Well, never mind! The wrap party is TONIGHT. And no smoky speakeasy for our rarefied carousing, no sir! Banish silence! Tear up the title cards! My darling maestro Thaddeus has thrown us all such a treat: it’s to take place aboard his yacht on the Sea of Tranquillity! The Achelois is a grand, wasteful, brilliant beast of a thing—it’s got its own ballroom, a ninepins alley, a wine cellar fit for a bevy of Roman emperors, and Thad makes sure there’s fresh violets and a dash of snuff in everyone’s staterooms.
Or so my darling Regina tells me. This will be my maiden voyage. The yacht used to belong to Jefferson Dufresne, back when he was the King of the Historicals at Plantagenet Pictures and everyone licked his boots for the chance to fart on Bosworth Field. So Regina, my old flatmate (gosh, it feels like a thousand years ago that I had to split the rent!), got to go after she played Empress Josephine in his great big Frenchie flop. Quelle injustice! That I should have to wait until I am nearly forty, when she got to go at nineteen!
They’ll paddle us all about for a few days, and I don’t doubt we’ll all turn up on Monday with Earth-tans and hickeys. Boats practically require debauchery—why, nothing that happens aboard ship really matters! It’s a little bubble, floating free away from the world. A weak and idle theme, no more yielding but…blah blah blah. Slap that together with the divine nonsense of a wrap party and I’ll be surprised if I survive the weekend.
I plan to wear my best Plutonian buffalo fur, a ruby tiara, and not a lick else. Though at the moment I am looking quite respectable in my ecru suit and a hat with just two skinny old feathers in it. I only have this drab thing for meetings with my agent and tribulations at traffic court…bless me, but I am as clumsy as clown shoes in an automobile! But today I shall (probably) not be admonished for speeding on the Hyperion Speedway—for goodness’ sake, why call it a speedway if you aren’t meant to floor it? Today I have a perfectly ladylike luncheon date with my erstwhile stepdaughter. I’m not certain when my private little teas at the Savoy became teas for two, but I’m ever so glad they did. It’s occasionally refreshing to simply sit with someone who has known you a long while and still thinks you’re worth a damn. I suppose that’s why people have children in the first place. It’s hard to scare up such a thing, otherwise.
I do miss old Percy sometimes. Thad invited him along on the yacht, so I may rescind that statement by Sunday night. I wonder if he’ll bring a date—other than Clara? The better question is, who won’t be there? Even that bitter mongoose of a man from Places, Everyone! will get his fresh violets and snuff. I suspect Thaddeus let his secretary make the guest list. It’s chock-a-block with people who’ve nothing to do with Miranda. It’s a wrap party for my film. I do not see why both my ex-husbands should be in attendance, except that the girl who does her nails while I take my meetings thought that it would be scrumptious to see all her favourites in one spot! The Edisons are coming as well, boorish Freddy and Penelope, that fretful slip of a wife he’s got.
She wasn’t always, you know. When I met her, she was Penny Catarain, a brilliant lit fuse of a girl. A techie, good enough to get hired even with a mountain of boys ahead of her. She always gave the impression of having accidentally wandered in from a mad scientist’s conference, and felt rather desperate to get back. She worked sound on my first big studio talkie, before speaking in a flick became the equivalent of farting at a dinner party. Penny made my voice sound like a crystal fountain. But I suppose being married to an utter pig will wear a soul down to the nub. I shall make certain to get her good and sauced on the Achelois. I’ll get Mrs Edison dancing if I have to put firecrackers in her slippers.
I got Penelope alone once at the Capricorn/Plantagenet Studios treaty signing. You can’t really call it a merger when Plantagenet invaded—with a squadron of soldiers, three biplanes, and one, albeit very old and crotchety, Chinese tank—Capricorn’s backlots in order to liberate two leading men and a stack of prints being held in a vault. Those boys were nothing but an excuse, anyway, a cover to make Mr P look like the injured party. Plantagenet’s real objective was to force Cap to “sell” the rights to their marquee characters Marvin the Mongoose, the Arachnid, and Vickie VaVoom for less than I pay for stockings. I took a bullet in the shoulder over a cartoon rodent. But so it goes on the mad old Moon. I heal like a champion.
It was a jollier evening than you might expect: pink paper lanterns, extras dressed up as Marvin and Vickie signing autographs, plenty of champagne and saxophones. Penelope wore blue, I recall. We jawed about the good old days, and she got that look on again, like she’d only slipped away from her fellow mad scientists for lunch and really had to be getting back.
I took her arm. “Honey, does he beat you?”
Mrs Edison looked quite stunned. “No! Christ, what a thing to ask.”
“Then what is it? You always look like you want to lay down and become one with the floor.”
I didn’t expect an answer. I felt certain she would walk away, head high, and never speak to me again. But instead she shrugged and whispered, “He doesn’t let me work.”
People think Percy’s a vicious bear, too, but he’s not so bad. Husbands come a lot worse than mine. I often thought Percy had his head on the right way round, anyhow. It’s only what you print to film that sticks, in the end. That’s what people will see forever, not your silly, flawed memories and inelegant bumbling after happiness. The power of the final cut is what you want—and if you can make it all a little better, a little brighter, a little more symmetrical, and a touch more mysterious, well, why not do it, after all? So what if I had to do a couple of Christmas mornings over again so the light on my face looked nicer, or Sevvy could summon up a little more joy over those woolly socks? I’ve seen the film: those Christmases were glorious. Nowadays, I can only really remember them the way they looked when Percy played them back to us. It’s not the worst thing in the world, to only remember the best version of yourself.
But it is unsettling to see a child do three or four takes of Yuletide ecstasy without batting an eye, I must say.
Still, I did love him. He never minded if I wore my pyjamas for a week and didn’t brush my hair. That’s a good quality in a man. Maybe the best a girl can hope for, considering. And, by Jove, he loves that child. Did you know you can fall in love with the way a man loves someone else? It sounds all zigzagged, but it’s true. Love takes so much effort. You have to get up ever so early in the morning to really love someone properly.
I don’t suppose I shall have a daughter of my own now. I’m not fussed over it. It was on the to-do list, but you know to-do lists. They get longer and longer until you might as well just carve the last items on your tombstone.
Do the dishes.
Pick up gown from the cleaners.
Sign contract.
Perish.
Oh bollocks, I forgot: Have children.
Cue that sad trombone. Besides, I’m rather off marriage at the moment. First Percy, then poor Nigel Lapine—what a disaster! Remind me, my darling, loyal diary, to never again marry a man who makes love with his socks on. I don’t care how his slapstick flickies make me laugh! Diary, you must stand firm! Nigel told me I ought to quit the pictures and make babies, so I told him he ought to quit my house and make a movie with more depth than getting kicked in the balls, and I’m not the teensiest bit sorry. Comedians have no sense of humour.
Thaddeus asked me to marry him, of course. The same day that he told me Miranda had been greenlit. He does it every time he offers me a new Madame Mortimer picture, comes sailing into my parlour with a part in one hand and a ring in the other. I always take the part, but leave the ring. Saints and ministers of grace! It would seem only directors can love a girl like me. I told the scoundrel not to be absurd. He doesn’t mean it. He’s never so much as kissed me, and he never will. Thad is the Moon’s uncle, every starlet’s confessor—but never their lover. Perhaps I shall just say yes one day. That would shock the red out of his hair! But then I might have to go through with it, and I’
d rather have a half-barrel of spinach than a husband at the moment.
For that matter, I’m rather off men these days, full stop. I suppose that would make me perfect for Thaddeus. Perhaps that’s why he’s forever asking me. He knows I won’t spill his plate of beans and he won’t spill mine. We are each quite safe in the company of the other. After all, everyone needs a secret to stick in their lapel.
Perhaps I shall invite Sevvy on our little cruise. It would do her good, poor lamb. Being a teenager is always trying, for them and for everyone else, but she cannot seem to get into the rhythm of the thing. I’ve tried to tell her she doesn’t have to go into the industry. There’s every other thing out there, and a lot of it doesn’t require our sort of genteel schizophrenia. She’s just burning up with ambition, but the poor bunny’s got nowhere to put it. I don’t think the Patented Pellam System for Prevailing Over the Perils of Pubescence would be of much help.
Stop speaking to your parents
Run away from your planet
Take off your clothes as often as possible, but only while reciting Shakespeare (and being paid scale)
Buy a cat
Drink your milk
Mug your destiny in an alley and punch it until it gives you what you want
See? What use is that rot to my girl? I don’t think I will invite her. It’s hard enough to grow up without having to watch adults act like fools and monsters all the time. And it’s hard enough being a fool and a monster without a knock-kneed kid spitting responsibility into your drink.
Aha! Speak of the devil and she arrives, desperate for a proper hug.
16 January, 1930, Two in the Morning…Or Is It Three?
The Butterfly Room, Aboard the Achelois, Sea of Tranquillity
Come on, Mary, sober up! If you don’t write it down, you won’t remember it, and if you don’t remember it, somebody’s going to get away with murder and you’ll never even know who. It’s only a spot of gin, girl. Give yourself a couple of good slaps and steady your damned course.
Thaddeus Irigaray is dead!
God forgive me, I think Percy killed him.
How Many Miles to Babylon?:
Episode 1
Airdate: 24 March, 1914
Announcer: Henry R. Choudhary
Vespertine Hyperia: Violet El-Hashem
Tybault Gayan: Alain Mbengue
The Invisible Hussar: Zachariah von Leipold
Doctor Gruel: Benedict Sol
Guest Star: Wadsworth Shevchenko as the Maroon Marauder
ANNOUNCER: Good Evening, Listeners, if it is indeed Evening where you are. BBC Radio is proud to present to you a Sunday night drama you won’t soon forget. We’ll see you here every week at seven in the evening for rollicking stories of derring-do and breathless excitement. Journey back to the early days of planetary settlement. Join the brave men and women of the Pioneer Age as they explore a Venus untouched by man! Gather in, pour yourself a cup of something nice, and sit back for the first thrilling instalment of the solar system’s newest tale of adventure, romance, and intrigue on How Many Miles to Babylon?
Babylon is a joint production of the United/Universal All-Worlds Wireless Broadcom Network (New York, Shanghai, Tithonus) and BBC Radio, recorded at Atlas Studios, London.
This evening’s programme is brought to you by Idun’s Apples Cosmetics, makers of fine soaps, hair oils, cold creams, lip rouges, and foundations, prepared lovingly from a secret blend of soothing botanicals, exotic scents, and ambergris from the finest Venusian sources. Additional promotional consideration provided by Prithvi Deep Sea Holdings Cooperative, a Family Company; Branston Pickle; Kerykeion Premium Coffees, Roasted on Mercury, Served at Your Table; the East Indian Trading Company; and Edison Teleradio Corp.
[Cue wind effects, hollow, haunting, wild breezes echoing through space. Fade into electronic background noise, beeps #445, 23, 71, and 101.]
TYBAULT: Oh, Vespertine, heart of my heart! When you open the door of this stalwart rocket which has been home and hearth to us for so long, we will behold the surface of a virgin world! Who knows what we may find on the shores of watery Venus? What marvels, what perils?
VESPERTINE: They will be our marvels, my beloved, our perils! We will make a new home, hewn from the tree of our love!
[Door creak #6, footsteps #11 and 12.]
VESPERTINE: [aside] When I looked upon that new world, splendid in every way and in every way terrible, I looked upon a tiger with stars falling from his striped tongue. I looked and saw my true bridegroom—but would it also be my grave?
TYBAULT: A sea as red as a rose garden stretches out before us—but what are those strange shapes on the horizon? We shall investigate on the morrow! Ah, how marvellously the cacao-trees soar into the rosy sky! I shall build you a house of these fine planks. How rich the violet fruit on every bough! We will never starve, my darling!
DOCTOR GRUEL: But perhaps you will BURN!
VESPERTINE: Oh no! Who are you, masked sir?
DOCTOR GRUEL: I am Doctor Gruel, and Venus is mine! I am the Wizard of the Whales! I command their awesome power and ride upon their backs as on a pirate galleon! I will allow no man to dwell upon this Eden planet but me and mine!
TYBAULT: I warn you, Doctor Gruel, I am a strong man—I am not without powers of my own! And I am but the first. More ships follow behind in a great silver wave!
DOCTOR GRUEL: And my banditos and I will DESTROY THEM ALL! AH HA HA HA HA!
His Master’s Voice
Transcript from 1946 debriefing interview with Erasmo St. John, property of Oxblood Films, all rights reserved.
Security clearance required.
CYTHERA BRASS: Are you ready to start again?
ERASMO: I don’t know why you ask that when you’ve already begun recording. Obviously, we have started, whether I like it or not. Is it in a handbook somewhere?
CYTHERA: Actually, yes.
ERASMO: I would love to see that handbook.
CYTHERA: Perhaps after we finish here. Begin session two, day one. Let’s roll it back a little. How would you describe the general mood that first night at the Adonis base camp? Before you ventured into the village itself. December first, 1944.
ERASMO: Let me ask you something. Have you ever worked on a movie?
CYTHERA: [short laugh] I am the Chief Security Officer of the biggest film studio on the Moon.
ERASMO: I know that. But have you ever worked on a movie? As a script girl or a gopher or a rigger or a costumer, or, hell, even as an actress? Actually been part of a crew, not just signed checks and kept out riffraff and called in tactical strikes on Plantagenet lots.
CYTHERA: As a matter of fact, I have.
ERASMO: Oh?
CYTHERA: Cross of Stone. 1919.
ERASMO: I love that flick.
CYTHERA: I was one of Queen Matilda’s handmaidens. You can only see me in the background of one shot.
ERASMO: I knew you looked familiar.
CYTHERA: Don’t be absurd. You couldn’t possibly remember.
ERASMO: Cyth, my love, it is my job to see the smallest details of a film. You wore that ridiculous headdress with two points on it like antelope horns. You tore your veil halfway through the scene but kept your game face on quite admirably.
My point is, if you’ve worked on a movie, you know what it’s like, the night before you start filming on location. There’s an energy bouncing all around like balloons fizzing out. Everyone needs their sleep but no one wants to be the first to go. We just wanted to wallow in that wonderful moment before everything started, because in that moment, we all believed the movie was perfect. All we had to do was go and get it. No one had fucked up a shot or wasted film or started giggling in the middle of a line yet.
So what was the mood? What did we do? We actually sat around an actual campfire and told stories. Arlo tried to tell a joke again. [pause] Did you know him?
CYTHERA: I did.
ERASMO: Did you ever manage to hear him tell a whole joke all the way through? br />
CYTHERA: [laughs softly] Once. But it was a really short one.
ERASMO: Tell me.
CYTHERA: It was at a company picnic out by the Sea of Serenity. We played cricket against Plantagenet—it’s not all tactical strikes, as you so bluntly put it. Arlo and I were both hopeless. You’d think the Australian would’ve put up a better show than me. The Seneca nation has never had a team and never will. But Arlo made me look aces. After we lost, we were lying on the grass and he turned to me and said: So, two fish are floating in a tank and one turns to the other and says, ‘Hey, do you know how to drive this thing?’ I think I actually applauded.
ERASMO: Good for him. Well, he kept on at the one about the mummy snake and the baby snake, but it was no go. The weather was calm; no storm clouds. We ate bacon sandwiches with hot mustard and roasted sausages over the fire. Aylin Novalis, our guide, asked Mariana about growing up on Mercury. Aylin had never been, which shocked me. Mercury is practically right next door! So Mariana told her all about it.
“I was born in Nefertem, a small town not far from Trismegistus in the Tropic of Gemini, the temperate zone between the hot side of the planet and the cold side. My parents raised dragons. Most everyone in Nefertem did.”
“It’s my lifelong ambition to see one of those up close,” our best boy Santiago said. Now, as far as I can tell, everything imaginable was Santiago Zhang’s lifelong ambition. Did you eat real camel once? He’d practically leap into the air and tell you it was his lifelong ambition to eat real camel. Pilot a ship the whole length of the Orient Express? By god, it was Iggy’s lifelong damned ambition to shoot a rocket down the ice road like a billiard ball.
Mariana said, “Go to a damn zoo sometime, Iggy.” Everybody laughed. She told us what they looked like, the native Mercurial beasties. Komodo dragons crossed with zebras crossed with otters, with the personality of a drunken granddad set in his ways. Have you seen one?