The Grand Budapest Hotel

Yes, M. Gustave...

("s'Rothe-Zaãuerli" by OÖse Schuppel playing)

It is an extremely common mistake.

People think the writer's imagination

is always at work,

that he's constantly inventing

an endless supply of incidents and episodes.

That he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air.

In point of fact, the opposite is true.

Once the public knows you're a writer,

they bring the characters and events to you,

and as long as you maintain your ability to look

and to carefully listen,

these stories will continue to...

Stop it! Stop it!

Don't! Don't do it!

Uh... will continue to seek you out,

uh, over your lifetime.

To him who has often told the tales of others,

many tales will be told.

: Sorry. It's all right.

The incidents that follow

were described to me exactly as I present them here

and in a wholly unexpected way.

A number of years ago,

while suffering from a mild case of scribe's fever,

a form of neurasthenia common

among the intelligentsia of that time,

I decided to spend the month of August

in the spa town of Nebelsbad,

below the Alpine Sudetenwaltz,

and had taken up rooms in the Grand Budapest--

a picturesque, elaborate

and once widely celebrated establishment.

I expect some of you will know it.

It was off season,

and by that time, decidedly out of fashion,

and it had already begun its descent into shabbiness

and eventual demolition.

What few guests we were

had quickly come to recognize one another by sight,

as the only living souls

residing in the vast establishment.

Although I do not believe any acquaintance

among our number had proceeded

beyond the polite nods we exchanged

as we passed in the Palm Court

and the Arabian Baths and onboard

the Colonnade Funicular.

We were a very reserved group, it seemed,

and without exception...

solitary.

(the clinking of dishes and utensils echoing)

Perhaps as a result of this general silence,

I'd established a casual

and bantering familiarity with the hotel's concierge,

a West-continental known only as Monsieur Jean,

who struck one as being at once both lazy and...

really quite accommodating.

I expect he was not well paid.

In any case, one evening,

as I stood conferring elbow to elbow

with Monsieur Jean, as had become my habit,

I noticed a new presence in our company.

A small, elderly man, smartly dressed,

with an exceptionally lively, intelligent face

and an immediately perceptible air of sadness.

He was, like the rest of us, alone,

but also, I must say,

he was the first that struck one as being

deeply and truly lonely,

a symptom of my own medical condition as well.

Who's this interesting old fellow?

I inquired of Monsieur Jean.

To my surprise, he was distinctly taken aback.

Don't you know? He asked.

Don't you recognize him?

He did look familiar.

That's Mr. Moustafa himself.

He arrived early this morning.

This name will, no doubt,

be familiar to the more seasoned persons among you.

Mr. Zero Moustafa was, at one time,

the richest man in Zubrowka,

and was still indeed the owner of the Grand Budapest.

He often comes and stays a week or more.

Three times a year, at least, but never in the season.

Monsieur Jean signaled to me,

and I leaned closer.

I'll tell you a secret.

He takes only a single bed sleeping room

without a bath in a rear corner of the top floor,

and it's smaller than the service elevator.

It was well-known

Zero Moustafa had purchased and famously inhabited

some of the most lavish castles

and palazzos on the continent.

Yet here, in his own nearly empty hotel,

he occupied a servant's quarters?

At that moment, the curtain rose

on a parenthetical domestic drama...

Shit.

...which required the immediate

and complete attention of Monsieur Jean...

...but frankly, did not hold mine for long.

(elevator bell dings, dog barks)

However, this premature intermission

in the story of the curious old man

had left me, as the expression goes,

"gespannt wie ein Flitzebogen."

That is, "on the edge of my seat,"

where I remained throughout the next morning until--

in what I found to be its mysterious

and utterly reliable fashion--

fate, once again, intervened on my behalf.

I admire your work.

I beg your pardon?

I said, I know and admire

your wonderful work.

Thank you most kindly, sir.

Did Monsieur Jean have a word or two to share with you

about the... aged proprietor of this establishment?

I must confess, I did myself...

inquire about you.

He's perfectly capable, of course, Monsieur Jean,

but we can't claim he's a first-,

or in earnest, even a second-rate concierge,

but there it is.

Times have changed.

The thermal baths are very beautiful.

They were, in their first condition.

It couldn't be maintained, of course.

Too decadent for current tastes,

but I love it all just the same,

this enchanting old ruin.

How did you come to buy it, if I may ask?

The Grand Budapest.

I didn't.

If you're not merely being polite--

and you must tell me if that's the case--

but if it genuinely does interest you,

may I invite you to dine with me tonight?

And it will be my pleasure

and indeed, my privilege, to tell you

my story, such as it is.

(Mr. Moustafa speaking indistinctly)

Two ducks roasted with olives, rabbit,

salad?

Pouilly-Jouvet '52.

Plus a split of the brute.

That should provide us ample time,

if I commence promptly.

By all means.

Well, it begins, as it must,

with our mutual friend's predecessor,

the beloved original concierge of the Grand Budapest.

It begins, of course, with...

Bring the table to the window.

Yes, Monsieur Gustave. Bring the tray to the table.

Right away, Monsieur Gustave.

Right there.

Have those been brushed and blocked?

Of course, Monsieur Gustave. Pack them in the hatboxes.

Is that from Oberstdorf & Company?

I believe so, Monsieur Gustave. Second trunk.

Who has the tickets? I do, Monsieur Gustave.

Give them to me.

These are in order.

Wait in the corner.

I'm not leaving.

I beg your pardon?

I'm not leaving. Why not?

I'm frightened.

Of what?

I fear this may be the last time we ever see each other.

Why on earth would that be the case?

Well, I can't put it into words, but I feel it.

Well, for goodness sake,

there's no reason for you to leave us.

If you'd rather... Come with me.

To fucking Lutz?

Please?

Give me your hand.

You've nothing to fear.

You're always anxious before you travel.

I admit you appear to be suffering a more acute attack

on this occasion, but truly and honestly...

Oh, dear God, what have you done to your fingernails?

I beg your pardon? This diabolical varnish.

The color is completely wrong.

Oh, really? Don't you like it?

It's not that I don't like it.