In his quiet Antwerp gallery, a meticulous antique dealer is forced to choose between a career-defining sale and his ethical code when a mysterious visitor brings him a rare Yombe mask tied to Belgium’s colonial crimes in the Congo.
Characters:
DAVID NORDEN (60s): Antwerp antique dealer. Elegant, precise, with the calm of someone who knows every detail in his collection. His gallery is both sanctuary and trap.
PAVEL (50s): A Bulgarian émigré, worn down but proud. His grandfather was an officer under Leopold II in the Congo, who looted the mask and carried it back to Europe. Pavel has inherited it like a curse.
MS. ARCHER (50s): Wealthy, impatient, razor-sharp. She desires objects the way others desire air.
Setting:
David Norden’s art gallery in Antwerp. Minimalist, hushed. Glass cases glow like small chapels for masks, figures, and textiles.
SCENE START
INT. NORDEN GALLERY – DAY
Soft ambient music. The hum of climate control.
DAVID NORDEN adjusts a Dan mask with gloved precision. He steps back. Perfect.
The door opens with a soft CHIME.
PAVEL enters, shoulders heavy, travel bag in hand. He scans the gallery with sharp eyes, then sets the bag on a polished oak table.
DAVID
Good afternoon. Can I help you?
PAVEL
Mr. Norden. They said you are the one to see.
David studies him, then the bag.
DAVID
That depends on what you have.
Pavel unzips the bag. Inside: a bundle wrapped in faded indigo cloth. He unwraps it slowly.
A YOMBE MASK. Ancient. Gleaming dark wood, cracked patina, human yet otherworldly. The atmosphere in the room seems to tighten, as though the mask has drawn in the air.
David leans forward, transfixed. He puts on white gloves, lifts the mask with reverence.
DAVID
(whispering)
Yombe. Rare… see the kaolin here, still clinging to the face. Ritual libations soaked into the wood… This wasn’t carved for display. This was danced. Used. 19th century. Perhaps earlier.
(beat, sharper)
Where did this come from?
PAVEL
My grandfather. He was an officer, sent to the Congo by Leopold. He brought it back when he returned to Bulgaria.
David freezes.
DAVID
The Congo Free State…
PAVEL
He called it “the devil’s face.” My father locked it away. When he died, it became mine. It has never felt like it belongs to us.
David sets it down gently, as though it might break—or bite.
DAVID
This is not just art. It is a witness.
PAVEL
That’s why I bring it here. Not to auctions. Not to collectors. To you. They said you respect the art, not only the money.
The mask seems to drink the silence. The room feels heavier.
The CHIME of the door cuts through.
MS. ARCHER sweeps in, perfume sharp.
MS. ARCHER
David, darling! I was just passing—oh! What is this?
Her eyes lock on the mask. She stops, stunned.
MS. ARCHER
Magnificent. Terrifying. I must have it. Name your price.
David raises a hand, forcing calm.
DAVID
Ms. Archer, this is a private consultation.
MS. ARCHER
(ignoring him, enthralled)
Don’t be absurd. I want it. I’ll pay whatever it takes.
Pavel stiffens, uneasy. His eyes flick to the mask, then to Archer’s hungry stare.
David notices. He turns to Pavel.
DAVID
Pavel… go outside. Smoke one of your cigarettes. Even if they’re killing you. Let me handle this.
Pavel hesitates, relief and suspicion mixing in his eyes. Finally, he nods, pulls a crumpled pack from his coat, and leaves.
The door closes behind PAVEL. His footsteps fade. A faint cough outside as he lights his cigarette.
Silence. The mask sits between David and Ms. Archer like a third presence.
MS. ARCHER
(whispering, awed)
It’s… alive. Where did you get it?
DAVID
(flat, evasive)
Provenance is… complicated.
MS. ARCHER
(chuckling)
You’ve never let “complicated” stop you before.
David doesn’t smile. His eyes stay on the mask. The weight of it is in his hands, but also on his chest.
DAVID
This isn’t just a mask, Ms. Archer. It’s a witness. A relic of blood and conquest. It was never meant to be sold.
MS. ARCHER
(all the more thrilled)
Then I want it even more.
She steps closer. Her perfume collides with the mask’s earthy scent of wood and centuries.
MS. ARCHER
Name your price.
David doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets the mask gently on the table, adjusts its angle in the light — like bait on display. His silence sharpens the air.
MS. ARCHER
(impatient)
Don’t play games with me, David.
DAVID
(low, almost to himself)
Some things are… beyond price.
MS. ARCHER
Then let me prove you wrong.
She pulls out her phone. With a few quick taps, she turns the screen toward him: a number glowing in the six figures.
MS. ARCHER
Wire transfer. Today. You’ll never have to worry about rent, or climate control bills, or—
David’s eyes flicker at the sum. His hand trembles slightly. He steadies it by gripping the table.
DAVID
(quiet, conflicted)
You don’t understand what you’re asking.
MS. ARCHER
Oh, I understand perfectly. And so do you.
Beat. The muffled sound of PAVEL coughing outside reminds David of the promise he’s breaking.
David looks down at the mask. Then up at Ms. Archer.
CLOSE ON DAVID’S FACE. He nods — almost imperceptibly.
Ms. Archer exhales with satisfaction.
FADE TO BLACK.
EPILOGUE
INT. NORDEN GALLERY – EVENING
The gallery feels emptier than before. The oak table is bare where the mask had rested.
The door CHIMES.
PAVEL steps back inside, the faint smell of tobacco trailing him. His eyes immediately find the empty table.
PAVEL
Where is it?
DAVID
(quiet, controlled)
It’s gone. To someone who truly desires it.
David slides a printed transfer receipt across the table. The sum is staggering.
Pavel stares, disbelief giving way to relief. He exhales, almost laughing.
PAVEL
I carried it like a curse. And now… it’s freedom. Thank you, Mr. Norden. Truly.
He grips David’s hand, gratitude plain. He leaves. The door shuts behind him, the smoke from his cigarette lingering in the air.
INT. GALLERY – CONTINUOUS
David stands alone. His eyes drift to the empty space where the mask had sat. The silence feels heavier, almost alive.
DAVID
(whispering to himself)
History… not mystery.
He turns off the lights. Darkness fills the gallery.
INT. MRS. ARCHER’S PRIVATE HOME MUSEUM – NIGHT
The camera pans across polished shelves and softly lit display cases. The Yombe mask sits prominently, eyes gleaming in the lamplight.
Mrs. Archer walks among her treasures, hand brushing over them. She smiles, satisfied, almost reverently. The spirits of the mask, though silent, seem to inhabit the room — ancient and powerful — yet she is untroubled, intoxicated by their presence.
She pauses, looks at the mask.
MS. ARCHER
(to herself, softly)
Perfect.