Cities of Grand Illusion

By Wendy Nikel

In the days leading up to the exhibition, her name vibrates through the neighborhood like seismic waves. Televisions blare through the torn screens of open windows, spilling the news out onto streets marked with craggy potholes and beer bottle fragments and the cryptic language of graffiti. Sharp-tongued teens in leather jackets and mohawks hang around the walls of the abandoned factory where it's rumored she created her first piece, their faces turning blue with exertion as they try to bend their spray-paint lines into something more than flat color. As if there was something about this place that did it —that made her who she was— and that her ability was something like a dialect that could wear off on you if you spent enough time in its presence.

"Sekera." The reporters with their nude lipstick and high-collared blouses call her by her first name as if they're intimate friends, though I've only ever known her as Kera. "Her work will be on display in her hometown for the first time, beginning this weekend. We encourage everyone to get out and see this one-of-a-kind exhibit and lend your support to an up-and-coming local artist."

Of course, I'll be there, I text her, though she asks just hours before the exhibition opens, and I can't tell from the brisk wording whether mine was part of a mass text or not. It was never a question of whether I'd go, even if it meant turning down a commission to paint a master bathroom out in the suburbs. Even if it meant fortifying myself behind walls of Ativan and mindfulness exercises to make it through the days leading up to it. Friendship often involves sacrifice, and friendships as long-standing as ours incur debts that are never truly repaid.

Maybe that's why I don't mention to her that I'm on medication again. Nor do I mention the battered duffle bag at my feet beneath the convenience store counter or the black dress I'd bought for my grandmother's funeral nestled away inside. I don't mention how I'll have to change in the 7/11's sticky-floored bathroom after my shift ends because the bus I usually take home doesn't come by until seven, and I already don't know how I'm going to afford Uber tonight— yet another thing that I try to hide from my frantic mind.

There are things that friends just don't mention.

Can't wait to see you! It's been too long! she texts back, and I can hear her excitement in the simple words, in the exclamation points she's only recently started tacking onto the end of her sentences. I take it as a sign that things are going as well as the reporters make it seem, and I'm happy for her.

At least I try to be, as I mop up a puddle of stinking who-knows-what that someone tracked through the Slushee aisle, calculating what time to take my next dose so that it won't wear off in the middle of the show. The gray swirls with mop-fluid blue like oils on canvas, and unthinkingly, I hold my breath. With a swish of the mop, the bleach scent fades. When I breathe in again, it's been replaced by the sharp and unmistakable scent of the sea. I take a deep breath, focus on letting go of the tension in my neck, my shoulders.

"That you making that smell over there, Bree?" Jim, the manager, sticks his head out of the back room with a scowl. "I told you to cut that out."

I'm not the only one who's been irritable since Kera's big break; six weeks later, Jim still hasn't found anyone to cover her shifts.

"Sorry." I soak up the mess and dunk it into the bucket until the floor is as clean as it's getting and the smell of salt and seaweed is gone.

The Uber driver circles the block, searching for a parking spot, until my anxiety about the bill reaches stomachache levels. The pills ought to have already kicked in, but I suddenly can't bear sitting in that car a second longer and tell him just to drop me anywhere. At the curb, puddle water seeps through the soles of my graduation-day heels, and I grab my skirt to keep the hem from dragging as I jaywalk between blaring headlights.

The exhibition hall is a temple to the arts, filling up with lines of polished devotees who stand poised as works of art themselves, every inch of them glimmering and shining and perfectly posed, calling out for adoration.

See me. Recognize me. Acknowledge me.

Even in my newest dress, I'm outclassed. If I linger too long on the steps, one of the real guests might mistake me for a valet and hand me their keys, so I dart inside.

I slip through the entrance, which is marked with Kera's handiwork in the form of a glimmering snowstorm. Each feather-white snowflake is unique, and they fall so close, so softly across the threshold that I'd swear I could feel their biting cold upon me, the breath of their presence on my lashes. A white fox darts underfoot and peers out from the shadows of the foyer, and I can't help but wonder how she formed its paws and whiskers so perfectly. Would anyone guess she'd only seen the creatures on public-access TV, in a cramped apartment in a steel-and-concrete forest?

I detour to the refreshment table, where I claim a long-stemmed glass of champagne to brandish before me, declaring my role as "guest" rather than "hired help" more visibly than any name tag could as I wander through the entrance galley. A nearby waiter keeps an eye on my drink, obviously waiting for the liquid to dip below half-empty so that he can swoop in to refill it, but though I occasionally press my lips to the rim, the glass remains full; I know better than to mix prescription meds and alcohol.

"The immersive arts can be neither learned nor inherited, and that is what sets its creators apart from other artists." A soothing voice reaches me, and I realized I've triggered the auditory immersion of a nearby piece. It's a self-portrait of a man in a tweed suit, sitting on a rocking chair with a pipe in his hand. Black whiskers bristle out from his face, and his expression is dull, as though he's looking out from behind the frame and finding himself bored with all he sees. The painting itself is nothing impressive —the shading on the man's face seems off somehow, and one of his hands is disproportional— but the voice is clear and compelling, and it sounds like he is speaking directly to me. I can see (or rather, hear) precisely why the curator included this piece; it's the finest example of auditory immersive arts I've seen, without a hint of echo or lag.

"Though some do not develop their skill until later in life," his voice continues, "no manipulation of genes will spark an ability where none exists. Nor will any amount of prodding or practice strengthen that which is weak. Those who possess the gift are truly unique, set apart from the masses—"

"Auditory?" a woman beside me mutters to the man on her arm. "Intriguing. They're rather a rarer immersion-type, aren't they?"

"Mm-hmm. The new curator brought it in just last fall," the man replies. "Before that, this whole hall was filled with nothing but olfactory-types. Scratch-and-sniffs, all of them."

The derogatory term jolts me and I stiffen.

"Sounds nauseating." The woman scoffs.

"Yeah? You know what's really nauseating?" I say. The wine glass sits loosely in my hand now, and I can tell that the pills have kicked in, at least enough to untie my tongue and make me throw caution to the wind. "How awful your nasty bathrooms would smell without the tacky tulip murals you insist we paint everywhere."

"Pardon me?" The woman blinks at me, shocked.

"Just because there are more of us olfactory artists doesn't mean we are any less gifted or less important," I continue. "You ought to pay us more, not less than all the other immersion-types, for all the work involved in covering up your stenches."

The couple stares, uncomprehending. Unwilling to comprehend.

I turn away, knowing I've gone too far, said too much, and here, on this night that isn't about me anyway.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Sekera!"

I turn from the self-portrait as she takes the stage. She's all smiles and waves to the politicians and diamond-dipped heiresses and the horrified couple beside me who wouldn't have looked twice at her before that day when she pulled a dragon from the wall of graffiti— not a wavering mirage or a child's pop-up-book image, but a dragon so realistic it sent three fire departments scrambling and rocketed her to dizzying fame.

I can't focus on her speech, not with the cocktail of anger and hurt and sedatives sloshing around in my stomach. Not with that awful couple muttering beside me. Not with Kera standing up there, all dolled up like a toy, glamorous and cool and in control almost beyond the point of recognition.

It's coming at me again, that primitive fight or flight response that leaves my mind in fractures and my neurons frayed. That makes me want to crawl out of my skin. The crowd's suddenly too loud, the lights too bright, and I know I need to get out of here before that downward spiral catches me.

I choose flight.

Kera finds me sitting on the steps outside, using a bit of chalk to sketch a thunderstorm —sharp with the scent of electricity— across a crack in the sidewalk. The cool night air helped me ground myself in my body once more, and I know that leaving was the right choice, but I can't help feeling cowardly about it, like I took the easy way out of the situation.

"Bree! I've been looking all over for you!" Kera says. "Have you seen the exhibit?"

She looks so eager, so excited, so happy that I have no choice but to drag my blister-heeled foot across the chalk cloud, dispelling it with a cheery response that I hope doesn't sound too fake. "I was waiting for the personal tour."

"Step right this way," she says, swooping in to link arms with me just like we used to do taking the Jackson Park shortcut home from school, sharing a set of earbuds that pumped music through our brains in hopes that it'd give us courage and hoping that our united front would keep the neighborhood bullies at bay. Back then, we were equals— her older brother's incarceration just as much an excuse for daily torment as my tendency to hyperventilate during tests. But today, she's a shield for me, hiding the run in my panty hose and the mascara smudge on my face by pulling me into her radiant circle of adoration.

A circle uncomfortably tight. I wonder if she notices, too, or if it's just me who feels like I've put on a pair of too-small pants. Maybe it's just the anxiety talking again.

"It's so good to see you again," she says breathlessly as we climb the steps, arm in arm. "I'm sorry it's been so long. You've been doing all right, haven't you?"

"Great," I say too loudly. "Never better."

The entrance hall isn't as crowded now; it seems the vast majority of her admirers have already moved on, dissolving back into the night. We zigzag our way through the stragglers, Kera waving off admirers with a gracefulness and confidence I've never seen from her, that makes me feel like I know her even less.

I close my eyes as she pulls me into the exhibition hall, not certain I'm ready to see her masterpiece. I hate the ugly feelings that stick to my insides like cold paint, the secret wishes I try to tamp down with a forced smile and half-hearted squeeze of the hand.

I'm happy for her. I'm happy she's so happy. She's got everything going for her. She's got it all together. And I'm happy for her.

I shouldn't have come.

And then I open my eyes, and I'm immersed in her world. Enormous bubbles float around us, effervescent and rainbow-bright and perfect. The floor, though solid beneath my feet, has the appearance of soap suds, as if my heels could sink right through it and into some watery realm. The walls, ceiling, and floor are all gone, and with their absence, it's as though I'm untethered in a bottle of ginger ale, shared on a front porch on a warm summer day. I'm a bubble— weightless and transparent, and I grab onto Kera, who just laughs.

Squinting, I can just see through the illusion to the circles of paint on the floor, the canvases and mirrors lining every wall. My eyes quickly tire, readjust, and they're gone, faded into the background of the immersive visual illusion like so much elevator music. Like the scent of tulip murals in a suburban master bathroom.

"It's great, Kera." My voice sounds as frail as one of the bubbles before us. But it is great, though it's not exactly what I expected from the girl who taught me about professional wrestling and graphic novels and let me bang out my ragged emotions on her secondhand duct-taped drum set; who'd give herself Sharpie-markered tattoos of grotesque, tentacled monsters in study hall; and whose idea of a "relaxing evening," at least until a month ago, involved kicking my butt in Gears of War, the stereo system pumping out our battle cry in the background.

"Not this." She waves her hand, as if all this work can be easily dismissed. How many months would it have taken any other immersive artist to create this?

The bubbles follow us into the next room, rising around us so that, when we find ourselves high in the air, walking on clouds above the roofs of a familiar city, it feels as natural as if they've lifted us here. Skyscrapers rise from somewhere far below, and we wander above them along trails of cotton-candy white. Far below, I recognize our neighborhood: all chain-link fences and empty lots, rusted beaters and broken swing sets. All its rawness right there, on display.

"Watch this." Kera holds her arms out like a tightrope walker and races along the edge of a rooftop, and even though I know it's an illusion, I reach out and grab her, not wanting her to fall. She laughs and pulls me to the ledge alongside her, where I waver, struggling to find my footing hundreds of feet in the air. I miss the ledge and fall flat on my rear beside it, suspended in the air.

A photographer's flash catches my gasp of surprise.

"Here, delete that one and get a good shot of us," Kera calls. She pulls me up and the second flash is so bright that I'm momentarily blinded to the immersion and see nothing but the flat images beneath us. Just paint and nothing more.

"This is my friend, Bree Marshall," Kera is telling the photographer. "B-R-E-E. Write that down. She's an immersive artist as well."

"You don't have to—" I start, but the photographer has already moved on and Kera's grabbed my arm and is hurrying me through an unmarked door, one that I'd never have seen without her guidance.

"I'm sorry about that." Her hands are clammy, her voice shaking.

"About the photographer?"

"The photographer, the reporters, the bigwigs, all of them. This whole thing… It's awful. I know. I shouldn't have made you come." She scrunches up her sleeve and presses it to her eye, obviously trying not to smudge her makeup.

"Are you okay?" I ask reflexively.

"Of course." She smiles. "Never mind. I'm sorry. Look, this is what I wanted to show you."

She flips a switch, and the darkened room bursts to life. It's a jungle, with bright-leafed tropical plants waving in an unfelt breeze and a stream rippling across dark soil. I'm about to comment on how pretty it all is when something crashes silently through the forest and I'm staring up at the massive, bloody teeth of some carnivore that looks as if it wants to tear me to shreds. I recognize the cartoonish shape of its eyes from Kera's sketchbooks.

"Dinosaurs?" I say breathlessly. "This is awesome!"

Now that one's revealed itself, I spot others as well: half-hidden monsters with camouflaged hides, thick flesh, and moss-covered skin. Primordial flies circle their heads as they move and shift with the forest, grazing on ferns and lumbering through the undergrowth. Something soars overhead with a flash of claw and feather and the bloody remnants of a smaller creature crushed in its beak.

"Kera, I don't understand. Why is no one else in here?" I ask as my gaze flits over the scene, scanning for the critical brows and contemplative pouts that had darkened the other rooms. "This is amazing. It's ten times better than the stuff in those other rooms."

"Too gruesome," she says flatly.

"What?"

"The curator didn't like it."

"How could he not?"

She raises a shoulder in a shrug, and I see now that the dress she's wearing doesn't fit so well across the top; she reaches up to readjust it, and a catch a glimpse of a studded bracelet hidden beneath her sleeve.

"It's not the sort of thing you'd see in an exhibition like this, you know?" She flashes another smile and this time, up close, I can behind the illusion, can see the cracks and wavers of her happiness. "I mean, I knew it when I made it that it wasn't the sort of thing they'd like. The creative world is hopelessly uptight about things like blood and guts and gore. But the pristine scenes with fluffy animals and even the cityscapes...I feel like I'm just showing them what they want to see. Hiding a part of who I am, what makes me me, you know?"

"Yeah, I do," I say quietly.

"I shouldn't complain," she says. "It's an amazing opportunity. Even if the curator is a complete snob."

A Pteranodon screeches overhead, and while she's looking up at it, while her eyes aren't focused, laser-sharp on me, I cobble together the words.

"I wasn't being honest," I say quickly, eager to get the words out before I can talk myself out of it. Before my mind has time to rattle off all the pessimistic what-ifs it likes to form. "I haven't been doing very well."

"The lying brain-monster?" she asks, using a nickname for my anxiety that I haven't thought of, much less used, in years.

"Yeah," I say, laughing despite everything. "You could say that."

"I thought maybe that's why you headed outside," she says. "I'm sorry. We should get out of this place. Find someplace with good music and hot tea where we can talk about it. Or something else, if you'd prefer."

"Yeah, I'd like that." I turn, taking in once more the artistry of my oldest friend's creation, seeing each leaf and feather and scale so differently now than before. Really seeing it for what was there, behind all the illusion. "I think there's one thing we need to do before we leave, though."

"What's that?"

"There's something missing from this scene."

"There is?" she asks, not hiding her surprise.

"The smell."

"You don't mean...?" She smiles, and I can't hold back my own mischievous grin.

"Well, we'd want it to be realistic, wouldn't we?"

"Just give me a minute," Kera says, cracking her knuckles. "I think that Stegosaurus is about to plant a dropping right about there."

Grasping hands, we hold our breaths and watch as our illusions blend. We urge one another on with the reckless freedom of kids playing together in a sandbox, only stopping to admire our work when we're gasping and short of breath.

And afterward, we sneak out the back door, ducking through darkened alleys and sprinting barefoot through the pothole puddles, singing at the top of our lungs and fleeing as fast as our legs can take us from the blinding glitz and undrunk glasses of champagne and three newly-crafted piles of Stegosaurus dung.