The Magician's Tale

by William Bayer

  By the time they reached Japan he'd made up his mind: the twins would have to go. But then something unexpected, news that Aunt Molly, felled by a stroke, had been placed in a nursing home by her grown kids.

  David was upset; the twins were not. They pretended to be, engaged in some whimpering, enough to get them by. Seeing through their act, he was appalled by their coldness, wondering if he was now responsible for a pair of minor sociopaths.

  "They scared me, really did. Now I understand it was just Ariane. I realize I've been talking all afternoon about them as if they were one person when in fact there were two distinct personalities involved. She was powerful, he was easygoing. She was dominant, he submissive. She was fearless, and now that I think of it, cool, distant and very strange. He, though similar in many respects, was warmer, more like a normal child.

  "At the time all this happened, remember, they were at the age when kids get, you know"—David smiles—''sexualized. Hormones raging through their bodies. Hair sprouting up in odd places. Loss of innocence, not that they ever had much of it . . . but they looked as if they did. Now suddenly they were horny, and, if that weren't enough, were turning rebellious. Not on the stage—there they were smooth as country cream. But offstage they started making demands for what Ariane referred to as their fair share of the earnings. They wanted to stay out late, eat out in restaurants, go dancing, do as they pleased. What could I do with them? Couldn't send them home—there was no longer a home to send them to. Couldn't abandon them to their own devices—they were still far too young. But I couldn't control them anymore. They refused to accept my discipline. It was obvious things couldn't go on this way, that we were headed for a crisis."

  The waiters, restless and forlorn, no longer hide their irritation. David suggests we adjourn to the lobby, where, he promises, he will finish up his tale.

  "I've barely mentioned Bev. That's a saga in itself. But you should know she was sensitive to what was happening and very affectionate with the twins. She'd been tutoring them for five years, so well that when she took them to an American school in Japan, they tested at an eleventh-grade level. She'd grown close to them, was concerned for them . . . and also for me. She didn't think the twins and I were good for each other anymore. We discussed this a lot, agreed a separation was in order. A year or two apart, we felt, would be in the best interests of all concerned. When she came up with the idea of enrolling them in a private boarding school, I agreed this was our only remedy.

  "She set out at once to find them a proper school, one that would provide guidance and discipline while still nurturing their creativity. She sent out letters. Catalogues came back. At first the twins were scornful. They'd glance at a catalogue, then toss it aside. The school looked like a prison, the teachers looked stupid, the kids looked like nerds. But Bev was patient. Gradually she got them involved. Perhaps there was a decent place somewhere in the world, she said, where they could spend a couple of happy years studying, preparing for college, participating in sports, making friends.

  "On this later point Ariane was quite resistant. She got angry whenever we'd suggest she and Tim make friends their own age. 'We don't want friends our own age,' she'd say. 'We've far more in common with adults.' And she was right.

  "Finally, after months of prodding, we narrowed the choice to three schools. I sent out letters. The first to come back requested grade transcripts and recommendations. That left two. Both were interested. The head of the American School of Tangier wrote of its exceptional drama program, while the principal of the Piñon Valley School in Scottsdale, Arizona, mentioned its progressive policies and, in view of the twins' unusual background, offered them three-quarter scholarships. Needless to say, Piñon Valley was our choice."

  David and I occupy one of those formal furniture groupings that adorn hotel lobbies, a square composed of couches and easy chairs arranged about a low marble table. David, reclining against soft cushions, has dropped his busy mannerisms of the afternoon, flutterings of the hands and touchings of the mustache, the diversionary tactics of a magician. He sits still, his voice, previously so theatrical, now sounding weary and also, finally, real.

  "We had a lot of fun getting them ready for school," he says, "buying them proper clothes, shoes, luggage, heaping them with gifts—cameras, backpacks, tennis rackets, Walkmans, everything we thought prep school kids ought to have. We got them fresh passports, made airline reservations, air-shipped ahead trunks filled with sheets, pillows, blankets and towels. We even sent a crate of magical apparatus so they could amuse and astound their schoolmates.

  "The night before their departure, we had a lavish farewell dinner in a private room at the best restaurant in Osaka. Lots of talk, laughter, they seemed so happy and relaxed. We reminisced about the last five years, recalling our successes, the great days of the Zamantha Illusion, our many misadventures too. They seemed so normal that night, natural, at ease. When we said goodnight we embraced and kissed. In the morning, at the airport, I found myself shedding tears. I hoped, I told them, in the spring to bring the act back to the States. Then we would see them often. Their last words to me were thanks for everything I'd done, the precious world I'd opened for them, the tricks and life lessons I'd taught. Then they were off. Bev and I stayed past the takeoff, until the great plane disappeared. Then we returned to the city and walked around feeling relieved but also empty, the way I imagine all parents feel the day they first send their kids off into the world."

  David looks down, shakes his head. "We never saw them again. We know they got to L.A. Immigration and customs records confirmed that much. They were to change planes for Phoenix, but they never checked in for their flight. We didn't even know they were missing until two days past the time they were due, when we received a telegram from the school informing us they hadn't arrived. We were worried sick. Could they have been abducted? That didn't seem likely at their age. Perhaps they'd taken a little vacation, gone off on their own for a couple of days. Surely, I thought, they'd turn up. But then I remembered the odd formality of their goodbyes. There was something final about their manner, something in the nature of a permanent farewell. It was then that it occurred to me they'd flown the coop."

  Now another change of demeanor as the chuckle fades and hurt creases David's face. "Yes, they'd flown, and, more than that, they'd absconded with half my funds."

  Being an itinerant magician, David received his earnings in local currency, either from theater managers or direct from audiences when he performed outdoors. Since the troupe lived in hotels and ate in restaurants, he paid all expenses out of pocket, converting the surplus into money orders which, from time to time and from wherever he happened to be, he mailed off to his bank in New York. There the savings accumulated in various accounts, adding up after three years abroad to not inconsiderable sums.

  In one money market account alone, there was fifty thousand dollars. As David later reconstructed the scam, most certainly masterminded by Ariane, the twins prepared a series of documents authorizing the bank to transfer that money to an account they set up at the Tokyo branch of an L.A. bank. The documents, which he later saw, bore his actual signature. The twins had tricked him into writing it by a classic sleight-of-hand substitution with a school parental permission form. Since the documents were in order, the signature correct and the transfer bank-to-bank, David's New York bank obliged. Having moved the money to Japan, the twins intercepted the confirmation letter, withdrew the funds in cash, which they took with them on their flight to the States, in the process committing several serious felonies, not the least of which was wire fraud.

  David moans. "They only took half my savings, their way, I suppose, of acknowledging all the fine things they thanked me for as they left. A few weeks later we received a postcard from Mexico City, short and sweet. I remember it well: 'Dear David and Bev: We're happy, healthy and safe. Sorry about the money, but what else could we do? We figure we earned it and you can easily make more ... which we cannot. We miss you both. Love, A.
and T.'" David looks at me. "Can you imagine?" He shakes his head."They were just thirteen years old."

  On my way home in a taxi, my mind whirls. I'm amazed by what I've heard. I could have stayed on at the Mark Hopkins to talk all night; David as much as asked me to. But after eight hours of nonstop listening I was too exhausted. Also, I needed time to assimilate his story.

  I now understand many things—how Tim learned to juggle and do card tricks; the identity of the person David called "the other" and "she" and referred to as "A." in his letter. I wonder: Is Ariane still around? Is she the mysterious girl Tim wanted me to photograph? Is she the person I momentarily mistook for him on the street the day I cleaned out his flat?

  For that matter, was the fifty thousand he told me he'd saved the same fifty he and Ariane ripped off? Finally, what if anything does all this have to do with the way Tim was killed?

  Downstairs, in the lobby of my building, I find the same Styrofoam box, ribbon neatly retied, that I left for the Youth in Sterling Park. Inside I find the ham and Coke untouched, and a "Dear Kay" note signed "Drake" handwritten in large round letters thanking me for the provisions. So . . . now I know my homeless savior's name and that he's a vegetarian who prefers organic food. Only in San Francisco, I think. I resolve to leave a fresh package for him soon.

  The blinking light on my answering machine greets me as I open my door. I rewind the tape, find two messages, one from Hilly saying she's got what I want, the other from Dr. Sasha Patel expressing concern over my health and inquiring whether I'm free to go out with him Saturday night.

  After a shower, dressed only in my robe, I spend half an hour with my telescope snooping around. Lights are on in the Judge's penthouse. I think I see people moving behind the glass doors. Perhaps he's hosting a dinner party, one of those intimate candlelit affairs for six he likes so much. Good talk, good wine, a rich French stew, followed by salad accompanied by a cheese soufflé, with fresh ripe fruit for dessert. Among the guests perhaps the dance critic from the Chronicle, the stunning assistant U.S. attorney who argued so brilliantly before him the week before, his old law school roommate and charming wife, and the Judge's latest Special Friend, who works at the Butterfield & Butterfield auction house and has the body of a swimsuit model.

  Flickering light illuminates the table. The talk turns mellow as the candles burn down. Talk of art and theater, the latest production at Berkeley Rep, the mayoral race, the future of the Presidio and such as that. Even as I watch, four of the guests rise to leave. Air is kissed, bodies are hugged, then a long lingering farewell at the door.

  Finally the Judge and Special Friend are left alone. He turns to her, reaches out with his arms. Their faces draw close. Their glistening lips are about to touch . . .

  Savagely I jerk my telescope away. It takes me a moment to realize I've actually seen none of this, have been looking through the eyepiece with closed eyes, indulging in a fantasy.

  Just as I fall to sleep I'm struck by a thought: Could Tim's androgyny, which I found so engaging, so attractive, be accounted for by the fact that in the Zamantha Illusion he played a girl?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Only four of us attend the scattering of Tim's ashes, Doreen and Alyson in full drag, David deGeoffroy and myself. It's a sour morning, the sea fog hangs like a canopy above the Bay. Once through the Golden Gate and in open sea the water turns rough, we shiver beneath the metallic sky, the boat isn't large, we're all uncomfortable and Alyson looks as if she'll maybe puke.

  We do the job quickly, David holding out the urn, allowing the ashes to be caught by the wind . . . which blows them north toward the Marin headlands. Chrysopylae was the original name given to these straits in 1846, Greek for "Golden Gate," an attempt to mirror Chrysoceras or Golden Horn, the Byzantine name for the harbor of Constantinople. Chrysopylae: I love the sound of that word, mutter it several times to myself as the ashes spin into the air. Once they're gone, we return to San Francisco, David pays off the captain, we find a cab at the wharf, drop the girls at the Hampshire Arms, then drive on to my building on Russian Hill.

  The purpose is for David to pick up Tim's belongings, but upstairs he looks so sad I play good hostess and offer him a glass of Chardonnay.

  "Beautiful place you got here, Kay," he says, despite the fact that fog obscures the views. "And I like your black and white decor. Austere." He peers at me. "A bit like you."

  I haul out Tim's stuff. We sit on the floor and sort through it. David smiles at the clothes. "Hard to imagine him so tall." He holds up Tim's Walkman. "I wonder—is this the one I bought him in Japan?"

  There's something maudlin about him today. The dandified clothing's the same, but the manner is not. He's moody, disturbed. The mawkishness, I decide, is a cover-up.

  Casually I pick up my camera, start taking pictures. David performs for me, makes a few faces, then, giving up control, resumes his examination of Tim's things. He thinks, quite wrongly, that I'll stop. He can't imagine I'd want to continue photographing him unposed. How poorly he understands. I want to find the vulnerable person hiding behind the double subterfuge, the imperious magician and the grief-stricken "uncle." I want the truth.

  "Quite the little shutterbug, aren't we, dear?" he enunciates in a brittle, irritated tone. Then, when I make no motion to stop: "Click-click-click! You know, dear, it does get boring after a while."

  I pause. He looks up at me. Whap!Whap!

  "Will you please fucking stop it!"

  "I won't," I tell him. "This is how I see."

  He spreads his arms, relents. "Sorry, Kay. Just edgy today, I guess."

  "Not because of Tim. You've known for a week he's dead. There's something else. What?"

  "It's her," he says. "She's nearby. I feel it."

  "Ariane?"

  He nods.

  "They could have split up. He never told me about her, didn't mention her to you in his note."

  He looks at the array of possessions. "Something missing here. Where's his passport, his address book?" David's right.

  "Maybe the cops have it. I'll check."

  He listens as I call Shanley. After I shrug and hang up, he shakes his head. "I still think she's around."

  "For all you know, she's married with kids in Kalamazoo. Or beating the bushes as an itinerant magician."

  "She's definitely not doing professional magic. That I've already checked."

  I study him as he sits on my floor surrounded by Tim's jeans, shirts, boots. "She was the one you loved," I say.

  "I loved them both."

  "But her most." I take another shot. Whap! "There's more to it, isn't there?"

  He lowers his eyes. He can't bring himself to confess.

  "They didn't just up and leave because you were sending them off to school. Did they, David? There was something else."

  He stands. He wants to leave. I've no intention of letting him go. If there's more, I mean to find out what it is.

  "Better tell me, David. You'll feel a lot better if you do."

  He sits down again amidst the scattered clothing. "Please, no more pictures," he begs.

  I set down my camera. He's silent. I sit beside him, prepared to listen.

  "Yes, I loved her," he admits. "Very much. I—" He shakes his head. "She felt my desire. She was so powerful, seductive. She came on to me. I couldn't resist." He pauses. "I'm still ashamed."

  "How long did this go on?"

  "Couple of months. We started just before the end."

  "Did Tim know?"

  "Probably. They confided everything. Also, they planned their escape so well. The stealing, fraud—later when I learned the dates, I realized they started on it shortly after she and I—" He shuts his eyes. "They probably figured that gave them the right, and . . . well . . . maybe it did. I never brought charges. It never occurred to me. I thought I'd wait them out, be patient, and sooner or later they'd come back. I made it easy for them, returned to New York, opened a mail-order magic house, took out ads in all the magic journals an
d magazines. A couple of years ago I started running a personal ad: 'Info Wanted on Zamantha Illusion.' I figured since magic was in their blood, eventually they'd see it, then they'd call or write. And so finally Tim did. Too late. He never got my reply."

  David interpreted Tim's note as a test to determine if David was searching for them to get his money back. They had to know that much before they risked a call. And Tim, being less emotionally involved, was the logical one to make the overture. The bland tone of his note was effective and sly.

  "'Working as a waiter, trying to make ends meet'—his way of telling me the money was long gone and he was working at an honest job. The hundred dollars I sent back was my way of telling him money wouldn't be an issue. I figured we'd write back and forth for a time, send each other these kinds of messages. Eventually, I hoped, he'd trust me enough to call. Then, perhaps, he'd allow me to see him, see them both."

  He shrugs, not, I understand, to dismiss the possibility, but the way a man might shrug when a great opportunity has been lost.

  "She's here. I'm certain. She may have seen us yesterday while we walked."

  "If that's true why didn't she contact the cops, take responsibility for his body?"

  Again David shrugs, turns his palms to the ceiling. "I just don't know," he says.

  He takes only Tim's Walkman, leaves the rest of the stuff with me to give away. After he goes, to check out of his hotel and catch his plane, I ask myself why I didn't tell him that Tim had spoken to me about a girl he knew, whom, for reasons never explained, I would very much want to photograph. Or the apparition I saw near the corner of Mission and Grace the day I cleaned out his studio. Or the mysterious person who entered with a key and tossed the studio between Crawf's and my visit and Shanley's. Or the fifty thousand dollars Tim claimed he'd saved. Or about Tim's dream of retiring to San Miguel de Allende—since the postcard from the twins had been mailed from Mexico City.