Black and Blue Magic

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  Anyway, it always started out the same, with lots of silly compliments and staring at each other. Then came whispering and holding hands and giving presents. As far as he could tell, Mom and Mr. Brighton didn’t have a single symptom.

  Mr. Brighton always seemed friendly enough where Mom was concerned. Sometimes he even offered to help her out with heavy jobs around the house. But Harry wasn’t sure you could count that. It wasn’t a sure sign at least, like whispering or holding hands.

  That night in his room, Harry got as far as deciding that he was going to have to do something himself. That is, he was going to have to find a way to get Mom and Mr. Brighton to really notice each other. That part of the Plan was easy to see. The hard part was figuring out how he was going to do it. He finally went to sleep thinking that maybe Lee Furdell would have some ideas.

  The next morning, right after his regular chores were done, Harry went next door to the candy store, looking for Lee. But this morning, Mrs. Furdell was behind the counter so Harry didn’t go in. People were always looking for Lee Furdell. Everyone in the neighborhood who needed advice or sympathy, or even just a free taste of candy, went looking for him. Nobody ever looked for Olive Furdell, and if you found her by mistake you knew better than to ask her for anything; even a little piece of information, like where her husband was that morning. You just went on looking.

  The candy store filled the entire front yard of the Furdell place, right up to the sidewalk, but a tiny narrow alley led around the side of the gingerbready old house to the back yard. Lee was in the back yard hanging out the wash. When he saw Harry, he stopped right away and sat down on the back steps to have a talk. Lee was like that.

  “Well, sit down Harry,” he said, patting a place beside him on the stair. “Let’s catch up on the boarding house gossip. You haven’t been to see me for so long I’m afraid I’m all out of date.”

  Mr. Furdell was a small man with limp hair and big soft eyes, like some sort of woods animal. He didn’t look very interesting until you got to know him. But everyone who knew him agreed that he was one of the greatest guys in the neighborhood. That is, everyone except his wife, maybe.

  Ever since Harry first came to Kerry Street, he had been taking his broken toys, his kites that wouldn’t fly, and his problems to Lee—that was what everybody called him, even kids. And Lee always had time to help—that is, unless his wife was around. Olive Furdell never seemed to like the way Lee spent so much time helping other people.

  Lee hadn’t heard about Miss Thurgood’s leaving yet, so Harry started off by telling him about that. Lee smiled about Miss Thurgood sitting in the water—he wasn’t the kind to laugh right out loud very much—and he said he would keep his ears open when he went to the candy store supply place that afternoon and see if he could hear of anyone who was looking for a good place to board.

  Then Harry led into his main reason for coming. You’d think it would be hard to explain something as personal as trying to get your mother to marry somebody, but it really wasn’t. You could tell Lee almost anything without feeling embarrassed.

  “That’s a funny thing,” Lee said, when he finished. “The very same possibility occurred to me some time ago. I liked Hal Brighton the first time I met him, and not long ago I was thinking that it would be a fine thing if he and Lorna Marco took a notion to get married. Running that big bording house is too hard a job for a woman all by herself, just as you say. And I’m inclined to think that you’ve picked a fine husband and father prospect. But you say you haven’t noticed any symptoms that they’re thinking along the same lines?”

  “No,” Harry said, “they like each other all right, you can tell that. But just friendly, you know.”

  Mr. Furdell sighed. “It’s quite a problem,” he said. “As a rule, it’s a bit hard for a third party to influence these things, one way or the other. But there must be something you can do. I’m going to give it some careful thought.”

  Just then Olive Furdell called from inside the house, “Leland! Leland!” Her voice always went up high and screechy on the second syllable. Lee went back to the clothesline, and Harry headed for the alley.

  “I’ll think about it,” Lee called over his shoulder, his voice coming out mumbly around the clothespin in his mouth. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

  Harry was halfway down the alley when Mrs. Furdell came out onto the back porch, but he heard every word she said. You had to be farther away than that to get out of earshot of Olive Furdell. “Leland, I swear to goodness, you’re the slowest man alive. Are you going to take all day to hang up that little dab of wash?”

  As far as Harry could tell, Lee didn’t say anything at all. Harry took a hard kick at a little pebble on the sidewalk, sighed, and went on down the alley.

  He didn’t get another chance to talk to Lee that day. And even though he did a lot of thinking about it, he didn’t come up with any good ideas for the Plan. That night, when he was helping Mom in the kitchen, he decided to bring up the subject of Mr. Brighton to see if he could find out just what Mom really thought about him. But he’d just gotten the conversation going, when the door bell rang.

  When Harry opened the front door, there on the dimly lit veranda, stood Mr. Tarzack Mazzeeck. He was looking every bit as round and wrinkled and unreal as he had the day before. “Dear me,” he said, “I do hope you still have a vacancy. One that I could have for three or four days.”

  Mr. Mazzeeck

  Harry was really surprised when he opened the front door and found Mr. Mazzeeck standing there. He’d almost forgotten about him. Of course he had intended to tell Mom all about the suitcase and jumping off the bus and everything, but with all the excitement about Miss Thurgood, he’d just never gotten around to it. Actually he had remembered for a minute when Mom was being so worried over the money; but he’d decided it wasn’t worth mentioning. For one thing, Mr. Mazzeeck had said he was a traveling salesman, so there wasn’t any chance he’d be a permanent guest. And besides there had been a pretty good chance that he wouldn’t show up at all.

  But now, here he was on the doorstep, with the same great big suitcase and another smaller one. “Sure, Mr. Mazzeeck,” Harry said, “we have a swell room for you. Come on in and sit down and I’ll tell my mom you’re here.”

  When Harry and Mom came back from the kitchen, Mr. Mazzeeck was perched on the edge of a chair hugging his big suitcase on his lap, just as he’d done on the bus bench. The little suitcase was on the floor by his feet. Harry introduced him to Mom, and Mom told him all the things he had to know about hours for meals, and being called in the morning. Then she got out the register for him to sign. He still had the suitcase on his lap and he tried to balance the registry on top of the suitcase to write his name. But he couldn’t quite reach, and the whole thing kept wobbling around till the book got away from him and fell on the floor. So he finally put the suitcase down, but very carefully and right in front of his feet. Judging by his own past experience, Harry was pretty sure that it wasn’t a very good place for it. Mr. Mazzeeck finished signing the book, stood up and, sure enough, he fell right over the suitcase. He probably would have gone smack on his face if Harry hadn’t grabbed his arm. After he got his balance again he thanked Harry all over the place, but a second later, when Harry tried to pick up the suitcase to carry it upstairs for him, he jerked it away.

  “No, no,” he said. “I will carry that one. You may bring the other, if you please.” And he started off up the stairs.

  Harry looked back over his shoulder at Mom and grinned, and she grinned back and raised an eyebrow. Harry knew that she meant, “That’s a strange one.”

  Mr. Mazzeeck was strange all right, you had to admit that. Strange and funny and sort of mysterious, too. But Harry couldn’t help liking him. There was something about him that made Harry feel good. For one thing, it was easy to see that they had some things in common—like a handful of thumbs and two left feet.

  In the next couple of days Harry didn’t see much
of Mr. Mazzeeck. Not that Harry was too busy with other things, or anything like that. As a matter of fact, he was around most of the time. He read a little, talked over the back fence to Lee once or twice, and worked some on his Plan, when he could think of something to do on it, anyway.

  He did manage once to get Mom and Mr. Brighton out on the veranda together, one night after dinner. They didn’t stay very long, but Harry was encouraged anyway. It was a typical summer night in San Francisco, and to stay outdoors at all without a coat, you’d have to be feeling pretty romantic.

  Harry didn’t see Mr. Mazzeeck just because he wasn’t around the house very much. He went out in the morning with his big suitcase, and he didn’t come back until almost dinner time. He didn’t talk much at the table even when the other boarders asked him questions. He ate a lot, though, and Harry noticed he really did seem to enjoy the food—particularly Mom’s good desserts.

  It was because of noticing about the desserts that Harry happened to go into Mr. Mazzeeck’s room. On the third night after his arrival at Marco’s, Mr. Mazzeeck came back from wherever he went every day, too late for dinner. Mom and Harry were both in the living room when he came in, carrying his big suitcase and looking more tired and worried than ever.

  “I was most distressed over missing one of your wonderful dinners, Mrs. Marco,” he said, “but I was detained by a customer.”

  “Would you like to come out in the kitchen and let me warm something up for you?” Mom said. Mom must have thought that he looked pitiful, too, because she didn’t usually do that sort of thing. If a boarder was late for dinner, it was just too bad for him. Mom had enough to do without cooking and washing dishes all over again.

  “Oh, that is most kind of you, but no thank you. I wouldn’t think of letting you go to so much trouble. Besides, I had a bite to eat at a restaurant.”

  But it seemed to Harry that he looked a bit wistful. It was that wistful look mostly, but also just plain curiosity, that sent Harry up to Mr. Mazzeeck’s room a little later. You couldn’t help wondering about such a strange little man with such a mysterious big suitcase. And there had been some pineapple upside-down cake left over from dinner.

  So, at about eight o’clock, Harry knocked at the door of Mr. Mazzeeck’s room with two pieces of cake and a cup of coffee on a tray. The door opened a little way, and Mr. Mazzeeck put his head out. He was wearing a sort of bathrobe thing with long flowing sleeves. It was dark purple with squiggly red figures all over it. When he saw the cake, his startled look changed to a smile—a hungry smile. He said, “My, my, doesn’t that look delicious. How very thoughtful of you.” He opened the door wide enough to let Harry in.

  “Mom said I could have a bed-time snack,” Harry said. “I thought you might like to keep me company. It’s terrific cake.”

  “Quite so, quite so, I am delighted. Won’t you sit down.” Mr. Mazzeeck got them both chairs, and when they had started in on the cake he said, “You are, indeed, a most unusual young person. Let me see, you said your name was Harry?”

  “That’s right, Harry Houdini Marco. My dad named me that. He was a magician, and he was crazy about Harry Houdini.”

  “Harry Houdini Marco? And the son of a magician. How remarkable. How extraordinarily remarkable.” Mr. Mazzeeck stopped eating with a forkful of cake halfway to his mouth. Most people were interested or amused when Harry told them his full name, but Mr. Mazzeeck seemed absolutely flabbergasted. Harry was beginning to get a little uncomfortable when the man finally stopped staring and asked, “I suppose you have begun your training?”

  “Training?”

  “Yes, your apprenticeship. With whom are you studying the art of magic?”

  “Oh, to be a magician, you mean. No, I’m not studying with anybody.”

  “Ah, that is a shame. You must begin soon now. The good ones all begin very young.”

  Harry had been getting ready to say that he just wasn’t the magician type, but Mr. Mazzeeck sounded so enthusiastic that it seemed a shame to disappoint him. So he only said, “I guess you’re right about that. My dad started practicing magic when he was just a little kid. He used to tell me about it. Are you a magician, too?”

  “No, no,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “I am a salesman. I am only a traveling salesman, but at one time I was . . . I was something more than that.” His voice trailed off into a sigh. For an uncomfortably long time he said nothing at all. Harry looked at him curiously, but Mr. Mazzeeck didn’t seem to notice. He looked different somehow, as he had that time before; his eyes were dark and hollow with remembering, as if they were looking backwards to a far, far past.

  He began to say something, but not exactly to Harry. “So many years, so many changes . . .” he muttered. “Even magic changes . . . Most of it mere trickery now, mumbo-jumbo . . . Grand old dreams all forgotten . . . Nobody has the time and space any more . . .”

  As Harry watched, wondering, he suddenly had a split-second impression, so strange and spooky that it made a shiver zig-zag up his spine. It was as if, for just a moment, Mr. Mazzeeck’s funny chubby face had turned into a transparent mask, and from beneath it another face looked through. Another face, older and yet ageless, with eyes that burned with a deep dark power.

  It was just a glimpse, and then Mr. Mazzeeck looked like himself again and his eyes seemed to come back into focus. “Take boys, for instance,” he said, in an accusing tone of voice. “Do they dream of wielding Excalibur or taming Pegasus?” He shook his finger in Harry’s face. “Or do your dreams rise no higher than a baseball bat or a bicycle?”

  “Gee, Mr. Mazzeeck,” Harry said. “I don’t dream about things like that. I would like to have a new ten-speed, but I don’t dream about it.” He had been feeling pretty uneasy, and now he felt a little guilty, too, without really knowing why.

  But just then Mr. Mazzeeck calmed down to his usual sort of nervous embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ve been taking out my problems on you, and of course, you are entirely blameless. You must forgive me, but my business has not been going well lately, and I am very tired.”

  He stood up suddenly and put his empty plate back on the tray. “The cake was most delicious, and I find myself even more deeply indebted to you. You must visit me again, sometime.”

  Harry knew an invitation to leave when he heard one, but when he turned to pick up the tray, he noticed something that stopped him in his tracks. On the foot of the bed, with its top wide open, sat the mysterious suitcase. He took a step or two backwards; but almost as quickly, Mr. Mazzeeck must have realized what he was trying to do. He had time for only a tiny glimpse of the contents of the suitcase before Mr. Mazzeeck had stepped in front of it, hiding it from view.

  Afterwards, Harry didn’t quite remember what he’d said next or just how he’d said good-bye. He had a general impression that they’d both been very polite and that Mr. Mazzeeck had asked him to come again. But it wasn’t surprising that Harry’s mind had been on something else, at the time. In fact, his mind was on that something else for a long, long time. It wasn’t the kind of thing you could just forget about. You don’t just forget that there is a strange man living in your own house who carries in his suitcase a long, sharp, evil-looking sword.

  The Sword and Other Problems

  That night, Harry lay awake for hours, wondering and worrying. He didn’t want to tell Mom and get her all worried, too, unless there really was a reason. And maybe there wasn’t any reason. Maybe there was a perfectly understandable explanation of why a strange-acting little man should be sneaky and suspicious about his suitcase and why it should contain, among other strange-looking objects, a long, sharp, gleaming sword. The trouble was, it was pretty hard for Harry to imagine what that explanation could be.

  He might be a professional sword swallower, for instance, except that wouldn’t explain why he pretended to be a salesman, and why he was so secretive. There’s no reason to pretend you’re not a sword swallower if you are one.

  Still, in spite o
f its weaknesses, that was just about the best possibility that Harry could come up with. Possibility! There was that word again! It was beginning to look as if the Swami were right and the air really was full of possibilities. Only right now, some of them were almost too awful to think about. Like, for instance, the fact that a boarding house might be a good place to hide in if you’d committed some terrible deed; the kind of deed you might do with a big—sword.

  The worst of it was that if something terrible did happen, it would be Harry’s fault. After all, he was the one who had asked Mr. Mazzeeck to come to the boarding house.

  After lying awake half the night, Harry finally decided the best thing to do would be to keep quiet, for the time being, and just try to keep an eye on Mr. Mazzeeck. It wouldn’t be for long. Mr. Mazzeeck had already been at Marco’s for three days and he’d said something about three or four days when he arrived. Besides, it was very unusual for a traveling salesman to stay more than a few days at a time. But, of course, that sort of depended on whether Mr. Mazzeeck really was a traveling salesman.

  It wasn’t four days, or five, or even six. Mr. Mazzeeck was right there at Marco’s for a whole week after that night when Harry first saw the sword. And during that week all sorts of terrible things happened. Not that Mr. Mazzeeck murdered anyone in his sleep or did any of the other awful things Harry had imagined. What did happen, were things that had never even occurred to him.

  In the first place, it was the very next day that Clarissa Clyde came to stay at Marco’s Boarding House. When Mom called Harry into the living room to carry Miss Clyde’s bright red imitation alligator luggage upstairs, he didn’t realize that more trouble had arrived. In fact, he was feeling pretty happy that they had a new boarder, who might be permanent. It was somebody to take Miss Thurgood’s place—and someone who might be a little more interesting, too.