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Потерянный уикэнд

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drowned.
That's drifting around
with a bloated belly on a lake of alcohol.
No it isn't. You still have it.
Quit trying to stall me Helen. It's too late.
There's no more writing left in me,
it's gone. What do you expect, a miracle?
Yes,
Yes, yes! If I could just make you...
-Who is it?
-It's me, Mr. Birnam.
-What is it, Nat?
-I got somethin' for you, Mr. Birnam.
-I hope I ain't intrudin.
-What is it?
You know when you had that accident?
Afterward I found this floatin' around on the Nile.
She writes pretty good. I oiled her up a little.
And I didn't oil her up so you can hock her.
-I'll take it, Nat.
-Hello, Miss.
Thank you, Nat.
How are all them lilacs in Ohio?
Well Don, here it is. What do you say now?
-Say about what?
-This.
Someone, somewhere, sent it back.
Why? Because he means you to stay alive,
because he wants you to write.
I didn't ask for a big miracle.
Write! With these hands?
And a brain that's all out of focus?
It'll clear up again. You'll be well.
And I'll be sitting there staring at that white sheet, scared.
No you won't. You've forgotten what it feels like to be well.
-What am I gonna write about? What?
-What you've always wanted to write.
Where was the page I found?
"The Bottle. A Novel by Don Birnam,"
What was that to be?
About a messed-up life. About a man and a woman and a bottle.
About nightmares, horrors, humiliations,
all the things I want to forget.
Put it all down on paper. Get rid of it that way.
Tell it all, to whom it may concern.
And it concerns so many people, Don.
Yeah.
I'll fix us some breakfast.
We have quite a supply of milk.
You'll notice I didn't even find a first line.
Course you couldn't write the beginning
because you didn't know the ending.
Only now...
Only now you know the ending.
I'm gonna send one copy to Bim,
one to the doctor who loaned me his coat, and one to Nat.
Imagine Wick standing in front of a book store.
A great big pyramid of my books.
A Novel by Don Birnam.
"That's by my brother, you know."
That's by my fellow. Didn't I always tell you?
I'm going to put this whole weekend down, minute by minute.
Why not?
The way I stood in there, packing my suitcase...
Only my mind wasn't on the suitcase,
and it wasn't on the weekend,
nor was it on the shirts I was putting in the suitcase either.
My mind was hanging outside the window.
It was suspended just about eighteen inches below...
And out there in that great big concrete jungle,
I wonder how many others that are like me.
Poor bedevilled guys, on fire with thirst.
Such comical figures to the rest of the world,
as they stagger blindly...
towards another binge, another bender, another spree...
Subtitles by °Fredalme°You better take this along, Don.
It's going to be cold on the farm.
How many shirts are you taking?
- Three.
I'm taking five.
- Five?
Yeah, I told them at the office I might not be back
until Tuesday. We'll get there this afternoon.
That'll give us all Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday.
We'll make it a long wonderful weekend.
Sounds long, all right.
It'll be good for you Don, after what you've been through.
Trees and grass and sweet cider and buttermilk...
and water from that well that's colder than any other...
Wick, please, why this emphasis on liquids?
Very dull liquids.
Sorry, Don.
You know, I think it'd be a good idea
if we took along my typewriter.
What for?
To write. I'm gonna write there. Get started on that novel.
You really feel up to writing?
- Why not?
I mean, after what you've been through.
I haven't touched the stuff for ten days now.
I know. I know you haven't Don.
Where is the typewriter?
- In the living room...
in the closet...
kinda towards the back.
Are you sure it's in the closet? I can't find it.
Well look by the desk.
Isn't it under your bed?
Did you find it?
- Oh sure, sure here it is.
And here's some paper.
Tell you what we'll do, we'll fix up a table
on the south porch and nobody'll disturb
Потерянный уикэнд Потерянный уикэнд

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