Radiance

Anchises St. John answers the door. The real Anchises St. John. Vince only met him once, when he was small and unable to speak. He turned out very tall, with shaggy dark hair, striped now with grey, soft lines around his eyes, a prominent nose. Not handsome, really—though Vincenza’s standards are skewed by the bounty of available beauty on the Moon—but at least interesting looking.

“Vincenza?” he asks, smiling uncertainly. He is a man unused to company, to appointments, to strangers.

“You can call me Vince. Everybody does.”

Anchises makes lunch for the two of them: ’roo steak, fried dumplings, and red beer. They watch the reels together out in the garden on a huge white bed sheet. Anchises grows sunflowers and moonflowers side by side. They race each other, up the fence, toward the sky.

The title card reads: Radiance.

Anchises doesn’t talk while the movie plays. The images reflect in his eyes, moving in his iris, shadows and light. He chuckles a few times.

“What do you think?” Vince says when it’s done. Anchises brings out goji-chocolate cake and coffee on plates with tropical fish painted on them. Crickets (which are not really crickets) hum and chirp.

“I’m not a critic,” Anchises says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Come on. It’s you up there. You must have an opinion.”

“Well…it’s not really a movie, is it? Just pieces of one.”

Vince sighs. She wraps her hair around her hand, tying it into a knotted bun in one quick, assured movement. “Percy couldn’t figure out how to tell it. He never finished—the studio killed his funding and he just…stopped. Of course, you never really finish any movie, you just turn the camera off. But it was time to go, for him. The Moon wears on you after a while. I wonder if you can guess where he retired?”

“White Peony Station,” Anchises says, without missing a beat. “With Penelope Edison.”

“Bravo. They’re living at the Waldorf. When we filmed the song and dance numbers there, he said it felt like home. And after Freddy died, she just sort of melted back into everything. Into Percy’s life, into her work, into herself.”

“You’re not going to release this, are you? It’s a bear.”

“No studio; no distribution. But he wanted you to see it. Without an audience, it doesn’t exist. If a movie shows in a theatre and there’s no one to see it, does it make a sound?”

Anchises watches his moonflowers opening one by one, the night wind picking them up and blowing their petals open, perfect, white as screens.

“I was actually a detective for a while,” he gets up to fetch himself a cigar, cuts it, lights up, settles down again. “On Callisto. Though I guess you know that. I was a little of everything. I think I always knew I’d end up back here. I was happy here, with Erasmo. Safe. I don’t think I showed it much, but I was happy. I made sure I saw a hell of a lot before I came home. I was drunk most of the time and I did my best to get punched on every planet I could, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t see a hell of a lot. I even went to Pluto, just like you said. You did your research.”

Vince smiles, shrugging slightly, as if to say: Thanks, but you have no idea.

“Max wasn’t quite that well organized when I got there, though.” Anchises St. John turns to look Vince in the eye. His gaze is still sharp. “How did you know kids used to call me Doctor Callow? And about the frond on the beach?”

“Do you remember a little girl named Lada? She was the same age as you.”

Anchises rubs his forehead. Tears form at the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I do try, it’s just…”

“Don’t worry. God, it was thirty years ago now, anyway. Longer, um, for you, I suppose. Lada Zhao’s family moved to the Japanese sector about six months before the last Nutcake Festival. She remembers you very fondly. She has a photograph of you, standing next to the frond. She says she told you not to touch it.”

“You didn’t put her in your movie.”

“It seemed a little on the nose, to have an actual Greek chorus there to warn you.”

Anchises swirls ice cream around the top of his cake with his spoon. It melts slowly. He doesn’t wear gloves anymore. His scarred hand has a tan. He doesn’t speak for a long time. A few coyotes—which are not really coyotes, but have two brains, and plates on their backs like furry stegosauruses—howl out on the plains.

“Can I keep the prints?”

“Of course you can.”