Lynne Tillman - American Genius - A Comedy

The Magician explains that we are supposed to center and open ourselves to what is out there, way out there, and also in us.

— Death is the master of transformation, he says in his mellow, nasal voice. Some believe there is no death, and the spirit or soul continues after death. We learn from physics that matter doesn't die. You could say we survive death, because human beings are matter. In the 17th century, the scientist Emanuel Swedenborg believed that when a person dies, they're welcomed by angels. In the hereafter, they live the style they did on earth.

— The same lifestyle? Is this patter? Spike asks.

— Please don't interrupt him, Contesa urges, gently.

— I get your skepticism, the Magician says, but what I'm trying to do with you here-actually I'm not sure what it is. I'm not above entertainment, that's true. But, for what it's worth, I recently lost my mother.

— I recently lost my best friend, the young married man says.

— I lost my older sister, Contesa says.

— I lost my wife, the Count says.

Is the Count's wife dead, I wonder again, lost, literally lost, or is it figurative, she's lost to him?

— My dog died two weeks before I got here, the disconsolate woman says.

— I don't know anyone, no one I love, anyway, who's dead, says Spike, her unmarked face an embarrassment of riches.

— I can see that, Moira adds gravely, lowering her eyes.

The Turkish poet exhales operatically, straightens up in his chair, and begs the Magician to get on with it.

— Please. I am inspired by you, my blessed, extravagant companions.

The Turkish poet's hands are outstretched, palms peacefully up.

— And by whatever spirits come, even if they don't. I've lost… I am not so brave anymore to admit, maybe like you.

— Everyone, please, close your eyes, and let's be quiet now, the Magician says.

I shut my eyes reluctantly and reflect on the history of spiritualism that lives in this room, which we twelve now occupy, in a building not far from where witches burned at the stake in the 17th century. I consider that if there's death in life, that is, we recognize death will come and live with it, there might be life in death. In Zulu the verb fa means to die, the noun fa means inheritance, which encourages solace, since when someone dies, there's something you inherit, death leaves a gift.

A blast of Arctic air sets me shivering.

— Everyone here, the Magician goes on, except for Moira, Violet, and me are nonbelievers. In the 19th century, mediums didn't allow nonbelievers into a seance, because of their negative energy.

— Everyone wishes to speak to the dead, Moira announces, definitively. It is a universal wish.

— Good, the Magician pronounces.

The Magician says you have to want to believe, and then, to my surprise, the Count admits that against reason he hopes for belief, at least now, since belief might soothe him in time, though it's time that might heal, but he can't let go of reason.

— What's so great about reason? our Felice demands.

This leaves Arthur, Henry, the young married man, our Kafka, Spike, and me.

— What are we supposed to do? Spike asks. Believe or not not believe?

The young married man cracks up.

— We're not supposed to do anything, Contesa says.

— Double negatives, Arthur intones dolefully. We're here, right. Is our belief really essential?

Arthur speaks, at once serious and ironic, on both sides of the issue, then he and Henry, in unison, look with a passive or benign contentment at the Magician.

The Magician rises slowly, not to alarm us, and walks around the table, demonstrating that there is nothing attached to him, and, as he does, he explains that in the 19th century it was revealed that many mediums were hoaxes, the seances rigged, that the medium had helpers, which he doesn't have, that the medium might have a signal or two for the helper, and that the notorious ectoplasm, a luminous substance believed to ooze from a spiritualistic medium's mouth, was sometimes regurgitated surgical gauze, that mediums who suddenly levitated were discovered, when the lights were switched on by nonbelievers, to be standing on a chair, but he had no tricks up his sleeve or under him, no assistants whose voices doubled for him or our loved ones. Some probably still fear that the Magician will pickpocket them again-I notice the Count clutch his Breguet in his right fist-but soon the Magician extinguishes the candles on the table and has the tall balding man turn off the various lamps in the Rotunda Room. In the semi-darkness, there's easy and labored breathing through the nose and mouth, bodies shifting and settling in their chairs, shoes tapping and shuffling on the hardwood floor, legs shaking in place, and rocking, and I feel uneasy, everyone must feel uneasy except Moira, the Magician, and Contesa, who have experience with spiritualism and its manifestations, but apart from a narrow beam of light coming through the windows from the moon, the lantern on the lamppost outside, or an occasional car's headlights, the near-dark cloaks us, and, separate from each other, we are shapes, shadows, or shades of our corporeal selves.

— Be still, everyone, be still, the Magician commands. We must keep still. Empty your minds, release yourselves, open yourselves up, stop thinking, and breathe. Don't move around. That's important. Remember everything you can about the loved one you want to contact. Feel their presence beside you. Will It. I will act as your conduit, your medium, to the great beyond.

There's a single guffaw, probably Spike's, a few more minutes of freighted silence, during which, my eyes shut, I hazard believing or not disbelieving, because when I adumbrate my various zeals, that chairs communicate ideas, emotions, and values, that democracy is conflict, that justice and truth are often opposed, or that a subtle design could one day cause a revolution, though subtlety is usually derogated, I see myself avow one idea, drop another, see that I change my mind, but not easily. In the here and now, I could momentarily embrace spiritualism, as I could, in the abstract, a poorly designed or uncomfortable chair.

Contesa's head drops or falls onto her chest, she may be asleep, but then her head flops from side to side, and, adjusting to the darkness, my eyes fasten on her, as she begins to mutter phrases just beyond decipherability. Her voice is a strangled or undulating moan. The Magician whispers that Violet is in a trance state and we are to continue our reveries and investigations, to let her be wherever she is, to follow our memories to our loved ones and feel their presence beside us, to let go of the now and reach out to a world with no past or future.

The odd inquisitive woman, Moira, erupts into the stillness in a voice that sounds drugged, hers is a thick, slurred speech, which may signal her submission to or immersion in the other world, or this may be the otherworld's speaking voice, since if the dead speak, their speech must undergo transformation, too.

— Your aura, Ataturk, I see it.

With her eyes shut, she delicately indicates the Turkish poet.

— It is blue, sky blue. The color of hope, yes, there is hope in you and for others.

The Turkish poet acknowledges her murky address with a rich sigh.

— I am no Ataturk, he says mournfully. I wish for him.

— Everyone wishes to speak to the dead, Moira asserts again.

Silence. Breathing.

Then Moira, agitated, shouts: "Get off me, leave me. Go to her! To her!"

Contesa awakens or, rather, lifts her head, and she also speaks slowly, as if drugged, dragging her words and placing many breathy pauses between them: "What, what? You've come, my sister, you're back. I did NOT steal Mother's ring. She gave it to me. You're the selfish one. Your husband is terrible. He… No. Yes. Stop it, that's not true. No, I didn't turn my back on my people. Never, no. But don't go. Can't we.? Please stay."