INT. ALMÁSY'S ROOM. DAY
Almásy lying on a camp bed, face down. The walls are covered with maps, enlargements of photographs. A fan whirs over his kit which is spread, unraveled but ordered, on the stone floor. An ineffably male room, the shutters closed, just the thinnest shaft of light piercing the gloom. Almásy hasn't even removed his clothes, his boots kicked off below his jutting feet.
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There's A KNOCK at the door. Almásy sleeps. Another. A third. He's roused from the dead. Stumbles to his feet, opens the door as the knocking continues. It's Katharine. She's bathed, luminous, stands backlit by the afternoon sun--an angel in a cotton dress. |
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He walks toward her and she SLAPS him shockingly hard. He KNEELS before her, head at her thighs. Katharine beats on his head and shoulders, violently, then stops, her face expressionless. |
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KATHARINE: You
still have sand in your hair. |
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She kneels and covers his
face with kisses.
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He pulls blindly at her dress
and it RIPS across her breasts.
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