Night Magic (28 page)

“I can’t divide my thoughts,” he explained. “I asked you to wait, to please try to understand. I don’t think you realize how serious I am.”

“I’m starting to,” Emily said. “You’re very serious.” A distant commotion served to remind Michael of obligations. He muttered something unintelligible in Emily’s direction and strode hastily to the open archway that connected the rooms. Lagging several feet behind him, she observed his solicitous approach to Wurlitzer, who was still examining Samir’s display of Egyptian art.

But it was Samir himself who engaged everyone else’s attention. Resplendent in angelic garb, gleaming like a snowcapped mountain, he had just emerged from the elevator and was accepting birthday felicitations from his guests. His robe was of the whitest, purest silk, decorated at sleeve and hem with golden bands; two fluffy pink wings protruded from his shoulder blades; a halo had somehow been fitted to his fez; and a small golden lyre hung from his left shoulder on a blue satin cord. Gilbert, sullen as always, hovered nearby, dressed like a pirate of emphatically murderous temperament, perhaps one of those Barbary Coast buccaneers whose intransigent hostility drew the United States Marines to the shores of Tripoli.

Emily watched as Samir, giggling and waving, parted the crowd around him, moved to where Michael and Wurlitzer were standing, and engulfed Michael’s slender body in a cushiony embrace. “My dear friend,” Samir said excitedly, “I am so glad to see you. When Boo told me of your arrival, I said to her, ‘Now my party can begin.’ Have you inspected your equipment?”

“Not closely,” Michael replied. “I just saw it from a distance. I’m sure it’s all right.”

“Your instructions were exactly followed.” Samir rubbed his hands together, grinning ecstatically, like a child about to receive a double helping of his favorite dessert. “We will begin the show in half an hour. Meanwhile, consider yourself at home—eat, drink, and feel merry. If you don’t see what you want”—he gestured around the premises—“you have but to ask.”

“Thank you,” Michael said solemnly. Holding his arm out toward the baleful figure at his side, he continued, “Let me introduce you. This is my teacher, Max Wurlitzer. And this is our gracious host, Samir Abdel-Noor.”

The old man stepped forward and bowed, touching his fingertips to his forehead, then raised his head and spoke briskly to Samir in an impenetrable language Emily thought sounded like Arabic. Samir started visibly—even Gilbert’s ordinarily impassive face registered surprise—but before long, after a squeal of delight, Sami responded with a stream of equally incomprehensible sounds, and soon magician and sybarite, an oddly matched pair, were deep in conversation.

A hand squeezed her shoulder. “The Pearl of the Orient,” said Dazz’s voice. “What do you think about Magic Breath over there? Looks kinda overwrought to me.”

“He looks like his eyeballs are melting,” Emily said, “but he hasn’t noticed it yet. I’m worried, Dazz. I’m afraid he’s really sick.”

“Have you talked to him?” They were both watching Michael, who was standing off to one side, raptly contemplating a small empty space about two feet above the master’s head.

“Yes. Or at least I tried. I think his body has been taken over by an alien from another galaxy.”

Dazz smiled sympathetically. Most of his wardrobe consisted of parts of costumes, but the way he mixed them together always made it difficult to divine the artist’s intention, assuming there was one. Tonight’s ensemble included a belt made of what looked like feathers, lederhosen, and a World War II aviator’s cap with chin strap and earmuffs. “Aliens are my specialty,” he said, and quite loudly called Michael’s name.

“Dazz,” Michael said after a smooth reentry. “How are you?”

“I’m real good, babe,” Dazz said as he hugged him. “How about yourself? You get a pass before you left the ward?”

Michael, nonplussed, adjusted his tie. “I feel fine, Dazz. Let me introduce you to my teacher.”

Emily sipped a fresh drink and watched Michael and then Dazz speak to Wurlitzer. “Thank you,” she heard the old man say, almost civilly, although Emily thought he withdrew his hand a shade too quickly from Dazz’s grasp. She was farther away now, screened by several people who had joined the group around Samir, Wurlitzer, and Michael. Emily particularly noticed a honey-blond young woman who carried her large breasts as though aiming them. Her gauzy harem pants and skimpy top offered little obstruction to those who wished to admire her deep tan, and the golden asp on her crown seemed to hiss as Emily stared at it.

Emily was thinking,
How does he reject me? Let me count the ways,
as Michael stepped lightly away from her and glided toward the far wall, where his table and other equipment were set up on a low platform. His show was about to begin. The fact that he had declined her offer to provide musical accompaniment for his performance might have been tolerable in itself—she liked to think she would have borne the rebuff with stoic calm had it been softened by a hint of gratitude or a regretful word—but what rankled was the
way
he had turned her down: “I don’t do that kind of magic anymore.” Her hands squeezed and twisted her now redundant flute, one more element of his past that Michael was apparently determined to leave behind. Not for the first time this evening, she resisted an impulse to scream.

She sank into a low couch and sought distraction among her fellow guests, where there was plenty of it. People had begun to occupy the chairs that a platoon of white-gloved servants was arranging in rows across the room. A stranger-looking audience could hardly be imagined; many wore costumes more or less traditional to Halloween: witches, warlocks, skeletons, corpses in various stages of decomposition, ghosts, goblins, black cats of both sexes, a pair of jack-o’-lanterns. Others, such as the vampire couple who were kissing passionately despite their formidable fangs, the ingeniously elaborate Headless Horseman, and a surprising muster of swamp monsters, had elected less trite ways to fall in with the general spookiness of the occasion. Still others, including Emily herself, viewed the proceedings as an invitation to let fancy run free, unfettered by conventions. The resulting variety diverted her, held her attention, kept her from unhappy musings. There were, she noticed, a great number of animal costumes—not just the black cats, but also a kangaroo, a gorilla, two bears, several snakes, a cowardly lion, and a wolf in sheep’s clothing. But no frogs, she thought. At least not yet.

A tall, cloaked and hooded figure nearby turned slowly in her direction until she could see clearly his disturbing, hollow-eyed, skeleton face, so lifelike, or deathlike, she thought, that it gave her a start. In one hand he held an equally realistic scythe, which, with a nod, as if asking her permission, he leaned against the couch where she sat. Then with both hands he grasped the white seam at his chin and began slowly peeling the rubber mask away. The face that emerged from beneath the skeleton’s grim visage was comical, myopic, equine, pale-eyed, and curious. He pushed back the black hood as well, revealing an abundance of thick blond hair. His surprised eyes met Emily’s, and he smiled shyly. “This thing is smothering me,” he said, flapping the mask in her direction. “I can’t breathe.”

“It’ll be the death of you,” Emily said.

He grimaced at her joke. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment?” he said. “I’m hiding from Sami."

“Does he want to see you?” she said, moving to make a place beside her.

“He always wants to see me, but he never wants to see me. I’m his doctor.” From the folds of his cloak he extended a hand, which Emily took briefly in her own. “John Mortimer,” he said.

“I’m Emily Chang,” she said.

“Alias Tamino.”

“You guessed it,” Emily replied gratefully. “Everyone else thinks I’m the Pied Piper.”

“I don’t think it was a flute the Pied Piper played,” Dr. Mortimer said, blinking his fretful eyes at the instrument on her lap. “And certainly not one of that quality.”

“Do you play?” Emily asked.

“A little. Not much. Not well.” His eyes darted about the room as he spoke. Suddenly he pulled his hood forward and shielded his eyes with one hand, crouching over his knees. “There’s Sami,” he said. “I just don’t want him to see me.”

“Is he angry with you?”

“No. But he’ll go on at me about this magician, and I don’t want to hear it.”

“You mean Michael?”

“Is that his name?” Dr. Mortimer straightened up, looking out from under his hand cautiously. “There he goes. He’s going up to start the wretched show.”

“You’re not a fan of magic,” Emily observed.

“I’m a fan of science,” he said. “I’m the enemy of magic.”

“Then you don’t believe in Sami’s magical cure.”

Dr. Mortimer gave a snort of contempt, rolling his eyes back and blowing out his lips in a way that amused Emily, he was so like a big, impatient horse. “An outrage,” he complained. “Both the illness and the cure were pure hysteria. And before hysteria science stands with its hands tied.”

“Surely what Michael did was harmless enough,” Emily protested.

“Oh, do you think so?” Dr. Mortimer replied. “He created a believer, didn’t he? A convert. That’s never harmless. And here’s the result, this ridiculous performance. Watch what happens next, then tell me how harmless it is.”

Emily, thinking of Michael’s new pallor, his hectic eyes, nodded in agreement. “You’re right,” she said softly.

Gazing out into the crowd, Dr. Mortimer continued his tirade. “It’s like religion, only worse. If it didn’t do so much damage, it would be funny. By the way, there’s a young man in the front who seems to be trying to get your attention.”

Emily followed her companion’s gaze to the row of chairs near the stage. She saw Dazz standing on one and waving his arms at her, stiffly, like a semaphoring signalman.

“Excuse me,” Emily said. “That’s my friend.”

“Not at all.” Dr. Mortimer smiled at her amiably as she got up from the couch. “I hope we meet again.”

Before sitting down in the chair Dazz had secured for her, Emily slowly scanned the odd, expectant assembly once more. No sign of Wurlitzer; was that good or bad?

Michael, looking serene and confident, was sitting apart, in a chair turned toward the audience. His smoldering eyes were narrowly focused now, examining, probing, evaluating the spectators; his whole manner expressed the hauteur of a superior man prepared to astonish the multitude.

“I have to say,” Dazz said, “the boy is certainly projecting a more professional image these days. I sure don’t miss those shabby pants and that
pathetic
coat.”

“I do,” Emily murmured, then bit her tongue, for she saw Dazz’s pained expression. Objective appraisal of sound marketing techniques meets subjective truckling to myopic sentimentality. She started to explain—maybe even to apologize, though she couldn’t think why—but Samir, who was enthroned almost directly in front of them, rose, simpered at the audience, and began to speak.

“My dear friends,” he said, and again, “My dear friends,” projecting much more forcefully the second time and rising a little on the balls of his feet. Light glinted from his halo. “Thank you for helping me to celebrate my birthday. I always get many memorable birthday gifts, so this time I give all of you something you won’t forget. Ladies and gentlemen: here is a superb magician, my friend Presto the Great.”

Michael stepped swiftly onto the platform and acknowledged the polite, curious applause by doffing his top hat and sketching a bow. His eyes glistened still more feverishly than before, but his intense, authoritative presence instantly dispelled any impression of weakness.

Five-branched candelabra stood at opposite ends of his magician’s table. Reaching inside his hat, he extracted a long candle-lighter with a burning taper and quickly lit all ten candles. After he had done so, he looked up and addressed the audience, meanwhile inserting the candlelighter, which had somehow become a long-stemmed rose, into a tall vase on the table.

“Good evening. I thought we would begin with the imagination. Here is a pack of cards.” He held up an empty hand, displaying the imaginary deck to the audience, then began to shuffle, all the while continuing a kind of laconic patter and producing, it wasn’t clear how, the rustling, whiffling, slapping sounds of real cards. Still shuffling, he moved around to the front of the table. Emily had always found the mere sight of him thrilling; now she found it heart-wrenching, and she gasped a little, as though from a stitch in her side. A soft chorus of similar sounds came from various points in the room. Some women among the standing guests began to mill and fidget.

“Now I am going to ask someone to pick a card,” Michael said, but before he got to the end of the sentence Samir was on his feet in front of the platform. “Any card,” Michael said to him. “Don’t show it to me.” Samir plucked an insubstantial card from the fanned-out air above Michael’s hands and stood holding it with a look of joyous enchantment on his face. “Now whisper what that card is to someone. Very softly.”

Samir, still clutching the imaginary card, stepped a few paces to Miss Wales’s chair and whispered briefly in her ear. “Good,” said Michael. He pulled a real deck of cards from his hat, broke the seal, and spread the pack out under Samir’s nose. “Now put your card back. Thank you. Now, this deck,” he continued as he shuffled it, “contains two identical cards: the one you just put into it, and the one that was already there. Look at the cards”—he spread them again so Samir could see them—“and tell me if you see any duplicates.”

Samir studied the cards for a few seconds, then gave a shrill shout. “The queen of hearts! The queen of hearts! Look, Boo, there are two of them!” “And what card did he pick, Miss Wales?” asked Michael.

“The queen of hearts, of course.”

“Of course,” Michael said, and bowed.

He performed several variations on this theme, with a number of different guests, before its cumulative effect began to set in. The imaginary card drawn by the volunteer always appeared in a different way—on the top of the deck, on the bottom of the deck, in the volunteer’s purse or pocket. One young woman was sitting prettily on her card; a portly gentleman in a devil’s costume watched his flutter down from the ceiling. When one last volunteer found the chosen card in his own wallet, Michael bowed to ringing applause. Emily was impressed, and Dazz, she could tell, was bowled over.