INT. ATTIC ROOM - SUNSET A bed. It is a narrow, old bed, with a bent ironframe. Advancing across its dirty white sheets, a black mark. Acockroach. Fat, glistening, it negotiates the hills and valleys of thebedclothes. Watching its approach, face down, inert, is the otheroccupant of the bed: GEORGES DUROY, 30, handsome, and, on this swelteringnight, naked. He explodes into action. Flicks the cockroach to the floor,grabs a boot and smashes the heel down on it. The room, bare but for thebed, is almost dark. A single shaft of orange light moves across thewalls before dying with the sun. Georges lights a stub of candle. Fromthe room next door, the familiar eruption of an argument. He listens fora second to the angry voices, the usual thud of overturned furniture. Hedresses quickly. A worn shirt, a shabby suit. He puts on his knackeredold boots. The left heel crunches underfoot with dead cockroach. He goesto the window ledge and scrapes off the mess. On the window sill, threetiny coins, his worldly wealth, and an old crust of bread and a cup ofwater. The bread is rock hard. He dunks it in the water to soften it up,then wolfs it. He scoops the coins into his hand, one, two, three, andpockets them. He inspects himself in a shard of mirror - tiny reflectionsof himself, his eyes, his jaw, his tie. INT. STAIRWELL - NIGHT Georgesdescends the gloomy, narrow stairwell of his tenement. The stairs arecrammed with people - families and rubbish overflowing from tiny slumrooms. At the bottom of the stairs, a DRUNK MAN pisses against the wall.Georges stops in disgust. He grabs the Man and hauls him into thealleyway beyond.
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