The Grand Budapest Hotel Page #2

On the wall behind M. Jean, there is a beautiful,

Flemish painting of a pale, young boy holding a piece ofgolden fruit. This is “Boy with Apple”. A patch of water

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damage above seeps dangerously close to the picture-

frame.

The author (a fictionalized version of himself) wandersinto the room with his hands in his pockets. He has darkcircles under his eyes.

AUTHOR (V.O.)

Perhaps as a result of this generalsilence, I had established a casual andbantering familiarity with the hotel’sconcierge, a West-continental known onlyas M. Jean, who struck one as being, atonce, both lazy and, really, quiteaccommodating.

M. Jean quickly stubs out his cigarette as the authorapproaches -- 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 apamphlet of Alpine tourist sites.

AUTHOR (V.O.)

In any case, one evening, as I stoodconferring elbow-to-elbow with M. Jean,

as had become my habit, I noticed a newpresence in our company.

At the far end of a colonnade, beyond Reception, a dark-

skinned, white-haired seventy-year-old man in a threepiece-

suit sits alone smoking a pipe. He is Mr. Moustafa.

AUTHOR (V.O.)

A small, elderly man, smartly dressed,

with an exceptionally lively, intelligentface -- and an immediately perceptibleair of sadness. He was, like the rest ofus, alone -- but also, I must say, he wasthe first that struck one as being,

deeply and truly, lonely. (A symptom ofmy own medical condition, as well.)

Mr. Moustafa drinks a sip of sherry. The author lowershis voice and asks discreetly:

AUTHOR (V.O.)

“Who’s this interesting, old fellow,” Iinquired of M. Jean. To my surprise, hewas distinctly taken aback. “Don’t youknow?” he asked. “Don’t you recognizehim?” He did look familiar. “That’s Mr.

Moustafa himself! He arrived early thismorning.”

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The author looks to Mr. Moustafa again. Mr. Moustafa isnow staring directly back at the author. The authorquickly looks away and examines a detail in the woodworkon 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 thisinformation. He nods thoughtfully.

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