The Magician (13 page)

“If I tell you, it will disappoint you.”

A smile flecked the corners of the doctor’s mouth. “Right, do not tell me.” The doctor held two fingers against his lips, reflecting. “Why do you think the Urek boy tried to kill you?”

The nurse who interrupted them asked Dr. Koch to leave the room for a minute. She took Ed’s temperature, felt his pulse, had him urinate in a bottle, marked the chart.

When Dr. Koch came back in, he was at once apologetic. “I did not mean to bring up an unpleasant matter so abruptly.”

“That’s all right,” said Ed. Then, after a moment, “Is it important—I mean, for whatever you are studying?”

“I cannot tell yet. It may be.”

Ed liked the doctor’s uncertainty. Or was it honesty?

“You are thinking,” said Dr. Koch.

“I try never to do that in school,” Ed said.

“Oh?”

“If they catch you thinking, they say your mind is wandering.”

“What were you thinking?”

“About you.”

“Good or bad.”

“I guess good.”

“You were going to tell me why the Urek boy…”

Ed explained to the doctor how Urek’s gang ruled the locker rooms at school and how Ed had defied them by buying a lock they couldn’t hacksaw through.

“Well,” said Dr. Koch, “that certainly gives Urek an economic grievance against you!” Dr. Koch reflected a moment. “That doesn’t, however, account for the fact that you were attacked the night of the magic show.”

“No.”

“Something triggered that boy’s response.”

Lila was standing at the door, a yellow embroidered headband on her hair, a yellow blouse, and jeans.

“Hello,” she said.

Ed thought she looked beautiful.

“Hi. This is Dr. Koch. Dr. Koch, this is my friend Lila.”

Dr. Koch disengaged his heavy body from the chair and struggled up to shake Lila’s hand elaborately. He seemed embarrassed.

“We were just talking,” said Dr. Koch.

“Don’t let me stop you,” said Lila. She curled herself up on the foot of Ed’s bed.

“I was saying,” said Dr. Koch, “that something triggered his action. Most actions are in some ways a reaction to something. His was to your performance, would you say?” He looked at the girl. “We were talking about the Urek boy.”

“I’d have guessed,” she said.

Ed suddenly thought that Dr. Koch might leave before he could ask one question.

“Dr. Koch?”

“Yes?”

“From what you know, can you tell
why
Urek did it?”

“Ahh,” said Koch, “I know at this point little, but I can speculate.”

“I didn’t mean to put you to any trouble.”

“No, no, it is the
business
of human beings to speculate.” He folded his hands in front of his face, wondering how much he might say. Then he looked up. “There are,” he began, “three kinds of people. What I call category-one people go through life like solo athletes, at their own fast pace, toward their own goals, setting up their own obstacles to conquer. Independent people who are not in competition with others but their own capacities.” Dr. Koch took a deep breath. “Does that make sense?”

Ed said nothing.

“Category-two people are followers. They are content to obey instructions, are very good assistants to those with real leadership qualities. Category-two people are potentially dangerous because they are entirely dependent on others for their instructions.”

“I don’t like putting people into categories,” said Ed.

“Yes, yes, I agree,” said Dr. Koch. “I don’t even like putting
things
into categories. There are so many surprises. But…”

“Aha,” said Lila, “here come the categories.”

Dr. Koch laughed. “You see, a woman’s intuition. Yet, if we say women have superior intuition, we are categorizing. If we say men have better musculature, we are categorizing. Thinking would be an unstructured mess if we did not poke around in this anarchy and find some guides, even if in time we adjust and change them.”

“My mother’s family came from Germany,” said Lila.

“I’ve heard her on that subject,” said Ed.

“Well,” said Lila, “people always say the Germans are like your category twos, dangerous because they follow instructions.”

“
Most
people are category two,” said Dr. Koch. “You have them here in America, Russia, all over. Every business has them. The Germans make a specialty of it.”

Lila started to protest just as the nurse came in. “I have to interrupt,” she said.

“Please interrupt later,” said Ed.

The nurse seemed startled.

“This is Dr. Koch,” said Ed. “He’s here for special consultations.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, doctor,” said the nurse, “I thought you were a visitor. I’ll come back later.”

The moment the door closed behind her, all three of them laughed.

“You,” said Dr. Koch, “are definitely not category two.”

“What category is Oswald?” asked Ed.

“The Kennedy man?”

“Yes.”

“Three.”

“You haven’t told us about category three,” said Lila.

“The man who shot Martin Luther King,” said Ed.

“James Earl Ray,” supplied Lila.

“Is he category three?”

“I think so. I think the boy who attacked you…”

“Yes?”

“He is category three. That is what I am studying. That is why I am here.”

Dr. Koch saw how Ed and Lila, quite unconsciously, moved closer together.

“I will tell you,” he said, struggling out of his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair. “My hope is that if you understand you will not object if I study this case further. The public cases, assassins and so on—there is too much one cannot know. It is possible here I can develop something.”

“Who are the category threes?”

“Very restless people.”

“I’m restless,” said Ed.

“No. I mean, yes, but in a different way. You are restless to do, to stop being sick perhaps, to get on with your life. Category threes do not set their own goals, like category ones. Their achievements are not in response to some inner drive or talent. They burn with frustration at not being category-one people because they don’t know what they want.”

“Well,” said Ed, “I’m not sure I know what I want. Most of the kids I know don’t know what they want.”

“Yes, yes,” said Dr. Koch, impatient now, “I was not clear. You want something that you will do, that you will make, that you will be, yes? Threes cannot tolerate category ones because ones make them feel shame about their lack of purpose. They are not content to follow, like category twos. They have no inner drive toward something—achievement, study, success, whatever. Because category ones have this drive, threes hate, I mean really hate, category ones. They are angry. They want to govern the followers, but to no end, you understand, no constructive purpose. And so they feel they must destroy the category ones in order to have power over category twos.”

“What’s this got to do with Urek?”

The doctor’s excitement was visible. “Everything. Somewhere inside him he knows—perhaps without thinking it—that his gang, his followers, will one day very soon leave him to take a job or go into the army and become good category twos like the majority of humanity. And that majority is led by category ones. Look, let me explain. Category ones do not, as a rule, commit crimes because they are too busy, right? Category twos are, well, policemen are category twos, they can obey the chief or the mayor or whoever, or the law, following instructions. The category threes is where the real criminals come from. Their lust is to destroy.”

Koch stood up. “They cannot tolerate a society which allows category ones to humiliate them simply by existing. You are the enemy!”

“I think I see,” said Ed. “If it’s true.”

“You were defying this Urek by your unbreakable lock—but on top of that, by your magic show, you were doing something which requires a facility—which he sees as a power he cannot understand. You threaten him. That is why he must get rid of you.”

“That’s a horrible way of looking at humanity,” said Lila, dropping Ed’s hand and uncurling from the bed.

“Perhaps horrible. Perhaps also useful. It is easy to take in the beauty of life. It is difficult to understand its viciousness. I must go now.”

Dr. Koch put his jacket back on, Lila helping him with it. “This,” he said, “is one of the clearest instances I have come across. When something like this happens with adults, it is complicated because they are in business together, or rivals over a woman, or political adversaries, but this is such a clear case, so simple. What do you think will happen to Urek now?”

Ed thought a moment. “I guess it’s up to the judge.”

Dr. Koch let a deep sigh escape him. “Alas, not. The law is powerless over category threes. It cannot punish them. It cannot deter them. Even in jail they will find number ones to attack. Society has not yet learned how to live with them.”

For a moment Dr. Koch seemed lost in thought.

Ed wanted to whisper something to Lila, but she raised a finger to her lips. Koch was coming out of his reverie.

“It is possible I will be allowed to talk to Urek, perhaps before the trial—if not, after. Would you mind, can I then come to see you again, perhaps at home when you are better?”

Ed wasn’t sure.

“I can see you hesitate. I know it is an imposition.”

“I wouldn’t like to become a case history in some book.”

“If I write this up, it will be for a medical journal only, and if I do, I promise no real names.”

“People can guess.”

“Yes, I suppose that is always a risk.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Very?”

“Yes, very.” Dr. Koch got up to go.

“Sure,” said Ed. “Come back anytime.”

Koch seemed pleased. “A thought has just occurred to me which I do not like to have thought of,” he said with a slight smile. “Your lady friend…”

“Lila,” said Lila.

“Looks, from the side, a little like my Marta did—when she was young, of course. My wife, Marta, was a category one, and that is a very difficult thing for a woman. When she has no profession, I mean. And when she is married to a category two like me. A plodder with theories who follows the steps of Freud.”

“Frankly,” said Lila, “I wish my teachers in school were like you.”

“You are very kind. Almost like a European woman.”

“You see, you’re categorizing again.”

“Enough,” said Dr. Koch. “Here I am a
tertium quid,
a third party you two do not need.” He waved with open palm, first at Ed and then at Lila, in whose direction he also bowed.

Chapter 14

The cage in the village lockup, empty except for Urek, seemed huge for the short boy, who didn’t fall asleep till morning, and then slept fitfully because of the barracks chatter in the police squad
room next door.

Through the bars, on the wall opposite, he could see the large clock with the slow-moving hands. It annoyed him because it was the only thing to look at besides the plaster walls and the humiliating bars of the cell he was in. He’d open his eyes, his back aching from the hard bench, and the clock would tell him it was only fifteen or twenty minutes later, that he had dozed, not slept. He had refused breakfast at six A.M. Now it was nearly ten, and he was hungry. Where was Thomassy, who his father said was a wheel in this goddamn town?

He banged on the bars with his shoe, producing a dull sound that attracted no one’s attention till one of the cops walked through headed elsewhere.

“Put your shoe back on,” the cop said.

Urek looked at him. He stooped to put his foot into the shoe.

“That’s a good boy,” said the cop.

“I didn’t get breakfast.”

“Wait a minute.”

The cop returned. “You turned down breakfast.”

“I was trying to sleep.”

“This isn’t a hotel. You eat when we bring it.”

“Could I get some coffee? Please, huh?” He hated saying please.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

The cop came back with coffee a few minutes later.

“What about cream and sugar?”

“Drink it the way it is.”

Urek sat on the bench, hunched over the black coffee, which he had always diluted before with milk and three spoons of sugar. He realized for the first time that jail meant restriction.

In another hour he was ready to crawl the walls with boredom, hating Thomassy. He called many times before someone came.

“What are you yelling about?” said the sergeant.

“Do I get to exercise in the yard?”

The sergeant said, “Look, kid, this isn’t a jail, it’s a lockup.”