People Park (19 page)

Why is the
TV
telling me to live Adine? said Sam.

Sammy, no. It probably says
live
, said Adine, as in
a
live. Not
liv
, like
. . .
liver.

The host introduced Raven. Raven is smiling, said Sam. His smile is odd Adine.

Odd, what do you mean? Odd how?

Just odd okay Adine.

The interview began. Wagstaffe asked, How are you finding the city?

Fine, fine.

And your accommodations?

Adequate. What I require.

For those not lucky enough to attend last night’s banquet, my colleague Isa Lanyess will be providing full coverage later today — you won’t recognize your Mayor
by half
.

Only the beginning, said Raven.

And that bit with the trunk? Reappearing at the hotel? Pretty remarkable.

Trunking. It’s a little
. . .
theatricality, something I incorporate into every performance.

Could you trunk yourself anywhere?

With the proper image, yes, and the proper mental preparation.

So if you’d had a picture of a different hotel, you would have shown up there.

Exactly. The image I take with me into the trunk dictates where I will reappear.

Sammy, said Adine, you there?

I’m here Adine.

What about, said Wagstaffe, a picture of the moon?

Well then perhaps you’d find me on the moon.

Or my house, what if I put a picture of my house in there.

Then, Mr. Wagstaffe, you might very well come home to find me sitting at your kitchen table. With your wife.

That rattled him, said Adine, right, Sammy?

Sam was quiet.

And, because I’m sure our viewers are dying to know, continued Wagstaffe, can you tell us what you’ve got planned for tonight?

Ah. If I may be so bold: perhaps my greatest illustration yet.

Lucal Wagstaffe is staring at him, said Sam. But Raven’s looking into the camera. His head is very shiny. His eyes are. I don’t know what they are.

Odd?

Not just. More than that. Or maybe less Adine, maybe less.

Raven said, If I may? Let me explain not just this evening’s illustration, but the grand oeuvre of my work. What I do is not magic. Magic is based in illusion, and illusion is based in lies. Visual fictions and other illusions, Mr. Wagstaffe, worry people who seek certainty from sight. But what I create are not fictions. They are not lies. They are, instead, revelations. I illustrate simply what already exists, by removing —

Yes, we know, said Wagstaffe.
The fog that obscures the truth
.

Precisely. The way we perceive reality is imaginative. People forget this. One’s own imagination transforms what one sees into images, and then understands these images as things. We think of spectatorship as inherently passive, but it is in fact a highly engaged and active process. Your brain, for example, Mr. Wagstaffe, registers the pattern of light produced by this object you sit upon and translates it into some signifier, but this is not the lone process for your brain to understand it: chair. I do not wish to confuse that process, but merely to focus the brain, each of your brains —

He’s pointing at me, said Sam. At you Adine. At us.

— to a new way of seeing. I wish not to create illusions, but to
illustrate
. Illusions are about faith, which does not interest me. Faith is only that faculty of man to believe things he knows to be untrue. I am not interested in duping or cajoling my audience. Seeing
is
believing, and seeing depends on an imaginative use of ambiguities.

Sausage? offered Wagstaffe.

No, said Raven. Further, you see half of something, or the vague shape of something, the brain can still understand it as a whole. And so what if the world the eye sees, or which the brain tells the eye it sees — or which the eye
tells the brain
it sees — what if it is only a partial version? My illustrations are an attempt to excite those ambiguities and
complete
the partial version of the world which exists in viewers’ minds. Tonight, I wish to display a whole version of this city to everyone who lives here — the truth about this place, gentle viewers, where you live.

What is that nutcase talking about? said Adine. What
whole version of this city
? What
truth
? This is nonsense. It’s psychobabble. Meaningless. How does anyone buy this?

Lucal Wagstaffe chewed thoughtfully on some jerky.

What’s going on, Sammy?

Silence.

Sammy?

Yes.

You there?

Yes Adine.

You’re quiet.

I’m letting them talk Adine.

Everything okay?

Yes Adine.

You seem
. . .
faraway.

I’m here Adine. The big clock is stopped but I’m still doing good communication Adine. I’m doing the work, he said, and he stared into Raven’s hollow dark eyes and scratched the crust on his jaw until something jammy came dribbling out.

THROUGH THE PARK
Debbie walked Pop back to Street’s Milk & Things. Near the base of the Slipway, something white lay off the path amid the bushes. A shopping bag, or a sheaf of paper.

Lark, all these bins and still people strew refuse, lamented Pop.

Debbie moved closer: whatever it was flapped slightly, maybe caught in the breeze. She crouched. The white was feathers, the flap was the feeble lift and collapse of a broken wing. And here was the glossy black pebble of an eye, a beak. It’s a bird, she said. It’s hurt.

Don’t touch it, said Pop. It’s probably aswim with germinations.

Debbie knelt, placed her fingertips on the bird’s side, felt a heartbeat as urgent as a drumroll. The whole creature seemed to be one trembling, feathery heart.

It’s one of his, the magician’s, said Pop, let it die.

It’s a living thing! Can we take it to your store?

I’ve no time for resuscitations, I have telephonic appellations to dilate. My house, recall, has been abscondered. Though what make of revolutionaire are you, whom is more concerned with enfeebled birds than motorizing the wheels of restribution? Cause for disbarment from the Movement, prehaps?

We have to save it, said Debbie.

But Pop was lumbering away up the path.

In a nearby trashbin she found Havoc’s placard —
FUG THIS SHET PARK
— discarded the day before, imagined him lisping his way through this slogan, suppressed a chuckle. She folded the cardboard into a little crib, lined it with crumpled
IFC
wrappers, and tucked the dove inside.

Pop was gone. Debbie imagined him in his store, ranting into the telephone. The thought exhausted her. So instead of joining him she climbed the slipway to Parkside West Station, boarded a Whitehall-bound Yellowline train, which she rode, with the bird in her lap, all the way home.

HOW ABOUT A
little tour of the city? asked Starx, starting the engine.

As you wish, said the illustrationist, resuming his seductive pose in the backseat. Perhaps you could cool the air, though. I find it hot.

Starx cranked the dials, swung the Citywagon onto Entertainment Drive. Where to do you think, Bailie?

But Olpert was listening to the A/C. From it came a strange fupping sound. What is that noise, he said.

It’s the car, Bailie, said Starx. And to Raven: This guy, eh — bit of a nervous bird.

Yes, said Raven.

How about a quick tour to the eastend? Maybe a jaunt through Greenwood Gardens and Bebrog, a stop for lunch in Li’l Browntown. Or we could head out to the Institute, go for a walk around the campus?

I’d prefer, said Raven, to first pay another visit to the bridge.

Guardian Bridge? Again?

Yes.

Whatever you say, said Starx. He turned onto Trappe Street and headed north toward Lowell Overpass. He glanced at his partner. Bailie, you all right?

The sound inside the dashboard was like paper rustling. From the vent what appeared to be a snowflake blasted out on a waft of A/C, performed a little loop-de-loop on the updraft, and settled on Olpert’s thigh: a feather.

He closed his hand over it, shut the vents. The sound died — but Starx turned the fans back on. You deaf, Bailie? Our guest finds it hot.

Indeed, said the illustrationist.

The sound returned: the purr of playing cards threaded through a bike’s spokes.

Don’t you think it sounds weird? said Olpert. Maybe we should turn it off.

In the backseat Raven attended to his manicure with a nailfile. I’d rather not, he said.

See? said Starx. And what do you know about cars anyway, Bailie?

The sound grew louder, more urgent. A second feather came sailing out of the vent. And then another, and another — and with a mighty cough the vents spewed a sudden blizzard: hundreds of feathers swirled into the car in a white squall.

Starx yelled, What the fug!

Olpert was overwhelmed by the scratch and tickle of feathers, a swarm of clawfooted moths. One flew in his mouth, he gagged, batted at the air, and brushed madly at his face.

Starx pulled onto the shoulder and killed the engine. The fans died. The feathers settled. The car’s interior suggested the aftermath of a to-the-death pillowfight.

Wow, said Starx. Weird.

Olpert swept a layer of down onto the floormats.

Most intriguing, said the illustrationist from the backseat.

These wagons, said Starx, they’re communal, never know what other drivers have got up to in them. Maybe the last person tried to roast squab on the carburetor.

Ah, said Raven.

They sat for a moment before Starx restarted the engine, tentatively. Olpert kicked the feathers into a little pile on the floormat and placed his loafers overtop.

Hey, said Starx, mind if we crack the windows now instead?

Fine, said Raven thinly. Though such an episode does raise certain questions, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Bailie?

Olpert made the mistake of checking the rearview: Raven’s eyes were splashes of black paint eddying down a drain.

It’s interesting, continued the illustrationist, holding Olpert’s gaze, to consider how these situations might have come about, to speculate and wonder. Though I would argue it will be more interesting to see how they influence what comes next.

How’s that then? said Starx, merging onto the Overpass.

Oh, just that any anomalous event — he twirled his hand absently —
might have much larger ramifications than one might expect.

Like what? yelped Olpert.

Oh, Mr. Bailie, who can say? Raven looked out the window: Guardian Bridge rose into view. Who can say, ever, what might happen, to whom, and when.

VI

T STREET’S
Milk & Things the doorchimes dinged as usual, but instead of Pop lunging at Sam for a handshake, a thin, hesitant voice wondered, Who’s there?

Two men Sam had never seen before stood with Pop at the
counter.
One was short, his eyes went two different ways, the other
tall and thin and from whose neck sprouted a silky yellow beard. Spread upon the counter was an
ICTS
System Map. Something was wrong.

Just entreating some friends, said Pop. Please, whatever you need, it’s on my house.

If you had a fuggin hou
θ
e, growled the thin man, and the little one sneered.

In the back of the store the
MR. ADEMUS’S THINGS
shelf was empty, surrounded by sawdust and building supplies and various junk. Sam dug through the pile, found a hinge, pried it back and forth, listened to it squeal.

At last Pop came over. Barely done?

Do you have locks? And those loops for locks. To hold locks okay.

Is this a constructional project?

Sam leaned in, whispered, I’m going to trunk him. But I need locks.

Pop pulled out a combination padlock, which hung open. I don’t know the code, he said, so unless you’ve an intuitional mind, once this locks, it’s locked.

Sam was careful not to close it. The suspicious men watched.
Sam pointed at them. Don’t spy on me okay, he said. I’m just doing
the work.

He’s just doing the work! screamed Pop. One of my loyal cus
tomers,
no one to dubiate, gentlemen, carry on. Once he’s outfat
he’ll be on his way. And you — Pop lowered his voice — Mr. Ademus, recall: once that locks it
will
stay locked.

It will stay locked, said Sam. Forever?

Prehaps. Now, for further requirements, you should retail to the dumpster, you’re welcome!

Pop walked Sam to the door, ushered him into the parking lot, and waved, grinning — but once the door closed his smile disappeared and his fat fingers trembled as they flipped the
OPEN
sign to
NOT
. And with heaviness and resignation Pop faced the cagey, tense men inside his dirty store.

BY MID-AFTERNOON
People Park was bustling. Helpers draped the gazebo in black curtains, erected scaffolding rigged with floodlights and huge videoscreens, constructed a catwalk that jutted out to the barricades. Since Raven required more power than could be supplied by generator, the
NFLM
ran cables up the Slipway and through downtown to Municipal Works, where they tapped right into the grid. Meanwhile the common filled steadily with people, joy sparkled in the air, and the sun shone down upon it all.

A Helper strode to the end of the catwalk with a video camera. Its recording light came alive, and onto the screens, hazy in the daylight, appeared an image of the growing crowds. One family stationed front row, dead centre, jumped up together and began waving, pointing at their projected selves upon the bigscreen. While other families jostled for attention this one was especially boisterous: the son, in a red cap, leapt up and down, his father hooted, coaxed the mother into a funny jig, while the small girl in the shot’s periphery stood numbly with her face pointed into her purse.

The Helper zoomed in on the happy threesome. Even the wife seemed into it now, flashing little gunshot flourishes, blowing imaginary smoke from her fingertips, while the dad glared in triumph at the other, ignored families. Over his head the boy hoisted a book — Raven’s
Grammar
— and even without sound anyone could guess whose name he was chanting.

Sam observed this wobbling down the path behind Street’s Milk & Things, lumber stacked in his arms, a bag of supplies in each hand. Quickly gravity took over: his strides lengthened and gained a momentum of their own, the wood clattered, the bags swung, and as he reached the common Sam broke unwillingly into a full-on run.

Past the boathouse at Crocker Pond he sprinted, another ten yards and his feet could no longer keep up. He pitched forward: everything slid from his arms, one of the bags burst and its contents — tools and brackets and little packs of screws — splashed forth, and the other bag fell from his hand and spilled everywhere too.

Lying in the mud, surrounded by stuff, Sam raised his chin and saw before him a pair of pink leotarded legs. A little girl in a dress, holding a handbag, regarded him blankly — and then a screaming woman was upon them.

Elsie-Anne, are you okay? she cried, and shot Sam a scolding look, which shifted into confusion. Her eyes darted back to the girl, where they sharpened again. You could have been killed, said the woman — the one who’d been hotdogging on the big
TV
. My daughter can be a little out of it, sorry, she said, and took the girl by the hand and led her away.

Sam’s supplies were everywhere. One of the bags was split and useless, he’d have fill his pockets. But when he stooped for a handful of screws, pain spiked his lower back and his neck felt stiff and wooden.

Now appeared a fatfaced child in a red cap — the son of that woman, the one who’d been chanting, still clutching his book. My dad told me to help you, he said. So here.

The boy held out a single lugnut, which Sam accepted and dropped in his pocket.

Are you building something, said the boy. What are you building?

It’s for the work okay.

What’s that on your face? He picked the combination lock out of a puddle. It had closed. Sam’s stomach went hollow. The boy said, Oh, let me show you a trick, and held the lock to his ear, twisted the dial listening intently. Then, with a grin, the boy yanked the shackle — it didn’t open.

That’s okay, said Sam, and began stacking two-by-fours.

Let me try again, said the boy. It’s hard to hear with all this noise here in the park, why do people need to make so much noise, gosh. He narrowed his eyes, the pink tip of his tongue appeared between his lips, and he set to twisting the dial again. He pulled and it didn’t open. He pulled again. Nothing.

Sam put out his hand.

Hey wait, said the boy, opening the
Grammar
. I did something wrong, you’re supposed to listen for clicks, I thought. He leafed to the back of the book, then from back to front.

Does Raven’s book tell you how to break locks?

Ha, not break.
Solve
. You don’t want to break them, silly. Haven’t you seen Raven escape that time he went in space in zero gravity with almost no oxygen and
eight
or maybe
twelve
locks? But he got free. He always gets free. What’s on your face? Is it a scar or leprosy or something? It looks like mushrooms. I had an abscess once, in my mouth.

He always gets free, said Sam.

We’re on vacation here from faraway. We missed Raven’s arrival but we got frontrow centre seats today so there’s
no way
we’ll miss tonight’s show. Mummy’s from here though. Originally. She was tied up but now she’s back. She’s sick though. Allergies.

Sam nodded.

Now hush, I can’t hear the clicks with all this talking!

A man came up, smiling and rubbing his hands. Gibbles, hiya. Everything okay?

I was helping. I was —

The man turned his smile upon Sam. Sorry if my wife was short with you. She tied one on last night is all.

My bag broke okay, said Sam. He poked his hand through the jagged hole, waved at himself. That’s good communication, he said.

The man’s smile faltered — and returned, blazing. He looked around the park, at the families and the trees and past everything, to the sky. Heck of a nice day, he said, isn’t it?

Yes, said Sam. It’s a nice day isn’t it.

Gip leapt to his feet. I did it!

The lock hung open.

Wait, said Sam. How? What did you do?

The boy closed his eyes and in a low, sonorous voice said, I have removed the fog of obscurity to reveal the truth. I have only illustrated what you have always known to be true.