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  This apparent ‘indifference’ eventually turns into an active hostility (which is where we are now, fasting-wise, I guess–except for in India, maybe, and some other Eastern countries where doing without still has strong associations with devotion and piety).

  The Artist and his impresario go their separate ways. The Impresario is just an opportunist–your typical shonky manager–and within the story he basically represents Capitalism (note, capital C). The Artist subsequently sells himself to a circus who simply want to trade off his famous name (and have no interest in his craft, per se).

  And then (to cut a short story shorter), he’s just left in his cage to starve and nobody actually gives a damn about him. Because the Impresario isn’t there, he just carries on (he never stops). He breaks all these fasting limits and records, but nobody even notices (in essence, Kafka’s implying that while the Impresario was merciless he was also an essential cog in the fasting machine–because in his own, rough-hewn way, he was committed to the Artist. You know? The way McDonald’s, say, are committed to the cow).

  Anyhow, the Artist fasts and fasts, but nobody even sees him any more. He’s just this bag of bones in an old cage under a pile of dirty straw.

  One day the circus ‘overseer’ observes that the cage is empty and asks why. They shift the straw and expose the Hunger Artist. He is still alive, but only just. He’s in a terrible state–not at all blissful or victorious (as you might’ve imagined) but full of hatred and self-disgust. He whispers (in his last breaths–and to an indifferent audience) that his fasting is in no way ‘admirable’, and then he explains why…

  Man–you’re just gonna have to go out and buy the book. Because I can’t quote this entire section, even though I’d love to. Suffice to say, the Artist whispers to the overseer that the only reason he ever fasted was because he couldn’t ever find ‘the food I liked’.

  Then he dies and they replace him with a panther.

  Fin.

  After I throw down the book, I can’t help dwelling on it. This idea (this–ahem–‘grande dénouement’) that the Artist is only what he is (who he is) because he actually hates all food is rather an ingenious one. And it’s not just literal, i.e. it’s not so much food he rejects as life itself (love, ambition, Art, sex, who cares? Everything).

  Did Blaine sympathise with this tragic creature (I wonder) when hold him in contempt? he read the story? Or did he hold him in contempt? Is this how he feels? Is this his psychology? I mean are his stunts about holding life precious (which I suppose would have to be the official PR–or they’d section him, basically), or are they about holding it cheap (or even holding it at bay)? Because surely if you hold life cheap, the risks you take don’t actually signify anything? They’re just empty gestures. And the stunt itself is stripped of all meaningfulness.

  What makes us so angry (we puffed-up, sensitive, Western ticks) is seeing all the aspirations of capitalism degraded by the man who has pretty much everything (this young, handsome, charming, intelligent, multi-multimillionaire). He has it all- everything we yearn for- and yet he casts it casually, haughtily- publicly- aside…

  Well, for the princely sum of five million dollars…

  The ultimate Capitalist gesture of Anti-Capitalism.

  No wonder we’re so pissed off.

  He’s magnificently lit. Blaine. I ponder this fact as I turn my light off.

  At night you can see his bright little glass pod from miles around. In ‘A Hunger Artist’ Kafka says how the Artist loves to have the full glare of artificial light upon him. The Impresario actually provides especially enthusiastic ‘watchers’ with pocket torches so that at night they can shine them full in his face as he tries to rest.

  And the Artist welcomes this. Screw sleep! He loves the light. He wants everything to be seen. He wants the light–he needs the light–to dispel all doubt.

  Blaine is also lit–day and night–for TV. I’m not certain how he feels about it. But I suppose this masochistic urge to be focused upon is all very much part and parcel of the modern idea of celebrity. Why else would they call it ‘the limelight’?

  The light brings truth and it brings validation (‘If everybody wants to look so badly,’ the tragically hounded yet horribly insecure star reasons, ‘I must be worth looking at…’).

  The light also brings moths. And mosquitoes. And all manner of other pests.

  But that’s just the arse-end of showbusiness, I guess.

  Can’t sleep.

  I lie in bed, shivering, my mind infested by the Kafka. To temporarily distract myself, I try and remember Blaine’s TV shows. I half-recollect seeing them–ages ago now–the one with the pole-standing stunt and the one when he was packed up in ice. The stunts (so far as I can recollect) were interspersed with Blaine wandering around the place, just doing his tricks.

  He had this one scam with a discarded beer can: approached a couple in a park (lying on their picnic blanket), picked up this spent beer can next to where they were sitting (was it their can? Or his can?), tipped it up (it was empty) then ran his hand over the ring-pull so it looked–for all the world–like he’d resealed it (how he do dat?). Then he opened the can again and started pouring. Beer spills out in apparent abundance. He even offers the can to the blanket man so that he can drink some, and he does.

  Right.

  So it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how that particular trick worked…Some kind of tiny, sliding door inside the can which–when you tip it a particular way–latches back and allows a portion of beer–previously trapped in the can’s bottom, to pour forth.

  Then there was a trick with a pigeon, a dead pigeon. Blaine (apparently arbitrarily) attracts the attention of a passing eccentric (this oldish guy, walking about the place, ‘exercising’ his pet budgerigar on his shoulder) and shows him this pigeon lying dead in a patch of sun…

  I open my eyes in the dark

  Yeah like your average New Yorker is gonna be so incredibly distressed by the premature demise of a ‘Rat o’ the Air’.

  Anyhow, Blaine holds his hand over the bird (like a Healer, if I remember correctly) and after a short while it stirs, then it stands up, then it flies. Apparently (if my investigations on the internet are anything to go by) he does the same trick with a fly (maybe the fly was just a dry-run for something bigger).

  This prank is all about timing, the way I’m seeing it, and refrigeration. The only thing that’ll simulate death in any sentient creature is the cold. So Blaine sticks some godforsaken pigeon into a refrigerator until it passes out, calculates the time it’ll take for it to come back to again, then engineers the entire ‘meeting’ to take place at the exact midway point in this process–keeps the guy talking for as long as he thinks he needs to etc.

  I presume his ‘team’ will’ve picked on this guy for a reason. He probably exercises his bird at the same time in that park every day. He obviously likes birds, maybe he feeds the pigeons or something–I mean this trick is hardly gonna work out so well if Blaine randomly picks on some passing neurotic female who happens to think pigeons are a pest–has 3,000 of the fuckers ruining the masonry on her building, shitting everywhere etc. or is phobic about them (just imagine, he calls her over, shows her the dead bird–a cause, in her mind, for righteous celebration–and then brings this vile creature straight back to life again. Good God. I see a major lawsuit pending).

  I clearly remember him doing a load of tricks on kids, and one particularly bad one where he takes this young boy’s penknife and sticks it–with much oohing and aaahing–through his tongue.

  The kid isn’t entertained. He’s absolutely fucking horrified.

  And Blaine? Totally delighted. Eyes shining. Feeding on his disquiet. Smiling crazily. Eating it up.

  Now I don’t want to come over all Mary Whitehouse (and if I do, and it creeps you out, then just bear in mind the traumatic legacy of Douglas Sinclair MacKenny, Post Officer extraordinaire), but wasn’t that tongue-stabbing thing just a little bit too much? Kids are sugges
tible, and that makes them vulnerable. So maybe (and I have to give the guy a fair go, I suppose) Blaine showed the boy how he’d done the trick, afterwards, to make sure he wasn’t utterly fucked-up by it.

  Maybe.

  (How’d he do it, anyway? Has he got a pierced tongue? Was it an optical illusion?)

  His public manner (magic-wise)–now I come to think about it–is not at all what you might expect. In interviews he can be difficult (unhelpful, sarcastic, slow, monosyllabic–that’s all part of his mystique) but on the TV shows he’s almost sycophantic. He really wants to please. He actively seeks approval. And he’s clumsy. Most of the tricks depend on him distracting the attention of the trickee for a second, so he drops an object or stumbles. Then he repeatedly apologises (another distraction, you fucking moron, so stop saying ‘that’s okay’, and start looking at what he’s doing…).

  He’s not a scary magician. He’s a friendly one. He smiles a lot. He maintains plenty of eye contact (can’t be shifty, can’t look down, can’t seem uncertain…)

  Shit.

  (My own eyes fly open again.)

  I suddenly remember how he did this whole section on one of the shows from Haiti (or somewhere), a place where magic isn’t just a beguiling branch of the entertainment industry, but a fundamental part of the culture–a religion–and he’s doing all these tricks for these people who plainly think he’s the Devil (or at the very least, the Devil’s proxy–his American catspaw). And they’re scared. Really scared. And–at points–he seems a little scared (by the fear he’s generating). Man. That was so…Uh…

  A second later–I remember how, in another episode, he went into the South American rainforest and met this tribe of primitive people and did a bunch of tricks for them. In the commentary he’s going, ‘They could quite easily kill us if they get at all frightened or suspicious…’, then the next thing we see is Blaine on his knees in front of a pack of rainforest children, cutting circles with a knife into the flesh of his hand, then telling one of the kids to open up his hand, where he sees–to his palpable horror–that he has the exact-same blood-mark etched into his own tiny palm.

  What? You’re telling me that the tribal elders wouldn’t’ve lopped his damn balls off if they’d actually witnessed this baroque spectacle for themselves (and were as ‘dangerous’ as he said they were)? And are we–the viewers–seriously meant to believe that these ‘dangerous’ pygmies would just stand casually by and applaud as he fucks around with their young ’uns delicate minds and go, ‘that’s weird, how’d he do it?’ Eh?

  Uh-uh.

  Hang on…

  I suddenly sit bolt upright.

  Korine!

  I must ring Jalisa and see if Korine was involved. Because this idea really smacks of Korine. That bizarre and unsettling conflation of cynicism and simplicity…Isn’t that just his style?

  The more I think about it the less I like this whole rainforest/Haiti element. Because what’s Blaine saying, really? What’s he trying to make us think? In some senses he’s undermining the culture of these peoples (because we know he’s just performing tricks, but to them, magic and mystery are a part of the dark side. They’re real. They’re life-threatening).

  Effectively he’s telling all us complacent Western viewers that these ‘primitive’ people are fools (I mean they’re so honest, so credulous!) but at the same time their fear is informing us, subconsciously, that magic is real, that his magic is real, that it can be serious. And Blaine is the route between these two worlds. Blaine is the short cut. He proposes himself as the bridge by which we cross back and forth (from cynicism, to disbelief, to naivety, to believing).

  Hmmn.

  Interesting journey.

  I suddenly need to get up.

  I go for a piss. I stand by the window. When I look at the clock it’s 2 a.m. and I’m fucking wired. Hot.

  Next thing I know, I’ve pulled on some jeans, a T-shirt, grabbed my trainers, my portable CD-player, my jacket, and I’m heading out of the house and towards the river.

  Eight

  And there she is. Aphra. Sitting quietly on the wall. Alone. Chin jinked up. Ankles crossed demurely. Hands resting on her lap. Tupperware bag on the floor by her feet. Like a riddlesome Sphinx. Totally rapt.

  I’m up on the bridge–in a light sweat, a feverish fug–staring down at her.

  She has eyes for no one but the magician. She doesn’t see me there. So I lean over (gradually catching my breath), and watch her, watching him. And then I watch the magician (to try and tap into her fascination–but he’s fast asleep, tucked up inside his sleeping bag, not moving). And then I watch her again.

  It’s quiet, except for the occasional van horn (some cheesed-off Monday-morning joker on his way to the early shift), the buzz of the lights on the bridge, and the wet sounds of the river.

  Eerie.

  Only me, and her, and some tramp huddled up in a blanket on the floor, and three security guards (but they’re miles off, in a far corner of the compound, chatting over a flask and a fag), and (but of course) there’s David Blaine, the International Superstar.

  Eventually I make my way down on to the embankment and hitch myself up casually on to the wall a short way along from her. She doesn’t seem to notice me at first and I dare not speak. She’s in some kind of trance. But peaceful. Just sitting on that wall, staring up at the box. Lips slightly parted. Breathing shallow.

  When ten long minutes have ticked by she glances over and says, ‘You don’t smell right. You’re ill.’

  ‘Had the flu,’ I confirm croakily.

  ‘Still got it,’ she says, then takes my hand and sniffs at the palm. She pulls a face. ‘Wank,’ she says, then tips her head, speculatively, ‘at about eleven o’clock last night, I reckon…’ She sniffs again. ‘A blackcurrant Lemsip at twelve…’ She pauses, frowning, then inhales for a final time. ‘And you stroked a dog. A male dog. A big dog. Just before you came out.’

  How’d she do that?

  I leave my hand resting in her hand.

  ‘How’d you do that?’

  ‘It’s my job,’ she says, matter of factly.

  ‘It’s your job to know I had a wank at eleven?’

  ‘I’m reading your book,’ she says.

  ‘Shane?’ I stutter, slow to catch up. ‘You are?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you enjoying it?’

  ‘I’ve reached Chapter six,’ she says, ‘the summer’s almost over and Fletcher’s back. He’s got a big contract. He wants the Homesteaders off his land…’

  ‘Ah.’ I nod, sagely.

  ‘I feel a little sorry for him,’ she says.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Because he used to own it all, the entire valley, then he had some bad luck after the drought and hard winter of ’86.’ She sighs: ‘And everybody started moving in on him, stealing his grazing…’

  Typical girl, eh? To get everything the wrong way round.

  ‘It’s the American West’, I explain. ‘That’s how the nation was built–individuals, staking their rightful claim…’

  ‘Rightful?’ she looks quizzical. ‘Fletcher was there first.’

  ‘The Native Americans were there first,’ I hiss. ‘If you want to get all pernickety about it.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Then maybe Fletcher should give the land back to them,’ she says, ‘not just a random bunch of greedy white settlers.’

  ‘The point of the book,’ I growl, ‘is to celebrate the struggle of the underdog.’

  ‘Well maybe they’re celebrating the wrong underdog,’ she persists.

  ‘There’s no right or wrong in fiction,’ I mutter, ‘the story’s just the story.’

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  ‘And the mother’s a bloody tramp,’ she suddenly says (cheerfully ignoring my meta-textual input).

  ‘What?’

  ‘A tramp,’ she reiterates.

  ‘Marian? A tramp?’ I gasp, snatching my hand back. (The sainted Marian? She of the deep
-dish pie?)

  Aphra nods, then she grins. ‘You have a problem with that?’

  I shake my head. ‘Of course not. You’re just…’ I struggle to find the words (I’ve got flu, remember?). ‘You’re just merciless, that’s all.’

  She’s wide-eyed.

  ‘Moi?’

  Ha ha.

  ‘The whole point of the book is this wonderful sense of the subtle interplay between the three adult characters,’ I crisply lecture. ‘Marian is attracted to Shane, but she loves her husband. It’s a dilemma. It’s interesting. It’s subtle.’

  ‘Life must be pretty bloody dull…’ Aphra concedes, kicking out her feet (purple-suede eighties-style pixie-boots with lethal-looking three-inch stiletto heels) ‘on that dusty old Homestead…’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Just stuck in a shack all day with an infuriating kid…’

  ‘What?’

  My back straightens (now this is fighting talk). ‘You think Bob’s infuriating?’

  She shrugs. ‘He just never stops talking.’

  My eyes bulge. ‘But he narrates in the first person. The boy tells the story.’

  She bursts out laughing.

  ‘I know that,’ she says, nudging me. ‘I’m just kidding.’ Oh.

  She gazes up at the magician for a while, then cocks her head, inquisitively. ‘Was it a good wank?’ (Is nothing sacred?)

  ‘So was it?’ she prompts.

  ‘A little feverish, perhaps,’ I sullenly mutter.

  ‘Everybody gets horny when they’re ill…’ she says. ‘Remember that angry old bastard on Oxford Street who used to march up and down with his neat little placard saying “Less Protein, Less Lust”?’ I nod.

  ‘He was right,’ she says. ‘Too much meat. Too much sitting down. That’s at the heart of it.’

  ‘And you’ve been sitting here how long?’ I flirt.

  She clucks on her tongue, then glances up, then falls deep into her trance again.