The Red Magician (10 page)

“He didn't,” said Aladár. “You know he didn't. Kicsi.” He looked at her seriously. “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid?” she said. “Well, yes. I am. You haven't seen him when he does magic. You think it's all a game.”

“It's all right,” said Aladár. “I'm afraid too. Where do you want to start?”

“The—the synagogue, I guess.”

“You'd better show me the way, then.”

They set off together. The day was hot for early spring. Yellow daffodils grew by the side of the road. They saw no one as they passed Sholom's house and the graveyard, and came at last to the synagogue. Kicsi thought of the time the glass had shattered in the courtyard, thought of Vörös's warning, and she shivered against the heat.

“It's locked,” said Aladár, trying the door. “He's not here.”

They stood a while, looking at the heavy doors.

“Listen,” said Kicsi. “Do you hear anything?”

“What?”

“A—murmuring sound. Like a crowd of people far away.”

“It's the wind,” Aladár said. “Isn't it?”

“I don't think so,” said Kicsi. “Let's go.”

“Where?”

“To his house. I don't think—I don't think that we're safe here. That we're safe alone.”

“All right,” said Aladár.

He followed her along the winding road back to the rabbi's house. Suddenly she stopped. “Look,” she said.

Through a window at the side of the house they could see the rabbi. He was bent over his desk, looking through a book with a cracked leather binding. Piles of old books were stacked to either side of him. As they watched, he put on his glasses and bent closer to the book.

“You were right,” said Aladár, whispering. “He's just studying.”

“No,” said Kicsi. “Can you see the books? Careful! What language are they in? Is it—Hebrew?”

“I can't—wait. Wait a minute.” Aladár moved forward slowly, until he was almost at the windowsill. “I don't know,” he said, coming back to her. “I think so.”

“He's learning their names,” said Kicsi.

“What?”

“Shhh. The dead. He has to learn their names to have power over them.”

The rabbi looked up at his desk. The sun outside the window threw the shadow of his glasses onto his face, so that for a moment he looked like a demon with huge staring eyes. Kicsi and Aladár stood still, rapt with fear.

“Come on,” Aladár said urgently, taking her arm. “Let's go. Pretend we were just passing by.”

Kicsi began to move. She glanced at Aladár, who still held her arm. Had he said that he was frightened too? He didn't seem to be afraid.

They turned the corner, still walking slowly. “That was close,” said Aladár. “What do you mean? Why does he have to learn their names?”

“Just a minute,” said Kicsi. She was shaking. “Let me sit down. Do you think he saw us?”

“I don't think so.” Aladár sat down beside her. “Let's rest here a while. What did you mean about the names?”

“Names have power. If he learns their names he can control them,” said Kicsi. “That's what Vörös told me. Vörös never told me his real name.”

“What do you think he'll do next? The rabbi, I mean. Do you think he'll go to the synagogue?”

“I guess so. Let's stay here a while. Until he leaves.”

“All right. What else did Vörös tell you? Is that where the rabbi gets his power? From names?”

“From words. Sometimes even from letters. Every Hebrew letter is also a number. And all the letters in a word add up to another number. Some words are equal to each other. Some are worth more than others. It's all very complicated.” Aladár looked at her in amazement. “Well, actually I didn't learn that from Vörös. I read it in a book once. The magic is called Kabbalah. I didn't understand most of it.” She laughed. “I guess I can see now why the rabbi didn't want us to learn Hebrew in school. It could be dangerous.”

“And what about Vörös?” said Aladár. “Is that where he gets his power too?”

“I don't know,” Kicsi said. “I think so.” She looked around the corner. “The door's opening. Come on, let's go.”

Kicsi and Aladár waited until the rabbi started down the street and then followed him. He came to the synagogue and stopped, listening intently. They quickly hid across the street, behind a clump of trees.

The rabbi pressed his palms against the synagogue doors and said a few words. He took a key from a ring at his belt and opened the doors slowly.

At first Kicsi and Aladár could see only darkness inside the synagogue. Then, within the darkness, they made out winking forms of light. “Look,” said Aladár. “The man with a crown.” Golden points of a crown gleamed in the blackness.

“A woman,” said Kicsi. “With a silver sword.” The fine edge of the sword flashed up out of the darkness like a ribbon of light.

“Listen,” said Aladár. The dead figures murmured to each other, crowding toward the light.

The rabbi held up his hand. “Stop,” he said.

The dead fell silent, watchful, listening.

“I know your names,” the rabbi said. “I know you all. You are the murdered, the unavenged dead, come from across time. You cannot sleep until you have had your revenge.” One of the dead moaned, a deep chilling sound that Kicsi felt in her bones. “You will not move. You will not move until I have finished!” the rabbi said, and the sound stopped.

“Old tales say that you appeared before the great catastrophes. But the old tales contain exaggerations, and often lie. I will not believe that we are doomed. But you are here, and I will make my own use of you. I will bind you to the village for my own purposes.”

The dead flowed to the door, chains and jewels and swords winking out of the darkness.

“You will not get out,” said the rabbi. “I put a spell on the door, the strongest binding I know. Here in the synagogue I am master. You cannot get out.”

The dead stopped. The rabbi began to speak, chanting quickly the names of the dead. “And so I bind you,” he said. “Here you will stay until I release you. Sleep now, until I call.”

The dead melted back into the darkness. The rabbi closed the door and locked it. “That should take care of the traveling man,” he said. “That Vörös.” He walked away quickly, making no sound as he went.

“Well,” said Aladár. His voice shook a little. “I don't think I'll doubt your stories again.”

“Yes,” said Kicsi. “But what about—what about Vörös? He'll never be able to come back to the village now.”

“You'll find some way to get to him, to warn him in time.”

“I hope so,” said Kicsi. “I hope I can.”

“We could go down to the forest,” said Aladár, “and leave him something. A note, maybe. Or something from his knapsack.”

“Do you think so?” said Kicsi. Her eyes shone. “We could do that tomorrow. Or—no, I have to help my mother around the house tomorrow. I promised her I would. What about the day after?”

“I'm leaving then,” said Aladár. “In the morning.”

“So soon?” said Kicsi. “Are you—are you coming back?”

“Of course,” said Aladár. “Why—did you think I wouldn't?”

“Everyone's always leaving,” said Kicsi. “Vörös, and now you …”

“I'm not a traveling magician,” said Aladár. “I'll be back.”

“All right,” said Kicsi. “Next year?”

“Next year,” said Aladár solemnly, a promise.

“I'll meet you at Erzsi's house before you leave,” said Kicsi. “We can say good-bye then.”

“No,” said Aladár. “Let's say good-bye now. It'll be harder in front of so many people.”

“Now?” said Kicsi. “I guess so. All right.”

“Good-bye, then,” said Aladár. He looked around carefully to make sure no one was watching and then kissed her quickly.

“Good-bye …” she said, wonderingly. He hurried away toward Erzsébet's house before she could say anything else. He did not look back.

Then all that was left to her was to count the days until the next Passover. She grew taller and leaner, and began to walk slower than she used to, as though she were going somewhere important but was in no hurry to get there. She did her schoolwork and housework quickly and well, and no one suspected that she was miles away from the small village.

One evening shortly after Aladár left she came downstairs to say good night to her parents. They were listening to the radio and had not heard her. Imre turned to Sarah and said, “I don't know.”

“Is it bad? Should we try to leave? Remember what Vörös said—” said Sarah.

“Vörös? He's been gone nearly a year. And I still don't know about that man—a part of me says not to trust him, but all the while I know I would give him whatever he asked for—my house and my honor …” His voice trailed off. He looked at a spot on the far wall. “But no, I don't think we should leave. Where would we go? At least here we have the printing company, and our neighbors …. Surely they can't do anything against so many of us.”

Kicsi moved suddenly. “Kicsi!” said Sarah. The parents looked at each other and then looked quickly away. “I didn't see you there. Did you come to say good night?”

“Yes,” said Kicsi, wondering what it was that they didn't want to talk about in front of her. “Good night.” Then she said suddenly, “Have you ever had a dream about a man with no teeth?”

“A man with no teeth?” said Sarah, laughing. “No, Kicsi, why do you ask?”

“I do sometimes. Last night. And Vörös did.”

This time Imre and Sarah could not look at each other. The silence in the room lengthened like shadows. “Well, good night,” Kicsi said again, and she turned and ran upstairs.

“Vörös again,” said Imre. “I wonder just what it is that man knew. And if he knew that we were in danger, why on earth did he leave us?”

Summer passed, and autumn. Kicsi returned often to the forest, watching the trees grow and fade with the seasons, watching the new seedlings bind over the scars from the fire. One day when she came home from the forest she saw a letter on the dining room table. It was addressed to her, from Aladár. She tore it open.

It was very short. Aladár was well and getting along in his studies. At the bottom he had written, “I look forward to seeing you again.” She reread the letter, then took it to her room. She read it every day after that, until the places where it was folded began to tear.

The snows that year came early, and with them bitter cold. Coming home from school one day Kicsi saw her father and István, standing and talking with a man who had his back to her. She ran to greet her father, her breath puffing in the cold, but stopped when she recognized the other man. It was the rabbi.

“Hello, Kicsi,” said Imre. “Come here and we'll walk home together.”

Kicsi came reluctantly. The rabbi nodded at her, but said nothing. His gray eyes were light, almost transparent. “I have wonderful news,” he said to Imre and István. “My daughter is going to have a child.”

“
Mazel tov!
” said Imre.

“Yes, I'm very grateful,” said the rabbi. “I feared for her life, you know, after the—after the wedding. And then I began to fear that she would never have a child. But that traveler, that Vörös, apparently he was not as clever as he appeared to be. Because my child is well, despite his words.”

“Well, then,” said István. “Do you think Vörös will return?”

“I don't have any idea. I don't dictate his comings and goings. You, Imre—you were friendly with him at one time—if you see him, tell him he may return, if he chooses.”

“Vörös!” said Imre. “No one in the village seems to be able to talk about anything else, even though he's been gone for over a year. Sometimes I think you're right—he's not as clever as he seems. Why should he come back now? We're getting along here without him.” Imre sighed. “But other times—I just wish I knew.”

“I don't think he'll be coming back,” said the rabbi. “The village is as peaceful as it's ever been. For a long time now I've felt that I would like to go on a long trip—see what my colleagues are doing in the outside world. I think I will start soon, after the snow melts. And as for my daughter, doctor”—he nodded toward István—“I will leave her in your competent hands.” He nodded to Imre and walked away, his feet making no sound in the snow.

And then, almost before Kicsi expected it, Passover came around once again. Since of the sisters only she and Ilona were left at home, she was allowed her first new dress. Almost breathless, she took off her school clothes and put them away. As she turned toward the bed where she had laid the new dress, she saw something gleam in the corner of her eye. She walked over to the mirror. It was her star, glowing a pale silver.

Vörös! She had almost forgotten him. Though everyone in the village seemed to be worried about something, the danger he had spoken of had not come to pass. She felt almost a little guilty, to think that she had forgotten the man she had once loved, the man who carried magic with him as he moved through the world, and she felt sad, too, to think that she had nearly grown up—stories of faraway places could no longer move her as they once had.

Then she put on the dress, slowly, carefully. She would see Aladár again tonight!

Kicsi went downstairs. Sarah was setting out the Passover dishes. She had invited Erzsébet's family to dinner, in part to get to know Aladár better, since Kicsi had spent so much time with him last year. Magda was celebrating with her husband's family.

Someone knocked on the front door. “Kicsi!” called Sarah. “Get the door, will you please? I'm busy here.”

Kicsi opened the door. Erzsébet, her brother, and her parents came in; last of all came Aladár. Kicsi looked at him and could not speak. He looked so fine in his new suit. He was taller than she remembered. They could not embrace with everyone around them. He smiled at her and shrugged, as if to say it couldn't be helped.