Cloud Atlas

Oh, lonesome night.

And babbits bawling, the wind biting the bone.

Wind like this...

full of voices.

Ancestry howling at you...

yibbering stories...

all voices tied up into one.

One voice differing...

one voice...

whispering out there, spying from the dark...

that fangy devil...

Old Georgie hisself.

Mm. Now you ear up close...

and I'll yarn you about the first time we met...

eye to eye.

And thus it was that I made the acquaintance of Dr. Henry Goose...

the man I hoped might cure me of my affliction.

Have you lost something?

Question one:

What secret in Sixsmith's report would be worth killing him for?

Question two:

Is it reasonable to believe that they would kill again to protect that secret?

And if so, question three: What the fuck am I doing here?

While my extensive experience as an editor has led me to a disdain...

for flashbacks and flash-forwards and all such tricksy gimmicks...

I believe that if you, dear reader, can extend your patience for just a moment...

you will find there is a method to this tale of madness.

My Dearest Sixsmith:

I shot myself through the roof of my mouth this morning...

with Vyvyan Ayrs' Luger.

A true suicide is a paced, disciplined certainty.

People pontificate, "Suicide is a coward's act."

Couldn't be further from the truth.

Suicide takes tremendous courage.

- Any problems, you just hit this button. - Thank you.

On behalf of my ministry and the future of Unanimity...

I would like to thank you for this final interview.

- Hello. - Press pass.

Expecting trouble?

I was Dermot Hoggins' publisher, not his shrink or his astrologer.

And the ruddy, bloody truth is...

I had no idea what the man was gonna do that night.

This beach was once a cannibal's banqueting hall...

where the strong gorged on the weak.

But the teeth, sir, they spat out...

like you or I would expel a cherry stone.

Do you know the price a quarter pound of these will earn?

Remember, this is not an interrogation or a trial.

Your version of the truth is all that matters.

Truth is singular.

Its versions are mistruths.

Don't let them say I killed myself for love.

Had my infatuations, but we both know in our hearts...

who is the sole love of my short, bright life.

CLOUD ATLAS

PACIFIC ISLANDS, 1849

There you are, Mr. Ewing.

As binding a covenant there can ever be between men...

outside the province of scripture.

Thank you, Reverend Horrox.

I know my father-in-law is profoundly excited about this deal.

Haskell Moore is a great man.

Future generations depend on men like him...

men capable of speaking the truth.

Quite.

When I first encountered Haskell Moore's writing...

its perspicuity struck me as though delivered through divine revelation.

The learned doctor and I have spent many a night debating Mr. Moore's tractus.

I will concede that he makes a compelling case as to why we are sitting here...

enjoying this divine lamb...

while Kupaka stands there...

content to serve.

Indeed. Well, Kupaka...

you enjoy your life here with us...

- do you not? - Oh, yes, Reverend, sir.

Kupaka very happy here.

You see, this is Moore's "Ladder of Civilization"...

the reason behind this natural order.

Please, Giles, do shut up.

I've been listening to this for weeks.

I would love to know what his own son-in-law has to say about it.

Oh, well, let's see, uh...

It is an inquiry concerning God's will and the nature of men.

And what does he have to say about the nature of women?

I'm afraid that's a subject he prefers to pass by in silence.

He wouldn't be the first.

Uh, pray, Mr. Ewing, continue.

Well, the question he does pose is...

if God created the world, how do we know what things we can change...

and what things must remain sacred and inviolable?

Reverend Horrox real specific how to run plantation.

Georgian Way, best way, he say.

Oh, God, this heat is unbearable. How do they take it?

Reverend Horrox say slaves like camel, bred for desert.

He say they not feel heat like civilized folk.

Now we should get you out of the sun.

And what...?

What is that noise?

- Oh, there you are. - What happened?

Ah, ah, ah.

It is as I suspected. Gusano Coco Cervello...

better known as the Polynesian Worm.

I once saw a man's brain after the worm finished with him.

Maggoty cauliflower. Ugh.

But have no fear.

This particular devil and I are well-acquainted.

Here we go.

Ah, yes, yes.

Oh, glug, glug, glug.

I don't know what I would have done had our paths not crossed.

Well, for starters, you would have died.

I shall find a way to repay you.

Oh. No, unnecessary, I assure you.

I am a doctor, Adam.

A tiger cannot change its stripes. Heh-heh-heh.

CAMBRIDGE, 1936

Sixsmith, I do hope you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive me.

Mr. Frobisher!

Mr. Robert Frobisher!

Management would like a word with you, please, sir!

Mr. Frobisher, open this door, please!

We do know you're in there, Mr. Frobisher. Please comply!

A letter is being drafted to your father, sir.

Mr. Frobisher!

Hated leaving you like that. Wasn't the goodbye I had in mind.

Someone's in a hurry.

By the time you read this, I will be on my way to Edinburgh.

On my way to fame and fortune.

I know you haven't heard of him, but trust me:

Vyvyan Ayrs is one of the musical greats, Sixsmith.

The tragedy is that he hasn't produced any new work in years due to illness.

My scheme is to persuade him to hire me as his amanuensis...

and aide him in the creation of a masterpiece...

- Hey! - before shooting up through...

the musical firmament...

eventually obliging Pater to admit that, yes, the son he disinherited...

is none other than Robert Frobisher, the greatest British composer of his time.

I know, Sixsmith, you groan and shake your head...

but you smile too, which is why I love you.

P.S.

Thanks for the waistcoat.

I needed something of yours to keep me company.

St. George and the Dragon.

Reminds me that composing is a crusade.

Sometimes you slay the dragon, sometimes...

the dragon slays you.

All right then. Frobisher, is it?

I trust Mackeras taught you enough to be useful.

I've had this little melody for viola rattling about my head for months.

Let's see if you can get it down.

Subtle grace note before the third.

Soft and simple, got it?

Now it gets interesting.

Good. Play that back.

I'd love to, sir.

Um...

What key are we in?

What key?

G-minor, of course!

And the time signature?

For Christ's sake, did you hear it or not?

- I just need a little more time... - You need?

My dear boy, who is working for whom here?

- I apologize, sir... - Are you an amanuensis or an apologist?

Now pay attention.

3/4 changing to 4/4 on the fourth bar and back to 3/4 on bar five...

if you can count that high.

Crotchet G, pause for a quaver, repeat G quaver, then E flat on the downbeat.

And so on.

All right, let me hear it.

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's 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.

It's beautiful.

Yes.

That's it!

That's my melody!

SAN FRANCISCO, 1973

Come on, Luisa! We're meant to be together.

Please, Luisa come on, come on. I'm telling you.

I'm telling you, baby, you can't leave me. It's a past life thing or a future life thing.

It's you and me.

Look, for the last hour...

all I could think about was throwing you off your balcony.

Who the hell do you think you are?

You write a bullshit column for a fucking rag!

Elevator!

Thank you.

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

You okay?

No bones broken, I think.

No, no. You sit, you sit, you sit.