The English Patient Page #19

147*.INT. INTERROGATION ROOM. TOBRUK. NOVEMBER 13,1942. DAY.

Caravaggio is slumped at a table, HIS HANDS MANACLED TO ITS THICK

WOODEN LEGS. There's A TELEPHONE at another table in the corner of the

room attended by a CLERK with A STENOGRAPHER working next to him. The

room has stone walls which appear damp, and no windows. SOLDIERS stand

guard at the door. It's a horrible room. Caravaggio is trying to

sleep, he's unshaven, and pasty-looking. His interrogator, M�ller,

seems incredibly tired and aggravated. He's on the phone.

M�LLER

(in German)

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.

He slams down the phone and comes back to the table.

M�LLER

David Caravaggio.

CARAVAGGIO:

No.

M�LLER

Petty thief, six months imprisonment

Kingston Penitentiary, 1937.

CARAVAGGIO:

(barely with humor)

I keep explaining. You've got the wrong

man. My name is Bellini - Antonio

Bellini. Bellini, Caravaggio, both

painters, I think that is confusing you.

M�ller doesn't even pay attention, he's going through a file. Pulls

out some photographs, starts spreading them out.

M�LLER

Is this you?

CARAVAGGIO:

I don't know.

M�LLER

It is you. This was taken in Cairo at

British Headquarters - July 41. And so was

this - August 41. And this -February 42.

CARAVAGGIO:

It's impossible. I was buying or selling

something. I've been to Cairo many times.

M�LLER

You are a Canadian spy working for

the Allies. Code-name Moose.

THE PHONE rings again, is answered. The Clerk calls to M�ller who gets

up, irritably. Caravaggio addresses the room.

CARAVAGGIO:

Could I have a doctor? I am passing

blood. I must be bleeding internally.

(to the clerk)

Can you get a doctor? Look -

(he spits onto the table,

there's blood in his mouth)

I'm leaking blood.

(he indicates a Guard)

He kicks me. He kicks me all the time.

Nobody responds. M�ller is irascible on the phone, checking his watch,

negotiating time. The call finishes.

CLERK:

(in German)

He's asking for a doctor.

M�LLER

(to Caravaggio)

You want a doctor?

CARAVAGGIO:

Yes, I've been asking for weeks, a

month, I don't know, also my leg was -

M�LLER

We don't have a doctor, but we

do have a nurse.

CARAVAGGIO:

A nurse? Well, sure, a nurse is great.

A nurse? Great.

M�ller nods at the Clerk, who instantly gets up. Just then the

telephone rings again. He hesitates.

M�LLER

(in German)

Leave it and get the nurse!

The Clerk exits. The phone rings. The Stenographer is plagued by

flies. Suddenly he slaps at one.

M�LLER

(snapping)

Why is there so much nose? I can't

hear myself think!

(turns to Caravaggio)

Look - give me something. So we can

all get out of this room. A name. A code.

(wiping his face)

It's too hot.

CARAVAGGIO:

I slept with the girl. I've got a wife

in Tripoli. A girl comes up and points

at you, you only see trouble.

The NURSE comes in. She is Arab and her head is covered.

M�LLER

I'll tell you what I'm going to do. This

is your nurse, by the way. She's Moslem,

so she'll understand all of this. What's

the punishment for adultery? Let's

leave it at that. You're married and

you were f***ing another woman, so

that's - is it the hands that are cut off?

Or is that for stealing? Does anyone know?

There's silence. M�ller turns to Caravaggio.

M�LLER

Well, you must know. You were

brought up Libya, yes?

CARAVAGGIO:

Don't cut me.

M�LLER

Or was it Toronto?

CARAVAGGIO:

(ashen)

Don't cut me. Come on.

Now the phone starts again. The CLERK picks it up, there's a terse

exchange, he puts the receiver on the desk, waits for the moment to

interrupt M�ller.

M�LLER

Ten fingers. How about this? You

give me a name for every finger -

doesn't matter who. I get something,

you keep something. I'm trying to be

reasonable. Fenelon-Barnes, we could

call that two names.

(pauses, suddenly puzzled)

Are thumbs fingers?

(in GERMAN to the others)

Is a thumb a finger?

No response. M�ller opens his palms to Caravaggio.

M�LLER

I get no help from these people.

CLERK:

(in German)

The telephone -

M�ller walks over, takes the receiver and slams it down. an AIR RAID

SIREN is going off somewhere, and now the faint sound of explosions is

also discernible, but all muffled in this room with the steady clack-

clack of the STENOGRAPHER. At that moment, M�ller suddenly becomes

aware of what is happening. He turns on the Stenographer.

M�LLER

(in German)

What are you doing?

STENOGRAPHER:

(awkward, in German)

That Geneva Convention. I'm -

M�ller peremptorily rips out the paper, throws it on the floor.

CARAVAGGIO:

You can't do that! Hey - come on!

DURING THIS M�ller's gone to the table, pulled out a drawer and

produced A CUT-THROAT RAZOR. He hands it to the nurse, makes a line

across his own left thumb and jerks his head towards Caravaggio. The

nurse is extremely reluctant. M�ller claps his hands, pushes her

towards Caravaggio.

M�LLER

Go! Hey! Go!

Caravaggio is in terror.

CARAVAGGIO:

Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ.

The guards come away from the door and press down on Caravaggio's

shoulders to prevent him from moving. The nurse, grim-faced,

approaches, kneels at the table.

CARAVAGGIO:

(as she prepares to cut)

Listen, I'll give you a name. What

name did you say? I knew them!

I promise. Please - please!

And then he SCREAMS AND SCREAMS and jerks up, carrying the guards and

the table with him, all heaving off the ground, the nurse thrown off

balance. He falls to the floor, ROARING WITH PAIN, blood everywhere,

the table on top of him. The AIR RAID is continuing outside, the PHONE

IS RINGING, the nurse stands, pale, blood all over her uniform.

M�LLER

Cut the other thumb.

He stabs at his own right thumb.

M�LLER

This one! Come on!

The nurse, horrified, shakes her head. M�ller snatches the razor from

her and heads towards the prostate Caravaggio.

One Guard has got to his feet and grips Caravaggio around the neck in

half-nelson, others holding his legs, while M�ller approaches.

Caravaggio can't move. He's gurgling as the Guard almost strangles

him. His eyes are streaming with tears.

Now M�ller is at his other hand, and the ROAR of pain again lifts

Caravaggio to his feet, THE WHOLE TABLE RISING IN THE AIR, his

mutilated hands slipping from the handcuffs lie Houdini, the drawers of

the table SPILLING their contents everywhere, before he sinks to his

knees like a gored bull and BLACKS OUT.

148INT. INTERROGATION ROOM. TOBRUK. DAY.

LATER, and Caravaggio comes round. His eyes open and then his face

spasms with pain. He looks down at his ruined hands, then realizes

he's alone on the floor of the room, the papers still scattered, the

table on its side. He gets up and staggers out of the open door and up

the stairs.

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