Pasha Malla - People Park

Hey buddy, said Sam. Are we watching Salami Talk ?

Oh man. I guess. That’s on 12, right?

That’s on 12 right.

In the Know was wrapping up in a fanfare of kettledrums and trumpets. The closing credits rolled over images of kids splashing in the waves at Budai Beach amid frothy green runoff from Lowell Canal, and they ended with the We-TV logo, the screen went black, and here was Lucal Wagstaffe’s mouth in extreme closeup, welcoming you to Salami Talk — and the mouth took a big bite of juicy sausage.

Today’s intro montage featured images of magic through the ages. Witches are being burned Adine, said Sam. They’re tied to tree trunks okay. But there’s a guy now hanging upside down over the water. His hands are tied okay. He’s escaping. There’s some —

Let me listen.

Sam closed his eyes, just to see: Wagstaffe’s was a voice you trusted. It wasn’t lying. It talked about the history of magic. It talked about religion. Sam opened his eyes: the pictures on TV were of cloaked bearded men and miracles in the desert, then some grainy footage of soothsayers performing out of covered wagons, then fidgety films of a stage magician whisking a tablecloth out from a dinner setting, while women in bikinis smiled. And then there was a sound of wings and the screen went black and the black took the shape of a bird, flapping away from the camera toward a big white moon in the night, and on the face of the moon appeared: Raven — Behind the Illustrations.

Now Wagstaffe was standing in a dim brown library lit by brass lamps with jade-coloured shades, the books stacked floor to ceiling, speaking in a voice of liquid gold. Sam tried to explain the scene but Adine hushed him: It’s Wagstaffe, I hate him, let’s see what dooshy things he has to say.

This morning, Wagstaffe was saying, join us at Salami Talk for our exclusive, one-hour interview with Raven, live, from We-TV Studios.

The screen is black, said Sam. Oh. The videos are of Raven now.

What’s going on?

He’s doing things with birds. Birds are appearing, disappearing. Everyone’s clapping. It’s in a place with rivers, boats, he’s on a bridge. They’re saying —

Shhh.

Sam waited, the scene shifted. They were back in the library and Wagstaffe was sitting in a big purple chair and in another was Raven. A fire crackled in a fireplace behind them.

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.