For a long time she stands there in eerie calm, her shoulders hunched, staring out across an endless stretch of water. The rain beats against her brow and thrums in her ears, and for a brief moment this is all that exists, all that is left of her world: the water pouring headlong from the heavens, the white beams of her headlights slowly dying in the night, the treetops hidden behind the hills, and her growing sense of foreboding, the fear that it is no longer possible to move forward. They have waited too long.
Was it true that Noah had tried to walk upon water? She places one foot lightly forward, feels it immediately sink. She hurriedly backs up, retraces her steps, returns to the car.
She slides back into the driver’s seat and pulls the door shut after her, and she would have swung the car right around and chugged resolutely home (humiliated, of course; but perhaps she could find the note before anyone else did), had the engine not been killed by its partial submersion in the lake. When she turns the key in the ignition the engine grumbles and sputters and ultimately rejects her plea to start. She might have been angry but all her emotions are spent, and so she leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes.
“And now what?” she says aloud. Of course there is no answer.
Someone will come for her, she says to herself. Once the day begins, a delivery truck will approach from the opposite side or a townsperson will attempt to flee. She knows she won’t be stuck out here for long; she has too much faith in the world for that.
She is like her mother that way, she supposes, drifting off to sleep, her arms crossed over her abdomen. She clings to the belief that she deserves something more than the small life that she has been leading, to the hope that there is something grander and better out there for her and for her child. She cannot give up on her hope because, like her mother, she simply loves too much. She loves with too much force.
thirty-one
Dr. Yu’s father does not believe in self-pity.
He has lost as much as anyone else, but that does not mean that he will hole up in his house and sandwich himself between the cushions of his couch, eating bowl after bowl of cold cereal and staring at the flickering television screen as if that is the only light left in the world. He may be in mourning, but at least he has more sense than that.
“It is a beautiful day out there!” he shouts at the minister upon entering his daughter’s living room. He throws open the blinds with a magician’s flair and stands directly in the sunlight as it pours through the windows.
Noah blinks several times, raises an arm to shield his eyes. He stares with a vague sense of recognition at the leathered face before him, tucked within the hood of an oversized forest-green sweatshirt. Dr. Yu’s father wears thick spectacles, and the eyes glinting through them are clever and brown. He is shorter than Noah by a foot, and at least thirty years his senior.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” asks Noah.
“Several times, Minister,” says Dr. Yu’s father, extending his hand in greeting. His feet are planted far apart and his head is tilted slightly back, his stance as poised as an athlete’s. “I’m Ezra. April’s father.”
Dr. Yu told her father of the arrival of her unexpected houseguests when she stopped by to bring him breakfast several days before. She comes nearly every morning—insisting on it, despite his protests that he does not always need her there—as if he cannot fry an egg himself. He was eager to see her today, however, because he was curious to know how the minister and his wife were faring.
“I heard,” continues Dr. Yu’s father, “that you were feeling rather down.”
The minister doesn’t move. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m waiting for my next assignment.”
Noah’s tone is stoic, but his posture suggests defeat. Dr. Yu’s father considers the man as if he were a piece of flotsam washed up on the shore. “You’ve been here a week already,” he announces frankly. “How long do you intend to wait?”
Noah shrugs. “As long as it takes, I suppose.”
For a long while Dr. Yu’s father peers at the minister without saying anything. He is surprised to find that he recognizes something of himself in this man; surprised at the swiftness and the certainty of his realization that the minister, too, has suffered loss. And yet what has he lost besides his job? And why must he wait to be given another?
“You know,” says Dr. Yu’s father, helpfully, “those times I saw you before, you had so much energy. You were active. You seemed to be the kind of man who went after things, rather than waiting around to follow instructions. Couldn’t you go after your next assignment that way, the way you used to?”
“I can’t do what I used to do,” Noah replies, with a strange, indulgent smile. “I used to walk with God.”
Dr. Yu’s father waits for more of an explanation, and when none is forthcoming, he says: “And now?”
Noah’s gaze flicks up from the television again and settles on him. Dr. Yu’s father is so overwhelmed by the anguish of the man’s expression that he takes a step back.
“And now I don’t,” says the minister.
Dr. Yu’s father shakes his head. His daughter is overworked and overwhelmed enough without having to deal with houseguests who need as much care as her patients. He will not have her go to pieces—not on his watch. Last night, as he struggled to free himself from a new set of handcuffs, he made up his mind to come to her rescue. He did not know then that the minister would need rescuing, too.
“Tell you what,” he says, trying to keep his voice brisk. “I’m alone myself, most of the time. I’d be glad to have you—well—‘walk’ with me.”
“Excuse me?” says Noah, looking puzzled.
“My shows down at the harbor are getting more popular every day,” says Dr. Yu’s father, inventing the plan as he goes. “April doesn’t like me going down there on my own, and the truth is that the work is getting to be a little more than I can handle. I could use the help. And I wouldn’t mind the company, either.”
He can see the minister struggling to come up with a response. Dr. Yu’s father knows that Noah doesn’t really want to leave the safety of his sofa—but he also knows that a man who has spent a lifetime helping others is unlikely to refuse to do so now. As soon as Noah nods his head in acquiescence, Dr. Yu’s father directs him toward the bathroom.
“Take a shower, you’ll feel better,” commands the magician. “Then get dressed. You’re coming with me.”
• • •
THE HARBOR IS nearly deserted at this hour, gulls wheeling and crying over the docks. The boats rock on soft golden waves, the flags on their masts wilting without wind. Dr. Yu’s father hauls a duffel bag out of his trunk and leads Noah to a gazebo set back from the water. He assures Noah that the crowds will come later.
“The families stroll through in the afternoon,” he says, ascending the steps of a creaking wooden stage and dropping the bag down on the floorboards beside him. He stands sheltered by the slats of the gazebo roof, looking over his imagined audience and thrilling at the atmosphere of expectancy that pervades the sea of folding chairs and picnic tables. “This is the calm before the storm,” he adds.
As he transfers items from the bag to a card table he has set up in the middle of the gazebo, Dr. Yu’s father explains to Noah that he has been coming to the harbor every day for several weeks now. At first his intention was only to practice his tricks with fire away from his house and his neighbors, but once he noticed that passersby were stopping to watch him, that children were asking for rabbits and flames, he settled into a routine and began putting on three performances a day. His presence at the harbor has become important to his fans.
But what a godsend it will be, he reflects, to have Noah here for a few days: a pliant, unemployed houseguest who should feel guilty enough about imposing on his daughter that he will have to agree to a favor. If he remains as mute, as shadowy onstage as he is wandering through the chairs right now, the audience will hardly see that he is there. Perhaps he could help Dr. Y
u’s father rig up a better curtain than the ragged quilt he has hanging off the front of the gazebo now—but for the moment he pushes it aside to reveal the collection of objects he has finished arranging on the card table before him.
“Pay attention, Minister! Here is the secret of the coffin escape,” he calls across the empty rows, pointing to an oversized rectangular box he has leaning against one of the wooden posts. Maybe he could set Noah to the task of locating a more realistic coffin, as well. “It’s the way that all the great magicians used to do it. You simply remove these long screws, here, that hold the bottom of the coffin to the sides. You replace them with this shorter kind of screw so that all you need to do when you’re inside is to push as hard as you can against the top. The sides and the lid should lift up and away from the bottom, since they’re no longer well secured. And that’s it! Voilà! You’re out.”
Noah considers the box. “You don’t think it’s a little macabre, to have a coffin trick at all?” he says. “Couldn’t you escape from something else?”
“Minister!” says Dr. Yu’s father with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to be susceptible to superstition. I suppose you’re not going to like it when I tell you about the dirt I plan to scatter alongside it, either.”
“Why would you do that?” asks Noah, resignedly.
“For effect! A successful magic show is like a good dinner party: it’s all in the presentation. Speaking of which, I’m going to need your help with some of this. Perhaps I could send you out later to pick up the rabbits?”
Noah remains silent, which Dr. Yu’s father takes as an affirmation. He will tell the minister later about the assortment of other animals to be collected: a crateful of birds, a chicken, seven white mice, two snakes, and two kittens.
“You will make a wonderful assistant!” exclaims Dr. Yu’s father encouragingly. “I can tell already.”
“An assistant?” repeats Noah.
“Of course! Why do you think I brought you all the way out here?”
“I don’t know,” says Noah. He blinks into the light. “I don’t think my wife—”
“She wants what’s best for you,” insists Dr. Yu’s father, remembering what his daughter has told him about her best friend’s unswerving commitment to her husband. “We all do. And right now, you need something to keep you busy while you’re waiting. You need a little fresh air. Why don’t you come join me here in the gazebo, and I’ll show you some of the tricks I’ve got up my sleeve for the show.”
Noah seems disconcerted, but he obeys. What excuse does he have not to? He rises from his picnic table and then climbs the steps onto the battered wooden planks. As he walks over to join Dr. Yu’s father, one of his footsteps rings hollow.
“Be careful,” says Dr. Yu’s father. “Not every board is as sound as it should be. All right, here is one of the tricks that—as my assistant—you’ll need to know very well. I’ll ask for a white handkerchief from someone in the audience, and as I’m coming back up on the stage, I’ll exchange it for this other handkerchief I’ll have in my coat pocket. I’ll call for you to bring a candle, but I don’t want you to come. That way I’ll have to come looking for you, which allows me a moment away from the stage to secretly hand you the first handkerchief. The audience will hear me instruct you again to bring a candle, which you finally will do, after concealing that handkerchief in a hollow space in the candlestick specifically designed for this trick. When I cut up the substitute handkerchief, I’ll stuff the pieces in my ‘magic pistol’ and shoot at the candle, telling everyone that this way the cloth will ‘pass through’ the flame to become whole again. When we break the stick, there it will be, completely restored. And voilà!”
While he speaks, Dr. Yu’s father picks up the objects in question and places them in Noah’s hands for examination. When the explanation of the trick is over, Noah sets them down again on the white tablecloth. One of its corners looks as though it has been seared.
“Oh, just a little accident,” says Dr. Yu’s father. “The flame got away from me while I was practicing. Occupational hazard, I suppose!”
Finding Noah to be insufficiently impressed by the handkerchief trick, Dr. Yu’s father tries a different tactic. He holds up a classic black top hat (a little frayed around the edges) and, without explaining what he intends to do, he reaches inside and pulls out an egg. He tilts the hat forward over the stage, turning it upside down to prove that it is empty, and when he flips it back up he plunges his hand again inside and retrieves a second egg from the folds. On the third try he finds a quarter, which he places into Noah’s hand with a flourish and a bow.
This time Noah shows more curiosity. Dr. Yu’s father takes it as a good sign when the minister requests an explanation, and so he teaches Noah how to palm a coin, a card, an egg. To the audience it looks as though the object appears from nowhere, but in reality it is already in the magician’s hand by the time he reaches into the hat. The success of the effect is in the act of concealment, not the revelation.
Noah has understood since he was a child that things like magic hats and vanishing tricks are only make-believe, and yet the explanation of the mechanics behind the illusion seems to deflate him once more. Dr. Yu’s father sees the cloud return to the minister’s face.
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“No,” says Noah. “But I think I preferred magic when I didn’t know the secrets.”
Dr. Yu’s father nods and takes a few steps to the right, gently rests his hand upon the coffin. For a moment he is silent, reflecting. “What people want from a magic show,” he finally says aloud, “is the same thing they want from a movie, or a book. They want that suspension of disbelief. They want to believe that the world could be different from what it is, that ordinary objects could become extraordinary at the snap of their fingers if only they knew the right words. That’s the whole point of the illusion.”
Noah moves over to the table, picks up a coin and tries to palm it. It immediately falls from his hand and rolls beneath the table, a momentary flash in the shadows.
“I thought I knew the right words once,” Noah says. “But either I’ve lost them somewhere along the way, or they never existed at all.”
Dr. Yu’s father studies him in silence, truly sympathetic for the first time today. “Oh, I don’t know, Minister,” he says softly. “I think it’s too soon to be giving up already. You’d be surprised at the kind of things that can be made to reappear. Perhaps the only thing you’re missing is a little more practice.”
He takes the black top hat and tosses it to the minister, who instinctively reaches out to catch it.
thirty-two
The basements fill first.
The water flows over concrete floors, slowly rising toward the stairs. Outside, the rain rushes down roofs, cascading through gutters and dripping through windows. The cattle stand stock-still with their heads bent in the downpour, unable to free their hoofs from the mud that rises to their knees. When the animals indoors sense the water rising beneath them, they panic. The birds fly against the windowpanes, the monkey screams for hours without ceasing, the penguins refuse to eat. Leesl’s cats throw their weight against the door, over and over again, trying to escape, rubbing at their bruised faces with tufted paws.
Mauro cannot find his peacocks. They were in his bedroom when he fell asleep last night, he knows it; he remembers that they were there with him while he suffered through a nightmare of the creditors who drove him out of his hometown. In his dreams the men had crooked fangs and hungry eyes. They howled in pursuit of him and Mauro trembled in his sleep, reached out for the birds. When his hands brushed feathers he settled down again and reverted to his more habitual dreams of angels.
And yet when the first few beams of weak gray light come washing through his window blinds, the peacocks are gone. Mauro swings his feet to the floor, so worried over the birds that he does not notice the fact that when his toes touch the floorboards at the bottom of the stairwell
they are instantly cold and wet. “Pavoni!” he calls, splashing toward the front door and wrenching it open. “Where are you? Where would you be going?”
He barrels in his striped pajamas out beneath the awning that extends along his stretch of sidewalk. While the water soaks into the cuffs, slowly seeping up toward his knees, he stands frozen in place, his unshaven jaw hanging low, staring at the commotion in the streets. His peacocks are not out there—he can see that at once—but all the rest of the townspeople are rushing out of their shops and their houses, bearing armloads of their belongings. If Mauro were in a better mood, he would be curious to see which objects his neighbors have chosen as the most important. The photo albums? The wedding china? The baby clothes? At the moment, however, everything is a soft, damp blur of colors and sounds: the colored raincoats, the cardboard boxes, the suitcases, the umbrellas. Cars are idling in the streets while their owners load up the trunks, and on any other day Mauro might have panicked at the sight of them, might have understood by his neighbors’ frantic movements and their hysterical voices that they intended to leave this town, and leave Mauro behind with it—but all he can think about now are his peacocks. He does not reflect upon the water rushing through the streets, the puddles leaking through the cracks in doors and windows. He does not see anything but the absence of the two shimmering beings he has come to love so dearly.
He pulls his keys off the hook where they hang just inside the door to the general store and, yanking it shut behind him, he strides toward his truck. His pajamas are sopping by the time he climbs into the driver’s seat, but he doesn’t care.
“Mauro!” yells one of his neighbors, startling him by banging on his windshield. “My car has stalled! Are you leaving? Take me with you!”
Mauro whips his gray head from side to side, rolls down the window so that the man can hear him. “I am not leaving!” he yells. “I am looking for my peacocks!”
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