The Magician Read online

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  For his second trick, Ed Japhet held up a piece of soft clothesline that went from one outstretched hand to the other, perhaps two yards in length.

  “What,” he asked his audience, “would be the best way of cutting this length of rope into two equal parts?”

  “Cut it in the middle!” yelled a boy from the back.

  “What’s the easiest way of finding the middle?” Ed asked the anonymous voice.

  “Measure it!” came the voice.

  “Well,” said Ed, “I don’t have anything with me to measure it with, and besides, that might take a long time. How about this way?”

  He held the two ends together and let the middle drop straight down, then picked up the rope at mid-point, while a titter went through the audience at the obviousness of the solution.

  “Now, the student who yelled from the back…at least I hope it was a student…would he please step up to the platform and with these trusty scissors cut the rope exactly in half?”

  He recognized the boy when he was halfway down the aisle, a tubby, awkward kid from his gym class who was unable to chin himself up even once. Bigmouth.

  The boy took the proffered scissors and cut the rope through at midpoint in one angry snap.

  When Ed let the cut ends fall, it was clear that one part of the rope was at least two inches longer than the other. The audience laughed, and tubby wandered back to his seat in disgrace. Ed tied the two cut ends together into a knot, circled the scissors around the knot, then stopped. Carefully, he put the scissors down on the table, took one end of the rope, stood stock-still until there was absolute silence, then suddenly snapped the end of the rope: the knot had disappeared, and the rope was restored to one uncut piece. A beat, and then a stomping of feet and applause as Ed tossed the restored rope out to the audience for examination.

  “How’d you do it, Ed?” someone yelled.

  Another, standing, said, “Can you fix my broken guitar string the same way?”

  Ed held up his hands for silence. “Fellows, girls, teachers,” he said, surveying the tight bundle of faculty members at the side of the room, “I need an adult volunteer.” He looked at the knot of teachers, then at each of their faces in turn, knowing that all of them probably dreaded the prospect of being asked onstage.

  Stretch the moment out, he told himself. It’s as important as the trick.

  Ed held his hand over his eyes Indian-fashion, as if it were hard for him to see the cluster of teachers he was staring at.

  “Any adults here?”

  The kids howled.

  Still, none of the teachers stirred.

  Take it slow, he said to himself.

  It was at this moment that Jerry Samuelson shifted his body weight. Jerry, a senior, a journalism major, was not only editor of the school paper but a paid stringer for The New York Times. He had intended to file his usual two-paragraph story about the prom, expecting that none of it would be published. In fact, he had begun to feel guilty about the small checks he received from the newspaper because they had actually used only one item from him all semester. When the black students, goaded by the gang, had staged a one-day fracas in the lunchroom, an overzealous policeman called in by the principal had accidentally hurt himself while trying to wrestle an ashcan top away from one of the students. The Times had used his story in a roundup of similar incidents in other schools. Even then they had stolen his thunder by sending a by-line reporter up the next day to interview students and faculty and do an in-depth piece on the sociological bases of student unrest in the suburbs.

  The shift of Jerry Samuelson’s body weight was to get his pad out of his pocket and start writing because some intuition had made him feel that perhaps a story was developing. Jerry would go far in journalism because he had already discovered that anyone could cover an event that was obviously news but that much of every newspaper was filled with stories in which the news, if any, was made by the reporter’s discernment, not the event itself. Samuelson made a quick note about the disappearing milk and the rope trick and now watched Ed trying to get a response from someone in the faculty.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please don’t trample each other in the rush to volunteer,” said Ed. He had expected there would be resistance. His coaxing was intended to reinforce it, because he had already selected his target.

  “Mr. Fredericks,” he said, “I’m so glad you decided to volunteer.”

  He could actually see Mr. Fredericks’ face turn red. Maybe it was a dirty trick picking on him; he had tried to be helpful about setting up the tables. “Please do come right on up.”

  Mr. Fredericks, encouraged by his colleagues, who were relieved not to have to go themselves, minced his way to the platform, but did not step up onto it.

  “Would you like me to help you?” Ed extended a hand. There was a great guffaw as he helped Fredericks up the one large step.

  “Could I ask a favor, please?” said Ed. “Would you unbutton your…jacket?” Again a laugh, as Mr. Fredericks slowly undid all four buttons of his neo-Edwardian jacket. He dressed more stylishly, and more elegantly, than any of the other faculty members, but Edwardian jackets just weren’t meant to be worn open.

  “That’s an awfully nice tie,” said Ed, gesturing at the wide gray wool neckpiece. This was the instant when timing was so important. With his left side facing the audience, he took the tip end of Mr. Fredericks’ tie in his left hand and brought his right hand around—with the scissors open—and in a flash sliced the bottom four inches off the tie before Mr. Fredericks could tell what was happening.

  The roar from the crowd was immediate. Mr. Fredericks let a moment of instant fury show, then quickly covered it with a cheek-splitting grin to show that he was a good sport. His reaction caused the audience to laugh even more, and as Mr. Fredericks tried manfully to join them in laughter, Ed cut another piece off the tie.

  The kids were in stitches, howling, stomping their feet, and banging their hands. Even the cluster of faculty members couldn’t suppress its amusement.

  “Mr. Fredericks,” said Ed, his voice a shout so that he could be heard by the audience as well as by his victim, “could you take your tie off?”

  Mr. Fredericks started to undo the remains of his tie.

  “Let me help you,” said Ed, and his scissors flashed again perilously near the knot, snipping another segment off the neckpiece.

  Jerry Samuelson was busy scribbling.

  In the back, Lila was recovering from laughter along with the others, as on the platform Ed took the paper bag off the table and dropped into it, one at a time, the pieces of poor Mr. Fredericks’ tie. When the last piece from around Mr. Fredericks’ neck was also in the bag, Ed proceeded to blow the bag up. Then, holding the inflated bag in his left hand, he brought his right fist over sharply. The bag exploded in a loud pop, and out of it tumbled Mr. Fredericks’ necktie, all in one piece.

  Mr. Fredericks was a perfect foil. He stooped down, picked the tie off the floor, dusted it, examined it meticulously, and shook his head. It was indeed in one piece, and he couldn’t figure it out. Nor could the audience. The applause lasted for as long as it took Mr. Fredericks to turn up his collar, tie his tie carefully, and rebutton his Edwardian jacket. Ed bowed to Mr. Fredericks, and Mr. Fredericks started to step off the platform to seek refuge among his colleagues.

  “One moment, sir,” said Ed. “I wonder if you would be good enough to help me with my last experiment?”

  The audience noised its approval. Mr. Fredericks looked at the mob of faces, then at Ed, whose remorseless stare gave him no relief, and finally at the adult minority clustered at the side of the large room. He had no face-saving alternative. He had to play along. The show must go on. With him.

  On the second table, at which Ed was now officiating, stood a small-scale model of a guillotine. It was too small to take a head, but easily accommodated the apple Ed placed in the large opening beneath the blade.

  Ed watched Mr. Fredericks’ expression
intently as he slammed the blade down, splitting the apple. Beneath the large opening was a smaller one, and into that Ed inserted a long carrot. Again he brought the blade down sharply, and it cut the carrot in half.

  It was then that Mr. Fredericks involuntarily stepped back, realizing what was to come next. What if Japhet slipped up, what if the blade actually… No, he avoided airplanes, he drove only when necessary, he never walked on unsanded ice, he didn’t go near open windows, why should he take the chance that some ungodly error…

  Ed led him by the arm back toward the table with the guillotine and then around behind it. He whisked a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and tied it around Mr. Fredericks’ wrist, “To soak up some of the blood,” he told the audience.

  “Are you sure you know how to do this?” Mr. Fredericks whispered, his voice percolating.

  “There is no certainty in this life,” said Ed aloud, and the students roared.

  “Would you be good enough…” he continued to Mr. Fredericks, “would you be kind enough, would you please place your arm through the large hole in the guillotine?”

  Mr. Fredericks tried desperately to remember having read about a trick like this once and how it worked.

  “Please?” asked Ed, gesturing toward Mr. Fredericks’ reluctant arm.

  Mr. Fredericks wished he could be elsewhere. He wished there weren’t so many people staring at him and laughing. “Please,” said Ed again, and guided Mr. Fredericks’ arm to, and then into, the hole.

  “One last handshake,” said Ed, and shook Mr. Fredericks’ hand on the other side of the guillotine. Then Ed placed a small wicker basket on the floor beneath Mr. Fredericks’ now clenched fist. “To catch the hand,” he said. He waited for the kids to stop laughing. Then he placed a whole carrot in the smaller hole beneath Mr. Fredericks’ hand.

  “What I am now going to do,” said Ed, “is to bring the guillotine down and cut through Mr. Fredericks’ arm at the wrist and through the carrot, leaving the carrot miraculously whole and Mr. Fredericks’ arm in two pieces.”

  The audience roared.

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant the other way around.”

  Mr. Fredericks’ brain had given up on the trick.

  “Sir,” said Ed, “since my handkerchief is tied around your wrist, I wonder if I might borrow yours?”

  Mr. Fredericks looked surprised. “Don’t worry,” said Ed, “I won’t blow my nose in it.”

  With his free hand Mr. Fredericks removed his elegant handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to Ed, who proceeded to mop Mr. Fredericks’ brow. Ed again had to hold up both hands for silence.

  “One,” he counted.

  “Two,” he counted. Then he relaxed and said, “Mr. Fredericks, did I ever tell you the story about…” He looked at Mr. Fredericks’ face. He’d better get on with it. “One!” he began again. “Two!”

  Then, with just a second’s beat, “THREE!” And Ed brought the guillotine smashing down.

  Every eye in the room was fixed on the blade as it descended through Mr. Fredericks’ bandaged hand and the carrot below it. From the impact, the cut carrot’s halves went hurtling one in front and one to the rear of the guillotine. Mr. Fredericks’ knees sagged.

  In an instant two or three students and the gym teacher were up on the platform holding Mr. Fredericks under the armpits as Ed raised the blade and freed the hand, which was entirely intact, a fact that surprised Mr. Fredericks more than anyone. He had not fainted, and now he wanted it to seem that he had merely played along to help the dramatic effect. And so he brushed off his rescuers and smiled at Ed and the thudding, stomping, applauding audience.

  It was at that moment that Ed saw Urek and the three members of his gang stand up in the front row. In two swift movements Urek vaulted onto the stage, saying, “Lemme see that blade!”

  Of course you can’t examine the blade, thought Ed: It’ll give the trick away. But he was too late—Urek had seized the guillotine and was trying to pull it apart.

  “Let go of that guillotine,” said Ed.

  “It’s not sharp,” said Urek, running his hand along the blade.

  “It cut the apple,” said Ed in desperation. “It cut the carrot.”

  Mr. Fredericks, regaining his composure, touched Urek’s arm. “You’d better get back to your seat.”

  “It’s a trick!” said Urek.

  “Of course it’s a trick,” said Ed, trying to wrest the guillotine away without breaking it.

  “Tell us how you did it.”

  “He’s not supposed to,” said Mr. Fredericks. “You get back to your seat.”

  “I’ll break it,” said Urek, “unless you tell us how you did it.”

  In the melee, Jerry Samuelson had got himself onto the platform. Two or three years earlier, when he was a kid, he had been given a miniature guillotine, big enough for a finger or a cigarette, not an arm or a carrot. He knew the principle on which it worked, but couldn’t figure out what Ed Japhet had just done.

  “What did you do with the other blade?” he asked Ed.

  “What other blade?” said Ed; then, thinking fast, he said to Urek, “Put your hand in the hole.”

  Samuelson and Mr. Fredericks were suddenly silent.

  “Whadya mean?” asked Urek.

  “Put your hand through the hole.”

  “And?”

  “I’ll cut it off. Like this.” Ed took the guillotine out of Urek’s hands and put it on the table. He bent over and picked up off the floor half of the apple he had split. He put the apple into the hole and then with a sudden slam of his hand sent the blade smashing down. The apple split, the pieces flying with force, front and back.

  “Now your hand,” said Ed to Urek.

  The audience watched in silence.

  “If it’s a trick,” said Ed, “you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Who’s afraid?”

  “Put your hand in it.”

  Urek shot a glance at the audience.

  “Put your hand in,” Ed challenged.

  He could hear Urek’s breathing.

  “Come on,” said Ed quietly.

  “Fuck you,” said Urek, and jumped off the stage.

  The audience howled, then stomped and applauded.

  It was the gym teacher who joined Mr. Fredericks in quieting everyone down. “I’m sure,” he said, “we’re all grateful to Ed Japhet for a fine magic show. It must have taken a lot of rehearsal and practice. I personally enjoyed it, and I hope you did too.”

  The applause, rhythmic and formal, came like waves. Ed went forward to the edge of the platform. He could just see Urek’s face in the near-darkness below him. Lila must have been sitting away out back. He couldn’t see her.

  It took fifteen minutes for Ed to get the equipment packed away into the suitcases backstage. He could feel his shirt soaked in sweat. He didn’t want to dance or anything except go home and take the damn tux off and get into the shower and then go to sleep.

  He put the suitcases into the faculty room and changed into a dark blue suit. He was buttoning his shirt when he heard Lila.

  “It’s okay,” he said, “I’m almost dressed.”

  “I figured out the milk, I think,” Lila said. “And I got an idea about the rope trick, though I don’t think the others caught on, and I know how the tie thing had to work, but the guillotine trick—are you going to tell me how you did it?”

  “You’re not supposed to ask.”

  “You can tell me,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Ed thought a moment, then shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Chapter 4

  If Hieronymus Bosch had painted the city room of The New York Times in all its cluttered detail—the scramble of desks, three jammed together, two facing each other with no space between, desks dropped into place like a child’s blocks in no regular order, and everywhere on them the long sheets off the teletype machines with the day’s happenings all in monotonous capital letters,
the insane black telephones ringing for someone who was bound to be away from his desk and would never find the message telling him about the call he didn’t want to receive—Bosch would not have overlooked the cigarette packs, the smoking plug end of newsmen’s nerves, the match folders, most of which were frustratingly matchless (“Who in hell has a light?”), the chewing-gum packs and balled-up wrappers from those who were chewing more instead of smoking less, the cartons of no-longer-warm coffee, and, most important of all, the blank sheets of typing paper in small piles on every desk, and near them the men waiting for something to happen somewhere.

  At this late hour, in the left center of this Boschian canvas, one would have seen Avram Gardikian, rubbing the skin of his head, which was regretfully bald at age thirty-four. Avram’s eyes skimmed through the typed-up messages from student stringers. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  The message from Jerry Samuelson took him by surprise. He reached the sleepy stringer only after persuading an awakened adult intermediary that it was indeed The New York Times calling.

  “What is it, kid?”

  Samuelson could barely restrain his excitement. He had a standing deal with one of the girls in the emergency room at Phelps. Ten dollars for a tip, something he could get to before a regular could cover it.

  Gardikian listened carefully. After half a minute, he started taking notes.

  “You’re in luck,” he said finally. “Get down there in the morning and get all the facts straight. If you can’t handle it, call and we’ll send someone. Okay, okay, big man. Take this name. George Hardy. I’m off Sundays. I’ll leave this for him. He’ll pick up.”