Pasha Malla - People Park

A train came gliding into Parkside West Station, high above, traded passengers, then went north. Pearl followed on foot beneath the tracks, caught up at Bridge Station, the Yellowline reversed and headed back toward Bay Junction. Traffic still choked Guardian Bridge all the way to the mainland, where, wedged into the cliffside, was the Scenic Vista upon which the Pooles had collected the night prior.

Pearl headed east. Passing Street’s Milk (& Things — newly amended) she was first surprised, then relieved, to see an OPEN sign in the window. The place hadn’t changed, though had it ever been new? Pop’s store had always seemed in need of upkeep, the paint faded and flaking and the windows forever smudged with an orange, oily type of dirt.

A half-mile along the park’s northend she came upon the grounds of Island Amusements, rollercoasters twisting like scoliotic spines, the ice-blue slides of Rocket Falls, the Thunder Wheel’s all-seeing eye glowering down upon everything. (OPEN JUBILEE SATURDAY! boasted a sign pasted to the fence.) But it was the Stadium that Pearl wanted to see, so she pushed farther east.

Ten minutes later she stood at the players’ entrance. The new sponsorship and ubiquitous Island Flat Company signage provoked a slight proprietary jilt, but just seeing the place felt good: a bulbous island amid a sea of stark concrete, banners in Y’s maroon hung from the roof at each of the six gates.

The players’ entrance was locked, so Pearl had to go around to general admissions. On gamedays, when Pearl arrived for warmups she was always greeted by fans clambering and begging for autographs. Though the lack now of fans, of other players — of anyone — felt ceremonial and right.

A notice in the box office window seemed apologetic: Thanks for another great season, get next year’s season passes now, call YS-TICKT (978-4258) . From here Pearl walked the perimeter of the stadium, stopping at each gate, cupping her hands to the glass, scanning the mezzanine for custodial workers or administrative staff or maybe even a keen rookie, out here alone to train.

But there was no one, and no way in. By the time she made her way back to the box office Pearl was huffing and felt a slight twinge in her knee. Leaning forward, catching her breath with her hands on her thighs, she allowed herself a cruel little laugh: returning to the place she’d once been a star, she’d worn herself out trying to get in.

IN THE GRAND SALOON’S banquet hall waiters hustled about to a tinkle of silverware and the burble of fifty conversations, the pepper-and-steel odour of roast meat wafted smokily from the kitchen, schnapps-based aperitifs had given way to cider, the bubbles lifted emberlike in each crystal flute. Distributed among the two dozen tables in blacktie and ballgowns were local dignitaries: various reps of cultural associations, several pink-drunk pillars of the business community, stars of the Lady Y’s tautly muscled and stuffed into too-tight eveningwear, nervous academics from the Institute and their embarrassing spouses, the beautiful and rich, the vapid and canny. A cameraman crept between the tables, dropping to one knee every so often to shoot scenes he’d edit later for In the Know ’s weekly Party Town featurette.

Upon the stage worked the island’s artist laureate, Loopy, a squat woman in a paisley caftan and matching beret. Loopy’s assistant, mousy and morose behind a curtain of bangs, handed over chisels and picks with which Loopy hacked a potentially avian shape from a block of ice.

Two tables were stationed at the front of the room: one for the NFLM’s High Gregories, where a ducktaped Recruit struggled to napkin wheelchair-bound Favours, Griggs flipped idly through channels on his walkie-talkie, Noodles sipped a glass of water, and Magurk quizzed Wagstaffe: How’d you come at me with a blade? With a shy giggle, Wagstaffe wagged his butterknife. Wrong, said Magurk. Like this — see? Punch and cut, punch and cut. Good lookin out, said Wagstaffe.

At the other head table, with the central positioning of newlyweds at their nuptial feast, sat the Mayor and Raven. She’d doffed her mayoral sash in favour of a powersuit, though a nick in her stockings had run from ankle to knee. He’d clipped a bowtie to his tracksuit, his head seemed especially polished, all discoball sparkle and gleam.

Here were the appetizers: atop an IFC flat, fish bladders in a buttery broth, an antenna of sparrowgrass sprouted from their midst. Laughter stabbed into the air, glasses clinked, waitstaff in IFC uniforms cranked limb-sized peppermills and in the kitchen refilled empty cider carafes from a rubber tub by the compost bin.

The Mayor watched Raven stir his fish bladders. The whole menu tonight comprises gourmet selections from the Island Flat Company, one of our local businesses, she said. Everything’s local, the cider’s from the orchard on the eastside of People Park. .

Raven wasn’t listening: he plucked a bladder from the bowl, examined it with a dubious squint, and tentatively slid it into his mouth. Face contorting into instant horror, he gulped cider, replicated the horror face, signalled a waiter, made sure the milk wasn’t local (it wasn’t), commanded the largest glass possible. Then, to the Mayor: You were saying?

There was more to her little treatise, once upon a time she could dovetail any subject with civic pride. But she’d lost the thread. Gazing around the room she tried to feel something for her constituents beyond mild loathing. In the last half-decade of her incumbency she’d begun to feel first distant from these people, then estranged. Life on the island had become too easy, everyone took her reforms for granted, no one considered how things used to be. Look at them, she thought: these people owe their comfort to me and they don’t even realize it.

Well I should probably say something, said the Mayor, pushed back from the table, closed her eyes for a quick personal affirmation — touch green! — before addressing the guests. But when she opened her eyes Raven was standing on his chair, arms extended in victory. Yes, he cooed. Yes, yes !

Around the room people struck glassware with forks. Every head in the room swivelled toward the illustrationist, faces alight, what would he do.

Yes, yes! he cried, conducting his audience like a maestro. Put down your forks, please. Friends — welcome. Yet here I am welcoming you when it is I who should thank you for being welcomed. For you have welcomed me here — graciously. And so it is with grace I thank you for this welcome.

He bowed. Everyone tinged their glasses again, they couldn’t resist, the banquet hall was a cauldron of delight. Ignoring this, the Mayor carved into her fish bladder. Out hissed a little gasp, a nautical aroma.

Please, no more tinging, said Raven, please. I’ve been all around the world, and this city — I’ve rarely had so keen a welcome. Don’t applaud. Seriously, stop it. Listen .

He climbed down from his chair and began to walk around the room. The Mayor slipped the fish bladder into her mouth, the moist withered cyst of it.

Passing the NFLM table Raven nodded, the High Gregories nodded back.

Tomorrow night, he continued, though I have yet to discern the specifics, I will be illustrating something truly, I think, spectacular. As always it will be a magic that of course already exists, but remains unseen. My job as ever is just to reveal this magic to you, to illustrate what in your hearts you already know, what you already believe. My work is only to remove the fog that obscures the truth.

The air had gone tense and glassy. The Mayor chewed, mouth flooding with a sour, silty mucous.