Happiness: A Planet (36 page)

“I’ve got something to show you,” he said after their meal, told her to make herself comfortable. “This won me a prize,” He put on a film, settled himself near her.

The film was of a city street. A dark street. Slowly a man came walking down that street. From his tread, from his posture, he looked a tired man, a man prematurely aged by cares. The man went into an apartment. The street was deserted again. A light went on in the window of another apartment block. Nothing else happened. Yet the street held a sense of excitement, of tension. The same door opened and a woman screamed. The film ended.

“Were they actors?” Tulla asked Awen.

“Real,” Awen said. “What makes it exciting is the almost inaudible row going on in that apartment. The noise is near subliminal. Fascinating eh? But,” he grinned at her, “is it poetry?”

“Dramatic,” Tulla mirrored his grin. “Poetry though...?”

“Right then, look at this.” Another film was slotted home.

Tulla was looking at a familiar door. The door is pulled open from within and Tulla was looking at herself looking anxiously around the large ginger head of Inspector Eldon Boone. The door closes. Now a plane, straggly jungle beyond its silver fuselage, herself getting out of the plane, glancing inquisitively into the camera, then purposefully ignoring it. The camera follows her. She is broad seen from behind.

Tulla wriggled self-consciously on her chair, felt herself blushing.

Now it is the cluttered interior of Tevor Cade’s ship and she is frowning. She asks a question, head going to one side as she listens to the answer. Her red hands move as she explains something; and then she brushes by the camera.

Now she is sat in the Spokesman’s plane. She turns with a relaxed smile to something the Spokesman’s wife says. Now she is in the same seat talking to the Spokesman, words of some import. Now she is rigid with fear as the plane lands on the small plateau. Now she is recoiling from the sudden blast of tractor engines. Now, helmet on her head, she is leaning into the wind, her tunic wrapped to her front and flapping out in the dark behind her. Now she is palely asleep in the engineer’s plane.

By this time Tulla was sitting forward, fascinated by these images of herself.

Of herself wandering dustily among the confusion of ground vehicles; of herself, jaw clenched, bouncing along in a ground vehicle; of her eyes gazing sleepily across a lamplit table, leaning stooping with a smile to someone smaller; of herself at the Senate stretching forward to listen to a Senate Member’s faltering question, slowly nodding her head to show her understanding, spreading her arms in a gesture of helpless ignorance, then chuckling, body shaking, at the Senate Member’s joke; at her hands and hair waving wildly as she enthuses; of herself looking up from beside the two silver cabins; of herself in white hat and white robe seeming to float along the shimmering yellow road, of her shadowed smile...

“Such dedication,” she said to herself.

More images, of bits of her. Of the sway of her red robe as she walks towards her cabin, of her hand resting on a purple scarred rock, of the line of her neck as, head-tilted, she looks down the road. Of small clear drops of sweat on her upper lip, of dust on her eyebrows, of her breasts moving inside an orange robe as she scratches her back, of her hair springing up spike by spike as she removes her white hat, of her blunt bare toes wriggling in the dust, of her smile widening, of her laughing. A repetition of these movements — smile widening, of her laughing, of her slowly swivelling, of her lips parting, of her saying,

“With poetry.”

The film stopped on the still image of that sidelong flirtatious glance.

For the first time in her life Tulla was seeing herself through the eyes of someone else’s desire, was aware of herself as a desirable woman, as she was, not as she hoped she might appear to be. Out of the close familiarity of their companionship she had become known; and she felt an unbeforeknownst pride in her person, was acutely conscious of every portion of her flesh. She was aware too of Awen covertly studying her; and she was not embarrassed by that scrutiny. Letting her head loll back, exposing her throat, she chuckled.

“That,” she rolled her head around to face him, “was poetry.”

Awen did not film their lovemaking; and from that night onwards they slept in his cabin.

Firstly because it was where they were that night, was most convenient; secondly so that he could hear his alarms should anything cross his photoelectric cells. But, apart from their sleeping together and their now also having breakfast together, their routines remained as before — Tulla working in her cabin, sharing their midday meal, listening to the police reports, consulting with the Spokesman and Jorge on their daily visits, sharing their evening meal; and then remaining together in his cabin until morning.

As lovers now they talked with less reserve, were openly laudatory and critical of one another, a soft touch separating the rigorous judgements of the mind from the moulding complicity of their bodies. Both wanted, physically and mentally, to know their lover. So Awen told her of the city suburb in which he lived. She knew it from her days at university. It told her nothing. They talked of previous lovers.

“Would you have made love to me in the city?” he asked her.

“Who can tell?” she carelessly replied. “The third party is always circumstance.”

They made no plans for themselves.

“Nothing in the universe is still. All is moving,” Tulla said. “A thing only appears to be still if we are moving at the same pace as it. Lovers too.”

“Women don’t stay long with me,” Awen said. “My work doesn’t allow for it.” Nor did Tulla’s: their priorities were the same.

To love is not to admire. We can love those we do not admire; and we can admire those we do not love. Some lovers, though, require perfection of their beloved, are disproportionately disappointed by the slightest flaw in the being of their beloved; thus Tulla deplored Awen’s profession. Like many another Tulla was a media devotee while at the same time heartily condemning the media for its sensationalism. This paradox, when Awen drew her attention to it, did not confound her: she simply claimed that the media should improve itself, though she could name no specific means whereby it might do so.

Hers was, and is, a fashionable contention, an entirely negative criticism — deploring only how the media get and present their stories without offering any workable uncensored alternative.

“We find out for them,” Awen told her, “what people are interested in and we tell them. You tell me how else we’re supposed to do it. Seeing as everyone wants to know everyone else’s secrets.”

In discussing the merits of their respective professions, or rather in Awen defending the demerits of his, Awen resolutely refused to take offence. He knew that lovers who do not talk to each other end up shouting at each other. So he tried to offset her criticisms by talking of Art, of himself as an artist.

“Science tells you what you didn’t before know,” Awen said. “Art, though, tells you what you always knew but never before realised.” That struck Tulla as being, not only pretentious, but by far too vague. Her analytical mind required specifics.

“I want to show people for what they are,” Awen told her.

“And what are they?”

“Don’t know until I’ve filmed them.”

Such gnomic utterances only stimulated Tulla to again dispute his assertion that film-making was Art.

“More like propaganda,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Art is propaganda. Propaganda though aint necessarily Art.”

They sought a neutral subject. Tulla told Awen of Petre Fanne, of her treachery. Awen told her of Anton Singh, and of Hambro Harrap. Although Awen had no high opinion of Hambro Harrap — the man after all was a professional deceiver, both of others and of himself — Awen trusted Anton Singh insofar as he knew him for what he was.

At this time the police ship had brought back news of the fraud. Tulla exclaimed over many of the names, realising belatedly what had been happening on the platform. This caused her to admit, as Awen maintained, that human affairs were far more complex than she liked to believe. Yet Tulla now simplistically chose to believe that Petre Fanne had gone with Anton Singh out of love, and so she was able to forgive her.

“Funny how,” she hugged Awen to her, “having once been in love yourself you smile benignly on all other lovers.”

Yet the breadth of the fraud did undermine Tulla’s self-confidence, made her like many another citizen doubt the worth of the civilisation she sought to serve and thus the worthiness of her own efforts.

“What if it isn’t Nautili?” Tulla gave voice to her uneasiness one night.

“And what else can it be?” Awen asked her. “What else is it that destroyed the Doctor’s buoys? That transmits to him every hour from the sea? There’s definitely Nautili here,” he said, “and not yet a slime trail.”

Tulla had been seeking such reassurance. She gladly accepted it, went on to wonder if she would become the heroine of Happiness. Awen knew more of the mechanics of fame than she.

“We will be heroes only if the future requires it of us,” he said. “And then, whatever we do or don’t do now, that future will make heroes of us.”

During that period, after they had become lovers, the photoelectric cells at both ends of the road suffered false alarms. At the inland sea end a basking lizard was to blame. Awen spent the whole afternoon cursing it. At sunset it finally moved. At the other end of the road the alarms were activated by a flock of brown seabirds waddling back and forth between the cells. Some of the birds even pecked at the cells, which necessitated Awen walking down there to check that they were still functioning. They were.

Eleven days after the completion of the road Awen and Tulla were still waiting.   

Two hours after sunset, eleven days after the completion of the road, one of Awen’s alarms sounded. He and Tulla had finished their dinner and Tulla had returned to her cabin to read. Awen had been tinkering with his editor.

The alarm had been activated by the cells beside the inland sea. Awen switched on the cameras there, sat before the screens and adjusted the night lens. He focused first on the photoelectric cells, could see nothing there.

The alarm continued to buzz. He moved the camera so that he was looking down the blue grey road towards the sea. Nothing.

The inland sea was a silvered calm.

Swinging the camera Awen looked back up the road. He grimaced: nothing. Must be, he decided, a fault in one of the cells. He was about to have another look at the cell on the far side of the road when a movement in the bottom right hand corner of the screen caught his attention.

Sitting forward Awen carefully manipulated the remote control. A faint line across the road cut diagonally across his screen. Frowning at it he switched on his recorder. The line, like liquid glass, was moving.

“That’s it,” he told himself. “Yes,” he nodded. “That’s it. Tulla!” he shouted. “It’s started!”

In a frantic rush he began gathering up cameras, slinging them about his neck, checked each one for film, changed two lenses, shoved other lenses into his tunic pockets, switched off his editor, flipped the lid shut on it and grabbed up another camera, all the while bellowing for Tulla. The buzzer abruptly stopped. The gel, he remembered, was corrosive.

The line was still moving.

“Ho ho ho,” Awen held out his hands to the screen. “You darlin’.” About to turn off the recorder he hesitated, switched on the audio. Nothing. Not a whisper of a breeze, not one slap of a wave. He pulled a displeased face, stopped the recorder and shouting made for the door.

He cursed when he saw Tulla’s cabin door closed. But, aware now of the oppressive silence of the black night, he ceased shouting, ran over to Tulla’s door and thrust it open. Tulla was sitting at the table in her white robe, forehead on the heel of her palm, books open on the table before her.

Eyes still on the page she partly turned towards the open door.

“Dammit Tulla,” Awen whispered. “It’s started.”

“Started?” she said puzzled, her mind still engaged by the print.

“The trail. It’s started. Come on.”

“Yes?” she froze. “But the police...”

“It’s started. Come on,” Awen beseeched her.

“Your cells?”

“
Yes.
Come on.”

With her comprehension came instant activity. She had kicked her shoes off under the table. Urgently she pulled them to her, stuck her feet into them.

“Which end?” she asked him, standing up and knocking the chair over.

“Inland sea. Bring your phone.”

“Right,” she hurried back for it. “Thought it would be.” She came laughing and excited to him, “Their logic can’t be that different to ours.”

“Yes yes. Come on,” Awen urged her as she paused in the doorway looking back into the cabin for something. Giving up her search she trotted after him into the black of the night.

Holding on to one another they hurried along the uneven top of the embankment. Awen described to her what he had seen on his screen.

“How thick was it?” she asked him.