tribunal will punish any individual or group that creates an abomination to the eye or affront to morality. I do not know what future steps will be taken, but I can tell you that the military is ready to wage war on this enemy at its commander’s call to arms.

  Soldier Boy stands in the background, watching the scene unfold before his eyes. As he watches, the condemned film floats downstream, into the darkness. There is another glowing number. It hovers above the bobbing canisters and knotted film as it floats away with them.

  Soldier Boy pursues it, running, attempting to catch up to it. As he gets closer, the numbers come into focus.

  Almost out of breath, he rounds a bend and the numbers fall into a drain out of sight, next to a staircase that leads to the street above. The film, however, has stopped up the drain and REAL WATER begins to rise. It flows over the wooden cutouts of water, spilling onto the river walkway and over Soldier Boy’s shoes.

  Looking up, he just makes out Nickie’s silhouette as she turns and disappears above.

  He runs up the stairs and finds himself at the entrance of a dark alley with tall walls on either side. Nickie disappears into its darkness.

  EXTERIOR/ALLEYWAY/SAME

  The thinnest alleyway in the world separates two blocks of buildings, and the alley looks like it goes on forever.

  A flame lights a doorway in the distance and Soldier Boy squeezes his way through the small space toward it.

  On the walls are posters, plastered impossibly high, far above anyone’s reach. They seem to be descending in order of events that happened years before to events that happen in years to come. They are all advertisements for theatrical pieces. On the left wall are posters for George’s plays and on the right are posters promoting Nickie and her act.

  As Soldier Boy stumbles and squeezes as best he can into the confined space, he moves toward the light. As the posters progress they move from featuring the grandest events and venues to the most run-down third-tier theaters, performers, and showcases. By the time Soldier Boy reaches the door, a small, torn, and hastily drawn poster reads:

  And in small print below it . . .

  Looking back down the alley to where he came from, a small army of shadows is running toward him. They are sh
outing and pursuing him.

  Soldier Boy pushes the alleyway door open and goes inside.

  INTERIOR/BACKSTAGE SHOW PALACE/SAME

  It is dark and warm and Soldier Boy stumbles, reaching out for something to get his bearings. His hands grab on to curtains and he carefully pulls them apart revealing another, much smaller theater. This venue has clearly seen better days. It’s falling apart.

  In the audience sits one man watching the stage. Soldier Boy watches as five naked women stand silently in front of the virtually empty house and its rickety rows of old empty seats. One of the women timidly steps forward and speaks for the others.

  NAKED WOMAN: What about the music?

  CLUB OWNER: What about music?

  NAKED WOMAN: What are we to dance to?

  The Club Owner looks up at her, disgusted, and then begins to clap his hands together.

  Through the slit in the curtains, Soldier Boy watches, transfixed. A pretty young girl steps up next to him and stares out numbly at the scene. She whispers as they both watch.

  YOUNG DANCER (singing a cappella in time with the man’s clapping): She’s prepared now for the dancing but he isn’t even glancing. She requests a little music, but he says, Please, no excuses. That’s how you get your chance, sonny, working for Mr. Milk and Honey.

  SOLDIER BOY: Why do you do it?

  YOUNG DANCER: A girl has gotta eat. Some folk have brains or brawn. We’ve got curves and feet.

  The Young Dancer takes Soldier Boy’s hand.

  YOUNG DANCER: Come on.

  SOLDIER BOY: Where are we going?

  YOUNG DANCER: You’re here to see her, aren’t you?

  She leads him farther backstage to a ladder that ascends toward a loft above.

  YOUNG DANCER: She’s up there. She doesn’t dance anymore. She can’t. She’s probably older than you remember. Try not to be disappointed. They all come looking for her. Some don’t mind what they find, as long as they can say they had their night with Nickie Willy. But hurry, she’s already started her drink for the evening, so she won’t be at her best for much longer.

  The Young Dancer steps backward and disappears.

  Soldier Boy begins to climb the ladder. Just as he peeks over the top, he sees the back of a woman sitting by candlelight at a vanity mirror. She is pouring a glass of dark liquid.

  Soldier Boy is YANKED BACKWARD off of the ladder onto the floor. He looks up at a very angry Club Owner, who grabs him by his jacket collar and throws him up against the crumbling brick wall.

  CLUB OWNER: How many times do I have to tell you pricks that you gotta go through me? [singing a cappella] THAT’S how it’s gotta be, sonny, dealing with Mr. Milk and Honey!

  SOLDIER BOY: Sir, you’re making a mistake, I was just, you’re going to hit me aren’t you . . .

  Before Soldier Boy can say another word, the Club Owner punches him square in the face.

  EXTERIOR/STAGE DOOR/NIGHT

  Soldier Boy is thrown headfirst back into the alley. The door slams behind him. Before he can start to collect his thoughts he sees the shadows of angry men running toward him, this time from the opposite direction. He runs back toward the alley entrance. He makes his way toward the stairs that lead back down to the river, barely able to see in front of him from darkness and blood gushing from the angry gash on his head, rudely interrupted from healing yet again.

  He reaches the alley’s mouth and turns to see the gang of shadows chasing after him come into the moonlight, which now shines through the thin opening between the alley walls above. They are all dressed like him. They are soldiers. He recognizes them. Leading the pack is the most familiar face of them all. It’s Roussou. He doesn’t look angry. He looks concerned.

  ROUSSOU: Wait! Stop! Soldier Boy! You’re going the wrong way!

  EXTERIOR/ALLEYWAY RIVER STAIRCASE/SAME

  Soldier Boy falls and tumbles down the staircase landing to the Seine.

  He descends deep into the black water. The loose film stopping up the drain snakes around him and he becomes entangled in it; his limbs get wrapped up, and it pulls him deeper under the water. He looks up to see the dim light of the surface getting darker and darker until there is nothing to see.

  A voice. It is Nicole’s voice.

  Nicole (offscreen): Do you know what angels are made of, Soldier Boy?

  Far above him on the surface, a bright LIGHT SHOOTS DOWN INTO THE DEPTHS, bathing his body in an angelic GLOW.

  EXTERIOR/RIVERBED/NIGHT

  Soldier Boy shoots up to the surface, as if he has been pushed upward by his feet thanks to an incredible force.

  He flips and flops over onto the riverbed like a condemned fish, soaked and coughing up water. He is back out in the open, in the dark, glowing forest. Above him stands Nickie. Haggard, overweight, and sickly, she looks down on him as he catches his breath.

  SOLDIER BOY (coughing): It is you.

  NICKIE (singing a cappella): Hey, what ya doin’? Wanna go on a date? Special things are my specialty.

  SOLDIER BOY: How did you get here?

  NICKIE (singing a cappella): Like you, I’m born to roam. What have you come to find, hanging out at the mouth of the Rhône—a low poke every time.

  SOLDIER BOY: What are you doing here?

  NICKIE (singing): I’m waiting at the shore, but you’re not my average client. (Are you?) Still, I am the one who will give you more, a low poke every time. A grain of red sand came, and fell into my eye, came all the way from Africa, just to make me cry. Just to make me try. J’appel la Tramontane,* and here is the reason why, that’s the howl can make ya go insane, but I just hang my head and cry.

  Once there was this one, that I loved, took my troubles far away. Hear the bells far above, and the voices of the santonniers.

  But now I’m hanging out at the mouth of the Rhône—a low poke every time!

  Out of the woods a “gentleman” approaches Nickie. This is clearly a common sight in these parts. He looks around nervously, but before he can change his mind . . .

  NICKIE (to the man): Come here. I’m actually really nice. I’m a creative type.

  She takes his arm and turns, walking away with him into the dark, leaving Soldier Boy alone by the riverbed. He is wet and shivering cold.

  He stands and looks out in the direction they strolled off in.

  SOLDIER BOY: No, wait!

  He pushes angrily through two-dimensional glowing bushes and brush. They crash down flat onto the ground as he bulldozes through the fake world. The set is changing before his very eyes on this life-size stage.

  And then . . .

  The entire SET breaks apart, whirling away on rollers and up into the air on pulleys all around Soldier Boy. The event is a dizzying, dazzling display that, when finished, reveals behind it not a backstage concrete wall or another surreal set piece, but instead THE REAL NIGHT SKY OF PARIS.

  The Paris of Soldier Boy’s memories. All around him.

  EXTERIOR/PARIS/NIGHT (in color)

  Soldier Boy’s body gives out. He lands on his knees, looking up at Paris spread out in all directions around him.

  Shaking from excitement and overwhelming confusion, he looks up into the sky to see it is lit almost as bright as day by the city’s twinkling, warm glow. It is unlike the backdrops in the dreamscape he has just wandered through. This scene is absolutely real.

  Soldier Boy has arrived in Paris. It is early evening, and just above his head are four more floating white numbers preceded by a single word.

  CUT TO BLACK

  CHAPTER 6

  In the Pigalle

  Over black, heavy breathing of two, a man and a woman. A climax. Silence.

  CUT TO:

  INTERIOR/INTERROGATION ROOM/DAY

  Soldier Boy sits across from Roussou, who, despite decomposition, appears to be in good spirits.

  SOLDIER BOY: Roussou? You’re alive!

  ROUSSOU: Not very much, I’m sad to say. It’s much harder to keep myself together these days, but otherwise, I’m
fit for duty.

  His jaw cracks, sways back and forth unhinged on his face, and then falls to the table. Roussou casually picks it up and puts it back on.

  SOLDIER BOY: You’re dead?

  ROUSSOU: Dead-ish. Yes. [looking down sadly and then shooting back up with a warm smile] But aren’t we all? As for me, it seems I’m no angel. So if I am to stay here longer than I was intended to, I must slowly watch as my skin peels away from my extremities. Only angels have the luxury of vanity. Do you know why that is? Do you know what angels are made of, Soldier Boy?

  Before he can answer, something happens.

  On the far wall behind Roussou, a small pinhole appears. A light flickers through it. Another appears, and then another. Dozens of tiny holes with tiny flickering lights spray out directly onto Soldier Boy, covering him from head to toe. None of this seems to faze Roussou.

  ROUSSOU: You look well. You’re glowing. What have you to report?

  SOLDIER BOY: Report?

  ROUSSOU: Your mission. Your special mission? Although it is profoundly wonderful to see you, there is business to attend to.

  SOLDIER BOY: Well, Roussou, they didn’t give me much direction. None really. I went wandering and I found myself in some pretty tricky situations. I met a girl.

  ROUSSOU: Ah, a woman! Was she pretty?

  SOLDIER BOY: Which one?

  ROUSSOU: My friend, how many have you had?!

  SOLDIER BOY: There were two—that is, when I looked through the hole. And so then I entered it.