Night Magic (30 page)

She spotted him, enveloped in his black cloak, his face hidden by his slouch hat, hovering near the Egyptian tomb painting. Taking a deep breath, not at all certain what she meant to say, Emily began to cross the floor to where he stood. Her way was blocked by a smiling, uniformed servant who thrust a silver salver toward her. She took one of the elegantly printed, cream-colored cards that rested on it. The card read:

THE GREAT WURLITZER

(a.k.a. Merlino the Magnificent)

now appearing with

PRESTO THE GREAT

Little Cairo Museum of Wonders

Wednesdays, Saturdays, Sundays

7:30
P.M.

Emily gritted her teeth and approached the forbidding figure. As she did so, Wurlitzer turned and faced her. “Excuse me,” she said.

He stood tall, arms extended downward, hands gathering his cloak, condescending to her presence. “Ah, the flautist. You can no longer contain yourself. You must speak.”

“You’ve guessed my secret. Now tell me yours. What have you done to Michael?”

“‘Done’? I’m helping him realize his fine potential, as he desires me to do. Do you not find him improved? The show was not to your taste?”

“That wasn’t entertainment, that was abuse. Taking advantage of people.”

The old man shook his head, pitying her. “You have too little faith in the young man, my dear.”

“Maybe I do, if you mean those tricks work only on the credulous.”

“That is indeed what I mean,” he said sardonically. From the shadows beneath his hat brim, his bright eye caught and held her. Everything in her body seemed to stop—blood, breath, thought—everything but consciousness, revolving around that eye. Then she was free again, and he was cackling softly. “Only on the credulous, as you say. Yet you must admire his skill. He is a man of great talent, a superior man.”

“The superior man seeks knowledge, not power.”

“I’ve always considered the Wisdom of the East overrated.”

“All barbarians do.”

Wurlitzer nodded gravely, his lips pressed together, as if savoring her riposte. “What is it you want from me, my dear?” he said.

“I want to be able to spend a little time with Michael. I want you to let me work at your theater. You won’t have to pay me. I’m pretty good with scenery, I can work on costumes, I can provide musical accompaniment. I just want to be around him. You have nothing to lose, unless you’re afraid I’d distract him.”

Wurlitzer looked at her the way a chess master looks at the opponent he’s about to play blindfolded. “Nothing can distract him now.”

“Then he’s safe from me. Let me work for you.”

“He may have some views on the matter.”

“He’ll agree if you do."

The old magician pondered for a moment, then bared his teeth in a tight smile. “Why not?” he said. “We can always use a Chinese princess.”

T
HE ICY WINTER WINDS,
becalmed at last, had burnished the air of the city into a transparent, vivifying brightness that seemed to irradiate every object under the sun, and Washington Square was teeming with living things welcoming the arrival of spring. Squirrels chased one another in dizzy spirals up and down the trunks of the quickening trees; pigeons lurched like windup toys along the ground or rose aloft in great flapping flocks; the statue of General Garibaldi commanded a squadron of sparrows; dogs romped and scented, overjoyed by the luxury of unpaved surfaces; a few bold cats, defying the dogs, cadged food or eyed the pigeons. Human beings of every age, size, race, and description loitered on the grass, sat on the benches, strolled about, gathered in groups to laugh or flirt or argue. Panhandlers drifted here and there, demanding, cajoling, or pleading, according to their nature or degree of desperation. A few drug dealers muttered their lists of available wares to anyone who came close enough. Guitars, harmonicas, a lone kazoo added a musical layer to the ambient sounds. Some of the men in the park had removed their shirts, exposing skin unwarmed by the sun for many months; there were even a few young women with bare breasts and defiant eyes. A couple of Frisbees floated lazily in the lucent air.

In the center of the park stood the great circular fountain. For years dormant and unused except as another place to sit and lounge, the fountain had been refurbished and brought back to life at the end of the preceding fall. Today the pump was turned off, but the brimming pool, its water as clear and fresh-looking as if it had just been piped in directly from crystalline springs high in the mountains, lay placid and dazzling in the noonday sun. Many people were sitting on the rim of the pool; occasionally someone reached, dipped, withdrew a hand, then watched the droplets, sparkling like tiny jewels, fall back into the fountain one by one. The great arch, not far away, dominated the scene, imposing, welcoming, somehow whiter than usual.

Michael and Emily strolled toward that gleaming arch on this bright day. Emily was, as usual, a step or two behind Michael, the better to watch him. And that was what she did now, she thought; that was what everybody did who knew him: they watched Michael. There certainly wasn’t any way to get close to him, to talk to him, to get his complete attention, though he seemed willing enough and friendly enough. She spent what spare time she had, which was admittedly not much, at his side, in the theater mostly, but sometimes on errands, or even upstairs in Lena’s sitting room, drinking coffee, while the old man, whom Emily thought of as a kind of shadow that had fallen over her life, fixed her with his glittering eye, his sardonic smile, and called her “dear Emily” or “our princess.” She hated him and he knew it, a fact that seemed to delight him. He knew also that she had to carry the burden of her hatred around in silence, because Michael would not hear a word against his master.

Now and then, when Wurlitzer’s imperiousness stretched the limits of endurance, she and Lena exchanged looks of consternation, but that was it. She had given up confiding her fears, her outrage, to Dazz, because he persisted in only one line: Michael had made a great career move. The old man was strange, he agreed, but Michael was a big boy and when he was ready, Wurlitzer would disappear like magic. “Think of him as away at school,” Dazz suggested. “Maybe you shouldn’t go down there until he graduates.”

Another thing she had to keep silent about was the nonexistence of their once active and always exciting sex life. She thought Wurlitzer knew, how could he not? Emily usually came downtown in the afternoons and returned to her apartment alone in the evenings. Michael walked her to the subway, kissed her, thanked her, sent her away. She had not even seen his room, where, presumably, he spent his nights alone. At first she tried to persuade him to come uptown with her, but he refused, gently, always holding out the promise, “not yet.” Then she got tired of asking and settled down to waiting and watching. He seemed happy to have her with him most of the time, and she functioned both as an assistant and a liaison to Sami, who was financing the refurbishing of the Little Cairo. But though beside her, Michael was seldom entirely with her; he was always at attention, one ear cocked, waiting for a word from his master, like a dog, she thought, smiling to herself. When he was working he was different, she had to admit, he was amazing. His anxiety seemed to vanish, and he was in total, perfect control of his audience. He looked different, Emily thought, older somehow, and wiser, exuding confidence and an aura of mystery. She found herself watching him, her mouth open, bursting into delighted applause along with the strangers around her.

So she stayed on, fascinated, in spite of her distaste for Wurlitzer, her fear of Michael’s obsession, her frustration at the loss of what had been for her an exciting love affair. And full of dread, a step or two behind Michael, she watched him and waited for something, she didn’t know what, something to change.

They had come to Fifth Avenue when Michael stopped, turned, and waited to cross the street. Emily said, “Why are we going into the square? I thought we were shopping.”

“Well,” Michael said, “I don’t need to do any shopping.” He looked ahead avidly, like a hunter who has spotted a deer, at the crowd milling about in the square. “I thought I’d do some street magic. It’s been a long time.”

Emily hurried to keep up with him as he dove into the traffic. “What are you going to do? You don’t have any of your stuff.”

“I don’t need ‘stuff.’ I’ll improvise, it’s more of a challenge. It’ll be like the old days, except…”

“Except what?”

He gave her a crafty look. “Except better. There’s something I’ve been wanting to try.” They were through the arch now, heading for the fountain; he gave her shoulder a quick pat and strode on ahead.

He quickly reached the fountain, turned around, and faced the arch with his heels touching the concrete basin. He swept the crowd with his gaze, on the alert for that momentary hesitation, that spark of interest or curiosity, that eye contact he used to build an audience. Meanwhile a silver dollar danced on the fingertips of each hand. “It’s magic time, ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, and began a prodigious demonstration of dexterity, making the coins walk across his knuckles, disappear from one hand and reappear in the other, twirl and spin and flip as though attached to his fingers by invisible wires. People took notice, a crowd started gathering. Public displays in Washington Square Park were commonplace, but free shows that featured such a talented performer were not. Emily watched Michael work the crowd, intriguing the onlookers, astonishing them, pulling silver dollars from their ears or pockets, making a smooth transition to card tricks, some old routines she had seen before, but more refined now, polished, brought to perfection.

Before long, most of the spectators were charmed and delighted. A few raucous young men sitting on the rim of the fountain not far from Michael indulged themselves in some puerile heckling, but the magician ignored them, and his audience was giving him all its attention. Michael was working at a feverish pace, intense, confident, focused, never ceasing to test the crowd, push it, overwhelm it, measuring its susceptibilities, gauging its inclinations, waiting for his moment.

It was provided, as he had hoped it might be, by one of the idle hecklers. After a stage-whispered conference with his friends, this young man rose to his feet and swaggered alongside the curve of the fountain in Michael’s direction. Michael was bowing deeply to the applause that followed a breathtaking series of card sleights. As the clapping and whistling died down, the heckler stepped in front of him. “Spare change,” he said, holding out a grubby palm.

He was a tall, broad, dull-eyed young man, towering over Michael, crowned by very dark, greasy hair that probably would have been a different color if washed and a Mets cap set backward on his head. The sleeves of his black T-shirt had been ripped off to reveal a pair of meaty shoulders. On the front of the shirt, a half-torn breast pocket flapped above big white letters
I’M STONED. WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE?
His blue jeans were an arrangement of various-sized holes held together by a few frayed pieces of denim.

Michael smiled up at him as though overjoyed at the sight. “Excuse me?” he said solicitously, in the voice of a man who knows he’s missed something important.

“I said, ‘Spare change,’” the other repeated, thrusting his hand out more emphatically, just under Michael’s nose.

“I haven’t got any on me,” Michael said, and felt his pockets with a regretful air. “But wait”—he reached up and plucked a silver dollar from the young man’s scaly ear—“you probably forgot you had this.”

The young man tried to snatch the coin, but Michael was quicker, evading the grab and tucking the silver dollar into what was left of his antagonist’s shirt pocket. “There you go,” Michael said, patting the other’s large chest. “Now you won’t misplace it again.” He turned back to the crowd, ostentatiously shuffling the deck of cards that had reappeared in his palm, leaving the tall young man standing beside him with his hand pressed against his breast pocket as though he were pledging allegiance to the flag. He remained that way for a few seconds, plainly unsure of his next move, then began digging inside his pocket for the silver coin; but the pocket yielded nothing to his fumbling except a few more stitches.

“Hey!” he yelled at Michael, who, apparently oblivious of him, was addressing the audience on the subject of his next trick.

Michael stopped and slowly turned his eyes to the other’s face. “Yes?” he said mildly.

“Gimme back my dollar.”

“It’s in your pocket.”

“No it ain’t, you took it. Give it back. Now.”

Alarmed by the man’s mounting belligerence, Emily started making her way through the crowd to Michael. Several members of the audience were annoyed at the interruption and let their feelings be known in ways New Yorkers were especially fond of.

“Screw you!” the man screamed in their direction and took a few threatening steps toward the nearest members of the crowd. His friends were suddenly a lot closer, some glaring, some whooping and egging him on.

“Go for it, Jason!” one of them hollered. “It’s Friday the thirteenth!”

“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” Michael said in a penetrating voice, raising his hands and gesturing to the audience. “Relax. Everything’s all right.” He turned again to Jason, who was still hulking obstinately at his side. “I’ll tell you what—” Michael began.

“Don’t tell me nothin’. Gimme my dollar.”

“You can have your dollar if you give us a show.”

Jason looked astonished, then suspicious, but his scowl returned at once when one of his friends laughed. “I ain’t givin’ no show. You give me my money.”

Michael’s mocking smile clashed with his wheedling tone. “Come on, it won’t take long. You seem like a good sport. Why not join the fun? Tell us what your favorite animal is.”

“I hate animals,” Jason said, eliciting guffaws and high fives from his more exuberant friends.

Michael persisted, negligently raising one hand to the onlookers for patience, the mockery in his smile now coloring his voice. “But suppose you were an animal,” he said as though looking at one, “what would you be?”