Free Generosity: An Enhancement by Richard Powers Page A

her rainbow bag. Before he can decode, she shows him her work in progress. A Thassa the size of his fingernail grins at him from inside the matchbox screen. She’s in front of a large fish tank at what must be the Shedd Aquarium. Spots of bioluminescence in the fish blink on and off. Then the glowing spots animate, spelling out the words:
Secret Chicagos. A Film by Generosity
.
    Then they’re in Grant Park, at the foot of Buckingham Fountain, the spouting green sea horses. It’s a sunny day; people of all stripes stroll around the basin. A mixed-race couple goes by arm in arm. A woman in full hijab tries to rein in two little girls, both in their own white headscarves. A sizable Japanese tour group makes a collective,rising glissando of appreciation at the words of their guide. But the camera settles on an ancient bald man sitting on the edge of the fountain. He’s talking to himself, except that the camera hears.
     
 
I can’t really say I miss it. Italy? God! That’s over sixty years ago. But I like to come down here anyway, because it feels like something . . . back then. You know what I’m saying?
     
     
    A voice from behind the camera says, “I know.”
     
 
Maybe I’m finally getting senile. But you know what would be great? If all this water just—if it all just kept flowing . . . Venice!
     
     
    With the sweep of his illustrating hand, the water spills over the fountain rim and streams its way up Congress. It doesn’t look like real computer graphics. It looks like a living watercolor, splashes of primaries better than life, and much more generous.
     
 
Russell jerks up, searching her face for clues.
    She giggles. “Compositing,” she explains, freehanding in the air. He nods like an idiot and looks back.
     
     
    Boats appear on the watery Congress Parkway. Gondolas paddle upstream, underneath the old post office. San Marco’s materializes alongside the old Illinois Central tracks. The camera swings back, cutting up State Street at high speed. It ducks down into the subway, settles on a dark, middle-aged man standing on the platform waiting for his train.
     
 
I’m from Eastern Turkey, Cappadocia. Every time I come down here, I think of the caves. They should have cities down here, right? They stick all those people up in the air; they can put some underground. Am I right?
     
     
    The tube of tunnel stone behind him begins to seethe with hand-drawn passageways. Doorways and windows open in the walls. The camera pops into one of them, then pops out again on a tree-linedstreet of brick bungalows somewhere in Bronzeville. A young man in leather jacket and felt porkpie studies the lens:
     
 
My
kinda town? Sister, you could take a weekend out of the war budget and turn this whole neighborhood into Heaven South. Homes for the homeless. Music falling out of the sky!
     
     
    He has only to speak it, and a third-story paradise of visible melody springs up all around him, at tree level.
     
    So it goes for a handful more shots: Kraków spilling out of a cathedral in West Town, Cinco de Mayo flowing down the Back of the Yards, the Bahai Temple turning into Isfahan, the Devon corridor releasing a desi incense procession.
    “Who made all this?” Russell croaks.
    She dives into her bag and retrieves a Handycam the size of a newborn schnauzer. She’s seen more of this city in a year and a half than he has in his life. He looks at that face, its invincible grin. She’s fearless, ready to travel into any neighborhood. All he can think is: It’s not safe out there. Happiness is a death sentence.
    She squeezes the camera trigger and starts filming him. He grimaces, trying to smile. “But this isn’t really . . . a documentary, is it?”
    She stops filming. Even her frown is delighted. “It isn’t? What is it, then? It’s all perfectly true. Maybe this is your creative nonfiction!”
    “But is there any market for that kind of film?” He can’t help himself. The orphan girl’s