Swann (42 page)
Sarah’s mouth drops.
CAMERA
close-up. She is taking in Jimroy’s behaviour, which is close to hysterical. Her eyes move sideways and meet Cruzzi’s.
Again the voice of Lang is heard from the meeting room.
LANG:
And so if you will kindly take your places we will commence with —
Director’s Note: The next few TAKES are fragmentary; their purpose is not to illuminate the film’s theme or to advance the action, but to suggest the passing of time. The symposium has moved into its second stage; the atmosphere
is calm, hard-working, serious, even somewhat plodding, and the faces of the actors must reflect this shift.
Fade to: Interior of the meeting room. Afternoon.
Blue-Spotted Tie is standing at the lectern, winding up a paper entitled “Regional Allusions in the Poetry of Mary Swann.”
BLUE-SPOTTED TIE:
And now, to sum up my main points of departure: the non-specific nature of the geo-sociological references in Mrs. Swann’s universe, and the mythic and biblical implications of place names and allusions…
Cut to: Interior of small seminar room. Afternoon.
A workshop is in progress. Eight men and women are seated around a table. The discussion leader is Woman With Turban.
WOMAN WITH TURBAN:
… would sincerely like to thank you all for your participation, especially Professor Herbert Block, who has been so kind as to give us his ideas concerning a post-modernist interpretation of Swann’s Water Poems. (Polite applause.)
Cut to: Interior of meeting room. Late afternoon.
WATTLED GENT
(at lectern): … and I do apologize for going over time, but I want to express my thanks to you all for your enthusiastic reception of—but I see I’m getting a signal. Thank you. (Applause.)
Cut to: Interior of the LaSalle Room. Early evening.
The members of the symposium are mingling in a cocktail atmosphere. There is a sound of glasses, ice clinking, and blurred talk.
WISTFUL DEMEANOUR:
… not a bad day, all in all —
WOMAN WITH TURBAN:
… but it’s the love poems we really came for —
MAN WITH OUTSIZE AFRO:
The love poems, ha! I’ll eat my neck-tie if Lang —
GINGER PONYTAIL
: … splitting headache —
CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
… was a trifle disturbed by his remarks regarding —
BIRDLADY:
… blatantly sexist —
GREEN TWEED SUIT:
Slash, slash —
GINGER PONYTAIL
: Jesus, the smoke in here’s thick enough to —
WOMAN IN PALE SUEDE BOOTS:
… and the noise —
SILVER CUFFLINKS:
… sorry, I didn’t catch —
The noise escalates, loud, indistinct, overwhelming.
Cut to: Interior of the banquet room. Evening.
Dinner is over; coffee cups litter the long white tablecloths. Members of the symposium are relaxed at their places, some smoking, lolling in their chairs, only partly attentive to the speaker. Rose Hindmarch, dressed in a harsh red lace dress, sits between Cruzzi (in a dark suit) and Sarah (in dark green silk with a lace collar).
LANG
(at head table): … his been a most profitable first day, ladies and gentlemen. Just a reminder before we adjourn—we will be meeting at nine-thirty sharp tomorrow for our session on Swann’s love poems. Thank you.
People begin to rise from the tables. There is the sound of chairs being pushed back, spontaneous conversations springing up. The crowd begins to surge into the corridor and disperse.
MUSIC:
dense, lyrical.
Cut to: Interior of the hotel corridor, between the display case and the bank of elevators. Evening.
The crowd thins out; there is continuous chattering as people enter elevators, call good night and disappear. A small group stands in front of the display case.
ROSE:
Well, I’ve had it for this day. I don’t know when I’ve been so dog tired.
WOMAN WITH TURBAN:
Gawd, morning’s going to come early.
MERRY EYES:
Anyone for a nightcap? I’ve some gin in my room and a little —
BLUE-SPOTTED TIE:
Don’t mind if I do. How ‘bout you, Mr. Cruzzi?
CRUZZI:
Ah, well, perhaps one —
WISTFUL DEMEANOUR:
Why not?
CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
Onward!
SARAH
(to Merry Eyes, Blue-Spotted Tie, etc.): Good night.
CRUZZI
(tapping on display case): Good night, Mrs. Swann.
SARAH
(extending a hand to Cruzzi): Good night. I’m glad … very glad we’ve had a chance to talk. And you, too, Rose. (Her tone is weighted with meaning.)
Director’s Note: There is a shaking of hands all around, a sense of people going off in their separate directions, and a sense, too, of a change in mood, a gathering of tension.
MUSIC:
begins slowly, a combination of strings and organ. Frederic Cruzzi, Rose, and the others enter the elevators
and disappear, leaving Sarah alone in the corridor. Her hand moves to touch the elevator button, then hovers in the air uncertainly. Her face wears a look of intense concentration, and her wandering hand goes first to her mouth, then becomes part of a salute in the direction of the display case.
SARAH
(softly whispering): Good night, Mary Swann. Sleep … tight.
Fade to: Interior of the same corridor. It is approaching midnight, and the corridor is in total darkness.
MUSIC:
alto clarinet, very soft. Complete darkness gives way to partial darkness. Light in the corridor is provided by the red EXIT sign over the stairs and by the illuminated panel above the bank of elevators. A portion of this dim light reaches the glass display unit and shines on its mitred edges.
SOUND:
clarinet diminishes until the silence is total; this lasts for a few beats; then the silence is broken by a small swishing sound. The door to the EXIT stairway opens, and the figure of a man slips quickly through. He is only faintly visible, but
CAMERA
picks him up in silhouette as, quickly and quietly, he approaches the display case, glancing catlike over his shoulder. From his pocket he takes two or three small keys and begins to tinker with the lock of the case. His first attempts fail, he then takes out a small knife and works it into the lock. There is a sharp sound as the locking mechanism breaks and the lid of the display case opens. At this moment, as he is about to reach for the photograph, a sudden beam of light falls on him, causing him to jerk with surprise.
SARAH
(emerging from behind the coffee vending machine with a flashlight in her hand. The beam of light catches the man on his arm, which he quickly raises to cover his
face. Sarah’s voice is shaky but determined): Hello, Mr. Jimroy. I thought I might find you here.
The intruder jumps, letting the lid of the display case crash heavily. It breaks. He runs for the stair exit, pursued by Sarah, who has difficulty keeping the beam of light directed on him.
Sarah follows, but arrives at the stairwell in time to see only his fleeing back in a maintenance man’s uniform, disappearing down the stairs. She turns back to the display case and, as she does so, her light picks out the figure of Morton Jimroy, his back pressed to the wall at the doorway of the meeting room. The
LIGHTING
increases slightly, but only enough to suggest eyes growing gradually accustomed to the darkness. Seeing Jimroy, Sarah gasps.
JIMROY
(sardonically, arms crossed on his chest): Well, well, Dr. Maloney. Prowling the corridors. And with a flashlight I see. A regular Girl Guide on patrol.
SARAH
(glancing back at door): And what are you doing here, Mr. Jimroy? If I may ask.
JIMROY:
The same thing you’re doing, I would guess. Guarding (gestures toward the display case) our high priestess from thieves and rogues.
SARAH:
Who? … (She is shaken and confused.) Who was that? (She gestures toward the exit.)
JIMROY:
I’m afraid I didn’t see
its
face. Not having equipped myself with a handy flashlight.
SARAH
(holding up the flashlight): I borrowed it from the front desk. (She laughs nervously.) I told them I was … afraid of the dark. Who
was
that?
JIMROY:
It looked like one of the maintenance men. At least he wore the garb. I gather from your … your
outburst … that you thought it was I who was busying myself with the burglar tools.
SARAH:
Do you think, Mr. Jimroy, that you might speak to me, just for once, in a normal voice. Not quite so loaded with venom.
JIMROY
(continuing in sardonic tone): I was almost sure I heard my name ringing out in the darkness. Well, I don’t have to ask you who planted the ugly seeds of suspicion in your head. I suppose our dear Miss Hindmarch has been spreading her libellous little tales. Which have no foundation, let me tell you.
SARAH:
You
were
in Nadeau. She
did
show you the photo—she told me. And it disappeared the same day. I don’t pretend to understand what you’re up to, Mr. Jimroy, but—quite a number of things seem to be disappearing … as I think you know.
JIMROY:
Including, if I may remind you, my own briefcase. During our little power break yesterday evening.
SARAH:
Someone probably … in the confusion —
JIMROY
(interrupting decisively): Do you know what was in that briefcase? Let me tell you. My notes for my lecture. All right, those notes are of little importance. I’m quite accustomed to speaking without notes. But I also had with me my copy of
Swann’s Songs
. And need I tell you, it was my only copy. Can you imagine my … grief.
SARAH
(softening): I’m sorry about that. Really. But about the photograph, the
other
photograph —
JIMROY:
Would you kindly stop shining that light in my eyes? Your Miss Marple act is less polished if I may say so, than your … letters.
SARAH:
And will you kindly stop addressing me with that accusing tone. Has anyone ever told you that continual sarcasm can be offensive?
JIMROY
(always a man to take a question seriously): My wife.
SARAH:
Your wife?
JIMROY:
My ex-wife, I should say. Her daily complaint. Sarcasm.
Cut to: Interior of the stairwell. Same time as above.
The stairway is dimly lit and pin-droppingly quiet. Very gradually the sound of slow, trudging ascending footsteps is heard.
CAMERA
focuses on Rose Hindmarch, still in her red party dress, climbing the stairs. She is breathing with difficulty, clutching at the rail, resting occasionally. She is alerted suddenly by the sound of descending footsteps, rapidly approaching. Her look changes from exhaustion to fear, and she stops, listens, then flattens herself against the wall in the shadows. The footsteps continue to approach.
INTRUDER
(coming into view, startled to see Rose crouched against the wall): What —?
ROSE
(relieved somewhat at the sight of the maintenance uniform): I was just …
INTRUDER
(attempting to get around her): Excuse me.
ROSE:
Good heavens. Why—aren’t you? …
INTRUDER
(trying again to pass Rose): I’m in a hurry, sorry.
ROSE:
But, don’t I know you? You look so—I’m Rose. From the town clerk’s office. In Nadeau. Wasn’t it you—?
INTRUDER:
Sorry, I don’t know you.
ROSE
(drawing back): Unless … maybe I’ve made a mistake.
INTRUDER:
Must be, I’ve never —
ROSE:
You could be his twin brother, do you know that? He just bought a farm in our area … A hobby farm, he calls it. He’s the spitting image —
INTRUDER:
Sorry. I’ve got work to do.
ROSE:
I feel such a fool. Usually I remember faces. Names now, I have trouble with —
INTRUDER:
I’m afraid I have to—(He succeeds in getting past Rose, and continues down the stairs, running, taking them two at a time.)
Rose shrugs, mystified, then continues puffing her way up the stairs. At the eighteenth floor she pushes open the door into a dark corridor and sees two shadowy figures, one of them holding a flashlight. She rubs her eyes with a bewildered hand, still panting from the exertion of the climb. Her voice shaking, she calls out.
ROSE:
Who’s there? Is someone there?
SARAH:
It’s me, Rose. Sarah. And Morton Jimroy.
ROSE:
For heaven’s sake. What are you doing —?
SARAH:
It’s all right, Rose.
ROSE
(seeing the broken display case): I knew it! I knew it! I got back to my room and was about to get ready for bed, and I got to thinking—(she shoots Jimroy a baleful look)—that I didn’t trust —
JIMROY:
Good God, is she going to start up all that again!
ROSE:
… so I said to myself, I’ll just go see if everything’s safe. I would of taken the elevator but my tummy always … so I walked all the way up to … and here he is. I knew I should have had it out with him right away when the other photograph —
SARAH:
Now look Rose —
JIMROY:
There is such a thing as professional ethics, you know. (To Sarah): If you could please explain to Miss Hindmarch here that —
ROSE:
… the very day it was gone I should have done something, maybe called the police, but I —
SARAH:
Rose, he says he didn’t —
ROSE:
… and then to say I was ranting.
Ranting
, when all I
wanted was to get the picture back. For the museum. That museum means an awful lot to me, you know.