Pasha Malla - People Park

Olpert looked across the Cove: islandside the Ferryport was empty, no one lined up, there was no ferry in sight. Bay Junction seemed closed. Beneath the walkway flowed a river, household items floated past: a wicker trashcan, an empty pack of Redapples, some sort of manuscript, all those pages ant-trailed with type, plastic bags by the dozens — most from Bargain Zoom.

Hey, look, said Gip, pointing. People.

Around the Islet’s eastern promontory appeared a strange convoy of watercraft. Roped to a central rowboat heaped with boxes and furniture were four canoes, two paddlers in each, a passenger hunkered amidships. Bongos harmonized each paddlestroke as the flotilla progressed into Perint’s Cove.

Hello, hello! Olpert shouted. Help, help!

Gip echoed him: Hello, help!

The southerly wind caught and swept their voices back over the Islet. None of the canoeists broke rhythm, the drums kept time. Shrill clear instructions came across the water: Stay together, everyone stay together!

The woman in the yellow bandana sterned the lead boat. In the bow, digging into the water as though trying to tunnel out the other side, was her grizzly partner. Between them someone’s child knocked bongos. In another boat were the two men and the woman who’d fled the roominghouse that morning. Twelve people in all: the entire Islet community, save Olpert and Sam.

Face pointed toward the Cove, Sam was shouting, his words garbled.

Save us please, called Gip, his voice reedy as a blade of grass and just as effortlessly rebuffed by the wind.

They can’t hear you, said Olpert.

A pillow floated past.

Across Perint’s Cove the silver miracle of the city gleamed against a cerulean backdrop of sky. The drums were fading. A seagull screeched by overhead, two sharp cries of despair or mockery, and swooped out over the lake.

What do we do? said Gip. I’ve got to get back, I told you. I’m the one!

Sam said, I don’t know how to swim okay.

Olpert stared at all that water. I don’t know if I know how to swim.

Sam said, We need a boat.

Do you have a boat? Where can we find a boat?

I could build a boat.

What? You could?

If there was time.

Olpert looked back over the Islet. All that remained were treetops and the second storeys of the taller houses. He imagined the roominghouse on the far shore, waves nudging the upstairs windows, begging to be let in. Maybe even pouring in.

Oh no, he said. Jessica.

Jessica? said Gip.

She’s trapped. We’ve abandoned her. I —

Olpert pictured her terrarium churned to mud, a little mole-nose valiantly sniffing for air — and water smothering it. He reached for the bridge’s railing for support. And, steadied, discovered something bright and brave shining through his despair. It took him a moment to identify: courage.

I have to rescue her, said Olpert.

You can’t leave me! wailed Gip. I have to get over there and finish Raven’s illustration because I’m the one , he told me so.

But Olpert was already wading back into the water. I’ll be two minutes, he said, just wait here. And, in a voice he hoped was not ridiculous, but the brassy baritone of a hero, he added, And then I’ll take us across!

LET ME GO, said the Mayor.

You’re certain? If that’s what you wish, Mrs. Mayor, of course, I’m happy to set you loose. You’re aware what’s below, I assume?

Wait.

Yes?

Where does it end.

This? Oh, you know. I’m not sure it exactly ends . Though I can’t say for sure.

What does that mean. Can you say something that’s an actual thing , please. Everything’s just words with you.

Words are things. Words aren’t things?

Answer my question: if you let me go what will happen.

Oh, I don’t know. Who can say? Doesn’t what happens just happen ?

The Mayor was silent. Raven rocked her gently, almost lovingly — with a hand? a foot? Or might this just be some telekinetic capacity he had? With a tremor of horror, she wondered if, beyond a voice, he was even there at all.

Ventriloquist, spectre — whatever he might be, he was speaking again: It’s hard enough to just be somebody, let alone try to make everyone else a little bit more of themselves. What do people want? How can one know when they don’t even know?

What are you talking about. I want my body back. I want to get out of here. I didn’t want any of this. I just wanted everyone to have a nice weekend. I even thought it might be fun. Make it normal. You need to fix what you’ve done. That’s what I want!

What’s normal? Isn’t normal what I’ve been trying to show you? And by normal I mean the truth — the normal, quiet truth beneath the clatter of your busy city lives. Though did I achieve such truth this time? I have my doubts. I can’t judge it myself, as I’m within it, you see? Who knows, I say what I do aren’t illusions, but maybe they are. Maybe they’re just lies. Don’t truths which no longer entertain become lies?

You’ve put an entire city in chaos. That’s what I think. That’s the truth.

Surely it is the acts of people that destroy them? At most I merely provide the means.

This is pointless.

I wonder, the people — are they at least afraid? Are they truly afraid?

You need to put right what you’ve done.

No. Mrs. Mayor, I shan’t. Not yet. It’s so delightful down here, away from it all, and it’s good to chat with you. I’m in no hurry to go anywhere. Are you? To what?

The Mayor sighed.

Ah, life, Raven said.

What will happen if you let me go.

I told you, he said, I never know. I just don’t know.

N BLACKACRES STATION sat train 2306. The platform was empty, the movator immobile, the escalator — stairs. The station held the air with the sterile expectation of an empty operating room. Debbie ducked inside the first car, where, in the gloom at the far end, were that same mother and son, food wrappers and empty drink containers heaped at their feet.

She was just in time: the lights came on, the train began to hum, the woman reclined and drew the boy’s head into her lap. You see, Rupe? she said softly. Here we go.

As the train wobbled out of Blackacres Station Debbie moved wide-legged, as though wading, down the car. Yet when she reached the mother and son she had nothing for them, nothing to say. Instead it was the PA that spoke: Next stop, Upper Olde Towne. Upper Olde Towne Station, next stop.

Debbie sat. The train moved at a deliberate, measured speed. Sixty feet below, the blight of Blackacres yielded to the gentrifications of Upper Olde Towne. UOT Station slipped by: the tarped platform, wires in capillary bundles bursting from holes in stripped cement walls, a sense of desertion, and then they were through and the PA claimed Knock Street Station would be next.

A toxic odour rose up as they lumbered over Lowell Canal, Debbie gagged. The woman across the aisle seemed unperturbed, just stroked her son’s face, the same hand that had smacked the same cheek only the day before, now so loving and gentle. Each caress made Debbie feel lonely and extraneous. She looked away.

On the streets below appeared the Citywagon Depot, the Temple, and IFC. The previous night’s events felt so profoundly in the past — such revelations! Debbie thought of the snitches Havoc and Tragedy and laughed bitterly to herself. Though what might they have done with Pop? Possible NFLM vendettas wheeled in her mind, and with them came guilt — she had to do something. But the train moved through Knock Street Station and out the other side.