The Ninth Gate Page #8

THE GIRL:
And you.

CORSO walks on down the corridor. There's something weird about

this chance encounter, but he can't figure out what.

THE GIRL (cont.): See you around, maybe.

CORSO pauses and looks back. She's still leaning against the

window, staring out. He nods.

CORSO:
Maybe.

37. SINTRA STATION EXT/DAY

It's a damp, gray morning. A sign reads: 'SINTRA'.

CORSO, bag on shoulder and Samsonite suitcase in hand, gets off

the train.

38. QUINTA FARGAS GATEWAY EXT/DAY

One of Sintra's traditional horse-drawn carriages drops CORSO in

front of a massive gateway flanked by stone walls thick with ivy.

Some birds peer down at him from a branch.

The gateposts are surmounted by two mildew-covered female busts

in gray stone, one of them with its face obscured by ivy. CORSO

contemplates them for a moment, then pushes open the gate, which

squeaks protestingly. Beyond it, a neglected drive.

39. QUINTA FARGAS: DRIVEWAY, GROUNDS EXT/DAY

A gray, desolate, infinitely melancholy scene. Dead leaves litter

a gravel driveway flanked by crumbling statues, some of which

have toppled over onto the long-neglected, weed-infested lawn.

CORSO's muffled footsteps are the only sound.

Near the house is a dried-up, dilapidated fountain faced with

tiles and topped by a mouldering cherub. The waters of the

ornamental pond beside it are dark as molasses and coated with

dead leaves and water lilies.

The Quinta Fargas is a gloomy, four-square, 18th century mansion.

CORSO walks up the steps and tugs the old-fashioned bellpull. A

mournful jangling sound issues from the recesses of the house.

CORSO waits, glances at his watch.

Echoing footsteps approach. A sound of bolts being withdrawn, and

the door opens to reveal VICTOR FARGAS. Tall and emaciated as an

El Greco saint, he has a drooping white mustache. His baggy

trousers and oversized woollen sweater contrast with a pair of

old but immaculately polished shoes. His appearance perfectly

matches his melancholy surroundings.

FARGAS:
Yes?

CORSO:
Bob Corso, Mr. Fargas. (Puts out his hand) How do you do.

FARGAS hesitates before shaking hands. Then his face clears.

FARGAS:
Corso, ah yes. Please come in.

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

FARGAS, who has a slight limp, leads the way through two

reception rooms, once imposing but now entirely bare and empty.

By the dim light that filters through their dusty windows, CORSO

observes the patches on the walls that indicate the former

location of paintings, curtains, pieces of furniture, etc.

FARGAS:
Home, sweet home!

He ushers CORSO into a large but sparsely furnished drawing room.

FARGAS (cont.):
You won't say no to a brandy, 1 take it?

He goes over to a side table and pours some cognac into two fine

crystal glasses.

CORSO, meantime, is surveying the room. At the far end, a huge

open fireplace. Two ill-assorted armchairs, a table, a sideboard,

some candlesticks, a violin case - and books. They're neatly

stacked on the floor and the few pieces of furniture. CORSO has

just discovered them when FARGAS comes over with the glasses. He

puts his bag down and takes one.

CORSO:
Thanks. (admiringly) Handsome glasses.

FARGAS:
These are the only ones I have left.

CORSO looks around the room.

CORSO:
Must have been a beautiful place.

FARGAS:
it was, but old families are like ancient civilizations:

they wither and die.

He raises his glass in a silent toast. CORSO reciprocates. FARGAS

gestures at the books.

FARGAS (cont.):
There they are, eight hundred and thirty-four of

them. A pity you didn't see them in better times, in their

bookcases. I used to have five thousand. These are the survivors.

CORSO, runs his fingers caressingly over a book.

CORSO:
So this is the Fargas collection. Not quite as I imagined

it.

FARGAS:
C'est la vie, my friend. But I keep them in perfect

condition, safe from damp, light, heat and rats. I dust and air

them every day. it's all I do do, in fact.

CORSO:
What happened to the rest?

FARGAS:
Sacrificed in a good cause. I had to sell them to

preserve the others. Five or six books a year. Almost all the

proceeds go to the state in taxes.

CORSO:
Why don't you sell up?

FARGAS:
Sell the Fargas family estate? it's obvious you're an

American, my friend. There are things you can't be expected to

understand.

CORSO continues to survey the books, fascinated.

CORSO:
If you sold all these your financial problems would be

over... (picks up a book and examines it) Look at this,

Poliphilo, for example: a real gem!

He replaces it. FARGAS leans over and carefully adjusts the book

until it's precisely in its original position.

FARGAS:
I know, but if I sold them all I'd have no reason to go

on living. More brandy?

He heads for the bottle on the side table without waiting for a

reply.

CORSO:
What about 'The Nine Gates'?

FARGAS (puzzled): What about it?

CORSO:
That's why I'm here.. I told you on the phone.

FARGAS:
The phone? (pause) Yes, of course, I remember now.

Forgive me. Of course, 'The Nine Gates'.

He looks around several times as if trying to collect his

thoughts, drains his cognac, and limps over to some books on a

rug near the fireplace. FARGAS and CORSO kneel on the rug side by

side. CORSO examines the books, which all deal with magic,

alchemy and demonology.

FARGAS (cont.):
Well, what do you think?

CORSO:
Not bad.

FARGAS:
Not bad indeed. These I will never sell. At least tan of

them are exceedingly rare. Look, Plancy's 'Dictionary of Hell',

first edition, 1842, Leonardo Fioravanti's 'Compendi di Secreti'

of 1571... But this is what interests you, no?

He picks up a black book with a gold pentacle on the cover - the

second copy of 'The Nine Gates' - and holds it out. CORSO takes

it carefully and gets to his feet. FARGAS rises too.

FARGAS (cont.):
There it is, in perfect condition. it has

travelled the world for three-and-a-half centuries, yet it might

have been printed yesterday.

CORSO takes the book over to a window. FARGAS follows.

CORSO:
Is it in order? You haven't detected anything unusual?

FARGAS:
Unusual? No. The text is complete, the engravings too.

Nine plus the title page, just as the catalogs state - just like

the Kessler in Paris and the Telfer in New York.

CORSO:
it Isn't the Telfer anymore. Telfer killed himself, but he

sold his copy to Balkan first.

FARGAS:
Balkan... If he sets his heart on a book, no price is too

high...

He reflects for a moment, shaking his head and staring at the

floor.

FARGAS (cont.):
it's strange he should have sent you here, if he

already...

He breaks off as If something has just occurred to him. He points

to CORSO's bag.

FARGAS (cont.):
You have it with you? May I see it?

CORSO fetches the book, and they go over to a table. FARGAS

places the two copies side by side, bends over them.

FARGAS (cont.):
Superb, beautiful, identical. Two of the only

three that escaped the flames, reunited for the first time in

over three centuries.

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