Gattaca Page #19

VALERIE:

I don't understand you, Investigator.

The Investigator glances idly in her direction.

VALERIE:

(teasing good-naturedly)

You hunt us by day and f*** us by night. Do

you only get it up for In-valids?

The Investigator smiles and rejoins her on the bed.

VALERIE:

Wouldn't you be happier with one of your

made-to-order whores?

INVESTIGATOR:

(gently stroking her hair)

You are so beautiful, are you sure you weren't

altered? This is not the face, the body, of

a Godchild. How could something so lovely

be a product of chance?

VALERIE:

Is that what keeps you coming back?

(meeting his gaze)

Look at you. Such angry, beautiful, perfect eyes.

Do you ever wonder what they would see if they

weren't quite so perfect? They will never see

what I see.

The Investigator tries to laugh off her assertion but his

tight-lipped smile betrays his displeasure.

INVESTIGATOR:

(a cruel edge to his voice)

You have so much wrong with you, you'll

be lucky to see next year.

He roughly forces himself on top of her but she remains defiant.

VALERIE:

Are you so much more alive, Investigator?

INVESTIGATOR:

(parting her legs)

I'm not paying you to talk.

INT/EXT. IRENE'S CAR. NIGHT.

IRENE drives, JEROME at her side. Cars are being flagged down

by uniformed POLICE OFFICERS. Irene slows down behind the car

in front. Spying an OFFICER shine a flashlight in the eyes of

the MALE DRIVER up ahead, Jerome wipes the contact lenses from

his eyes and flicks them out of the passenger window when Irene

is not looking.

An OFFICER approaches Jerome and, without a word, opens an

electronic testing kit worn on his hip. He removes a sterilized

Q-tip and motions for Jerome to open his mouth so he can scrape

a culture. Jerome waves his hand in front of his mouth,

feigning embarrassment.

JEROME:

(conspiratorial)

Better not.

(nodding in Irene's direction)

Don't want to give you a contaminated

specimen...if you get my meaning.

IRENE plays along, shrugging coyly at the cop.

We see an EXTREME CLOSE UP of Jerome's hand as he furtively

retrieves a hair follicle attached to his shirt cuff. With the

hair already in his fingers, he pretends to pluck a hair from

his head, faking a wince at the appropriate moment.

The cop, wearing transparent latex gloves, takes the follicle

and places it in a receptacle in his kit. After a short moment

the hair confirms JEROME's driving ID which appears on the kit's

electronic screen. As the cop departs, Irene looks

questioningly at Jerome.

JEROME:

Thanks.

(answering her unasked question)

You never know where those swabs have been.

Irene nods, however clearly not convinced. She shakes the doubt

from her mind.

IRENE:

I want to show you something.

She accelerates away. We see the road ahead from Jerome's POV.

Without his contact lenses, it is a blur.

INT. MICHAEL'S CLUB. NIGHT.

After closing time, suited DETECTIVES vacuum the club in which

Jerome and Eugene dined the previous evening. MICHAEL, the

owner, looks on disdainfully. Waiting in the background, the

regular CLEANERS - most likely In-valids themselves - smirk to

each other, enjoying watching the cops do their work for them.

EXT. OCEAN HIGHWAY. NIGHT.

With no place to turn the car around, IRENE parks on the cliff

side of the six-lane highway. In the darkness she dashes from

the car and, without a second thought, runs directly out into

the heavy commuter traffic. Easily negotiating the on-coming

cars, she emerges safely on the other side of the highway.

JEROME, rounding the car from the passenger side, is about to

follow, when he suddenly pulls up sharply at the curb. We focus

on his eyes, deprived of the benefit of their contact lenses.

From Jerome's POV, we see that the headlights rushing towards

him are nothing but a series of fast-moving blurs - blurs that

merge together. He is unable to distinguish between the

vehicles or judge their distance.

IRENE:

(calling back urgently from the

other side, mindful of the light

beginning to leak into the sky)

Come on! We'll miss it!

Irene stares expectantly back at Jerome with her 20/20 vision,

unaware of his predicament. Jerome puts a foot off the curb at

the wrong moment and is almost collected by an on-coming car.

Irene is taken-aback at his mistiming. Does she detect a squint

on Jerome's face? To Jerome, the figure of Irene on the other

side of the highway is merely a featureless shape but he feels

her expectation. He touches the spectacles, still in his

pocket, but they are an unthinkable option.

He shakes the idea from his head and turns back to the swiftly-

flowing highway. He makes up his mind - he cannot allow himself

to be shamed, even at the risk of life and limb. Hardly even

glancing at the traffic, he suddenly bolts blindly across the

road. Headlights hurtling towards him, cars fortuitously

brushing past his heels, horns blaring. Jerome makes a final

leap to the haven of the far curb, the rush of air from a large,

fast-moving truck blowing him the final inches to the sidewalk.

Irene is stunned by the near miss. She is about to comment but

Jerome takes her by the arm and ushers her towards the dunes.

JEROME:

Come on. We'll miss it.

EXT. BEACH. DAWN.

JEROME and IRENE huddle beneath an overcoat as the sun crests

the horizon, staining the sky with an ochre blush.

IRENE:

What did I tell you?

Jerome nods. However, to his eyes the rising yolk is nothing

but an out-of-focus, abstract ink blot.

IRENE:

I envy you, Jerome.

JEROME:

You'll be next.

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