Now You See It (9 page)

“All right,” said Harry quickly. He hurried to the chair and sat.

“Now put down your little hand-stitched, leather, monogrammed-in-gold attaché case,” Max told him.

Harry swallowed dryly, placing his attaché case and hat on the table beside him.

“Very good,” said Max.

Harry drew in a shaking breath. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Max?” he asked.

“Wrapping up loose ends,” Max answered.
“Pal.”

Keeping his eyes on Harry, he edged over to the desk and pulled out its middle drawer. Removing two folded sheets of paper, he unfolded one of them.

“Found in Cassandra’s raincoat pocket,” he explained.

Harry swallowed again. I actually heard the crackling of membranes in his parched throat. He watched uneasily as Max returned to the chair and began to read the letter he was holding in his left hand.

“‘Sometimes, I wonder why I bother anymore. God knows, he doesn’t make me more than petty cash these days. He’s washed up but too stubborn to admit it. If he keeps making a fool of himself on stage, I’m going to drop him from the agency or let some flunky handle him.’

“Shall I go on?” he asked.

Harry stared up at my son, his eyes like cold stones; the look which, I am certain, paralyzed untold numbers of business contacts.

“It’s a hard world, Max,” he said. “Nobody’s out there to do you favors.”

“Dog-eat-dog, eh, Harold?” Max responded.

“You got it, pal,” said Harry. Clearly, he was vowing not to let Max see any further signs of weakness in him. He gestured toward the letter with contempt.

“Is that why you’re doing all this?” he asked. “Because I wrote an unflattering note?”

Unflattering?
I thought.
Insulting, you bastard!

“No, there’s a bit more,” Max replied.

In spite of his obvious vow, Harry could not restrain a shudder as Max shook open the second folded sheet of paper. Perhaps I shuddered, too; who knows?

“One sworn affidavit, duly notarized,” he said. “Signed by one Emmanuel Farber, night porter at
The Essex House
.

“Statement:
‘Yes, I saw that man’
—identifying a photograph of you, dear Harold—
‘and that woman’
—identifying a photograph of guess who, Harold?—
‘enter Room 525 on the night of April 28—’”

“All right,
I fucked
her!” Harry interrupted, with desperate bravado.
“So what?
I didn’t start it!
She
did! She wanted
it, I gave it to her! Big deal! What do you expect? You can’t even get it up anymore!”

If I had been my son and held that pistol in my hand, I would have blown out Harry’s brains exactly then.

It was a compounded fury I was feeling at that loathsome toad of a man. The crimes?

One, a snarling admission that he’d gone to bed with Cassandra.

Two, a casual dismissal of the incident.

Three, a weaseling out from all responsibility. It was
her
fault, her desire, her demand. All he’d done was accommodate the bitch.

Four, the final insult, mocking my son as impotent.

Kill him
, I thought.

But Max did not respond as I did. Did not raise the pistol to fire. Merely gazed at Harry in regret. (Regret!)

“The irony of ironies,” he finally said, “is that I trusted you completely, considered you my friend.”

“That was your mistake,” said Harry. I saw him flinch as though in shock at his suicidal reply.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself. “If you’re looking for an apology, forget it,” he added.

Madness
, I thought.

I myself flinched as Max raised the pistol, aiming it between Harry’s frozen eyes.

“There is only one thing I’m looking for,” Max said. “That is revenge. And I am about to exact it.”

Harry braced himself. Death was coming now. He was certain of it; I could see it in his face.

And yet, instead—maddeningly now!—Max said, “You never understood me for a moment, did you? Never understood the endless time and work I expended to perfect my skill.”

What tangent now?
I thought.
Is he going to shoot Harry or not?

Harry was clearly wondering the same thing. He stared at Max uncertainly, anticipating death, yet wondering at the same time when it was due.

“I have been the best,” Max was saying. “As my father was before me. The
best
.

“And
why?
Because I saw to everything.
Everything
. Consistency of attitude. Consistency of detail.”

In an eerie way, it was like hearing myself speak. Max and I resembled one another. Our voices (when I had one) were alike.

And certainly the words he spoke, I had spoken—if not word for word then, surely, feeling for feeling.

“Consistency of detail,” he repeated. “Speaking clearly to the last row as to the first. Speaking to my audience as though the words are coming for the first time instead of being repeated verbatim as they’ve been for twenty years.”

Dear Lord, an echo of my own repeated declarations
.

“Preparing monologues not only for the audience to hear,” said Max, “but for myself to
think
as well. Soundless lines for me to think
between
the words I speak aloud. Details.”

Was I smiling? Surely not; I couldn’t. But inside I was. Inside I felt a warmth of sweet nostalgia.

Max had lowered the pistol now and begun to pace again. I saw Harry watch him with suspicion. And knew that he was thinking,
Now what?
—for I was thinking it as well, despite my pleasure at the words my son was speaking.

“Details,”
Max said, gesturing with his left hand.

“You must not surprise an audience. You must ‘stage-surprise’ them. An audience loathes to be
truly
surprised, because it is unexpected, therefore unenjoyable.”

The inner smile again. These words, like benedictions from the past. I wonder if he knew the pleasure they were giving me.

“The ‘stage-surprise’ is different,” he continued. “Openly announced in advance. The magician declaring: ‘My friends, I am going to surprise you. Are you ready? Prepare yourself carefully. Here it comes.’ “

I was not a hunching cabbage in a wheelchair now, not a worthless lump of detritus. I was back in the world I knew and loved, and Max, my son, had taken me there.

“Details,”
he said again.

“The choosing of a volunteer. One who will cooperate. Bright outfit, never drab. Eye-catching. Preferably female.
Not overly attractive, though. If she’s too attractive, she’ll draw excess attention from the act.”

Quite so
, I thought;
absolutely right
.

“If a male,” said Max, “someone with a physical oddity—skinny, fat, protruding ears, whatever. Someone to amuse the audience. Distract it.

“And look
before the need,”
he added. “Let them be already chosen when the time arrives to use them.”

Absolutely
, I reacted.

Max was coming to life now, as I was (well, relatively)—his eyes bright, his posture alert, his voice increasingly excited as he spoke; and why not? Wasn’t this his kingdom?

Hadn’t it been mine?

“What will these volunteers be used for?” he asked. The question was academic, of course; he already knew the answer. “Helpers? Subjects? Subjects must be credulous, not doubtful, not distrusting.”

Harry would have made a lousy Subject, it occurred to me.

“Lenders of objects?” Max was adding further academic queries. “Watches? Keys? Pens? Lenders must be chosen for appearance of integrity. The same for inspectors of devices. The audience must trust their judgment.”

How well I had taught him; I basked in the knowledge.

Now Harry tensed as Max moved to the desk and set the pistol down, then began to use both hands to gesture as he continued pacing.
Is that a good idea?
I fretted. What if Max moved so far from the desk that Harry could make a rush for the pistol? Surely he would do it. There was no other way out for him.

It seemed as though Harry listened now with one ear (as they say), keeping himself prepared to move should the opportunity arise.
Watch it, Son
, I thought.
Don’t get so carried away by your rhapsodizing that you overlook basic caution
.

“As for me, the magician,” Max was saying; he seemed to have completely forgotten the pistol. “I must show no sign of strain or stiffness in the hands, the elbows, or the shoulders. Gestures must be practiced to perfection—even the smallest one.”

He demonstrated some. “Their length,” he said. “Their speed.
Never more
than one at a time.”

Watch it, Sonny boy
, I thought.

“Time,”
said Max, so loudly that it made Harry twitch. “Pauses. Counts and rhythms. Root out everything which might distract. Useless movements. Pointless jewelry. Clothes that call attention to themselves.

“And always an alternative ending; always,”
he said. “One must look ahead. Things can go wrong.”

Yes, they can
, I thought.
Like an agent rushing to a desk and snatching up a pistol
.

It disturbed me to see that Max’s gaze was so inward now. I’m not sure he even knew that Harry was in the same room with him. And I saw that even wooden-witted Harry sensed this and was readying his move.

“Consider every detail,” Max was saying (or was it The Great Delacorte, father and son, who spoke?). “Lighting. Music. Apparatus. Stagehands. Posture. Footwork; one kind for a cross, another for climbing steps. Another for moving upstage, yet another for moving down.”

He began to demonstrate as to a class of novices. Ambivalence tore at me. I loved what he was saying but feared that, in saying it, he had become too incautious. I saw Harry edging forward on the chair.
Oh, God, to have a voice!
my mind exploded with lamenting rage.

“The eight positions of the body,” Max was saying, demonstrating as he spoke. “Full back. Three-quarter right. Right profile. Quarter right. Full front. Quarter left. Left profile. Three-quarter left. Return to full back.”

Harry started up, then sank down hurriedly as Max
turned back. Was it possible that Max was playing with him? If so, he was taking greater risks than were prudent.

“The six positions of the feet,” Max told him, smiling as he demonstrated. (He
was
lost in his kingdom!) “Feet together, side by side, pointing forward. Either foot one step sideways so the feet are twelve to twenty-four inches apart. One foot perpendicular to the other, the heel of the perpendicular touching the arch of the other.”

Despite uneasiness, I could not but be awed by the detailed lengths to which Max had gone to perfect his act. Even I had not gone so far, I admit (with contrition).

“The perpendicular foot one step forward,” he was continuing, “one foot pointing forward, the other at a forty-five-degree angle to it, the heel of the angled foot touching the toe of the first.

“The same, but with the angled foot a step forward in the direction it points.”

Look out, Max
, I was thinking anxiously. Harry’s arms were rigid as he pressed down on the armrests, preparing himself to lurch up. How could Max not notice?

“Never more than three steps at a time,” Max was saying, transported, words falling quickly from his lips. “Quick steps. Slow. Exaggerated strides.” He demonstrated each with delicate precision. “Details, always details.”

Harry was leaning forward now, muscles quivering.
Any moment now
, I thought.
For God’s sake, Max, wake up!

“How to take applause,” Max said. “Never beg for it, but never bully either. When to stifle it. When to encourage it. Never let it die completely as you bow.”

Max, that’s fascinating information, but don’t you see that Harry is drawing in quick, strengthening breaths?

Apparently not. He kept on speaking, demonstrating.

“The art of taking bows. Face front for small ones. Eyes on the audience, never missing anyone.”

Max!
Harry’s body was starting to rise.

“They will increase their applause if you look at them directly,” Max said, all unaware. “Bow to the center. Bow to the left. Bow to the right.”

Harry’s gaze was fixed on the magician. My gaze ping-pong-balled between the two of them.

“Bow from the waist for loud applause,” Max said. “‘Thank you! You are very kind!’” His eyes were positively glazed.” ‘I’m very pleased to—’”

Three things happened simultaneously (four, if you count the painful leap of my heart).

Harry jumped up from the chair and started quickly for the desk.

I heard the sound of the front door closing in the entry hall.

And Max, brought back abruptly from his dreaming state, saw Harry and moved quickly to the desk, grabbing up the pistol. If I was not already slumped, I would have slumped.

Harry froze in his tracks, staring at my son.

Footsteps moved across the entry hall: the giveaway clack of a woman’s heels.