The Grand Budapest Hotel Page #3

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 tablein the middle of the lobby drinking hot chocolate andeating 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 performsan improvised version of the Heimlich maneuver on thefat businessman, the German hiker enters the lobby withhis St. Bernard. The rescue dog, sensing a human indistress, charges avidly, hurdling three tables andjostling the dessert cart, and arrives at the fatbusinessman’s side just as a significant hunk ofbiscotti rockets out of his mouth, into the air, andlands on a saucer at the next table. M. Jean immediatelydetaches a cask hanging from the dog’s neck, pours agenerous shot of brandy into a water glass, and forcesit down the fat businessman’s throat.

6.

AUTHOR (V.O.)

-- but, frankly, did not hold mine forlong.

The other guests of the hotel begin to gather around thegasping victim as the author makes his way into theelevator. He presses a button, and the doors close.

MONTAGE:

The author appears pensive as he: lies in bed that nightstaring up at the ceiling; sits in the dining room atbreakfast eating toast and gazing into space; and floatsthrough the conservatory ignoring flora at noon. He nodsto the schoolteacher sketching an orchid. She smiles andnods back.

AUTHOR (V.O.)

However, this premature intermission inthe story of the curious, old man hadleft me, as the expression goes,

gespannant wie ein Flitzebogen, that is,

on the edge of my seat -- where Iremained throughout the next morninguntil, in what I have found to be itsmysterious and utterly reliable fashion:

fate, once again, intervened on mybehalf.

INT. SPA. DAY

A steamy, underground mineral baths. Miniature tiles ofvarious shapes and intricate patterns cover every inchof the walls, floors, and ceiling. Distant voices echofaintly through succeeding chambers.

A long row of identical, adjacent cubicles each containsa blue tub and is tiled in a more recent, utilitarianstyle. The author soaks in one of them. He shakes saltsfrom a carton into the water and stirs it.

A voice interrupts from off-screen:

MR. MOUSTAFA (O.S.)

I admire your work.

The author hesitates. He looks around. He is not sure

which general direction the voice came from.

AUTHOR:

I beg your pardon?

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