by Adam Vine
I knew that there had to be some rational explanation for the illusion, but I had no clue what it could be. There wasn’t enough room to hide a bird under the girl’s coat, even if she was in on the performance. The coat was snug and form-fitting. Besides, how could anyone hide an animal under their coat for so long without it getting crazy and causing a scene?
The bird must be extremely well-trained, I thought.
Hawk-girl’s eyes grew into china bowls as she turned around and saw what Ink had pulled from her coat. Gasps and cheers flooded the audience. Ink rolled a piece of sausage out of his sleeve and popped it in the hawk’s mouth, then stroked behind its bulbous skull and presented it to the crowd.
Applause exploded all around me. But that wasn’t the end.
Ink approached Hawk-girl again, and with his free hand, motioned for her to give him her card half. A look of confusion crossed the girl’s face as she opened her palm and saw her half of the king of hearts was no longer there.
With a single flick of his wrist, Ink removed and unfolded his pocket square, raining four cards across the cobblestones: the ten of hearts, the ace of clubs, the two of diamonds, and the king of hearts; each the whole, un-ripped version, without so much as a crease to mar it.
Ink whispered something in the girl’s ear. She blushed. He backed away, then smiled and bowed. It was the first time I’d seen him do either since I’d started watching the show. He held the hawk aloft so it might get its fair share of the applause, too, and they both took a bow. The hawk gave a theatrical flourish of its wings.
I expected the crowd to dissolve once the show was over, and Ink to begin asking those who remained for money, but he didn’t. The lingerers seemed disappointed it was finished. The four teenage girls seemed especially sad, frowning to one another before slowly drifting away. The one in the pea coat blew Ink a kiss and waved.
Ink pretended not to hear the clink of coins as they fell into his upturned top hat, tending to his bird instead. He didn’t seem to see me approach, but as soon as I got close enough, Ink said, “How ya doin’, Frisco? You enjoy the show?”
“That was awesome,” I said.
“Awe is what keeps me gainfully employed. Man, you look like shit,” Ink said.
“I know. I haven’t been getting enough sleep. Drinking too much,” I said.
“Running the Gameboy on both batteries, huh?” Ink stroked the hawk behind its neck. “You see that brunette? She was something, wasn’t she?”
“Hawk-girl? Yeah, she was pretty. It’s like every other girl I see here could be a model. Hey, doesn’t it hurt when he claws your arm like that?” I said.
Ink glanced away to see if the crowd had dissipated. It had. He rolled up the corner of his sleeve to show me he was wearing a leather armguard to protect his skin from the hawk’s talons. “Did you think me and Ben were lying? Anyway, as long as Mr. Snow here doesn’t touch my hand, no, it doesn’t hurt. Sometimes he gets a little… ambitious, and I just have to think: Mom’s meatloaf, granny panties, the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy Countryish man’s back.”
I chuckled. “He’s a beautiful bird. Can I touch him?”
Ink recoiled. “No. Mr. Snow and I have been training together for years, so he’s used to me. He doesn’t like when strangers touch him.”
“Oh. All right. It’s cool. So, how’s the nightlife been treating you?”
Ink’s mouth remained a level line. “Better than it’s been treating you, from the look of things. Why don’t you come out with us sometime?”
I remembered the spiral scrawled in the dirt outside my window and the shape I thought I’d seen watching me sleep from the balcony of my apartment.
“You sure?” I said.
“Yeah. Listen, I need to get going. Mr. Snow doesn’t like being in public for too long after a show.” The hawk stared at me with huge, amber eyes. “We’ll be at Drinks Bar tonight. Come have a beer,” Ink said.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
“Uh huh.”
THE CITY
I MET UP with them a little before ten, wearing the same outfit I’d worn every other night I’d gone out in City, my frayed black blazer over a faded button-up, slacks, and busted leather shoes.
Taking a bathroom selfie before I left my apartment to post on Instagram had produced mixed results. I’d always considered these my best clothes, but now they looked old, ratty, in dire need of an upgrade.
I did, too. In the picture, my face was sunken and pale, and no amount of filtering or adjusting the saturation helped. Dark circles ringed my reddened eyes. My hair was an overturned nest of ginger straw. I hadn’t had it cut in months. I was hunched over, wiry, and had lost most of my body fat from not eating. An overgrown, sandpapery beard sprouted from my cheeks and neck.
Evan was one of the first people to like my photo.
When I got to Drinks Bar, Big Ben asked me with his trademark North English twang, “So, Frisco, you find yourself a girlfriend yet?” Ten minutes after my arrival our small, back-corner table was already half-covered with empty pint glasses.
“Actually, I did meet one girl,” I said, getting nervous when Ink and Ben exchanged a guffaw. “But we didn’t go all the way. And she’s got issues.”
“You know any women who don’t have issues?” Big Ben said.
I thought about it. “Uh… my mom?”
“His mom!” Big Ben howled. He stood and tapped the table with his ring finger. “Fook me. That’s good.”
“I’m interested to hear how this relationship started,” Ink said, ignoring him. “Did you use the material I told you to?” He folded his arms and leaned over the table eagerly to hear me above the music blaring from the digital jukebox. It was playing Ink’s playlist, currently cycling through sixties pop. The song was Doc Watson’s Walk On Boy. The bar was empty because it was a weeknight. Ink had turned the music up to full volume. Curiously, I noticed Ink was wearing flesh-colored earplugs.
I considered how best to answer his question. “I did, but not exactly the way you described. I asked her if she was French, but it was about half an hour into our first date.”
Ink’s eyes glimmered eagerly. I held his gaze to see if I could catch a glimpse of that strange, golden spiral again. No such luck.
“And? What did she say?” Ink said.
I wobbled my hand. “She seemed flattered. I mean, I don’t know if she actually was.”
“Of course she was,” Ink muttered, more to himself than to me. His gaze wandered to Big Ben, currently standing a few paces from our table, where he was pulling darts off the dartboard to start a new game with himself. “Hear that, you moist towel? Frisco used the French opener and he was successful on his first try. You owe me a round.”
“It wasn’t his first try,” Big Ben protested. “He said it to a stripper. She called the poor lad a selfish bastard because he wouldn’t buy her a lady drink.”
Ink turned back to me. “Is that true?”
My eyes fell into my beer. “Yup.”
Ink pursed his lips. “Hmm. Interesting. Very interesting.”
“Oh, don’t get upset, you wee cunt. She was only after your wallet. Dated a stripper once. No, twice. Worst mistakes I ever made. One was like dating Stalin. The other was Pol Pot,” Big Ben said, launching his first dart. It sank into the wooden housing of the dartboard, nearly a foot wide of its target. Big Ben hissed.
“So, what’s this girl’s name?” Ink asked me.
“Kashka,” I said.
Ink took a swig from his glass. “Well, she’s definitely Countryish.”
“Yeah. I was really into her at first, but I don’t think I’m going to see her again. She’s too crazy. Almost like she’s bipolar,” I said.
Ink shrugged. “So bang her and fade out. Just wrap up before she backs up. You don’t want to catch the Blot, man. It’ll rot your brain. A buddy of mine got it from a girl he was sleeping with. Poor guy lost his mind. I watched him go from zero to crazy in a matter of months. One d
ay he was fine, drinking beer with me and pulling girls off the street. The next, he looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and was babbling on like a madman about frozen night countries, floating cities, snow cannibals, and crippled kings.”
“Huh? I’ve never heard of an STD like that before. You said it’s called the Blot?” I said.
“STD. Sexual curse. Same difference, right? You don’t want to know, Frisco. Let’s leave it at: you don’t want to know. Still, possible negative mementos aside, I fail to see the problem in you sleeping with this girl,” Ink said.
I shook my head, gazing into the bowels of my glass. “I dunno, man. If I do that, she might explode.”
Ink raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Dude, were you a Boy Scout or something?"
"Actually I was. I stopped when I earned my Eagle Scout."
Ink shook his head, massaging his forehead with a gun barrel made of two fingers. "I'm not calling you Frisco anymore. From now on you're Boy Scout, until you spit out whatever pill you swallowed that told you sex with pretty girls is wrong. That shit is what's unhealthy. How long did you say it's been?"
I cleared my throat. “Uh… about two years.”
Ink leaned in closer. “And does she like you?”
“I think so,” I said.
He leaned back again, clapping his hands on the table. “Great. Your giant moral conundrum just solved itself.” His phone buzzed. He answered, said something in Countryish, and hung up. “Apologies. Speak of the devil and she shall appear.”
“Do you have a date tonight?” I said.
Ink finished his beer, stretched, and yawned into the back of his hand. “No. The date was earlier. This is the vetting. You and Bennie over there are going to help me decide if this is gonna be the one I put a baby in. Just kidding. Maybe.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “You can’t decide that on your own?”
Ink fixed me with a lion’s gaze, folded his hands on the table and said, “That’s really the million-crown question, isn’t it, Mr. Eagle Scout. A man alone is blind. He has biases, weaknesses, overlooks things that are right in front of his face, things his friends might have seen immediately and warned him about, if he had been wise enough to ask for their counsel. Then again, not all counsel is created equal. This girl could be a ticking time bomb, and you could still be the idiot who tells me to just man up and put a ring on it. Are you that guy, Frisco?”
I shook my head, “No,” simultaneously thinking, Maybe Kashka’s not the only one who’s got issues.
Ink smiled. “Good. In that case… you ready for another?”
Ten minutes later, an attractive brunette girl walked into the bar and gave Ink a hug. I recognized her instantly. She was the Hawk-girl from Ink’s magic show. She was wearing the same pea coat she had been at the show, but the hood was drawn, framing her blue eyes, pearl-white skin, and slender, bow-shaped lips in a halo of fur. She barely looked old enough to be in a bar, even in Country, where the drinking age was eighteen.
Hawk-girl gave me a studying second look. I thought she recognized me too, so I said “Hello.”
“Hey,” Hawk-girl said. Her smile was shy and innocent.
“This is Dan,” Ink said. “He’s from California.”
We shook hands. “I’m Iza,” Hawk-girl said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Iza,” I said, then in Countryish, “Milo mi cie poznac.” It was the only thing I knew how to say in Countryish other than “Cheers” and “Thank you.”
Iza gave a nervous giggle. “Me, too.”
“You want a drink?” Ink asked her.
Ink got him and me vodka shots from the bar. Iza ordered “herbatka.” Ink shrugged and clinked my glass. We drank. A moment later, the bartender handed Iza a steaming mug of Lipton black tea, complete with a lemon slice. We went back to the table, where I sat while Iza and Big Ben made introductions.
Over the next hour I caught Iza stealing glances at me more than once. I smiled, and she quickly looked away. Her English was good, but she didn’t speak much, except when Ink asked her something. Mostly, the conversation consisted of Ink and Ben regaling her with stories, which I now knew to be meticulously planned and rehearsed: the pen in Afghanistan, Ink throwing the spoon, the stripper calling me a selfish bastard when I asked her if she was French.
I laughed and played along, all the while wondering if the reason Ink’s date kept staring at me wasn’t because of how much younger I was than him. He had to be twice her age, which, granted, wasn’t that unusual to see in Country, but the more I watched her, the more I witnessed her immature mannerisms and the gullible way she gulped down Ink’s blatantly obvious routines like she was the first girl to ever hear them.
“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” Ink asked Iza. She nodded, reaching for her purse. “You coming, Boy Scout?”
“Sure,” I said.
Big Ben stayed inside to play darts.
We went upstairs and stood huddled under the dancing neon martini sign. There had been a score of tables on the patio just a few nights ago, now bare flagstones riddled with fallen leaves. It had grown brutally cold, and frozen blades of wind tore through the thin fabric of my blazer. Within seconds of stepping outside my teeth were chattering and pale clouds of breath clotted the air in front of me.
Ink, who wasn’t wearing a heavy jacket either, didn’t seem affected by the temperature. Iza tucked her arms under his, and didn’t make any effort to appear comfortable.
“So, Iza. Didn’t I see you at the magic show earlier?” I said.
“Yes, that was me,” she said.
Ink lit her cigarette. “Very observant. That’s where we met.”
“But we went to coffee after his show,” Iza added.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how old are you?” I didn’t realize my question was rude until Ink shook his head at me in silent disbelief.
Iza wasn’t offended. “I'm seventeen.”
“Do you study here?” I said.
I meant at a university, but, puffing her cigarette, Iza said, “Yes. High school. I'm in my last year.”
Ink reached into his pocket, took out his billfold, and handed Iza a twenty-crown note. “Hey, go inside and get yourself a drink. I'll meet you in a minute.”
Iza stared sadly at her half-finished cigarette. I expected her to say something sassy or tell him to fuck off, like an American girl would have, but she only dropped her unfinished cigarette on the ground, extinguished the ember with the heel of her boot, and gave us both a pleasant smile before heading back downstairs.
When she was out of earshot, Ink put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Everything all right with you, buddy? You seem a little bit off,” Ink said.
How about the spiral you drew on my window? I thought. How would you even know if I was off? We barely know each other, unless you’ve been spying on me.
“Yeah, man,” I said. “Groovy as a goose. What’s up?”
Ink slowly let his hand drop from my shoulder. He vaulted his eyebrows and threw his unlit cigarette into the gutter. “Nothing. Everything’s cool with me. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Nothing’s on your mind? There’s nothing you want to talk about?”
“Nope,” I said. “Uh, I mean, yeah, I do have one question. Are you sure it’s legal if you, you know…?”
“If I have sex with her?” Ink said.
I nodded, breathing a hidden sigh of relief that he’d bought my ploy.
Ink took on a deliberate, professorial tone, like he was explaining what two plus two equals to the biggest idiot in the world. “The age of consent is sixteen here, Daniel. We're a long way from California. Besides, did you see her?”
“She just seems so... young. I mean, she's beautiful, but...”
“She’s from Ukraine,” Ink said matter-of-factly. “Ukrainian girls have classically beautiful faces. They look eighteen until they hit forty-five. A lot of them came over here during the war, because they had rich families who sent them away to school, or because they had
Countryish boyfriends. Ukrainian women are the most attractive, feminine women on the planet, even better than the women here. I lived there for a while, but…” Ink laughed at some private joke I wasn’t a part of. “But, the time came when I had to leave.”
“Because of the war?” I said.
Ink dug his hands deep into his pockets and leaned back on his heels, eyes carving unseen reminiscences from the overcast canopy of the night. “No, man. It wasn’t because of the war. You keep shivering. Are you cold?”
“You're not? It’s fucking freezing,” I said.
Ink shook his head. “No. This is balmy to me. T-shirt weather.”
“I feel like my balls are going to climb up into my stomach,” I said.
“I’m probably more adapted to it than you, but you’re not exactly dressed for the occasion. Isn’t the Scouts’ motto to Be Prepared? You did realize it’s going to snow tonight, right?” Ink said.
“How? It’s October,” I said.
Ink shrugged. “Fall is short here. And the winter is long. Shall we head back inside? I only came out here to let Iza know I wouldn’t judge her for smoking. But those things will kill you. Great way to meet women, by the way.”
“What? Cigarettes?”
Ink winked. “At least half my lays at bars and dance clubs have been from asking the girl if I could bum a cigarette. I don’t even smoke.”
“No shit,” I said. I let a vodka-tinged cackle slip between my chattering lips.
Ink prodded me in the belly. “Ah? Ah? Ah. Come on, Boy Scout. Let’s get you indoors before you lose your ability to reproduce.”
We went back inside and ordered several more rounds of vodka. Ink stopped drinking after the fourth, proceeding to sit at the table and run his fingers all over Iza’s thighs, neck, and hands while I watched on from the dartboard, where Big Ben and I played game after sloshing game, neither of us slowing our own rate of alcohol consumption.
Eventually Ink and Iza got up to dance. A small, midnight crowd had filtered into the bar, and a few people were milling about on the dance floor, grooving to the music, Otis Redding’s Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay. I didn’t see anyone I was interested in talking to.