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The Apprentice noticed the line of luminescent crystals the first time he stepped into the Wizard’s laboratory. They were on a high shelf, thus he assumed they were valuable or fragile or both, so didn’t ask about them for a very long time.
Between the weary hours of transcription, quests for kings, and alchemical lessons (such as why love potions are, at best, trouble), the Apprentice learned that the Wizard was much kinder than her stern demeanor suggested. As such, one day, between the bubbling of beakers and the scribing of pages, he asked his master, “What are the glowing orbs on your highest shelf?”
“Ah,” the Wizard clucked as she often did when the Apprentice asked difficult questions. “Those would be my mistakes.”
Confusion overcame awe of his instructor, causing the boy to say, “My father always said you shouldn’t drudge up old wrongs.”
“Then your father is a wise. It’s not good to hold onto grievances or flagellate oneself with own’s errors.”
“Then why do you keep them?”
With a heavy sigh, the Wizard retired from her strangely bound grimoire. “Because encased in each of those orbs is a mistake that taught me an important lesson.” In her wizened hand she picked up a rod that she often used in her instruction. The Wizard used it to point at one of the many orbs.
From its surface, the spectral image of a crying young boy with a bloody nose sprang forth. “I learned to be kind because I was cruel.”
She moved the rod to another crystal, from which came the translucent image of a starving family. “I learned to be generous because I was greedy.”
With as much hesitation as the Apprentice had ever seen in the Wizard, she moved the rod to the next. In its depths the boy could see a young woman who very much resembled the Wizard running away, looking over her shoulder in terror at an unseen thing. “I learned to be brave because I was a coward.”
The Apprentice stared at each of the crystals. “It almost seems cruel to keep them.”
“Perhaps it is,” the Wizard conceded, “but there is a part of me that fears if I ever forget the mistake, I will forget the lesson. So, sometimes, late at night, I take them them down from the shelf and arrange them around me. I pick each up in turn to examine them. And as I look at their stupid, tragic beauty, I tell myself:
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When none of Sartre’s man opened fire, Atwell and Lanzo followed. In that afternoon silence, I thought I could hear something like the rotating drum of a cement mixer.
One of Sartre’s men, professional enough not to gesture with his weapon, stepped forward and pointed past the carpark. A dirt path disappeared behind it, headed uphill from the house. I nodded and moved that way, feeling Atwell and Lanzo behind me.
The latest rain couldn’t have been far behind as the path was still a bit muddy, something I trudged through without concern as it was high time to shine my shoes anyway. Lanzo stumbled through it like a shell-shocked refugee while Atwell fell behind, trying to pick and choose his path from one dry spot to the next. As we headed up the slope, the rhythmic percussion sound grew louder.
Not far from the carpark was the grassy peak of the hill the house was built on. Three other rooks stood around watching Sartre walk a worn path that led to the top, their eyes shaded with admiration. The Night Governor, on the other hand, paid no attention to anything but what he was doing. He was stripped to the waist, thick muscles straining as he pushed a boulder up the hill.
His grunting travelled down the short slope followed by the sound of the rock rolling down after he released it, producing the cadenced noise we’d heard. From the top of the hill, Sartre let out a barking laugh and raised his hands into the air like he was Rocky Balboa. I suspected he did this every time he got to the top. I guess it kept him in shape.
Sweat drenching his fireplug frame, he trudged down, taking a towel from one of his men at the bottom. Wiping sweat off himself, he closed the distance till recognized us.
As we came into focus for him, Sartre smiled his yellow smoker’s smile. Until he noticed Atwell. At that, Sartre’s demeanor became electrified with hostility, the transformation occurring so quickly I thought I’d have to get between them. Fortunately, Sartre only stood his ground and gestured at Atwell with such force I thought he was going to fling his towel at him. “What is this lavette doing here?”
To keep the peace, and Atwell alive, I said, “He saved our bacon.”
Sartre squeezed an eye shut and inspected me with the other, looking every inch like the old woman in the villa. He swabbed off his face, wiping sweat and credulity away. “What is this nonsense?”
I gestured from Atwell to Sartre, notifying him it was his turn to speak. Atwell paused long enough I worried he had forgotten our agreed upon lie, thankfully disproved when he said, “Someone knew about the service station. What you had stored there.” Under Sartre’s narrowing gaze Atwell continued, “They informed the police. The Flic were going to raid it and I only found out minutes before. I didn’t have time to find you so I had the place torched. I figured that was better than the evidence getting into official hands.”
The rigid silence that followed was only punctuated by the local insect chorus. They barely had time to get through one refrain, though, before Sartre laughed, loud enough that I could feel its forced nature. He reached out to put his arm around Atwell’s neck. Smiling with a mouth like a dirty razor blade, Sartre said, “This is true?”
Atwell, squirming against the sweaty embrace, said something in the affirmative. Still firmly holding him in the grapple hug, Sarte side glanced at me. I nodded. “It’s true.”
Sartre laughed again, this time with more honesty, not letting go but jangling Atwell. “Then I owe you! Why did you not tell me this?”
Sartre released him to grab a jug of water from one of his men. Holding it by the neck and bottom, he gestured at Atwell with it saying, “I know why. You have been following me.” He drank.
To my surprise, Atwell shrugged. “Yeah.”
Sartre slowly lowered the jug, eyes blazing at Atwell. “You think I would allow this?”
Appearing secure in the armor of being a representative of the United States Atwell stood firm. “Sartre, we have an understanding. But you don’t trust me and I don’t trust you. If I hadn’t been keeping tabs on things, then I wouldn’t have known about the station and you’d be talking to the cops.” He shrugged again. “If it makes you feel better, I watch everyone. I watch this town. It’s what I do.” All in all, it was a very impressive lie.
In a continued resemblance to the old woman down below, Sartre eyed Atwell. “Then perhaps you can tell me who informed – how did the police know about the station?”
With almost no hesitation, Atwell answered, “That’s what we’re here to talk to you about.” I had to hand it to the little rat, that was the best play there was to go with.
Atwell handed the conversation back to me with a nod, switching the focus of the Night Governor’s gaze. Moving that along, I tilted my head to Lanzo, “Have you met Moreau’s nephew?”
Having paid no attention to the Corsican until that moment, Sartre eyed him. There was a slow recognition that translated into a widening of his eyes and a lop-sided grin. “Lanzo?”
Lanzo had used the intervening time to recover himself, but even so it was clear he was having a very bad day. Fatigue and tears had ruddied his face. Whether it was because or despite this vulnerability, Sartre moved to embrace him.
Lanzo stopped him, holding up a hand when the older man got close. “My uncle is dead.”
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The house is the color of muskmelon and has the same sunny charm. It looks out of place in its rundown suburb, where it attracts the attention of those who know that anyone with such a fine home must have money. Some break in to steal its valuables. Others, dressed in the smart clothes of realtors, see another kind of opportunity in the lovely home. Surely the owners want to leave their bad neighborhood. The agent can help them. For a commission, of course.
The money, the valuables, they’re there, in the house. You can smell it.
There’s a house like this in every city, from Detroit to Mogadishu, and no one ever sees the owners. Always someone tries to go in, though, sometimes for larceny, sometimes for honest greed.
The house, though? It doesn’t care about your motives. It only cares that you go into the basement, where the sticky sweet smell draws no flies, attracts no rats, and leaves only the clean, clean bones of the unwary.
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We drove east out of town, up the same mountain road that Brick and Whip had taken me. I rolled down the window so I could feel the ocean wind on my face, increasingly dryer as we rose towards the blazing afternoon sun. We continued past the empty real estate developments that dotted the hills outside of Old Town and climbed until the road leveled off. It was nestled in between the grey granite of stark mountains and distant, isolated buttes that made it feel like it was surrounded by its own massive fortress. This high up, the air became cooler with a tang of winter still in it even as the leaves of every plant shimmered emerald in the afternoon’s golden sun.
Inland, to the north, I could see neat rows of a vineyard, stacked up a hillside, each separated from the next by rich, dark soil. The estate was crowned by a multi-story, angular home of wood and glass at the highest point, overlooking all. You could almost smell the wine and the money.
Soon the scenery began to repeat itself with other similar plantations as we went deeper into the remote enclave of wealth. Riding the road, caught between the spring green of the hills and the cool mountain breeze, it was hard not to see the charm. The only structure that wasn’t a remote mansion was a small church, its single bell tower reaching towards the blue sky with stone walls white and resplendent in the Mediterranean sun.
After nearly an hour of silent driving, Atwell stopped the Citroen on an empty stretch of road. From our position on the pavement, he pointedly looked down a gravel road that sprouted perpendicular from the main drag. Almost invisible within the foliage around it, the drive completely disappeared as it travelled through walls of green vines that climbed up trestles erected on either side. In the distance, a terracotta roof floated just high enough to be seen.
Atwell said, “That’s it.” It was hard to ignore that the narrow path into the estate would make a perfect funnel for whatever ambush someone might care to lay. I ignored that to say, “OK. Let’s go.”
Atwell carefully maneuvered the car onto the drive. After driving under the cloudless sky for the entire ride, disappearing into the shade of the vines, spiked through with bucolic sun, was pleasant enough to feel like the trap I was worried about.
There was no explosion, though, no IED or claymore, but as Atwell trundled the car down the graveled path, two of Sartre’s rooks stepped out from the bordering vegetation. Both were visibly armed, black machine pistols to match their dark suits.
Atwell wisely brought the Citroen to a stop several yards away. One of the rooks stepped forward, moving towards the driver’s side. Atwell cranked down his window and put on an official face. With all of us tired and dirty, the pretense of dignity struck me as so absurd I had to stifle laughter.
The rook hadn’t quite bent all the way down to the window before he started into a prepared smokescreen about us being on the private property of Madame Sartre. Atwell interrupted him. “We are not here to see madame. We are here to see Sartre.”
The rook moved his pencil mustache in a way that roughly translated into, “Who the fuck are you?” Before he could vocalize that, I added, “Tell Sartre it’s the Americans.”
The skin around the rook’s sunglasses furrowed, radiating dark doubt. Whatever the tiny yellow car had delivered to the estate, though, was strange enough that he said, “Wait here.”
We waited while the rooks conferred. Eventually until some unknown signal passed to them and they parted, stepping out of the road and gesturing us on. Atwell gently pressed down on the accelerator and we rumbled down the drive.
The narrow, vine-bordered path opened out into a yard of dark brown dirt that encircled a stone well. Directly on the other side was a three-story house with a burnt orange facade and blue shutters, a mosaic running the border between these and its green terracotta roof. All of it bore up against the mountain sun with a stolidity that spoke of generations. It was modest in comparison to the newer villas that had been built in the valley’s wine country. Something that might have once been a horse stable, now a converted carpark, stood to the right of the house filled with the slick, black cars of Sartre’s cavalcade.
The picture of quaintness was only ruined by the two guards standing in the yard, each visibly armed with tubular submachine guns. They shifted in their positions, waiting for whatever we might do next. I gestured for Atwell to park next to the well.
A stout old woman stepped out into the villa’s doorway, wiping her hands with a towel. She squinted at the Citroen as if its yellow were the brightness of the sun. A third rook followed her, hovering nearby, held at a distance by what appeared to be the conflicting forces of orders to protect her and a fear of her.
Everyone outside of the car stared at everyone in the car. Atwell asked, “Now what?” The word “dumbass” was unsaid at the end of the question.
Confident they weren’t going to gun us down in front of the old woman I said, “Now we get out.” I stepped from the car, standing tall to give everyone a target in case I was wrong.
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Client: Ford
Target market: Generation AA
Title: Working Commuter
Actor Gender/Age: Adult male. Salty, looks old enough to be successful, but young enough to have vitality. Handsome, successful Young Dad on the way up vibe. The narrator shouldn’t be the Young Dad, but like one of his friends admiring him.
Description: 60-second spot, but needs to grab them in the first 5 seconds to avoid to skip hacks.
Direction notes: Young Dad is smiling, upbeat and enthusiastic, but relaxed. We’re looking at him through the driver’s side window of his new Ford Bronco Nirvana. The glass is crystal clear, but we can see the orange glow of the sunrise reflecting from it. Young Dad is ON FIRE and loving it.
VOICEOVER: It’s a scary world outside, but winners aren’t afraid. They aren’t stupid either.
ACTION: [The camera pulls back from Young Dad driving the Nirvana out of his enclave, waving to the gateguards as he pulls away. Underneath their helmets we can see the gateguards admiring the Nirvana as they wave back.]
VOICEOVER: When you have to leave your castle for that important client meeting, make sure your ride can get you there and back.
ACTION: [Young Dad drives the Nirvana off the smooth roads surrounding his enclave and onto a pockmarked road. This should be the worst of the worst, like the road into Detroit, grooves and potholes so bad the old yellow paint lines can barely be seen. The dried out dirt that the road runs through threatens to swallow it as Young Dad speedsalong without so much as spilling his coffee.]
VOICEOVER: With its new smart suspension the roads into the city won’t stop you. They won’t even give you a bumpy ride.
ACTION: [Against the orange burning of the sun, Young Dad speaks to the Nirvana‘s central computer. Through the glass we can see him mouth the words, “Office,” and the central console lights up with a map of his commute. As the Nirvana continues its smooth ride down the crumbling highway, Young Dad pulls on a sleep mask.]
VOICEOVER: With that smooth ride you can even catch a few extra winks on your way into the office by trusting Ford’s next generation auto-pilot.
ACTION: [With Young Dad napping safely behind the wheel, we see up ahead a group of nomads hiding behind berms that flank the road. Bob DO NOT pull in actual nomads for this shot. We don’t want grandmas living out of their RVs. We need some Mad Max level cannibals and ex-cons. Killers in wait for the unworried Young Dad cruising down the road. They’re big, mean and dressed in leather and about to slide out a row of road spikes. Think of that narco-tribe that butchered the bus of tourists down in Coahuila last week.
As the nomads slather over their next kill the Nirvana rolls right over the spikes without a blip.]
VOICEOVER: You won’t even need to watch the roads to make sure you get there safely. With the Nirvana‘spuncture proof tires and perimeter defense system, the Bronco will push past any non-essential threat.
ACTION: [With the Nirvana rolling down the road, the nomads howl in frustration while the sleeping Young Dad speeds past another commuter, driving something wimpy and small, like one of the new Sun Beetles, its solar panels caked in dust from the road. The viewer sees the driver of the Sun watch in jealousy as the Nirvana speeds by, this look turning to horror as he sees that the nomads have spotted him. He should have his mobile out, calling for roadside assistance, but now he’s saying his last words as the nomads head his way.
[Down the road, we see a city, clean and resplendent, one of its tall towers surely the Young Dad’s destination.]
VOICEOVER: Survive your commute in comfort. In style. In the new Ford Bronco Nirvava.
