Night Magic (18 page)

Lena, who had been feeling the package, replied distractedly, “Is this his wallet at last?”

“Yes, it is, and”—she opened her mouth, he held up his hand to forestall her—“yes, everything is returned as it was.”

She turned again to the window, and Max reoccupied his chair. Soon the bell rang. They exchanged meaningful glances, and Lena left the room, walked downstairs, inhaled deeply, opened the door to the street, looked into Michael’s handsome, anxious face.

“Good evening,” he said, and smiled appropriately (he hoped). The woman had a kind face, not unfriendly or haughty or anything he had feared. In fact, she reminded him of someone, he wasn’t sure who, but someone he liked. “Is Mr. Wurlitzer in?”

Lena hesitated before answering, not because she lacked the required words, but because the young man seemed so unexpectedly familiar to her. It was a familiarity without context, its origin difficult to pin down, gliding around in the upper reaches of her consciousness like a bird surrendered to the wind. Her memory told her she had seen that face before, but whether in reality or in a dream, whether in imagination or in desire, she could not say. “He’s not available at the moment,” she replied. “May I help you?”

The young man, perplexed but unwavering, nodded toward the box in his hands. “I wanted to give him these shoes. I believe they belong to him.”

Lena said, “Why, thank you,” and as she took the box from him, their eyes met and they smiled at each other. She tucked the box under her left arm and extended her right hand, the one holding Max’s package. “Mr. Wurlitzer asked me to give you this. He says it belongs to you.”

Michael took the package, not bothering to conceal his bewilderment. “Can I…may I speak to Mr. Wurlitzer?”

Lena, still smiling, stepped back inside the door and began to shut it. “No,” she replied, “he isn’t available. Thank you for your time.” Both of them lingered for a moment on the point of speech, their eyes meeting again, and then she closed the door.

Michael walked back to the coffee shop with the small parcel. Seated again at the counter, he tore off the string and stripped away the paper. His wallet was inside. He unzipped the back compartment; it was filled with money. In the front were his license, his cards. Hunching his shoulders, he counted the money, slowly and carefully: it was all there, every dollar. And something else. Pinned to the bottom bill was a card. It read, simply,
The Great Wurlitzer. Now Appearing at the Little Cairo Museum of Wonders. Saturday and Sunday. 3:00 and 7:00
P.M.
The 7:00 was scratched out, and underneath, in pen, was written
Saturday. Expected.

T
HE POSTER, VIVIDLY REPRODUCED
, showed two male figures standing face to face, their right hands holding glasses of dark red wine, their right arms raised and linked in an intimate toast. One of the figures wore a sort of costume, with a flowing cape and a strange pointed cap like a jester’s. Both cap and cape were of the same deep crimson color as the wine, and his swarthy features, further darkened by the shadow he stood in, were hard to discern clearly: a long, straight nose, a pointed beard, teeth bared in a smile and faintly glimmering. The other figure, dressed in evening clothes and resting his free hand on his hip in an attitude of relaxed confidence, was gazing serenely at his diabolical companion as though acknowledging a trusted accomplice. In the background, against an orange sky, oddly shaped birds, some of them resembling pitchforks, whirled and glided. Across the bottom third of the poster, huge white letters, outlined in burnt orange against an indigo background, spelled a single name: WURLITZER.

“The Great Wurlitzer,” Michael said, “known to a select few as the Queer Duck.” His bed was covered with overflowing scrapbooks, various magazines, and several large, heavily illustrated books. He passed one of these to Emily, who was sitting on the other side of the bed. “What do you think?” he asked, tapping the open page.

“Well,” she said, pondering the imposing image, “it looks exactly like him, but it can’t be. This picture’s at least fifty years old, right?”

“At least,” he agreed.

“Then how can it be the same person?” she asked. She made a conscious effort to keep her increasing annoyance out of her voice. “This man looks as old as the Queer Duck does now.”

“I can’t figure it out either. Maybe when he was young he disguised himself to look like an old guy and now he’s an old guy who really looks like the character he disguised himself as when he was young.”

Emily laughed at this tail-chasing logic, but Michael went solemnly on. “Or maybe it’s got something to do with his willpower. Maybe his will’s so strong he doesn’t age the way normal people do.”

“Oh, please, Michael,” she said, gesturing at the radiant, toasting figure. “Be reasonable. Maybe the Queer Duck is this guy’s son.”

“No, he can’t be.” He swept a hand over the books, the yellowed newspaper clippings, the back issues of
The Sphinx, Abracadabra,
and
The Magic World,
among others, that lay scattered across the bed. “Look at all this. I’ve been collecting stuff about magicians since I was a kid. If the Great Wurlitzer had a magician son with the same name, there’d have to be something about him in my collection.

Emily’s skeptical look intensified. “How can you say that? You didn’t even know this famous magician was still alive, if that’s who he is.”

Michael took back the book and held it open on his lap. “That’s who he is, all right. I can’t believe my luck.” He flipped quickly through the book, stopping at another poster reproduction. This one showed Merlino the Magnificent, resplendent in long white druid’s robes and a high, cone-shaped cap covered with astrological symbols. His snow-white, waist-length beard was lifted as by a strong wind, and portions of his robes streamed out behind him. One of his eyes, dark and penetrating, seemed to fix the viewer with its hot glare; the other was covered by a black patch decorated with a stylized eye, such as one sees in ancient Egyptian art. His right hand was extended before him as though in warning, and a dazzling white light radiated from the center of his upraised left palm. Behind him desert sands stretched away to a point where a pyramid stood outlined against the distant horizon.

Silence fell as the two of them contemplated this image. Then Michael spoke, in reverential tones that made Emily’s jaws clench: “This man is one of the greatest magicians in the world. He’s been everywhere, he knows all kinds of magic—card tricks, sleight of hand, mind reading, illusions, you name it. Think of what I can learn from him.” He trailed off dreamily, his eyes on the ceiling.

Emily was gazing at a photograph in
The Illustrated History of Sorcery.
“I see he even levitates Chinese princesses,” she said drily.

“Right,” Michael said, coming back to earth. “Chinese princesses used to be all the rage in the magic world. Because of their mysterious charms, no doubt.” He reached to stroke her neck.

“That reminds me,” she said, closing the book. “We still haven’t seen the Chinese exhibit at the museum.”

“Emily,” Michael replied, still absorbed in his collection, “compared to real magic, how interesting can all those relics be? What do they have in that show? Prehistoric woks, jade chopsticks, stuff like that?”

Her spine stiffened, and her eyes narrowed. “They have art objects,” she said, “beautiful works of art. Made by people who lived in a civilized society while
your
ancestors were running around the woods in animal skins, foreign ghost.”

Michael knew that this expression literally translated a Chinese expression of xenophobic contempt, but it never failed to make him laugh. “‘The heathen Chinee is peculiar,’” he recited, “‘Which the same I am free to maintain.’”

Emily jabbed a heavy book
(Wizardry and Illusion)
hard into his ribs, and they wrestled briefly but intensely on the cluttered bed. “Wait,” Michael mumbled, forcing the word past her shoulder, and then “Wait!” again, louder this time. She paused, adjusting her position to gain better leverage. “No, stop,” he said. “You’re going to cause major damage.” He rolled away from her and began to pick up the materials on the bed, handling each item as though it belonged in a tabernacle. “Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “it’s too hot to fight fully dressed.” Except for the large volume opened to the poster that depicted Lucifer and Wurlitzer about to drink each other’s health, the bed was now completely cleared. Michael removed his shirt, expelled his breath loudly between half-closed teeth, and stretched out again next to the book.

Emily was sitting on the chair by the bed. She looked at Michael and shook her head. Why bother to fight him? She had lost already. Once his mind was made up, nothing could change it. “So what’s next with him?” she asked, jerking her hand in the direction of the book.

“What's next?” he repeated, his eyes once again on the ceiling as though it weren’t there. “I meet him on Saturday. I persuade him to take me as his apprentice. He agrees to help me become the Greatest Magician in the World. I learn about all his props and equipment. I learn everything he knows.” He paused; then, in a soft voice heavy with intention, “And especially I learn night magic.” He paused again for effect, then added matter-of-factly, “And I learn the Frog Trick.”

“For Christ’s sake, Michael,” Emily groaned. “You hated it! You want to do
that
to someone else?”

He didn’t flinch but said, without hesitation, “Yes,” and this simple reply seemed so threatening to her that she held up her hands as though she might ward it off.

“I don’t understand you,” she said, almost whispering. “I don’t understand what you want.”

“What’s to understand?” He turned his eyes to her, smiling. “You’ve had teachers. You know what it is to learn. Remember what you told me about your first music teacher? How she inspired you? Well, this man has knowledge, and I want him to pass it on to me. I want to learn what he knows and be able to do what he can do. That’s all.”

“Even if what he does is bad, or wrong, or hurts people?”

“I don’t want to hurt people,” Michael protested. “I don’t think of it like that. All I want is to be a powerful magician. Right or wrong has nothing to do with it.”

Emily scowled. “Right or wrong has everything to do with it,” she said flatly.

Michael sat up on the bed and closed the book beside him. “You want people to say you’re good, don’t you? You want the attention, the applause, don’t you? So what’s the difference?”

“The difference is,” Emily said carefully, “that I could be the greatest musician in the world and it’s not going to hurt anyone. It’s not going to humiliate anyone, Michael. No one is going to be reduced to vomiting helplessly in a public fountain.” She paused while the memory of Michael’s cruel enchantment rose between them. “At least, I hope not,” she added.

Michael sat staring at her, sullenly.

“It’s not applause you want,” she said. “It’s power. Isn’t it?”

“Of course it is,” Michael agreed. “A magician has power. That’s what makes him different from the rest of the crowd.”

Emily got up and went to the window. She could hear the whine of a siren, then the sound of raised voices, a man and a woman shouting at one another, but though she scanned the pavement she couldn’t see them. “Power over what?” she asked. “Over everything? Over me?”

“If you’re in the audience.”

She smiled wanly. He was being careful, she thought, avoiding an argument; he disliked confrontations. She felt she was getting nowhere; then it occurred to her that she didn’t know where she wanted to get. Michael had opened his book again and was examining the picture of Wurlitzer with an expression of bemusement that irritated her. He’s like a child, she thought. “Why do you think he’s interested in you?” she asked.

“I don’t know that he is, particularly.”

“Sure you do.”

“Maybe he thinks I’m promising.”

“Right,” Emily agreed. “And maybe he wants a son as much as you want a father.”

“What are you getting at?” Michael said sharply.

“You lost your parents when you were a child,” Emily said. “It wouldn’t be surprising if you were unconsciously looking for a replacement.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in amateur psychology.”

“I’m not,” Emily admitted. “It just shows how desperate I am.” She stood leaning against the window frame, her arms folded. A thin smile raised the corners of her mouth.

Michael frowned. The tale of his dead parents, killed, he had told Emily, in an automobile accident, was one he’d given out so regularly over the years that he almost believed it himself. It explained why he lacked what everyone else had. It was neat, innocent, a catastrophe that could have happened to anyone, and though it elicited the required expressions of sympathy, the follow-up—I don’t remember them—set everyone's mind at rest, including his own.

He had never told anyone the truth. His aunts had known, of course, but they were kind, moral women. Once he’d moved into their house, neither they nor he had ever mentioned how he came to be there. They were too horrified, he thought, and he was too superstitious. The truth was bad luck. When he’d started giving inquisitive people the story of the tragic accident, his aunts had assented to it without comment.

Emily didn’t speak. Her intuitions were good, Michael thought, she knew she’d hit a nerve. Instead of pushing on, inadvertently forcing him to swallow one more time the lie at the center of his life, she simply waited, watching him quietly with a smile that he might once have characterized as inscrutable but knew now to be made up in equal parts of patience and affection. He realized that barriers might make sense with other people, but not with her. Tear them all down, he thought, then we can see each other.

“My parents didn’t die, Emily,” he said. “As far as I know they’re still alive.”

“There wasn’t an accident?” she asked.

“No. That was just a wish I had.”

She came away from the window and sat down on the bed next to him. Outside, another siren screamed by. Michael waited until it had passed. “They left me in the bus station in Toledo,” he said. “My mother gave me an envelope with a bus ticket to Genesee, twenty dollars, and a piece of paper with my aunts’ address and phone number on it. No note. They said they’d be back, then they left.”