Nicola Barker - Clear - A Transparent Novel

What? You’re telling me that the tribal elders wouldn’t’ve lopped his damn balls off if they’d actually witnessed this baroque spectacle for themselves (and were as ‘dangerous’ as he said they were)? And are we —the viewers — seriously meant to believe that these ‘dangerous’ pygmies would just stand casually by and applaud as he fucks around with their young ’uns delicate minds and go, ‘that’s weird, how’d he do it?’ Eh?

Uh- uh .

Hang on…

I suddenly sit bolt upright.

Korine!

I must ring Jalisa and see if Korine was involved. Because this idea really smacks of Korine. That bizarre and unsettling conflation of cynicism and simplicity…Isn’t that just his style?

The more I think about it the less I like this whole rainforest/Haiti element. Because what’s Blaine saying, really? What’s he trying to make us think? In some senses he’s undermining the culture of these peoples (because we know he’s just performing tricks, but to them, magic and mystery are a part of the dark side. They’re real. They’re life-threatening).

Effectively he’s telling all us complacent Western viewers that these ‘primitive’ people are fools (I mean they’re so honest, so credulous !) but at the same time their fear is informing us, subconsciously, that magic is real, that his magic is real, that it can be serious. And Blaine is the route between these two worlds. Blaine is the short cut. He proposes himself as the bridge by which we cross back and forth (from cynicism, to disbelief, to naivety, to believing).

Hmmn .

Interesting journey.

I suddenly need to get up.

I go for a piss. I stand by the window. When I look at the clock it’s 2 a.m. and I’m fucking wired. Hot .

Next thing I know, I’ve pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt, grabbed my trainers, my portable CD-player, my jacket, and I’m heading out of the house and towards the river.

And there she is. Aphra. Sitting quietly on the wall. Alone. Chin jinked up. Ankles crossed demurely. Hands resting on her lap. Tupperware bag on the floor by her feet. Like a riddlesome Sphinx. Totally rapt.

I’m up on the bridge — in a light sweat, a feverish fug —staring down at her.

She has eyes for no one but the magician. She doesn’t see me there. So I lean over (gradually catching my breath), and watch her, watching him. And then I watch the magician (to try and tap into her fascination — but he’s fast asleep, tucked up inside his sleeping bag, not moving). And then I watch her again.

It’s quiet, except for the occasional van horn (some cheesed-off Monday-morning joker on his way to the early shift), the buzz of the lights on the bridge, and the wet sounds of the river.

Eerie .

Only me, and her, and some tramp huddled up in a blanket on the floor, and three security guards (but they’re miles off, in a far corner of the compound, chatting over a flask and a fag), and (but of course ) there’s David Blaine, the International Superstar.

Eventually I make my way down on to the embankment and hitch myself up casually on to the wall a short way along from her. She doesn’t seem to notice me at first and I dare not speak. She’s in some kind of trance. But peaceful. Just sitting on that wall, staring up at the box. Lips slightly parted. Breathing shallow.

When ten long minutes have ticked by she glances over and says, ‘You don’t smell right. You’re ill.’

‘Had the flu,’ I confirm croakily.

‘Still got it,’ she says, then takes my hand and sniffs at the palm. She pulls a face. ‘Wank,’ she says, then tips her head, speculatively, ‘at about eleven o’clock last night, I reckon…’ She sniffs again. ‘A blackcurrant Lemsip at twelve…’ She pauses, frowning, then inhales for a final time. ‘And you stroked a dog . A male dog. A big dog. Just before you came out.’

How’d she do that?

I leave my hand resting in her hand.

‘How’d you do that?’

‘It’s my job,’ she says, matter of factly.

‘It’s your job to know I had a wank at eleven?’

‘I’m reading your book,’ she says.

‘ Shane ?’ I stutter, slow to catch up. ‘You are?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you enjoying it?’

‘I’ve reached Chapter six,’ she says, ‘the summer’s almost over and Fletcher’s back. He’s got a big contract. He wants the Homesteaders off his land…’

‘Ah.’ I nod, sagely.

‘I feel a little sorry for him,’ she says.

‘How’s that?’

‘Because he used to own it all, the entire valley , then he had some bad luck after the drought and hard winter of ’86.’ She sighs: ‘And everybody started moving in on him, stealing his grazing…’

Typical girl , eh? To get everything the wrong way round.

‘It’s the American West ’, I explain. ‘That’s how the nation was built —individuals, staking their rightful claim…’

‘Rightful?’ she looks quizzical. ‘Fletcher was there first.’

‘The Native Americans were there first ,’ I hiss. ‘If you want to get all pernickety about it.’

Her eyes widen. ‘Then maybe Fletcher should give the land back to them ,’ she says, ‘not just a random bunch of greedy white settlers.’

‘The point of the book,’ I growl, ‘is to celebrate the struggle of the underdog.’

‘Well maybe they’re celebrating the wrong underdog,’ she persists.

‘There’s no right or wrong in fiction,’ I mutter, ‘the story’s just the story.’

She’s quiet for a moment.

‘And the mother’s a bloody tramp ,’ she suddenly says (cheerfully ignoring my meta-textual input).

‘What?’

‘A tramp,’ she reiterates.

‘Marian? A tramp ?’ I gasp, snatching my hand back. (The sainted Marian? She of the deep-dish pie?)

Aphra nods, then she grins. ‘You have a problem with that?’

I shake my head. ‘Of course not. You’re just…’ I struggle to find the words (I’ve got flu , remember?). ‘You’re just merciless , that’s all.’

She’s wide-eyed.

‘ Moi ?’

Ha ha .

‘The whole point of the book is this wonderful sense of the subtle interplay between the three adult characters,’ I crisply lecture. ‘Marian is attracted to Shane, but she loves her husband. It’s a dilemma. It’s interesting. It’s subtle.’

‘Life must be pretty bloody dull…’ Aphra concedes, kicking out her feet (purple-suede eighties-style pixie-boots with lethal-looking three-inch stiletto heels) ‘on that dusty old Homestead…’

‘Precisely.’

‘Just stuck in a shack all day with an infuriating kid …’

‘What?’

My back straightens (now this is fighting talk). ‘You think Bob’s infuriating?’

She shrugs. ‘He just never stops talking.’

My eyes bulge. ‘But he narrates in the first person. The boy tells the story.’

She bursts out laughing.

‘I know that,’ she says, nudging me. ‘I’m just kidding .’ Oh .

She gazes up at the magician for a while, then cocks her head, inquisitively. ‘Was it a good wank?’ (Is nothing sacred?)

‘So was it?’ she prompts.

‘A little feverish, perhaps,’ I sullenly mutter.

‘ Everybody gets horny when they’re ill…’ she says. ‘Remember that angry old bastard on Oxford Street who used to march up and down with his neat little placard saying “Less Protein, Less Lust”?’ I nod.