by Lori Lebow
Son: But I like her. We laugh. She is funny.
Father: You can go to the festival, but be home by sundown, understand? And tidy your room. (Sounds of retreating footsteps)
Mother: That Mona is not for our son, Petreus.
Father: He does not have to marry her. He can go out with her to the festival. They have been friends for years. It won’t hurt.
Mother: He is growing up so fast. That’s a beautiful pot, Petreus.
Father: I think it is a bit lop-sided. Keep the dog away from the wheel. Hey, get away from that …
Faith shook her head. “In some ways their conversation is no different from any conversation in any home with children today.”
“True,” Justin nodded. “In fact, it is exactly like any conversation in any home with children today. Nothing has changed in thousands of years.”
“So why does this exhibit wind up in your museum?”
“Because it confirms that people have been the same for thousands, perhaps millions of years. Don’t you find that rather miraculous? If we were to meet that family from ancient Greece, we would find that their basic drives and feelings are very much the same as ours. Speaking of ‘feeling’, let’s go into the Feeling Adventurous wing and you can experience some wild moments.
They proceeded through the arched entrance to a series of displays. In front of each cabinet of models and information were plastic buttons and lights with PRESS HERE signs. The first cabinet was called SIR DOUGLAS MAWSON’S FEELINGS WHEN HE TURNED TO SEE HIS TWO COMPANIONS IN ANTARCTICA AND HE SAW ONLY ONE BECAUSE NINNIS HAD FALLEN INTO A CREVASSE WITH ALL OF THEIR FOOD AND MANY OF THEIR SUPPLIES. In the cabinet was a model showing a skier turned to check on the progress of the other members of the party. Only one man was visible dragging a sledge of supplies across a landscape of snow and ice. Faith pressed the button and felt a heart-stopping horror as the situation Douglas Mawson faced dawned on him. It was dreadful, and according to the story of his trek back to camp over weeks, facing starvation and cold, only the beginning of a nightmare. Fatih quickly released the button. She did not touch the next one which was called: HOW DOUGLAS MAWSON FELT WHEN HE SAW THE RESCUE SHIP SAILING OUT OF SIGHT JUST AS HE FINALLY REACHED THE COAST.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Justin grinned. “There are so many excellent adventures in here: the first explorers seeing Yellowstone Park, the Charles Sturt expedition in Australia, the Curries discovering uranium, and on and on. We even have the first musical instruments produced by Palaeolithic peoples hundreds of thousands of years ago. After all, what else could they do to entertain themselves? But there is so much left to see and experience, and unfortunately it is nearly opening time so I must leave you.”
“Thanks so much,” Faith looked at Justin Mizmere with gratitude beyond words. “This is really a miraculous place. I would love to spend my time here. Is there any chance that you might be needing help in running the Museum?”
“I think you would be an excellent member of the staff,” Justin replied. “Perhaps you could start off in the Museum Shop. Go have a look, and come back tomorrow with your resume. We will certainly find a place for you.”
Faith immediately visited the Museum Shop where she bought a little sachet of scented potpourri called HOPE. The directions said: ESSENCE OF HOPE WILL INVIGORATE AND INSPIRE. SIMPLY LEAVE THIS SACHET WHERE IT WILL INFLUENCE YOUR THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS. (IN A DRAWER, WHERE YOU LIVE IS A GOOD SPOT SO IT CAN INFUSE YOUR MIND WITH POSITIVE INCLINATIONS).
§ § §
“Well, what did you think?” Marcel had been watching the guests through the windows that opened from the dance floor as a full moon lifted its face over the horizon.
The woman handed the book back and sipped her wine. “Whimsical. Amusing. I found it entertaining.” Marcel waited for her to go on. “Thanks for sharing it,” she smiled and strode briskly back to the hall. The smokers had already returned to the party, and a few members of the staff were bustling around clearing away drinks and plates, or carrying containers to the kitchen. Marcel saw a security guard leaning against the wall nearest the main servery driveway. He was smoking a cigarette. When a waitress passed, they exchanged pleasantries. Marcel nodded his greeting and turned to watch the moon.
“Nice night,” the security guard commented and took a short puff on his cigarette.
“Nice party,” Marcel returned. “Not much for you to do.”
“No, there isn’t,” the guard agreed as his short wave radio or phone spluttered a message which he ignored.
“What exactly are you supposed to do?” Marcel asked, thumbing the pages of his book.
“Maintain law and order. Keep out gate crashers.”
“Do you know who the gate crashers are?” Marcel glanced at him sideways.
“You are the gate crasher,” the guard replied mildly, stomping out his cigarette.
Marcel nodded. “Why didn’t you throw me out?”
“Well, you weren’t bothering anybody, and it seemed a bit rough to trouble the folks at Table One if you were about to leave without a fuss anyway.”
“Thanks for that,” Marcel handed him the book. “Have you had a chance to see my book?”
The guard looked impressed. “Nice cover.”
“Read one of the stories, if you like, and tell me what you think.”
“Oh, I’m not much of a reader.”
“Here is a short one,” Marcel opened it to a page near the end. “It will take you two minutes.”
The guard looked at his watch, then read:
Gothic Dog
June Schneider looked at the Rottweiler sceptically as her husband, Bruno, patted it and praised, “Good boy, Tod. Good sit stay.” He followed this up with a big piece of steak. Tod gulped it down with one noisy slurp, and looked keen for more. He even gazed longingly at Bruno’s hand.
“You have to do that?” June was alarmed. “His name is ‘Tod’?”
“He has to be trained, still,” Bruno explained. “And his name means ‘Death’.”
“I know what his name means!” his wife countered testily. “You said he was a trained guard dog.”
“He is!” Bruno insisted. “But it is always important to reinforce the training. He needs to be reminded about the other training, you know like: sit, stay, come when called.”
“Who is going to train him?”
“All of us,” Bruno replied brightly. “You and I and the kids will carry little food treats and every time he follows a command, we will reward him.”
“The children are too young, Bruno. I am not home all of the time, and you are here least of all.”
“That’s why we need a good guard dog,” Bruno raised his eyebrows. “And Rottweilers are the best breed for this. Tod is a trained guard dog already. Tod, sit. Sit, Tod, sit and stay. Tod, sit. Sit Tod. Good dog. June, we just need to reinforce his training. He’ll be fine. Tod, sit. Sit, Tod, sit. Sit and stay.”
June watched as Tod dragged Bruno toward the kitchen counter where the rest of the steak was on the cutting board. Tod was so strong he put his front paws on the counter and snatched the meat while Bruno protested helplessly. When standing on his hind legs, Tod was as tall as Bruno. June looked on in horror, and then joined her husband in telling the dog to sit and stay. Finally Tod sat, but it seemed more an inclination of his own than a response to any directives from the Schneiders. “How much did this dog cost us?” June was almost afraid to know.
“Only six-hundred dollars,” Bruno wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “He is a purebred from a line of international champions. He is worth thousands.”
“Can we get our money refunded and just hire an alligator or taipan?” June asked. “I’d feel safer.”
Bruno was not in the mood for jokes. “No, we can’t get our money back. He stays, and guards, and we persevere with the training. He will protect our property, and he will make a good companion. Tod: sit. Sit Tod, stay. Sit.”
June looked at the huge beast as it d
ragged Bruno into the lounge room, ignoring his commands. It made a low growling sound before it finally did what was required to claim its reward. She felt that a new terror had been introduced into their household, far worse than the threats from thieves or intruders.
§ § §
“Will you give me your opinion of the story?” Marcel took back the book as the guard scratched his head.
“I don’t know. What was the point? I didn’t get it.”
“Oh, the dog was like a time bomb ready to go off but no one could predict when.”
“I knew a guy who had one of them dogs,” the guard sniffed. “It latched onto his hand one day and they couldn’t get it to let go. Finally took both of them to the hospital in an ambulance. Had to sedate both of them, too. Lucky the guy didn’t lose any fingers.”
“What happened to the dog?”
“I think they put him up for adoption. Re-homing. Scary thought, eh?”
“Exactly,” Marcel nodded. “Thanks for reading my book. And thanks for letting me stay for the dinner.”
He waved his farewell and walked around the corner of the hall toward the front entrance. The moon cast sharp shadows and was so bright Marcel found when he stared at it he could feel his irises contract. He heard the limousine pull to a stop on the gravelled driveway. The driver climbed out and adjusted the bunting with which the limo was decorated. He saw Marcel looking in his direction and tipped his hat; Marcel saluted briefly. Marcel passed the main doors when he heard the gathered crowd laughing. The speeches were underway. He stood in a shadowed area of the porch to listen and observe through the leaded glass windows. Catriona and Brendon were enjoying themselves at Table Three.
“… so Emma decided to play hard to get and refused Greg the first time he asked her,” the speaker was saying. “Then she had to beg him for the rest of the night to ask her again because she was only teasing, and he wouldn’t…”
Marcel could also see the mirror over the table he had been sharing with the distant relatives. They were turned around to listen to the speeches. Dessert and beverages had been served and the waiters were moving from table to table with more coffee and tea in shiny pots. The speakers concluded, and invited the happy couple to cut the cake, which they did amidst more wisecracks and smiling faces. Then someone asked Emma to prepare to throw her bouquet to the next bridal couple, and eligible women moved out to the dance floor for the event. Emma tossed the bouquet over her head, and Catriona reached up effortlessly to catch it. Marcel could not hear the comments, but he saw Brendon give Catriona a kiss. They both looked very happy, too.
Marcel turned his back on the celebration and strode over to the limousine. The young chauffeur was leaning on the passenger door. “Beautiful evening,” Marcel observed to the driver, who nodded.
“What is happening in there?” the driver asked.
“Oh they have just started the speeches,” Marcel told him. “It will be a while yet. You could read one of my stories, if you like.”
“Uh, no thanks,” the driver shook his head.
“Where are you taking the bride and groom?”
“The Sydney Hilton. Do you think they will be finished in the next five minutes?”
“No,” Marcel was emphatic. “The speeches have only just started. They still have to cut the cake and throw the bouquet, and dance. You have plenty of time.”
“Then I’ll just nick over to the loo,” the driver decided. “Thanks.” He was gone.
Moments later, Emma and Greg, changed already from their marriage costumes, reached the limo and jumped in. They were laughing and jubilant. Everything had run smoothly. The driver was making a call on a mobile phone as the car headed into traffic, and he contacted his dispatcher on the CB while the limousine cruised toward the centre of town.
“This trip will only take about twenty minutes if the traffic is with us,” the driver announced. Emma and Greg stopped laughing.
“I beg your pardon,” Emma felt she had to shout to make herself heard to the driver who was sitting so far from them.
“I think the travel time to the Hilton will be about twenty minutes, traffic permitting,” the driver repeated. “Perhaps you would like to read a story from my book to pass the journey,” he added, and waved a volume while watching for their reaction in the rear vision mirror.
“This is not an appropriate time to be reading anything,” Greg laughed.
“The book is called ‘Read for Your Life’. It is always an appropriate time to read,” the driver persisted.
“Let’s see the book.” Emma scooted forward to take the volume then scooted back to her seat. “Oh, you must be the guy who was chasing Brendon. This is the book,” she told Greg.
“Go on,” Marcel encouraged them. “Pick one story. They are short stories. In the novel, the main character holds guests at his hotel prisoner until they read a story from his book and respond to it. ‘Read for Your Life’ implies that they have no choice if they want to live. Well, it could imply that. It is ambiguous.” The limo stopped at the end of a long line of red tail-lights snaking into the city. “Looks like the traffic is against us,” Marcel pointed to the motionless gridlock of cars. “Might as well read a story as not.”
“Where is the limo driver?” Greg demanded. “You’re not in uniform. What’s going on?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” Marcel said sweetly. “I will drive you to your destination. Even if you don’t read a story.”
But Emma had already started reading:
Life Script
Frank Goodfellow and his partner, Matilda, took their seats in the Director’s office after greetings were exchanged. Matilda held the sleeping infant, two-year-old, Blake, in her arms. The Director, Morris Golden, rifled through the couple’s file and then handed Frank some claim forms.
“You will present these to the attendant at the Script Collection and Return Department each time you complete a CD-ROM pack. We used to issue the scripts in print form on paper, but people needed storage areas as big as two box cars — some people needed three times that much space — to store even a few years of material. The new electronic formats are much more space-and-cost efficient. You can now get about a year of scripted material onto one set of CDs. Blake’s first five years are only going to need ten CDs. Of course, some folks just have more to say, or are prone to take many words to say very little, or repeat themselves, so their scripts are much heftier than other folks. Quantity has no necessary bearing on quality.”
Frank and Matilda looked adoringly at their baby, and then at each other. “Have you seen Blake’s script?” Frank asked, containing his excitement with difficulty.
“Oh yes, Mr Goodfellow,” Morris nodded. He slid a large volume toward Frank. “This is only a synopsis of Blake’s life. As you can see, he lives to a ripe old age.”
Again Frank and Matilda exchanged happy glances. Frank thumbed the heavy tome, and read a few entries on the last page before Morris stopped him.
“It is actually forbidden to read ahead in the script,” Morris said. “People do it, of course, but whether you know what is going to happen in the future makes no difference. You are required to follow the script word for word.”
Matilda nodded her understanding but could not resist asking, “What if Blake makes up some bits. You know, ad libs. What would happen to him?” She gave the child an affectionate cuddle that woke him up. He was bright and pink-cheeked. He started chattering about the big book and struggled to touch it.
There was a tap on the door, and Morris rose to admit a wizened, stooped old man who smiled briefly at each of the adults and grinned at Blake. “This is your Prompter, Ike Rivet. He will stay with Blake and keep him on the script. If Blake gets lost, or starts to wander from the material, Ike will prompt to help Blake get back on course.”
Frank looked relieved. “Oh good. Ike, what did you do before you became a Prompter?”
Morris answered, “Ike was a professional hit man for an underworld gang. He agreed to bec
ome a prompter as part of his community service component of early prison release.”
Frank looked concerned. “So what does Ike do now?”
“He’s a Prompter,” Morris repeated. ” He helps people who have trouble sticking to the script. Ike removes from the play players who do not learn and deliver their lines.”
Blake squealed and his mother shuddered. “That seems a bit harsh,” she said.
Morris shrugged. “The life scripts were designed to keep everyone to their part, and to see that the plots were followed. It was the best way to give life order and purpose, and the best way to avoid anarchy. As you know, at birth each child is issued with their own personal destiny in the form of a life script which they must recite until they die. Everyone’s words and actions become part of the grand plan, the great scheme of comedy and tragedy. No one has to take independent action because every moment of existence is already worked out in the script.”
“Well,” Frank concluded, “I guess you have a pretty big speaking part, little fella,” he told Blake as he hoisted the grinning baby into the air. Mr Golden, did you realize that Blake was named for the great Romantic poet, William Blake?”
“He was a revolutionary, I believe. Possibly a dangerous thinker. Be careful, Mr Goodfellow,” Morris warned. “You are wandering from your script.”
Frank looked genuinely contrite and he glanced at Ike as he apologized. “Sorry. I meant to say: Matilda, did you pack any food for Blake? I think he is hungry.”
“I have some banana,” Matilda replied. “It’s in the car.”
“We can get it after we collect the rest of the scripts,” Frank said.
“Do you have any other questions?” Morris did not return Blake’s social smiles, and he frowned at Ike, who did.
“Just suppose,” Matilda faltered, “that Little Blake says something unscripted when he is alone. Nobody hears him. What happens then?”
Morris sat back and shrugged. “Nothing. When a person is alone, he or she can think and say whatever they like. If it has no social context, it is off-stage and therefore not in the play. Unfortunately, it is often difficult for people to stick to their scripts if they get into the habit of thinking and speaking freely, so it is not encouraged. Indeed, people at risk of being removed from the play often take themselves into isolation rather than disrupt the performances of those around them. They become hermits and recluses. Of course, this reduces their parts, but it seems a safe option for people who come up with their own material. They silence themselves through withdrawal, saving the Prompter the need to silence them in other ways.”