The Ninth Gate Page #10

BALKAN (V.O.):
Discrepancies?

CORSO:
In the engravings. Like keys in different hands, doorways

open In one copy and bricked up In the other.

BALKAN (V.O.):
1 see.

CORSO:
And there's another thing.

BALKAN (V.O.):
Yes?

CORSO:
The ones that differ are ail signed 'L.F.' Seems like some

kind of riddle.

A long pause.

CORSO (cont.):
Are you still there? Where are you, anyway?

BALKAN (V.O.):
I think you'd better get it for me.

CORSO:
The old man wouldn't sell it to save his life - he said as

much.

Another long pause.

CORSO (cont.):
Balkan?

A click, and the line goes dead.

47. SINTRA HOTEL: CORSO'S ROOM INT/DAWN

The curtains are drawn, but there's light enough for us to see

CORSO lying fast asleep on his back in bed, one limp arm trailing

over the edge.

A knock at the door. He grunts and props himself on one elbow.

CORSO (sleepily): Just a minute.

He rolls out of bed and wraps the bedspread around his waist.

Then he opens the door and stands there, a tousled figure with

Liana's teeth marks clearly visible on his chest. THE GIRL is

outside.

THE GIRL:
You left your phone off the hook.

CORSO:
Jesus... (peers blearily at his watch): What time is it?

THE GIRL:
Early, but you have to go.

CORSO (bewildered): Go where, for God's sake?

THE GIRL:
The Fargas place.

CORSO is at first too bemused to find it odd that she should know

the name.

CORSO:
Fargas? I already saw Fargas.

THE GIRL:
I think you should see him again.

CORSO:
What is this, a practical joke? Who the hell are you? What

do you know about Fargas?

THE GIRL:
Better get dressed. I'll wait for you downstairs.

48. QUINTA FARGAS: DRIVEWAY, HOUSE EXT/DAY

CORSO and THE GIRL are walking in silence up the driveway, with

its carpet of dead leaves and avenue of crumbling statues. He

eyes her, mystified, as she strides briskly along with a blue

duffel coat over her usual attire. The early morning mist is

dispersing.

With another look at THE GIRL, who remains standing at the foot

of the steps, CORSO goes up to the front door and yanks at the

bellpull, producing the same muffled jangling sound as before.

THE GIRL:
Don't bother. He isn't there.

CORSO (sarcastically): Really. So where is he?

THE GIRL:
Over there.

She points in the direction of the ornamental pond. CORSO stares

at her, then walks over to it and freezes: VICTOR FARGAS's corpse

is floating face up among the dead leaves and lily pads. An empty

brandy bottle is floating alongside.

CORSO (mutters):
God Almighty!

He emerges from his stupor and walks back to THE GIRL, who's

still standing outside the front door. Ignoring her, he tries the

handle, but it's bolted.

THE GIRL:
You want to get inside?

CORSO nods wordlessly, too shocked to bandy words with her.

THE GIRL looks up at the facade. Then, with unsuspected agility,

she shins up a drainpipe beside the door and climbs onto the

balcony above it. One of the French windows is broken. She

reaches inside, releases the catch, and disappears from view.

CORSO waits, casting occasional glances at the ornamental pond

and its occupant.

There's the rattle of a bolt being withdrawn, and THE GIRL opens

the front door from the inside.

CORSO:
Wait here.

He enters the house.

49. QUINTA FARGAS: RECEPTION ROOMS, DRAWING ROOM INT/DAY

CORSO traverses the empty reception rooms and reaches the drawing

room. His foot crunches on something as he crosses it on his way

to the rug on which the occult books were stacked: it's the

remains of one of Fargas's treasured brandy glasses. He pauses

for long enough to identify it, then walks on.

The books are lying scattered across the rug: no sign of 'The

Nine Gates'.

CORSO:
Sh*t! Sh*t, sh*t!!!

He looks around helplessly. Then he sees it: the last of the fire

is still smoldering on the hearth, and lying open among the

ashes, charred around the edges, is Fargas's 'Nine Gates'.

He picks up,the mutilated volume, looks at it for a moment,

ruefully shaking his head, and stows it in his canvas bag.

50. QUINTA FARGAS EXT/DAY

CORSO emerges from the house.

THE GIRL:
Well, did you find it?

CORSO:
You know too damned much. More than I do. Why do you keep

following me around? What are you, a groupie or something? IRS,

CIA, Interpol? Who are you working for?

THE GIRL:
You're wasting time, asking all these questions. We'd

better get out of here. There's a flight from Lisbon to Paris at

noon. We should just make it.

CORSO:
What's with the 'we'?

THE GIRL:
There are two of us, aren't there?

51. AIRLINER CABIN INT/DAY

A sunlit mountainscape of dazzling white cloud glides past the

window beside which THE GIRL is drowsing with her head on CORSO's

shoulder. The cabin is bathed in milky radiance, the atmosphere

is tranquil and soothing.

CORSO looks down at THE GIRL.

CORSO:
Somebody's playing a game with me.

THE GIRL (drowsily): Of course. You're a part of it.

CORSO:
What exactly happened back there?

THE GIRL:
Fargas caught someone stealing, I guess.

CORSO:
And what do you guess happened to him?

THE GIRL simply): He drowned.

CORSO:
With a little help from who?

THE GIRL (shrugs): He's dead. Who cares?

CORSO:
I care. I could wind up the same way.

THE GIRL:
Not with me around to take care of you.

CORSO:
I see. You're my guardian angel.

THE GIRL:
Something like that.

She removes her head from his shoulder, turns away, and snuggles

up against the window instead.

52. PARIS AIRPORT ARRIVALS HALL INT/DAY

CORSO makes his way across the bustling arrivals hall. THE GIRL,

now with a backpack slung over her blue duffel coat, is trailing

along in his wake. He glances back at her occasionally.

The PASSENGERS slow as they reach the bottleneck at immigration

control. CORSO, shuffling along in line, takes out his US

passport in readiness to show it. He looks around for THE GIRL,

but there's no sign of her.

53. PARIS HOTEL EXT/DAY

A taxi drops CORSO in front of a modest but respectable three-

star hotel. He hands some money through the driver's window and

heads for the entrance.

54. PARIS HOTEL:
LOBBY, RECEPTION DESK INT/DAY

CORSO walks up to the reception desk, which is presided over by a

desk clerk (GRUBER). A short, squat reincarnation of Erich von

Stroheim, he wears his uniform like a Prussian grenadier.

CORSO:
Hello, Gruber.

GRUBER looks up, acknowledges CORSO's presence with a curt,

faintly military inclination of the head.

GRUBER:
Welcome, Mr. Corso. Delighted to see you again. (consults

his computer screen) We don't have any vacancies, but I'm sure

I'll be able to organize something.

CORSO:
Thank you, Gruber.

Discreetly, he slides a 100 franc bill across the desk. GRUBER

makes it vanish with elegant alacrity and smiles - almost.

GRUBER Thank you, sir.

55. PARIS HOTEL:
CORSO'S ROOM INT/DAY

A bottle of Scotch and a glass repose on a small desk, likewise

Balkan's 'Nine Gates' and Fargas's charred copy. A Lucky is

smouldering in the ashtray beside them.

Rate this script:4.0 / 1 vote