from Mother, I

Scene 50. Int. Late morning. Hansi’s apartment.

A pretty young maid ushers Pierre in:


Madame has asked me if you wouldn’t mind waiting a bit...

Pierre sinks deeper into the dusty rose damask, his thoughts a wild tumult igniting his suspicions about Hansi. Is he really thinking she’s for hire: those hasty appointments, the feeble excuses, that insolent laughter in the taxi? Could it be he’s already itching to be black and blue, bruised to the core, bits of skin raised to meet the blood? But what has the camera tracked? A sweaty jeune homme in a salon waiting for his Galatea to come to life? The director’s dilemma is to film the unfilmable; to imbue this seemingly anodyne narrateme—the lover waits—with a rip, which will skim the top and glide across all that barbarous privilege of the living. How s/he manages to project Pierre’s private carousel, where one minute Hansi forms the very emblem of passion—the girl he falls in love with—the next, that little bitch according her whip, will tilt the scene and make deeper the hole one must climb out of.

Possibly, a silent digital projection could run high above eye level as if a decorative band or architectural detail that Pierre is absent-mindedly watching while smoking. The actors’ resemblance to Hansi and our hero should be somewhat suspicious.

Music over the scene.