Kaytek the Wizard

by Janusz Korczak

  After the interval, the boxers enter the arena. The African is the tallest – he takes mighty strides. There’s a real show to watch.

  During the fight between the third pair, a Hungarian and a Greek, Kaytek is so excited that he forgets where he is, and shouts out in Polish: “Whack him! Again! Hit him! Harder!”

  Just at that point a beautiful lady comes and sits in the empty seat next to Kaytek.

  Kaytek goes on shouting, and she watches, with a smile on her face. Then she takes a golden cup and a flask out of her purse and asks politely: “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  Kaytek’s throat is dry from all the shouting. So he takes the cup, drinks the wine, and thanks her. Then he hands it back to her.

  At last – out comes the African. The whites of his eyes are shining. He smiles, flashing his white teeth. He bows. There’s thunderous applause. Someone throws flowers, someone else throws tomatoes. The African eats them, licks his lips, rubs his stomach, and says: “Yum, that’s tasty!”

  But where’s the Turk? Send in the Turk. What’s keeping him?

  “Hurry up! Get started!” people shout.

  Then the circus manager enters the arena in a black tail coat.

  “The Turk has fallen ill,” he explains.

  “It’s all lies! It’s a swindle! Show him to us,” shout the people in the gallery, louder and louder. A doctor and a nurse bring in the Turk; it’s plain to see he can’t possibly fight.

  “He has a fever. His nose is bandaged.”

  “Why didn’t you warn us? We want our money back. You won’t get away with this!”

  Suddenly Kaytek leaps up from his seat, but no one takes any notice. He covers his face with a red mask, but no one has spotted him yet. He pushes his way through to the aisle, runs down the steps and shouts in a mighty voice: “I will stand in for the Turk. I’m going to fight in his place!”

  Ushers in red livery try to stop him, but they fail. He’s already in the arena.

  “The Red Mask! The Red Mask! Who is this boy?”

  The circus manager turns and stares at Kaytek. He can’t understand what’s going on.

  Meanwhile the people in the gallery are shouting: “Quit clowning around! You grafters! Quit playing dumb!”

  But the people in the stalls and the boxes – the rich members of the audience – are laughing. They’re curious to know what sort of a surprise the manager has prepared for them because he’s famous for his quirky ideas. And it really is a comical sight – in the entire history of boxing, no one had ever seen a pair of fighters quite like this one.

  The African also thinks the white guys are having a joke. He goes up to Kaytek smiling, then tries to take him by the hand to lift him up, so they can have a better look at him . . .

  But Kaytek breaks free and leaps in the air. Somehow he hits the African so nimbly with his entire body that he falls over, and Kaytek jumps on top of him. The African clumsily gets to his feet, but Kaytek is already in boxing gloves and has hit him twice. Now Kaytek is standing, and the African is lying down.

  Everyone is laughing.

  “The little guy’s putting on a good turn. Let him show his strength. Let him show what he can do.”

  Kaytek nods to the circus manager, and whispers something in his ear.

  At once the ushers bring in an iron bar with two heavy balls at either end. Kaytek spits on his palms and stands with his legs apart, but pretends he can’t shift the bar.

  “Too heavy!” cries the gallery. “Bring something else.”

  The ushers try to take it away, but Kaytek gives them such a hard push that they stagger back. He throws off his jacket, blows a kiss to the gallery, gives a shout, runs up and grabs the weight with one hand. He lifts it, throws it up, and catches it. He spins it in the air twice, and then hurls it onto the sand. Landing with a dull thud, the iron balls stick into the ground.

  “Well then? Am I good enough?” cries the Red Mask to the audience.

  “We’ll take him! We’re on!”

  “All right. Let him fight.”

  The confused African looks at Kaytek. He alone may have realized Kaytek’s secret, because some Africans believe in magic.

  “Look! The African’s afraid. Long live the Red Mask!”

  The band starts to play, and the manager sends for sportswear at high speed.

  Kaytek attacks in a casual kind of way. The African just drives him off, as if he were a persistent fly.

  It’s clear he’s just pretending to be on the defensive. The white guy knows what he’s doing, the white guy is smart: he pulled some kind of joke with the barbell.

  But the people in the gallery are on the alert – they won’t let themselves be taken for a ride.

  “Enough! This ain’t what we want!” they shout, dissatisfied.

  Just at that moment the African takes three mighty punches, short and fast as lightning.

  At once the audience falls silent.

  The African is spitting blood. Now he’s defending himself more carefully. Kaytek makes a sharp attack. His nimble leaps arouse even greater admiration than his strength.

  “It looks as if they really are fighting,” says the president of the boxing club, who is sitting in a box.

  “Indeed. But the African’s not attacking at all.”

  “Maybe you’d like to see him slaughter the kid?”

  “No, I wouldn’t, but I’m worried. You see, the African is sore now. If the gallery gets him steamed up with their shouting, the fun might end badly.”

  And the gallery is shouting: “Don’t give up, African! Well done, Red Mask! Down with the monkey! Chimp! Gorilla!*”

  The African isn’t laughing any more. He isn’t letting Kaytek out of his sight. He has a plan: he’ll push Kaytek to make him dislocate his arm – he might even break it, but he has to punish him. The boy will scream with pain, and his arm will hang helplessly.

  But Kaytek’s feeling encouraged as well as mad because the African isn’t attacking – he keeps skipping around him, battering him from all sides at once. But the mask is getting in his way, he’s out of breath, and his heart is aching more and more.

  The umpire blows his whistle.

  Kaytek slumps onto his chair. The attendants rub down his numb arms and legs. The circus manager fans him with a towel.

  “That’s enough!” some people are calling.

  “Don’t stop the fight! We want to see more!” shout others.

  The African gets up and waits. He’s seething with rage.

  And so the second round begins.

  Wham, wham! The punches rain down thick and fast like hailstones. The African leans forward and takes a punch. He sways and staggers backward.

  He clenches his teeth. Now he’s coming back at Kaytek.

  Total silence – the entire audience has frozen in anticipation.

  Sheer terror – he’ll kill him. The more nervous people have closed their eyes. Two duchesses and a marquise have fainted. Afterward the circus manager will say he has only seen a scene like this one at the circus once before, five years ago in London, when a lion got ready to jump on his tamer.

  It’s a terrible sight.

  Rocking and leaning forward with bloodshot eyes, the African is coming toward Kaytek.

  Quietly Kaytek says: “Stop. I command you: stop!”

  The African stops. He raises his arm.

  Make my face change. Make it change, thinks Kaytek, and tears the mask from his face. Now!

  “Snap, snap, snap!” the photographers click away. The movie cameras whir and the flash lamps hiss.

  The African aims an enormous black paw at Kaytek’s head. He holds the other one low, ready to parry a blow. His teeth are clenched, his face is contorted.

  Kaytek is done for!

  The police chief takes out a revolver. Too
late.

  A dull thud resounds as the African’s swing sends him tumbling to the floor because Kaytek has dodged in time. Kaytek’s small hand showers punches on the African, whose muscles are twitching under the skin. Sluggishly the African gets up; he has lost faith in his lucky star. His fame has been eclipsed, and he’s not even pretending now. He tries to defend himself awkwardly. Yes, this really is a fight.

  The whistle goes.

  Everything has gone dark before Kaytek’s eyes. He can’t hear the shouting or the applause. He sits torpidly on his chair.

  The African comes up and places Kaytek’s foot on the back of his own neck. Kaytek opens his eyes, and stretches out his arms with an effort. The African rests his head on Kaytek’s knees; Kaytek kisses him on the head, and strokes his curly hair.

  People are crying. There’s a hurricane of applause.

  The giant gently picks Kaytek up and carries him out of the arena.

  Once again Kaytek is in a hotel, but it’s a different, expensive one. He’s lying in a wonderful bed, in the royal suite. And crowds of people have gathered in the street outside.

  “I’m taking him to America for ten thousand dollars,” shouts a man.

  “I’ll give him a hundred thousand,” cries another stout gentleman.

  “I’m here to offer congratulations on behalf of the boxing club.”

  “A basket of flowers from the Marquise.”

  A man with binoculars pushes through the crowd.

  “Please let me into the little boxer’s room. I’m from the press agency. I must write for the papers where he came from, and who exactly he is.”

  The doorman bows low, lower, right down to the ground.

  “I am sorry, but no one is allowed to see him. I am sorry, but it is not permitted. I am sorry, but not today.”

  “But my papers have to know. My readers cannot wait.”

  The circus manager comes out in front of the hotel.

  “It’s not possible, gentlemen. The doctor has categorically forbidden it. The boy is very tired.”

  “But I must see him. Where did you find him? I’m a journalist.”

  “Jump in my car, sir. Let’s go dine together.”

  They get into the car and start talking.

  “So you really don’t know much about him? That’s too bad. In two hours they’ll start printing the morning papers. We must write about him. Is he French? Is he Parisian? Does he have parents? Is he an orphan? What has he been doing until now?”

  “The doctor has forbidden him to speak. You understand, sir – it’s his heart. He’s made such a big effort.”

  “That’s too bad. But we must have some information. I’ve promised it to four newspapers. And to cap it all, I’m as hungry as a wolf.”

  The car stops outside a restaurant.

  “You order something to eat, I’m going to make a call,” says the journalist.

  He calls the first newspaper and says: “The Red Mask who beat the African is the son of a drunk. His father sold him to the Gypsies and he’s been performing with a traveling circus. This is his first time in Paris . . .”

  Then he calls the second newspaper and says: “The mystery boy is the son of a lord. When he was six years old, he was already strong – he killed his own brother in a fight. Their dad threw him out and he hid in a fisherman’s hut. Then he took part in some whale hunting expeditions . . .”

  Next he calls the third paper: “The little boxer comes from a family of miners. He was born during a fire. He used to haul coal and earned a living for his entire family – his mother, two sisters, and brother.”

  Finally he calls the fourth one: “When he was a year old, he got lost in the woods. He was brought up in the mountains by a female brown bear. That’s why he’s so strong. He only heard human speech for the first time recently. His grandpa is Oaktoppler the Giant and his grandma is Mountaintoppler the Giantess. Anyway, write whatever you like. I’m hungry and that’s enough.”

  He slams down the receiver and goes into the dining room.

  The circus manager is sitting at a table with some literary types and some bankers.

  At every single table, they’re all talking about Kaytek.

  “Well, what a ball we had with that kid! In all my life I’ve never seen anything like it, even though I’ve reported from three wars. I’ve been on expeditions to the North Pole and the Gobi Desert. I’ve seen ten royal coronations. I’ve been to the top of all the pyramids and the Tower of Babel. I’ve fought twenty-six duels. I’ve been hunting for eagles high in the mountains. I’ve been torn to pieces twice – once by a tiger and once by a cannonball. I’ve drowned, been poisoned, and strung up on an Indian gallows – in Africa I was boiled by cannibals in a stock made of hawksbill turtles. But all that’s nothing compared with today’s fight.”

  The circus manager knocks gently on the door of Kaytek’s room, and out comes a doctor in a white coat.

  “What’s the news?”

  “He’s asleep. He’s breathing calmly now. He even has a good pulse. Tomorrow I’ll let you talk to him, but only you, and only for five minutes.”

  “That’s good. Well, I’m off to sleep, I’m tired too.”

  Outside the hotel, the manager bumps into the African.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I come to see boy. I want him to live. I want him not be sick. I love little boxer kid! Him fight real great! Attaboy, he’s a gem!”

  * * *

  *See Translator’s Afterword.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Three performances at the circus – A swimming display – On the ship – Kaytek the movie star

  They say the circus manager is a drunk who’s always playing cards, and they say he’s greedy and he’s mean.

  Well yes, it’s true. He does like a drink, and he does play cards, and he haggles with the performers because he wants more money. They say he has luck, he “has a nose,” which means he can sniff out a good deal when it comes his way.

  But they don’t say why that is so: it’s because the manager loves the circus, he loves the horses, and he loves people with talent.

  He spent two months bargaining with Baron Berg before buying an Arabian stallion from him for the circus; the stallion was the grandson of Almanzor and Bela, the son of Reshal and Flora. He entrusted the training of the wonderful Arabian horse to Paulo Dorini, who was still young and unknown at the time.

  And didn’t he buy the most expensive Bengal tigers for Leo­pardi, the famous animal tamer?

  Wasn’t it he who set up the aquatic pantomime show for Mironov, the dancing lady?

  And who do the twin clowns Flip and Flap have to thank for their fame?

  And who looked after Valetti the acrobat when he broke his leg at a foreign circus in Boston? Who arranged a big birthday party for old Potin, when everyone else had forgotten him?

  In order to make money, you have to be smart, and in order to spend the money you’ve made, you have to be clever.

  The circus manager recognizes and appreciates Kaytek’s value. Kaytek couldn’t have found a better guardian.

  “Listen, my dear pal,” says the circus manager, “they want to give you a hundred thousand dollars for a boxing tour in America. They want to give me three hundred thousand francs for you; but I’m not a middleman. I’ve consulted the doctors. They say you’ll be fully recovered in a week. But if you overexert yourself and cause this cardiac dilation to happen a couple more times, you’ll be crippled forever. You’ll have a chronic cough, you’ll be short of breath, and you’ll have swollen legs – you’ll be like a sick old man for the rest of your life. I advise you not to do it.”

  “What do you advise me to do?” asks Kaytek.

  “My plan is this. You give three performances at my circus because the whole of Paris wants to see you. Each perfor­
mance will only be ten minutes long. They’ll be easy displays of agility, not strength. Then at my own cost I’m sending you to Hollywood in America. You’ll be accompanied by a doctor, a gymnastics coach, a music teacher, and a secretary. You’ll have a house and garden there, your own car, and a horse. I’ll buy all that, I’ll pay for it. You’re going to be a movie star, not a circus performer. When you grow up, you can go back to the circus if that’s what you want.”

  “It’s a deal,” says Kaytek.

  “I’m very pleased you have confidence in me.”

  They seal the contract with a warm handshake.

  “Three appearances by the Red Mask,” announce bills posted on pillars and walls and advertisements in the papers, all showing Kaytek’s picture.

  He’s a strong man. A boxer. He’s famous!

  “In three days . . . The day after tomorrow . . . Tomorrow.”

  Each performance will last seven minutes and forty seconds – that’s what the doctors have ordered.

  Kaytek enters the floodlit arena riding the Arabian horse and wearing a leotard with a sash glittering with gold and green sequins. The band is playing. The horse is proudly shaking his mane. Kaytek is waving to the audience.

  The African brings in a table. On it there are various rings, bars, banners, and balls. It’s a display of agility.

  “We refuse!” someone shouts, and then everyone else joins in, shouting: “We refuse! We won’t let him! No tricks! Don’t tire the boy! Give him a coat or he’ll catch cold! Let him grow and be healthy . . .”

  Kaytek gestures to show he’s not tired at all. The circus manager comes out and tries to calm the audience.

  “Just five minutes.”

  “No! No tricks. Not for a moment. We came to show him to our children and to see him for ourselves.”

  There are lots of children at the circus. They clap and throw flowers.

  Kaytek feels regret, but the circus manager says the spectators have the right to make demands – they have the right to say no.