by Wes Anderson
Je peux vous aider?
M. GUSTAVE
Oui, Serge. Vous pouvez emballer celui-là.
SERGE
(hesitates)
Emballer – ‘Boy with Apple’?
M. Gustave nods and hands Serge the picture. Serge takes it. Pause. He goes over to a bureau, withdraws a large sheet of wrapping-paper, folds it around the painting, and ties it with string. He returns the parcel to M. Gustave.
M. GUSTAVE
Merci, Serge.
Serge opens the front door. M. Gustave and Zero quickly go outside and get into the taxi. Serge, overwhelmed and confused, with tears in his eyes, looks in at them through one of the back-seat windows. M. Gustave rolls it down.
M. GUSTAVE
What’d you want to tell me? Before.
SERGE
(long pause, with a heavy accent)
I think I cannot say right now.
M. GUSTAVE
(short pause)
Write me tomorrow. (Sharply, to the driver.) Lutzbahn Station!
The taxi’s tires squeal, and the car shoots down the driveway. Serge watches, deeply anguished and disturbed.
INT. TRAIN COMPARTMENT. NIGHT
A sleeper on the overnight to Nebelsbad. The bunks have been folded down and made up, and both M. Gustave and Zero wear pajamas. (M. Gustave’s are of burgundy silk and belted.)
‘Boy with Apple’, partially unwrapped, is on display, balanced along the edge of the washbasin. M. Gustave says soberly:
M. GUSTAVE
I’ll never part with it. It reminded her of me. It will remind me of her. Always. I’ll die with this picture above my bed. (Quickly.) See the resemblance?
M. Gustave positions himself alongside the painting. Zero mutters politely from his bed:
ZERO
Oh, yes.
M. Gustave lies down. He stares up at the ceiling. Pause.
M. GUSTAVE
Actually, we should sell it. Sooner rather than later, in case they try and steal it back. Plus: something about those lunatic foot-soldiers on the express – I think this could be a tricky war and a long dry spell in the hotel trade. For all we know, they could board us up tomorrow.
Zero looks alarmed. M. Gustave sits up again and signals for him to come closer. Zero joins him.
M. GUSTAVE
Let’s make a solemn blood-pact. We’ll contact the black-market and liquidate ‘Boy with Apple’ by the end of the week, then leave the country and lay low somewhere along the Maltese Riviera until the troubles blow over and we resume our posts. In exchange for your help, your loyalty, and your services as my personal valet, I pledge to you: one-point-five percent of the net sale price.
Zero takes this in. He says quietly:
ZERO
One-point-five.
M. GUSTAVE
Plus room and board.
ZERO
(optimistic)
Could we make it ten?
M. GUSTAVE
(in disbelief)
Ten? Are you joking? That’s more than I’d pay an actual dealer – and you wouldn’t know chiaroscuro from chicken giblets. No, one-point-five is correct – but I’ll tell you what: if I die first, and I most certainly will, you will be my sole heir. There’s not much in the kitty except a set of ivory-backed hairbrushes and my library of romantic poetry – but, when the time comes, these will be yours, along with whatever we haven’t already spent on whores and whiskey. This is our sacred bond. I’ll draw it up right now.
Pause. Zero nods. M. Gustave whisks a drinks menu out of a slot on the wall, places it face down on the night-stand, and sets a fountain pen on top of it. He dictates:
M. GUSTAVE
I, M. Gustave H., being of relatively sound mind and body, on this day the twenty-seventh of October in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and –
Zero quickly uncaps the pen and begins to write.
INT. STORAGE PANTRY. DAY
The next morning. A vault adjacent to the meeting room above the lobby. There are rows of safety-deposit boxes with engraved room numbers along the walls. M. Gustave hides the wrapped package behind a radiator. He takes a fur stole off a coat-hanger and drapes it awkwardly over the top. They exit the room. M. Gustave closes the heavy, inner door and spins the combination lock, then slides an outer one shut and bolts it with a key.
ANATOLE
(out of shot)
Excuse me.
M. Gustave and Zero jump. They turn around quickly and see Anatole standing in the doorway. M. Gustave mumbles, anxious:
M. GUSTAVE
Uh-huh?
ANATOLE
(intrigued)
The police are here. They asked for you.
Silence. M. Gustave nods. He says cheerily:
M. GUSTAVE
Tell them we’ll be right down.
Anatole goes back down the steps. M. Gustave and Zero look down into the lobby through a window. Eight uniformed officers wait at the concierge desk. M. Gustave says tensely:
M. GUSTAVE
Have you ever been questioned by the authorities?
ZERO
(grimly)
Yes, on one occasion, I was arrested and tortured by the rebel militia after the Desert Uprising.
M. GUSTAVE
(hesitates)
Right. Well, you know the drill, then. Zip it.
ZERO
Of course.
M. GUSTAVE
You’ve never heard the word ‘van Hoytl’ in your life.
ZERO
Got it.
M. GUSTAVE
OK. Let’s go.
M. Gustave and Zero descend into the lobby. M. Gustave’s face brightens as he crosses the room and greets the visitors:
M. GUSTAVE
How may we serve you, gentlemen?
POLICE CAPTAIN
(producing a warrant)
By order of the Commissioner of Police, Zubrowka Province, I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Madame Céline Villeneuve Desgoffe und Taxis.
M. GUSTAVE
(somehow vindicated)
I knew there was something fishy! We never got the cause of death! She’s been murdered – and you think I did it.
M. Gustave turns away and breaks into a sprint through the lobby. The police chase him. Zero watches, stunned.
Title:
PART 3: CHECKPOINT 19 CRIMINAL INTERNMENT CAMP
EXT. PRISON. DAY
A buttressed castle on a high rock spur. Clusters of tangled barbed-wire decorate the tops of the walls above a sheer cliff that drops straight down into the medieval village below.
Zero stands waiting with a small pink pastry-box in his hands. There is a guard with a tommy gun next to him. Silence.
A hidden gear begins to crank, and a heavy iron and oak gate swings slowly open. The guard makes an offhand toss of the head to signal for Zero to proceed. Zero nods politely and starts across a narrow bridge over a moat. Two more guards wait at the far end in front of the doors to a fortified keep.
INT. VISITING ROOM. DAY
A converted armory containing a row of chairs along an extended table with a penitentiary-style wire-glass partition down the middle. Zero sits alone. The pastry-box is in front of him next to a glass of water. A door opens, and another guard escorts M. Gustave into the room.
M. Gustave is now dressed in a striped prison uniform with his cap worn at a slight tilt. His hands are shackled. His face is purple and misshapen, covered almost entirely with bruises and abrasions, with one eye swollen completely shut. He sits down facing Zero on the other side of the partition. (There is a glass of water for him, as well.)
The guard waits in the corner. He checks his watch.
Zero looks horrified. He gasps:
ZERO
What happened?
M. GUSTAVE
What happened, my dear Zero, is I beat the living shit out of a snivelling little runt called Pinky Bandinski who had the gall to question my virility – because if there’
s one thing we’ve learned from penny dreadfuls, it’s that, when you find yourself in a place like this, you must never be a candy-ass. You’ve got to prove yourself from day one. You’ve got to win their respect. Of course, I’ve got about a foot and a half of reach on Pinky, so once I’d pried him loose out from under my armpit, it was short order before I whipped him into scrambled eggs. (Takes a sip of water.) You should take a long look at his ugly mug this morning. (Spits blood back into the cup.) He’s actually become a dear friend. You’ll meet him, I hope. So.
M. Gustave slides closer to the glass. So does Zero.
You talk to Kovacs?
ZERO
I saw him last night in secret. He made me take an oath (on a Bible). I wouldn’t tell a soul. You’re supposed to, also.
M. GUSTAVE
(irritated)
I’ll do that later.
ZERO
He suspects you’re innocent.
M. GUSTAVE
Of course he does. What’s the charge?
INT. TAVERN. NIGHT
An alcove in a corner of a dark, seedy, back-street ale house. Shady characters lurk at the counter. Zero sits across from Deputy Kovacs, who reads a report to him by the light of an oil-lamp. They both sip mugs of lager. There is also a small Bible on the table.
DEPUTY KOVACS
‘In the small hours of the evening of nineteen October, an individual well-known to the house and staff, a M. Gustave H., did arrive at the Desgoffe und Taxis residence in Lutz and enter by the rear service alley, alerting no one to his presence, and did then proceed by way of back-stairs and servants’ passage to deliver himself into the private chambers of Madame D. There is no evidence to indicate whether this visit had been pre arranged with her or not. The next morning, Madame D. was found dead by strychnine poison ing. M. Gustave was not observed on the premises again until –’ of course – ‘twenty-four hours later.’ The identity of his accusers is made clear in this notarized deposition.
Deputy Kovacs produces another document which he hands to Zero. Zero studies it as Deputy Kovacs continues:
DEPUTY KOVACS
They include, essentially, all members of the extended family – but the key witness who actually (ostensibly) saw the alleged events appears to have fled the jurisdiction. His whereabouts are currently unknown, but he’s being sought and pursued by the relevant authorities.
ZERO
(concerned)
Who is he?
Cut to:
M. Gustave with a look of utter astonishment on his face. He blurts out:
M. GUSTAVE
Serge?
ZERO
I’m afraid so.
M. GUSTAVE
That little prick.
Pause. M. Gustave reconsiders.
M. GUSTAVE
No, I don’t believe it. They put him up to it. I’ve been dropped into a nest of vipers.
ZERO
You have an alibi?
M. GUSTAVE
(offhand)
Certainly, but she’s married to the Duke of Westphalia. I can’t allow her name to get mixed up in all this monkey business.
ZERO
(gravely)
M. Gustave: your life may be at stake.
M. GUSTAVE
(bitterly)
I know, but the bitch legged it. She’s already on the Queen Nasstasja halfway to Dutch Tanganyika.
M. Gustave sighs and stares at the floor, shaking his head. He looks like he is about to cry. Zero says finally – almost inaudibly:
ZERO
Don’t give up.
M. Gustave looks back to Zero. He nods. He points.
M. GUSTAVE
What’s in the box?
ZERO
(encouraging)
A Courtesan au chocolat.
M. GUSTAVE
(deeply moved)
From Mendl’s. Thank you, my angel.
EXT. STREET. NIGHT
A dark lane crowded with narrow, crooked little buildings. Rushing water gurgles down the gutters. A pack of rats darts across the road in single-file and disappears into a drainpipe. A church bell rings across the city.
Jopling waits on the threshold of a ramshackle cottage staring at the front door.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
The details of the conspiracy, now a matter of public record, were, at that time, impossible for us to apprehend.
The door cracks open. A young Washerwoman with a club-foot and a rag in her hands peers out. Jopling hands the woman his card. She studies it.
Insert:
An engraved calling card on bright, white stock which reads:
J. G. Jopling, Esq.
PRIVATE INQUIRY AGENT
The woman looks back up to Jopling, nervous. He says in a low voice:
JOPLING
I’m looking for Serge X. – a young man in the service of my employers, the family Desgoffe und Taxis of Schloss Lutz.
WASHERWOMAN
(timidly)
Yes, sir?
JOPLING
You’re his sister?
WASHERWOMAN
Yes, sir.
JOPLING
Seen him lately?
WASHERWOMAN
(surprised)
No, sir.
JOPLING
(doubtful)
No, sir?
WASHERWOMAN
(innocent)
No, sir.
JOPLING
I need to find him right away. For his own safety – (Pointing in her face.) And everyone else’s. If he shows up?
WASHERWOMAN
(tentatively)
Yes, sir?
JOPLING
(darkly)
Tell him Jopling says, ‘Come home.’
Pause. The woman nods. Jopling turns away and walks over to a black motorcycle parked at the corner.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
But one thing was certain: the Desgoffe und Taxis were a very powerful family –
Jopling puts on a pair of goggles, kick-starts his engine, revs the motor, and rumbles away. The woman shuts the door and locks the bolt.
Cut to:
Jopling racing his howling motorcycle through the center of the city at midnight. Under the goggles, his eyes are calm.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
– and time was not on our side.
INT. MESS HALL. NIGHT
Another evening meal. The full assembled staff sits at the long table, anxious and curious, murmuring. The cook waits, uncertain, gripping a cauldron by his oven-mitts. A door swings open.
Mr. Mosher and Zero stride into the room. Mr. Mosher holds up an envelope and beckons to Zero.
MR. MOSHER
A letter from M. Gustave. Zero?
The staff whispers excitedly then falls silent as Zero ascends M. Gustave’s podium, opens the envelope, and takes out a piece of paper. Pause. Zero clears his throat and reads in a formal voice:
‘My dear and trusted colleagues –’
Cut to:
M. Gustave in his cell (where his podium seems to have been magically transported). A gentle halo of light glows behind him. He addresses the camera as he begins his usual pacing:
M. GUSTAVE
– I miss you deeply as I write from the confines of my regrettable and preposterous incarceration. Until I walk amongst you again as a free man, the Grand Budapest remains in your hands – as does its impeccable reputation. Keep it spotless and glorify it. Take extra special care of every little-bitty bit of it as if I were watching over you like a hawk with a horsewhip in its talons – (brandishing a soup-ladle) because I am. Should I discover a lapse of any variety during my absence, I promise: swift and merciless justice will descend upon you. A great and noble house has been placed under your protection. (Tell Zero if you see any funny business.)
Cut to:
Zero at podium. He concludes:
ZERO
‘Your devoted M.
Gustave.’ Then there’s a poem, but we might want to go ahead and start on the soup, since it’s forty-six stanzas.
Mr. Mosher signals to the cook. He begins to serve as Zero reads on:
ZERO
‘A moist, black ash dampens the filth of a dung-dark rat’s-nest and mingles with the thick scent of wood-rot while the lark-song of a guttersnipe echoes across a –’
INT. CORRIDOR. DAY
M. Gustave pushes a metal cart with a stack of plates and a steel tureen on it through a barred door. He stops in front of a large cell where four convicts loiter on their bunks playing cards, scratching graffiti on the walls, and looking at dirty pictures.
M. GUSTAVE
May I offer any of you inmates a plate of mush?
The convicts all look to M. Gustave at once. No one speaks. M. Gustave hesitates.
No? Anyone? You – with the very large scar on your face?
M. Gustave points to a seven-foot giant with a deep slash from the top corner of his forehead all the way down and across to the other side of his chin. The giant frowns. He stands up. The other convicts look uneasy.
Come now. Try it. It’s, actually, quite warm and nourishing this morning. It needs a dash of salt.
M. Gustave prepares a plate of lumpy gruel for the giant. He shakes in a touch of salt from a shaker. The giant tastes it. Pause. He shrugs, pleased. He nods. M. Gustave smiles.
Good day.
M. Gustave pushes his cart to the next cell. A bald wrestler lifts weights while an old man spots him.
Mush, gents? Any takers?
The wrestler and the old man look at M. Gustave blankly with the bar-bell in the air. M. Gustave shrugs and says regretfully:
Suit yourselves.
M. Gustave pushes his cart to the next cell. These convicts are all asleep. M. Gustave says with a musical lilt:
