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.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
I began to realize that many of the hotel’s most valued and distinguished guests – came for him.
Zero looks back briefly over his shoulder as he starts down the staircase and sees M. Gustave slip into the suite. The door locks.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
It seemed to be an essential part of his duties, but I believe it was also his pleasure.
Montage:
A succession of dames of varying grandeurs seen tête-à-tête with M. Gustave: a sixty-year-old Russian chats with him in the tea salon; a sixty-five-year-old German strolls with him on the promenade; a seventy-year-old Argentinian shares a cigarette with him, naked in her bed; a seventy-five-year-old Englishwoman washes his back in her bath; and an eighty-year-old Austrian wearing a hairnet and a nightgown gives him a blow-job while he watches in the mirror and eats grapes. There is a platinum wig on a stand on the dressing table.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
The requirements were always the same. They had to be: rich, old, insecure, vain, superficial, blonde, needy.
Cut to:
Mr. Moustafa and the author at their dinner table. The remains of a rabbit tart are replaced by a sizeable roasted pheasant as the author gently inquires:
AUTHOR
Why blonde?
MR. MOUSTAFA
(after a moment’s reflection)
Because they all were.
INT. ELEVATOR. DAY
M. Gustave, somewhat tousled, with lipstick on his cheek, stands waiting to arrive at his floor. He checks the railings for dust. The car stops and the elevator operator opens the gate. M. Gustave exits with a curt nod. A middle-aged couple enter.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
He was, by the way, the most liberally perfumed man I had ever encountered. The scent announced his approach from a great distance and lingered for many minutes after he was gone.
As the elevator descends, the middle-aged couple sniffs the air. The man looks irritated. The woman swoons slightly.
INT. STAFF QUARTERS. MORNING
Zero wakes up in the pitch black in a tiny room smaller than a service elevator, turns on the light, springs to his feet dressed in white pajamas with short trousers, splashes water from a bowl onto his face, then quickly dampens and combs his hair. His uniform hangs neatly from a peg on the wall. He carefully grooms it with a clothes-brush.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
I worked six days each week plus a half-day Sunday, five a.m. until just after midnight. Our meals were small but frequent (for stamina): two breakfasts, two lunches, and a late supper. M. Gustave also delivered a nightly sermon.
INT. MESS HALL. NIGHT
The evening meal. Most of the hotel staff occupy a long table set for fifty. A thin, grey broth is served with boiled potatoes. M. Gustave starts at a little podium, then paces back and forth in front of it as he addresses the group. They begin to eat hungrily – but, at the same time, they continue to listen, attentive and respectful.
M. GUSTAVE
Rudeness is merely the expression of fear. People fear they won’t get what they want. The most dreadful and unattractive person: only needs to be loved – and they will open up like a flower. I’m reminded of a verse. (Reciting.) ‘The painter’s brush touched the inchoate face by ends of nimble bristles – and, with that blush of first color, rendered her lifeless cheek, living; though languish—’
As the poetry begins, some of the diners’ eye glaze over and there are faint sighs. Mr. Moustafa continues his narration:
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
His own dinner, he took alone in his room.
Cut to:
M. Gustave seated at a folding table in a room nearly identical to Zero’s but with a connecting sitting room and kitchenette. He wears his uniform trousers and a white undershirt. He eats a bowl of cereal while listening to classical music on a radio set.
There are approximately twenty-five identical bottles of cologne on a shelf above the sink in the background. Each is labeled ‘L’Air de Panache: Pure Musk.’
EXT. FRONT ENTRANCE. DAY
A large sedan with tire-chains arrives through the snow and parks in front of the hotel. A sign next to five stars on the side of the hood reads: GRAND BUDAPEST HOTEL. One of the back doors opens, and a tall man in a double-breasted suit emerges. He carries a briefcase and wears a pointy beard. He is Deputy Kovacs. He hurries to the top of the steps where M. Gustave waits to greet him.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
The identity of the owner of the hotel was unknown to all of us. Each month, his emissary, known as Deputy Kovacs, arrived to review the books and convey messages on behalf of the mysterious proprietor.
INT. LOBBY. DAY
Zero, substituting at the concierge desk, looks up to a high window across the room where the shadowy figures of M. Gustave and Deputy Kovacs meet in a storage pantry. A clerk with a pot belly flips the pages in a ledger book and takes notes. He is Herr Becker.
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
On these occasions, M. Gustave and our business manager, Herr Becker, met with him in private consultation above Reception.
Cut to:
A plain, graceful, seventeen-year-old beanpole with freckles and a birthmark the shape of Mexico on the side of her face. She is Agatha. She works a rolling-pin over a wide expanse of flattened pastry dough. There are carts circled around her filled with trays of exceptionally well-made, beautifully decorated pastries shaped like hourglass figures. (These are Courtesans au chocolat.)
MR. MOUSTAFA
(voice-over)
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.
EXT. BAKERY. DAY
The timber-frame storefront of a tiny patisserie. 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 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 rattles down the cobblestone lane. She bears a milkmaid’s yoke balanced across her shoulders overloaded with sixty small, pink pastry-boxes tied with string.
Cut to:
Agatha gripping the handlebars as she bounces pedaling down the road.
MR. MOUSTAFA