Dissolve to: Exterior shot, main street of Nadeau, Ontario. Early morning, winter, still dark.
The darkness gradually yields up a hint of light. Snow is falling. The main street of Nadeau becomes faintly visible. One or two cars pass, then a pick-up truck; their headlights glow yellow through the swirled snow. A Greyhound bus comes into view, then pulls to a stop at the side of the road. The
CAMERA
picks up a sign,
NADEAU
.
A woman steps from the shadows and boards the bus. She is small, middle-aged, somewhat awkward, and hesitant in the manner of someone who has recently been ill. This is
ROSE HINDMARCH
. She wears a too-large padded blue coat with an artificial fur collar and a wool muffler pulled loosely over her plastic headscarf.
CLOSE SHOT
of driver’s face. He is about thirty, with a fresh, alert face. Seeing Rose, his eyes widen.
DRIVER:
Hi ya, Rose. Hey you’re up early, aren’t ya? You off to Kingston?
He stands up, takes her suitcase and wedges it behind his seat. Rose opens her purse and takes out a five-dollar bill. The bus is nearly empty, with three or four shadowy figures dozing at the back.
ROSE
(cheerful, newsy): I’m getting the ten o’clock train. For Toronto, as a matter of fact.
DRIVER
(making change): You’ll be in plenty of time. You’ll be sitting around the station waiting. Couple hours anyways.
Rose, seating herself in one of the front seats, carefully removes her muffler and her plastic scarf and pats at her hairdo. The bus starts up slowly.
* * *
ROSE:
Well, I didn’t want to … you know, take a chance. And you never know this time of year.
DRIVER:
Right you are, Rose. Don’t blame you one little bit.
ROSE
(still fussing with her hair): Wouldn’t you just know we’d get snow today? I watched the forecast last night.
DRIVER:
Yeah?
ROSE:
Snow, he said. Of all days, just when —
DRIVER:
(shifting gears to climb a hill): S’posed to get six inches.
ROSE:
—and I said to myself, just my luck, the roads closed and just when I have to get my train to Toronto for —
CAMERA
pans open highway and fields. Snow is blowing across the road, but houses and barns can be glimpsed in outline.
MUSIC
, an alto clarinet, makes a jaunty counterpoint to the rather laconic conversation.
DRIVER:
Jeez, yeah, the train’s your best bet this time of the year. I mean, they tell ya six inches, but it looks to me like —
ROSE
(chattily): I’d of worn my good coat, but with this snow, well, you can’t wear a suede coat in weather like this. Oh, it’s warm enough, that’s not the trouble, but suede can’t take it, getting wet.
Rose’s natural garrulousness is augmented by the excitement of the journey to Toronto, and she sits on the seat tensely, jerking off her gloves and examining her nails.
DRIVER:
So! You’re having yourself a trip to Toronto, eh, Rose?
ROSE
(still fussing): Just four days, that’s all I can spare, what with having to shut the library down, and —
DRIVER:
Fuck! (He swerves hard, brakes, barely missing a car.) Where the … did he come from? (Relaxing): ‘Scuse me, Rose, but that bugger came out of that side road without even —
ROSE
(staring dreamily out of the window, not hearing): You know, I do believe it’s letting up. The snow. Maybe I should have—(She fingers her coat, questioningly, regretfully.)
The bus stops and a woman with a baby gets on. She greets Rose and the driver and makes her way to the back of the bus.
DRIVER
(starting up again, adjusting the mirror): So I suppose you’re going to hit the January sales, eh Rose? Go on a spending spree. (His tone is teasing; Rose is by nature a woman who is subject to good-natured kidding.)
ROSE
(dreamily): Pardon? Sorry, Roy, you were saying?
DRIVER
(louder, as though addressing a deaf person): Shopping spree, I said. You going on a spree?
ROSE
(delighted at this show of interest): It’s for a symposium. (She loves this word.) In Toronto.
DRIVER
(self-mocking): A who?
ROSE
: A symposium. (Apologetic now): It’s sort of a meeting.
DRIVER
(concentrating on road): Yeah?
ROSE
: You know, people talking and discussing and so on. It’s about —
DRIVER
: Makes a change, I guess.
ROSE
: It’s about Mary Swann. She came from Nadeau, you know. A poetess. You probably never heard of her, but she’s —
DRIVER
(scratching an ear): She the one whose old man shot
her up and stuffed her in the silo? Way back when?
ROSE
(almost proudly): That’s the one.
DRIVER
: Whaddaya know!
ROSE
: She’s got real famous now. Not because of … that, but on account of her poems, her book of poems that was published. Oh, people’ll be coming from all over, the States, everywhere. She’s got quite a reputation now. She’s real well thought of, people writing books about her and —
DRIVER
: Why’d he do it, her husband I mean. Do her in?
ROSE
(ignoring the question): It’s going to be at the Harbourview. The Harbourview Hotel, that’s where the meetings are and that’s —
DRIVER
: The Harbourview, eh? (He negotiates a curve.) Was there another guy or what? I think I heard my dad saying once … anyways, I can’t remember the details, but —
ROSE
: How
is
your dad, Roy? Better? (Rose knows everyone).
CAMERA
pans countryside, buried in snow. There are a few billboards indicating that the bus is approaching Kingston.
SOUND
of clarinet, cooler now.
DRIVER
: Not bad. He’s a lot better, in fact. You can’t keep the old man down.
ROSE
: Your mom? She taking it pretty well?
DRIVER
: Oh yeah, you know Mom.
ROSE
(regarding snow): Look at that, will you. Definitely letting up. I wish now—(She looks down at her coat mournfully.)
DRIVER
: So whaddaya think of all this hijacking jazz, Rose? Real mess over there, people getting roughed up —
ROSE
: Terrible. (A long pause.) Terrible. (She stares dreamily out the window as the bus enters town.) Terrible. (Dissolve.)
Fade to: Interior, the train station. Daytime.
Clearly this is the train station of a small city. There is a rather old-fashioned air about it: brown wooden benches, drab posters, and windows through which can be seen the double train tracks, this morning interfilled with snow. Rose, her muffler now nearly tucked into the neck of her coat, her plastic head scarf removed, is standing nervously and looking through the window to the platform. She looks at the station clock, which says 9:50, then at her wristwatch. She gazes about her. A few people come and go carrying luggage. She opens her purse, takes out a compact and looks at herself, pats her hair; she is obviously waiting for someone. She checks her watch once more, and then a voice takes her by surprise.
CRUZZI
: Miss Hindmarch? (
FREDERIC CRUZZI
is a tall, thin, elderly man, wearing a long dark overcoat and a fur hat, and carrying a cane, which he clearly needs.)
ROSE
(startled): You’re … are you —?
CRUZZI
(bowing very slightly): Frederic Cruzzi. How do you do?
ROSE
(nervously): How do
you
do? (Her handbag slips to the floor; they both bend to retrieve it.) Thank you, but … oh dear, I’ve got such a handful. And that’s all you have? (She gestures at Cruzzi’s small carry-on.)
CRUZZI
(smiling): A light traveller.
ROSE
(rattled): I was … was starting to think, maybe you’d changed your mind, and, well, when I saw it was 9:50 on the station clock, I thought maybe you’d decided not to … meet me, the way we arranged like. (Her
words are drowned by the sound of the train entering the station.)
CRUZZI
: Shall we? (He offers his arm, but Rose, juggling her handbag, suitcase, and shopping tote, doesn’t have a free arm. She attempts to rearrange things. Cruzzi picks up her suitcase.)
ROSE
(alarmed): No! You mustn’t. It’s very, very heavy. No matter how I try I always end up with too much. And shoes weigh such a lot, and then there’s my hair dryer and, well, what I need, I was saying to a friend of mine, is one of those backpacks (laughs) like the kids wear nowadays.
CRUZZI
(listening patiently, amused and polite): Ready?
They exit, arm in arm,
MUSIC
swells, a Scottish air, and the
CAMERA
follows them through the station window as they walk slowly, almost a matrimonial march, to the waiting train. Dissolve.
Fade to: Interior,
SARAH MALONEY’S
bedroom, Chicago. It is early morning.
A very small bedroom is revealed in half-darkness, a room nearly overwhelmed by a king-size waterbed. The walls and furniture are white. There are books on shelves, plants, one piece of white sculpture. From under a thick white blanket come murmurs and grunts and sighs of sensual pleasure. They are suddenly interrupted by an alarm clock ringing musically.
SARAH
(reaching out and shutting off alarm): Morning!
She kisses Stephen’s bare shoulder, yawns, slips from the bed, stretches, and tiptoes into the adjoining bathroom. When she returns, she is fresh from a shower, a towel around
her body, her long hair wet. In the half-light she dresses: underwear, a suit in a subtle shade of dusty pink, a soft blouse in a lighter shade, shoes. As she dresses she steals smiling looks at her watch and at Stephen, who is observing her from the bed. Her gestures are quick, hurried, absent-minded, though she touches her clothes, especially the silk blouse, with loving attention. She pulls a brush through her wet hair without glancing in the mirror. She applies no makeup. She opens a briefcase, checks its contents, and snaps it shut. For a moment she stands, holding the clasp, and goes through a mental checklist, then sets the briefcase by the bedroom door, puts on a heavy coat of white fleece, hoists up her shoulder bag, and approaches the bed. She sits down beside Stephen and opens her arms.
SARAH
: Well?
STEPHEN
(sitting up; he is a large, handsome shaggy man, he is wearing no clothes): You want some coffee? I could —
SARAH:
I’ll get some at the airport. (She starts to rise, but he pulls her down in an embrace more comradely than sexual; for a moment they rock back and forth; still embracing, she checks her watch, and this makes Stephen smile.)
STEPHEN:
Time?
SARAH:
Time.
STEPHEN:
Good luck. With your speech.
SARAH
(lazily): Not a speech, a paper.
STEPHEN:
Good luck, anyway.
SARAH
(pulling away): I’d better go. The cab should be here.
You be shiftless and go back to sleep.
STEPHEN:
It’s still night! (He hoists himself out of bed, reaching for the white wool blanket, which he wraps
around him Indian style; he puts an arm around her, and together they go down a miniature staircase, so narrow they bump against the walls as they descend.) This is a crazy hour. You live a crazy life, you know.
Stephen opens the door to a city street; there is no front yard and it is only a few feet to the curb where a taxi waits, its light gleaming in the darkness.
STEPHEN
: So long. (He hugs her.)
SARAH
(peering at him critically): For a minute there I thought you were going to say “take care.” Or “be good.” (She is scornful of such phrases.)
STEPHEN
: How about … (miming)…
ciao?
SARAH
(pulling away as she hears the taxi toot): All of a sudden I hate to go.
STEPHEN
: Toronto in January. (He phrases this so that it sounds both a question and a declaration.)
SARAH:
Not just that. I feel spooked for some reason.
STEPHEN
: Four days. (He gives a clownish shrug.)
SARAH
(stepping across the snowy sidewalk and getting into the cab): O’Hare. (She rolls down the window and looks at Stephen, who is shivering in the doorway, wrapped in his blanket. She waves slowly; he waves back. The taxi pulls away.)
TAXI DRIVER:
Jesus, it’s cold. (Good naturedly): Whyn’cha say goodbye to your boyfriend inside?
SARAH
(with music-hall rhythm): That’s not my boyfriend, that’s my husband.
They both laugh. The cab proceeds slowly down the street. Sarah, still waving, rolls up the window.
SOUND:
a cheerful, piping woodwind.
SARAH
(
CAMERA
close-up on her face): Lord! (Dissolve.)
Fade to: Interior, San Francisco Airport. Early morning.
MORTON JIMROY
, a middle-aged man in a cheap light-coloured cotton suit, is waiting his turn in an immigration line.
SOUND:
the usual hubbub of a busy airport underlain by
MUSIC
: something symphonic and emotional.
LOUPEAKER:
Flight 492 for Toronto now boarding. Flight 492 boarding now at Gate 77.
IMMIGRATION OFFICER
(bored): How long do you intend to be in Canada, Mr. Jimroy?
JIMROY
(testily): Four days. And I happen to be a Canadian citizen, and I am not obliged to stand—
IMMIGRATION OFFICER
(mechanically): Business or pleasure, Mr. Jimroy?
JIMROY
(annoyed; he is a man who takes all questions seriously): Business. Pleasure. Both. (He pauses; the immigration officer eyes him sharply.) A meeting. A symposium, to be precise. I will be attending a —
IMMIGRATION OFFICER:
Nature of meeting? (He holds a rubber stamp in his hand.)
JIMROY:
I resent this interrogation. As a Canadian citizen I am not required —
IMMIGRATION OFFICER:
Meeting you say? Nature of which is? (He waves the stamp in the air.)
JIMROY
(shrugging): Scholarly. Literary. (As though addressing an idiot): Poetry, if you must know. You know, as in “Jack and Jill went up the hill —”
IMMIGRATION OFFICER:
Okay, okay. (He stamps the paper and hands it to Jimroy.) Next.
JIMROY
(bitterly): Thank you. (
CAMERA
follows him as he disappears into the crowd. Dissolve.)