The Spirit Cabinet

by Paul Quarrington

  Jurgen took up his pen, a large felt-tip, aimed it at the piece of parchment and signed his name. The creature was some sort of bizarre autograph hound. Rudolfo reached out both hands, one going for Jurgen’s pen, one for the piece of paper. Both were suddenly gone, and he was groping through emptiness. There was a flash of light, but of a different magnitude than the previous ones, much brighter and somehow pulsating, as though the light came from a star that was going supernova.

  And in that instant, the creature’s face appeared in front of Rudolfo, and he saw that the two eyes, the real eyes on either side of the tattoo, were silver and empty of iris and pupil.

  When his own eyes cleared (although tiny mites of light swam across his field of vision for days afterward) the creature had vanished and Jurgen was pulling on his arm, saying, “Let’s go home.”

  As they entered das Haus, Rudolfo yawned and reached his hands heavenward. He clasped them together over his head and twisted his body languidly. “Okay, chief. Maybe is time for bed.”

  Jurgen smiled, nodded his head. “Okay, chief.”

  Rudolfo happily headed off toward the bedroom and had gone quite some distance, all the way to the Tiki-Tiki Room, when he noticed that Jurgen was not following. He whirled around and bolted back down the hallway. He turned left and descended a flight of stairs, turned right as he landed at the bottom and then raced along the darkened passage. He first heard the boulder rumbling, then could see a patch of light growing small, evaporating. When he reached the Grotto, there was just a sliver of space remaining between the wall and the rock. Through it, Rudolfo saw Jurgen standing in the centre of the circle of ancient books, his arms held high—not in triumph, more in mute announcement, the same way Rudolfo often spread his arms to tell die Tiere, “Here I am. Here I am, home.”

  Rudolfo spun around and kicked at the wall, although what he actually ended up kicking was the snout of an alarmed and deeply wounded Samson. Rudolfo immediately sank to his knees and pulled the cat’s head to his breast. “Sorry, Sammy,” he whispered, “it’s just that …” He couldn’t say what. But ever since he’d met Jurgen, all those many years ago, being alone left him bitter and confused.

  Jurgen said, “The two of hearts,” all those years ago. Rudolfo winked and whispered, “Good trick.”

  “Come back to my dressing room,” said the magician, his face relaxing into a smile. “That’s where I keep my smokes.”

  “Yeah, okay,” shrugged Rudolfo, and he followed the magician through the writhing shadows. As they neared a long bar at the far end, a rail-thin figure suddenly flew off a bar stool, shrieking like a giant bird. “Hey, Magic Man!” screamed this being. “What have you got there?”

  Again, Rudolfo felt the warming sensation of recognition. Here was a collection of bones held together by the thinnest skin, a translucent wrapping that glowed with the blue of disease. On top of the figure’s head was a magnificent headdress, blond curls so ornate that it seemed likely that animals with quite an evolved social order made their home in it. Its dress—adorned with clownish polka dots—was very short, and every movement raised it above the limits of modesty, although only shadow was revealed.

  The magician planted his feet and said, “Miss Joe, this is—”

  “Rudolfo.” Rudolfo reached up and moved the woolen watch cap around on his smooth skull, which he hoped passed for good manners.

  “Jurgen and Rudolfo,” mused Miss Joe, leaning forward suddenly and kissing both men on the cheek.

  They continued on to the dressing room, which was actually a broom closet. It was not a broom closet that had been pressed into service as a dressing room, it was a fully functional broom closet, filled with brooms and mops and a huge metal pail. The magician’s gear was shoved in there, including some empty cages.

  The magician reached out and picked up a pack of cigarettes from a little shelf piled with sponges and rags. He shook them so that three or four poked their filters out of the opening, pointing them at Rudolfo. “Smoke?”

  Rudolfo merely shook his head. He was tempted to caution the magician about the habit, but that would have reminded him of General Bosco, who was violently opposed to any bad habit he himself did not actually have.

  The magician shrugged and lit a cigarette, sticking it between his lips so that the smoke greatly increased the fluttering of his eyelids. He put his hands behind his back and produced the two doves, placing them into a cage. They stepped onto the perch and immediately sank their heads out of sight.

  “Your birds are sick,” Rudolfo noted.

  “Hmm.” The magician took off his jacket now, loosened his tie, undid the button at his thick neck. “Doves are pretty sickly,” he noted. “I have to buy new birds every two weeks.”

  “The birds die every two weeks?”

  The magician shrugged again and continued unbuttoning his shirt. Rudolfo suspected he’d misjudged the situation. Here, apparently, was a take-charge kind of guy, eagerly wrestling out of his clothes. But then he saw that the magician’s upper body was heavily bandaged—no, not bandaged. There were thick pieces of duct tape stuck to his body, from which dangled thin wires, springs and strings. The magician began to remove these, grimacing stoically. When done that, he gestured vaguely with a downward motion. “I’ve got something in my pants.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Jurgen’s manners were impeccable, which meant that for Rudolfo they were incomprehensible. He tilted his head. “You have something in your pants?”

  “Something big.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So if you wouldn’t mind turning around.”

  “Oh!” Rudolfo spun about. A square of sheet metal was hanging on the wall serving as a sort of mirror, although the image it reflected was warped and indistinct. Rudolfo watched the magician work at the zipper and buttons of his trousers, letting them tumble to his knees. He was wearing boxer shorts, which he shimmied down onto his hips. The magician pulled out something white and furry, set it down upon the ground and then pulled up his pants. “Okay.”

  Rudolfo turned around and saw a small rabbit sitting on the floor, its hind legs quivering. Rudolfo bent over and scooped up the animal, pressing it to his breast. The creature had rancid bunny breath and was emitting irregular little puffs of putrid air. “Let me guess,” said Rudolfo. “You leave the rabbit in this little room, where it’s cold and dry, except for when you perform, when you stick it down your pants, where it’s warm and, um, moist. Right?”

  The magician butted his cigarette, pulled out a comb and started rearranging his locks. “Right.”

  “Why don’t you just step on it?”

  The comb paused mid-flight, little strands of golden hair clinging to it. “What?”

  “It would be much easier to simply step on its head and crush out all its brains. Easier on you, easier on the rabbit.”

  The magician processed this sentence, and it seemed to take him quite a while. He set his jaw with furious concentration and trained his eyes on Rudolfo. The dark eyelids moved up and down like pistons; the comb remained frozen in the air. After many moments, he asked, quietly, “That’s bad for the bunny?”

  Rudolfo pulled off his watch cap and nestled the rabbit into its woolen warmth. It was only when he looked up and saw the magician staring at him, startled, that Rudolfo realized what he’d done. “It’s a sickness,” he said calmly. “I have no hair anywhere on my body.”

  The magician—who was either very kind or thick as pudding—said, “My uncle Fritz, he’s got hair in his ears.”

  Rudolfo smiled, placing his thumb upon the rabbit’s head and rubbing gently. “I had hair until I was ten,” he began, and he didn’t stop speaking for a long time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Preston worked Monday evenings, when other Shows were dark. On a good night, he might get as many as fifty people inside the George Theater. Midway through his act he would descend into the seats, a deck of cards clenched in his fat han
d. He would ask that the house lights be put on. They would be, after a long moment’s delay, Mrs. Antoinette Kingsley complying only grudgingly, as she didn’t feel the flipping of electric switches was part of her job description.

  On this night—like all nights—Preston raised the cards into the air and said, “This is just an ordinary deck of cards. They aren’t rigged or gaffed. They’re not strippers. They’re not marked. It’s not a Svengali deck. Just an ordinary pack of blue-backed Bees. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Probably half the people in here are magicians. So let’s just have these cards checked by—”

  Preston glanced around at the small crowd, his brow only slightly lifted, his eyes struggling upwards. His attention was caught, his head stopping so abruptly that upper vertebrae gave forth audible cracks. “Oh, hey,” he muttered. “I guess we could have this deck checked out by the world-famous Kaz.”

  Kaz sat in an aisle seat, sunk low, his long legs stretched out in front. His bony hands were laced over his chest, his chin nestled on his clavicle. When his name was mentioned, the audience erupted into applause. Kaz—very atypically—did not respond, other than making a tiny grimace, as if the sound hurt his ears. He merely extended a hand, turning up the palm to receive the cards.

  As Preston passed him the deck, Kaz said quietly, “Hey, Preston. I’m suing your fat ass,” and sprang suddenly to his feet. Preston supposed that he’d meant the action to be dramatic, but Kaz’s forte did not lie in the physical realm. He bolted too far forward, smashing his hips into the chairback in front. He folded up, bent backwards to correct and landed once more in his seat. Then he rose again, this time with greater care. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning around so that he could be seen by more of the little crowd, “I believe this deck is none of those things he says it isn’t.”

  “Hey, Kaz,” put in Preston, “nice sentence.” The crack got a little chuckle.

  “But you have to be careful around guys like Preston. Maybe he left something out. For example, he might have a locator card in here. That would be a card shaved just a little bit shorter than the rest, so Preston could find it any time he wanted just by running his fingertips over the end of the deck like this …” Kaz demonstrated, once, twice, again. Then he shrugged and handed back the deck. “Ordinary deck of cards,” he pronounced.

  “All that palaver,” mumbled Preston, “and he couldn’t even find it.” He shuffled the deck a few times, trying to think of what to do. Not about Kaz and his silly threat to sue—fuck Kaz and the elephant he rides offstage on—but this portion of the show was unplanned. He simply did five or six card tricks with various members of the audience. He knew thousands of card tricks—he likely knew more than any other human being on the planet—so they changed from night to night, according to his mood or whim. “Here’s a good one,” he said aloud, selecting an audience member—in this case a small man who sat across the aisle from Kaz—and fanning the cards under his nose.

  “Did you hear me?” whispered Kaz as Preston turned his back.

  “Pick a card.” As the man made his selection, Preston executed a small half-turn and demanded, “Sue me for what, Kaz?”

  “Collusion.”

  “Yes, well done, sir.” Preston, relieved to see that the man had taken the force card, said, “I’ll turn my back, you show the face to the people around you.”

  Now Preston could direct the full bloodshot scorn of his eyeballs at the world-famous Kaz. “What the hell are you talking about, Kaz?”

  “You and those two German faggots are buddy-buddy-buddy.”

  “Rudolfo,” countered Preston, “is Swiss.” He spun back to the small man. “Now, look. I’m going to give you the rest of the deck. Put your card back in and shuffle them.”

  “See?” hissed Kaz behind his back. “You know that. Rudolfo is Swiss; only someone very close to them would know that. And when that someone was involved in what was supposed to be a fair auction—”

  “Have you shuffled the cards well, sir? Very good. Now go through the deck and find me your selected card.”

  “We’ve been watching you,” said Kaz. He was breathing very heavily, creating a huge cloud of rancid effluvium. “You went and saw their show. You never came to see my show.”

  Preston suddenly felt very sorry for Kaz, who could be wounded by such a small thing. If he hadn’t been in front of such an audience, Preston would have told Kaz the truth, as much of the truth as he knew. Kaz might have gone away happy and contented.

  “I can’t find the card,” giggled the small man.

  “Can’t find it? What the hell did you do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” the small man said with effort, now almost consumed by giggles. “It’s just not there.”

  “You lost the card?”

  “I guess so,” agreed the small man.

  “Then you owe me two-and-a-half bucks. Because a fifty-one card deck is useless. What card was it, anyway?”

  “The eight of spades.”

  “Damn,” said Preston. “That’s one of my favourite cards.”

  “Sure,” whispered Kaz, ” ’cause it’s the one you palmed off.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Preston loudly. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, hey, aren’t magicians bound by a code of brotherhood? Well, I want you to know that Kaz and I are actually in—what was that word?—collusion. Accusing me of palming off that card was classic misdirection. Because, you know where that eight of spades is right now? It’s in his underwear.”

  “Bullshit,” sniped Kaz.

  “Seriously.”

  “I couldn’t even have put that card in my underwear.”

  Preston shrugged modestly. “What can I tell you? That’s where it is.”

  Kaz rose from his seat, a skeptical look drawing his face even longer, and ran his thin hand down the back of his tight jeans. He rummaged around for the briefest of moments, and then withdrew his hand. The eight of spades was caught between the tips of his first and second fingers.

  “Kaz, ladies and gentlemen!” shouted Preston, gesticulating in the general direction of the gaunt conjuror with halitosis. The people applauded, so Kaz had no choice but to bow deeply, which he did with all the grace of a puppet with snapped strings. He then fled the theatre, leaving behind only lingering fumes.

  “There goes,” said Preston to the audience, “one very talented—and strange—guy.”

  Rudolfo had to revise his sleep deprivation theory. Jurgen didn’t suffer from sleeplessness. Jurgen got no sleep, but suffered no ill effects. He seemed somehow to have lost his need for sleep. For the past few nights Rudolfo had woken up at all hours—once as early as three-fifteen—to find the other half of the circular bed deserted. He had floated dreamily down to the kitchen, feigning an interest in a midnight snack, filching a carrot out of the crisper, perhaps an apple or banana. Chewing peacefully (the ghostly white spectre Samson walking silently at his heels) Rudolfo had drifted through the mansion. He’d made no special effort to pass by the Grotto, but he knew that if he continued drifting, he would do so soon enough. And always the remote-controlled boulder was rolled into place, and a little light from inside bled slightly around its hulking shape.

  One night Rudolfo stood stock still some ten feet away from the Grotto’s boulder and was overcome with shivering. His breath came out in short gasps and his skin, every square inch of it, prickled and beaded with sweat. Jurgen must be sick.

  Preston’s Show was going very well, indeed. He was somehow buoyed, made cocky, by the encounter with Kaz. Preston didn’t consider himself a competitive man. He disdained the Magic Olympics, for example. He thought the event was adolescent at best, likely harmful to the craft, so he never went even though it was held in his hometown. But if he did, he knew he would surely kick some international butt. The truth of the matter is that Preston wasn’t competitive because he knew he was the best, in his own small way.

  So Preston did some tricks he didn’t always do,
stuff that even he found a little difficult. Stuff that required a gambler’s confident recklessness, counting off three cards when he was really clutching twenty, making blind forces, disregarding sight-lines so that—were he not the best and his fingers the quickest—all of the sleights could be detected.

  “Okay,” said Preston, truing the cards on his little production table. “I need another volunteer from the audience.”

  He watched arms flower upwards. He eliminated the hairy ones first of all. He disregarded the ones with fat drooping beneath the muscle. He generally tried to pick a fairly good-looking arm, hoping that someone fairly good-looking was attached to it.

  On this night, no particular arm seemed quite the ticket. Preston took much longer with the selection than he should have. Good thing he had nothing but scorn for his father’s cornball and antiquated theories of Entertainment. Alacrity, that’s what Preston the Magnificent had always counselled. His son appraised each arm with some care, looking for, well, he didn’t know what. But there was no denying the sensation of uniqueness that infused the night, an ember of excitement in his tummy where there had been nothing previously.

  Then the arm appeared, unfolding with mechanical precision, as if controlled by levers and pulleys. When it was fully extended, its fingers blossomed into a little bouquet, long thin petals tipped with golden nails. Preston lifted the deck of cards and motioned vaguely in the direction of the arm.

  The arm rocketed upwards then, and in its wake there came a shoulder, a breast, a hip. “You,” Preston grunted, and such was the brilliance of the smile that Miranda returned that the heads in the audience snapped back, startled.