Radiance

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.