Blind.Faith 2.0.50. Tomasz Tatum

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СКАЧАТЬ smell of electricity, activity or humanity that tends to linger tentatively while the evening’s sensations, its cheers of approval or groans of disappointment, stubbornly refuse to subside. As though they hover instead in the damp evening air while an outdoor stage is slowly dismantled or while the playing field is covered with tarps to protect it from a steady rain that is now streaming earthward. In his mind’s eye, the lights are still on but they no longer highlight the attraction in order to accentuate the illusion. Instead, they illuminate the stark and naked boundaries marking the transitory point at which the illusion inevitably ends.

      There are rows of empty seats. Spilled paper cups.

      Popcorn and ticket stubs. Rubbish ankle-deep on the floor.

      Doors being locked from within. Ushers anxious to go home.

      Ch.ase stared at the stage as though it were hypnotic for him. Then, for an instant, the thought actually crossed his mind whether he might be entirely alone in the studio at this instant. It was at this precise moment that he finally registered the presence of someone wordlessly observing him from behind one of the several control consoles that were arranged parallel to the far wall in a soundproof booth off to his right. As though he had waited until he was finally noticed, the figure rose and casually shuffled out of the booth and toward him. A tall, relaxed-looking and smartly dressed man with unkempt curly hair and a braided goatee stood before him and offered his wide hand in greeting. Despite the semi-darkness, he was wearing huge sunglasses with impenetrable black lenses. And he probably bore the widest grin to be found in all of Libertyville@Esperantia.

      “Hi. Valbånger’s the name,” he said in introduction, “I’m the producer around here.”

      Ch.ase shook his hand but was still completely absorbed in mustering the studio. He had never been in a place like this.

      Then he turned back to Valbånger and nearly held his breath for a fraction of a second. He noticed that Valbånger’s sunglasses had a double row of tiny blinking LEDs arranged above the lenses. They began blinking frantically whenever he moved his head.

      “I’m sorry. What did you just say your name was again?” he asked, his eyes riveted on the LEDs as he spoke.

      Valbånger grinned his big grin again in response.

      “No sweat. Actually, the name was originally Scandinavian. Most folks just make Wallbanger out of it. Some folks find that absolutely hilarious and tack on a Harvey. I don’t mind. Hell, I go along with the joke! So just call me Harvey. Makes everything that much simpler around here.”

      “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You want me to call you Harvey Wallbanger?” asked Ch.ase in disbelief.

      Valbånger scratched his chin for a moment, cocking his head while he mustered Ch.ase through the dark void of his sunglasses. “OK. I can tell that we’re going to have to be formal about this for now. Tell you what: I’ll just call you warden from now on, then. OK? I mean, we’re gonna be working together a lot in the future.time.”

      Then the two men began a tour of the studio.

      “So how does it actually function then?” inquired Ch.ase, his gaze still riveted on the stage and, more importantly, on the lounge chair situated at the center of the dread.commachine. “And, while you’re explaining that, maybe you can clarify what exactly the rules are?”

      “To answer your questions, Warden, I guess that I can sum it up very succinctly,” said Valbånger, rubbing his palms together absent-mindedly as though he were trying to warm his hands.

      “The answer is: randomly and very few.”

      Valbånger walked over to the cove and sat down, making himself comfortable in one of the leather seats directly in front of the stage. He gestured to Ch.ase that he ought to do the same. Ch.ase stood stiffly at first at the end of the two rows and cast a nervous glance at the seats. He seemed to hesitate a bit.

      “Don’t be shy,” said Valbånger. “That one will be yours in the future.time. It’s reserved for the warden. See that little brass plate?”

      He pointed to one of the seats directly behind him in the second row. It was located somewhat left of center.

      “That one says w-a-r-d-e-n on it. So it’s prime time for you from now on. Every WorkDay2 and WorkDay5 at eight-thirty sharp. Up here is where the governor sits,” he continued matter-of-factly, patting the cushion of the neighboring seat to his right.

      The seat Valbånger identified as that of the governor was ahead of Ch.ase’ new place and offset to the right by approximately one half seat width. Ch.ase leaned forward to inspect the brass plate on the seat Valbånger indicated.

      “Let me guess: g-o-v-e-r-n-o-r?” he ventured.

      Valbånger nodded enthusiastically and flashed his wide grin.

      He began to elaborate.

      “The governor is a short, stocky fellow, only about a meter sixty-five or so. And the stage is elevated, as you can see. So there’s no need for you to worry about his obstructing your view of the proceedings.”

      Valbånger seemed genuinely eager to reassure Ch.ase about this.

      Ch.ase eased himself into the end seat in the first row and looked up to the stage. The brass plate indicated that it was reserved for the Chief Justice. The center of the stage with its reclining lounge chair was, at the most, perhaps three or four meters away from where he was sitting. Valbånger, in the meantime, got up out of his seat and began switching on all of the stage lighting and props. Within a matter of a few short seconds, the stage assumed a giddy atmosphere which was both menacing and merry at the same time. Liquid light seemed to drench everything before them in a fiery glow with the viscosity of amber honey. It reminded Ch.ase of some eerily-lit but empty fin-de-siècle merry-go-round rotating listlessly in the darkness while faceless phantoms grouped around it and looked on in silence, waiting for someone to take the ride of their lives. Ch.ase was not superstitious. He imagined for a second, however, that he could sense a crowd of ghosts in this room.

      Valbånger returned from the lighting consoles and sat down again. This time he let himself drop into the governor’s chair.

      “So, like, where’s the audience?” asked Ch.ase, suddenly turning around and looking behind the seat rows toward the entrance. Like just about everyone else in the nation, he had watched MeaMaxi.Culpa many times. Fairly regularly, although not quite religiously, it dawned on him, if he was home from work early enough to tune in. In fact, it was so popular that all the decent channels broadcast it simultaneously anyhow. It was literally the only show which he could receive on his portable telly.tube during the periods which Valbånger had referred to as prime time. But, unless his memory was failing him entirely on this count, Ch.ase thought that he distinctly recalled the presence and participation of a substantial studio audience during the show.

      Valbånger had finally removed his ridiculous sunglasses and was now rubbing his eyes as he sat in the glare of the stage lights. He turned to face Ch.ase.

      “It’s virtual,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Better handling. Believe me: it makes it so much easier to work with.”

      Ch.ase leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a moment. He wasn’t sure that he understood what Valbånger meant.

      “You mean that there’s no audience for the proceedings at all?”

      “Well, СКАЧАТЬ