Screenplay

by MacDonald Harris

  Then we came up over the top of a rise in the sand and we could see the palms only a short distance ahead of us. There was a small crowd in the shade of the trees and scattered around on the dunes near them. The camera was set up on its dolly, with boards for it to roll around on so it wouldn’t get stuck in the sand, and there was a folding chair for the script-girl. Everybody else was standing around smoking cigarettes.

  I pushed the throttle back up and the Ford slowed almost to a walking pace, wallowing and pitching as it crawled over the uneven surface. But I had to keep it moving a little or the wheels would sink into the sand. I stared out through the windshield, watching the scene ahead of me grow larger until it almost filled the screen of glass in its metal frame. I didn’t look at Moira. Finally I heard her saying, “You couldn’t turn around in this sand anyhow.”

  I stopped the car near the trees and shut off the magneto switch. In the silence I was aware of the murmur of voices and of the faint crepitation of sand as people walked back and forth on it. Moira got out of the car, untied the scarf around her head, and shook her hair free. I went on sitting there in the driver’s seat for a while, and then I got out too.

  The grips were setting up a tent that seemed to be made out of old scarves and Persian carpets, a long elaborate affair higher at one end than the other. I noticed for the first time that there were a dozen or so mangy-looking camels standing on the other side of the trees, where they had been out of sight as we came across the dunes in the car. The reflector-screen men were setting up their screens to point into the tent, which had its front drawn up and folded back so that you could see into the interior. Near it was a prop well with a wooden bucket in it, worked by a primitive windlass. The extras were all standing around in Bedouin garb. Well, here we were. It was the stupid thing about Arabs, as Moira had put it.

  Reiter, who was standing by the camera, took off his hat and wiped his head with his handkerchief. The planes of his skull, gleaming with moisture, shone in the sunshine. He put the hat back on and strode around waving everybody toward the set with his riding-crop, as though he were shooing geese. “Okay, let’s go!” he shouted.

  I started to turn back toward the car, but Reiter gave me a light blow across the back of the legs with the crop— just a friendly tap. “Over this way, Alys. Come on, come on, everybody. We’ve got to get moving on this thing! What’s the holdup?”

  “Pirate of the Dunes, Take Four,” said the script-girl, looking at her book. “The Expedition stops at the Oasis.”

  Reiter looked around through the crowd and caught sight of Moira. “Where’ve you been anyhow? Get your ass over there and climb on a camel. Where’s her pith helmet?”

  “Pith on you, Reiter,” said Moira under her breath.

  The costume-girl fitted a topi onto Moira’s head and bent down to apply a quick touch of the comb to the curls that emerged from it.

  “Fine, fine,” said Reiter. He turned to a couple of grips standing next to him. “You guys get out there with the rakes and smooth out the tracks of that Ford. The only thing worse than shooting in sand,” he said, “is shooting in snow.”

  THE

  THIRD PICTURE

  I lay on the couch in my tent, listlessly smoking and gazing out through the opening at the heat shimmering on the sand in the distance. The air in the tent was almost motionless; the smoke from the cigarette hung in lazy coils over my head, drifting away only slowly. The sand inside the tent was spread with fine Persian carpets. There were rifles stacked in one corner, and a primitive cookstove. Lying near me on the carpet were the only sources of entertainment in the oasis: a guitar and an oil-stained French novel which I had just set down with a bored expression. Ahmed, thin and brown, appeared before the opening of the tent and beckoned to me with a knowing expression.

  I got up reluctantly and went out to look in the direction he was pointing. Over the shimmering sands in the distance a line of camels was crawling slowly toward us. Three of them were loaded with packsaddles and the other three had people on them. Three Egyptians in long white nightgowns were following along on foot, urging the pack camels on with sticks. The people mounted on the camels ahead of them seemed to be westerners, to judge from their clothing. Ahmed made his sinister smile, his eyes fixed on my face.

  “ENGLISH, MASTER.”

  I shrugged. We went on watching as the caravan wound its way slowly toward us. At last they stopped, only a few yards from the oasis, and gazed at us curiously. The man on the first camel was Roland Lightfoot, clad in riding breeches, a loose white hunting jacket, and a topi. Next was Moira, in a feminine version of the same garb. The third rider was a heavyset mustached Englishman in a campaign hat, evidently a guide. His face had been burned by the sun and repeatedly peeled so that it resembled a piece of half-cooked beef. After a while Lightfoot, with a glance back at the guide, turned to us again and spoke.

  “SALAAM”

  I deliberately said nothing, staring back at them. Ahmed at my elbow smiled encouragement. It was impossible for Ahmed not to look sinister, no matter whether he was smiling or frowning. It was his specialty. He made a good living out of it as a character actor. He whispered something to me. I lifted my chin arrogantly in the direction of the English.

  “WHO ARE YOU, ANYHOW?”

  Lightfoot looked at me speculatively. He seemed to examine me carefully for the first time.

  “THEN YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?”

  It was a while before I replied to this. I stared back at him, a slightly contemptuous expression on my face. Finally my lips parted.

  “I SPEAK MANY LANGUAGES”

  “Stare at the girl!” shouted Reiter. “You’re interested in her, but don’t let Ahmed notice!”

  Deliberately I turned to examine Moira. I narrowed my eyes slightly, and my lips closed and tightened a little. Except for that nothing showed on my face. Lightfoot spoke again.

  “WE’RE AN ENGLISH EXPLORATION PARTY.

  MAY WE CAMP HERE FOR THE NIGHT?”

  Ahmed pulled at the hem of my burnoose and whispered to me. The three English, including the girl, were all armed; there were two light Martini rifles in saddle holsters on the camels. The guide had a pair of binoculars hanging around his neck and Lightfoot an expensive German camera. There also seemed to be scientific instruments, including a theodolite and a barometer, piled on the pack camels in the rear. One of my Bedouins came out of the tent with two of our own Lee-Enfields and slipped one to me and one to Ahmed. After I stared back at the Englishman for a while longer I shook my head.

  He turned to his companions doubtfully. They conferred together. They had noticed the Lee-Enfields. The guide, in a low voice, counseled going on and finding some other place to spend the night. Lightfoot turned back to me.

  “THEN MAY WE AT LEAST HAVE

  SOME WATER?”

  I still had my eyes fixed on Moira. She looked back at me, perfectly calm. She shifted her hand on the pommel of the camel saddle, and the diamond ring on her finger caught the sunlight and flared like a star. Her lips moved faintly. Was it a smile? It was impossible to say in the glare of the sunlight; perhaps it was only a grimace of discomfort from the heat and the long day in the saddle.

  I took my eyes away from her reluctantly and turned back to Lightfoot. I nodded. Turning to one side, I spoke to my servant Hassan. He ran off quickly to draw up the well bucket with its primitive windlass. The guide dismounted rather warily, and he and Hassan refilled the sheepskins in which the English carried their water.

  “Keep staring at the girl!” shouted Reiter.

  I turned back toward Moira and gave her a long look. After a moment I ran my tongue lightly over my lips. She shifted slightly in her saddle and, because of the heat, pushed back the hunting jacket to her side, a gesture that threw her breasts in the light linen shirt into prominence. Lightfoot seemed to notice that our glances were fixed on each other. He frowned.

  “Offer him the money!” yelled Reiter.

  Lightfoot seemed hesitan
t. He glanced from me to Moira, and then at the Lee-Enfields that Ahmed and I held with seeming carelessness in our left hands. Reaching into the pocket of his hunting jacket, he took out a purse. From this he removed a gold sovereign and held it out in my direction. Hassan started forward to take it, but I gripped him by his clothing. Turning to Lightfoot with a contemptuous expression, I dismissed the offer of the coin with a sweeping motion of my hand.

  Lightfoot shrugged. He struck the camel lightly with his crop—for the first time I noticed that Reiter had evidently lent him his riding crop for this scene, or perhaps for the whole picture—and his camel set into motion. The others followed him. Moira turned once to look back at me. There was a fixed and intent expression on the pale face under the topi. I watched the expedition disappear off across the dunes, only the wrinkle in my brow indicating the turmoil taking place inside me.

  * * *

  “Night scene. Blue filter. Shine the reflectors inside the tent. Is that enough light, Sid?”

  The cameraman looked into his viewfinder. He got out a light meter and pointed it into the tent. “I think so.”

  My band of Bedouins was gathered in the tent. We had finished our primitive supper of couscous and mutton and the dishes were lying around on the carpets. I was thoughtful, lying on the couch, drawing restlessly on my cigarette and then setting it down again. Hassan offered me a plate of sweetmeats. I shook my head. Ahmed smiled at this in his knowing way.

  “MASTER IS TROUBLED IN HIS MIND TONIGHT”

  I met his glance and stared back at him. Then I drew again at my cigarette, imperturbable, and went on watching him while I exhaled the smoke slowly between my teeth.

  “IT IS BECAUSE OF THE ENGLISH, IS IT NOT

  SO?…AND ESPECIALLY THE GIRL.”

  I got to my feet slowly. He was standing too. We confronted each other across the tent. Ahmed glanced in a meaningful way at the others and then back to me. He made one of his longer speeches. Generally he was not a talkative person.

  “THEY CARRY WITH THEM MANY VALUABLE

  THINGS. BINOCULARS. SCIENTIFIC

  INSTRUMENTS. THE WEAPONS. AND …

  THE WHITE EFFENDI’S PURSE OF COINS.”

  I smiled. A distant and contemplative expression came over my face, as though I were examining some image in my memory. Finally I spoke.

  “THAT IS NOT THE ONLY VALUABLE

  THING THEY CARRY WITH THEM.”

  Ahmed made a kind of contemptuous snort. He looked at the others. They exchanged glances, nodding. They knew what it was that the Master was thinking of. Ahmed turned back to me and his face hardened.

  “WE MUST SLAY THEM ALL.

  THERE MUST BE NO SURVIVORS.”

  Inconspicuously my hand rose toward my belt where my weapon lay ready, concealed in a fold of the burnoose. It was an elaborately chased paper knife with Arabic inscriptions on the handle, the one that Nesselrode had stolen from the house. Staring back at Ahmed without fear, I spoke a single word.

  “NO.”

  Ahmed made another of his long speeches. He was certainly developing as an orator. He spoke well too, with just the right touch of sarcasm.

  “MASTER IS WEAK, HE HAS LOST HIS HEAD

  OVER A GIRL. HE IS A GIRL HIMSELF. FROM

  NOW ON, I AM THE LEADER OF THIS BAND.”

  At that he got out his own weapon, a rusty and unsanitary-looking stiletto twice as long as my own knife. The others cleared a space for us in the tent and we wound scarves around our left arms. My own scarf, I noticed, was the one with the flowered pattern that Moira had wrapped around her head in the car. Ahmed made a lunge at me. I stepped back and parried his blow skillfully. His blade glanced off the scarf and slashed it slightly, but I was unscathed. We clashed again. This time I seized the wrist that held the knife, and he clutched my wrist in a similar grasp. Our teeth clenched, our muscles strained. Then I flung myself loose from him and, in a single motion, bent low and sprang upward at him like a tiger with the blade outstretched in my hand. He attempted a counterblow, which grazed my shoulder, but the paper knife struck him to the heart. He gasped a long “Aaaaah …” and sank to the carpet, his eyes glazed, dropping the knife. With a shrug I told the others to throw his body to the jackals.

  We left the oasis at dawn, after watering our camels and fitting bandoleers of ammunition for the Lee-Enfields around our shoulders. As I reached up to the camel saddle to mount I noticed an inscription on the leather: “Cairo. 1928.” Fitting myself easily into the saddle with the grace of an expert rider, I looked around to see if the others were ready. There were seven or eight of them, all experienced and capable men. Only Hassan would be left behind to guard the camp. Our Lee-Enfields were fitted in the holsters under the camel saddles. I tossed my head, half-hidden in the cape of the burnoose.

  “FORWARD!”

  We set off at a trot across the dunes. It was not long until we descried the English party in the distance. They had stopped to camp before nightfall, and I knew they could not have gone far with their drivers leading the pack camels on foot.

  “Look into the distance! Point to show the others!” Reiter yelled.

  Reiter, the camera and the cameraman, the script-girl, and all the others were swaying along on a flatbed truck, a short distance to one side and behind us. The driver at the wheel of the truck was Charles Morton, who was playing nobody but himself, that is, he had been recruited as a truck driver because there was nothing for him to play in this picture. I found this a little disorienting. It was an element of distortion that helped to blend together and confuse, more and more, the unreality of the Picture and the more expansive unreality of the whole world behind the Screen. For, I reasoned, if Morton was real—that is, if he had any existence apart from his characterizations on the screen—then perhaps the others were too— Lightfoot, the beefy English guide, and possibly even Reiter and the script-girl. And if they were real, then Moira and I were real too, and it might be possible for us to lead an existence quite apart from this flimsy and improbable farrago in which we found ourselves at the moment. This encouraged me. I smiled to myself through my clenched teeth, a bit of acting perfectly suited to the script at this moment.

  Following the yelled instructions from the truck, I raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun and looked off into the distance. I turned in my saddle and pointed to show the others. They nodded, and we spurred our mounts to a slightly faster pace.

  The English had broken camp and were proceeding slowly over the dunes about a mile in the distance. We overtook them rapidly, cutting in diagonally to intersect their course across the sands. The camels were making their way along a ridge in the dunes, silhouetted against the morning sunshine. Even at a distance I could make out Lightfoot on the lead camel, then Moira’s slighter form, and then the bulky outline of the guide. One by one the Egyptians leading the pack camels came up from behind a dune and joined in behind them in the line. It was a beautiful composition, one of Reiter’s most successful shots. The six camels, back-lighted in the sunshine, made their way along the ridge in the distance, and the camera shot them through our own band in the foreground, where we had stopped on a slight elevation to appraise the situation.

  I looked around at the others. They were ready. I nodded and flogged my own camel into a gallop. The truck started up again, slithering over the loose sand of the dunes in an effort to keep up with us. I could hear Reiter yelling to Morton to get over to one side so he could go on shooting the English expedition and still have our band in the foreground. Morton was doing his best, but neither of them had counted on the fact that a camel under ideal conditions can make better time over sand than a flatbed truck.

  “Alys! Don’t be in such a goddam hurry! Slow down until we catch up with you!”

  I slowed my camel to a trot. Lightfoot had caught sight of us now. He spurred his own camel to a trot and urged on the others; the three mounted camels drew ahead, leaving the pack camels and the Egyptian drivers behind. The two lines of camels were almo
st parallel now; my own was converging gradually on the others. I unslung my Lee-Enfield from the holster, and my Bedouins did the same. My face shadowed in the hood of the burnoose and my expression invisible, I shouted across the hot sand.

  “WE WANT THE GOLD … AND THE GIRL.”

  At this the guide raised his Martini and fired. There was a small pop and a puff of sand sprang up a few yards ahead of us. I curled my lip contemptuously. The Martinis were light hunting rifles and not very dangerous. Lightfoot was raising his own rifle now. I could see Moira’s pale face turned toward me, the eyes watchful but showing no trace of fear. I fired, and behind me I heard the multiple crackle of the Lee-Enfields of my Bedouins. The two shot camels, those of Lightfoot and the guide, galloped on awkwardly for a few yards and then fell like broken toys. The guide scrambled for his rifle and Lightfoot raised his hands in surrender. We shot them both. In the distance the three Egyptians scampered away leading the pack camels. We ignored them. The flatbed truck tore up behind us and skidded to a stop in the sand. Reiter was shouting at us as usual.