The Lost Expert, page 7
“I could use some fresh air,” Chris said. He didn’t know how to extricate himself. When he stood up, so did Daphne. The restaurant was empty now. A hostess appeared out of nowhere with the suit jacket Chris didn’t remember taking off.
The next thing he knew, Daphne’s enveloping perfume was heavy in his nostrils and throat. They were kissing, Chris realized with horror. Like her store-bought scent, Daphne was enthusiastic — her tongue writhed in his mouth. Chris was numb, his arms at his sides in the straitjacket of Daphne’s embrace.
Daphne disengaged. Sighing theatrically, she laid her head on his shoulder.
A flash brightened the air. Chris squinted at the fading glare, confused and blinking.
Then he saw the photographer, a balding man leering at them through the long lens of a camera, his stare menacing and hateful. Jesus Christ! Paparazzi! The man, diminutive but with a wiry, muscular frame, clicked the shutter aggressively, catching Chris staring right into the lens. Point and shoot. Your prey frozen in place. Revealing light, surging then diminished.
Chris found himself being pulled into a black SUV. The door slammed. Final flashes lit the sky, miniature implosions of time and space obscured by the tinted windows. The vehicle sped away, flattening Chris against the upholstery.
Script 3
EXT. GHETTO — MID-MORNING
A neighbourhood of small, crowded streets. There are six- and eight-storey tenement buildings, their ground floors lined with shops selling smoked fish, pickles, hardware, and everything under the sun. THE LOST EXPERT passes the meat market — live chickens fluttering piteously in crowded cages. Women argue with the butcher and his sons in Yiddish. On the street, almost a dirt track, donkeys and draft horses slowly drag wagons filled to bulging. Their drivers, peddlers, shout out their wares. There is a single car in the procession, an open-topped Model T, its horn honking incessantly. The Lost Expert comes to a stop outside a small bakery. We see that following respectfully behind him is a retinue of ghetto Jews, poor but noble. The Jews are: the imposing RABBI, his ruddy face obscured by a giant grey beard, his black, ill-fitting suit flapping in the wind; the rabbi’s BEADLE, a small nervous man, flitting about beside the rabbi. Behind the rabbi and the beadle are the TAILOR and his WIFE. The wife, hair in a kerchief, sobs valiantly and heaves her bosom. The tailor, gaunt and dressed like the beadle, in a requisite faded, not quite tattered black suit, prays to himself, his braided side curls scraping the sides of his head as he fervently recites incantations in muttered breaths.
RABBI
Here is where the boy was last seen, Hashem’s will that we will find him!
TAILOR
(half moaning)
Baruch Hashem.
TAILOR’S WIFE
My only son! I sent him for bagels! And a babka! A chocolate babka!
THE LOST EXPERT
How long has it been?
RABBI
Two days.
TAILOR’S WIFE
(crying out in anguish)
He’s a good boy! A good boy! Never in trouble!
RABBI
Our boys, they do not do that. They do not run away.
The Lost Expert nods. He notices, for the first time, a TALL MAN standing across the street. His trench coat flaps, but his dark grey fedora and thin blond hair are seemingly glued to his forehead, unmoved by the wind. The man’s cold, bloodless blue eyes methodically contemplate the scene, sizing up guilt and innocence, life and death. The man pulls the collar of his coat up. His face disappears into shadow.
RABBI
(following the Lost Expert’s gaze)
They do not help us. They only beat us and take our money. Protection! (He looks skyward.) There is only one who protects us!
TAILOR
Baruch Hashem!
TAILOR’S WIFE
(near hysterical)
My boy! My only boy!
The Lost Expert nods curtly, a gesture to nobody indicating his solidarity of purpose. He mounts the stairs to enter the bakery. The beadle makes to assist the rabbi up the stairs, but the Lost Expert puts up a hand, signalling them to stop. He’ll enter alone.
INT. THE BAKERY
The smell is sweet, yeast, cocoa. The BAKER’S WIFE, a wizened woman with a long face, her hair covered with a kerchief, watches him enter. The counter is piled high with braided challahs. The Sabbath is coming. Night will fall and the ghetto will pray for deliverance from their follies, from the follies of their ancestors, from the failings of Adam, of Abraham, of Moses – men, prophets, truthtellers, sinners.
BAKER’S WIFE (Yiddish w/ subtitles)
(yelling into the open door of the kitchen)
It’s the Goy, Shteymie.
The BAKER, Shteymie, comes through from the kitchen. His beard is matted with flour. He dusts off his hands and stares suspiciously at the Lost Expert.
THE LOST EXPERT
The boy was here?
BAKER
The boy was here.
THE LOST EXPERT
What did he buy?
BAKER
He bought, the boy, a dozen bagels. He bought a babka, ehm, a chocolate roll. He bought a bread wit da kimmel.
THE LOST EXPERT
Kimmel?
The baker gestures to a stack of breads.
THE LOST EXPERT
A rye?
BAKER
(nodding)
With seed.
THE LOST EXPERT
Did he say anything?
BAKER (Yiddish w/ subtitles)
Shlema, did the boy say anything?
BAKER’S WIFE (Yiddish w/ subtitles)
What do I know if he said anything? He was just a boy buying bread!
The baker looks over at the Lost Expert and shrugs, spreading his hands.
THE LOST EXPERT
Which way did he go when he left the store?
The baker points. The Lost Expert walks to the window, considers the grey street. The rabbi and the beadle, the tailor and his wife stand outside, shuffling and keening and praying.
BAKER
You will find him?
EXT. THE SHTETL STREETS
THE LOST EXPERT walks down the main street of the shtetl, his entourage following behind, others glancing curiously at the scene. Across the street, the TALL MAN with the thinning blond hair keeps pace on the periphery. We can’t quite make out his face. His hands are jammed deep into the pockets of a long, thin trench coat. The Lost Expert stops where the road meets a dark alley and ponders its narrowing depth. The Lost Expert bends down on one knee and inspects the ground in front of him. We see a small-sized shoe print in the scuffed dirt. The Lost Expert steps carefully over the print and leads them deeper down the alley of rubble and cracked pavement. At the end of the alley sits a decrepit, narrow two-storey house. Its front window is covered with several layers of filthy yellow lace curtain.
THE LOST EXPERT
Who lives here?
RABBI
(exasperatedly, to the beadle)
Answer him! Answer him!
BEADLE
It’s the Widow Luba.
THE LOST EXPERT
Does she have children?
BEADLE
No. No. She could never bear them. It killed her husband, to have a barren wife.
TAILOR’S WIFE
(groaning)
The alte makhsheyfe!
(English subtitles: The old witch!)
TAILOR
(to his wife)
Quiet!
The Lost Expert knocks on the rickety wooden door. The TAILOR’S WIFE cries out incoherently. At the top of the alley, the tall man in the trench coat stands motionless, barely visible in the shadows. The Lost Expert knocks again, harder. Finally, without a word, The Lost Expert puts his shoulder to the door, which gives way. The gathering gasps. The Lost Expert disappears into the dark of the crumbling house.
INT. THE WIDOW’S BEDROOM
It is dark, the curtains drawn. THE LOST EXPERT pauses in the cluttered room to get his bearings. Behind him, he can hear the RABBI struggling slowly up the rickety stairs, breathing heavily as he takes arthritic steps on swollen ankles. Eyes adjusting, the Lost Expert surveys the room. On the crumbling credenza sits a cheap bottle and two goblets showing the sticky remnants of red wine. Fruit flies scatter as the Lost Expert inspects them. Then he steps to the room’s window, overlooking the street.
He sees a ledge covered in bird excrement mixed with caraway seeds. The Lost Expert wheels around, stops in front of the closet door. He pulls on the handle. The closet is locked. The rabbi, the BEADLE, the TAILOR, and the TAILOR’S WIFE arrive, all of them sweating heavily and breathing hard as they cram into the room. The Lost Expert uses his elbow to smash in the closet’s thin wooden door. The tailor’s wife screams. The Lost Expert wrenches the closet open. The closet is deep and messy, piled with trash bags of clothing, old pillows, and yellowed bedding. The Lost Expert peers in. He yanks away a stained, fringed tablecloth. A BOY is revealed, peering up at them, eyes wide, skin luminescent, his side curls swaying gently. He clutches a half-eaten loaf of bread. Then, revealing herself looming behind the boy, is the WIDOW LUBA, a withered figure in black, her grimace of gnarled contempt etched into the lines of her shadowed face.
EXT. RIVER PARKLAND — PICNIC SPOT BY THE RIVER — NOON (FLASHBACK — 1903)
BOY LOST EXPERT and his MOTHER sit, shoulders touching, on the grass at the bank of the river, watching the sluggish current. The sun disappears behind a cloud, and the mother looks over at the boy’s impassive face.
MOTHER
Eat your sandwich.
BOY LOST EXPERT
(looking down at the sandwich in his hands as if surprised to see it)
I’m not hungry.
Mother takes a big bite of her half, chews willfully.
MOTHER
(still chewing)
It’s good. Just try a bite.
Boy Lost Expert shrugs, looks up at the sky.
BOY LOST EXPERT
It’s going to rain.
MOTHER
(scrutinizing the sunny skies)
Why do you say that?
BOY LOST EXPERT
(jumping up, shouting)
It is! It is going to rain!
INT. SHTETL — THE WIDOW LUBA’S BEDROOM — LATE MORNING (1928)
The WIDOW LUBA lunges, screaming and clawing at THE LOST EXPERT.
WIDOW LUBA
The boy — he is mine! He will marry me!
The RABBI, suddenly powerful, pulls her off the Lost Expert and slaps her across the face angrily.
WIDOW LUBA
The devil to you! Zol makekhs vaksen offen tsung!
(English subtitles: May pimples grow on your tongue!)
The TAILOR falls to his knees, supplicating God. The Lost Expert extends a hand to the BOY. The Widow Luba mutters incomprehensible curses. Outside, the TALL MAN takes his hands out of his trench coat pockets and walks on.
EXT. THE RIVER PARKLAND — PATH IN WOODED AREA — LATE AFTERNOON (FLASHBACK — 1903)
Thunder rumbles in the distance. BOY LOST EXPERT half-runs, half-trips down a small path, narrow and obstructed by tree roots and large rocks protruding out of the ground. A light rain has started, and the wind is picking up, swirling through trees and along the path, sending a kaleidoscope of leaves up into the air. The sky continues to darken. The boy hears a muted cry coming from just over the next hill. He runs faster. He reaches the top of the hill and sees his mother. Abruptly, he stops running. His mother is lying across the path, unmoving. There is a dark figure over her. The dark figure grabs his mother by the arms and starts to slowly tow her off the path and into the woods. He stands, frozen, watching his mother disappear. Then, finally, he runs down the path and picks up her straw spring hat from where it lies half crushed in the dirt, its peacock-blue bow sullied.
Section 4
CHRIS BLINKED AND EMERGED. Crew members eddied around him in the small, hot room. A bright light switched off. He felt dizzy, nauseous, as if spinning worlds were colliding — the blinding flash from yesterday — empty air bursting — that strange woman’s hot breath on his cheek. Shtetl slums, crazy Yiddish witch crones throwing themselves at him, angry men watching silently from a distance. His stomach tipped. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Breathe. Just breathe.
“Anywhere else and we’d be mobbed,” Reed announced jovially, appearing at his side. “That’s what I love about this place. The people do whatever we tell them! The streets look like whatever you want!”
Chris opened his eyes. The view from out the window. An alley crowded with their film equipment; purposeful people sporting walkie-talkies and baseball caps. Halfway down, he could see flimsy metal balustrades blocking off the curious onlookers being watched by several private security guards and a bored-looking policeman.
“Still,” Alison said, “we should get him out of here.”
“Right,” said Reed. “Let’s get him out of here.”
Alison led them out of the house. There was a murmur from the small crowd when they emerged. Alison quickly ushered them through a weedy, abandoned parking lot leading to another side street. A security guard followed them discreetly. To Chris, who had wandered through these streets countless times over the years, everything seemed different, foreign. He was a stranger.
“Nice escape route,” Reed said. “You’ve got yourself a top-notch assistant there. Whaddya pay her? I’ll double it.” He seemed to be taking a new tone with Chris, chummier and more intimate. Like we’re friends now, Chris thought.
“I’m not for sale,” Alison said.
“They won’t get the Jew stuff,” Reed continued, ignoring her. “They’ll hate it. But this is the heart. This is what it’s all about, right?” Chris nodded, hoping Reed would keep talking. He didn’t get it either. Why was the Lost Expert suddenly in a shtetl? Where was all of this supposed to be taking place? He’d kept his eyes open for a script he could read, but nobody seemed to have one, and he hadn’t worked up the courage to ask. His only instructions came from Reed, who mysteriously appeared beside him before each scene, whispering murmured bits of dialogue, fragments of a whole that, so far, had completely eluded Chris.
“It’s symbolism,” Reed continued. “No, it’s essentialism. Taking things right down to their essentials. The Jews. The chosen people. Chosen for what? Forever cursed. Fucking wanderers. That’s what we are. No one wants us! No one wants to be us. They’re lost in the desert, right? But he will. He’ll help them. He’s drawn to them. He doesn’t want to be. But he is. He doesn’t know why. Nobody ever knows why they help the Jews.”
They were in the park now, Chris realized, nearing the trailers. His head hurt, a throbbing in the frontal lobe, like something was trying to push out. Reed kept talking. Dazed, Chris watched his footsteps, stepping carefully, not wanting to trip and fall in front of Alison, who was walking, tight-lipped, a few steps ahead. Another pulse pushed against his forehead. Chris grimaced. It was cloudy, but the sky seemed much too bright. Maybe Thomson Holmes owned sunglasses? He must own sunglasses. He’d quaffed a lot of champagne last night. At least a bottle. Maybe more. Then Daphne. And that photographer. Pointing his camera, like he was going to shoot. His chauffeur-bodyguard had grabbed him, taken him back to the hotel, marched him up to his suite. He’d fallen asleep on the luxurious couch facing Thomson Holmes’s giant-screen TV. He hadn’t even turned it on. And he’d never called Laurie.
Oh shit. What was the matter with him? Laurie!
“You can’t escape who you are,” Reed continued. “The Lost Expert tried. He didn’t want to be set apart, to be different. But now he sees that he has no choice.”
“Like all superheroes,” Chris said, suddenly picking up on the thread of Reed’s discourse. He was surprised at the definitive tone of his proclamation.
“Yeah,” said Reed, stopping and grabbing Chris by the arm and turning him so they faced each other. “You’re not as dumb as you look, are you, Holmes?” Reed waited, as if expecting an answer. Chris breathed, focused on breathing. “Just like all the rest of them,” Reed went on. “Jew boys! Who do you think invented Superman? A couple of schleppy little Jews.”
“He’s got a special power,” Chris said, getting into it now. “He’s got responsibilities. They make him different from everyone else.”
“It’s a curse as much as anything else,” Reed continued. “He’ll have to decide. Does he want to fit in? Be accepted? Or be cast out? Which is harder, Holmes? Going along with the bullshit or trying to fight against it? Does it even matter what you decide? To the Jews it does! For the Jews, there’s what you do in this world, and there’s the world to come. The Messiah returns and raises the righteous! If you believe in all that religious shit.” Reed laughed curtly, clearly amused at the idea that Thomson Holmes might have religious beliefs.
“Here we are,” Alison said, interjecting. “You should probably rest up before the afternoon shoot, Thomson.” She gave Chris an enigmatic yet somehow knowing look. Chris got it. She wasn’t happy.
“The thing is, Holmes,” Reed went on jovially, “the Jews aren’t just symbolic. They’re real. They really existed. They don’t anymore. Now they’re just history. You see me? I’m a goddamn ghost. That’s what this is really about. Things get lost, and you can’t find them anymore, no matter how hard you look.” Reed scuffed at the trampled grass, his faced scrunched like he was about to cry.
“The only thing is —” Chris said.
“What?” Reed barked. “What?”
