Константин Воскресенский – Film Screenplay. The Adventures of Kesha the Russian Boy (страница 4)
They run. Up the beach. Down the promenade. Past the ice cream cart. Past the changing huts. Nothing. Mother’s voice rises to a pitch that turns heads across the entire beach.
AUNT IRA spots him first – a quarter-mile away, walking along TRAM TRACKS, cheerfully munching a bun he has obtained from some unknown source. He is not lost. He is not frightened. He is having the time of his life.
MOTHER
Where did you get this? Where were you?!
KESHA
I went for a bite to eat.
Mother grabs him, squeezes him to her chest, laughs and cries at the same time. The bun is crushed between them. Kesha, confused by the fuss, keeps chewing.
ADULT KESHA (V.O.)
Three years old. No map, no money, no language skills. And I still managed to procure a bun from thin air. Some things never change. Although my procurement methods have improved somewhat.
CUT TO:
Scene 7. EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING, KLIMOVSK – NIGHT (1988)
Red and blue lights strobe across a five-story Soviet brick building. SMOKE pours from a second-floor window – Grandmother’s apartment. FIREMEN in heavy coats rush with hoses. A crowd gathers in nightgowns and slippers. Voices overlap in the dark.
Three-year-old KESHA stands perfectly still at the edge of the crowd, face lit by the flickering glow. His mother holds his hand, but he has gone rigid – every muscle in his small body locked. His eyes are wide and unblinking, reflecting the orange flames.
A FIREMAN carries a scorched armchair through the entrance. Sparks swirl like orange snowflakes. A curtain catches fire and disintegrates in three seconds, silk to ash, beautiful and terrible.
The boy does not move. Does not blink. Does not breathe.
ADULT KESHA (V.O.)
Since then, every time I see a fire, I literally go numb and mentally fall back to this moment. A three-year-old boy, frozen. These are the things that shape you before you know what shape means.
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Scene 8. INT. KINDERGARTEN, NAP ROOM – DAY (1988)
Rows of small beds in a dark room. Children sleeping. Afternoon light filters through thin curtains. The room smells of floor polish and warm milk. A clock ticks softly. In the corner, a rocking horse with a chipped ear stands guard.
KESHA (3) lies on his side, facing the GIRL in the next bed. She has blonde pigtails and a smudge of paint on her cheek. Her eyes are open. They look at each other.
KESHA
Hello. What’s your name?
A shadow falls over him. The KINDERGARTEN TEACHER (50s, Soviet steel, arms like a collective farmer, a woman forged in a system that did not value whispering) stands above. Arms crossed.
KINDERGARTEN TEACHER
One more word and I’ll cut your tongue off.
Kesha’s mouth snaps shut. His eyes go wide. He pulls the blanket up to his chin and lies absolutely still, like a small animal in the presence of a predator. The girl in the next bed turns away.
He does not move for the rest of nap time. Staring at the ceiling. Processing.
ADULT KESHA (V.O.)
It sounded so threatening and so convincing that you would believe it yourself even now. Ever since that day I use my words carefully, often choosing to keep quiet. Because who knows what might happen. Words, I learned, have consequences. Some of them involve scissors.
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Scene 9. INT. KINDERGARTEN – NIGHT (1989)
The kindergarten is dark. Empty. All the other children are gone. Their hooks in the cloakroom hold nothing – all the little coats and hats have been taken home. The building creaks and settles.
KESHA (4) sits alone at a small table by the window. He does not cry. He does not call out. Outside, snowflakes fall softly on oak trees and empty pathways. The streetlamps glow orange. The world is quiet and beautiful and has completely forgotten about him.
He draws something on the table with his finger. A house. A family. He erases it with his palm. Draws it again.
Hours pass. The light changes from grey to blue to black. The radiator clicks. A pipe gurgles somewhere in the walls. Finally, a RELATIVE who works at the facility returns for something she forgot and finds him.
RELATIVE
Oh my God. How long have you been sitting here?
Kesha looks up at her with an expression that has no business being on a four-year-old’s face: calm, steady, total acceptance.
MATCH CUT TO:
Scene 10. EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING, KLIMOVSK – EVENING (1989)
KESHA stands outside his apartment door. He turns the handle. Locked. Nobody home. The hallway is silent except for the buzzing of a fluorescent light that flickers like a dying heartbeat.
He slides down to the floor, back against the door, legs stretched out. Takes off his shoes – his feet hurt. Lines the shoes up neatly, heels against the wall. Folds his hands in his lap. Waits.
The hallway is cold. The fluorescent light buzzes. He stares at the wall opposite – it has a crack that looks like a river. He traces the river with his eyes.
Two hours pass. At nine o’clock, VERA’S MOTHER from flat 48 opens her door. She is in a dressing gown, holding a cup of tea. She sees him and her face falls.
VERA’S MOTHER
Oh, sweetheart. Come inside. Have you eaten?
Kesha shakes his head. She takes his hand. It is ice cold. She leads him inside without another word.
ADULT KESHA (V.O.)
Both my mother and my stepfather were, at some point in their lives, drunks. I’m not blaming anyone. Everyone has their reasons, and those reasons have reasons of their own. But, as I often say in my anecdotes – it left its mark. Several marks, in fact. Some of them are still there.
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Scene 11. EXT. APARTMENT ENTRANCE, KLIMOVSK – DAY (1990)
KESHA (5) runs at full speed through a communal garden – a shortcut under someone’s windows. Flowers blur past. Grass whips at his legs. He is flying. He is invincible.
He bursts through an entrance door and SLAMS directly into an OLD LADY carrying a bag of potatoes. The bag splits. Potatoes bounce down the steps like brown grenades. One rolls under the radiator.
The old lady looks at the scattered potatoes. Looks at Kesha. Something ignites behind her eyes.
OLD LADY
You little PEST! Worse than the Colorado beetle! My garden! MY GARDEN! Look what you’ve done to my flowers! And now my potatoes! Do you have ANY idea how long I waited in line for these?!
Her fury is volcanic, disproportionate, terrifying. Her face is inches from his. Spittle flies. Her finger jabs at his chest like a woodpecker attacking bark. Decades of Soviet-era frustration pour out of her in a torrent of rage directed at a five-year-old boy.