the dancers in El-Abyheelth Ai’ain? With their legs like ribbons, their hair like stalks? They burned themselves alive, doing that dance. They did so for you, for you and your family to see.”
“We were worshipped there,” says Kelly.
“As you were nearly everywhere. So is it better?”
Mona looks back to the projection booth, expecting to see someone there. “What are you trying to say to me?” she asks softly.
“What’s the matter, sister?” she hears Kelly asking.
She can’t see anyone in the booth. Then she slowly becomes aware that no one on screen has talked for the past fifteen seconds.
She turns around. The camera has pulled in to just Kelly’s face. He’s just sitting there, grinning hugely at the camera, but when she makes eye contact (or whatever it is when the other person’s eyes are a projected image) his eyebrows rise a little, as if he is utterly delighted to be seen.
“Hi!” he says cheerily.
Mona stares at Gene Kelly’s face on the screen. “Oh,” she says. “Mr. First?”
“Well,” says Kelly’s face. His eyes shift theatrically, professing innocence in the guiltiest manner possible. “Kind of.”
Mona’s whole body feels numb with surprise. She has never been addressed by a celebrity or a fifteen-foot talking face before, yet here she is having both such things occur at once. She wonders—is this a dream? A vision induced by Mr. First? Or is Mr. First able to physically produce a theater, and cause it to show the things he wishes?
Gene Kelly (her mind refuses to register him as Mr. First) keeps beaming down at her, reveling in her surprise. Finally she manages to speak: “Kind of?”
“Why, sure,” he says.
“How are you ‘kind of’ Mr. First?”
“Is a puppet the puppeteer? Is a painting a facsimile of the artist?”
He actually waits for her to answer. “So… you’re not Mr. First?” she asks.
“No, of course not,” he says. “No doubt you’re wondering why on earth you came all this way if you’re not speaking to the real deal. But though a puppet and a painting are definitely not their makers, can’t they reflect and communicate the wishes and thoughts of their makers? Why, absolutely, yes. Viz, moi.” He grins and pokes himself in the chest.
Mona remains so shocked her mind can function only in the most literal way possible. “So… this is a puppet show?”
“Kind of, sure,” says Kelly.
Mona looks down the aisle on either side of her. “Is this theater really here?”
“Doesn’t it feel real?” He mimes knocking on the camera glass.
“How?”
Kelly sighs. “Well. Do you really want to know?”
“I’m not sure. Is it something I’d like to know?”
Kelly laughs. It’s a wonderful sound, a perfectly natural act. She wonders how Mr. First is able to reproduce Gene Kelly here with such astounding detail. “You’re catching on! This town abounds in questions best left unasked. Let’s just say that things like physical space are perfectly malleable, if you go at it the right way. Density, matter, radiation… it’s all just construction paper and pipe cleaners and glue, with the proper perspective. If I wanted to, sister, I could have put you in grand old Italia, approaching me via the Appian Way, and I’d speak to you through the mouths of those suffering on those ghastly crucifixes.” He pauses and cocks an eyebrow. “Would you prefer something like that?”
“No!” says Mona.
“Oh. Good. I much prefer this. It’s got so much more”—his eyes dart around the camera frame, taking in the theater—“class.”
“So all this was set up just to talk to me?”
“Sure!”
“Okay. But. Why?”
He sighs. “I’ll go ahead and give you the usual spiel, if you’re so intent on it,” he says, a touch wearily. “Talking to lesser beings—no offense—is often a lot harder than you’d think. It’d be like your little self talking to ants—not only are there the obstacles of communication, since ants prefer pheromones to the King’s English, but even if you managed to learn how to speak with them, how could you fit the most basic, stripped-down versions of your thoughts and feelings into a form they’d understand?”
Again, he waits for her to answer this ridiculous question. “I guess you can’t,” says Mona, who is very aware she is the ant in this metaphor.
“Exactly,” he says. The camera pulls out a little. Kelly leans up against a bookcase, takes out a nail file, and proceeds to work on his thumbnails. “So this method—though even I admit it’s a bit much—is a lot more aesthetically pleasing than most of the alternates.”
“Like what?” asks Mona.
“Oh, curious, are you?”
Mona