Voice of Our Shadow (10 page)

Holding a bouquet of flowers in front of me like a delicate shield, I waited for someone to open the door.

India appeared and smiled at the cluster of red and pink roses. “Well, Joey, that’s mighty neighborly of you.” She took them and gave me a buss on the cheek. I started through the door and suddenly felt a bitter little pinch in the middle of my back. India loved to pinch. “You look great tonight, sporty. If Paul wasn’t here, I’d throw you down on the floor and ravish you.”

That was enough to shoot me forward into their living room. I wasn’t in the mood to live dangerously. Paul was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed he was in the kitchen preparing his part of the dinner. They liked to do it that way — Paul was soup and salad chef, India main course and dessert. The room was warm and hummed with an apricot light. I sat on the couch and put my nervous hands on my nervous knees.

“What are you drinking, Joey?” Paul came out of the kitchen with a bottle of vinegar in one hand and a beer in the other.

“That beer looks good.”

“Beer? You don’t drink beer.”

“No, well, once in a while.” I laughed and tried to sound like a debonair character out of a 1930s movie. Herbert Marshall. Ha ha — very suave.

“Okay, beer it is. I also want you to know, bub, that this meal tonight is going to outdo Paul Bocuse. Beginning with salad nigoise, no less. Fresh anchovies too; none of them little tinned babies!” He went back to the kitchen and left me to ponder slim gray anchovies. Ross had once made me eat two big tins of them, which didn’t increase my appreciation any. It was either that or he’d tell Bobby Hanley about my misuse of his sister. Now my hands wilted on my knees as I wondered what I could do to keep the damned things in my stomach once they’d arrived.

“I’ll eat lots of bread.”

“Huh?” India came into the room with the flowers in a yellow vase full of water. She placed it in the middle of the table and stood back to admire them. “Where did you get roses at this time of the year? They must have cost you a fortune!”

I was still working on anchovy digestion and didn’t answer.

“Paul is really putting on the dog for you tonight, Joe.”

He stuck his head out of the kitchen. “You’re damned right. We owe him for about nine meals. Christ, he had to take care of you for two weeks! That’d be enough to drive Sister Teresa around the bend.
India
wanted to have fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”

“Shut up, Paul. Joe likes fried chicken.”

“Low level, India, very low level. Wait till he sees what I’ve got for him.” He started counting off on his fingers. “Salad niçoise.
Coq au vin
. Pineapple upside-down cake.”

I had to stop myself from physically recoiling into the couch. I detested every one of those things. I hadn’t eaten any of them, thank God, since my mother had gone away so many years before. In fact, Ross and I had once made lists of our most unfavorite of her dishes, and Paul’s menu for tonight had about half of mine. I managed — just — to put an idiotic lip-smackin’ smile on my face that pleased him.

India and I made small talk while he banged away in the other room. She looked so different. She wore her hair up, accentuating the high patrician lines of her face. She moved gracefully around the room, sure and at ease in her surroundings. I felt like Jekyll and Hyde here. On this couch I’d had long talks with Paul. Over by the window I had once slipped my hands into the back pockets of India’s blue jeans and pulled her close to me. At the dining table, now set with pinks and tropical green, we’d sat and had coffee in the middle of an afternoon and talked. The window, the table — the room was full of ghosts so recent I could almost reach out and touch them. Yet in a part of my heart I felt smug and content because they were half mine.

“Soup’s on!” Paul staggered playfully out of the kitchen with a big wooden salad bowl. Two wooden forks stuck up from either side like brown rabbit ears.

I tried to talk straight through each course. I avoided looking down at my plate as much as possible. It reminded me of a time I had climbed a small mountain and discovered halfway up that I was petrified of heights. A friend who had come along told me everything would be all right so long as I didn’t look down. That advice had gotten me through more than one scrape in my life, not all of them associated with mountains.

Miraculously, there were only a few suspicious smudges of pineapple on my plate when I finally peeked; the worst was over, and I could put my tired fork down with a clear conscience.

Paul asked who was for coffee and disappeared again into the kitchen. India was sitting on my right; she gave me a little jab in the hand with her dessert fork.

“You look as if you just ate a tire.”

“Sssh! I hate anchovies.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“Sssh, India!”

She shook her head. “You’re such a dope.”

“India, stop! I’m not a dope. If he’d gone to all that trouble to cook —”

The lights went out, and a table with candles on each of the four corners came gliding in from the kitchen. They illuminated Paul’s face; I saw he was wearing his Little Boy top hat.

A trumpet fanfare and a blasting drum roll followed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your after-dinner enjoyment, the Hapsburg Room would like to present the Amazing Little Boy and his bag, or should I say
hat
, full of tricks!”

Paul remained deadpan throughout the introduction. When it was over (I assumed it came from a tape recorder in the other room), he bowed deeply and reached behind him. The lights in the room came on again, and at the same instant the candles went out. Poof! Just like that.

“Hey, Paul, that’s a great trick!”

He nodded, but put a finger to his lips for silence. He had on the familiar white gloves from India’s
Little Boy
painting and a cutaway jacket over a white T-shirt. Taking off the hat, he placed it rim up on the table directly in front of him. I looked at India, but she was watching the performance.

From inside his jacket he took out a large silver key. He held it up for us to see and then dropped it into the silk hat. A burst of flame shot upward, and I jumped in my seat. He smiled and, picking up the hat, turned it so we could see down into it. A small black bird swooped out and winged over to our table. It landed on India’s dessert plate and pecked at a piece of cake. Paul tapped the table twice; the bird flew obediently back to him. Placing the hat over it, Paul made a loud kissing noise and pulled the hat up again. Twenty or thirty silver keys fell out of it with a metallic clatter.

India began clapping furiously. I joined right in.

“Bravo, Boy!”

“Paul, my God, that’s fantastic!” I’d had no idea he was so talented. “But where’s the bird?”

He slowly shook his head and put his finger again to his lips. I felt like the bad seven-year-old at the second-grade puppet show.

“Do your mind reading, Boy!”

Although I didn’t believe in it, just the idea of Paul reading my mind at that point made me uncomfortable. I wanted to give India a belt in the mouth to keep her quiet.

“Little Boy is not reading minds tonight. Return another time and he will tell all, including Joseph Lennox’s vast unhappiness with tonight’s dinner!”

“No, come on, Paul —”

“Another time!” He moved his arm through the air as if he were pushing a curtain across an invisible window.

One white hand stopped above the rim of the silk hat. Paul made the kissing sound again, and the blade of orange flame burst up for the second time that night. It disappeared in an instant, and the hat toppled over on its side. There was a tinny,
clinkety-clink
sound, and out hopped a large toy tin bird. It was black, with a yellow beak and black wings, and a big red key in its back. It slowly goose-stepped to the edge of the table and stopped. Paul snapped his fingers, but nothing happened. He snapped them again. The toy rose off the table and began to fly. It flapped its wings too slowly and cautiously: an old man getting into a cold swimming pool. That didn’t matter, because slow or not, it glided up and off the table and flew in a loud putter around the room.

“Jesus Christ! Amazing!”

“Yay, Little Boy!”

The bird was at the window, hovering at the Venetian blinds in a way that made it look as if it was having a look outside. Paul tapped the table. The bird turned reluctantly and flew back to him. When it landed, Paul once again covered it with the hat. I started to clap, but India touched my arm and shook her head — there was more, the trick wasn’t over. Paul smiled and turned the hat rim up again. He gave it the familiar two taps; the flame shot up for the third time. This time it didn’t stop. Instead, Paul turned the hat over, and out tumbled a screeching, burning, live bird — a small package of fire that kept trying to stand up or fly … I was so aghast I didn’t know what to do.

“Paul, stop!”

“My name is Little Boy!”

“Paul, for godsake!”

India grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. “Boy! Call him Little Boy or he’ll never stop!”

“Little Boy! Little Boy! Stop it! What the hell are you trying to do?”

The bird continued to screech. I gaped at Paul, he smiled back. He casually picked up the hat and placed it over the staggering flame. He tapped the top and pulled the whole thing up and away. Nothing. No bird, no smoke, smell, ashes … Nothing.

I realized after some seconds that India was clapping.

“Bra-vo, Boy! Wonderful!”

I looked at her. She was having the time of her life.

Little Boy reappeared on Thanksgiving Day. I hadn’t had turkey or cranberry sauce in years, so when India discovered that the Vienna Hilton served a special Thanksgiving dinner in one of its innumerable restaurants, we all agreed to go.

Paul had the day off and wanted to take full advantage of it. I would write until noon; then we would meet for coffee at the Hotel Europa.

After that we’d ramble around the First District and look at the fancy store windows. Then slowly we’d make our way over to the Hilton for a drink at the Klimt bar, and on to the big meal.

I got there a little late; they were standing in front of the hotel. They both had on light spring jackets that looked ridiculous in the midst of other people’s fur coats, gloves, and an insistent winter wind. Both were dressed casually, except that Paul was holding the big leather briefcase he took to work. I assumed he’d been to his office for something that morning.

The Graben and Kärntner strasse were alive with well-dressed, well-to-do people promenading from store to store. Everything in that part of town costs more than it should, but the Viennese love prestige and you often see the most surprising people wearing Missoni clothes or carrying Louis Vuitton handbags.

“There he is, Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo.”

“Hi! Have you been waiting long?”

Paul shook his head no, India nodded yes. They looked at each other and smiled.

“I’m sorry, but I got all caught up with work.”

“Yeah? Well, let’s get caught up on some coffee. My stomach’s beginning to hiss.” India marched off, leaving the two of us in the dust. She did that sometimes. I once saw them from afar walking “together.” It was ludicrous; she was at least three feet ahead of him, striding and looking straight ahead like a serious military cadet. Paul stayed within a few feet of her wake, but he swiveled his head from side to side, taking in everything and in no hurry whatsoever. I followed them for a few blocks, feeling wonderfully voyeuristic, anxious to see when India would turn around and give him a blast to get going. She never did. She marched, he dawdled.

Our coffee went well. Paul had been to the airport the day before and described the passengers disembarking from a charter flight from New York. He said he could immediately tell who was who because all the Austrian women were dressed to the nines in chic new designer clothes, while their men favored tight new jeans and cowboy boots that ranged in color from sand to plum with black fleur-de-lis designs. All of them came down the ramp fast and assured, smiling because they knew the territory.

In contrast, the Americans on the flight were dressed in drably practical shoes with thick crepe bottoms and drip-dry clothes so stiff and unyielding that they made the people look as if they were all walking between sandwich-board advertisements. They came into the airport slowly, with dismayed or angry looks. Suspicious eighty-year-olds who had just landed on the moon.

Some stores on the Graben had already begun their Christmas push and I wondered when the men would come in from the country farms with Christmas trees for sale. The Austrian tradition is not to decorate your tree until Christmas Eve, but they are for sale weeks before.

“What do you do at Christmas, Joey?”

“It depends. I’ve stayed around here. Once I went over to Salzburg to see how they’d done it up. It’s something you two should see if you haven’t already — That town at Christmastime is something.”

They glanced at each other, and India shrugged indifferently. I wondered if she was mad at me for some reason. After coffee, we walked toward St. Stephen’s Cathedral; I put my gloves on. I was sure it was getting colder, but neither of them showed any sign of it. They were dressed for a day in late spring.

The restaurant was surprisingly full. Paul nodded to people at several tables while the hostess led us to ours. It was close to a large picture window that gave a full view of the Stadtpark and the purple puff clouds that hung, unmoving, over it.

“The reason why I asked before about what you’re doing over the holidays, Joey, is because we’re going to Italy for five days and wanted to know if you’d like to come with us?”

I zapped a look at India, but her face said nothing. Where had this come from? Whose idea was it? I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to say. I opened my mouth twice like a hungry fish, but nothing came out.

“Is that supposed to mean yes?”

“Yes, I guess … Sure, yes!” I fiddled with my napkin. It fell on the floor. When I bent down to get it, I pulled a muscle in my back. It hurt. I tried to get my mind to race into every corner at once to find out what was going on here. India sure wasn’t helping much.