Radiance (33 page)

“We fought, the night before she and Erasmo went out on their own. Mariana was hurt by then, and I wanted to call White Peony Station for transport. I wanted to take care of my Mari. But, even more, I wanted them all to go, just
go
, so I could have the voices to myself. So I could finally
listen
, really
hear
them, in the quiet. None of them could shut up. They couldn't
open
up to the sound. The voices were deafening, by then—you just couldn't
think
, couldn't
move
. Their verbs tasted like life. The seraphim were touching us, touching me. They talked all the time, like carnival barkers advertising the known universe. Severin and I fought often—we'd been lovers, on Saturn, and you'll treat someone you've fucked far worse than someone you haven't. She screeched at me:
I have to know, I have to know. Take Mari and go if you want; I don't need you
. I hit her—she hit me back. It went like that with us, sometimes. But I pushed her. I pushed her and she fell.

You could never understand. Leave me alone with the wheels and the eyes and the heavens and your pitiful questions. Just keep your eye on the fifth knife—piercing the heart, as true and sharp as love. Stop the wheel, if you please. Get her down, now—mind the sequins. A star of knives—perfect, if I do say so myself. Now, a wave of my hand, of my wand, of the curtain of light—and abracadabra! She's perfectly well! Turn around and show the audience, honey; show them you don't have a scratch. She's fine. She's fine. See? She's fine.”

Then the Mad King of Pluto bent his face to the ruined floor of his broken house and wept as though he would never again see the sun.

 

“Calliope the Carefree Callowhale” PSA

PROPERTY OF THE BBC LUNA, RKO, AND CAPRICORN STUDIOS

FIRST AIRDATE: 28 FEBRUARY, 1930

VOICE-OVER: VIOLET EL-HASHEM AND ALAIN MBENGUE

[CALLIOPE THE CAREFREE CALLOWHALE dances onscreen. She is a joyful, animated character, all cheerful lines and unthreatening colours: a stylized whale, halfway between orca and beluga with a little happy humpback thrown in. Her palette is turquoise, azure, and navy blue, with big cerulean eyes framed by long lashes and purple eye shadow. The BBC shelled out heavily to Edison Corp. for the colour animation.

CALLIOPE bounces on her clownish tail in a field of sunflowers and magenta begonias. A fountain of healthy, nourishing callowmilk spurts continually from her blowhole.]

CALLIOPE

HI, KIDS! I'm Calliope the Carefree Callowhale! I'm here to remind all you growing boys and girls to DRINK YOUR MILK!

[MARVIN THE MONGOOSE (courtesy Capricorn Studios) marches in from the left-hand side of the frame. He wears a jaunty cap.]

CALLIOPE

Hello, Marvin! What have you been up to?

MARVIN

Nothing much, Callie! Only defeating the dastardly Crikey the Cobra with my lightning-quick fists! And I couldn't have done it without a tall glass of callowmilk for breakfast! It's got everything I need to keep me strong!

CALLIOPE

Righty-ho! Now, I've heard that some parents won't let their kids have callowmilk. They think I'm full of toxins and mutated protein strands. That hurts my feelings! [Giant tears with rainbows reflecting in their surfaces fall from her eyes.] Those meanie mumsies say I make babies come out all funny-looking! But I'm a good whale. I just want everyone to be happy and healthy! [She continues to weep. The sunflowers and begonias wilt.]

MARVIN

But Calliope, if kids don't drink their callowmilk, how will they ever have amazing adventures in space, like me?

CALLIOPE

That's just it, Marvin! They'll miss out on all the fun! I hate seeing children not having fun with their friends, don't you?

MARVIN

Sure do!

CALLIOPE

That's why I'm asking all of you to join my club, Calliope's Kids! Just get your mum and dad to send the BBC a self-addressed stamped envelope and proof of a year's worth of callowmilk purchases and, and I'll send you a badge, colouring book, super-secret Venusian decoder ring, and this spiffy hat that will let everyone know that YOU'RE one of Calliope's Kids, my very special friends! [The flowers spring back to life. Calliope does a somersault in the air and lands in a blue ocean. Marvin salutes her from a raft. He is wearing a pirate hat, an eye patch, and a Calliope's Kids badge.]

MARVIN

And if your parents are fans of
How Many Miles to Babylon?
, just tell them to include a letter telling us their favourite character and we'll throw in a neato plush callowhale and a signed photo of the cast!

CALLIOPE

Golly! I can't think of a reason
not
to be my friend! And friends look after each other, right, Marvin?

MARVIN

Right! So let's go get that wicked old Cobra King together!

CALLIOPE

You got it! [She somersaults over MARVIN'S raft, catching the sunlight in her fins. Cue theme music, freeze frame, and fade out.]

 

PART THREE

THE GREEN PAGES

You have often

Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding ‘Stay: not yet.'

—Miranda from
The Tempest,
William Shakespeare

A director only makes one film in his life. Then he breaks it up and makes it again.

—Jean Renoir

 

The Radiant Car Thy Sparrows Drew

(Oxblood Films, dir. Severin Unck)

SC3 EXT. ADONIS, VILLAGE GREEN—DAY 13 TWILIGHT POST-PLANETFALL 23:24 [30 NOVEMBER, 1944]

[EXT. Former site of the village of Adonis, on the shores of the Sea of Qadesh. Night. The Divers Memorial is a backlit monstrosity, bulbous and black. Wind buffets the sound and lighting equipment; lanterns swing wild, illuminating splatters of congealed white fluid drenching the site. In twenty-eight months no one has cleared the damage or removed the debris. Beams of illumination land on a series of objects, as briefly as a kiss, then leave them in darkness again: A door with an absurd number of locks—more than anyone could need—stove in. The crumpled, netted face of a diving bell. The mangled head of a carousel horse. A swath of white fabric wadded up like scrap paper—a parachute, perhaps? Tarpaulin? Broken amphorae. Pieces of roof. Broken glass. The child's slack, catatonic face. The faces of SANTIAGO ZHANG and HORACE ST. JOHN, struggling with cables and the boom mic, which dips into frame with the gusts of wind. MARIANA ALFRIC, her at-waist sound rig turning smoothly, though she has turned her back on the scene. She holds her hands over her face. Her nails are bitten raw. The mic records only wind, rendering SEVERIN'S beloved talking picture a silent film.

SEVERIN is grabbing the child's hand urgently. He begins to scream, soundlessly, held brutally still in his steps by ERASMO and MAXIMO VARELA, whose muscles bulge with what appears to be a colossal effort—keeping this single, tiny, bird-boned child from his circuit. The boy clutches his hand to his thin chest as though it is a precious possession. His only possession. The boy's eyes are as wide as an electroshock patient's, pupils blown, his whole body rigid, erect. He moves his head back and forth:
no, no, no.
It is hard to tell—the film is damaged, the light levels destroyed, patches of overexposure blossom over the footage like splashes of milk—but the boy is mouthing a word that looks like
please
. The storm eats up his voice, if he has one.

SEVERIN'S jagged hair, and occasionally her chin, swing in and out of frame as she struggles with him. She turns over the boy's hand, roughly, to show the camera what she has found there: tiny fronds growing from his skin, tendrils like ferns, seeking, wavering, wet with milk. The film jumps and shudders; the child's hand vibrates, faster, faster.
FILM DAMAGED FOOTAGE OVEREXPOSED SKIP AFFECTED AREA SKIPPING SKIPPING SKIPPING
]

 

Production Meeting,
The Deep Blue Devil
The Man in the Malachite Mask
Doctor Callow's Dream

(Tranquillity Studios, 1960, dir. Percival Unck)

Audio Recorded for Reference by Vincenza Mako

PERCIVAL UNCK:
No, no, you're wrong, Vince. It's shit. It doesn't sit right. He's too unpleasant, too weak. He's not likeable. And that curse isn't adding anything but a stick up his arse. It just
sags
. Gothic stories will sprawl if you let them, like spilled wine. No writer should go anywhere near the Island of the Lotus-Eaters—you get stuck there. If Odysseus couldn't get quit of that place, our boy has no hope. It's got all the right pieces, but the end comes in the middle of the blasted thing. I hate it. I want to get out of my own movie. That can't be good.
     And, I just … I just can't do it. I can't give her an ice dragon and a vampire and smack her bottom and tell her to go play. I need something real to hold on to. She's gone. If it were enough to imagine her killed by a mad magician on the American frontier, I could have done that in my head and not bothered with a script. No. No. It can't be my story. It can't be ours.

MAKO:
But it can't be hers, either. The thing about a mysterious disappearance is that it's mysterious. There's no answer that will be satisfying enough for the masses. There's no documentary to be made, no scandal to be exposed.

UNCK:
I don't care. I made
The Abduction of Proserpine
already. I'm done with that. Christ, I was a young man when
Proserpine
wrapped. You can't use the language of your youth to talk about your daughter. It doesn't work. Maybe we should go back to noir. Or something else. Or fucking
quit
. It's never taken us this long, Vince. We're the king and queen of the quick turnaround. Why can't I tell a simple story? She was born, she lived, she wanted things, she died. Yes, she died. I'm willing to admit that as a possibility. I can stage her death if that's the right ending. I can do anything for the right ending. I staged her beginning, so I can place the marks for her end.
     [long pause]

MAKO:
Then let it be what it always was. What it must be. A child's story. Not hers. Not ours. But his. Something terrible happened to a little boy in a beautiful place and it kept happening until a woman came from the sky to save him. Came sailing down like Isis with her arms full of roses. It's a fairy tale. A children's story. Not a funny or silly one, but one with blood and death and horror, because that's fairy tales, too. A kid got swallowed by a whale. A little Pinocchio. A little Caliban. It's all there.
     And, you know, in a fairy tale, the maidens are never dead—not really. They're just sleeping.