American Genius

by Lynne Tillman

  My dermatologist has treated many cases of infected bee and wasp stings and encountered serious cases of maggots, when, for instance, the Wohlfahrtia vigil gravid fly lays its eggs on the skin, then the hatched larvae migrate to the folds of skin into which they burrow. An inflammatory reaction, first as a papule, then as a lesion, is produced, and maggots may be seen in this lesion, where it seems to pulsate. The female of the human botfly, or D. hominis, glues its eggs to the body of a mosquito, stablefly, or tick, and when the unwitting insect punctures the skin by its bite, the larvae emerge from the egg and enter the skin through the wound. He has seen innumerable cases of crabs, or pediculosis pubis, contracted chiefly by adults as the result of sexual intercourse, not infrequently from bedding, railway berths, and toilet seats, as well as human flea bites. Fleas exist universally among people and animals, and the three most common in America are the human flea, Pulex irritans, the cat flea, Ctenocephalides felis, and the dog flea, Ctenocephalides canis. Fleas are small, brown, wingless insects about one-sixteenth of an inch long, and are very flat from side to side, with long hind legs. They jump actively when disturbed and are known to be extraordinary jumpers, helping them travel from host to host. They extract their food from the superficial capillaries, causing hemorrhagic puncta surrounded by an erythematous and urticaria! patch, characterized by intensely itchy welts. The irritation is produced by the injection into the skin of a fluid secreted by the salivary glands of the parasite, and some people have an apparent hypersensitivity to this secretion. Fleas carry disease, endemic typhus, and plague, which is transmitted to people by the rat flea, Xenopsylla cheopsis and other species. Parasitical fleas sucked the lifeblood from my cat’s kittens in Amsterdam, where most summers they infest the city and suck their food from humans and animals, and about their fatal effect on young cats especially I had no knowledge and no warning, so all the tiny kittens except one died, for which I am to blame.

  Table talk segues to mercury in fish, solid white meat tuna versus flaky tuna, both in cans, the fate of the poor salmon, to America’s polluted rivers and streams, during which the Count adds that fish and other creatures are consuming medicines and vitamins human beings pass through their urine into toilets that flush into streams and rivers where fish feed.

  —Imagine what hormones do to fish, says Contesa, tapping the flesh of her salmon.

  —Some have already become androgynous, says the Count.

  —Everything mutates or dies, says the Magician.

  —I’d love to learn magic tricks, I say to him.

  —I can’t tell you how, I can’t show you tricks. Magicians can talk to other magicians about their tricks. That’s it. We’re a closed shop.

  —Are you allowed to discuss your interest in magic?

  —I belong to the International Brotherhood of Magicians, and there are rules. We have secrets, it’s our trade. But let’s say it sprang from my interest in mathematics and numbers. I’m what’s called a close-up magician.

  —What’s that? Spike asks.

  —I work small groups at tables or standing up in front of small audiences. I do card tricks, coins, hand/eye magic, and patter is very important.

  —Patter? Henry asks.

  —Everyone has patter, says Spike, intimately.

  —I’ve got a routine, I talk my talk. Patter’s very important, it’s part of the art of misdirection. I can’t say more, but I can say there’s lots of rehearsal, a lot of work goes into my act. But I really can’t say more.

  The Count and Contesa pay close attention, and she even removes her dark glasses. The table is staring at the Magician, who accepts this matter-of-factly, but then, he’s used to small audiences and even absorbs our interest with magnanimity, while Contesa leans toward him from across the round table, her palms up, as if to show him her past and future, and her canny eyes resemble crystal balls.

  —Do you contact spirits? she asks.

  —I don’t do séances. I’ve done a few, but I don’t like to. I can. They’re too emotional, I can’t sleep afterward. I don’t do stage illusions. I don’t do escapism. I’m not an escape artist.

  —Houdini was, she counters.

  —Houdini did it for the money, the Magician carefully explains, he was a close-up magician, but he couldn’t support his family. That’s why I have a day job. There’s big money in staged illusions. But I wouldn’t do one of those for a million dollars a trick.

  —I collect antique timepieces, the Count interjects.

  —The spirit world isn’t just illusion, Contesa goes on. Houdini and his wife made a pact, they developed some code or other. She did a séance to contact him.

  —Actually, she tried to contact him ten times, the Magician says. Houdini was a skeptic, but skeptics need convincing. They’re insecure.

  —Sex is real, big magic, says the Turkish poet. You think it’s so, Helen?

  I blushed.

  Like the Magician, I wouldn’t be buried alive, chained and bound in a coffin, and dropped into the ocean for money or any other reason, but its appeal probably is sexual, since there’s the lust to be smothered under mounds of flesh, all senses buried, the brain pressed to do its commanding submerged below layers of skin and fat. Right now I could insert a forgotten word, “amaxophobia,” the morbid fear of riding in a car or carriage, which is cited in the library’s sex manual, but Spike jumps in, relishing his challenge, and, for the delectation of our table, though possibly not to the Magician’s taste, she reveals an episode at a sex club, where she discovered her wholesome, strapping massage therapist in the middle of a large, noisy room being whipped, her nipples in steel clips, her ample flesh quivering in pain-filled excitement. Spike hoped that she hadn’t been seen watching her, but she may have been, nothing was said, and now during massages, Spike’s fantasies are flatter but less humiliating.

  —This is no sex to me, the Turkish poet says, almost stricken. It hurts my heart to hear.

  —Like bad poetry, says Arthur. The Turkish poet claps his hands.

  —Yes, yes, bad poetry hurts the heart.

  —And bad sex, says Spike.

  —They’re episodes of stupidity, stupidity has no sense or sensation, says Contesa. Sex can be dumb.

  —Einstein said, and I quote, “The imagination is more important than knowledge,” says the Count.

  Contesa glows.

  The Count plucks his pocketwatch from his jacket pocket and looks at it with affection, while I’m considering saying I miss my cat or another remark that might establish a point of departure or even misdirection. Last night some of us engaged in an intense discussion about domestic and wild animals who’d performed extraordinary feats, a skunk who unzipped tents and stole food, a cat who turned doorknobs, a wild bird who bathed in a kitchen washbasin, a pet mouse who frowned and smiled, a cat who mothered a parrot, a large dog who lay on its owner and saved her from hypothermia, and I told the story of our family cat who, in addition to her other miraculous feats, was once left alone in our house, whose den had the six Eames chairs and table I loved, which were sold over my protests with the house I also loved, and when she couldn’t go out, instead of fouling the floor, she defecated on the drain of my parents’ bathtub, after which she tore sheets of toilet paper from the roll and placed them in a mound on top of her unsightly mess, and all of this was especially pleasing to my mother, who nonetheless killed her later. Usually no one is wrong or mistaken about animals to whom an unqualified love is due.

  A jarring crash and shrieks disrupt us, erupting from the kitchen, and I jump up, as do several other residents, we run in and discover the kitchen helper on the floor surrounded by broken glasses and crockery, plates, cups, saucers, and near him the head cook is screaming, but when we enter, she claps both hands over her mouth, because the residents are meant to live in peace and quiet here, and no one but we can demonstrate distress, and the head cook must restrain herself on our account. The kitchen helper’s hand is cut, his unblemished skin torn, there is a gash, blood on
his pants leg, his long legs, and I feel as weak as a kitten drained by fleas. Wobbly, I walk out of the kitchen, bump into someone, experience additional pressure or a tighter grip around my heart, then collapse in a faint on the dining-room floor. I never know where I am when I faint, when the blood rushes from my head, flees, my brain empties, I can feel it until I feel nothing but a light-headed coolness, and I can only hope my end is similar to fainting, since to die like this would be nearly pleasant. Then, as I awaken on the floor, the coolness leaves, I open my eyes and sense the Count kneeling beside me, with his pocketwatch near his face, he drifts around in soft focus, and I hear him say, “Helen, you lost consciousness for forty or fifty seconds. Are you well enough to sit up? Your friend will be fine, it’s not deep, he’ll be all right. Tea and cognac will fix you right up.”

  After I faint or swoon, I must always rush to a sink and splash cold water on the pressure points, wrists, at the pulse, on the neck, the jugular vein specifically, then all over my face, where the skin appears drained and blanched, and, when color returns, with blood to my brain, so do I. I return to the dining room, where, by now, my table, relieved to see me up and conscious, or almost conscious, is all sympathy for a bit, but also showing restraint because they are loath to interfere with me, to my detriment, and also they’re ready for dessert, which tonight is chocolate pudding with chocolate chips and fresh whipped cream. I drink black tea and swallow a shot of cognac. This anaglyphic scene reforms and becomes again one room with just four walls and just three dimensions, the chairs and table return to their regular shapes, and the residents’ disparate triple noses, eyes, lips, and brows congeal into single features and recognizable faces, my light-headedness dissipates, a process I’m used to, and then Contesa rises from the table and, in her spirited manner, announces to the room, first ringing a bell, that she has written a short play or spectacle, and hopes all assembled will attend a dramatic reading of it, but that is our decision, and she will understand our need for solitude, especially after what’s happened, looking at me and toward the kitchen, which could be embarrassing but somehow isn’t. It is tonight at nine in the Rotunda Room, she declares and sits down again. The tall balding man and disconsolate woman immediately leave, which the demanding man notes, sullenly, as the Turkish poet searches my face for explanation, so it is a moment to appear enigmatic.

  “Wait, I’ll do a trick for you,” the Magician says sharply. He’s looking at me. “You wanted to learn about tricks, I’ll show you one, and it’ll get your mind off it.” It, I ask myself, what is it?

  The Magician displays a quarter and sets it on the table near me. I look and then hear him say something and it’s gone. The quarter’s gone. “It’s under the plate. Move it,” the Count demands. The Magician pushes the plate slightly and says, “No, see, it’s not.” Then the Magician produces three more quarters and moves them around on the table, he slides them effortlessly, one after another, like baby silver mice, through his fingers, he holds them up to show the table, while he asserts: “I’m not good at doing magic acts, I’m really bad at it, but I belong to the International Brotherhood of Magicians, I don’t know how they let me in, and the American Society of Magicians, and to the Magic Castle in L.A., it’s been there in Los Angeles since 1906. But I’ll make mistakes, so watch me very closely, I’ll make a mistake, but do you know anything about physics, because there’s a theory about the third dimension that . . .” As he talks, boldly and fast, he walks around the table, stopping at each chair, to demonstrate to each of us that the coins are real, he has us touch them and look at them, he bites all of them, after which most at the table wipe their hands and mouths, and, when he sits down again, having performed his patter without a lapse, he pulls out, from his sleeve or pocket, I can’t tell, several items.

  —Anyone missing anything? the Magician asks.

  Each of us pats our pockets, even if we don’t have any, looks down and up, looks at him, and then at each other. He sets on the table the Count’s Breguet pocketwatch, Spike’s hemp purse, the Turkish poet’s slim purple notebook, Contesa’s dark glasses, Arthur’s and Henry’s 1960s designer wristwatches, and my silver Bauhaus button I carry in my pants pocket. Everyone gasps, but the Count looks as if he might faint, too.

  —What about the coins? Spike asks.

  —I can do that another time.

  —I hate being manipulated, numbers never do that, Spike says.

  —I applaud it, the Turkish poet says.

  —Jean Cocteau would choose the thief over the cops, says Arthur.

  —I’m not stealing, ladies and gentlemen, I’m just showing you that the hand is faster than the eye.

  —It’s amazing, I say.

  —You distracted me, says the Count.

  —I practice the art of misdirection, I told you that, the Magician reiterates.

  The Magician remains calm, but the Count fidgets in an active state of confusion that I’d never witnessed in him, he could jump out of his skin, but Contesa addresses him, talks softly, and strokes his arm. He pulls himself together and asks the Magician to hand over his treasured Breguet, and, with its return, his demeanor rejigs, but he must now experience the Magician as an enemy or an obstacle to his peace of mind, which was just shattered, while Contesa, though not delighted by the Magician’s attitude toward spirits, asks to speak with him privately, later, and gracefully excuses herself from the table and leaves the room. The head cook, who rarely steps into the dining room, she keeps to her domain, except for special occasions or holidays, when she takes our applause for an elaborate meal, which she cooked for us when she wished to be home with her husband and grown children, if they’re still on speaking terms, is now among us. She claims the room’s attention by clanging a small triangle. Her long apron wears stains of recent meals, including spatters of the kitchen helper’s blood, so I have to avert my eyes, otherwise I’ll become light-headed again. Finally, when everyone stops speaking, except the stout Wineman, who is mostly audible throughout, she says she’s very, very sorry for the commotion, that the kitchen helper is fine and probably won’t need stitches, and we should just pretend it never happened. “Please pretend it never happened,” she repeats, and her hands flutter absentmindedly. My tablemates shrug, their shoulders shunting off the immediate past, but I’ve never been able to pretend something never happened.

  The Magician touches my shoulder, “Watch this, Helen,” he demands, and sets a playing card in front of me. He moves it around on the table, lifts both his hands, and, in that instant, the card disappears. His sleeves are up, they’re well above his bony elbows, often an unattractive part of the body, often plastered with elephant skin, psoriasis is frequently found there, and the card has vanished.

  —Thanks, that’s terrific, just what I needed, I say.

  He looks into my eyes, nakedly taking my measure, and it’s a little weird, as if he has imperceptible sightlines into me, but it’s not creepy, because his eyes are warm, like the friendly dog’s up the street.

  —I’m glad, Helen, because the truth is, I’m not going to be here long, it’s a pit stop, so to speak.

  The Magician continues to look at me but in an especially kindly way and appears to have reached a decision.

  —You know, I have a feeling about you, I’d like to get to know you better, as a friend, he explains, with some urgency.

  While this is unnerving, it is also pleasant and a surprise, since he has seen something in me that I don’t see in myself, I’m sure, but instantly I hope he isn’t going to compromise me in some way or make my time here more complicated than it already is, become too demanding, or like a rejected suitor be disappointed and want to harm me. We all saunter into the main lounge for after-dinner talk and drinks, offered by the staff, who serve us with a casual propriety, and then the Turkish poet bundles my arm in his, whisks me away, and asks, “You are truly all right?” because he’s nervous for me, since people don’t faint “hugely in these times,” and, while patting my back solicitously,
observes, “You are nineteenth-century woman in trousers.” It’s a funny idea, he’s wrong, I feel no kinship to the 19th century, except that it preceded and fomented reaction in the 20th, whose difficult progeny I am, but then I remember my Polish cosmetician, who wouldn’t say that, and instead would repeat in her thudding English, “Your skin is very sensitive,” then she’d slather cream on my face and tell me to close my eyes, while moving her fingertips lightly across my cheeks, forehead, and chin, never touching the thin skin beneath my eyes, which is too fragile even for her trained touch. “A sexual act is perforce and perchance a fainting,” the Turkish poet stage-whispers dramatically, as we are joined by Spike and the Count, who sit close to us. The fire rages. The Count hears the Turkish poet’s commentary, and, from his store of knowledge, pulls out, like a rabbit, the word “faineant,” an adjective, which means given to doing nothing, of which I am frequently guilty, but it’s also close to feigning, “faignant,” from the French for idler, he explains, and “faindre,” to feign. “It’s the word closest to ‘fainting’ in most good dictionaries,” the Count says, after which Spike adds that John Cage became an expert in mushrooms, since it was the word in the dictionary closest to music, so Cage kept seeing it, became intrigued, and maintained an interest for life. Spike, too, may often look at the Ms because she is a mathematician. The Count strolled along the Seine and saw an antique blue watch, fell in love with it, and still loves and collects timepieces, Contesa read Kafka’s Amerika and, because he hadn’t visited it, she fell in love with his writing and mind, next with his brilliant cat-and-mouse letters to Felice, who may be Contesa’s Amerika, because she couldn’t visit her even in letters, whose symmetry she might enjoy, but I don’t remain faithful long to my person, others, and my interests, except I have habits, but I resent them.