Libertionne. Anna Tishchenko
sitting at a bar with some disreputable types; on another, two bearded gentlemen under a red banner were leading a lively, marching crowd toward the edge of a cliff. And so on.
“We are developing the younger generation, liberating them from complexes and prejudices, teaching them,” Melissa commented briskly, not waiting for the usual questions.
“And what are we teaching here?” Tiberius inquired, pointing to a monitor where a bunch of big-eyed, smiling creatures (Animals? Birds? People?) were beating each other with hammers, sawing each other, shooting, stabbing and burning. If you were to show this masterpiece of the celluloid industry to the creators of “Hammer of the Witches,” they would drop to their knees and award a medal to the worthy successors of their complicated and creative profession. The cartoon was very bright and concisely drawn; that is, it met all the hallowed standards by which cartoons were made for the very young.
“Um, this one… this is an entertainment one, for children. We can’t always be instructing them; they need to relax once in a while. Which is why adults enjoy watching these cartoons, too.
Melissa wiped her tiny little nose, which thanks to the efforts of plastic surgeons grew smaller and smaller each year. She was literally obsessed with tweaking her appearance; last week, for example, she had an operation to remove wrinkles on her wrists. Before she proudly told Paul and Tiberius about it, the latter had no idea that there could be wrinkles in such places.
“And look at this,” Tiberius said, picking up an advertising brochure for the Medea company and read the slogan out loud. “Medea will look after your children. Is this supposed to be funny?”
“What’s the problem?” Melissa said, alarmed. “That’s our main advertiser.”
“You see, Princess Medea was very disappointed when Jason, her beloved, not only didn’t marry her – he dumped her for another woman. As I said, she was a little upset, and went and killed their two sons. Then she cooked them and served them to Jason for dinner.”
Silence fell. Then Melissa sighed heavily and mumbled:
“And I thought that Medea was from the word мёд [‘honey’ in Russian]. That didn’t really work.”
“You could say that. And what does the company make?”
“Baby food…”
“Wonderful.”
“Darn it, what should we do?” Melissa said, wandering around the office. “Order a rebranding? The designers will tear the hides from three people. Listen, was there a different girl with that name?”
“Alas, after this princess, shall we say, became so grimly famous, people no longer wanted to give their daughters this name. You can understand them.”
Moopechka saved the moment. Gently stroking the unhappy editor on her recently operated-on wrists, he said that it’s all rot, stop grieving and give in to some unbridled pleasure. Melissa perked up a bit, like a deflated balloon receiving a puff of air.
“That’s true. Let’s leave everything and go drive somewhere fun. Wow, what a beautiful pair you make! Just a couple of cooing love-birds!”
“Hmmm, not sure about that,” thought Tiberius, looking at their reflection in the mirrored door of the shelf unit. It took some imagination, but Paul still could pass for a turtle dove, with his impudent, inwardly slanting gray eyes, his wicked, girlishly pouting lips, and gold-colored hair, which he dyed every week. And there was Tiberius, powerful and muscular, hair tinged with gray and wrinkles on his still young-looking face, bearing a resemblance to an Italian mafia boss who had been a professional fighter in his youth. On his jaw, a long, fresh scar, and a two-day stubble. A fine love-bird, he.
Suddenly there was shouting from the other side of the wall, the noise of furniture being thrown around, a scream and the sound of breaking glass. In other words, all the signs of a heated and constructive professional debate. Melissa didn’t even bat an eyelash.
“That’s the miniseries department,” she explained to Tiberius and Moopechka. “Creative folks, what can you do.”
Moopechka was intrigued.
“Miniseries! I love them! Can we go and see, please, please?”
They had to go and see.
Melissa pounded on the door with her fist, ignoring the doorbell and the brass plaque that read “Use the doorbell!!!” The ruckus going on inside instantly stopped, then something hit the door with a dull thud and crashed to the floor.
“That must be Lucy’s bag,” Melissa commented thoughtfully. “James’s is a bit heavier. That means the author’s pride has once again been wounded.”
“But why didn’t we ring the doorbell?” Moopechka inquired. Devoured by curiosity, he did a little dance in place and extended his neck like a goose.
“They wouldn’t have opened the door for us. That’s for visitors; our own don’t use the doorbell. Well, finally.”
The door was opened by a young man who looked like a slightly ugly gnome. A full week of stubble, red-nosed and very angry. The gnome was clearly happy to see Melissa.
“Melissa, my dear, explain to your girlfriend that if the sponsors want the main character to eat their brand of hot dogs, then he has to eat them, even if it gives him heartburn!”
In response to this, a horrible crashing sound came from the center of the room. The whole group carefully peered through the half-opened reinforced door. The situation was even more dismal than at Young Lucifer. It was practically empty: a few computer desks, an office desk piled with books, and dark, dried-up puddles of coffee. In the corner, a plastic fig tree was timidly hiding. And not without reason, its twin brother was lying next to the wall, buried underneath office folders with crumpled pieces of paper sticking out. Tiberius’s gaze followed another folder that flew past them and landed in the pile. The destruction was caused by a girl who was sitting at a computer desk, not paying the slightest attention to the visitors.
“How?” she bellowed, to no one in particular. “How is Joan going to eat your wormy… your disagreeable hot dogs, if for the last six hundred and eighty episodes she has been a vegan?”
“She gave up,” said the gnome, wringing his hands, “or gave in to temptation. In other words, think something up; you’re the screenwriter. But she has to eat them in the next episode – we signed the contract yesterday.”
“Can’t you feed them to a different main character?” Tiberius said, offering a rational suggestion.
“Alas,” said the gnome, ruffling his disheveled hair, “Joan is the audience’s favorite; her rating is the highest.”
Seeing the absence of understanding in the eyes of his guests, he motioned them over to his desk.
“Allow me to show you. Every day we get a technical order.” Panting, he dragged a sizeable red folder out of the burial mound under which the fig tree so majestically rested.
“This is from the sponsors, the advertisers, and from above, if you catch my drift. We then think up a plot for the ongoing series based on this scheme,” James pointed to a magnetic board hanging on the wall, broken into the sections “Who”, “With whom”, “Where”, “What they did” and so forth. We add the products that we are advertising, and, voilà!”
The gnome, standing on tiptoe, firmly took “Joan” and with a magnet he pinned under her name a sheet of paper that read: “Wild Boar hot dogs. Organic. Feel the flesh of a wild boar on your tongue!” The screenwriter, who up to that point was in a kind of stupor as she watched his manipulations, burst out in tears. Moopechka, in contrast, rejoiced:
“Tibby! Look, this is a nonsense game. Remember, we sort of tried it at George’s party? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”