"THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL" (2014)

F O R Y O U R C O N S I D ERA T I O N

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

Screenplay by Wes Anderson Story by

Wes Anderson and Hugo Guinness

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

Screenplay by Wes Anderson Story by

Wes Anderson and Hugo Guinness

© 2013 TGBH LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PORTION OF THIS SCRIPT MAY BE PERFORMED, PUBLISHED, REPRODUCED, SOLD OR DISTRIBUTED BY ANY MEANS, OR QUOTED OR PUBLISHED IN ANY MEDIUM, INCLUDING ANY WEB SITE, WITHOUT THE PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT OF TGBH LLC. DISPOSAL OF THIS SCRIPT COPY DOES NOT ALTER ANY OF THE RESTRICTIONS SET FORTH ABOVE.

The present. A graveyard in the city-center of a great Eastern European capital. Frost covers the ground among the stones and between rows of leafless trees. A teenaged girl in a beret and trench-coat with a well- read, dog-eared novel called THE GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL tucked under her arm stands facing a tarnished bust of a slender, balding, spectacled old man. A bronze plaque below reads, in large letters:

AUTHOR

INSERT: The plaque. There is a block of smaller text at the bottom which states simply: In Memory of Our National Treasure All around the base of the statue, there are little metal hooks with hundreds of hotel-room keys of every age and variety from all over the world hanging from them. The girl adds a new set to the tribute.

Twenty years ago. A cluttered office with French windows and ornate mouldings. There are books in shelves and stacks, first editions, dictionaries, dime-store paper- backs, translations in numerous languages. There is a typewriter on the desk and an extensive collection of literary prizes on a bureau. The author, seventy-five and identical to his sculpted image, sits with his hands clasped and addresses the camera: AUTHOR It is an extremely common mistake: people think the writer’s imagination is always at work, that he is constantly inventing an endless supply of incidents and episodes, that he simply dreams-up his stories out of thin air. In point of fact, the opposite is true. Once the public knows you are a writer, they bring the characters and events to you -- and as long as you maintain your ability to look and carefully listen, these stories will continue to seek you out -- A six-year-old boy dressed in a grey military uniform with short trousers appears next to the desk and points a miniature Luger pistol at the author. The author warns him, icy:

damage above seeps dangerously close to the picture- frame. The author (a fictionalized version of himself) wanders into the room with his hands in his pockets. He has dark circles under his eyes. AUTHOR (V.O.) Perhaps as a result of this general silence, I had established a casual and bantering familiarity with the hotel’s concierge, a West-continental known only as M. Jean, who struck one as being, at once, both lazy and, really, quite accommodating. M. Jean quickly stubs out his cigarette as the author approaches -- and tucks the butt into his coat pocket. AUTHOR (V.O.) I expect he was not well-paid. The author and M. Jean chat amicably as they study a pamphlet of Alpine tourist sites. AUTHOR (V.O.) In any case, one evening, as I stood conferring elbow-to-elbow with M. Jean, as had become my habit, I noticed a new presence in our company. At the far end of a colonnade, beyond Reception, a dark- skinned, white-haired seventy-year-old man in a three- piece-suit sits alone smoking a pipe. He is Mr. Moustafa. AUTHOR (V.O.) A small, elderly man, smartly dressed, with an exceptionally lively, intelligent face -- and an immediately perceptible air of sadness. He was, like the rest of us, alone -- but also, I must say, he was the first that struck one as being, deeply and truly, lonely. (A symptom of my own medical condition, as well.) Mr. Moustafa drinks a sip of sherry. The author lowers his voice and asks discreetly: AUTHOR (V.O.) “Who’s this interesting, old fellow,” I inquired of M. Jean. To my surprise, he was distinctly taken aback. “Don’t you know?” he asked. “Don’t you recognize him?” He did look familiar. “That’s Mr. Moustafa himself! He arrived early this morning.”

The author looks to Mr. Moustafa again. Mr. Moustafa is now staring directly back at the author. The author quickly looks away and examines a detail in the woodwork on the ceiling. AUTHOR (V.O.) This name will, no doubt, be familiar to the more seasoned persons among you. Mr. Zero Moustafa was, at one time, the richest man in Zubrowka; and was still, indeed, the owner of the Grand Budapest. “He often comes and stays a week or more, three times a year, at least -- but never in the season.” M. Jean signalled to me, and I leaned closer. “I’ll tell you a secret. He takes only a single-bed sleeping-room without a bath in the rear corner of the top floor -- and it’s smaller than the service elevator!” The author seems genuinely intrigued by this information. He nods thoughtfully. AUTHOR (V.O.) It was well-known: Moustafa had purchased and famously inhabited some of the most lavish castles and pallazzos on the continent -- yet, here, in his own, nearly-empty hotel, he occupied a servant’s quarters? M. Jean frowns. The fat businessman, sitting at a table in the middle of the lobby drinking hot chocolate and eating biscotti -- appears to be choking to death. AUTHOR (V.O.) At that moment the curtain rose on a parenthetical, domestic drama which required the immediate and complete attention of M. Jean -- M. Jean dashes out from behind his desk. As he performs an improvised version of the Heimlich maneuver on the fat businessman, the German hiker enters the lobby with his St. Bernard. The rescue dog, sensing a human in distress, charges avidly, hurdling three tables and jostling the dessert cart, and arrives at the fat businessman’s side just as a significant hunk of biscotti rockets out of his mouth, into the air, and lands on a saucer at the next table. M. Jean immediately detaches a cask hanging from the dog’s neck, pours a generous shot of brandy into a water glass, and forces it down the fat businessman’s throat.

There is a small splash, and Mr. Moustafa leans into view from behind a partition where he himself is soaking in a cubicle three tubs over. He wears a bathing cap. The author sits up straight and says formally: AUTHOR Thank you most kindly, sir. MR. MOUSTAFA (teasing slightly) Did M. Jean have a word or two to share with you about the aged proprietor of this establishment? AUTHOR (reluctantly) I must confess, sir, I did, myself, inquire about you. MR. MOUSTAFA (resigned) He’s perfectly capable, of course, M. Jean -- but we can’t claim he’s a first- or, in earnest, even second-rate concierge. (sadly) But there it is. Times have changed. The author nods, attentive. He changes the subject to observe encouragingly, motioning toward the plunging pool across the hall: AUTHOR The thermal baths are very beautiful. MR. MOUSTAFA (gently) They were, in their first condition. It couldn’t be maintained, of course. Too decadent for current tastes -- but I love it all, just the same. This enchanting, old ruin. Mr. Moustafa looks wistfully around the vaulted space. The author squints, holds up a finger, and asks gingerly: AUTHOR How did you come to buy it, if I may ask? The Grand Budapest. Pause. Mr. Moustafa disappears back behind the partition. The author looks slightly puzzled. Mr. Moustafa immediately reappears, but he has turned himself around in the tub and is now facing the opposite direction so he can more comfortably rest in view. He

props his elbow onto the edge of the bath. His eyes twinkle as he says: MR. MOUSTAFA I didn’t. At this moment, one of the matrons of the hammam blasts the fat, now naked, businessman with a jet of icy water. He hollers as he is sprayed-down. Silence. Mr. Moustafa and the author look back to each other. Each has raised an eyebrow. They both smile slightly. MR. MOUSTAFA If you’re not merely being polite (and you must tell me if that’s the case), but if it genuinely does interest you: may I invite you to dine with me tonight, and it will be my pleasure and, indeed, my privilege to tell you -- “my” story. Such as it is.

The enormous restaurant as before -- but now one of the tables has been set for two and is occupied by the author and Mr. Moustafa. The nine other guests watch, curious, from their usual spots. Mr. Moustafa stares at the wine list as he rattles off a robust order (oysters, soup, rabbit, fowl, lamb). “Boy with Apple” is on the cover of the menu. The waiter departs. MR. MOUSTAFA That should provide us ample time -- if I commence promptly. AUTHOR By all means. Another waiter arrives to uncork a split of champagne and pours a thimbleful. Mr. Moustafa tastes it and nods. The waiter pours two, fullcoupes.They each drink a long sip. Finally, Mr. Moustafa settles in: MR. MOUSTAFA It begins, as it must, with our mutual friend’s predecessor. The beloved, original concierge of the Grand Budapest. (with deep affection) It begins, of course, with --

TITLE: Part 1: “M. Gustave”

The early thirties. A double-reception salon with high ceilings and two couches. There are six trunks and eight suitcases arranged neatly at the side of the room. Each is painted with the initials Mdm. C.V.D.u.T. Outside, a light snow falls. A tall, blond, forty-year-old concierge stands patiently alone surveying the room. He is tranquil, perfectly composed, waiting. He wears the faintest hint of mascara. He is M. Gustave. M. Gustave crosses swiftly to the door and opens it just as a contingent of hotel staff arrives together from down the corridor. There are two waiters, two footmen, two bellboys, and an Arab teenager, small, cheerful, and alert, who appears to be some kind of page. He is Zero. One of the waiters carries a table, and one carries a breakfast tray. M. Gustave ushers them in: M. GUSTAVE Bring the table to the window. FIRST WAITER Yes, M. Gustave. M. GUSTAVE Bring the tray to the table. SECOND WAITER Right away, M. Gustave. M. GUSTAVE (pointing to two hats) Have those been brushed and blocked? FOOTMAN Of course, M. Gustave. M. GUSTAVE Pack them in the hat boxes. (pointing to a shopping bag) Is that from Oberstdorf and Company? BELLBOY I believe so, M. Gustave. M. GUSTAVE Second trunk. Who has the tickets?

Zero raises his hand. ZERO I do, M. Gustave. M. GUSTAVE Give them to me. Zero hands M. Gustave a set of train tickets. M. Gustave studies them carefully. He nods and points. M. GUSTAVE These are in order. Wait in the corner. Zero retreats. M. Gustave strides to the bedroom door, raps on it briefly, then swings it open. M. GUSTAVE Good morning, Madame. Your breakfast is served. The sitting room is a battlefield at the moment, but rest assured, you will been routein precisely -- (checks his watch) -- eleven minutes. You look heavenly. Pray be seated. An immaculately-dressed, eighty-year-old woman emerges from the bedroom, nimble, brisk -- and highly agitated. She is Madame D. She is followed by two young women, a lady’s maid and a private secretary, who quickly join the hubbub fidgeting with trunks and rushing to-and-fro preparing for their departure. M. Gustave waits for Madame D. to sit, then joins her; at which point, she immediately leans across to him and says in a gravely serious, urgent whisper: MADAME D. I’m not leaving. M. GUSTAVE (puzzled) Why not? MADAME D. I’m frightened. M. GUSTAVE Of what? MADAME D. I feel this may be the last time we ever see each other. M. GUSTAVE Why on earth would that be the case?

A second criss-crossing group of people now engage M. Gustave. This time: a very old washroom attendant carrying a monkey-wrench, the head waiter wearing an apron and waving a menu, and a woman of a certain age in a beautifully-embroidered dress with a small dachshund cradled in her arms. WASHROOM ATTENDANT Now it’s exploded. M. GUSTAVE (sweetly to the dachshund) Good morning, Cicero. (coldly to the washroom attendant) Call the goddamn plumber. HOTEL GUEST NO.2 (flirtatious) This afternoon, M. Gustave? HEAD WAITER (angrily) What in the hell is this? M. GUSTAVE (equally flirtatious) Without fail, Frau Liebling. (sharply to the head waiter) Not now! The second interruption ends. M. Gustave continues: M. GUSTAVE Family? ZERO (long pause) Zero. M. GUSTAVE (noting this) I see. M. Gustave leads Zero through a rotunda, below a grand, winding staircase, and back into the elevator. He closes his note-book. The elevator operator awaits instruction. M. GUSTAVE Six. The elevator operator throws a lever and they begin to ascend. M. Gustave locks eyes with Zero. M. GUSTAVE Why do you want to be a Lobby Boy?

The elevator operator casts a side-ways look. Zero searches for the honest answer -- then finds it: ZERO Well, who wouldn’t -- at the Grand Budapest, sir? It’s an institution. M. GUSTAVE (deeply impressed) Very good.

M. Gustave and Zero re-enter Madame D’s suite. M. Gustave walks directly over to a pedestal where an envelope waits tucked beneath a vase. He tears it open and withdraws a letter and a stack of bills folded in half. He counts the money and says coolly: M. GUSTAVE A thousand Klubecks. ZERO (astonished) My goodness. M. Gustave skims the letter. He holds it up for Zero to see. There is a lipstick-kiss at the bottom of the text. Zero is unsure how to interpret this. M. Gustave raises his eyebrows and tucks the note and the bills inside his jacket. His eyes glaze over in a moment of reverie. He sighs. Zero makes a sudden realization: ZERO Were you ever a Lobby Boy, sir? M. GUSTAVE (bristling but playful) What do you think? ZERO (speculative) Well, I suppose you had to start -- M. GUSTAVE Go light the goddamn candle. TITLE: One Month Later

The crowded room buzzes in all corners. Zero circulates among tables and sofas holding up a folded telegram while he calls out a name, searching. A military officer

in a grey uniform hails him, and Zero dashes over to deliver the missive. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) And so, my life began. Junior Lobby Boy (in-training), Grand Budapest Hotel, under the strict command of M. Gustave H. I became his pupil, and he was to be my counselor and guardian. M. GUSTAVE (V.O.) (rhetorical) What is a Lobby Boy? MONTAGE: Zero pushes an old man in a wheelchair. Zero arranges a white bouquet. Zero replaces dirty ashtrays, rearranges furniture, and shields a large woman with a toothpick from view as she excavates between her teeth. M. GUSTAVE (V.O.) A Lobby Boy is completely invisible, yet always in sight. A Lobby Boy remembers what people hate. A Lobby Boy anticipates the client’s needs before the needs are needed. A Lobby Boy, above all, is discreet, to a fault.

M. Gustave, accompanied by Zero, advancing down a corridor at high velocity. On the floor next to each door they pass, a pair of shoes waits to be polished. M. GUSTAVE Our guests’ know their deepest secrets, some of which are, frankly, rather unseemly, will go with us to our graves -- so keep your mouth shut, Zero. ZERO Yes, sir. M. Gustave stops at the end of the hallway in front of a door labelled KAISER FREDERICK SUITE. He says to Zero: M. GUSTAVE That’s all for now. Zero hesitates for an instant, then nods and reverses rapidly away. M. Gustave withdraws a ring of pass-keys from his pocket. He looks up and down the corridor furtively.

shaped like hour-glass figures. (These are Courtesansau chocolat.) MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) This was also when I met Agatha -- Agatha pauses to dry the perspiration on her brow with the back of her sleeve. She resumes her rolling.

The timber-frame store-front of a tiny pâtisserie. A large sign painted in delicate, pink cursive across the glass reads: Mendl’s. There is a heavy-set baker in an apron with flour all over every inch of himself standing in the doorway.He is Herr Mendl. Agatha rides a rickety bicycle up the alley next to the shop and rings a bell as she turns onto the cobblestone lane. She bears a milkmaid’s yoke balanced across her shoulders overloaded with sixty small, pink pastry-boxes tied with string.

Agatha gripping the handlebars as she bounces pedalling down the road. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) -- but we won’t discuss that. TITLE: Part 2: “Madame C.V.D.u.T.”

Dawn. The platz in the center of Nebelsbad is deserted. Zero emerges briskly from a press kiosk carrying a thick stack of newspapers. He looks down, scanning headlines, as he crosses the street. Zero stops. His eyes are glued to one of the articles. He skims it. He quickly re-reads it twice more. His mouth falls open. Zero bolts off at a sprint.

Zero races up the steps into the hotel carrying the stack of newspapers.

Zero dashes past Reception carrying the stack of newspapers.

Zero mounts the staircase three steps at a time carrying the stack of newspapers.

Zero speed-walks to the end of the hallway and stops in front of a door labelled PRINCE HEINRICH SUITE. A sign on the knob reads: Do Not Disturb. Zero hesitates, then knocks. Pause. The door opens a crack and an irritated M. Gustave in a purple, silk dressing gown looks out. M. GUSTAVE What do you want? ZERO (a frantic whisper) Look. Zero holds up the stack of newspapers. M. Gustave picks one off the top and studies it. INSERT: The front page of theTrans-Alpine Yodel.The headline is, “Will There Be War? Tanks at Frontier” -- but a column below the fold reads: Dowager Countess Found Dead in Boudoir A photograph shows Madame D’s corpse flat on her back on a white carpet. As M. Gustave reads the article, he says gravely: M. GUSTAVE Dear God. ZERO (sadly) I’m terribly sorry, sir. M. GUSTAVE (melodramatic but pained) We must go to her. ZERO (hesitates) We must?

Zero nods soberly. M. Gustave becomes philosophical/ nihilistic: M. GUSTAVE There’s really no point in doing anything in life, because it’s all over in the blink of an eye -- and, the next thing you know,rigor mortissets in. Oh, how the good die young! With any luck, she’s left a few Klubecks for your old friend -- (motioning to himself) -- but one never knows until the ink is dry on the death certificate. She was dynamite in the sack, by the way. ZERO (scandalized in spite of himself) She was eighty-four, M. Gustave! M. GUSTAVE (pause) I’ve had older. M. Gustave throws back the rest of his glass and refills it as he expands on the point: M. GUSTAVE When you’re young, it’s all filet-steak, but as the years go by, you have to move on to the cheaper cuts -- which is fine with me, because I like those. More flavorful, or so they say. (shrugs) Why are we stopping at a barley field? The train has, in fact, come to a halt in the middle of nowhere. Noises echo from the other end of the coach: a door slams open; loud voices argue; heavy footsteps approach. Three soldiers appear in the compartment doorway. They are stocky, thick-necked, and armed with carbine rifles. They wear grey uniforms and long coats. M. Gustave says with an air of fancy-meeting-you-here: M. GUSTAVE Well, hello there, chaps. SOLDIER #1 (blankly) Documents, please. M. GUSTAVE With pleasure.

M. Gustave withdraws his passport from his coat pocket and presents it to the soldier. The soldier begins to flip through it. M. Gustave gestures toward the photograph of himself: M. GUSTAVE It’s not a very flattering portrait, I’m afraid. I was once considered a great beauty. The soldier ignores this comment. M. Gustave peers at the breast-pocket of his uniform. INSERT: A name tag pinned below a military badge. It reads: Cpl. F. Müller. M. Gustave raises an eyebrow and asks pointedly: M. GUSTAVE What’s the “F” stand for? Fritz? Franz. SOLDIER #1 (hesitates) Franz. M. GUSTAVE (exceedingly pleased) I knew it! The soldier returns the passport to M. Gustave and looks to Zero. Zero nervously hands him a creased and tattered little scrap of paper covered with stamps and seals. The soldier frowns and studies it. M. Gustave smiles, uneasy, and says lightly: M. GUSTAVE He’s making a funny face. (to the soldier) That’s a Migratory Visa with Stage Three Worker Status, Franz, darling. He’s with me. The soldier shows the scrap of paper to his associates. They confer rapidly at a whisper. There is some debate. Finally, the soldier waves for Zero to follow him: SOLDIER #1 Come outside, please. Zero swallows hard and begins to rise -- but M. Gustave motions sharply for him to stop. He says, a bit stern:

while the taxi waits outside. M. Gustave kisses Clotilde on both cheeks and says immediately: M. GUSTAVE Where is she, Clotilde? Take me to her. Clotilde leads M. Gustave with Zero in tow through a series of doors,en fillade,until they arrive at a dimly candle-lit drawing room. Murals of cherubs cover the walls. There is a harpsichord in one corner and a loudly ticking grandfather clock in another. The feet of the corpse, in silver pumps, jut out, toes up, from inside the casket on top of a gold-leaf table. M. Gustave stops and gasps. He turns to Clotilde and nods. She tugs Zero by the sleeve, and they withdraw. M. Gustave picks up a chair, carries it to the body, sets it down, and sits. Silence. He speaks in a normal, conversational voice: M. GUSTAVE You’re looking so well, darling. You really are. They’ve done a marvelous job. I don’t know what sort of cream they’ve put on you down at the morgue, but I want some. Honestly, you look better than you have in years. You look like you’re alive! M. Gustave shakes his head in admiration. He leans down and kisses Madame D. on the lips. Zero and Clotilde, watching discreetly from the shadows in the next room, look slightly revolted. M. Gustave takes the corpse’s hand. He notices something and hesitates. INSERT: Madame D’s fingernails. They are now lacquered in a rich plum. M. Gustave says, deeply moved: M. GUSTAVE You changed it, after all. It’s perfect. (calling to the next room) Clotilde? Clotilde advances into view. She says respectfully: MAID Oui, M. Gustave?

In the midst of the chaos, the hunched, old man says, aside, to a younger one: OLD MAN Where’s Céline? YOUNG MAN (hesitates) She’s dead. We’re reading her will. OLD MAN (slightly embarrassed) Oh, quite right, of course. How silly of me. Another younger man, eavesdropping, starts coughing and spits red wine into his glass. In the meantime: Serge helps M. Gustave and Zero to their feet as Jopling restrains Dmitri, and various of the distant relations attempt to interfere in the fray. Dmitri, behind an almost certainly broken nose, shouts furiously at M. Gustave as he strains to clamber over his henchman’s shoulder: DMITRI If I learn you ever once laid a finger on my mother’s body, living or dead, I swear to God, I’ll cut your throat! (screaming) You hear me? M. GUSTAVE (clever though dizzy) I thought I was supposed to be a fucking faggot. DMITRI (hesitates) You are, but you’re bisexual! M. GUSTAVE (pause) Let’s change the subject. I’m leaving. M. Gustave turns and, assisted by Serge and a staggering Zero, exits the room.

Clotilde rushes to M. Gustave’s assistance as Serge brings him through the door. She brushes his shoulders and smooths his hair. Serge shouts frantically in French and guides them all back into his butler’s pantry. Zero holds his glass of milk against his ear like an ice- pack. Serge and Clotilde yell at each other while the

other servants race in and out of the kitchen, panicking. They disappear again into the next room. M. Gustave and Zero, alone for a moment, catch their breath. M. Gustave pants: M. GUSTAVE That picture -- “Boy with Apple” -- is priceless. Understand? ZERO (hopeful) Congratulations, M. Gustave! M. GUSTAVE They’re going to fight me for the son of a bitch. ZERO Is it very beautiful? M. GUSTAVE (swooning) Beyond description. (reciting) “E’en the most gifted bard’s rhyme can only sing but to the lack of her and all she isn’t! His tongue doth trip --” ZERO Can I see it? M. Gustave looks surprised. Pause. M. GUSTAVE I don’t see why not. M. Gustave zooms out through the scullery and into a little stairwell. Zero follows. They spiral up a steep flight.

A wide landing overlooking the foyer. The voices of the bickering assembly echo from the rear of the house. M. Gustave looks quickly left and right, then darts down the hallway and through a set of double doors.

A long, narrow gallery lined from floor-to-ceiling with books and paintings. M. Gustave leads Zero straight through to the far end where “Boy with Apple” hangs above a fire-place. He stands beside it facing Zero and assumes the role of a museum docent:

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.

A sleeper on the over-night 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 wash-basin. 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.

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.

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 hangar 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 (O.S.) 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.

A hidden gear begins to crank, and a heavy iron and oak gate swings slowly open. The guard makes an off-hand 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.

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. (drinks 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.

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: ZERO “My dear and trusted colleagues --”

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 horse-whip 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.)

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:

M. Gustave pushes his cart to the next cell. These convicts are all asleep. M. Gustave says with a musical lilt: M. GUSTAVE Rise and shine. Chop-chop! A wiry, pint-sized convict the shape of a fire-hydrant squints out from under his covers. He is Pinky. M. GUSTAVE Good morning, Pinky. Pinky yawns and sets his feet to the floor. The convicts in the other bunks also begin to rustle. Their faces are brutal, and their bodies are hard and powerful. They are Günther and Wolf. (A fourth convict, also in the room, begins to get out of bed, as well -- but his face is not revealed for the moment.) M. Gustave reaches to the lower shelf of the cart and produces a pink pastry-box. All the convicts quickly gather at a small table. (The fourth convict sits with his back to the camera.) Pinky says eagerly: PINKY Mendl’s again? M. GUSTAVE Precisely. Who’s got the throat-slitter? Günther digs in his sock and takes out a small weapon consisting of a half-toothbrush fixed with wire to a hand-slivered straight-razor cut into serrated teeth. M. Gustave folds open the pastry-box and cuts a Courtesan au chocolatinto careful segments. The convicts eat daintily. Wolf says, chewing: WOLF Out of this world. M. GUSTAVE (obviously) Mendl’s is the best. Well, back to work. M. Gustave rises. Pinky says suddenly: PINKY Mr. Gustave? M. GUSTAVE (hesitates) Yeah? Pinky exchanges a look with the others. They nod. He darts to the door, looks up and down the corridor, then

closes it softly. He signals for M. Gustave to sit back down. M. Gustave, slightly puzzled, obeys. They all lean in closer as Pinky whispers: PINKY Me and the boys talked it over. We think you’re a real straight fella. M. GUSTAVE Well, I’ve never been accused of that before, but I appreciate the sentiment. PINKY You’re one of us now. M. GUSTAVE (somewhat moved) What a lovely thing to say. Thank you, dear Pinky. Thank you, Günther. Thank you, Wolf. I couldn’t ask for a finer tribute. M. Gustave bows slightly. He hesitates. M. GUSTAVE Anything else? Pinky looks to the fourth convict. He nods: PINKY Tell him, Ludwig.

The fourth convict. Numerous short scars chop skinny, bald lines into his shorn scalp. His arms are tattooed heavily with skulls, skeletons, and images of the grim reaper. He has one silver tooth and a bit of butter- cream icing on the side of his mouth. He is Ludwig. Ludwig takes a deep breath. He launches into his spiel: LUDWIG Check-point Nineteen ain’t no two-bit hoosegow. You got broad-gauge iron bars on every door, vent, and window. You got barb’ wire on every containment wall and barricade. You got seventy-two guards on the floor and sixteen more in the towers. You got a 325 foot drop into a moat full of crocodiles -- but, like the best of ‘em, it’s got a soft spot, which in this case happens to take the form of a storm- drain sewer-system datin’ from the time of the original rock fortification way back in the middle ages. Now, nobody’s (more)

The camera zooms-in slowly toward the crinkled wrapper of the Courtesanau chocolatas the five inmates all stare at it together.

Mr. Moustafa and the author at their dinner table surrounded by meats, sauces, and vegetables. Mr. Moustafa is immobile. AUTHOR (V.O.) At this point in the story, the old man fell silent and pushed away his saddle of lamb. His eyes went blank as two stones. I could see he was in distress. “Are you ill, Mr. Moustafa?” I finally asked. “Oh, dear me, no,” he said. “It’s only that I don’t know how to proceed.” He was crying. Mr. Moustafa smiles sadly with tears streaming down his cheeks. The author looks worried. MR. MOUSTAFA You see, I never speak of Agatha, because -- even at the thought of her name -- I’m unable to control my emotions. Mr. Moustafa dries his eyes with his napkin, but the tears instantly return. He shrugs. MR. MOUSTAFA Well, I suppose there’s no way around it. You see, she saved us. TITLE: One Month Earlier

A smoky small-town movie palace. On-screen, a battle- scene is in-progress: tanks explode while an infantry unit charges out of a trench into a tornado of machine- gun fire. In the middle of the back row, a love-scene is in-progress: Zero and Agatha French-kiss in a clutch with her shirt half-unbuttoned and his fingers wrapped around her clearly-visible, white breast. Her hand is jammed down into his trousers. No one else in the scattered audience appears to notice them. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) On our third, formalrendez-vous,I had asked for her hand in marriage, and she had agreed. We did not have fifty Klubecks between the two of us. No one (more)

Agatha looks to Zero with tears in her eyes. He smiles sadly. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) M. Gustave insisted on an immediate and thorough cross-examination --

M. Gustave sits opposite Agatha at a long table with his hand resting on top of hers as he leans close to her recounting something vividly. They both laugh uproariously. M. Gustave says loudly, aside, to Zero: M. GUSTAVE She’s so charming! Zero broods in the corner. The table is piled with long- stemmed flowers, and a large, cardboard box overflows with more. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) -- during which he presented Agatha with a porcelain pendant and five dozen individually tissue-wrapped, white tulips in a box the size of a child’s coffin. INSERT: A white porcelain crossed-keys pendant hanging from a velvet ribbon around Agatha’s thin neck. Agatha admires her pendant. Zero grumbles: ZERO It’s not right. M. GUSTAVE (hesitates) I beg your pardon? (conspiratorially to Agatha) Why’s he sulking? ZERO She’s my girlfriend. You can’t just buy her things. M. GUSTAVE (in disbelief) I’m only interviewing this vision of loveliness on your behalf. (conveying pearls of wisdom) Never be jealous in this life, Zero. Not even for an instant.

The guard gingerly closes the box, slides it aside, unscathed, and moves on to the next package.

An art-deco office looking out directly onto the clock- tower of Lutzbahn Station. Deputy Kovacs sits behind a wide desk. The box containing Madame D’s will rests beside him. Its contents have been neatly organized into dozens of little stacks and piles. Dmitri and his three sisters are seated across from Deputy Kovacs in leather arm-chairs. Jopling stands in the corner stroking a Siamese cat and staring out the window. Curtains sway in the gentle breeze. Deputy Kovacs sounds concerned: DEPUTY KOVACS Something’s missing. A crucial document, either misplaced or, conceivably, destroyed. I don’t know what it contains, I don’t know what it represents, I don’t know what it is -- but there are traces and shadows of it everywhere. (motioning to the stacks of paper) Now, I don’t want to alarm you, and I don’t expect to see any significant change in the magistrate’s ultimate decisionvis-à-visyour own inheritance; but, especially given the circumstances of the death, as well as the disappearance of the key witness in the murder case (Serge X.), I suggest we immediately bring this matter to the attention of the municipal inspector so there can be absolutely no question of impropriety at any future date. Agreed? DMITRI (simply) Not agreed. DEPUTY KOVACS (puzzled) Not agreed? DMITRI (with finality) Not agreed. Silence. The three sisters are stoic. Jopling is stony. Dmitri and Deputy Kovacs stare at each other blankly. DMITRI Can I ask you a question, Vilmos?

A door bangs open down the hall. In an instant: Zero jumps out of the bed, leaps with both feet at once into his trousers, and shimmies up out of the sky-light.

Zero’s point-of-view from the roof. The bedroom door creaks open and Herr Mendl looks in at Agatha. She is now calmly reading her volume of romantic poetry. He grunts: HERR MENDL Go to sleep. AGATHA Yes, Herr Mendl. The door closes. Agatha looks up to Zero. He holds up the sliver of paper. She shakes her head and whispers: AGATHA No. ZERO (pause) OK, but take it, anyway. Zero releases the square of tissue-paper. Agatha sits up quickly as it descends, darting and fluttering, and moves her hand around underneath it while she watches trying to estimate where it is going to land. At the last second, she reaches up and cleanly plucks it out of the air between thumb and finger. Zero smiles. He runs away, shoe-less, past gutters and chimneys, jumping noiselessly from roof to roof, into the night.

A bank of elevators in an art-deco lobby. A bell rings, and a pair of doors slides open. Deputy Kovacs emerges and navigates his way through a maze of suds-buckets and women on their hand-and-knees scrubbing the floor. He does not notice: Jopling sitting in a chair behind a column reading the evening edition of theTrans-Alpine Yodel.

The evening sky is bright blue. Crowds hurry in and out of shops and restaurants. Deputy Kovacs crosses the street and stands next to an old lady at a tram-stop. He checks his watch. The tram arrives, and the door opens.

Deputy Kovacs assists the old lady, then boards behind her. He takes a seat. He looks out the window. Just as they pull away, he sees Jopling exit the building and climb onto his motorcycle. Deputy Kovacs frowns. Jopling kick-starts his engine and follows the tram, close behind, for three blocks. At the next intersection, a policeman blows a whistle, holds up his hand, and makes Jopling wait while a stream of opposing traffic crosses. The tram rounds a corner and stops. Deputy Kovacs jumps up and ducks out onto the street. He looks left and right. He hurries up a path toward a grand, colossal, domed palace. A sign carved in stone above the door reads: Kunstmuseum Lutz. As he goes inside, Deputy Kovacs looks back to see Jopling’s motorcycle pulling slowly to the curb.

The spacious, soaring entrance hall is dim and deserted. One guard sits alone in a corner writing in a log-book. Deputy Kovacs strides across the room. His clacking feet echo broadly. He detours into an ante-chamber filled with French still-lives. He pauses. A second set of foot-steps clack through the lobby behind him. Deputy Kovacs advances rapidly into the next gallery, past a long mural of an ancient war, and descends a staircase. He pauses again at the bottom. The second set of foot-steps continues through the ante- chamber behind him. Deputy Kovacs turns a corner and rushes between rows of Greek and Roman statues. He cuts through an Egyptian tomb. He skims through an alcove of iron weapons and suits of armor. He pauses once more and listens. Silence. INSERT: A pair of high-heeled boots. Two feet quietly slip out of them and tip-toe away.

Deputy Kovacs looking all around, frantic. Across the room, he sees:

A door labelled VERBOTEN. Deputy Kovacs runs to the door and opens it. He scans the hall behind him. He sneaks inside.

Deputy Kovacs flicks on a light. He is in a long hallway lined with racks filled with hundreds of canvases. The room goes dark at either end. He chooses a direction, then sprints straight through into the blackness. Up ahead, he sees lines of faint light around the edges of a door. He skids to a stop and searches for the knob. He turns it and pulls. It is locked. He fumbles at a latch. He snaps it sideways. He swings open the door. His eyes light up: There is a bicycle leaning against the wall across the alley behind the museum. Deputy Kovacs grabs the door- frame and takes one last, quick look back into the darkness behind him. INSERT: Deputy Kovacs’ hand on the knob. A second hand, wearing brass knuckles, gently enfolds it.

Deputy Kovac’s face. He gasps.

The door hammers shut with a bang. Four of Deputy Kovacs’ fingers, gripping the door-frame, pop-off at the knuckles all at once and fall down into a shallow puddle. On the other side of the door, there is a scream of blood-curdling agony, then a thump, a thwhack, and, finally, a wallop. Pause. The door opens again. Jopling comes out in his stocking- feet. He puts on his boots. He takes out a handkerchief, leans down and collects the four fingers off the ground, wraps them up, slips them into his pocket, and walks away down the alley.

Eight a.m. Zero, substituting at the concierge desk again, looks up to the high window across the room. Herr Becker waits alone in the storage pantry with the ledger book under his arm. He checks his watch.

The stump of one of the bars. A little noose is fitted over it and pulled tight. Günther assists Ludwig as they slowly feed an unfurling tangle of rope and rungs out the window, inch-by-inch.

M. Gustave, Pinky, Günther, Wolf, and Ludwig all on the rope-ladder at once like a string of beads dangling down the outside of the tower 325 feet above the moat with crocodiles gliding along the dark surface. The ladder twists and creaks as they descend. Suddenly, a sharp voice calls out above their heads: CONVICT How’d you get out there? They all look up. An anxious convict with a missing ear stares down at them from a cell window. Ludwig whispers: LUDWIG Shut up! The convict frowns. He turns to his unseen bunk-mates and says loudly: CONVICT These guys are tryin’ to escape! Ludwig looks furious. He whispers fiercely: LUDWIG What’s wrong with you, you goddamn snitch? CONVICT (hollering) Guard! Guard! They’re gettin’ away! They’re -- A single, large hand grabs the convict with the missing ear by the neck, crushes the wind out of him, and rips him away from the window, out of view. Pause. The giant with the long scar across his face appears in the convict’s place, looking down at the dangling escapees. M. Gustave says, gasping: M. GUSTAVE It’s you! Thank you! Thank you, you sweet, kind man! The giant nods sadly.

The bottom of the rope ladder which ends half-way down the tower. M. Gustave, Pinky, Günther, Wolf, and Ludwig step onto a narrow ledge and make their way, side- stepping cautiously, around the circumference of the building. They arrive at a small sloped roof and open a trap-door.

M. Gustave, Pinky, Günther, Wolf, and Ludwig all crouch on a beam in the upper eaves of a vaulted hall. In the dark below, there are twenty narrow cots in two rows. Next to each cot, there is a guard’s uniform on a coat- hanger, a billy-club on a peg, and a Luger pistol on the night stand. Asleep in each cot, there is a lightly snoring goon. Ludwig gets a firm grip on a tarnished copper pipe. He turns to the others and nods. He swings out and makes his way, hand-over-hand, from pipe-to-pipe across the ceiling. The others follow.

A dirty chute sticks down from the ceiling above a wide garbage-bin filled with empty tins and rotting vegetables. M. Gustave, Pinky, Günther, Wolf, and Ludwig slide down into view, one-by-one, drop out into the trash-pile, and hurry on their tip-toes into a dim corridor.

The candle-lit dungeon. M. Gustave, Pinky, Günther, Wolf, and Ludwig all listen attentively, looking up at the ceiling. There is a loud but muffled sneeze above, then feet creaking away. Ludwig nods. Pinky pulls away an oil-skin tarp to reveal the cement pot-hole which has now been chiselled all the way through the thick sub-floor clear into the room below -- where they see: Three startled guards staring up at them from a card table in a dank, brick basement. They each hold a hand of cards. One is in the middle of placing a bet into a rich pot. A gas-lantern flickers on a hook. The escapees all cry-out at once: LUDWIG Woah! PINKY Yow!

around in every direction. (Pinky carries a wad of the crumbled-up gambling-money in his little hand.) M. GUSTAVE Let me introduce you. Pinky, Wolf, and Ludwig: this is the divine Zero. (soberly to Zero) Günther was slain in the catacombs. M. Gustave crosses himself quickly. He begins a wistful speech: M. GUSTAVE Well, boys, who knows when we’ll all meet again; but if, one day -- LUDWIG No time to gab. Take care of yourself, Mr. Gustave. Good luck, kid. Pinky, Wolf, and Ludwig sprint away into the woods. M. Gustave watches them go, bittersweet. He grabs Zero by the shoulder and says, suddenly urgent: M. GUSTAVE Which way to the safe house? ZERO (unfortunately) I couldn’t find one. M. GUSTAVE (in disbelief) No safe house? Really? We’re completely on our own out here? ZERO (worried) I’m afraid so. I asked around, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I thought -- Zero trails off. He looks apologetic. M. Gustave sighs, resigned. He says calmly: M. GUSTAVE I understand. Too risky. We’ll just have to wing it, I suppose. Let’s put on our disguises. Zero hesitates. He looks down at his vagabond costume, then at M. Gustave’s. He says, confused: ZERO We’re wearing them.

Concierge desk #1. There are rows of mail-boxes with room numbers on them, keys on hooks, and a bell on the counter-top. A slim concierge with a long moustache talks on the telephone. He is M. Ivan. A Lobby Boy waits beside him silently. M. IVAN I’ll call you back, Gustave. Right. Stand by. M. Ivan hangs up the telephone and turns to a waiting young couple as he produces a small paper map from a drawer. M. IVAN I beg your pardon. Do you prefer to walk? We’re right here. M. Ivan makes a little “X” in ink on the map. He draws a line. M. IVAN It’s very simple. Straight down the corniche. Then left. (to the Lobby Boy) Jojo, see them out. The young couple take the map gratefully, and the Lobby Boy escorts them away. M. Ivan picks up the telephone again and says urgently: M. IVAN Get me M. Georges at the Château Luxe, please.

The dining room at a hunting lodge. One hundred small children crowd around a long table. There is a huge birthday cake with seven lit candles on it. Streamers hang from the ceiling. Balloons float on strings. A very tall, bony concierge conducts the room singing “Happy Birthday”. He is M. Georges. A Lobby Boy goes over to M. Georges and whispers in his ear. M. Georges nods and quickly exits. The Lobby Boy replaces him and takes over the conducting.

Concierge desk #2. M. Georges picks up the telephone.

Lobby Boy replaces him and resumes checking the fallen man’s pulse.

Concierge desk #4. M. Robin picks up the telephone. M. ROBIN This is M. Robin. Yes, Dino. Yes, Dino. Yes, Dino. OK, Dino. M. Robin presses down on the hook to disconnect, then lifts it up again and says urgently: M. ROBIN Get me M. Martin at the Ritz Imperial, please.

An extremely busy hotel kitchen filled with cooks of every rank and specialty. Waiters dash in and out continuously. A small, round concierge with a pink face is screaming and pointing a serving fork at the chef (who is flambé-ing acrèpe suzette).He is M. Martin. A Lobby Boy goes over to M. Martin and whispers in his ear. M. Martin nods and quickly exits the kitchen. The Lobby Boy takes the serving fork and replaces him screaming at the chef.

Concierge desk #5. M. Martin picks up the telephone. M. MARTIN Robin, Martin. I know. So I heard. (suddenly intrigued) Maybe. (gravely) Let me make a few calls.

M. Gustave and Zero wait hidden behind a hay-stack next to the telephone booth. M. Gustave re-caps: M. GUSTAVE Serge X: missing. Deputy Kovacs: also missing. Madame D: dead. “Boy with Apple”: stolen (by us). Dmitri and Jopling: ruthless, cold-blooded savages. Gustave H: at large. What else? ZERO Zero: confused.

M. Ivan produces two, pre-tied neck-ties. M. Gustave and Zero slip them over their heads and adjust the knots. The chauffeur hits the brakes, and M. Ivan swings the door open again. M. IVAN Go!

M. Gustave and Zero jump out in front of a very small depot and slam the door. M. Ivan says out the window: M. IVAN One last thing. M. Ivan leans down and searches for something on the floor. He sits up and thrusts-out a tiny version of a familiar bottle. M. Gustave melts as he realizes: M. GUSTAVE L’air de Panache! M. IVAN (down-playing it) They only had the half-ounce. M. Gustave looks impressed and deeply touched. He leans to Zero and whispers: M. GUSTAVE We should give him something as a symbolic gesture. How much money you got? ZERO (hesitates) Forty-two Klubecks and three postage stamps. M. GUSTAVE Give me twenty-five. Zero’s eyes widen. He cocks his head, dubious. M. Gustave nods firmly. Zero reluctantly digs a handful of coins and bills out of his pocket and passes it on to M. Gustave. M. Gustave says to M. Ivan with profound gratitude: M. GUSTAVE Bless you. M. Gustave attempts to discreetly press the money into M. Ivan’s palm -- but M. Ivan withdraws. He waves his hands and says by way of gentle refusal:

Jopling steps fully into view. A shifty guard explains nervously: SHIFTY GUARD This is Mr. Jopling, sir. His employer’s mother was one of the victims of the -- HENCKELS Shut up. Henckels climbs up out of the hole as Jopling approaches and offers his card. Henckel snaps it up, gives it a fraction-of-a-second look, then hands it off to an underling. HENCKELS You work for the family Desgoffe und Taxis? Pause. Jopling nods. Henckels asks pointedly: HENCKELS Are you aware of the murder of Deputy Vilmos Kovacs on the twenty-third of October? JOPLING (carefully) I’m aware of his disappearance. HENCKELS His body was found stuffed in a sarcophagus behind a storage room at the Kunstmuseum late last night. He was short four fingers. What do you say about that? Henckels withdraws a type-written document out of his coat. He holds it up. INSERT: A police report with a photograph of Deputy Kovacs’ body in a pharaoh’s casket with his hands crossed on his chest. A section at the bottom of the page is labelled FINGERPRINTS. There are five for the left hand, but only a thumb for the right. Jopling studies the document. He shrugs. HENCKELS Escort Mr. Jopling off the premises. Jopling makes his way toward the cell door accompanied by several soldiers. He pauses just before he exits. He leans down and picks up a flattened, pink, cardboard box

off the floor. He scrapes a ridge of icing with his finger and licks the tip. He says softly: JOPLING Mendl’s. Henckels watches Jopling suspiciously as he shrinks away down the corridor.

Dmitri, dressed in black pajamas and a black smoking jacket with a fur collar, listens on the telephone in a small alcove. He says calmly: DMITRI Talk to his club-footed sister again -- and, this time: be persuasive. Dmitri hangs up. He crosses into the library and stands in front of a snooker table. The box containing Madame D’s will sits among billiard balls in the middle of it. Its contents have been spread-out and scattered into a sprawling mess. Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina play cards and sip at tiny glasses of port on the other end of the room. Dmitri drinks a vodka in one gulp. He shuffles and sifts among the scraps, preoccupied. He picks up a folded sliver of cream-colored writing-paper. He opens it. INSERT: A page of Grand Budapest Hotel stationary with a set of crossed keys insignia at the top. Hand-written below is: Remember: I’m always with you. Dmitri stares at the piece of paper. He tosses it back onto the table. It lands on top of a faded, old photograph of “Boy with Apple” with the stamp at the bottom of a long-defunct auction house. Dmitri frowns. He turns around and looks up at the wall above the fireplace directly behind him. His face goes white.

The wood-cut print of the two lesbians masturbating. A bit of the discolored wallpaper sticks out behind it on either side. Dmitri is stunned. He stammers:

The attendant grows slightly uneasy. Jopling reaches into his leather coat -- half-revealing, holstered inside: a stiletto ice-pick, a black-jack bludgeon, a Luger pistol, and a ball-peen hammer. He withdraws a glass flask with a silver stopper and takes a pull. His brass knuckles clack against it. The attendant clears his throat, pulls the nozzle out of the tank, and says -- polite but quick: PUMP ATTENDANT Three Klubecks, please.

The Zubrowkian Alps. A high-altitude depot nestled in a pass between two, craggy ridges. There is fresh powder on the ground. Scattered flakes flicker in the air. A sign along the tracks reads: Gabelmeister’s Peak. Twenty-five soldiers armed with carbine rifles stand spaced apart down the length of the platform, waiting. The train rolls in. Doors open, and passengers with skis, snowshoes, and suitcases step down and hurry into the building and around its sides. The soldiers study them, attentive, and peer inside the compartment windows. The passengers continue until they have all cleared-away, and the platform is quiet again. A train conductor, leaning out from the end of a car, watches the soldiers. The soldiers look to each other tentatively. A Sergeant jerks open a door and steps onto the train. He looks around. He raises his chin, lifts his nose -- and sniffs the air. He looks irritated.

The peak of an icy butte. A narrow, domed building sticks up into the sky at the top. A steel balcony winds around it with a platform that extends out over a plunging drop into the white mist. A group of scientists bundled in fur coats listens to a professor. A man on a bench pours cocoa from a thermos. An eagle circles overhead. M. Gustave and Zero shiver at the end of the railing. M. GUSTAVE It’s a hell of a view. I give them that, for what it’s worth. ZERO I agree.

Pause. M. Gustave checks his watch. He says with a slightly bitter edge to his voice: M. GUSTAVE When one says “mid-day” -- what does that mean to you? ZERO High noon. M. GUSTAVE Exactly. In other words, twelve p.m. At least, that’s always been my interpretation. Silence. M. Gustave withdraws the small bottle of cologne from his pocket, spritzes himself twice, hands it to Zero who does the same automatically, then tucks it back away again. He holds-out his palm under the snow. He begins to recite: M. GUSTAVE “‘Tis oft’-remarked: no single, falling- flake does any other in its pure and perfect form --” ZERO (tensely) Somebody’s coming. A monk in a grey cloak and a thick scarf clanks up a metal staircase. His face is old and wrinkled. He walks directly out to M. Gustave and Zero and stops. He studies them for a moment, frowning. He whispers: MONK #1 Are you M. Gustave of the Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad? M. GUSTAVE (hesitates) Uh-huh. MONK #1 Get on the next cable-car. The monk points. A cable-car is just arriving down the sloping line from an adjacent peak. M. Gustave hesitates. The monk urges him on with a brusque motion. M. Gustave and Zero sprint across the balcony, scramble down a flight of steps, and race out onto the boarding platform. A family of six waits in skiing costumes. They stare at M. Gustave and Zero as they arrive, breathless. A tramway operator holds open the door. Everyone boards, squeezing.

The cable-car sets-off up and across the wide ravine. M. Gustave and Zero sit side-by-side with the curious, silent family. The father sniffs the air. He looks irritated. Half-way there: the cable-car slams to a stop with a clunk. Everyone is startled. The stalled vehicle sways in the quiet wind. The father looks up. The mother looks down. The children look to each other. In the distance: there is a faint, mechanical hum. M. Gustave and Zero look out. Another cable-car is ascending at a diagonal on a different line. They all watch as it slowly approaches. Just as it is about to criss-cross their path: it slams to a stop, too. Another elderly, cloaked monk stares out from inside the other cable-car. He is alone in the vehicle. He studies M. Gustave and Zero for a moment, frowning. He whispers loudly: MONK #2 Are you M. Gustave of the Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad? M. GUSTAVE (hesitates) Uh-huh. MONK #2 Switch with me. The monk unlatches the door of his cable-car and opens it. The family watch nervously as M. Gustave and Zero stand up, rocking the vehicle, open their own door, and carefully exit. They reluctantly lunge across the precarious abyss. The monk changes places with them. There is another clunk, and the two cable-cars resume their journeys. M. Gustave and Zero exchange a look. Their new cable-car continues up toward its destination. A sign above the arrival platform reads: Our Holy Father of the Sudetenwaltz. Directly below it, there is a walled fort with a steeple and a tall stone cross. Another tramway attendant holds the door open for them as they disembark.

M. Gustave and Zero walk down a staircase and through the front gate into an empty church-yard. There are walls and low buildings on the sides, a few graves in the middle, and the entrance to a church at one end. Pause. A small window swings open next to M. Gustave and Zero. Another elderly, cloaked monk stares out from inside a caretaker’s booth. He studies them for a moment, frowning. He whispers: MONK #3 Are you M. Gustave of the Grand Budapest Hotel in Nebelsbad? M. GUSTAVE (hesitates) Uh-huh. MONK #3 Put these on and sing. The monk thrusts a small bundle into M. Gustave’s hands. It consists of: two cloaks and two hymnals. The echoing sound of a Gregorian chant begins to rise from all around. M. Gustave and Zero swiftly slip-on the cloaks just as a procession of a hundred monks enters from two directions, merges in the church-yard, and advances double-file toward the chapel. M. Gustave and Zero open their hymnals at random and slip into the procession.

A blasting organ joins the chant inside a vast, austere hall as the procession enters. The monks file into pews. The music ends, and the room goes silent. Everyone kneels. The monsignor at the altar places his hands on a thick Bible and speaks Latin. A voice behind M. Gustave and Zero says: MONK #4 Psst. M. Gustave and Zero turn around. Another elderly, cloaked monk kneels on a kneeler behind them with his hands folded in prayer. He studies them for a moment, frowning. He whispers: MONK #4 Are you M. Gustave of the --

the mountain. Zero hangs onto a short rope knotted to the front. M. Gustave hangs onto Zero. Jopling, skiing superbly up ahead, looks back. He sees M. Gustave and Zero closing-in. He frowns. He makes a quick detour through a gap in the trees, and races down a narrow, zig-zag path. Zero jerks the rope and follows Jopling. The sled bounces and bumps, skids and slides. Zero shouts: ZERO What do we do if we catch him? M. GUSTAVE (pause) I don’t know! He’s a homicidal psychopath! Let’s stop! ZERO I can’t! I can barely steer! Jopling ramps over the sloped roof of a shuttered café and lands cleanly. M. Gustave and Zero duck and shoot under it, banging between tables, scattering chairs, and rattling off the terrace. A group of hikers in snow-shoes walks single-file across the slope. They hurry to one side in a panic to dodge Jopling, then immediately hurry back to the other to dodge M. Gustave and Zero. A long, paper banner rustles in the wind. It reads: Gabelmeister’s Peak, Winter Games. Jopling snaps through it and shoots out onto an abandoned bob-sled run. He balances nimbly as he rockets down the ice. M. Gustave and Zero burst onto the track behind him, skittering through the corners. They grit their teeth and hang on, terrified. At the end of the run, Jopling jolts sideways, scratching across the track and showering splinters of ice, then zips up into the air and lands on the snow at the side of a road directly next to his parked motorcycle. He watches as: M. Gustave and Zero come flying down the bob-sled run at break-neck speed, slam into a dense bank at the bottom, and soar into a high arc. The sled flips and twirls, then hits the ground and splits into three pieces. Zero bashes head-first into the deep snow and disappears -- except for his feet and ankles sticking out into the air, motionless. M. Gustave smacks onto the ice and slides, spinning, off the edge of a cliff. Silence.

Jopling takes a drink from his flask. He unclips his skis. He walks slowly past Zero’s frozen legs and approaches the precipice. M. Gustave is clutching onto a knob of jagged ice while his feet dangle above a rocky chasm a thousand feet deep. He stares up at Jopling, frightened but furious. He says quietly: M. GUSTAVE You sick, pathetic creep. I hate you. (shouting) Run, Zero! Save yourself, I suppose! Zero’s feet are frozen in place. A distant wolf howls. Pause. Jopling lifts his foot and stomps his boot down with all his might. The ice crackles and fissures. M. Gustave sighs miserably. He swallows. Jopling stomps again. The ice around M. Gustave begins to crumble. As Jopling continues to stomp, over and over, M. Gustave sadly recites: M. GUSTAVE “’If this do be me end: farewell!’ cried the wounded piper-boy, whilst the muskets cracked and the yeomen roared, ‘Hurrah!’ and the ramparts fell. ‘Methinks me breathes me last, me fears!’ said he --” There is a powerful thump, and Jopling flies head-first, screaming, off the cliff over M. Gustave’s head. Zero, in the midst of a diving shove, lands on his face and nearly goes over the edge, himself. He is covered with snow. M. Gustave shouts, ecstatic: M. GUSTAVE Holy shit! You got him! Far, far below: Jopling’s arms and legs flail as he disappears down into the deepest reaches of the chasm. M. Gustave says proudly in elation: M. GUSTAVE Well-done, Zero! M. Gustave looks greatly relieved as he continues to hang precariously and his fingers stiffen toward frost- bite. Zero gasps for an instant, then thrusts his arms down, stretching, to seize M. Gustave by the wrists.

A binocular shot of Zero dragging M. Gustave back up onto solid ground. They dust the snow off their bodies and catch their breath. Henckels’ voice shouts over a megaphone: HENCKELS (O.S.) Halt! M. Gustave and Zero look across the hill-side to the next slope. A hundred advancing troops hurry toward them, descending swiftly. The tiny figure of Henckels at the head of the squadron continues forcefully: HENCKELS Gustave H! You’re a fugitive from justice! Do not attempt to flee! Surrender lawfully, and I personally vouchsafe your fair treatment! Repeat: do not attempt to flee! M. Gustave turns to Zero. Zero says, unsure: ZERO What do you think? M. GUSTAVE (weary) I don’t know. I’d rather jump off this cliff right now than go back to fucking prison. M. Gustave looks lost and tired. Zero stares at him. He nods. He says calmly: ZERO I say we steal that sick maniac’s motorcycle, go fetch Agatha, take back “Boy with Apple”, and head for the Maltese Riviera, once and for all. M. Gustave’s face lightens. He is moved and deeply impressed. M. GUSTAVE Very good! You’re so extraordinary, Zero. Thank you. (gravely) A moment of silencein memoriamof a devoted servant killed violently during the conduct of his duties. M. Gustave and Zero stare solemnly into space for about five seconds. Bloodhounds bark in the far distance. Zero says quietly:

A martini glass. The drink is poured neatly -- then stirred with a “Z-Z” swizzle-stick. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) High-command advanced to Nebelsbad.

The hotel is busier than ever, and every man in the room is in uniform. “Z-Z” symbols are plastered across every conceivable surface. Agatha comes in the front doors carrying a tall stack of pink, card-board pastry-boxes. A soldier seated at a small desk blocking the entrance looks up from his ledger-book. He frowns. Agatha explains: AGATHA Compliments of Herr Mendl. For the Executive Staff. Agatha takes a smaller box off the top of the stack and sets it down in front of the soldier. The soldier hesitates. He opens the box and sees inside: one Courtesanau chocolat.He looks back up to Agatha, hopeful. She nods. He signals for her to proceed. An officer with a crew-cut mans the concierge desk. A badge on his chest reads: Military Concierge. He is M. Chuck. Mr. Mosher stands beside him taking notes while he dictates orders: M. CHUCK General Stieglitz requests a garden-view sitting-room with an extra roll-away. Let’s put him in the Duke Leopold Suite. Secretary Woroniecki’s office cabled. He’s checking-in a day early (rooms 401-2- 3). Tell Tactical Logistics we’re moving them to a standard-double on the third floor. MR. MOSHER (skeptical) They’ll need more space than that. Mr. Mosher points to a group of four soldiers carrying a ping-pong table through the lobby. Agatha waits calmly while they pass. She pauses, looks left and right, then ducks through a curtain below a sign that reads: Staff Only. She dashes up a staircase.

The storage pantry adjacent to the vault. Agatha comes in and sets aside her boxes. She immediately stands on a

chair and runs her hand along the top of a picture rail near the ceiling. She finds a brass key. She unlocks the outer door of the vault and slides it open -- revealing the inner one (which has a combination lock). Agatha reaches into her pocket and withdraws Zero’s hand- written square of tissue-paper and a small magnifying glass. She squints and studies the tiny document. She quickly spins the dial and opens the door. Agatha whips the fur stole off the radiator. Agatha pulls out the wrapped painting. Agatha tucks the package under her arm, exits the vault, and re-locks the doors.

The entrance to the hotel. “Z-Z” banners hang from every awning. A dozen Zubrowkian flags wave and rustle in a row. Crests, heralds, and insignias are displayed in vitrines, doors, and windows. A chanting platoon marches up the promenade, and a soldier in a pilot’s cap sits smoking a cigarette on top of a parked tank next to the funicular. M. Gustave and Zero wait, tense, in a parked delivery truck with Mendl’s painted in delicate, pink cursive across the side. The engine idles. Zero is at the wheel. He and M. Gustave both wear white caps and aprons. M. Gustave says, deeply disgusted, as he stares at the new ornamentation: M. GUSTAVE The beginning of the end of the end of the beginning -- has begun. A sad finale played, off-key, on a broken-down saloon piano in the outskirts of a forgotten ghost town. I’d rather not bear witness to such blasphemy. ZERO Me, neither. M. GUSTAVE (elegiac) The Grand Budapest has become a troop’s barracks. I shall never cross its threshold again in my lifetime. ZERO Me, neither.

The soldier at the desk blocking the entrance looks up. He is half-way through his Courtesanau chocolat.He has butter-cream on his moustache.

Henckels on his way up the steps followed by M. Chuck. They stop at the next floor, look up and down the corridor, then continue climbing.

Mr. Mosher staring, curious; Herr Becker watching, surprised; and Anatole gaping, mouth-open -- at: M. Gustave and Zero crossing speedily through the center of the lobby with their stacked boxes, looking around in every direction as they go. They arrive at the closed elevator doors. A Lobby Boy stands next to it. He has curly hair and looks to be about sixteen. He is Otto. M. GUSTAVE Have you seen a pastry-girl with a package under her arm in the last minute and a half? OTTO Yep! She just got on the elevator with Mr. Desgoffe und Taxis. M. GUSTAVE (irritated) Thank you. M. Gustave and Zero look up at the wall. Something is gnawing at them both. INSERT: The needle above the elevator entrance. It climbs past Four toward Five. M. Gustave and Zero start to dash away -- but Zero stops short and turns back. He says quickly to Otto: ZERO I’m sorry. Who are you? OTTO (hesitates) Otto, sir. The new Lobby Boy. ZERO (sharply) Well, you haven’t been trained properly, Otto. A Lobby Boy never provides (more)

Dmitri breaks into a full sprint. In five seconds, he reaches the end of the hallway. He stops and looks down the next corridor. It is empty. Pause. At the far end: a pair of doors labelled SERVICE ELEVATOR slide open. M. Gustave and Zero stand inside it with their stacked boxes. Dmitri’s eyes widen. He shouts: DMITRI Where’s “Boy with Apple”? M. GUSTAVE (pause) None of your goddamn business! DMITRI (hesitates) I’m going to blast your candy-ass once and for all right now! Dmitri instantly leans down, lifts up his trouser leg, and draws a small-calibre hand-gun from a strap under his sock. He fires. M. Gustave and Zero throw their boxes in every direction and duck to the sides of the elevator. Dmitri fires again. Bullets ricochet. A door opens half-way down the corridor. An officer wearing his uniform tunic but no trousers looks out at Dmitri, alerted, with a Luger pistol in his hand. OFFICER Drop your weapon! Dmitri fires three more times into the service elevator. The officer fires back at Dmitri. Dmitri ducks behind a room-service cart and quickly re-loads. More doors open up and down the corridor, and more armed officers in various states of dress/undress look out. Dmitri pops up again and resumes his barrage. All the officers open fire at once, shooting, apparently at random, in both directions. Henckels appears suddenly at the top of the stairs with his own firearm drawn. M. Chuck hurries behind him. Henckels ducks down low and screams: HENCKELS Cease fire! Cease fire! Stop it! The gunfire pauses. Everyone remains poised for the next volley. Henckels hollers:

Agatha holds a piece of the torn and crumbled wrapping paper. She and Zero both look straight up.

Zero and Agatha’s point-of-view through the hole punched in the roof of the van. Seven floors up, M. Gustave, Henckels, and M. Chuck lean out the window staring down at them, frozen, while other officers lean out other windows all across the facade. Four floors up, “Boy with Apple”, unwrapped, hangs upside-down from a wire below the balcony. It swings gently. INSERT: The painting, upside-down. A pair of hands flips it over to reveal the pale-pink envelope on the reverse. TITLE: Part 6: “The Second Copy of the Second Will”

The entire, vast assembly of officers and soldiers stands crowded, murmuring, around a table in the restaurant where M. Gustave, Zero, and Dmitri, all in hand-cuffs, sit across from Henckels. Agatha stands behind Zero. Marguerite, Laetizia, and Carolina stand behind Dmitri. M. Chuck stands behind Henckels. Henckels carefully peels the envelope loose from the back of the canvas. He slits it open with a pocket-knife and removes a hand-written letter on pale-pink paper. He skims it, then looks to M. Gustave. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) She left everything to M. Gustave, of course.

M. Gustave on the witness stand. He wears his concierge uniform and is immaculate. The jury listens, enraptured by his testimony. The judge sniffs the air. He looks irritated. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) The mansion, known as Schloss Lutz; the factories, which produced weapons, medicine, and textiles; an important newspaper syndicate; and (perhaps you’ve already deduced) this very “institution” -- the Grand Budapest Hotel.

Zero, Agatha, Herr Becker, Mr. Mosher, and Anatole watch, entertained, from the gallery. INSERT: The front page of theTrans-Alpine Yodel.Headline: Cleared of All Charges A photograph shows M. Gustave with the entire staff posing in front of the Grand Budapest. A column below the fold reads, “Son of Murdered Countess Disappears without Trace.”

Zero behind the concierge desk. He now wears a uniform identical to M. Gustave’s. He rattles off instructions to Mr. Mosher, Herr Becker, Anatole, and M. Chuck. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) He anointed me his successor; and, as the war continued, I served my adopted country from the narrow desk still found against the wall in the next room. Across the lobby, M. Gustave sits drinking a cocktail with a beautiful, begemmed, ninety-year-old woman. His hand rests on her thigh. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) He was the same as his disciples: insecure, vain, superficial, blonde, needy. In the end, he was even rich.

The facade of the Grand Budapest at sunset. The camera glides along the path through the plot of edelweiss and buttercups. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) He did not succeed, however, in growing old -- nor did my darling Agatha. She and our infant son would be killed two years later by the Prussiangrippe.(An absurd little disease. Today, we treat it in a single week; but, in those days, many millions died.) The camera comes to a stop as it reveals the view from the iron-lattice terrace over the crevasse alongside the cascade. Zero and Agatha hold hands while M. Gustave reads from a Bible, officiating. The other witnesses are: the staff

of the hotel and the concierges of the Society of the Crossed Keys.

A first-class state-room on the express to Lutz. M. Gustave, Zero, and Agatha each hold a glass of chilled, white wine. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) On the first day of the occupation, the morning the independent state of Zubrowka officially ceased to exist, we traveled with M. Gustave to Lutz. M. Gustave checks the color of the wine in the light. It is excellent. Pause. M. GUSTAVE In answer to your earlier question, by the way: of course. Zero looks slightly puzzled. M. Gustave explains, aside, to Agatha: M. GUSTAVE Zero asked me about my humble beginnings in the hotel trade. (to Zero and Agatha both) I was, perhaps, for a time, considered the best Lobby Boy we’d ever had at the Grand Budapest. I think I can say that. This one -- (pointing to Zero) -- finally surpassed me. Although, I must say, he had an exceptional teacher. ZERO (with great affection) Truly. AGATHA (reciting) “Whence came these two, radiant, celestial brothers, united, for an instant, as they crossed the stratosphere of our starry window? One from the East, and one from the West.” M. GUSTAVE (impressed) Very good. M. Gustave kisses Agatha’s hand. Zero frowns.

rapidly at a whisper. There is some debate. Before M. Gustave can work his magic -- the soldier rips the special document to shreds. Pause. M. Gustave looks to Zero. Zero and Agatha are both stunned and frightened. M. Gustave seems to smile very slightly, reassuring them, and somehow sends a sincere, private message: Good luck. M. Gustave’s jaw hardens. He pegs his glass of wine at the soldier, shattering it, and explodes: M. GUSTAVE You filthy, goddamn, pock-marked, fascist assholes! M. Gustave is instantly on his feet, tussling. Zero jumps up to intervene, trying to calm everyone down -- and is immediately bashed in the face with the stock of a rifle and dropped to the floor, out cold. M. Gustave shouts and struggles. Agatha screams. MR. MOUSTAFA (V.O.) There are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity.

The three soldiers whisk M. Gustave, now in hand-cuffs, out of the compartment and man-handle him down the length of the coach while he shouts furiously, berating them: M. GUSTAVE I give you my word: I’ll see all three of you dishonorably discharged, locked-up in the stockade, and hanged by sundown! (screaming in rage) Where is your commanding officer?

Zero with his head out the window of the once-again speeding train. A significant volume of blood runs from his forehead around his eye and down into his shirt- collar, soaked deep red. He clutches his little scrap of paper in his fist. The wind rustles against his neck. His mouth is open. His face is frozen. Tears stream down his cheeks.

Mr. Moustafa takes great pleasure as he: opens a drawer and tidies up its contents slightly; pulls a stack of envelopes out of a slot, flips through them, and hands one to the author; straightens “Boy with Apple” slightly; then takes two keys off their hooks. AUTHOR (V.O.) While the precise terms of his negotiation with the new government had never been announced, the result was an open secret: Zero Moustafa had traded a great and important fortune in exchange for one costly, unprofitable, doomed hotel. Why? INSERT: The author’s room key as Mr. Moustafa places it onto the desk. It is labelled M. GUSTAVE SUITE. AUTHOR (V.O.) Was it merely sentimental? Mr. Moustafa holds the author by the arm with two hands as the author walks him the length of the room to the elevator. AUTHOR (V.O.) It was quite forward of me and a bit out of character, but I felt I must know -- for my health, I suppose. I took the plunge.

One minute later. Mr. Moustafa and the author stand at the entrance to the elevator facing each other. Silence. The author says suddenly, slightly worried: AUTHOR Forgive me for asking. I hope I haven’t upset you. MR. MOUSTAFA (dismissing it) Of course, not. AUTHOR (long pause) Is it simply your last connection to that -- vanished world? His world, if you will? MR. MOUSTAFA (doubtful) His world?

Mr. Moustafa considers this. He shakes his head slowly. MR. MOUSTAFA No, I don’t think so. You see, we shared a vocation. It wouldn’t have been necessary. He’s always with me. (pause) No, the hotel -- I keep for Agatha. Mr. Moustafa pulls up his lapel slightly and shows the author Agatha’s crossed-keys pendant pinned to his jacket. He hides it away again. MR. MOUSTAFA We were happy here. For a little while. The author nods solemnly. Mr. Moustafa presses a button to call the elevator. It immediately opens. He starts to enter -- but puts up his hand to hold the door as he stops, turns back, and says: MR. MOUSTAFA To be frank, I think his world had vanished long before he ever entered it -- but, I will say: he certainly sustained the illusion with a marvelous grace! (pause) Are you going up? AUTHOR (politely) No, I’ll sit for a little while. Good night. MR. MOUSTAFA Good night. Mr. Moustafa steps inside. He presses a button and the doors close. The author stands still, staring into space. He sniffs the air. He smiles sadly. AUTHOR (V.O.) The next week, I sailed for a cure in South America and began a long, wandering journey abroad. I did not return to Europe for many years.

The entrance at midnight. A doorman sweeps the steps below the front door. Only one room’s light is illuminated: a little window at the far edge of the top floor.

FOXSEARCHLIGHT.COM/AWARDS Released by Twentieth Century Fox © 2014 Twentieth Century Fox