Cloud Atlas Page #2

Stop! Please! You're hurting me!

You must have misheard me, I said

I had a melody not a malady!

Vyvyan?

Jocasta, deliver me!

- What's going on in here?

- An exercise in futility.

Should I be introduced?

There's really no point, the boy is as useful as the clap.

Fortunately, he'll be much easier to get rid of.

Would you be a dear and get Henry to show the boy out?

Yes, of course, darling.

[Begins playing accurately]

It's beautiful.

Yes...

That's it. That's my melody!

[San Francisco, the year 1973]

C'mon, Luisa,

[San Francisco, the year 1973]

we're made to be together!

Luisa, wa-wait, c'mon, c'mon, I'm telling you,

I'm telling ya baby; you can't leave me. It's a...

you know, it's a past life thing or a future life thing,

but ya know, it's you and me...

Look. For the last hour, all I could think about was

throwing you off your balcony.

I mean, who the hell do you think you are?

You write a bullshit column for a f***in' rag.

Elevator!

Thank you.

Nice to know the age of chivalry isn't dead.

You okay?

No bones broken, I think.

Wait, wait. No, no. You sit... you sit, you sit. Let me see.

Great. Power outage.

Perfect end to a perfect day.

Still glad the age of chivalry isn't dead?

I still rather be right here than back up there.

Guess Mr. Ganga isn't everyone's cup of tea.

Guys like that are just an occupational hazard.

- You were interviewing him?

- Yeah, for Spyglass Magazine.

Luisa Rey.

Rufus Sixsmith.

Rey...

You wouldn't happen to be related

to the journalist, Lester Rey?

Yeah. He was my father.

Really? He must have been enormously proud of you,

- following in his footsteps.

- Hmm.

That's her, my niece, Megan.

She's lovely.

Born physicist, with a better mind for mathematics

than I ever had.

Did her PhD at Cambridge, a woman at Caius.

Gives you hope for the world.

It's hot.

And we're still here.

That's a very peculiar birthmark.

Yeah, my little comet.

My mother swore it was cancer.

She wanted me to get it removed, but

I don't know, I kinda like it.

I knew someone who had a birthmark that was

- similar to that.

- Really?

Who was it?

Someone I cared about very much.

A, uh... A hypothetical question for you, Miss Rey.

As a journalist,

what price would you pay to protect a source?

Any.

Prison?

If it came to that... yes.

Would you be prepared to

compromise your safety?

My father braved booby-trapped marshes and

the wrath of generals for his journalistic integrity.

What kind of daughter would I be if I bailed

when things got a little tough?

Saved.

Taxi!

- You sure you don't need a cab?

- No, I've got my car.

Well, you know, if... there's ever something I can do for you,

please give me a call.

Thank you, I will.

[Whispers]:
Bye.

[London, the year 2012]

It was the night of the Lemon Prizes,

[London, the year 2012]

[London, the year 2012]

and amidst all that forced jollity,

I recall a moment of introspection.

Why? Why would anyone in their right mind

choose to be a publisher?

This was the precise moment that Dermot found me.

- Oy, Timothy.

- Ah, Dermot.

Bad news inexorably does.

A f***in' waste.

Never forget Herman Melville;

writes a ripping yarn about a big white whale,

which is summarily dismissed

and yet today, it is lugged around in the backpacks

of every serious student of literature in the world.

I don't give a f*** what happens when I'm dead.

I want people to buy me book now!

Well, as your publisher, obviously nothing

would make me happier.

But sadly, for whatever reason,

"Knuckle Sandwich" has yet to connect to its audience.

You want a reason? I'll give ya a reason.

- Right there!

- Oh, you mean, Mr. Finch.

Felix f***in' Finch!

The... c*nt that shat all over me book in his

poncy f***in' magazine!

It wasn't that bad.

No?!

"Mr. Hoggins should apologize to the trees felled

for the making of his

bloated autobio-novel. Four hundred vainglorious pages

expire in an ending that is flat and inane beyond belief."

Steady now, Dermot. What is a critic,

but one who reads quickly,

arrogantly, but never wisely.

F*** it.

Dermot!

Ladies and gentlemen!

We have an additional award tonight, fellow book fairies.

An award for "most eminent critic".

Mr... Oh, beg pardon,

Sir! Felix Finch! O, B and E!

And what might my prize be, I wonder?

A signed copy of an unpulped "Knuckle Sandwich"?

Can't be many of those left.

Well?

Just what does that leadless pencil you call an imagination

have in mind to end this scene, hmm?

I t'ink you're gonna love this one.

Now, that's "an ending that is flat and inane beyond belief."

My thoughts?

If I'm honest, I admit that the obvious emotions like shock

and horror flew as Finch had, here and gone.

Tequila, couple of fingers.

While deep down, I experienced a nascent sense

of a silver lining to this most tragic turn.

Overnight, Dermot "Dusty" Hoggins became a cult hero

to the common man.

"Knuckle Sandwich" shifted ninety thousand copies

in less than two months.

I was for the briefest of moments, Cinderella

and all memory of past misfortune receded

in the rearview mirror

of my dream come true.

- What the f***?!

- Timothy Cavendish, I presume.

Caught with your cacks down!

Uh, my office hours are eleven to two.

And my secretary

would be more than happy to schedule an appointment

if you so desire.

Friends like us don't need appointments.

We like it all cozy like this.

- Visited Dermot in the joint.

- Our brother's got a question for you.

Where's our f***in' money?

Boys. Boys, look here.

Dermot signed what we call a copyright

transfer contract,

which means that legally...

Dermot didn't sign no f***in' contract for the event

of the f***in' season!

Uh, uh-huh. What? Perhaps, uh, we could moot

a provisional sum

on the basis of... ongoing negotiation.

Okeydokey.

What sum we gonna moot?

Fifty K'd will do for starters.

Fifty sounds reasonable.

Tomorrow afternoon.

Tomorrow afternoon?!

Cash. No bullocks.

- No checks.

- Old-fashioned money.

Gentlemen,

- the law says...

- The law?!

What'd the law do... for Felix f***in' Finch?

[Neo-Seoul, the year 2144]

Ordinarily, I begin by asking prisoners to recall their

earliest memories...

to provide a context for the corpocratic historians

of the future.

Fabricants have no such memories, Archivist.

One twenty-four hour cycle in Papa Song's is identical

to every other.

May I say you speak consumer surprisingly well.

Unanimity's a... (indistinguishable)

- [Sonmi~451 begins speaking Japanese]

- (It is unfortunate that the officials of the Unanimity can

only speak one language.)

As an officer of Unanimity, I am of course restricted

from using sub-speak.

Of course.

Please describe a typical twenty-four hour Papa Song cycle.

At hour four, each server is awoken by auto-stimulin.

From revival, we proceed to the hygiener.

After dressing we file into the dinery.

At hour five, we man our stations to greet the

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