MAY 1954. Harlem, New York City.
HOTEL AMERICA. DAY.
A cut up of nondescript images over an ambient distortion of sounds in the key of F. A fetus. A man’s nipple. The mouth of a horn. Finger tips. A tongue. A black cat. A spider web. The silhouette of the feet of a hanging man. The sole of a tap dancer’s foot.
We are close on the eyes of Miles Davis.
His pupils are dilated. He stares into a mirror, softly speaking a melody to himself.
MILES:
Rain, rain, down pour—Dreams.
Miles is speaking in a pitched staccato. He elongates the final word, like holding a high and arching note (“Dreeeeeeaaaaaaaams”).
MILES:
Rain, rain, down pour—Dreams.
Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello. Hello . . .
He repeats the word as if in an echo chamber.
MILES (V.O.):
I was fucked, man. I had seen it in other cats’ eyes, but never in my own. You can see it. Clear as day. And you think, “man, if I could see like this all the time . . .”
Bright, mid-afternoon.
Miles is standing in the bathroom of a bare, nondescript hotel room in Harlem. T-shirt and ruffled pants. He looks like he hasn’t slept.
MILES (V.O.):
and it ain’t that you ain’t seen like that before, it’s more like this is how you can see like that all the time. . . . Yeah, man. I had my own logic and reasoning and shit had just come down to it.
Miles walks towards the window to the bed and begins to lift his trumpet from its case before noticing the tie wrapped around his forearm.
The sign slightly visible through the far window reads “Hotel America.”
MILES (V.O.):
I can’t say it made my playing any better. And I can’t say that’s what made me try it in the first place.
Miles unties the tie from his arm and grabs his jacket from beside the trumpet. He notices a bird flying by the window.
Handwritten sheets of music are strewn across the room.
A lot of cats I knew became junkies trying to sound like Bird. But I had spent too much time flying with Bird to try to sound like him. I was busy developing my own sound.
Miles puts his jacket on before noticing his shirt crumpled beside the toilet.
MILES (V.O.):
Just like I had developed my own habit.
Miles walks back to the bathroom, picks up his shirt and looks back in the mirror.
We are back on the eyes of Miles Davis as he stares inquisitively at himself, dazed.
We hear the slow drip of the faucet from the sink beneath him. When Miles looks down to inspect, the slow drip turns in to a slow stream—the sound of someone peeing.
MILES (V.O.):
Juliette.
Miles glances over and sees a dark-haired, olive skin, Juliette Greco. She’s naked, sitting on the toilet, and smiling mischievously up at Miles with big black eyes.
MILES (V.O.):
If you wanna know about getting high or feelin high—like us, sitting around this fire telling stories—the first time I felt it, it wasn’t no drug. It was music. It was a woman.
(voices of a small group of men, laughing)
Miles does a slow blink, a double-take and she’s gone.
MILES (V.O.):
I was haunted.
The toilet is bare. We hear the drip from the faucet. He splashes water on his face and looks deeply into his own eyes.
MILES (V.O.):
Heroin was just a mattering of the fact. And the fact was that I couldn’t fight the feeling.
Miles continues his staccato melody into the mirror, softly, maintaining the same rhythm as before.
MILES:
French. Witch. Bitch. Voodoooooooooo . . .
Miles does one more take in the mirror. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, we are peering through a glass window—as if on the other side of the mirror—as he continues to stare straight out.
If you was in my head, mostly what you’d hear would be music. Maybe something you never heard before.
Lights streak across the glass and Miles’ face.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
I heard music everywhere. Heroin just turn’t the mothafucka up.
His look is focused, yet dazed. Intense. He is sitting in the backseat of a taxi driving over a bridge. We are moving at the same speed as the car.
The sound of the tires crossing the steel grids of the bridge is loud and rhythmic.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
In the streets, in the lights and colors, in the wind, in the way a woman moves . . .
Over his shoulders, we notice a blond woman, crouched, facing the wrong direction, passionately kissing a man who is seated beside Miles in the back of the taxi.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
And I was moving, full speed ahead. Sitting beside the pilot.
The man—30s, brown complexioned, in an ill-fitted suit—is vacillating between kissing the woman and eating a piece of chicken. The man goes from kissing the woman’s lips to biting the chicken, as if it is all part of the act.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Charlie Parker. Bird. The mouthpiece of our organization.
The man—Bird—begins biting and licking the chicken, more suggestively, as the woman crouches further down between his legs.
MILES (V.O.):
Pilot of inner-freedom through reckless abandon. Genius didn’t discriminate.
Miles adjusts himself in the cramped space and turns angrily to address Charlie Parker:
MILES:
Come on, Bird.
BIRD:
Aw Miles, if you don’t like it, put your head out the mothafuckin’ window.
Miles turns away disgustedly, and begins to roll down the window.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
And even a greedy pig like him was a different story with a sax in his mouth.
Miles puts on a pair of black shades and peers out the window just as the descending glass is crossing the threshold of his eyes.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
So what the fuck is you lookin’ at?
We notice the eyes of the taxi driver peering through the rearview mirror.
MILES (V.O.):
It was the first time I became aware of mothafuckas looking at me like I had some disease. With pity.
The mood picks up as the sound of drums begins to play along with the sound of the tires crossing the steel grids.
Miles puts his entire head out the window.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
The problem was, it wasn’t the first time a NGH had stuck his head out the window in disgust and discovered wind.
Heavy wind and the clang of the tires, loop into a rhythm. The drums solo around it.
Miles’s face is close to the camera.
The lights collide off of the reflected lens of Miles’s shades, like a light painting, fireworks. The colors streak in yellow, blue and white.
TITLE: L’HEROINE
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Yeah. In that sense, I guess you could say I was high.
We pan out to the immense skyline of Manhattan. The checkered cab is just one of the many stories on the Queensboro Bridge at night. The lights and skyline of Manhattan shine brilliantly and in contrast to the large steel grids of the bridge.
A voice scatting a fast melody over the drums.
The feet of a man tap dancing on the sidewalk outside of a club, as the taxi pulls up. Miles, head still out the window, is watching the dancer.
MILES:
You hear that? Tttttt. . . .
A percussive shuffling rhythm picks up where the tires’ sound leaves off—seamless.
MILES (V.O.):
What Bird and Dizzy had played together had broken the sound-barrier.
The dancer is voicing his steps like a quick-paced horn solo: (“Trinkle Tinkle.”)
MILES (V.O.):
Now, Bird’s father was a tap dancer.
He’s dancing directly towards another man standing in the fold: his challenger. People are gathered around watching.
The sign outside the club reads: MINTON’S PLACE.
MILES (V.O.):
The tap dancers were timekeepers, putting their own signature on time and the times.
Miles exits the car, as Bird and the woman exit from the other side. Miles stands on the curb, transfixed by the dancer.
MILES (V.O.):
Maybe we watched how they hoofed between the beats and imitated them in our horn solos.
Miles watches the dancers feet as they step perfectly with the fast paced melody.
MILES (V.O.):
Maybe they imitated us.
Miles notices two very well-dressed black men who are shaking hands with Bird while looking at the tap dancers, like they’ve bet money on them.
We were like miners with them lights on our hats . . .
One of the well-dressed men reaches discreetly into his suit pocket and hands Bird something.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
. . . looking for gold and faster ways of finding it.
Bird slides money under his palm. The well-dressed man keeps his eyes on the dancer.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
And that gold was something we injected pure into our ears.
The dancer moves with brutal intensity. Another dancer looks on, not impressed.
(Voices: “Come on, Lefty.” “All right now.”)
Miles approaches the well-dressed men and makes the same transaction as Bird.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Bebop was that—before it was commercial.
A well-dressed white couple pull up in a taxi and walk hurriedly into the club.
White people had already run off with what they called “jazz.” But they couldn’t take what they couldn’t imitate.
The second tap dancer, in the spirit of competition, jumps in, voicing a different fast-paced melody that matches his graceful footwork. (“Donna Lee.”) The first dancer relents.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Bebop was that before it was exploited—it was a way of preparing a drug—a faster way of getting high.
A young, lean, distinguished man watches Miles from behind.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Those double-time tempos and riffs weren’t for everybody. It was personal.
The man taps his shoulder. Miles jumps.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
And being a black man in America kept a NGH on his toes.
(worried)
Hey, Miles. You all right?
Miles is embarrassed.
MILES:
Max.
MAX:
(decides to hide his worry. Acts like everything’s okay.)
You look good, Miles.
He slides a folded bill into Miles’s front pocket.
Max, inside, playing the drums we’ve been hearing since the bridge.
MILES (V.O.):
I was fucked, but I was fucking with the time-keepers who kept time by setting it free.
An old piano player stamps his foot wildly, as he plays.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Look at his foot.
The audience is a wide array of uptown sophistication, at tables and the bar.
Miles slow-motion walking into the club. Through the open door we see a police car drive by, slowly, with its window down.
I ain’t no historian, but I think it says something about how we could outmaneuver our white masters who thought we was stupid.
The cops look disapprovingly at the assembled crowd and dancers as they pass.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Most of America was behind the times.
Miles approaches the stage just as Bird walks out of the shadows. They begin playing at the same time, a jagged fast-paced melody.
MILES (V.O.):
Bebop built time machines. And in May 1949, a vortex opened that I had to go through before I arrived on the other side.
The band plays. Max plays a thousand beats in a movement. Bird flies over the music. Miles does a slow blink and when he opens his eyes . . .
Miles is back in his bathroom in the Hotel America—his head leaning against the bathroom mirror.
MILES (V.O.):
I was fucked.
(Singing his staccato melody.)
Rain, rain, down pour—Dreams.
There is a knock at the hotel room door. Miles hears a familiar male voice outside.
VOICE AT DOOR:
Miles? Miles? You in there?
Miles recognizes the voice, his father. His head bows in shame.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
And word had evidently gotten home.
MILES’ FATHER:
Come on, son. I know you’re in there. Open up.
He walks slowly towards the door.
The passing countryside as Miles rides, nervously, in a car with his father.
Miles is staring out the window.
MILES (V.O.):
Saint Louis wasn’t Harlem.
The green flora of trees. Arkansas.
Harlem wasn’t Paris. America wasn’t France.
What looks like a man hanging from a tree catches Miles’s attention.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
And once I saw it clearly, I tried to stay as high as possible, if only to float over the bullshit.
A bird flies close and over the car. Miles watches it closely.
MILES (V.O.):
I floated over racism. I floated over injustice. I floated over responsibility.
Miles through the window of a plane flying over the Atlantic.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
I floated over the ocean.
MILES POV: Through the window are just a few clouds in a blue sky.
On the foldout tray in front of him, Miles drawing lines across paper, and then a few small circles, between the lines: a miniature sketch of the sky outside: whole notes.
MILES (V.O.):
I floated through music.
Images of fighter planes bombarding Paris, made to look like postcards.
I floated back to Paris.
Blackbirds flailing in slow motion around the head of a woman on a Paris street. She is dark haired with big eyes, staring up at the birds as they fly close and around her head.
Juliette stares directly into camera.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
Do you believe in signs?
Miles standing in front of the mirror of a dark room as he removes the clothes he had on in the car. He looks sick, disheveled. There is a made bed in what appears to be an old wooden shack. Small beams of light pierce through cracks in the walls and the closed shutters of the window.
Miles stumbles toward the window. When he opens the shutters . . .
Hotel La Louisiane Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris. May 1949.
A well-dressed, clean-cut Miles opens the window of his hotel room.
On the street, the sidewalk cafe, outside the hotel is lively. People are seated at tables. Morning traffic on the street.
A flock of birds swoop by.
The voice of Bessie Smith is coming from a nearby window.
MILES (V.O.):
What the fuck do you believe in?
Miles picks up his horn and begins to play, softly over the music.
Miles sees Max and Moody exit the hotel and greet an excited young Frenchman.
In real time, Miles puts his trumpet in its case and adjusts his tie and hair in the mirror.
On the other side of the wall, Juliette is in the mirror applying mascara. Bessie Smith is at full volume playing off a phonograph on the floor of her room.
Miles exits his room just as a young black man exits his room a few doors down.
MAN:
(to Miles)
Hey, man.
MILES:
Hey.
Outdoor cafe terrace.
Miles and the young man approach Max and Moody, who are seated at a table. The man is frail, effeminate, casually dressed, and wears his hair “conked” like Miles.
MAX:
Miles!
MILES:
Hey y’all—this is Jimmy. I caught him listening to Bessie Smith upstairs.
Max and James Moody laugh.
Says he’s been living in Paris for a year. Must have been homesick.
Jimmy is elegant in his gestures and greetings. Instantly likable.
Jimmy sits.
JIMMY:
So we having a Minton’s revival here in Paris tonight?
Smiles.
MAX:
Where you from man?
JIMMY:
Harlem.
MAX:
And you live over here?
Jimmy nods.
MOODY:
So what you doing for bread?
MAX:
Yeah, what do you play?
(laughs)
I play the typewriter.
MOODY:
I knew you was a writer.
MILES:
Man, you look like you can tap!
More laughs.
MILES:
You ain’t no music critic, is you?
MOODY:
Must be something, eh? It ain’t like home over here.
JIMMY:
No, it’s something different. Something that doesn’t call you boy or nigger. It don’t stop the ghosts from circling, but the ghosts got their own ghosts and ghost writers . . .
A young energetic Frenchman approaches the table and addresses Miles.
Excuse me sir. Would you like to buy a trumpet? It’s full of life. Hasn’t been to bed with too many men . . .
MILES:
. . .
Boris laughs and breaks character.
BORIS:
Ah, Mr. Davis. I’m sorry. It’s a bad joke. I’m Boris, your liaison here—Welcome in Paris. If you give me the music sheets for Donna Lee you can have the trumpet.
MILES:
That trumpet’s a piece of shit. What I need your trumpet for?
BORIS:
Oh, excuse me, Mr. Davis.
MILES:
(laughing)
Nah, it’s a bad joke. Yeah, I’ll write it down for you. What you mean, now?
Yes. I have a concert tonight at the Salle Pleyel.
The guys laugh.
MILES:
Get ahold of this motherfucker.
BORIS:
Fine, I’ll wait.
Boris winks and walks away, speaking directly to camera. (italics = French)
BORIS:
I may be just a “wingman” dans cette histoire. But this is my wing. The wing of a blackbird swallowed whole by a black cat. Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Paris, 1949.
Boris approaches a table at the cafe where an older bespectacled man, a middle-aged woman and a younger blond woman sit.
THE BLOND WOMAN:
Boris!
Up rather early this morning.
MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN:
The Festival. Dizzy. What magnificent names.
BORIS:
Yes, the musicians have just arrived.
The blonde stands up to leave. Boris stops her.
BORIS:
Have you seen Toutoune? Any news?
BLONDE:
Oh Boris, it’s terrible. She’s locked herself in her room. I’m really worried.
BORIS:
She’s there now?
BLONDE:
Sí.
BORIS:
I’m gonna go check on her.
Boris walking through the crowd into the hotel lobby, talks direct to camera.
BORIS:
Here are the biggest tits in Europe, gathered in ant-dance formation, lifting oversized pieces of bread to hungry fascist pirates. Don’t be deceived by what you see here. Scandal and fascination with scandal is the mother of all media. You could not capture beauty unless you murdered it.
Walking up the steps inside the hotel.
BORIS:
On the other hand, we are here to nurture beauty . . . to conjure it to dance, sing, explore itself. To welcome it out of its self-imposed cage and encourage its nocturnal wanderings. Wanderings? This is awful. Who wrote this? The Controversial American Negro writer Vernon Sullivan once said that there are only two things: love, all sorts of love with pretty girls, and the music of New Orleans: jazz. All else is bullshit. SO what are we going on about? Saint-Germain is the home to many things, existentialist philosphers, great literary and dramatic pioneers, painters, poets, and . . . and when jazz comes to visit.
He knocks on a door.
BORIS:
Blues pour un chat noir.
Juliette opens the door. She is dressed in black. Bessie Smith plays quietly off the phonograph. She is an emotional wreck and immediately breaks upon seeing Boris.
JULIETTE:
Oh Boris.
BORIS:
Oh ma petite, I’m confused. I hear the good news of your role in Cocteau’s film and find you here mourning?
JULIETTE:
Yes, but who have I been cast to portray? Death! There is nothing but death around me.
Boris laughs.
JULIETTE:
It’s not funny. I’m frightened, Boris. It’s something in the air. I feel a swooping terror, legions of black ghosts crowd me on to swiftly moving roads, sliced by sheer horizons, bleeding.
Boris’s eyes glaze over.
BORIS:
Ah, Juliette. We’re all dead and dying. Now is the time to celebrate our afterlife.
Come meet my American friends! Musicians from America!
BORIS cont’:
(to camera)
And like that two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Paris, where we lay our scene, A pair of star-cross’d lovers, which if you with patient ears attend, a hero and his heroine.
The Conversation:
Rehearsal. Salle Playel. Afternoon.
Miles is standing center-stage as Tadd (piano) begins the intro to “Lady Bird.”
Boris enters from the back of the auditorium with Juliette.
BORIS:
(dancing erratically in the aisle)
There it is again. They smuggle it in under their nails and then inject it into the instrument. Precious penicillin.
Bass, drums, sax, and Miles come in at the same time and join Tadd with the melody.
BORIS (V.O.):
Is it in our bodies? Is it in space? Is it the year? The alignment of the stars?
The band plays. Juliette looks straight ahead.
Miles solos.
BORIS (V.O.):
I arrived here with her, without warning. You think this is improvisaton but it is all written.
At the end of his solo, the band comes to a meandering halt as the musicians fidget with their instruments.
TADD:
(at the piano)
“Don’t Blame Me.”
Miles never takes his eyes off Juliette, lifts his trumpet and begins the soft ballad.
Juliette responds playfully. Each phrase played by Miles is a question directed towards her.
JULIETTE:
Yes, I believe in signs.
Miles plays.
JULIETTE:
You dare speak of love to me?
Miles plays.
JULIETTE:
If only you could charm death into a dream, Orphee.
BORIS:
(to camera)
In an American film, she’d probably be blond . . . but she is Juliette.
Tadd begins a piano solo.
The song ends.
TADD:
(to the musicians)
Man, everything sounds peachy to me. Let’s say we get something to eat.
Miles has his eye on Juliette. Juliette does not look away.
BORIS:
(to camera)
And he would be “the wingman” in a secondary role . . . but here, in Paris, he is wingman no more. See how it all changes?
The band packs up behind Miles.
Boris walks towards the stage.
BORIS:
Hi, Miles.
BORIS:
(to camera)
Lui c’est . . . Miles Davis!
Boris climbs the stage and exits with the musicians.
Miles and Juliette are alone in the auditorium.
Miles walks to the lip of the stage, eyes locked on Juliette.
Juliette walks down the aisle, eyes on Miles’s trumpet.
Miles raises the trumpet to his mouth.
Juliette arrives, slowly traces the trumpet with her finger.
Miles lowers the trumpet. Juliette touches his mouth.
She closes her eyes, tilts her head, and leans in, placing her lips directly in front of Miles’s, and then is still.
JULIETTE (V.O.):
Souffle.
Miles does not move.
She backs slowly from Miles and pulls out a cigarette. She lights it before placing it, gently into Miles’s mouth.
Miles inhales. The tip of the cigarette glows fiery red.
He removes the cigarette from his mouth and begins to blow a slow cloud of smoke.
Juliette places her ear to the cloud of smoke.
She places the cigarette in her mouth and hops on the stage beside Miles.
They look out at the auditorium.
Juliette does a slow tilt of her head to the side, lifting her shoulder gently, as if to say: “Well, that didn’t take long.”
She hops down and gestures: “Come on. Let’s go.”
She begins to walk away.
Miles sits holding his trumpet, amused.
Miles squints his eyes and pulls back his head, incredulously, but with humor: “You talking to me?”
Juliette is amused.
Miles begins to tease with his eyes and soft giggles under his breath. He looks down at Juliette’s waist, hips, legs, taking a survey. “So this is it? This is what you look like?”
Juliette, feigning shock and maybe disgust, does a small sarcastic spin for Miles to observe her.
When she finishes, she arches her back and hisses like a cat.
JULIETTE:
sss . . .
MILES:
fff . . .
(and then slowly)
fuck. you.
Juliette looks into Miles’s eyes while forming horns with her hands on the side of her head and then slowly moves those horns to Miles head.
Miles smiles.
Juliette gestures with her head: “Let’s go.”
Miles and Juliette in the rotund of the theater, a small circular space, with wide white columns, a black-and-white floor, and a ceiling that arches into a globe.
Juliette begins circling around the columns.
JULIETTE (V.O.):
Vous avez volé de nuit, comme les merles?
Vous les avez sifflé pour qu’ils m’encerclent?
Miles walks to the center and looks up.
Juliette faces Miles.
JULIETTE:
Juliette.
Miles nods his head slowly, keeping his eyes on Juliette.
MILES:
Miles.
Juliette kisses Miles.
Miles pulls back from Juliette’s mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke.
The camera glides between the columns.
Salle Pleyel. Concert. Night.
Miles blowing into his trumpet, onstage with the band.
Boris is sitting, or trying to stay seated, in the audience. He’s enraptured by the music.
Beautiful women and men of all shapes and walks of life, fully taken in by the sound. In awe.
The musicians are each in a zone. They look at each other in confident wonder.
Miles walks offstage as the pianist begins a solo.
Juliette is at the stage door.
Miles walks directly to Juliette and kisses her.
Juliette doesn’t hold back.
Miles walks back onstage to play just as the piano solo ends.
He lifts his trumpet and brings the song to its glorious end.
The audience has the energy of seeing their home team win at a sporting event.
Cafe Saint-Germain.
People dance wildly to a small band playing swing in the back of an old cavernous club.
Miles and Juliette squeeze through the doorway.
A few people call out “Hey!” to Juliette and Miles as they enter.
Juliette waves, smiles, holding Miles’s hand as she leads him in and through the club.
The crowd is so tight that the only way through is by dancing.
Juliette and Miles walking/dancing through the crowd.
A woman grabs Miles’s face and kisses him, as he squeezes past.
Juliette pulls Miles so hard, he almost falls.
MILES:
Hey!
Miles’s soft “Hey” has a ripple effect. A group of voices call back in response, “Hey” in synch with the music. Another leader takes over “Hey.”
Juliette is standing, tight between people, with her chin tucked and two fists up, like a boxer.
Miles looks Juliette in the eye, lifts his chin in defiance, before biting his lower lip and throwing slow motion jabs, to the music.
Their movement has a ripple effect. The people around them begin a “boxers’ jitterbug,” moving their fists back and forth.
Boris appears, pushes Juliette out of the way and kisses Miles.
Juliette shouts.
JULIETTE:
Hey!
Juliette, Miles and Boris burst into laughter.
The “Hey” continues its ripple effect.
Boris leads Juliette and Miles to a table full of drinks. A bespectacled man sits with a voluptuous blond woman dancing high on the chair beside him.
Juliette greets the man at the table and then formally introduces Miles.
BORIS:
(to camera)
Jean-Paul Sartre will be playing Friar Tuck.
A woman walks up behind Juliette and whispers in her ear.
WOMAN:
I want to meet him.
JULIETTE:
Anne-Marie.
ANNE-MARIE:
Hello I’m Anne-Marie. Juliette’s friend. You were amazing tonight.
MILES:
Thank you. You speak English!
Juliette turns and dances towards the bar.
JP:
Ah, Anne-Marie, tu parles anglais?
ANNE-MARIE:
A little.
JP:
Then translate! . . . More important than any poetry—any crap . . . words . . . words are ridiculous for those who’ve heard the music of Orpheus.
ANNE-MARIE:
But you’re drunk, Monsieur Sartre!
Boris appears on the small stage in the back of the club. Just as two drummers, in traditional West African garb begin playing drums.
JP:
I’m not drunk. I’m bewitched!
Boris adjusts the microphone.
BORIS:
Here is your champagne!
A young poet takes the stage. He begins reading from a book, over the drums.
Hélé helélé the King is a great king let his majesty deign to look up my anus to see if it contains diamonds let his majesty deign to explore my mouth to see how many carats it contains laugh tom-tom laugh tom-tom
I carry the king’s litter
I roll out the king’s carpet I am the king’s carpet
ANNE-MARIE:
(to Miles)
He thought you were amazing too.
POET (V.O.) cont’:
sacred tom-toms laughing about your rat and hyena teeth under the very nose of the missionaries
tom-toms of salvation who don’t give a damn about all the salvation armies
tom-toms of the forest
tom-toms of the desert
black still virginal muttered by each stone
unbeknownst to the disaster—my fever
weep tom-tom
weep tom-tom
JP (cont’):
All in all, I am in the world and the world is in me and this is what the Prince of Darkness breathes into our mediocre world of hell in which he lives. He whispers: your language is a dead language for the dead, for mediocrity. Anne-Marie, translate!
Miles’s head is spinning between the drums and voices.
ANNE-MARIE:
(pointing to Juliette as she arrives with drinks)
You! You’re in love with Eurydice!
POET cont’:
Ni jour ni nuit
Ceci n’est pas un roman
Il n’y a jamais de roman dans le coeur des coffres-forts
JP:
Her! Oh no it’s not Eurydice! You think it’s death, but it’s not death. Death is the mirror. She is a witch, bewitched!
Juliette hands Miles a drink and begins dancing wildly, as the mood of the room shifts.
The drummers begin playing more fiercely.
POET cont’:
roll roll deep roll soft tom-toms speechless deliriums
russet lions without manes processions of thirst stench of the backwaters at night
tom-toms that protect my three souls my brain my heart my liver
harsh tom-toms that maintain on high my dwelling of water of wind of iodine of stars
over the blasted rock of my black head
Miles is transfixed.
POET:
and you brother tom-tom for whom sometimes all day long I keep a word now hot now cool in my mouth
like the little-known taste of vengeance tom-toms of kalahari
tom-toms of Good Hope capping the cape with your threats
O tom-tom of Zululand
Tom-tom of Shaka
tom tom tom
tom tom tom
Men and women moving wildly, their eyes rolling to the backs of their heads.
POET cont’:
King our mountains are mares in heat caught in the full convulsion of bad blood
King our plains are rivers vexed by the rotting provisions drifting in from the sea and from your caravels
King our stones are lamps burning with a dragon widow hope
King our trees are the unfurled shape taken by a flame too big for our hearts too weak for a dungeon
Juliette and Miles are both staring at the stage.
MILES (V.O.):
Americans think the beat era started in America. But I suspect that the origin of the beat is like the origin of anything else you wanna put your finger on.
POET con’t:
Laugh laugh then tom-toms of Kaffirland
like the scorpion’s beautiful question mark
drawn in pollen on the canvas of the sky and of our brains at midnight
like the shiver of a sea reptile charmed by the anticipation of bad weather
of the little upside-down laugh of the sea in the sunken ship’s gorgeous portholes
MILES (V.O.):
Paris was special because they didn’t try to cloud the origin. At least, that’s how it seemed at the time.
The drummers are working up a sweat.
Juliette’s bedroom.
Juliette dances with her hips.
Miles’s fingers gently playing the back of Juliette’s legs like an upright bass. He sits on the edge of a bed, arms wrapped around her, as she stands pressed against him.
Juliette collapses over Miles.
A phonograph beside the bed plays a soft Ellington.
The open window shows the blue sky of a perfect Spring night.
The moon is waxing, not quite full.
Morning. Juliette’s room.
Birds are singing outside the window.
Miles slowly opens his eyes and finds Juliette kissing his toes, feet, ankles, moving up his leg with each kiss.
Juliette straddles Miles.
He looks up at Juliette. Is he dreaming?
Juliette examines his face, like a painting with hidden messages.
JULIETTE:
(mouths)
Giacometti.
Miles regards Juliette closely, the curve of her neck and shoulder, his hand on her thigh, waist, and sides . . .
Later.
Juliette begins searching her closet and the floor for a dress.
Miles sits on the bed, watching Juliette, and then begins browsing the records near the phonograph beside the bed.
Miles places a flamenco record on the phonograph.
Juliette begins to lift and hold each article of clothing with the dramatic flare of a toreador.
Miles looks on, enchanted and clueless.
Juliette pulls a black dress over her head and becomes a flamenco dancer.
Miles follows Juliette with his eyes as she claps and steps around the room.
Miles begins clapping with Juliette.
Miles, naked, jumps out of the bed and charges Juliette like a bull. They spin and land near the open window.
Miles looks down and sees a view that he recognizes . . . the sidewalk cafe, the street.
MILES:
Wait.
He looks around the room and again out the window.
He bends down and looks through the records again. Boom. Bessie Smith.
Miles grabs his stuff, walks to the door. He glances at Juliette who is putting on a dress, before walking out the door without saying a word.
Juliette freezes.
A moment passes before a soft trumpet is heard coming from outside. Juliette runs to the window, looks down at the sidewalk. No Miles. She looks to her left. Miles is leaning on the windowsill of the room beside hers, playing softly.
Juliette leans casually out the window and begins to hum.
A few moments pass before Juliette eases out of her room and into Miles’s . . .
Late Morning. Sidewalk cafe.
Miles and Juliette downstairs at the cafe, seated at a table, exhausted and dazed from making love. They look at each other long and hard. They don’t smile when they lock eyes. They are long past common courtesies and shocked by the speed of it.
Boris approaches the table, ruffled like he hasn’t slept.
JULIETTE:
Bonjour, Boris!
BORIS:
Ah Toutoune.
(Boris kisses Juliette’s two cheeks)
Miles.
(Boris kisses Miles’s two cheeks)
Miles, dazed, silently observes the customary greeting.
Boris sits, softly eyeing the two, as if calculating them, without saying a word. Juliette and Miles regard Boris and then each other.
BORIS:
. . .
. . .
MILES:
. . .
JP walks up to the table, greets the three of them and takes a seat.
JP:
(to Boris)
Holy Saint Francis, what change is here!
Juliette and Miles take hands.
BORIS:
Not to worry. Love is the only opiate that doesn’t kill.
JP:
A man after my own heart.
A boy holding a red balloon running by, lights up when he sees Miles and waves.
CHILD:
Hello!
Composition.
A soft trumpet comes in as Miles’s eyes follow the passing child.
The conversation continues, but fades into a choral ambiance.
And just like that, it dawned on me that the world was bigger than my world.
Another horn comes in, complementing the first.
Juliette grabs Miles’s hand and pulls him away from the table and into the street
A group of children run by. The music comes to life.
A soft orchestra underscores, following the melody of the trumpet. A morning stroll, cool.
MILES (V.O.):
I’m not sure if it was because I was in Paris, or simply because I was out of America, but I began to see people and the world differently.
Juliette and Miles pass an array of Saint-Germain types, poor, bohemian, vendors, soldiers . . .
MILES (V.O.):
I began to pay attention.
Juliette and Miles pass a church where an old lady is feeding and talking to birds. The birds fly up and close to Juliette’s head.
A swoop of blackbirds flailing in slow motion around the head of Juliette. Her big eyes staring up at the birds as they fly close and around her head.
I began to notice the signs.
Miles and Juliette running down the street and into their hotel. They try to contain their pace in the lobby before running up the stairs and into Juliette’s room. The moment they enter, they are all over each other, pulling off their clothes, and making love. They are passionate, enthralled by the vision of the other, curious, bestial.
Backstage Salle Pleyel.
Juliette looking through the stage door at Miles playing onstage.
Miles is in form.
The song finishes. The audience applauds.
Miles sees Juliette as he walks offstage. Touched by a ray of the spotlight, his shadow grows on her.
Juliette faces Miles, on the verge of tears. An unexpected love.
Miles reaches out with his free hand and touches Juliette’s face.
They kiss beside the doorway as the musicians finish and begin walking backstage.
Backstage. Miles’s dressing room.
Miles closes the door behind him as he enters.
He puts his trumpet down as he kisses her.
MILES:
I couldn’t think of anything but you, up there.
Reste avec moi.
Miles traces Juliette’s face with his finger, blows into her eyes. They kiss.
Their attraction is animal.
Juliette’s face pressed against the wall, Miles moves slow, close behind her.
Miles and Juliette walking home. Night.
Juliette leads Miles to an unknown destination.
They walk into a small room in a basement with half-finished sculptures in various states, an artist’s studio. The artist greets Juliette as if an old friend. Miles observes the sculptures. Juliette observes Miles.
They say good-bye to the artist and are back on the street.
Juliette takes Miles into a small club where the people are seated in a circle, watching a couple dance, tango. The man is dragging the woman across the floor by her hair.
Seine. Dawn.
Juliette and Miles walking along the left bank of the Seine at dawn.
Juliette sits on the pavement beside the river. Miles joins her.
Juliette and Miles look out over the water, alone on the planet, before the city has come to life.
Miles lays his head in Juliette’s lap.
Juliette traces his face, slowly, with her finger.
JULIETTE (V.O.):
It’s been six days since I came to this exact spot and, without knowing, asked for you . . . Miles.)
The light plays on the water.
A family of swans float by.
The moon, almost full, is fully visible as the sun rises.
Pont Saint-Louis. Morning.
Miles and Juliette holding hands, crossing the Pont Saint-Louis to Isle Saint-Louis.
Workers and students pass in groups.
A small group of teens, on their way to school, exchange whispers as Miles and Juliette approach.
A young girl leaves the group and approaches them.
GIRL:
Excuse me. Are you Charlie Parker?
MILES:
Um.
Juliette laughs.
GIRL:
We love your music. (to Juliette)
Vous êtes vraiment beau ensemble.
Merci.
Miles and Juliette continue walking.
A young homeless man sleeps on a bench.
Two white American soldiers pass.
One of the soldiers whispers and laughs to the other while glancing at Miles and Juliette.
Miles stiffens.
Juliette turns and sees the soldiers.
One of the soldiers smiles at Juliette.
Juliette turns and kisses Miles.
Inside a cafe. Morning.
Miles and Juliette are seated near the window of a small cafe.
Two empty coffee cups are on their table.
The waiter approaches with two fresh cups.
Miles bends close to the coffee to smell it.
Juliette taps Miles on the back of his head.
Miles’s nose dips into the coffee.
Juliette laughs and then mimes smelling her coffee cup like a bouquet of roses.
Miles dips his finger in his coffee and rubs it on her nose before kissing it off.
Miles takes Juliette’s hand.
Juliette looks down at their fingers together.
Miles notices a woman, who has stopped, outside, just in front of them, staring in the window.
Miles looks behind himself unsure as to if the woman is staring at him.
Juliette notices the woman, whose eyes are going deeper and deeper into concentration as she stares through the window at something or someone just behind them.
Juliette turns around, making eye contact with a man, sitting at a table not far behind them.
The man glances up at the woman in the window and is suddenly agitated, awkward.
He calls the waiter over.
The woman outside starts calling out behind her, while pointing to the man.
WOMAN:
Eh! Eh! Je lui reconnais. Je lui reconnais!
He spills his glass of water, reaching for his coat and hat.
He places money on the table and rushes out the door, brushing past the woman as she calls out:
Collabo! C’est un collabo! I recognize him.
Two men run towards the man.
The man breaks into a sprint.
VOICES:
Collabo! Collabo!
There is a small commotion outside.
More people give chase.
The woman is still by the window, talking to people that have gathered around her.
Miles looks at Juliette, confused. “What’s happening?”
Juliette is white.
Saint-Michel. Early afternoon.
The height of the May sun in the blue sky.
Juliette walks with her head on Miles’s shoulder.
Their walk is a little slowed down by the love fatigue.
Miles observes ruins, the architecture of churches and buildings, small bookshops and cafes, and in all of these places he notices soldiers.
Soldiers in cafes.
Soldiers in the streets.
Soldiers on patrol.
Juliette, still disturbed from earlier, is distant to the outside world but attentive to Miles.
She squeezes Miles’s hand and looks him in the eye.
An old woman smiles as they pass.
Miles looks concerned.
A small record store. Mid-day.
Miles and Juliette enter a very small store crowded with records and posters.
The opera Norma of Bellini is playing from the speakers.
The man working behind the counter squints curiously at them.
JULIETTE:
Bonjour.
MAN:
Bonjour.
Miles sees the jazz bin and goes directly to it. He browses titles quickly but keeps looking up. He turns to Juliette.
MILES:
(pointing to the speakers)
Who’s this?
Maria Callas, La Callas.
She walks towards the register and points to the album. Miles buys the record.
MILES:
All right. Let’s get out of here.
Two soldiers enter as they exit.
Juliette and Miles walk back into the street.
Saint-Michel. Early afternoon.
We are behind Miles and Juliette as they walk up a large avenue.
The sun is bright.
Miles, tired, puts his head on Juliette’s head.
They stop to look in the windows of shops here and there.
JULIETTE:
(joining her palms together and laying her head on top)
Tu . . . veux . . . dormir?
MILES:
(shaking his head)
Oui Mademoiselle Juliette.
(grabbing his hand)
Viens, par là!
They take a little street on the right.
They walk up the little street as if it’s impossible to climb.
Juliette stops in front of a building.
Miles looks up and smiles.
Cinema. Mid-Afternoon.
JULIETTE:
Hello, I’d like two tickets please, for, hmmm, Le Chien enragé.
(She looks at the posters on the wall and chooses)
. . . Le chien enragé.
CINÉPHILE:
Very good choice, mademoiselle, but the film has already begun.
JULIETTE:
(winking at him)
Yes, but still, we want to see it, tout de suite.
She winks and smiles at him.
MILES:
Toot sweet, Môsieur!
As you wish, here are your tickets.
The little theater at the bottom of the steps. Enjoy the film.
(he winks at her)
Miles winks at the guy and follows Juliette into a little dark hallway.
Miles opens the door and they enter a dark room floodlit by the image’s projection.
Few people are seated here and there, couples and individuals, all lit by the movie.
They find two empty seats and sit, silently.
It is almost the middle of the movie.
Miles is amazed by the first image he sees, the modernity of the style, the costumes, the music, the way they talk . . .
MILES (V.O.):
Style and influence. Love and inspiration.
Juliette is looking at Miles.
MILES (V.O.):
Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Juliette lays her head on Miles’s shoulder.
It is an assessment of sensibilities, an acquiring of taste.
Miles takes notice of the people in the theater: old couples, young students, lonely men and women, all looking precious in the light.
MILES (V.O.):
Every seat, every life in the theater is a story, a song.
Miles plunges back in his seat, trying to close his eyes but he’s too captivated by the scene.
Juliette closes her eyes.
Miles closes his eyes.
MILES (V.O.) cont’:
I had listened without hearing. I heard it, but I couldn’t tell what I was listening to. I kept trying to place the melody, trying to find one until it appeared bluish and swirling clear as split of sea and sky and I realized it all had been a long introduction.
We continue to hear the movie as we witness:
A few seats away, a young woman with tears in her eyes, turns her head toward them, as they sleep, and then goes back to the movie.
On the screen, the movie credits roll.
A few people begin to leave the theater.
Miles wakes up in a flash.
He looks around and gently settles a kiss on Juliette’s mouth, as she sleeps.
She opens her eyes.
Taxi. Paris. Evening.
Miles and Juliette are in the back of a taxi heading to the concert.
They can’t keep their hands off of each other.
The taxi driver, an old Frenchman, is disturbed by their public display of affection.
TAXI DRIVER:
(looking in the rearview mirror)
Hmm. Hmmm. A bit of prudence, please. This isn’t Africa.
JULIETTE:
We’ll get out here.
The taxi stops.
TAXI DRIVER:
No problem. That will be five francs.
On vous fera livrer des bananes, du con.
(To Miles)
Sortons.
Miles and Juliette exit the taxi.
TAXI DRIVER:
J’appelle la police!
Juliette approaches the driver’s window with a smile and punches him in the face.
JULIETTE:
Ça c’est le pourboire. Maintenant, appellez la police!
Miles stands stupefied, on the curb, holding his trumpet case.
Juliette grabs Miles’s hand and starts running.
Champs-Élysées. Night.
Miles and Juliette running down Champs-Élysées.
Miles and Juliette approaching Salle Pleyel on foot and out of breath.
They’re laughing.
There’s a long line outside the concert hall.
Juliette, still in form from her successful bout and getaway, jumps right into character as Miles’s bodyguard as they walk towards the entrance.
Miles sees Bird looking lost in the crowd.
Hey man, what you doin out here, Bird?
BIRD:
I don’t feel good, man.
JULIETTE:
Ça va?
BIRD:
(Smiling. Trying.)
Ça va.
Miles gives a knowing look.
MILES:
Come on, man.
Miles drags Bird inside with him and Juliette.
Backstage. Pre-show.
Miles is sitting Bird down on a couch in an empty dressing room.
MILES:
Drink something, man.
Juliette appears in the doorway with Boris.
BORIS:
(concerned)
Miles, Charlie isn’t feeling well?
Miles whispers something into Boris’s ear.
(to Bird)
Just stay here, man.
They exit.
Miles’s Dressing Room. Backstage. After the show.
Juliette claps quietly for Miles as he enters after the show.
Miles closes the door behind him, puts his trumpet down and kisses her.
There’s a knock on the door.
MILES:
(with an attitude, playful)
Who is it?
CLARKE:
It’s Clarke.
Juliette and Miles straighten up before turning to the door.
MILES:
Aw, come in, man.
CLARKE:
(playfully)
I hope I’m not disturbing anything.
MILES:
(looking for a bottle)
You want something to drink, man?
(holding his glass up)
I’m already drinking.
Clarke sits down.
Miles sits.
Juliette walks out of the room.
Miles watches her leave.
CLARKE:
That was something, man.
MILES:
Yeah.
CLARKE:
(after a slow pause)
Miles, I’m staying.
MILES:
You staying?
CLARKE:
I’m staying. Yeah, I’m staying. You see it. You see it, just like me, man. I was on that stage playing tonight and thinking, “What the hell I got to go back for, except for a few sessions here and there?” I don’t think I have it in me to know that some less tiresome shit exists over here and I’m over there fighting. For what? They ain’t the same as the white folks over here. This is a different world.
MILES:
Yeah.
CLARKE:
It’s a different world, man. And shit ain’t changing over there. Shit ain’t changing, shit ain’t changing, shit ain’t changing over there.
MILES:
I see changes, like the music. Man, shit changing everywhere.
CLARKE:
No, it isn’t. Don’t be fooled, Miles. Shit ain’t changing over there. But you see it. They can see us. And we people over here. Look at your girl. She just love you, like it’s normal. And you ain’t cute, Miles. You ain’t cute, Miles, anywhere.
We hear laughter from the next room.
MILES:
Fuck you, man.
(Miles laughs)
But you right. It’s beautiful over here.
Juliette enters with two bottles of wine.
Clarke gets up to exit.
CLARKE:
All right man, I wanted you to be the first to know.
Juliette pours wine into two glasses and hands one to Miles before she sits.
Miles regards Juliette like an apparition.
CLARKE:
Don’t you want to try one of them new numbers tomorrow night?
MILES:
The rest of the guys don’t know they parts.
We probably got time to rehearse tomorrow.
Miles looks at Juliette.
Clarke bursts out in laughter.
The rising sound of saxophone comes from a nearby room. It rises and falls through the scales in multiple variations.
Miles takes a sip of his wine.
MILES (V.O.):
The hounds were rising up in me.
The sound becomes increasingly winding and intense.
Miles and Clarke share a look.
JULIETTE:
Quoi?
MILES:
. . .
Miles slowly rises and leads Juliette and Clarke into the hallway, just as Moody, Boris, Michelle, and others are beginning to gather in the hallway, all wondering, “What’s going on?”
Miles and Juliette lead the group in the direction of the sound.
They walk softly, like nosey neighbors, trying to get a closer listen to a domestic dispute next door.
The sound of the sax rises and swirls in unimagined velocity and range, like a wolf howling Rachmaninov.
They walk to the far end of the hallway until they reach an open door.
Bird is pacing in a dark room, full of sweat, shirtsleeves rolled up, blowing through his sax.
His pace is wobbly. He is in and out of tune.
Everyone is quiet, as if not wanting to disturb a sleepwalker. They share varying expressions of awe and concern.
Miles looks back and silently assures the crowd.
Boris is caught with a dance twitch.
Moody is holding his sax.
Clarke in a trance, imagining his drum beneath.
Bird plays non-stop.
Miles gestures to Juliette (“wait, I’ll be right back”) and hurries back to his dressing room to grab his trumpet.
Boris pops out of his twerk.
BORIS:
What’s going on?
MILES:
It’s the spirit.
Miles grabs his trumpet from his dressing room and walks through the crowd back to Bird’s room.
Juliette is at a poetry reading, captivated.
Miles begins to play soft clear notes in harmony with Bird’s wail as it pushes through memories of Negro spirituals to modern forms of prayer, until it is clearly, and distinctly, a man crying, screaming to be understood.
Miles’s soft playing brings Bird’s playing to lesser and lesser decibels.
Bird begins to play softly with Miles.
Miles fades his sound to an end.
Bird stops.
There is a brief moment of silence before Bird opens his eyes and looks at Miles.
BIRD:
Hey man, who stopped the music?
Foil and a burnt spoon are on the table.
Berny’s car. Night. Paris. Full Moon.
Miles, Juliette, Tadd, Moody, and Clarke are in a convertible car with Berny, a white American living in Paris, the bass player of the group.
Moody sits in the front with Berny.
CLARKE:
Man, this city is something else.
Yeah, it sure is. I been here a year and all I can say is . . . no racist police checking my arms or my privates, no losing my cabaret card. We people over here.
CLARKE:
Yep.
MOODY:
And the women ain’t bad either.
MILES:
What about you Berny? Anybody called you nigger over here yet?
Laughter.
BERNY:
Not yet, Miles, but a few have been starting to call me “Mingus.”
More laughter.
MILES:
Well, you should kiss the next person that calls you that.
(without missing a beat)
Juliette, est-ce que tu as déjà entendu parler de quelqu’un qui s’appelle Mingus?
JULIETTE:
Mein goose?
Laughter.
MILES:
Nice try, mothafucka.
BERNY:
(to Juliette)
C’est un musicien.
CLARKE:
Musicien? That’s “musician”?
Berny and Moody answer at the same time.
BERNY:
Yep.
MOODY:
It’s a mortician.
JULIETTE:
(to Miles)
Magicien.
The lights of city as they cross the bridge into the Left Bank.
JULIETTE:
Arrêtez
The car jerks to a halt. Juliette pops out, grabbing Miles’s hand.
JULIETTE:
Viens.
Miles follows Juliette. Juliette takes off her shoes to walk barefoot.
Miles and Juliette walk hand in hand along the Seine.
A family of swans float by. Black waves ripple around them. The moon is practically full overhead.
A flock of birds fly overhead and nearby at the feet of an old woman sitting at a small table. She gestures to the young couple.
Juliette holds Miles close.
JULIETTE:
Why do we need an old woman to explain what we already know?
Miles traces her lips as she speaks. He loves the sounds of the words coming out of her mouth.
JULIETTE:
You will pay for making me love you.
Miles and Juliette walking through a small alleyway at night. Juliette is humming a soft melody. Miles walks and listens, enraptured.
Juliette’s hotel room.
Juliette and Miles in bed. The moon outside their window.
Juliette has her head on Miles’s chest, asleep. Miles slowly closes his eyes.
Pine Bluff, Arkansas.
We are on the back of a horse trotting down a dirt trail, through tall green trees in rural Arkansas.
Other horses run wild in front of us.
We see their heels kick up dust and patches of grass.
The branches of large pines hang like spiderwebs over the trail.
We approach an abandoned wooden shack and stop.
The other horses run ahead.
We jump off the horse.
An old, leathered man in native dress walks by, leading a horse from a leather strap. The man looks straight ahead and does not turn from the path.
We watch them walk away.
We approach the door of the shack.
We open the door.
Men and women in brown horse masks are seated casually in rows of chairs in an open wooden space. Children sit on their parents’ laps and play on the floor.
We are seated at a desk by the entrance, beside the receptionist.
The receptionist, a well-dressed brown woman, does not look in our direction. Her stocking legs fit neatly under the desk. Her skirt is hiked enough to see her knees.
In front of us, pieces of coloring paper and crayons are spread out over half of the desk. The crayons seem small. The papers are covered with crayon sketches of horses.
A man in a white horse mask and white suit seems huge as he approaches the table.
BUSINESSMAN:
I need to see Dr. Davis. Immediately.
RECEPTIONIST (V.O.):
I’m sorry, but the “Do Not Disturb” sign is on the door, which means I am not to interrupt Dr. Davis at the moment.
(grabbing a small pad and pencil) Would you like to leave a note for him?
The man looks around the room, huffs, and walks quickly towards a door at the far end.
A small sign on the door reads: Dr. Corrine, Reader, Healer.
We open the door and enter a small dim room with a desk, lit by candles.
Tarot cards are spread across the table.
A dark muscular woman sits behind a small wooden desk.
We sit in a chair in front of the old woman.
We look down at our hands.
We are holding a trumpet.
We lift the trumpet to our mouth.
Juliette’s hotel room.
Miles and Juliette asleep in bed.
Juliette is on her back. Miles is curled beside her, mouth pressed against Juliette’s shoulder, clutching her arm.
Close on Miles pressing his fingertips into Juliette’s arm like the keys of a trumpet.
A hand comes from Miles’s side of the bed and taps him on his shoulder.
Miles turns. He is full of sweat. He has difficulty keeping his eyes open.
MILES:
I’m okay. I’m okay.
Miles turns back towards Juliette.
The room is dark.
Juliette approaches the bed with a glass of water.
JULIETTE:
Tiens.
She hands Miles the glass.
Miles drinks.
Juliette’s silhouette.
Miles hands back the half-empty glass.
Juliette throws the water in Miles’s face.
Miles snatches Juliette like a wild beast.
MALE VOICE:
No, Miles, NO!
Wooden Shack—Arkansas.
Dr. Davis, Miles’s father, is trying to unwrap Miles’s arms from around his waist.
He is standing beside the bed where Miles, covered in sweat, is tossing and turning.
He uses a towel to wipe Miles’s face and exits.
The door slams behind him.
Miles bolt up in bed, eyes wide open.
He is in a single bed in the far end of an empty wooden shack.
There is an empty glass and pitcher of water beside the bed.
Miles sits up on the bed, places his bare feet on the floor.
He sees sunlight seeping through the cracks of the wood-planked walls.
Miles lies back down and closes his eyes.
Juliette’s finger traces Miles’s face.
JULIETTE (V.O.):
I know you are going to do as you want. But I want you to stay with me. We have lived through a war and maybe it is that your war continues at home. But this can be your home. I am yours, if you want me.
Miles opens his eyes. The beams of light, through the cracks in the wall are like lasers, over and around him. He sits up, pours himself a glass of water and hears the birds singing outside.
JULIETTE (V.O.):
Was it your dream or mine?
The trumpet calls to war. The bird flies to safety.
Miles stands, examines his face in the mirror, before picking up his trumpet. He opens the shutters. Sunlight bursts through. He looks out at the trees, the birds, horses in the distance, and lifts the trumpet to his mouth.