The Ninth Gate
PABLO: Many years.
PEDRO: We had ample opportunity to examine it thoroughly. The printing and binding are superb examples of 17th century Venetian craftsmanship.
He picks up the book and riffles the pages under CORSO’s nose.
PEDRO (cont.): Finest rag paper, resistant to the passage of time! None of your modern wood pulp!
PABLO: Watermarks, identical shades, ink, type faces- If this is a forgery, or a copy with pages restored, it’s the work of a master.
PEDRO: A master.
CORSO contemplates the brothers with a smile.
CORSO: Did you study the engravings? They seem to form a kind of riddle.
PEDRO and PABLO reopen the book and look at the engravings.
PABLO: Well, yes- (another glance at PEDRO) Books of this type often contain little puzzles.
PEDRO: Especially in the case of such an illustrious collaborator.
CORSO looks at PEDRO with sudden interest, then at the book, then back at PEDRO.
CORSO: Collaborator?
PEDRO shrugs, PABLO refocuses on CORSO.
PEDRO: You cannot have proceeded very far with your research. Come, look closely.
He takes a magnifying glass and holds it over one of the engravings, which shows A HERMIT WITH TWO KEYS IN HIS HAND AND A DOG AND A LANTERN BESIDE HIM.
A microscopic inscription can be detected in the bottom right corner.
CORSO bends over it, looking mystified. PEDRO grows impatient.
PEDRO (cont.): Don’t you see? Only seven of the engravings were signed by Aristide Torchia.
CORSO: And the other two?
PEDRO: This is one of them. Look.
CORSO peers through the magnifying glass once more.
We see the INSERT ‘Invenit L.F.’
CORSO: ‘L.F.’? Who’s that?
PEDRO: Think.
CORSO: Lucifer?
PEDRO and PABLO chuckle heartily.
PEDRO: You’re a clever man, senor. Torchia was not alone when they burned him alive.
CORSO: But that’s absurd! You don’t honestly believe-
PEDRO: The man who wrote this did so in alliance with the Devil and went to the stake for it. Even Hell has its heroes, senor.
CORSO looks from one to the other, trying to figure this out.
33. TOLEDO ALLEYWAY EXT/DAY
CORSO walks back along the narrow alleyway with the canvas- covered scaffolding. He glances over his shoulder. Not a soul in sight. The blue canvas flaps in the wind, the scaffolding creaks and groans. He walks on.
He hears a sudden rending sound, looks back and up.
There’s little time to react: the scaffolding has come away from its mountings. it’s starting to buckle and fall out into the street.
Desperately, he breaks into a run. Behind him, collapsing like a house of cards, the mass of canvas and metal gains on him as he sprints for the end of the alley, summoning up all his energy for a final burst.
The last of the scaffolding hits the ground only inches behind him. He looks back at the tangled mass that has only just failed to engulf him.
34. TRAIN EXT/NIGHT
A train speeds through the darkness.
35. TRAIN: DINING CAR INT/NIGHT
The dining car is deserted save for CORSO and a STEWARD, who is lolling against the kitchen bulkhead at the far end.
CORSO, with a coffee cup and a brandy glass at his elbow, has ‘The Nine Gates’ lying open in front of him at THE ENGRAVING OF THE HERMIT WITH THE KEYS, DOG, AND LANTERN. There’s some cigarette ash trapped between the pages. Smiling faintly, he blows it away. Then he reaches into his bag for his magnifying glass, pushes up his steel-rimmed specs, and screws the glass into his eye. He examines the engraving at close range.
We see again the INSERT of the inscription ‘Invenit L.F.’
CORSO straightens up and removes the glass from his eye. He finishes his brandy and beckons the STEWARD.
36. TRAIN: CORRIDOR INT/NIGHT
The clickety-clack of wheels on tracks swells in volume as CORSO, bag on shoulder, crosses the sliding floorplates that connect one car to another.
He enters the next corridor and stops short: there’s a lone figure leaning against a window, looking out: it’s THE GIRL we saw at Balkan’s lecture: short dark hair, catlike green eyes, slim, athletic figure, jeans and white sneakers.
CORSO sets off along the corridor. When he reaches her, they eye each other’s reflections in the windowpane.
THE GIRL (softly): Hi.
CORSO pauses to look at her, unable to make up his mind.
CORSO: I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?
THE GIRL Have you?
CORSO: Yes, somewhere.
A brief silence.
THE GIRL Are you traveling in this car?
CORSO: The next one.
THE GIRL The sleeper. (smiles) I travel on the cheap.
CORSO: Are you a student?
THE GIRL Something like that. (looks out the window again) I like trains.
CORSO: Me too. What’s your name?
THE GIRL Guess.
CORSO (shrugs, smiles): Greeneyes.
THE GIRL That’ll do. What’s yours?
CORSO: Corso.
THE GIRL Strange name.
CORSO: Italian. it means ‘I run’.
THE GIRL You don’t look like a runner to me – more the quiet type.
They look at each other’s reflections once more. THE GIRL’s gaze is direct and unwavering. CORSO terminates their encounter with a diffident little nod.
CORSO: Well, have a good trip.
THE GIRL And you.
CORSO walks on down the corridor. There’s something weird about this chance encounter, but he can’t figure out what.
THE GIRL (cont.): See you around, maybe.
CORSO pauses and looks back. She’s still leaning against the window, staring out. He nods.
CORSO: Maybe.
37. SINTRA STATION EXT/DAY
It’s a damp, gray morning. A sign reads: ‘SINTRA’.
CORSO, bag on shoulder and Samsonite suitcase in hand, gets off the train.
38. QUINTA FARGAS GATEWAY EXT/DAY
One of Sintra’s traditional horse-drawn carriages drops CORSO in front of a massive gateway flanked by stone walls thick with ivy. Some birds peer down at him from a branch.
The gateposts are surmounted by two mildew-covered female busts in gray stone, one of them with its face obscured by ivy. CORSO contemplates them for a moment, then pushes open the gate, which squeaks protestingly. Beyond it, a neglected drive.
39. QUINTA FARGAS: DRIVEWAY, GROUNDS EXT/DAY
A gray, desolate, infinitely melancholy scene. Dead leaves litter a gravel driveway flanked by crumbling statues, some of which have toppled over onto the long-neglected, weed-infested lawn. CORSO’s muffled footsteps are the only sound.
Near the house is a dried-up, dilapidated fountain faced with tiles and topped by a mouldering cherub. The waters of the ornamental pond beside it are dark as molasses and coated with dead leaves and water lilies.
The Quinta Fargas is a gloomy, four-square, 18th century mansion. CORSO walks up the steps and tugs the old-fashioned bellpull. A mournful jangling sound issues from the recesses of the house. CORSO waits, glances at his watch.
Echoing footsteps approach. A sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the door opens to reveal VICTOR FARGAS. Tall and emaciated as an El Greco saint, he has a drooping white mustache. His baggy trousers and oversized woollen sweater contrast with a pair of old but immaculately polished shoes. His appearance perfectly matches his melancholy surroundings.
FARGAS: Yes?
CORSO: Bob Corso, Mr. Fargas. (Puts out his hand) How do you do.
FARGAS hesitates before shaking hands. Then his face clears.
FARGAS: Corso, ah yes. Please come in.
40. QUINTA FARGAS: RECEPTION ROOMS, DRAWING ROOM INT/DAY
