"The Gun is Full of Wine"

“The Gun is Full of Wine” came from a nightmare I had a few years ago, the only dream I’ve ever had that amounted to a coherent narrative. It was like having your subconscious do the first draft for you (any time it wants to do that again, I’m open). From a dream, it became the short story you’re about to read, then a screenplay, and finally my most recently completed short film, which has finished its festival run and is available to watch here.

The film was the end goal, and I’m pleased with it. But the short story was an experiment on my part with tense and point-of-view, and it got to a pretty finished level before I fully switched gears to the script. Give it a read!

The captain is a gentleman.

He wears a small, almost apologetic smile. The right hand doffs his cap, the left slides over the slicked straw hair. A small bow, an impeccable accent: “Bonsoir Monsieur. Excusez-moi de vous importuner, mais je peux procéder à une inspection rapide de vos chambres? Je crains que cela doive être fait ce soir.” He only enters after I give my nod.

It is the fourth night of our holiday, a diversion we had dared not hope for in the midst of war. And yet it was on account of various circumstances set off by the war that we came to Paris and claimed a suite in one of its most esteemed establishments. When it would, any other year, play host to its established clientele at the height of the season, it had been forced to offer rooms at low fares to remain above water. Even then, we should not have enjoyed this trip if not for the misfortune of my wife’s poor sister. When word of Avenant’s disappearance reached her from Corsica, the woman was too disconsolate to claim her booking, and she offered it to Giselle and myself. And so we, and our little Marion, found ourselves in the company of a few small families not unlike our own, scarce prepared to believe our good fortune. To walk about the hotel, to dine in the restaurant on meals we had never been able to afford, even to sit in our magnificently decorated suite, was a continual surprise and delight.

There is no surprise on the captain’s face as he steps inside. The sight of the room seems to cheer him. He seems almost a member of the staff, well familiar with the layout yet keen to admire it. Giselle rises from the chaise to meet him, and I stay at his elbow, but his eyes are only for the window, its frame, and its curtains. “Merveilleux comme toujours.” But, he notes, it has all been redecorated.  The curtains were once in stripes, cream and lime and coral, not floral gold. The furniture has all been reupholstered, if not replaced. And all this patterned glass must cover the old hunting mural.

The glass mural, in the paquebot style, suggests a peacock on a branch. As the captain admires it, the fingers of his right hand brush lightly across the silver eagle pinned to his cap.

“Pardon.” Giselle joins me at the captain’s side. Her voice is even but firm: how does the captain know so much about our rooms? And what is this matter of an inspection?

“C'est votre femme? Enchanté, madame.” The captain and Giselle both flush; they’ve both realized at once she is only in her nightrobe. He looks away while she adjusts, then takes her hand, bows, kisses it. With his head bent, he does not notice the snarl flicker across Giselle’s mouth. Her hazel eyes dart to me, and mine to the door for the master bedroom, on our right. It is open but a sliver. Before I can move to close it, the captain has recovered. A thousand pardons he offers us, but he has stayed in this hotel, in these very rooms, many times. Only possible from a generous expense account for liaison work, securing drug exports from Paris to Augsburg. A very good living, and one he would like to be engaged with still, if the fatherland did not demand… but let’s not dwell on that. He promises no more bother to us over the inspection than can be helped. It’s tedious business, really, but another guest in the hotel filed a report, and so inquires must be made…

“Maman? Papa? Qu'est-ce qui se passe?” The three of us together look to the left doorway. Marion yawns her words and rubs her eyes. Her powder blue blanket is tied around her neck like one of my cravats and clashes badly with the magenta of her pajamas.

The captain breaks into a wide smile. “Bonsoir, jeune demoiselle.” He gives a full bow, then kneels to Marion’s level as she walks over to shake his hand. Giselle’s hand flickers, and she steps as if to pull Marion away. I cut at the air, as small and quick as I can. The door to the master bedroom is still only just ajar, outside the captain’s notice thus far. Giselle sees; her hand withdraws, though her lips curl as Marion leads the captain to the sofa to sit down.

Marion has always been fascinated by soldiers. She never took to her mother’s old dolls or any of the toys we gave her, but she wanted to play with my old tin soldiers almost as soon as she could walk. She asks for uniforms, not dresses. Her collections are of badges and insignias. And now, with an officer before her, she is all curiosity: what do your decorations mean? How often do you press your uniform? Why gray, and not the red from the old paintings of hussars? Do you march often? Do you salute when a general comes by? And so on.

The captain doesn’t mind at all. He beams while answering all queries. And when Marion asks to show him her wooden nutcracker cuirassier, he promises to wait right on the sofa while she fetches it.

“Elle est charmante,” he tells us once she’s away. He guesses her age, ten years. His son is the same. She reminds him of his boy, our Marion; he collects wooden soldiers too. “Vous êtes trop gentil,” I answer. But the captain must not let our Marion keep him from his duties. Should we begin – and here I raise my voice – with the master bedroom?

But then Marion returns, with her proud cuirassier in full tin plate, and she and the captain must play with it at once. Giselle takes up a watch on the chaise. While the captain works the cuirassier’s jaw, I look to the open bedroom door. Monsieur Krivine is looking through the crack.

They came to us just minutes before the captain. No polite tap from them, but a hurried banging as loud as they dared. The Krivines were a healthy-looking pair, well-fed and groomed, but their threadbare clothes carried traces of yellow thread on the breasts, around a faded area with six points.

No polite bow, no beg for a pardon. Monsieur Krivine advanced two steps in, took tight hold of my hands, and hissed, “Au secours!”

This side of the war has not reached our distant town, except as rumors scared believed or mentioned. No one we know need wear the star, and no one we know has harbored such, or paid the price. No policemen loomed behind the Krivines in the hall. Giselle and I brought them in without a thought for such stories. Until the captain’s knock came.

I repeat to the captain that his search should begin with the master bedroom. I will unlock it now, and the washroom, and the connecting door to Marion’s room. The captain doesn’t look up from the cuirassier; he’s as invested in his game with Marion as she is. Giselle’s eyes flick up to me. I’ll keep an eye on her, they say. I go to the bedroom door, silently pull it shut, and jumble the key in the tumbler before opening it for the captain to hear. The Krivines say nothing; we hardly glance at one another. When I open the door to Marion’s room, they slip inside. They have already removed their shoes, so their steps are silent.

“Les chambres sont prêtes, officier.” The captain and Marion are still playing. He seems loath to stop. “Excusez moi, mademoiselle,” he says to Marion. He must see to his inspection. Marion protests, but Giselle takes her hand. The captain has been very indulgent, and now it is time for her to rest.

But wait a minute! It occurs to me that Marion will want to say goodbye to her new friend. And we’re all too wound up to sleep now. Why don’t you fetch the gun, Giselle?

“Le pistolet?” The captain’s voice is still polite, but his shoulders tense. His left hand, hovering at the level of his hip, tenses just slightly over his holster. A gun that is full of wine, I assure him. A children’s water pistol we use to feed Marion a small taste of wine before bed on occasions when sleep escapes her. It is somewhere in the main room, I am sure. Let Giselle fetch it – in case it’s needed – while the captain begins his inspection.

He relaxes and joins me in the doorway, where I linger as a rather casual investigation commences. The captain keeps up conversation, about raising children, about the snow in Augsburg over the winter, about the state of the hotel. This bedroom has been redesigned as well, though not so much as outside. The golden bedspread is an improvement, he assures me. Of open closet doors, the suits and gowns pushed one side or the other, he makes no comment. His search of the washroom is a cursory glance. Not even a look inside the shower.

While the captain examines the fresco over the bed, I cross to the door leading to Marion’s room. My head is turned just enough, my lean just far enough back, that I can keep an ear open for a signal or sign. Marion had been put to bed when the Krivines arrived at the door; she hasn’t met them, and she’s the sort of child who must tell her friends everything – even new friends. There was no chance to plan around that. Giselle will have seen them safely into the next room; we never keep the gun there, lest Marion find it and help herself. But will Giselle be able to explain things to Marion? Or keep the Krivines out of her sight? There is only a slim chance that they could pass through the main room without being seen, and how can we avoid –

Giselle and Marion hurry in from the main room. They cannot find the gun. It must be somewhere in the master bedroom; may they look? Giselle’s voice is just a little loud, and she looks more to me than the captain, and more to the doorknob in my hand than to me.

The captain grants his leave, even helps Marion check under the bed. While they crawl about, Giselle takes a step outside. She holds up a hand, her index finger held high, and I lean forward slightly. There is a soft woolen rustle, and after five or six seconds, Giselle wags her finger my way. “T’inquiètes,” I say. It’s in the nightstand, isn’t it, Giselle?

She fetches the gun from the drawer she knew it was in. She calls Marion to her side, and together we lead the way into Marion’s room, where she hurries to the bookshelf. The door hangs open, the view of the main room unencumbered. The Krivines are at the closet, not near enough the door to make a quiet exit, and they freeze when they see us. When the captain follows us, they open the closet door and shuffle inside.

Giselle positions herself to block the view of the main room, but Marion is still at her shelf, and the captain is more interested in the row of painted tin soldiers atop the dresser. His eye is claimed when Marion draws out the book where her badges are pasted. The insignia of his grandfather’s old regimen is there. Through a stifled yawn, he offers us further apologies for the intrusion upon our vacation. It is such monotonous work, these raids and inspections. Things will be so much easier when they’re all accounted for, wouldn’t I agree?

I nod as we reenter the main room. “Oui, oui.” But it hasn’t been an inconvenience at all, sir! We thank you for your duty, and now you must be on your way, surely? But Marion is asking for the gun. “Quelle belle arme,” he says of the water pistol when it is presented. He draws his own pistol, the very vz. 27 our gun is patterned after. Giselle’s right hand clasps onto Marion’s shoulder while the left, holding the gun, reaches for me. But the captain only presents his weapon, flat across his palm, for Marion to admire.

“Le nôtre est meilleur,” Marion declares. She opens her mouth wide and turns to her mother. Giselle fires. Marion’s laugh almost costs her a mouthful of wine, but she turns to the captain for a triumphant swallow.

The captain applauds. “Splendide!” Marion bows, then offers: would he like to play? Of course, the captain would be glad to. He is satisfied with his inspection, and there is no rush to report a finding of nothing. He sets his weapon down on the coffee table. But if he is to stay a while, may he have his hat put away? The cap is offered for me to take. I make my way to the closet; I feel the captain’s eyes following me, see the relaxed smile resting on his mouth. They are still with me as I touch the door handle.

“À toi, Marion!” Giselle passes the gun. I look up to see Marion shooting wine into the captain’s waiting mouth. His head is now turned toward her; the closet can only be at the periphery of his vision. Quickly, I open the closet, pass the cap to Madame Krivine, and shut the door.

It is getting late, I note, hurrying to join the party. Marion, wouldn’t you like your blanket and a – pillow!

WHAM! The soft cushion from the end of the sofa slaps harmlessly into her face. All giggles, she reaches with both hands to tear it from my grip. The gun falls onto the table, beside the captain’s.

Marion lobs the cushion at me, and I throw it right back. She turns fire on the captain, who tosses it to me, and around and around we go. Giselle takes hold of another pillow for her own defense but remains out of the fray. The circle winds on until we are all out of breath, the pillow in my possession. Marion is keen to continue even then, but the captain supports me in a truce. He dabs at his face with a handkerchief; whether this is a show for Marion or true exertion, I couldn’t say.

Giselle joins the chorus of peace. We mustn’t overdo things before bed. And after that war, you must all be thirsty. “Je vous offre à boire?”

 She has a gun in her hand. Marion wants the first shot, but Giselle is firm. Guests must come first. “Ouvrez grand, monsieur,” she orders, and obediently, the captain opens his mouth. Giselle lifts and aims; on impulse, I thrust the pillow out between them.

The Krivines are off without a word before the smoke of the barrel dissipates. The pillow muffled the sound enough that anyone in the rooms above or below us might have thought something fell over.

A guest may have reported the Krivines, but the maid who comes when we are halfway through packing is of a different mind. She has all traces of red cleared away in minutes, smuggles the captain out with her, and we are free to wait until morning to check out.

Marion cries over her lost friend; she doesn’t understand, and won’t for many years. But the silver eagle off the captain’s cap joins her collection.