Authors: Thomas Tryon
Emily had taken his hand in hers. “God,” she said softly.
“I was eight years old,” Michael continued. “I wasn’t some baby left on the orphanage steps. They knew me. And they threw me away.”
Unable to speak for several seconds, she squeezed his hand, staring dumbly at her whitening knuckles. She envisioned Michael, eight years old, all innocence and trust, betrayed, rejected, abandoned among strangers, and then she imagined the smiling faces of her own parents, who she knew would have stopped at nothing, literally nothing, to keep and protect their children. The stark juxtaposition of these images wrenched her heart, and she reached out and embraced Michael, sensing as she did it that a chasm had just opened between them.
Michael passed a bill through the slot to the fat girl sitting behind the window in the small box office. She punched up a ticket, sliding it to him with the bill. “No charge,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on her book; then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “You’re expected.” She looked quickly down again as Michael started to reply, thought better of it, backed away, and shoved through a turnstile that revolved only with urging.
He walked through the left side of the pair of badly chipped red-painted doors and entered the museum. The dim interior proved to be a warren of passages whose smokehouse-black ceilings were glazed over with a sticky gum to which adhered scuds of fuzz like dust bunnies under a bed. A wainscoting of stamped tin, kicked and dented, painted a murky coffee color, ran along the lower walls, while the plaster above was a swabbed sickly green, with an entire manic geography of cracks delineated over its moldered surfaces.
There was a paucity of light; red bulbs, mean in their wattage, glowed above several safety exits. The odor could have been indigenous only to such premises, a mixture of burned fuel, lacquer, sanitary precautions in a lavatory, and something Michael thought smelled like boiled cabbage. Yet, in its shoddy attempt at theatricality, its desire to remain what it once was, with no attempt at modernization, he detected a nostalgic stubbornness. Something in the ersatz Egyptian motif—painted columns decorated with faded gilt and fake hieroglyphs, sphinxlike plaster figures, paper palms with tin fronds, faded murals of romanticized Nile scenes, a plethora of jackal-headed beings—reached and touched Michael, made him think of the dilapidated movie house in Genesee, and half consciously he felt he had somehow been here before, had known of the museum’s existence.
A young man his own age, but larger, fatter, with round, unblinking eyes and a cretinous stare, tore his ticket in half, and when Michael asked where the magician was performing, his attention was directed to a placard reading
AUDITORIUM
, with a pointing arrow beneath. Presently he found himself in a narrow corridor so feebly illuminated that its termination melded into some hazy infinity. The linoleum along the floor was buckled and warped, and in some places entirely worn away so the boards showed through. Dark corners made happy haunts for spiders whose abandoned webs spanned the angle between the cornices, festooning dust-covered lightbulbs.
Following arrows with
AUDITORIUM
stenciled beneath, Michael continued to the end of a passage, where two blank doors presented themselves. Beyond, he could hear the murmur of voices, at first a startling concept, for it seemed unimaginable that people would find this place unbidden and without a guide. Yet once inside the auditorium he found rows of folding chairs, partially filled. The patrons included young mothers with children in chattering groups, several elderly paired spouses, and other random individuals. The air felt close and carried aromas similar to those he had smelled outside. At the far end was a small stage, its fire curtain lowered. Carrying out the Egyptian theme, the stage proscenium was flanked by pairs of tall plaster columns, while at the center of the arch the face of a goddess peered down in faded glory from between twin feathered fans. The plaster arch itself was draped in worn burgundy velvet and hung with fringe that had seen better days. The fire curtain on which was painted a badly faded representation of a Nile river scene, complete with pyramids and a sphinx, rose to reveal the tired burgundy velvet stage curtain, while Michael stood at the back of the hall, deciding where he should sit.
A quartet of youths looking like extras from a Spike Lee movie filed incongruously in, occupied seats in the center of the midmost row, and engaged in some good-natured jostling. As Michael came down the aisle to take a seat in front of them, one of the youths made a harp of his thumb and finger, put it between his teeth, and gave an ear-piercing whistle. Michael flashed a look at him, then sat.
Presently the lights dimmed, and music began; he recognized the “Triumphal March” from
Aida.
When the hall became dark, a sudden, grating scratch truncated the music, the curtain rose with a whoosh, and without prelude the magician entered from stage right, making swooping, birdlike movements, coming directly to center stage, where he bowed to a smattering of applause. Michael’s chair creaked as he leaned forward in rapt anticipation. It didn’t seem possible that he was actually going to witness a performance by Merlino the Magnificent. Yet there he was, exactly as he’d appeared in the posters and the newspaper and magazine photographs in Michael’s collection. The long, flowing beard, the conical hat, the voluminous gown of antiquated velvet—Michael was quick to notice how its hue and age seemed to match those of the stage draperies—hanging to the floor in ample folds and spangled with suns, moons, stars, and occult symbols that caught the light.
Enfolding himself from the waist down in a three-panel screen, the magician stared out at the audience without moving; then, raising the screen and stepping quickly aside, he revealed on the boards, the floor of the stage, an enormous glass bowl filled with water in which half a dozen goldfish swam into the light.
He continued with several small tricks, with five playing cards appearing and disappearing at his fingertips, and Michael saw that though there was dexterity there was also a trembling of the fingers, and the execution of the sleight lacked deftness and precision. From the cards he proceeded to cigarettes, one of which materialized from nowhere and which the magician puffed at, scattering a shower of sparks on the stage; then the cigarette disappeared—but not without difficulty: there was some clumsy fumbling, awarded derisive hoots by the four boys—and reappeared, he swallowed it, then produced it again between his lips. The smoke troubled him; he began coughing and for a moment was forced to turn his back and rid himself of phlegm while the hoots began again. Michael turned in his chair and tried to stare the noisemakers down; but got the finger for his pains.
Now Merlino was doing silks, pulling them from an empty cylinder the size of a beer can, yard after yard of them, the stuff falling around him in billows. As he moved, the fabric got caught in the folds of his gown, causing him more difficulty and impeding his movements. He managed several other minor feats that amused the young fry in the audience but left Michael flat and feeling disappointed. Was this really Merlino the Magnificent? The audience was restless. The youths were passing remarks back and forth, and laughing outright.
The magician, clearly, was not at his ease. His card fans were sloppy, his use of props unclean, nor was there economy of gesture or any flash. It was as if he were plodding, just trying to get through the performance. He finished the hat trick and moved from behind the fringe-draped table at the side of the stage, advancing to the center, where he held his arms out and bowed. There was hardly any applause. Michael began clapping loudly, until the magician turned his head and stared at him. Michael broke off, returning the stare. What was it? Something he was reminded of…that look…Before he could pinpoint it, the magician made a quick move, still holding his arms spread wide, and the velvet gown vanished. Another quick turn and the beard and hat were gone as well, with them the white eyebrows, and, now in tails, he bowed, a short, quick bow, then stepped offstage. A moment later a familiar figure appeared in his place; Michael stared in wonder.
It was his old friend, the Italian beggar.
“O sole mio,”
he sang, crossing the stage in his baggy checkered pants and corduroy vest, his battered fedora, over to the opposite side and off into the wings, but not without a meaningful glance at Michael.
No sooner had he gone than from the same wing appeared another fellow of Michael’s acquaintance: the dapper banker with the spats. It was all there, the spats, the well-creased trousers, the yellow gloves, the cane. Even the flower in the buttonhole. Traversing the stage rapidly, he doffed his hat to the audience, and executed a polite bow to Michael. The banker was replaced in quick succession by the nun with her collection can and the sandwich-board man. As they came on and exited, each in turn giving Michael a look, his mind reeled, trying to make sense of it. Something was growing in him, a narrowing-down of thought to some conclusion. Then the rabbi entered, unmistakably the same rabbi with the ear-locks that he had seen in the subway and the department store.
“Oy vey,”
called one of the youths, and the others laughed. Off went the rabbi (at the end of a trick), and on came…
…the Queer Duck.
There he was, red nose; black suit; black beard; black umbrella, identical to the one Michael had taken from the museum checkroom; the duck-footed walk—and the Bilt-Well shoes. Not the old ones, but the new, shiny patent-leather gaiters with blunt toes. He walked to center stage, collapsed the umbrella, and from it drew forth a string of objects: an hourglass, a music box playing “Waltzing Matilda,” glassware, silver service, half a dozen teacups, a fur piece, a box of cigars, and—a rubber duck. This he held out toward Michael and squeezed it. “Quack, quack,” said the rubber duck, and the Queer Duck turned and strode offstage to applause.
This was it, then, Michael thought; his search was really ended, though “search” was not the accurate word. The magician’s performance revealed to Michael that he had been, all along, more the prey than the hunter. The old man had never, as he had imagined, been in flight from him. It was Michael who had been running, straight and true, along a path laid out for him—directly into what was, at best, a harsh joke, or, at worst, a devilish trap. He tried to put it all together, failed miserably, and even as he attempted to sort it out the magician was back, and before him stood the real, the true, the one and only, the Great Wurlitzer!
He wore a base of theatrical makeup, carefully powdered, which gave the skin a matte tone, though this covered only the long oval of his face; the neck and ears were pallid and in odd contrast to the deeper tones. The nose—the real one, this time—was of a prominent Hebrew mold, with an excess of nostril, but pinched above in little clefts, flaring with a kind of equine arrogance; the brows, not bushy but lending a saturnine aspect, as though he wore about him an invisible aura of darkness. The lips were dark, too, with a good deal of blood in them, and thin, which with the beak of nose—sharp, incisive, as though used to pecking and devouring—made Michael think of a large, fierce bird.
But it was the eye, of course, that compelled him. Not the dull one, off at an angle, but the bright one, drilling out from its socket, darkly shining, while the face maintained that same blandly questioning air he remembered from under the umbrella.
Are you then a frog? Very well, be a frog.
Are you then a magician? Very well, be a magician.
Michael felt a little shiver of anticipation as with a quick gesture Wurlitzer produced a top hat at his fingertips, clapping it on his head, and slipping a monocle into the socket of his bad eye, giving himself the look of a seedy man-about-town, a shabby rake. He smoothed the shiny lapels of his tailcoat, an outdated and badly-fitting model, hopelessly wrinkled at the bend of the elbows and pulled tight at the waist. The shirt collar was an old-fashioned wing type, with a narrow bow tie held in place by an elastic band, and in his buttonhole he sported the same flower the banker had worn.
Under the jacket he wore a vest, or rather a waistcoat of equally dated cut, and across his concave front was looped a gold chain of some weight and substance. Quickly, and with a faintly quizzical air, he turned back his cuffs, one, two three, in the time-honored magician’s gesture, assuring his audience he had nothing up his sleeves. Drawing from inside his coat a narrow black wand with ivory tips, he tapped it three times in his palm, then removed his hat. Quickly replacing it on his head, he rolled his eye waggishly as the hat began to grow, taller and taller. When it stopped he reached up and tore it from his head and scaled it into the wings. Another hat appeared at his fingertips, and he put it on to replace the first one.
It was his expression that Michael found most fascinating. It seemed to betray the man’s unease at performing, as if such work came most unnaturally to him. The thin lips were drawn back, not in a smile, but in an uncomfortable grimace. Yet there was something sadly wistful about the manner in which he tried to disguise his discomfort, the attempts at flash, the sloppy fingerwork. He must be a tippler, Michael thought patronizingly, watching him fumble another one.
With one elongated hand the magician gestured toward the wings, and now there appeared from stage right a Chinese princess, bowing to the audience as she came onstage with frittering steps. She wore an elaborate headdress and a black wig, but under the makeup Michael detected features he recognized: the woman who had returned his wallet, the face he knew from somewhere else. Standing next to the magician, she stiffened her body and he lowered her onto a bench, where she lay supine. The magician covered her figure with a light cloth so that only the form showed, and then, without the usual hocus-pocus gestures commonly employed in the levitation trick, she began to rise until she was suspended three feet above the bench. Using a large hoop, the magician made passes with it from one end to the middle, and then from the other end. Now holding the hoop and standing back, he caused the form to rise farther, to some ten feet in the air. The audience was still; not a sound could be heard. Then, with a quick gesture, the magician reached up, caught the corner of the cloth, and yanked it away. The princess was gone. He flourished the cloth, then insolently tossed it aside, strode offstage, shortly to reappear pushing a wheeled sedan chair in whose interior sat the selfsame Chinese princess. He brought her out and bowed with her; then, while she bowed alone, he again exited and returned, rolling onstage a large cabinet, elaborately painted with colorful Chinese scenes and gilt scrollwork.