Prehaps you need an illustration of my own! Pop thumped the table, held up his fist, rotated it slowly, almost forlornly. How are we to take back the night if the moon — the fist’s rotations paused — has been conciliated by the irradiating sunshine — here he covered the fist in his other hand — of a forever-long day?
Pop concluded by exploding both hands outward, fingers fluttering, and then hid them under the picnic table. In his eyes was triumph.
Banished to the periphery among Friendly Farm’s animaltronics were Debbie, Loopy’s assistant, and Diamond-Wood. The latter’s walkie-talkie buzzed, he listened, whispered, hung up, and tapped his crutches against a pig, its metal hide clanging, and shot the Mayor an urgent look.
What, she said.
Diamond-Wood ungagged himself. My people think it’d be a mistake not to rule out certain parties known for vandalism around the city. We —
Pop snorted. Parties? Perhaps your own party wishes the city’s attentuations misguided? For was it not your party, sir, whom initiated the illustrationaire’s pretence?
Excellent point, said the Mayor. Touch green.
Diamond-Wood staggered forward, bumping the pigs — which activated their animations: one mounted the other and began to thrust. Though their lovemaking began gently, almost sensual.
Ignoring the carnal whinnies and jigglings, Diamond-Wood hobbled up to the picnic table. Please, he said, Mr. Street —
Don’t you please me! Aggregately, your organization has also empropriated my home! My home, Mrs. Mayor! You are savvy to this?
The Mayor said, Nope.
The mechanical coitus intensified, the pigs’ prerecorded ecstasy escalating into howls, metal clanged against metal. Debbie and Loopy’s assistant cowered behind a dromedary.
I can’t speak to that, said Diamond-Wood, though the proper procedures —
My home, Pop roared. First my home, a quartered century hencefrom, and now. . Once again, my home! Recurrently!
But —
As though time itself has too gone loopy!
Loopy leaned into the conversation, grinning benevolently.
But everyone’s attention had been diverted by the pigs. Their squeals reached a pitch both tortured and rapturous, one slammed into the other with force adequate to either resuscitate it from near-death or kill it for good. And just as the frenzied creatures seemed ready to rip free from the cement, with a final heave they lurched to a stop. Everything was still. The creatures’ eyes were stupid and oblivious.
Well, said Debbie, that was something, and everyone agreed.
HI ADINE. This is Sam.
Hi, said Adine. You’re about two and a half minutes early, buddy. Give me one sec?
Through the phone Sam could hear his sister’s TV, a voice was talking. He flipped around until his set’s sound matched hers: channel 73. It was a boring show, just a woman at a table telling the camera about her sadness. Through the phone Sam could hear his sister breathing in the steady, in-and-out way of someone sleeping. Then the woman said goodbye and thanks for listening and there was a rustle on the end of the line and Adine said, in a small voice, Hey, buddy, sorry about that.
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 alive. 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.