All of her crewmen strap canisters of film, a few steamer trunks of food, oxygen tanks, and other minor accoutrements to their broad backs.
She tucks a mahogany case-which surely must contain George, her favourite camera-smartly under one arm. The wind flutters the black silk around her hips. The curl of her lip betrays, to anyone who knows her, her utter disdain of the bizarre, flare-skirted swimming-cum-trapeze-artist costume that so titillates the crowd. SEVERIN wears feminine clothing with visible discomfort and only for this shot, which she intends, in the final edit, to be ironic and wry: She is performing herself, not performing herself in order to tell a story about something else entirely. Her copper-finned helmet gleams at her feet. Her smile is immaculate, practiced, the smile of the honest young woman of the hopeful future. SEVERIN UNCK and her CREW wave jerkily as confetti sticks to their sleek skullcaps and glistening breathing apparatuses.
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