The Age of Magic
Authors: Ben Okri
A work of art that retraced the conquest of happiness would be a revolutionary one.
Camus,
Noces
(1937)
The age of magic has begun.
Unveil your eyes.
Pensero,
Il Camino
(1321)
The Journey as Home
1
Some things only become clear much later.
They were on the train from Paris to Switzerland when the white mountains and the nursery rhythms of the wheels lulled him to sleep. He found himself talking to a Quylph.
‘What are you afraid of?’ it said.
‘Why should I be afraid of anything?’ Lao replied.
‘Maybe you are afraid of Malasso?’
‘Why should I be afraid of him?’
‘Everyone else is.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘People are afraid of what they don’t know.’
‘Never met him. Why should I be scared of him?’
‘You tell me.’
Lao became aware, out of the corner of his eyes, that everything seemed luminous. In a compartment full of businessmen, tourists, and young lovers the Quylph looked perfectly at ease. This bothered Lao.
‘Then it must be life you are afraid of,’ the Quylph said after a while.
There are some conversations so strange that they are only remembered much later, but not noticed at the time.
The Quylph, in a unique space, occupied the seat across from Lao. He felt lucky to see it.
With a hint of amusement, it said:
‘Do you know what the luckiest thing is?’
‘No.’
‘It is to be at home everywhere.’
Outside the window the mountains changed from white to green.
‘You may see me again later,’ smiled the Quylph. ‘But don’t look out for me.’
‘Wait! I want to ask you a question.’
‘You had your chance,’ the Quylph said with an expression at once malicious and droll. ‘Be more awake next time.’
Lao slept in a shining orb. He woke up at his table, with a book on his lap, and the world was different. The jagged mountains raced past the large window. Mistletoe was asleep with a smile on her face. At that moment Jim, the director of the documentary they were making, appeared in front of him.
‘We need to film you interviewing your fellow passengers.’
Lao stared blankly at Jim’s benign jowled face. He was still trying to decipher the inscription that was the Quylph and his hearing was slow.
‘Are you all right?’ Jim said.
‘Fine! Great! When do you want me?’
‘Whenever you’re ready.’
‘I’m ready now.’
It turned out that Jim wasn’t. He had figured Lao would give him trouble for about thirty minutes, which would have given Sam, the cameraman, enough time to finish his shots at the other end of the train. Jim had expected Lao to be difficult, and was a little annoyed that he wasn’t. On the whole, Lao thought, we don’t like people changing on us. It means we have to change too, and we dislike making the effort. We prefer them predictable. Jim stood there not knowing what to do. Lao sat back down, and Mistletoe woke up.
‘Come get me when you are ready,’ Lao said.
‘I’m ready,’ said Mistletoe.
‘Okay,’ said Jim, leaving reluctantly.
‘Not you,’ Lao said, squeezing Mistletoe’s hand.
They were making a television documentary about a journey to Arcadia, in Greece. In those days seven people were needed to film such a journey. They had started in London and had filmed in Paris and were now bound for the Goetheanum in Basel, Switzerland. Along the way they were filming travellers, asking what their idea of Arcadia was, what their ideal of happiness might be. They were making a journey to a place, but in truth they were making a journey to an idea.
There were eight of them: seven involved in the filming, and Mistletoe, Lao’s companion. The journey which began as a documentary became one in which, against their wills, they were being changed.
While he was waiting, Lao began thinking of the persona he would adopt. He conceived of life as a game in which one gets to play many roles and have many personas. He thought it best not to be too hung up on consistency. Only the dead are consistent.
The imp of impersonation came over him. He thought about how the camera makes one fall in love with an image of oneself, and perpetuates a false reality. What if by sheer repetition we become the person we most often pretend to be? Does that mean there is no authentic self? Are we made of habits, compressed by time, like layered rocks?
These questions turned in his mind as he prepared to meet the travellers he was to interview. His mind was unclear.
Husk, who was in charge of all logistics of filming, came over to fetch Lao. She was thin and efficient and neurotically beautiful in her floral dress. She had already scanned the passengers for suitable candidates. The four people she chose were white, middle-class, American, and were travelling together.
She considered that, of the four, the lady who spoke with confidence was the ideal person to speak for the group. Husk thought she had the most interesting personality. She explained all this to Lao while they were standing between compartments, and she had to raise her voice because of the grinding of the wheels.
‘They’re a lovely group. I’ve spoken to them all. Just be calm. Are you sure you’re all right? You look as if you’re not quite here. The lady called Barbara is definitely the leader. She’s got great personality, as you’ll see. Are you sure you’re okay?’
From the beginning of the journey Husk had entertained doubts about Lao as the presenter of the film. She doubted he had the qualities required, doubted his grasp of the subject, and his character. Lao was aware of this, and of his reputation for being difficult, and it amused him.
‘I think so,’ he replied.
‘Just remember the one with personality,’ she said.
While they were waiting for Sam to set up the cameras, Lao thought about the nature of personality. He wondered how much of a role it played in the outcome of events. He wondered how much was possible, or failed to be possible, because of it. But what is personality, he asked himself? The general theory is that it is active, performed, and larger than life. But it seemed to him that personality is the outward presence of an inner accomplishment. It exerts its influence unseen, like the moon on the tide. It sways without knowing that it does. It is akin to talent or an innate gift. The strategies of Alexander, thought Lao, are a metaphor of his personality rather than of his calculation. History might be the story of personality acting on time and memory. Maybe, when we immerse ourselves in the genius of existence, Lao thought, personality can even overcome fate.
Sam sent word through Riley, his gamine assistant, that the cameras were ready, and that filming could begin. But what happened next taught Lao a significant lesson about what is generally called personality. He learned about the power of the silent ones.
The film crew were ready for him; all seven of them were there in the compartment. The camera infused its drug into Lao’s system. He tried to become a seducer of eyes. Love me and lie, he thought to the camera, as he went to meet the four Americans.
They were seated together at a table. The two women, Emily and Barbara, had the window seats. The men, Bob and Scott, were big clean-shaven fellows. Scott, Emily’s husband, was facing the direction of travel. Bob was backing it. All four in their late fifties looked healthy and prosperous, and seemed reasonably pleased with their lives. They looked at Lao with expectant faces. Whom should I address, he thought, in a mild panic? Do I speak to all four as if they are one person? He decided to address them individually.
He told them about the journey so far, and engaged them in the small talk of all travellers. His idea was to enter the profound through the simple gate. He let them choose their own leader from among them, the one who had the most to say and said it well. The two men seemed friendly enough. They regarded him with an openness touched with scepticism, Bob apparently the more open of the two.
‘Have you heard of Arcadia?’ Lao asked them.
There was a curious silence as they digested the word.
Lao noticed, for the first time, the architecture of the word. It began and ended with the first letter of the alphabet. Beginning with a beginning and ending with a beginning too. There was also a beginning right at its centre. It occurred to him that letters might be symbolic, might conceal deeper meanings. He glimpsed the word’s hinterland.
Begin at the beginning; at the mid-point begin again; and at the end return to the beginning. Never move far from the alpha of life. Replenish yourself in the aleph. Renew the core with the alf. In A we begin and to A we return. Four rivers flow into the Garden of Eden. In one of them, as an old commentary says,
the gold of the land is good
. A fifth river can be said to flow from Eden to Arcadia, and its allegories are wonderful, its gold good. When we are young we set out with dreams. In the middle of the journey of our lives we find perhaps that we have lost our way. At the end we find the origin; and we begin again.
Lao shook himself.
‘Have you heard of Arcadia?’
Bob spoke first. He had a good face and an eye that distrusted salesmen.
‘Well, Arcadia is where we’ve come from, and I’ve heard about the one you’re travelling to,’ he said.
Lao realized that they had been briefed by Husk, and this threw him a little.
‘What does Arcadia mean to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Jim, who had been following the conversation, came over and whispered something slowly in Lao’s left ear, as if engaged in a serpent-like form of hypnotism. It made Lao uneasy. He told Lao to restate his theme for the camera’s benefit. Lao, inwardly bristling, asked the group:
‘Which is best, travelling or arriving?’