Night Magic (7 page)

“Because, Lena dearest, I do not choose to. Power is different from strength; if you don’t use strength, it goes away. But power accumulates.”

“Like interest?” she snorted.

“Perhaps. But I had in mind something less material. Like longing, like desire.” He smiled deprecatingly and stood up. “In any case, I’m going downstairs for a while. Please consider my request,” he said, in the tones of a hopeful suitor, but he knew she would do as he asked. She always did.

An hour later, Lena sat again at the heavy table in the front room, smoking one of her Gitanes. Under the light, the yellow pad and pen lay ready. She smoked and looked at them and coughed. She knew she should give up cigarettes, but they were one of her few pleasures. Expensive as well—nearly four dollars a pack, three packs a day; approximately eighty dollars a week. How much was that a year? She’d never figured it up, but the expense secretly added to her pleasure.

Since Max had left, the room was stifling again, and she knew she wouldn’t sleep. Sometimes, sleepless, she liked to cook late at night. Not tonight, however; the thought of a stove or an oven made her want to scratch. Besides, there was the thing he wished her to do. She sat motionless, trying to think of nothing. A television set, incongruous amid the Victorian clutter, stood across the room, but she would not turn it on until it was time for the news. She put a record on the phonograph instead: Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in e minor, a passionate performance by Heifetz, first recorded in the 1930s. Ardent and soaring, the sound enveloped her, and she was absorbed in it for a long time.

The record ended, the return of silence shocked her into awareness. She pushed her damp hair behind her ears and arranged her blouse awkwardly as she crossed the room to turn off the phonograph. She thought about banging on the water pipes; Max would hear it in the cellar, but she knew it would do no good; he would come up when he wanted to. The strains of the Mendelssohn seemed still to hug the high corners of the ceiling and float out the reopened window, mixing with the other sounds—radios, stereos, televisions, street noises. Below, people gathered on doorsteps, under streetlights, talking in groups, or moving up and down the walk as though on a Sunday
passeggiata
in Milano. Everything was quieter than usual, hushed by the heat.

Lena sat again at the table and eyed the wallet Max had left there, then picked it up, not without reluctance. The two gold initials told her nothing. She looked inside: empty. She sniffed the leather, felt it in her fingers. Nothing was revealed, about it or its owner. What did he want to know? What could it mean, to say that the young man “seemed likely,” “looked interesting”? In the years she had known him, Max had once had an assistant, but things had ended badly and the subject had seldom been mentioned again. Besides, was stealing people’s wallets and searching through them any way to recruit help? Normal people placed ads, left notices on bulletin boards; Max picked pockets and examined what he found there. And why on earth did he need an assistant, for that matter? Lena wondered. Life with Max prompted an endless series of questions, most of which she was afraid to ask.

She expelled her breath so hard that it made her lips vibrate. Holding the wallet in both hands, she laid it against her cheek, then her forehead, then resumed running her fingers over it. The ornate clock on the mantel chimed; a delicate Viennese sound: quarter to eleven. She watched the little brass pendulum swinging in the painted circle on the glass door, saw the hand move a fraction of an inch. She might as well start. She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another, arranged wallet and ashtray to her liking, and leaned toward the yellow pad.

The clock ticked drily in the silence as she sat and stared at the pad in the lamplight, her fingers laced in her lap, the cigarette dangling from her lips. She put it in the ashtray and watched as a little pencil line of smoke rose toward the light. When she had composed herself, she took up the felt-tipped pen, pulled off the cap, and held the pen poised in her hand, waiting.

She waited for perhaps a minute, letting everything flow out of her, so it could flow back in. Her hand moved slowly along the paper, scribbling, then more rapidly, then still faster. She could feel the working of her hand, a detached, automatic thing, un-commanded by her brain. She recognized the writing: Mrs. Carsin’s, enlarging into broad scrawls and loops, then becoming erratic, until Lena’s fingers fairly flew across the paper and the page became filled with script. As fast as one page was filled, she tore it from the pad and began another, until there was a pile of pages on the table.

She stopped abruptly, waiting until her breathing slowed. She put on her glasses and read the pages aloud, then thought over what she had read. Obviously Mrs. Carsin was concerned about the Rembrandt. But Lena already knew about that from the evening paper. This was not news to anyone, certainly not to her. Should she try further? The clock continued ticking as she put aside the sheaf of pages and took up the wallet again. She held it flat in the palm of her hand, then laid her other hand over it. The leather felt warm. She ran her nail over the gold
M
, and the gold
H.
She raised her hands to her forehead, the wallet between the palms, closing her eyes. Yes, there was something.

She glanced at the curio cabinet behind the piano, where something drew her attention. Something to do with the wallet? She went to the cabinet, opened it, and stared at the objects on the shelves—the astrolabe, the statuettes of various ancient Egyptian divinities, the cluster of tan pebbles lying in a box lined with cotton batting—and then her hand went to the silver christening cup on the second shelf. She set it in her hand, its round base on her palm, the wallet on the other, and held them as if weighing them against each other. That was strange, she told herself, why the cup? She waited. Nothing happened. She put the cup back on the shelf, closed the cabinet door, passed the mantel with the clock. Seven more minutes had elapsed; the clock now read eight before eleven. She wanted to be done in time for the eleven o’clock news.

Seated again, she placed the wallet between her palms, this time pressing it against her breast. Her fingers began to twitch, little tremors of energy. She put down the wallet and took up the pen.

It was Carsin again, her large loops and scrawls, more about the Rembrandt. Then, quite suddenly, Lena felt a wrench, like a soft muffled blow inside her, and her hand was scrabbling about on the paper in a series of erratic gyrations. It came under control finally, with a different sort of writing. Neater, more legible, in a smaller, more feminine script. It wasn’t much, only a paragraph; then it stopped. She sighed, and her head fell forward, striking the tabletop. She heard the sound, felt the pain. For a moment—no more—she perceived only darkness, then she opened her eyes, saw the room sidewise, with her head still on the table. She lifted her head and looked down at the page, at the single paragraph written in something resembling an old-fashioned calligraphy.

I will try to tell you. There is a beginning here somewhere. Ask of John, he knows. Numbers 21, 6 and 8; 22, 18 and 19. He will reveal all, if you know your Scriptures. Alpha and Omega, in that order. This will be Greek to you but it is not difficult, I don’t think. Remember the Archangel, of celestial armies Prince. This is important. He will bring a thirst and must be given to drink. You will know him when you see him, don’t be surprised at that. Must he be told? I think he must. Tell M the money must be returned. All restored as was. James. James. He will know James. John through James or James through John, I am not sure which. I will have more numbers for you if I can come back. Yes, M must be…

Must be what? She had trouble making out the last word. It seemed to read
marred,
or was it
warned
?

She sat with her fists digging against her chest where the pain was; then she gently pressed all along her knuckles, trying to rid herself of the pain in her hands. She became aware of the odor. Not cigarette smoke; a floral scent. Some kind of flowers, but un-fresh, as if wilted in the heat. She took the single page, folded it, and slid it between the pages of a book, which she laid on the shelf. She folded the Carsin pages and took them to her chair, turning on the television set before sitting. A movie was on. She put on her glasses and peered at the clock. It was still before eleven. She took up her crewelwork and was sewing when he came in.

“You're up so late, Lena. No wonder you look tired.”

“I’m waiting for the news.”

“The news must be over, surely.” He took out his watch. “It’s ten minutes to twelve.”

“Then the clock has stopped.”

But when? She was surprised.

He went to the mantel, tapped the glass. “So it has, so it has. Have you taken to wearing perfume?” He was lifting his nose and sniffing.

“No.”

“Then what…?” He fanned the air negligently as if to rid his nostrils of the smell, then casually glanced at the yellow pad on the table. “Well, what do they say, your chatty friends?” Trying to sound jovial, easy, preserving the amenities while his curiosity drove him like an appetite.

“Nothing. Nothing, really.”

“Nothing?” He took up the wallet from the table, and when he spoke again, his tone had darkened. “Ah, Lena, you lie so poorly; you have no talent for it, and I even less patience. Now answer me. Did this help?” He brandished the wallet at her like a weapon.

Helplessly, her eyes slid sideways to the cabinet.
Tell M the money must be returned,
she remembered. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” she said, frowning in genuine confusion, her eyes back on his hands.

He was using the pen to work out something on the pad, a kind of doodling habitual with him when he was thinking through a problem.

“You must give the money back!” she blurted out suddenly; then, more softly, as if shocked by her own vehemence: “You must.”

“Do you really think so?” he said, his voice dangerously low. His eye glittered as he stared at her, and a cold clump of anxiety began to gather in her stomach.

“Just—give back the money. And that, that too.” She nodded at the wallet.
All restored as was.
Then she lowered her eyes to her work.

He doodled some more, slipped the small white card from his pocket, looked at it. After a moment he rose and, adjusting his eye patch, started for the door.

“Where are you going? It’s late.”

“Out,” he replied, irritation in his voice.

He went, taking his black coat with him. As an afterthought he came back and took the wallet as well. When she heard him going down the stairs she laid aside her work, removed her glasses, and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyelids; saw the pinpoints of light, wavering sightless illumination; took her hands away, calmer now, saw the blurred face of the clock. Eight minutes before eleven. She went to the table, looked at the page he had drawn on, undecipherable black symbols that only he understood. She gathered the pages and tore them in half, then in quarters, and dropped them in the basket. At the cabinet again, she opened the door and took out the silver cup. The metal seemed to have taken on the heat of the day. She turned it in her hands, thinking, felt it become cool under her touch. She returned it to its place, blew at a bit of lint that had collected, closed the door. The cabinet needed dusting. Touching her fingers to her temple where it had struck the table, she went to the window, leaned on the sill, and saw Max going up the street toward the subway. Then she dialed the number for the correct time and reset the clock on the mantel.

M
ICHAEL LAY IN A
bathtub filled with hot, soapy water, feeling miserable and counting the ways. Two hours ago a bright, hot summer afternoon, enlivened by the performance of a bit of street theater, a little harmless magic cleverly conceived and professionally executed, had been transformed into a glimpse of a bottomless pit. His knees and thighs ached from excessive froggery; his stomach, though certainly empty, was still lurching about queasily; his head was vibrating slowly, like a gong struck not too long ago. Overshadowing these physical discomforts, there were of course the greater, deeper griefs: loss of money, loss of confidence, loss of balance, loss of, well, identity. And apparently no possibility of making any satisfactory sense out of this cataclysm, no matter how compulsively his brain orbited around it. He flicked his toes, rippling the water, and sank disconsolately into the suds, so deep that when Emily knocked on the door all he could manage in reply was a splutter.

“Are you playing submarine?” she asked, having opened the door and looked around it. “Shall I get you the rubber duck?”

“I’ve had enough fun with the duck today, thanks,” was his gloomy reply.

She knelt beside the tub, touched his brow tenderly, tried to meet his eyes, but they were too furtive for her. Dipping her hand into the water, she began to make a lazy, circular movement, producing a small whirlpool centered around his groin. “Ah,” she said, “the hidden treasures of the deep.”

He flexed a knee, stopping her hand. “Emily…” he began, then hesitated.

“I know,” she said, reaching for a towel, “you don’t have to tell me. Not in the mood. But I think it’s a bad idea to lie around driving yourself crazy. Get dressed and we’ll go over to Dazz’s. Aren’t you hungry? Dazz said there was a party, and the parties Dazz knows about always have mounds of food.” At last he looked at her, and she smiled affectionately. “Come on, Mr. Wizard. Don’t be antisocial. Let’s go have some fun.”

Michael pressed his hands against the wet hair above his temples. Maybe she was right. What he really wanted to do was to crawl alone into a small dark space and brood until he fell asleep, but he had to admit that Emily’s recommendation sounded healthier. “Why not?” he murmured, half to himself; then he grabbed the sides of the bathtub and rose from the water before her approving eyes.