Swann (36 page)
Jimroy looks straight ahead. He is unable to fit himself into the scene; his body is rigid and his face has become a stiff mask.
WOMAN
(rummaging in large purse, chortling at the weakness of men and speaking with womanly authority): Coming right up. Dentyne? (To Jimroy): Go ahead, I’ve got lots. I never leave home without. Between Ron’s ears popping and my stomach doing flip-flops —
FLIGHT ATTENANT
(in her deadly monotone): Anyone care for a sunrise surprise before breakfast? Champagne and orange —
MAN:
Coke for me.
JIMROY:
Milk. If you have it?
WOMAN:
Glass of juice, please.
FLIGHT ATTENANT
(to woman): Orange, tomato, grapefruit, apple?
WOMAN
(with maddening hesitation): Oh, tomato, I guess.
MAN:
Oh boy, honey, you and your tomato juice! (He laughs uproariously at this, leaving Jimroy, milk to his lips, stunned, lonely, and lost. Jimroy does not “look down” on these people; he is puzzled by them, and in a curious way, deeply envious.)
WOMAN
(sporting a tomato-juice moustache): So! Well! You really are a book writer?
MAN:
A real one! What d’ya think of them apples.
WOMAN:
That’s the wonderful thing about travel, you meet people from all walks of life. Like once we —
MAN
(interrupting his wife): Pretty good money in it? I’ve seen these authors on Johnny Carson, my wife and I —
WOMAN:
Satin suits, covered with sparkles, just chatting away with Johnny, easy as you please —
MAN:
I suppose you use a typewriter? When you’re writing on your books?
JIMROY
(looking wildly from one to the other): Well, I actually —
WOMAN:
I expect you get used to it, being on the TV, talking away about —
MAN
(as though struck with inspiration): Say, I guess it’s pretty good publicity, pretty good market angle—creating the need, that’s how the Japanese got us licked —
WOMAN:
That’s what that what’s-his-name fellow said, wasn’t it, hon? That real nice little man we met in Yokohama —
MAN:
That’s what the man said. Little fellow, but real smart; look to your markets, he said, keep an eye on your markets.
WOMAN:
Only makes sense. (She laughs. To Jimroy): You use your own name?
MAN:
On your books, she means. Or like a —?
WOMAN:
Like a pen name? Made up?
MAN:
You know something? When I saw you getting on this plane this morning, in the waiting room there, with your newspaper and all, I thought to myself: That fella looks, well, I’ve seen that fella before —
WOMAN:
Ron always stays up for Johnny. Me, I need my beauty sleep. Ha!
MAN:
But she’s the reader in the family, always reading at something or other.
WOMAN
(throwing up her hands, blushing, resisting this compliment with flustered modesty): Well, you see, Ron, he’s so darn busy, the business, visiting the branch offices, his volunteer work, he works with the —
MAN:
What kind of books you say you write?
JIMROY
(determined): Well, my books are really —
MAN:
I’ve thought of writing a book, but you know, I’ve never learned to use a typewriter and —
JIMROY
(relentless): Biography’s my field. I write biography.
MAN:
Your life story, eh?
JIMROY:
Not
my
life story. I’m writing the life of a poet. Her name is Mary Swann.
FLIGHT ATTENANT:
Breakfast! (She briskly hands out three trays.)
MAN:
My favourite meal of the day, breakfast.
JIMROY
(insistently, gesturing crisply): Actually, my books are about —
MAN:
Hon? (He reaches across to take his wife’s hand; their hands meet in the vicinity of Jimroy’s lap; they bow their heads.)
WOMAN
(urging): You.
MAN:
No, hon, you.
WOMAN
(capitulating): For what we are about to receive, for the blessings of warmth, love, fellowship, and heavenly guidance, we offer humble thanks and beg that —
Her voice fades. The
CAMERA
focuses on Jimroy, pinned between the praying couple, his mouth open as though he is about to speak. His eyes, bewildered, gaze at the joined hands on his lap. Dissolve.
Fade to: Exterior in front of Toronto Airport. Daytime.
CAMERA
follows Sarah Maloney as she emerges from the airport door, her suitcase in tow. The wind is blowing and there is snow on the ground; she tugs her coat closer; then stops and addresses a redcap.
SARAH:
The downtown bus? Over there?
She points; the redcap nods and points. Sarah walks over to the waiting bus, and the
CAMERA
follows her as she boards, pays, stows her case, and settles herself by a window. Other passengers are boarding, and the bus is crowded with luggage. Next to Sarah sits a woman of about forty, snuggled into a fur coat. The bus starts, and the
CAMERA
follows for a moment as the vehicle makes its way out of the airport area.
FUR COAT
(darting looks at Sarah, who is staring out the window and shifting her purse and coat): Sorry. You have enough room?
SARAH:
Fine, thanks. (She reaches for a paperback.)
FUR COAT
(continuing to steal little glances at Sarah): Excuse me. I … I can’t stand it any longer, but you look like … are you by any chance Sarah Maloney?
SARAH
(smiling): Yes, I am.
FUR COAT:
I knew it. I knew it. I’ve got your book at home and of course your picture’s on the back—and I’ve seen you interviewed on TV. Twice, I think. This is surreal. Sarah Maloney. But I had an idea you’d be —
SARAH:
Older. (She’s heard this before). Everyone does. (She shrugs.)
FUR COAT:
You sounded, in the book, I mean, so … (she searches for the word) so positive about everything.
SARAH:
My wise days. (She smiles.) Actually I’m a little less positive now. About everything. A little more flexible, I’ve been told.
FUR COAT:
You still feel the same way about female power? That a militant position offers our best —
SARAH:
Yes. Absolutely. But with certain exceptions —
FUR COAT:
What about men?
SARAH:
Men?
FUR COAT:
What I mean is, do you still feel the same about them? In your book, in the middle part, you talk about men as the masked enemy and —
SARAH
(smiling, shrugging, acknowledging a joke on her younger self): I just got married. Last week.
FUR COAT:
Ah! So you do believe in love.
SARAH:
Love?
FUR COAT:
Love and marriage. That they don’t necessarily cancel each other out as you said in —
SARAH
(with confusion): That’s a tough one.
FUR COAT:
And what about your idea that marriage is a series of compromises that necessitates —
SARAH:
Actually, this is my second marriage. But this time it feels better. (She says this wistfully, her brightness clouded by a drop in pitch that suggests a fugitive sense of fear or uncertainty.)
FUR COAT:
What about motherhood? How did you put it? “Motherhood is the only power conduit available to —”
SARAH
(shrugging again, confidingly): I’m pregnant.
FUR COAT:
Pregnant!
SARAH:
Just a few weeks.
FUR COAT:
Good God, you shouldn’t be sitting in all this smoke. (She waves cigarette smoke away.) Even a small amount is damaging at —
SARAH:
Lord! (She tries to open the window but it is stuck.)
FUR COAT:
I tell all my patients—I’m an M.D.—that side-stream smoke is just as bad as —
SARAH
(trying window again and succeeding): What else? Flying okay?
FUR COAT:
As far as we know.
SARAH:
I’ve got a conference here in Toronto. Four days. After that, though, I’m going to sit on my fanny and eat green vegetables and (putting her hand on her belly) feel it grow. You know something?—this is what I’ve always wanted only I didn’t know it.
FUR COAT:
But in your book, didn’t you say something about childbearing being the—(Dissolve.)
Fade to: Interior of the bus, which is now in the city centre. Sarah and Fur Coat are talking with great concentration and energy and with the intimacy of old friends.
SARAH:
Take Mary Swann, for instance. She’s the reason I’m here, the one the symposium’s all about. Okay, so she had zero power. This woman was a total victim —
FUR COAT:
I’m not sure how you define a female victim, but don’t you have to —
SARAH:
Yeah, I think we over-simplify the whole thing.
Victims get squeezed into corners and they either die or they invent a new strategy. I think that’s why —
FUR COAT:
And this woman? Mary? …
SARAH:
Mary Swann. A classic case. She had a rotten life, dead end, lived on a marginal farm with a husband who wasn’t even marginal—he was off the map, a bully, a pig. You know the type, doled out a few bucks every couple of weeks for groceries —
FUR COAT:
And she survived?
SARAH:
She wrote these poems. Not many, just over a hundred, but they’re … there’s nothing else like them.
FUR COAT:
Is she still writing?
BUS DRIVER
(calling out): Harbourview.
SARAH:
Oh, I get off here. She’s dead. Since 1965. Her husband finally —
FUR COAT:
Her husband finally what?
Sarah hurriedly gathers her things together. The two women start to shake hands, then embrace quickly. Sarah gets off the bus, turns and waves.
FUR COAT:
(shouting through the open window): Her husband finally what?
SARAH:
(shouting from the pavement in front of the revolving doors): Shut her up.
FUR COAT:
Did what?
SARAH
(waving and shouting as the bus starts to pull away): He shut her up. For good. He —
She realizes her words can’t be heard, turns and enters the hotel through the revolving doors. The
CAMERA
focuses on the large notice board. Between “IODE Annual Reunion” and “Dominion Leather Goods Sales Conference”
there is a line that reads: “The Swann Symposium.” The
CAMERA
lingers for a moment on the sign.
MUSIC:
fife and drums. Dissolve.
Director’s Note: This scene marks the end of film SET UP. All major characters have been introduced and brought to their destination, the Swann symposium, at the Harbourview Hotel. Occasional motivational suggestions will be given to the actors, but it is hoped that directorial comment will remain non-specific.
Fade in: Interior, hotel reception room. Evening.
Overhead
CAMERA
, wide shot of about fifty heads moving about in the hotel reception room. The room is gracefully proportioned, designed to accommodate medium-sized gatherings. The look is opulent; updated traditional, but rather heavy with swagged velvet and ornate furniture. Waiters can be seen from above, moving among groups of people with trays of drinks and canapés. Lively background
MUSIC
mingles with the rich sound of conversation and the tinkling of glasses.
CAMERA
lingers for a minute or two on the assembly. The scene is that well-known cocktail reception that precedes most conferences and symposia. Very gradually the
CAMERA
lowers, coming closer and closer to the crowd, and the murmur of voices becomes, finally, audible. Random phrases rise and fall in the festive air.
… personally, I see Swann as being blinded by innocence, and by that I mean —
… no use pretending the woman’s a feminist when she makes it perfectly clear she’s accepted the values of—
… well, when you consider that Nadeau, Ontario, is not exactly the centre of the world —
… remarkable, yes, remarkable. I agree, yes, remarkable!
… Emily Dickinson never …
It’s the love poems I’m waiting for.
… now this is only a suggestion, but if you look at what Swann does with the stanza and think of it as the microcosm …
… time for another edition. Past time, if you ask me.
… is it true old Cruzzi’s here? My God, the man must be a hundred years old.
… It’s a pleasure, an honour, as I was saying to Mick here —
And this, ahem, is Frederic Cruzzi.
… read your article on Swann in the October issue, or was it the September —?
… all these faces. Wouldn’t our muse be amazed if she saw all these —
… giving the keynote address when it would have been more appropriate for —
… when, and if, Lang lets go of those love poems. What in Christ is he doing —
… wasn’t quite what Sarah Maloney said —
… sweet as baby Jesus in velvet trousers!
… He’s gone electronic, she’s gone electronic, even the president has —
It’s a good line, but it’s not a great line.
Cosy.
… sibilance, don’t you think?
The fragments of conversation intensify, grow louder, a roar, then once again becomes indistinct; the tinkling of glasses and shrieks of laughter begin to recede, replaced by the insistent sound of a spoon being struck against a glass.
CAMERA
close-up of a hand striking the glass with a spoon,
and then the face of Willard Lang. His is a large, soft face masked with heavy naivety. Achieving silence, Lang raises his glass. He has the air of a man slyly keen to please.