(///lifeforms.perceptual.pasts – Atlas Film Studios, Ouarzazate, Morocco)
“He’s ruining it for everybody,” Malcolm muttered for the umpteenth time under his breath.
“Sssh dear,” Maureen replied for the umpteenth time. “It’ll soon be over.”
“But that’s just the point,” Malcolm hissed. “This was going to be the highlight of our trip. And he’s ruining it for everybody.”
Maureen smiled indulgently. “You mean he’s ruining it for you.”
In that assertion she was largely correct. Most people in the tour group were allowing the ramblings of the gangly figure with his notebook to just wash over them, nodding indulgently and then moving discreetly away. But Malcolm couldn’t seem to shake him, forever finding himself having to listen to those wild theories.
So instead of enjoying anecdotes about the many films that had been made in the desert studio and admiring the impressive range of authentic sets, statues, plants and other lifeforms from across Egyptian, South American, Roman and Chinese history, he instead had to endure a man who identified himself as an amateur archaeologist with unique perceptual skills, a man who was convinced that this film studio actually gave credence to the theories in his self-published series of books The Scripts of History.
The tour ended and Malcolm was finally able to relax and salvage what he could of the day. But on the coach back to the hotel he found he couldn’t shake the nonsense his brain had been subjected to for the previous hour.
It’s true, he was amused by the notion that if someone dug up the film studio site in 500 years’ time, they might well conclude that a range of diverse cultures had lived harmoniously in close proximity to one another, leading to a raft of inaccurate historical conjecture.
But to extrapolate from there that most of history was in fact derived from fiction, that historical figures were simply the acting stars of their age, and that the accounts of ancient pasts uncovered from tablets and carvings were not fact, they were scripts or novels or publicity material, well that seemed a step too far. Malcolm needed to stop filling his brain with such nonsense and just focus on remembering what he could from the afternoon’s excursion.
**
Nimlot was exhausted. He sat down and handed his robes to a runner, who gave him a mug of beer and a plate of pomegranates and dates in return. He stretched his feet out and surveyed the sands beyond him, ripping up his papyrus script and tossing it into a basket.
He could hear people chiselling away behind him, committing the tale of the Battle of Kadesh to stone so that it could be taken the masses to drum up excitement ahead of the first performance of new Ramses II adventure. He was already looking forward to first night after party and spending more time with Bastet. Her performances as Nefertari had brought them close during rehearsals, and he knew that they would continue to work together for many years to come if off-screen romance blossomed.
He wouldn’t miss Giza. The pyramids were sometimes too dark for rehearsals, notwithstanding the drama they gave to performances. The new city being built, which he had heard would be named Pi-Ramesses in honour of the long-running Ramesses franchise, promised better facilities and opportunities for more expansive story telling.
Nimlot sat back. Acting brought pleasure to millions. It didn’t matter that he and his stories would be forgotten by history, it was enough to make people happy now. He drank his beer and smiled.
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