Mistification (Angry Robot)

by Kaaron Warren

  One night, my wife was away for the weekend, a bingo trip or something, and I thought, Why not invite the bloke back for a meal? My wife wouldn't have let him in the house, but she wasn't going to be there, and who owns the bloody house anyway? I thought I'd put a bit of soup on, pick up a loaf of bread, get a few beers, some port, and we'd talk into the night. He sounded happy with the invitation. I was a bit worried he might think I was asking him to stay the night with me, you know, but there was nothing like that. We weren't that sort of fellas.

  We talked all night. About him. He told me about his life, and why he was where he was.

  "I was born too late," he said.

  "What, you think you belong in another era?" I asked. A lot of people think like me. Think they belong somewhen else. He told me, "Nothing as interesting as that." His grandfather was a harsh and cruel man, who delighted in thwarting his children in their ambition. He wanted the girls to stay home and look after him, and he wanted the boys to be accountants like him. There were six children in the family, and none were happy to follow his life plan.

  His father was the only one to marry. The others travelled, taught or became religious. None seemed to want to pass on their father's blood. All this was before my friend was born.

  Finally, the old man died. There was no grief. The mother had died many years before, died of overwork and underlove. The children came from around the world to the funeral, out of guilt. It was as if the moment he died all his mean deeds were lessened, and all that remained were the children who had left him, ignored him. Left him on his own.

  They gathered for the reading of the will. One of the grandfather's trusted friends (there weren't many) took great delight in telling all the siblings except my cleaner mate's dad that nothing was left to them, not a cent.

  My mate's dad was to receive the full amount, an enormous amount, enough to keep the whole family happy and unemployed for their lifetimes. There was a condition, though, and the old bastard reading the will had to be patted on the back to calm a fit of laughter.

  My mate's parents had to give birth to a boy within twelve months of the old man's death. His mother, when told, was not pleased. She preferred to stay poor. She did not want children. However, times got worse over the next month or so; his father lost his job, his mother could not find work, and his grandmother fell ill, needing expensive treatment. They began, "earnestly", my mate said his father always put it, to try to impregnate my mother.

  It was successful. They did their part. Now it was up to my mate to be born in time.

  Sadly, a foetus can't know the importance of a timely birth. He was late; perhaps not quite ready to leave the womb. They tried all they could to make him leave on time, but he clung to his warm home for two extra weeks.

  He was born exactly one year and one week after the death of his grandfather. They did not inherit a cent. His mother's mother died through lack of care; his mother never lost her guilt. She hated him then and now; he was placed in foster care from an early age. His father would come to see him and tell him the story of his life, but he died many years ago, died of neglect. Died because my mate was not born on time.

  #

  "When my friend had gone," said the theatre manager, "I started thinking about his story, and I thought that I, too, was born too late. That's the other story I told you." Marvo realised that the story had been plain because it was a lie; it was an attempt to find a story to tell, an invention by an unimaginative man. Marvo told him a story, and allowed the man to keep it.

  The Man on the Street

  Here is a story for you. It didn't happen to me; it happened to a friend.

  His mother and father became estranged not long after he had been conceived. He was not aware of this, of course. His mother told him, later. She told him a bedside story every night of his childhood, and it was always the story of his birth.

  She said, "Your father left when he heard you were coming. But it wasn't your fault. It was an excuse for him." For many years, my friend did not know what an excuse was. He thought it was a term of anger, abuse, and he called people at school "excuse", you big fat excuse. The teachers thought he was very clever, a child of his age using such a word in such a way, and his reputation as a clever child was never sullied by the fact that he was no good at school work. He received extra help, and excuses, ironically, throughout his childhood. He came to believe it himself, without ever knowing why, and he is now very successful in his own business.

  My friend heard every night how his mother had been forced out onto the streets. Begging, she said, but in later years she confessed she had been prostituting herself in order to support the baby not born yet. He never felt disgusted with this; it made him weep that she would sacrifice herself, she would put her pride and her own needs so far behind his. He always had a great respect for prostitutes, and saw them in every town he lived in. He was a popular customer, because he was gen erous, and he made it seem as if the money was a gift, rather than a payment.

  I think many men find the concept of making love to a heavily pregnant women frightening, thus sensuous. Certainly, according to my friend's mother, there was no lack of customers.

  She was with one, in a hotel room whose walls, she said, were covered in crooked, cheap prints, when she began to go into labour. The customer, a married man with a reputation, would not call an ambulance, but insisted on performing the delivery himself. He had never witnessed a birth before, not with cats or mice or even on TV, but, for the sake of his comfortable home life, he stayed and helped with this one. She never forgot that; the man was a hero to her. He could have left at any time, but he stayed. She ended the story every night by saying, "I wonder what he's doing now."

  #

  The theatre manager had his own business. He thought of himself as clever.

  "Excuse," he thought, trying it out. "You're an excuse." He could not decide if he wanted to be the child born or the hero assisting at the birth. He decided he would save both stories and see.

  He thought shiftily of his own experiences with prostitutes and determined to change. He remembered throwing money onto the floor; there were times he hadn't paid at all. "I offer refunds for faulty work," he remembered saying, "so should you."

  Marvo gave the manager a week of full houses. It was an extra present, but it was for the benefit of the act.

  "I am Dr Mee," said Marvo. "But you can call me Marvo." He used long, long matches to light a candle, then clicked his fingers and the next candle lit up, the first went out, then the third lit and the second went out. He pulled a candle from his nose; that made them laugh. And he swore at the candles as they went out; said "Shoot," or "Fruit" so the children knew what he meant. Then he raised his arms and with a boom, all the candles were alight. Carol music started; carols by candlelight. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" began and the children sang. They watched in delight as Marvo's nose began to grow and glow, an enormous red bulb. Then the dark room grew lighter, warmer. The children were silent. Was the show over? As the light grew, they saw what that tickle was, that itch on their little noses. Because growing there, now, like shoots from the ground, were tiny Chinese lanterns, lit with tiny candles.

  "Ripe, I think," said Marvo. He plucked the lantern gently from the nose of the child in the front row. He passed it to her, and she felt her smooth nose for a dent, a hole. Nothing there.

  The children could not clap, because they held their lanterns. Marvo bowed; Andra bowed. The lights went down on stage, and by the time the children could breath again, there was nothing left. The only sign of magic the lanterns they held.

  Marvo had to be careful of his magic sometimes. He did not want to terrify. So he used covers to conceal his magic, to make them think it was all illusion. Andra loved the tricks where she was under the covers; especially the one where Marvo stood, arms stretched wide, legs stretched wide, and she climbed through his belly and out the other side. She loved to see his insides. She came out feeling like her skin glowed, shone
with his liquid.

  They learnt the lesson of care early in their performing. Marvo sawed Andra in half, but forgot to place the metal shields in the box. When he twisted the two halves to the audience, her blood turned stomachs and made them scream.

  As Marvo pattered and played his card tricks, he swallowed some milk, took a bite of apple.

  "Anyone want some?" he said.

  "Yuck!!" shouted the kids.

  "What would you like?" he asked. He cupped his hand behind his ear to hear the answer.

  "Lollies? Lollies? You kids make me sick." He patted and kneaded his stomach, his face paled. He coughed and began to dribble. Then he projectile-vomited over the audience.

  They screamed in disgust and delight, because it was lollies he threw up at them, lollies in paper.

  The children loved Marvo the Magician.

  Marvo and Andra had long discussions about the use of birds and bunnies in the act. They saw a magician who pulled bunnies out of hats and made birds appear under silk scarves. They saw two different things.

  Andra saw frightened creatures living in captivity, performing without choice.

  Marvo saw no cruelty. He saw living creatures being used for magic and thought them lucky. When he made a bird or a bunny disappear, he sent it to rest a while in a beautiful field, full of green grass for a bunny, a sweet shady tree for a bird. Then he would reach down and pull them back.

  Andra said, "You're very cold, sometimes. You have a cold nature. But you're so good as well."

  "You know that good can be evil, evil good, depending on the circumstances," came his reply. "Nobody is one or the other." Marvo had learned this from a young girl who sold sex. He did not buy sex from her – he bought time.

  "I'm considered a bad person, but I make you happy, don't I?" the girl had said. Marvo had nodded. "So I must be good as well."

  The children loved Marvo because he gave them things, little somethings to take home, to take to school for show and tell.

  In one audience there was a boy with a blinking light in his shoe. Near him, a girl who got scared; the boy showed her his blinking light to cheer her up, even though it was he who had upset her to begin with, calling her a copy cat because she and her friend sat on the back of the chair, same as the flashing boy and his friend. Someone had to go and get her dad and she left the magic show, shaking like an actor being a leaf. Marvo sent her some mist, to make her not care about the boy with the flashing shoe. She came back after interval and sat up wherever she liked.

  A show-off girl hopped on stage, took a tissue, pretended to blow her nose. Stood up and told everyone to shush. Got told off by the teacher; Marvo used her as an assistant.

  "Can I have a volunteer?" he said, looking right at her.

  She giggled. "Me," she said, jumping up, hand waving, "I'm the volunteer."

  There were other hands up but Marvo chose her. He liked her lack of fear; he wanted to reward her.

  The girl stared him straight in the eye. He saw magic there; the magic of confidence.

  He decided she would help him with a special trick.

  "Andra, please remain backstage. This trick is too dangerous for you." Andra left the stage to the sound of children's drawn breath. She winked at Marvo, which angered him; it was a distraction he didn't need.

  The girl on stage shook.

  "Are you scared?" said Marvo.

  "No."

  "Yes, you are," he said, and he plunged the room into darkness.

  "Oh, dear," he said. "The lightbulb has blown. Assistant, I think you better change it for me while I prepare for our trick."

  "I can't change lightbulbs."

  "Don't argue," Marvo shouted.

  "She's only a kid," the audience muttered. "How's a kid supposed to change a lightbulb?"

  They felt a coolness above their ears and looked up into the darkness.

  "Are you holding on to the lightbulb?" Marvo's voice said from the stage. A moment's silence. "I can't hear you," he said.

  "I nodded yes," the girl's voice came… from the roof.

  "Then let's go."

  The room began to spin.

  "How many children does it take to change a lightbulb?" asked Marvo. The light came on, and there was the girl, floating in the centre of the room, holding the lightbulb. The rest of the room spun gently below.

  "One hundred and eight," said Marvo. "One to hold the lightbulb and one hundred and seven to keep the room steady while it turns."

  The girl sank to the floor amongst the children who suddenly adored her, admired her. She was OK, she was fine.

  Marvo was gone. On stage, there was no evidence he had ever existed.

  Another time, Marvo had a sack and he walked up and down the aisles. He said, "Who wants a present? Who wants… a teddy bear?… A baby blanket?" He gave away these things. They were things lost, each teddy bear lost in a fire, a sale, a move, each baby blanket moth-eaten and thrown away. His early life was furnished with other people's missing things.

  He stood by one woman who had not raised her hand for a single present.

  "I didn't want any of those things," she said.

  He scrabbled in his bag. He found a pair of shoes; high heel, strappy shoes.

  She took them, massaged their leather and felt the straps.

  "I threw these shoes out the car window the night I lost my virginity," she said.

  Marvo changed his act when adults were in the audience. He flirted, made it a sexy show, made people hold hands in the dark, made them think of love and loving. He did this because he wanted the adults to like him too.

  He used lots of fire, because fire was sexy; encircled the audience in flames when they said they were cold. "Who wants to get warm?" he said. He wore tight leather pants, a loose, romantic shirt which laced up the front. He looked like a pirate, a sword fighter, or he looked like a dancer. He danced with Andra, languorous, sensual dancing which entranced people, so that the dance itself became magic. Or he dressed in a suit, so he looked respectable, trustworthy, not what they expected in a magician. And he would perform his most shocking show dressed that way.

  He wrote songs, simple things which talked of magic and illusion, and he paid to have them recorded. These he played in his performances; these he gave away as prizes to people who helped him, people who learnt to love him.

  He set a woman from the audience to rest on jets of water, and she lay there, her hands touching the jets, feeling the pressure of them, her chest rising and falling. When Marvo released her she was breathless and her cheeks were ruddy. Marvo turned her around to show the audience her clothes were dry, and she clutched to his touch. She waited in the audience till everyone else was gone, she told her husband to go get the car and she waited for Marvo to come from behind the stage and talk to her. She felt he had given her a special message, and they had almost made love on the stage. She could still feel the tingle of the water on her back, her neck, her buttocks, her thighs, her calves, her ankles. She could still see herself spinning and flying around Marvo, his dark eyes intent on hers. She sat and imagined Marvo's fingers on hers; she sat and waited.

  Andra knew she was out there and distracted Marvo behind the stage. She seduced him with a story, began it with a whisper in his ear while they were still performing, and continued while the woman waited. His face glowed; he forgot any intentions he had for the woman in the audience. Finally, the woman's husband came into the auditorium to find her, and he took her home and reaped the benefits of her seduction.

  Marvo never overcame his nervousness on dressing for a performance. It made him grouchy, and Andra learnt that keeping away from him was best. He wanted to be grouchy, he didn't want to be made to feel better. The grouchiness overwhelmed the terror and he could force himself to go on.

  Once there, he could lose himself in the movements familiar to him. Joining the rings, finding the egg, removing the scarves from his mouth. These actions comforted him; they made him think of the safety of the room in the house, as
an adult eating a childhood treat may be comforted.

  Andra and Marvo found the magic performances exhilarating, the teamwork exciting. It wore them out, and they would go straight home afterwards, collapse into bed.

  It was a long while before they slept well together. It is true, in relationships, that for a while you feel obliged to sleep close – under arms, on chests, always touching. Once you give up on that, you sleep more easily.

  Marvo found performing magic exciting. He loved to see the children's faces as the tricks were performed, the chocolate melted in their pocket and reformed to a likeness of their secretly admired, their pet disappearing and returning a different colour but unharmed. He was so clever with time; could make it slow down or speed up. He could do what he liked as people plodded through their day.