Now You See It

by Richard Matheson

  The lid of Pandora’s box was about to be raised.

  chapter 6

  No, wait. Before we do,” said Harry. I saw him brace himself. “You know Cassandra’s really worried about you.”

  “She’s said so,” Max acknowledged.

  “Said so?” Harry frowned. “You don’t believe her?”

  Max did not reply. Stubbing out his cigar on an ashtray, he reached down beside himself on the chair and picked up a red billiard ball; I hadn’t noticed it there. (Well, my observation powers weren’t perfect, you know, as you will see.)

  Tossing the ball into his left hand, he dropped it back into his right.

  “Max, you know she’s on your side,” said Harry.

  Max did not respond. Again, he tossed the ball into his left hand, letting it drop to his right once more.

  A third time, he made the tossing motion, but the ball now disappeared. (Palmed in his right, of course, the elementary Throw Vanish.)

  “Max, she wants the best for you,” Harry told him.

  His features hardened as Max continued playing with the billiard ball, causing it to Reproduce, then Reproduce again, his face intent as he performed “Twirls” with his thumb and forefinger to prove that what was actually a shell was another solid billiard ball.

  An attempted “Acquitment” (transfer of the ball from right to left hand) to create another “Vanish” failed, and the billiard ball fell to his lap. Angrily, he picked it up again.

  “Max, come on,” said Harry, trying to sound patient—in vain.

  Max said nothing but began again, the billiard ball becoming two, then three. He waved his right hand up and down, the ball between his first and middle fingers “hinged back” into the shell. Now you’ve got it, Sonny boy, I thought.

  At which, he dropped the ball again. It bounced off his lap to hit the carpeting and roll away. Max slumped back and closed his eyes. “Tada,” he muttered, a forlorn fanfare to his faltering hands. (I felt his despair; only another magician could truly say that.)

  “Let it go, pal,” Harry told him, revealing unmistakably with those words that he could not possibly understand. “We have Vegas to discuss.” He was unable to conceal the edge of irritation in his voice.

  Max opened his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “We have Vegas to discuss.”

  Rising from his chair, Harry retrieved the fallen billiard ball and set it on the table. Then, reseating himself, he opened his attaché case and removed two copies of a contract, handing one to Max, who put on his glasses to read it.

  Noticing the lenses, Harry asked, “A little thick, aren’t they?”

  “One step removed from a Seeing Eye dog,” Max answered.

  Harry did not attempt to conceal his grimace. “Can’t you get contacts or something?”

  “Hadn’t thought about it,” Max replied.

  “Well, think about it,” Harry said. “I have another client who had bad eyesight, cataracts. Implants gave him back his vision better than it ever was.” Another grimace. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Some little time now.”

  Harry whistled softly. “That’s no good, Max. Have you seen a doctor?” Since he already knew the answer to that, I presumed he wanted to hear Max’s version of the situation.

  “What for?” Max responded. “I know what the diagnosis would be. ‘You’re going blind, Mr. Delacorte.’ Who needs to hear it?”

  “Blind, Max?” Harry stared at him, appalled; but not half as much as I was. When had all this started?

  “Well, not quite,” Max said. “It’s coming, though.”

  Harry swallowed, looking at his client, not his friend, I know. As it turned out, he was doubtless wondering if his visit and intended conversation were pointless now.

  He drew in a straining breath then. Oh, well, he thought (my guess). May as well go on with it. If it turns out to be pointless, let it happen when I’m somewhere else. I think I read his mind correctly. One-dimensional at best, connected directly to his facial muscles.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s move on.”

  Max cupped a hand behind his left ear. “Pardon?”

  Harry stared at him, expression pained. (It looked pained, anyway.) “Your hearing, too?” he asked.

  Max didn’t answer.

  “Have you tried a hearing aid?” asked Harry.

  Max shook his head.

  “Have you considered trying a hearing aid?” Harry persisted.

  “I’ve considered everything,” Max said. “Including suicide.”

  Oh, Sonny, no! my mind cried out. I would have wept if tears could flow.

  Harry had twitched at Max’s words. “Hey. Max,” he said. “I don’t want to hear you talk like that.” (He didn’t want to hear it!)

  Max said nothing, looking at the contract.

  Harry swallowed, took a sip of Diet Coke, paused, then went on. “About the act itself,” he said. Back to business; that was Harry.

  Max directed a warning look at him.

  “Max, it’s got to be discussed,” said Harry. “You’re playing a game with yourself by ignoring it.”

  Max started to speak but, sensing a power position, Harry cut him off. “Look,” he said, “you’re a performer in the grand tradition.” He knew about grand tradition? What a shock. “You always have been. No one’s ever going to take that from you. You made magic into an art form.”

  “My father made it into an art form,” Max corrected him. “I merely sustained the tradition.” God bless you for that, Son.

  “Whatever,” Harry said, disinterested. “That’s not the point. The point is, you’re closing your mind to the facts of life.

  “It’s not nineteen-thirty anymore—or the forties or the fifties; or the sixties. What was good enough for your father and you doesn’t cut it anymore. By the way, does he have to be in here?”

  “Yes,” said Max. “It’s his favorite room. Are you concerned about what he might hear?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Harry.

  “Nothing,” Max said. Something, I thought. “Go on.”

  Harry bared his teeth, then continued. “It’s nineteen-eighty, pal. Las Vegas. Lake Tahoe. Reno. Theaters in places that were the sticks when you started out. Television. Cable. Pay-per-view. Video cassettes.

  “Look at Henning; Copperfield. Everything they do is now, Max! Now! Quick. Smart. Vivid. State of the art. It’s no accident they’re where they are. It’s not the effects. It’s not! Your effects are still the best. But what you’re doing with them is behind the times, passé. You aren’t up to date, you’re out of touch. Can’t you see that? Cassandra can.”

  Max stiffened noticeably at that, but Harry, sensing his position strengthening, pressed on.

  “She knows what’s going on, Max,” he said. “Let her help you.”

  He braced himself; that was easy to see. “Especially now that your health is … giving you problems.” I’m sure he was about to use the word “failing,” then didn’t have the guts.

  Even so, I saw the skin drawn tight across Max’s cheeks.

  “All right, I shouldn’t have said that,” Harry retreated.

  “But you did,” said Max.

  Harry’s features tightened then. “Yes, I did,” he said. “It’s said. And—” He gritted his teeth. “Well, damn it, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

  Max said nothing, gazing at his agent with unblinking eyes, intimidating him.

  “All right,” Harry said. “I’m sorry. Shall we forge on?”

  He flipped over the first page of the contract. “You’re in luck,” he said. “The casino still wants you. Which, under the circumstances …” He let the sentence hang.

  “Baltimore?” asked Max.

  Harry’s gesture said, What else? (My God, how bad had it been? I wondered.)

  “Word travels quickly,” Max observed.

  “As quickly as a phone call,” Harry said. He flipped more contract pages. “The figures are on page six. And,
I might add, lots more bucks than they cared to be parted from.”

  Max only stared at him.

  Harry was about to go on when he heard the same faint sound that I did and looked around. “What’s that?” he muttered.

  Max cupped a hand behind his right ear. “Pardon?”

  “I-heard-a-noise,” Harry said, exaggerating his pronunciation.

  Max gestured vaguely. “I didn’t hear anything,” he said. (If he hadn’t, he really was going deaf; I’d heard it clearly.)

  Harry nodded disgruntledly. “Okay.” He looked back at the contracts. “Never mind. You on page six?”

  “Page six,” Max said.

  “You see what it is then,” Harry told him. “Ten weeks. Two shows a night. Seventeen-fifty per. You understand the conditions?”

  Max remained silent, and I saw how Harry tensed. Max always could get on his nerves—those gray-blue eyes, the autocratic demeanor; like father, like son.

  “Do - you - understand - the - conditions?” Harry asked, once more verbally exaggerating.

  When Max still didn’t reply, Harry continued quickly, curtly. “Co-billing for Cassandra. Your policy regarding partial nudity to be dismissed. I’m talking topless at the very least. Not Cassandra, of course.” His smile was perfunctory.

  They gazed at one another and, like Harry, I began to wonder what my son was thinking; his expression was unrevealing, a face carved from stone.

  “Well?” asked Harry.

  As though in response to his words, the sound occurred again, not faintly this time. Very distinct. A chuckle.

  Coming from the direction of the globe.

  Harry scowled. “That I know you heard,” he said. “I know you made it happen, too.”

  The smile on Max’s lips was somewhat more guarded than that of the Mona Lisa.

  Harry stood and moved toward the globe. Max rose to follow. “Its a new illusion,” he said. “I’m not prepared to show it yet.”

  “You shouldn’t have used it on me, then,” said Harry with a tight smile.

  “You may not like it,” Max warned.

  “I’ll take the chance,” said Harry.

  Reaching the globe, he examined it, finding no special feature.

  He ran his hand across the curved surface.

  Then he jerked it back abruptly as the outer layer of the globe rolled downward, revealing a glass globe underneath. I reacted with surprise; to what extent I could.

  Harry positively twitched, so startled was he by the sight that he could not prevent a gasp from pulling back his lips.

  Inside the globe was a head.

  His.

  chapter 7

  Harry gasped at the head. There was no denying it was his. It looked real in every way.

  Its eyes were closed.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said Harry. Bending over, he took a closer look.

  The head was larger than lifesize, I now saw. Still, it looked completely real. When did Max do this? I wondered. It had to have been at night when I was sleeping; when everyone was sleeping.

  “What the hell—” muttered Harry.

  He twitched again, shuddering this time and jerking erect.

  The eyes of the head had opened and were looking up at him.

  “Holy Jesus,” Harry muttered.

  Then a grin of pleasure creased his face and he turned to Max.

  “You son of a bitch,” he said in delight. “You tricky son of a bitch.”

  “You like it?” Max inquired.

  “Like it? Love it!” Harry exploded. He squinted at the head. “But what the hell is it?” he asked.

  “Laser-produced, holographically processed, stored imagery,” Max answered.

  Harry gave him a hooded look. “Yeah, that’s what I thought it was,” he said. He peered at the head, which peered back. (Two Harry Kendals in the same room; a true example of superfluity.) “A Three-D movie, right?” he asked.

  Max repressed a smile. “A bit more involved than that,” he said. I felt awed pride in him. He’d carried magic into the technological age, God bless him.

  “Controlled by—” Harry regarded him questioningly.

  Max removed a small remote-control box from the left-hand pocket of his smoking jacket and held it up. Harry beamed. “You son of a bitch,” he said fondly.

  He tapped the globe. “Now that’s what I’ve been talking about,” he said. “This is today.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Max, meaning something other than Harry did (we soon discovered).

  Harry was enthusing now. “Audiences are going to love it, pal! It’s state of the art! Las Vegas will—”

  “Forget it, Harry,” interrupted Harry’s head. “Las Vegas is out. Max didn’t ask you here to talk about Las Vegas.”

  Harry and I were both astonished, staring at the head. He began to laugh, then stopped as the words he’d just heard registered.

  “I don’t get it,” he said, the edge of irritation in his voice again.

  He looked back at the head as it began to speak once more.

  “Allow me to explain,” it said. “The Great Delacorte has been a star for almost twenty years—as his father was before him. The Great Delacorte springs from a half-century tradition of art and craft. Like his father, The Great Delacorte has been honored before crowned heads of Europe.

  “Yet you ask him now to entertain a herd of sheep. A gathering of dolts whose greatest passion lies in feeding coins to slot machines. The Great Delacorte has been acclaimed. Respected. Celebrated. World renowned.”

  The voice of the head was venomous now, charged with hatred.

  “Did you really think,” it said, “that The Great Delacorte would display his wonders on the bottom of an ornamented garbage can?”

  It may have been my most frustrating moment in those fourteen years—a desperate yearning to applaud with hands that lay like sides of beef on my lap.

  Harry had been stunned into silence; even anger was unavailable to him, he was so shocked.

  Then anger started rising.

  “Did you ask—” He broke off, furious; he had begun to ask a question of the head.

  Turning sharply to Max, he demanded, “Did you ask me all the way up here to have this goddam gizmo tell me off?”

  “In part,” said Max.

  The answer drifted over Harry’s head as he stormed on. “You knew before I came that you were going to say no, didn’t you?”

  Max didn’t answer. He depressed a button on the remote control and the outer layer of the globe glided back into place. Max returned the box to his pocket.

  Harry was in a rage now. “You had no intention of taking the Vegas job!” he railed. “Of letting Cassandra even try to help you, much less share co-billing! Or of improving your goddam act one goddam little bit!”

  With a grimace of disgust, he turned abruptly for the table by the chair. “Thanks to you, I’ve got a nice long, time-wasting ride back to Boston now,” he snarled.

  “What you, euphemistically, refer to as ‘the Vegas job’ consists of second billing in a downtown burlesque show,” said Max.

  “We take what we can get, babe,” Harry muttered, starting to return the contracts to his attaché case.

  “Like Magic Max, the half-wit host on the TV kiddie show?” Max asked. (That would have made me groan if I could have; I’d never heard about it.)

  “It was good money,” Harry snapped. “If you had any brains, you’d have grabbed it.”

  “Like ‘Delacorte’s Dandy Magic Kit’ for preschool toddlers?” Max responded.

  “It was good money, pal.” (Dear God, hit him, Max! my brain cried.)

  Harry slammed shut his attaché case, then tossed it on the chair, turning to confront Max.

  “I’ve got news for you,” he said. (The man actually sneered as he spoke.) “Maybe you haven’t figured it out yet, but The Great Delacorte has had it. In touch with the fucking mysterious has had it. People wanna laugh today. Have fun. Be entertained.”

  �
�Yucks?” asked Max.

  “You got it.”

  “Shtick?”

  “Right on.”

  “Razzmatazz?”

  “Now you’re talking.” Harry was still sneering.

  “How about changing the name of the act to Necromancy and Knockers?” Max suggested. “Bewitchment and Boobs? In Touch with the Mammaries?”

  “Right!” Harry shouted.

  “Wrong!” Max shouted back.

  “Well, set me straight, O Great and Glorious Delacorte,” Harry derided.

  Max had to smile at Harry’s words. “That, I fear, would take an act of God,” he said.

  Harry made a contemptuous sound and started for the desk. Max moved to block his way—with an energy unexpected by me as well as by Harry. “Listen to me!” he said.

  Harry looked at him suspiciously but wouldn’t stop to listen; he started to move by Max, who clamped a hand on his arm with a grip so strong it made Harry wince. “Listen to me, I said,” Max told him.

  “I thought you were sick,” Harry said.

  “That is the effect I have created, yes,” Max responded. (My attention, now, was really caught.)

  Harry’s eyes had narrowed. “What?” he said.

  “Here is the reality,” Max went on, pointing at Harry. “I have no intention of degenerating with the marketplace. I will not ‘do’ downtown Vegas, playing a buffoon in a breakaway tuxedo while surrounding chorus girls display their silicone-enhanced protuberances.

  “Neither will I ‘do’ moronic kiddie shows on television. I will not create and market magic kits for second-graders. I will not perform at fairs or conventions or the openings of supermarkets. I will not ‘do’ witless commercials.

  “In brief, I will not despoil an act which I have nurtured carefully for fourteen years—which my father nurtured for fifty years. Failing eyesight, hearing on the wane, dexterity declining, I am still The Great Delacorte and I will not dishonor that most honorable of names!”

  I felt a double-edged reaction in my vitals.

  On the one hand, I felt utter agony that Max had been confronted by such humiliating offers.