Elephant Bangs Train

by William Kotzwinkle

  The monkeys chattered and the parrots talked. He hurried away to the open plain, trying to escape their comment, but the laughter of the jackal pursued him through the high grass, and on a distant cliff, the lion roared disdainfully.

  He walked to the river, to submerge and put the taunts of the jungle out of his ears. He stepped into the water, and a hippo surfaced in front of him, sleepy mockery in her eyes.

  On the fierce lips of the monkeys, his humiliation passed through the trees. Their insane chattering was everywhere. He called for silence but they swung above his head, out of reach, gibbering viciously. His ears burned, and he longed for nightfall, when the dark cats would hunt, and none would be quick to speak.

  He walked, head down, through the green land, towards the cliffs, a mistake, for the baboons were there, howling and nodding to each other. He did not reply to their insults, for whatever was said to a baboon was hurled back like rotten fruit.

  He entered a dark grove of trees, and nibbling unhappily on the leaves, pondered his problem. With the entire jungle singing his shame, he could not return to his herd.

  He might do better to walk off the edge of a cliff, and let the death dogs have his body. He sampled a small white flower. There was no need to be hasty. Certain delicacies were still for the taking.

  The breeze turned and he caught a familiar, enriching smell through the leaves. He listened quietly, then called softly. The leaves rustled and the smell enveloped him. He moved the branches aside with his trunk.

  There stood a beautiful cow. Her eyes spoke many encounters; a great swelling began between his haunches. He circled her, to get behind and mount, but she turned her tail away from him with express denial. He playfully offered her his trunk, but she refused it. He raised up on his back legs and blew a sweet note, but she did not move, and the look in her eyes cut through him like the claws of a cat. His disgrace was already a legend. She shuffled away from him, into the forest.

  The great swelling between his haunches was not relieved. The baboons suggested he insert it in a mud bank. Bellowing with rage, he shook the trees with his trunk, tearing their roots, and the baboons leapt away, howling with laughter.

  He stood defeated in the dismal grove. What cow would have him now? An old cow, perhaps, with bumps on her head, was the best he could hope for. Then, from faraway, he heard a familiar sound.

  He listened as it grew louder, and his rage mounted slowly from tail to trunk. He moved quickly through the trees on to the plain. There, in the bed of grass, he saw the strange path once again, and the long shining bones, and in the distance, the great shadow slithering through the trees.

  The light was fading and the day had grown cooler. The ground trembled and the rumbling grew louder. A dark cloud streamed in the sky, and circling above it were the birds of death. The serpent came out of the forest and on to the plain, its bright eye shining.

  He trotted towards it, until the serpent's head was fully exposed, and then he charged. The plain blurred, and he closed in with head down.

  The serpent saw him and screamed, but his rage was full and he rammed it directly. Darkness fell and cats' eyes glistened; the serpent shuddered and gave way. He hooked it in the belly with his tusks and drove it off the path. The serpent screeched, lashing its tail. He backed away dizzily, his head throbbing, and charged once more, burying his tusk in the serpent's eye.

  The serpent did not move. He had killed it. He sounded his triumph and walked away with deliberate slowness. He heard angry voices, like those of the baboons, cursing him, but he did not recognize the tongue, and did not care. The dark-eyed cow was waiting in the trees, and as he came towards her, she turned slowly and showed him her haunches.

  The Magician

  THE MAGICIAN stood in the alley outside the cabaret, breathing the night air. Under the light of the stage door sat his wife, sewing a silver button on his evening jacket. A sturdy, buxom woman, she cut the thread with her strong teeth, then stood and held the jacket out.

  The magician turned and stepped towards her lightly, a magician's walk, pointed-toed across the stones, through the mist rolling in from the river, as a ship edging out to sea sounded its mournful horn.

  'The horns of Tibet,' said the magician. 'You hear them down the mountain passes, invoking the Buddha.'

  'Yes, darling,' said his wife, holding out his jacket, smiling patiently.

  The night is hypnosis, he thought, not daring to look in her eyes, for he would go tumbling into them. From within the cabaret came the sound of a trumpet; in the stage doorway his wife's eyes were wickedly bright, and he could not resist.

  'Please, darling,' she said, for he hadn't much time before his act, but she let him fall, until she could feel him inside her, rummaging around in her old loves, her flown and tattered past. What a strange one he was, always exploring around inside her with those eyes of his, peering into the dear dead days of a woman. It was bizarre play, but she let him, for some men demanded much more, and it was more painful in the giving. That was the way of the waterfront, where strange men came ashore. Into their arms she'd fallen, for she loved a sea story, and their dark songs. But then along he'd come, the top-hatted magic one, and she had said so here you are at last, which was all a magician needed, some portentous note to thrill him for an age or two. So they'd married, and he was still looking around inside her, and he has plenty more to see, she thought, before he grows tired.

  She broke the spell, waving his jacket at him. He turned gracefully, plunging his arms into the sleeves, noticing at the same moment a wandering couple coming out of the mist on the avenue—an elderly man in evening dress, singing to himself, on his arm a young woman in high-collared cape, with her hair cut short, like a boy. As the lights of the cabaret appeared to them, the young girl began to plead, 'Oh, may we stop here? They have a magic show!'

  'Yes, yes,' said the old fellow, continuing on, in deep tremolo, his song, 'O du Liebe meiner Liebe . . .'

  The magician watched them move out of the lamplight and pass under the awning of the cabaret.

  'Yes,' said the magician's wife, handing him his top hat, 'she's very beautiful.'

  'Now, my dear,' said the magician with a laugh, 'you know me better than that.' He tapped his hat and kissed her on the forehead. Women were so quick to suspect a man it made one blush. 'Come, old girl,' he said, giving her his arm, 'I feel a good show brewing.'

  The dancing girls kicked their bare legs in the glow of the footlights, scattering balloons over the smoky stage, then disappeared into the wings amid applause and the rattle of dishes. Three drunken pit musicians struck up a tinny fanfare; one of the dancing girls returned, holding a gilt-edged sign bearing the magician's legend.

  His wife kissed him on the cheek and he made his entrance, coming out on to the stage from the wings. Removing his white gloves and top hat, he signalled to the light bridge.

  A spotlight swept through the audience, illuminating the tables, and at the magician's direction stopped amid a setting of sparkling wine goblets and dessert dishes, on the table of an elderly man in evening dress. His companion, a young woman, tried to withdraw from the smoky beam. The magician came to the edge of the stage.

  'Please,' he said, holding out his hand, 'will you assist me?'

  Seeing the girl's reluctance, the audience began to clap. Her escort helped her from her seat. She walked towards the stage, smiling nervously. In her short-cropped hair and cape she looked like a beautiful schoolboy.

  The hypnosis began slowly; the magician asked her questions, relaxing her with small talk, at the same time flashing in her face the brilliant stone from his ring, playing its reflection over her eyes like a miniature spotlight.

  They stood in the middle of the stage, he smiling confidently, she looking fearfully into his fierce, piercing fox-eyes. She would not let herself be hypnotized, that was that, she would resist.

  He stepped closer to her, touching her wrist lightly with his fingers. Her face was pu
rple in the spotlight, her dark eyes like windows, and he could not resist slipping through them, into her hidden dimension.

  The centre of his forehead tingling, he passed through the delicate veil; there was her youth and its tender longing, there her childhood and its delight, here her infancy in white, and finally the darkness of the womb in which she had slept. He started to surface, then saw a light in the darkness, and he plunged through this still more delicate veil, into her most secret self. Down he went, through the gloomy ruins, where her antique past was kept, and long-dead shadows chased.

  Standing still as a stone on the stage, the young woman heard distant voices, as if calling across the water. Something had happened, a magic show, how odd she felt, as if in a dream.

  Through the labyrinth he tracked, into the depths of her soul, where her spirit was hidden away in its meditation. As in the rooms of a museum, he passed the relics of her former lives—a nun's veil, a gladiator's net, a beggar's tin cup.

  Suddenly a figure appeared, a priestess, highborn, by the sea, of luminous and beautiful body, in the hallway of a temple hauntingly familiar to him. In gold-braided sandals and a necklace of shells she walked by the sea and he who walked beside her . . .

  The young woman and the magician stood motionless on the smoke-filled stage, she floating on the waves of the trance, he agasp with a recollection.

  'I loved you on Atlantis,' he said with trembling voice.

  Instantly the waves enveloped her, her mind swam, she was under. There was a city with waving banners. She stood inside an ocean shell and felt the water on her feet. How sweet it was upon the beach and he who danced upon the waves . . .

  No, he thought, pulling back from her, but he could not stop his descent, for they were ancient lovers.

  A thousand lives have I loved you, she said, seeing clearly in the mirror of her heart the chain of their love.

  Struggling in the tidal wave, he turned to the audience. 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, tonight I would like to perform for you a most daring feat of magic!' With trembling hands, he lifted the girl and placed her between two chairs. She lay stretched out in the air, stiff as a board.

  She saw now, worlds were tucked within worlds, memory was vast. She came down a river and there on its banks she saw him dancing in a loose gown. She lay in the river on stones as omens reared in the sky—a procession of elephants in gold harness, and he, dancing, brown-skinned, an African prince.

  'Now then,' said the magician, snapping his fingers, 'bring on the box.' He held on to the edge of a chair, trying to pull himself together.

  Two of the dancing girls came out, carrying a large wooden box, which they placed between a pair of sawhorses.

  'The subject is in deep trance,' said the magician, raising one of her arms in the air, where it remained motionless, until he lowered it again. He noticed her eyes fluttering, and through the brief slits he saw the Orient, shining. So, he had beheaded the Boss of Tu Shin for her, and, he saw this quite clearly, placed the head on a pole in the Boss's garden.

  Covered in fans, she saw in a mirror pool, sparkling, the eastern world. Oh yes, elegantly had she performed, serving the warrior. Then, changing, she was gone. The snowcapped mountains melted and she was in the lowland. Sitting in the door of a temple, legs folded, was a yogi, thin as paper, eyes flashing in exaltation. Devastated by his gaze, she surrendered and became him.

  'As you will notice, ladies and gentlemen—'The magician lifted the lid, his forehead pounding. So he had loved her there, too, in the incense of Benares the sacred city, in the seventy-nine positions. '—the box is empty.'

  He worked the lid, with shaking hands. The stage was covered in visions. In the centre was a beating heart from which civilizations were streaming. Upon the Mayan cliffs he saw a priest in gold robes lower his knife into a virgin, naked on an altar of stone.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will notice—' He turned the box upside down. '—no false bottom, no escape hatch.'

  The temple of the sun crumbled, was covered by the jungle, faded into the earth. The priest vanished, only to emerge again from the beating heart, into the court of the virgin, now a Syrian Queen, and it was she who bestowed upon him the high honour of her favoured circle. With great ceremony and the blowing of trumpets was he castrated.

  'Now, ladies and gentlemen,' he said, wiping the sweat from his brow, 'you will observe the teeth of this saw are sharp as a razor.' He brushed the air in front of his eyes, fighting through the cobwebs of memory: In the last century, he had left a townhouse in top hat and evening cape, swinging a silver-headed cane. Following the opera, drawn by the moontide, he retired to a brothel to escape the rain, and there in the parlour she sat, laughing darkly, clad in beads. Let me take you away, he said, and no, she said, removing her beads, it is impossible.

  'Very well,' said the magician, 'a piece of magic rarely seen west of Morocco.' He picked her up, laid her in the box. Just so, long ago, in the shadow of the Sphinx, had he tucked her away, into the pyramid.

  Upwards she rose, with brilliant birds, to their paradise, where she reclined on a couch in the heaven of her lover. It is for the secret of your illusions that I love you, she said, as they floated through triangles.

  She heard the music of the conch horn, bells, and he, on a platform, thousand-eyed, revealed himself to her as he truly was, and he was, in fact, invisible. No, she said, I must have you, and there, she saw to her relief, he was the swan and she his lake. These, my true regions, he whispered, and became the lotus floating, then the toad.

  '. . . this perilous operation, learned in Cairo. . . .' He closed the lid, sat on the box. Glancing backstage through the curtains and cables, he saw his wife, smiling at him from the wings. Yes, he thought, I'm in a bit of a mess. Sweating coldly, he looked down at the box, inside of which his subject lay sleeping.

  And who am I? she asked, dissolving into this life, that life, here, there, palaces and so forth, and then, satisfied that she was eternal, she relaxed, recognizing from the heights: She was no one.

  He began to saw.

  She heard the slow beating of a drum, saw the jungle, wild plumage. Her body covered in gold fur, she beheld him seated across from her, in the door of a mountain cave, licking his great paw, ferocious, her king, winking at her.

  'It is not often I perform this feat for fear of arrest,' said the magician. 'However, since we are at the end of town . . .' The teeth ripped through the box and sawdust flew in the air.

  Back, back, she was gone, more was coming. They were clumsy dragons, loving in lost swamps. His long neck, green skin, ponderable his tail, and her strange egg: The night was pterodactyl, sharp-beaked, she was afraid. Somewhere, she thought, I was a girl.

  'I will now ask the gentleman in the front row, that is right, you sir, to come up and examine the depth of the incision I have made in this box.' The magician leaned confidently on the box, inside of which the saw was deeply inserted.

  The camel will take us away, he whispered, and turning, she saw a kneeling sad-eyed beast. Lifting her silken robe, white, embroidered with dragons, she climbed up to the cab atop the camel's back, where sat the magician, smiling, clad in the cloak of the desert. Slowly the beast stood and walked, like the rocking of waves.

  'Very well, my good man,' said the magician, 'if you are satisfied that no chicanery is being offered here, I shall proceed.'

  Across the night sand they rode, beneath the lonely heavens, he silent, she in prayer, until they came to an oasis, around which a fierce tribe had gathered, and he was their chief. She descended amid the animals and the oil lamps. Attended by his other wives, she was taken into an arabesque tent. A rug was spread, pillows, their dinner, dates, wine. She listened to voices outside their tent talking of battle and it thrilled her.

  'Observe: The torso is separated from the legs.'

  She was his tenth wife, bore him a son, lived a life of precious price in Bagdad, died an old woman, was buried in a jewelled ebony box. Death
was dark and impossible, the coffin opened. He stood over it, in a faded tuxedo, beckoning to her. 'You're back,' he said.

  She stepped out, weakly, on to the smoky stage. People were clapping dully. The room was spinning. She fell into his arms. 'Never leave me,' she whispered.

  He bowed, took her by the hand. The stage was bending. Her legs were trembling and she could not feel her feet. Slowly, he led her towards the stairs. Yes, she thought, he's taking me away.

  'Goodbye,' he said. The spotlight blinded her. She turned away and saw behind him on the stage a piece of scenery—a balcony window above a courtyard. She stared down a pathway in the painted garden, to the sea, and the white sail of a passing ship. 'Take me away,' she said.

  'Impossible,' he said, his face pale and drawn.

  She turned to the stairs with trepidation, for they were moving, as if alive. 'I thought I was a young girl,' she said, warily placing her foot on the top step. 'I am an ancient woman.'

  He released her hand, and turning to the audience, bowed once again, then withdrew across the stage into the wings.

  Music began. She descended the stairs. Girls with painted faces came out behind her on the stage, covered in balloons. She stepped carefully on to the floor of the cabaret, which appeared to be tilted on its side. Someone was at her elbow, with his arm around her waist. 'Well, my dear,' asked her elderly escort, 'how did you like being sawed in half?'

  A stagehand carried the box into the wings. The magician carried it the rest of the way, into the dressing room, where his wife sat, reading a paper. Beside her in a chair, a child was sleeping.

  'How tired you look,' she said. 'Are you all right?'

  'Yes, of course,' he said, removing his tie.