Page 60 of White Lights
Dez studies the image, then Rafe, confused. “What’s this?”
Rafe touches the screen to zoom in on a tiny caption at the bottom of the image. “This is Lexa O’Rourke. One of America’s finest living poets.” He turns to Dez. “Your first assignment.”
“Why would I make a film about this person?”
“You’re a beginning artist. She’s an accomplished master.”
“I’ve never heard of her. I don’t want this assignment.”
“A true filmmaker can get into any subject matter,” Rafe says.
“I don’t need to be told what to do.”
“Everyone needs an assignment. It’s how you learn. It’s how our system has always worked. By the end of the week, you’ll receive the script that one of the first-year Scribes has been assigned to write about O’Rourke, her life, her poetry. Then you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
“I don’twantmy work cut out for me. I already know what film I want to make—”
Rafe presses his palms together, amused. “I can’t believe we’ve gotten this far without me asking all about your artistic passions. Pray tell, and make it as lengthy as possible.”
“I want to make a film about my brother,” she says.
“Not happening.”
“Itishappening.”
“I don’t advise it.”
“Why not?” Dez says, anger surging through her.
“Because you’re here to fill a need. All first-years are. Are all assignments created equal? No. But is every single one of them urgent?” He nods. “Let me show you something.”
A bolt of lightning flashes across the full screen, so real Dez jumps. She watches it strike a woman who’d been running across a field toward a child. Arms outstretched, the child screams as the woman lights up.
Writhing. Electric.
The screen cuts to a shot of the same woman in an emergency room, burned and barely alive. Dez grabs hold of her stomach.
Then the frame speeds up—
Taking Dez on a journey of the woman’s body healing, of her learning to walk again, then to run.
Cut to another scene, back in the field. The child is older by a fewyears. The sky is clear now, but otherwise much is the same. Both of them are running, eyes locked on each other, on the goal of connecting.
The woman lifts and spins the child.
It’s so real, realer than anything Dez has ever seen on film.
When the screen goes dark, Dez is filled with awe. With envy. She turns to Rafe. “Who made that?”
“I did,” he says. “On assignment. Just like you’ve been assigned to O’Rourke. I had no idea who Ida Governs was when I was assigned to make her film, but this was the result.”
“It’s really good.”
“Go on, you can say ‘genius.’”
“It’s fucking great, Rafe. But it doesn’t change my mind.”
Rafe rubs his jaw, impatient. The black and white image of the poet returns to Dez’s Lens.
