The Magician

by Sol Stein

  “I’d have guessed,” she said.

  Ed suddenly thought that Dr. Koch might leave before he could ask one question.

  “Dr. Koch?”

  “Yes?”

  “From what you know, can you tell why Urek did it?”

  “Ahh,” said Koch, “I know at this point little, but I can speculate.”

  “I didn’t mean to put you to any trouble.”

  “No, no, it is the business of human beings to speculate.” He folded his hands in front of his face, wondering how much he might say. Then he looked up. “There are,” he began, “three kinds of people. What I call category-one people go through life like solo athletes, at their own fast pace, toward their own goals, setting up their own obstacles to conquer. Independent people who are not in competition with others but their own capacities.” Dr. Koch took a deep breath. “Does that make sense?”

  Ed said nothing.

  “Category-two people are followers. They are content to obey instructions, are very good assistants to those with real leadership qualities. Category-two people are potentially dangerous because they are entirely dependent on others for their instructions.”

  “I don’t like putting people into categories,” said Ed.

  “Yes, yes, I agree,” said Dr. Koch. “I don’t even like putting things into categories. There are so many surprises. But…”

  “Aha,” said Lila, “here come the categories.”

  Dr. Koch laughed. “You see, a woman’s intuition. Yet, if we say women have superior intuition, we are categorizing. If we say men have better musculature, we are categorizing. Thinking would be an unstructured mess if we did not poke around in this anarchy and find some guides, even if in time we adjust and change them.”

  “My mother’s family came from Germany,” said Lila.

  “I’ve heard her on that subject,” said Ed.

  “Well,” said Lila, “people always say the Germans are like your category twos, dangerous because they follow instructions.”

  “Most people are category two,” said Dr. Koch. “You have them here in America, Russia, all over. Every business has them. The Germans make a specialty of it.”

  Lila started to protest just as the nurse came in. “I have to interrupt,” she said.

  “Please interrupt later,” said Ed.

  The nurse seemed startled.

  “This is Dr. Koch,” said Ed. “He’s here for special consultations.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, doctor,” said the nurse, “I thought you were a visitor. I’ll come back later.”

  The moment the door closed behind her, all three of them laughed.

  “You,” said Dr. Koch, “are definitely not category two.”

  “What category is Oswald?” asked Ed.

  “The Kennedy man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Three.”

  “You haven’t told us about category three,” said Lila.

  “The man who shot Martin Luther King,” said Ed.

  “James Earl Ray,” supplied Lila.

  “Is he category three?”

  “I think so. I think the boy who attacked you…”

  “Yes?”

  “He is category three. That is what I am studying. That is why I am here.”

  Dr. Koch saw how Ed and Lila, quite unconsciously, moved closer together.

  “I will tell you,” he said, struggling out of his jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair. “My hope is that if you understand you will not object if I study this case further. The public cases, assassins and so on—there is too much one cannot know. It is possible here I can develop something.”

  “Who are the category threes?”

  “Very restless people.”

  “I’m restless,” said Ed.

  “No. I mean, yes, but in a different way. You are restless to do, to stop being sick perhaps, to get on with your life. Category threes do not set their own goals, like category ones. Their achievements are not in response to some inner drive or talent. They burn with frustration at not being category-one people because they don’t know what they want.”

  “Well,” said Ed, “I’m not sure I know what I want. Most of the kids I know don’t know what they want.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dr. Koch, impatient now, “I was not clear. You want something that you will do, that you will make, that you will be, yes? Threes cannot tolerate category ones because ones make them feel shame about their lack of purpose. They are not content to follow, like category twos. They have no inner drive toward something—achievement, study, success, whatever. Because category ones have this drive, threes hate, I mean really hate, category ones. They are angry. They want to govern the followers, but to no end, you understand, no constructive purpose. And so they feel they must destroy the category ones in order to have power over category twos.”

  “What’s this got to do with Urek?”

  The doctor’s excitement was visible. “Everything. Somewhere inside him he knows—perhaps without thinking it—that his gang, his followers, will one day very soon leave him to take a job or go into the army and become good category twos like the majority of humanity. And that majority is led by category ones. Look, let me explain. Category ones do not, as a rule, commit crimes because they are too busy, right? Category twos are, well, policemen are category twos, they can obey the chief or the mayor or whoever, or the law, following instructions. The category threes is where the real criminals come from. Their lust is to destroy.”

  Koch stood up. “They cannot tolerate a society which allows category ones to humiliate them simply by existing. You are the enemy!”

  “I think I see,” said Ed. “If it’s true.”

  “You were defying this Urek by your unbreakable lock—but on top of that, by your magic show, you were doing something which requires a facility—which he sees as a power he cannot understand. You threaten him. That is why he must get rid of you.”

  “That’s a horrible way of looking at humanity,” said Lila, dropping Ed’s hand and uncurling from the bed.

  “Perhaps horrible. Perhaps also useful. It is easy to take in the beauty of life. It is difficult to understand its viciousness. I must go now.”

  Dr. Koch put his jacket back on, Lila helping him with it. “This,” he said, “is one of the clearest instances I have come across. When something like this happens with adults, it is complicated because they are in business together, or rivals over a woman, or political adversaries, but this is such a clear case, so simple. What do you think will happen to Urek now?”

  Ed thought a moment. “I guess it’s up to the judge.”

  Dr. Koch let a deep sigh escape him. “Alas, not. The law is powerless over category threes. It cannot punish them. It cannot deter them. Even in jail they will find number ones to attack. Society has not yet learned how to live with them.”

  For a moment Dr. Koch seemed lost in thought.

  Ed wanted to whisper something to Lila, but she raised a finger to her lips. Koch was coming out of his reverie.

  “It is possible I will be allowed to talk to Urek, perhaps before the trial—if not, after. Would you mind, can I then come to see you again, perhaps at home when you are better?”

  Ed wasn’t sure.

  “I can see you hesitate. I know it is an imposition.”

  “I wouldn’t like to become a case history in some book.”

  “If I write this up, it will be for a medical journal only, and if I do, I promise no real names.”

  “People can guess.”

  “Yes, I suppose that is always a risk.”

  “Is it important?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very?”

  “Yes, very.” Dr. Koch got up to go.

  “Sure,” said Ed. “Come back anytime.”

  Koch seemed pleased. “A thought has just occurred to me which I do not like to have thought of,” he said with a slight smile. “Your lady friend…”

  “Lila,” said Lila.

 
“Looks, from the side, a little like my Marta did—when she was young, of course. My wife, Marta, was a category one, and that is a very difficult thing for a woman. When she has no profession, I mean. And when she is married to a category two like me. A plodder with theories who follows the steps of Freud.”

  “Frankly,” said Lila, “I wish my teachers in school were like you.”

  “You are very kind. Almost like a European woman.”

  “You see, you’re categorizing again.”

  “Enough,” said Dr. Koch. “Here I am a tertium quid, a third party you two do not need.” He waved with open palm, first at Ed and then at Lila, in whose direction he also bowed.

  Chapter 14

  The cage in the village lockup, empty except for Urek, seemed huge for the short boy, who didn’t fall asleep till morning, and then slept fitfully because of the barracks chatter in the police squad room next door.

  Through the bars, on the wall opposite, he could see the large clock with the slow-moving hands. It annoyed him because it was the only thing to look at besides the plaster walls and the humiliating bars of the cell he was in. He’d open his eyes, his back aching from the hard bench, and the clock would tell him it was only fifteen or twenty minutes later, that he had dozed, not slept. He had refused breakfast at six A.M. Now it was nearly ten, and he was hungry. Where was Thomassy, who his father said was a wheel in this goddamn town?

  He banged on the bars with his shoe, producing a dull sound that attracted no one’s attention till one of the cops walked through headed elsewhere.

  “Put your shoe back on,” the cop said.

  Urek looked at him. He stooped to put his foot into the shoe.

  “That’s a good boy,” said the cop.

  “I didn’t get breakfast.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  The cop returned. “You turned down breakfast.”

  “I was trying to sleep.”

  “This isn’t a hotel. You eat when we bring it.”

  “Could I get some coffee? Please, huh?” He hated saying please.

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen.”

  The cop came back with coffee a few minutes later.

  “What about cream and sugar?”

  “Drink it the way it is.”

  Urek sat on the bench, hunched over the black coffee, which he had always diluted before with milk and three spoons of sugar. He realized for the first time that jail meant restriction.

  In another hour he was ready to crawl the walls with boredom, hating Thomassy. He called many times before someone came.

  “What are you yelling about?” said the sergeant.

  “Do I get to exercise in the yard?”

  The sergeant said, “Look, kid, this isn’t a jail, it’s a lockup.”

  “You got a yard.”

  “Do push-ups if you need exercise. Beat your meat.” The sergeant laughed and left.

  You have to be crazy to beat your meat with all those open bars in front of you. Anybody could come by. What do you do in jail? He had to beat this rap. Why didn’t his father or mother come to visit him? What was he supposed to do all day? He looked at the walls, the bars, the locked door, the high barred window. You couldn’t even escape if you wanted to, he thought, his rage rising.

  Then voices and footsteps promised a distraction. The policeman let Thomassy into the cell, locking it behind him. “Take as long as you like,” said the cop respectfully.

  Thomassy motioned Urek to sit down on the hard bench. The lawyer remained standing.

  “You look like you’re glad to see me,” said Thomassy.

  “Where you been?”

  “I brought you a couple of magazines.” Thomassy put down mint copies of True and Popular Science, which he had recorded on the expense page of his pocket appointment book.

  “Do you need your glasses for reading?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Your father gave me these.” He put the eyeglass case down on the bench next to Urek. “I want you to listen carefully now.”

  “When do I get out of here?”

  “Your arraignment is tomorrow morning.”

  “What about the bail?”

  “Well, we could go before the magistrate. He’d probably raise the bail to two thousand dollars to let you out. I don’t want you out.”

  Urek tried to keep his anger down. Cool, cool, he thought.

  Thomassy tried to explain. “Cutting the kid’s tube in the hospital would not be considered an aggravation of the first assault, it’s a new crime, and with two assaults, the judge would set a higher bail. It’s normal.”

  “My old man would sign for it.”

  “His signature wouldn’t be good for two thousand.”

  “He’s got the house, there’s a lot paid on the mortgage. He told me he’d get me bailed.”

  Thomassy let his breath out slowly. “I want you in here for another reason.”

  “I promise I won’t try anything.”

  “You promised the last time.”

  “This time I swear.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What the fuckin’ hell do you mean?” Urek regretted the words the moment they spilled out.

  Thomassy came over, put one foot up on the bench Urek was sitting on, and leaned down close. “You listen.”

  “I’m listening!”

  “Try to get this into your head. When you’re arraigned tomorrow, I’m going to insist on a preliminary hearing. I want to find out what the village prosecutor has in the way of witnesses. It’ll be useful to us. I want that before we go to White Plains.”

  “What’s in White Plains?”

  “County Court. If you’re charged with a misdemeanor, the trial would be here in town. If it’s a felony, it’ll have to be in White Plains. Maybe we can keep it here.”

  Urek wasn’t understanding.

  “A misdemeanor means you’re charged with something that’s good for no more than a year in jail. A felony is first-degree assault. I’ll try to get you third degree. In fact”—he looked at Urek’s uncomprehending face—”maybe I can get this whole thing quashed. Dismissed.”

  “Yeah?” Urek was interested.

  “You’ve got to cooperate.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve got to stay put. Here. I’m going to make a thing at the arraignment about a sixteen-year-old kid having had to spend two nights in the lockup. It might help. It’ll give me a chance to do a little digging, too,”

  “Like what?”

  “The nurse’s aide can identify you.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to get it. You don’t have to learn anything or say anything. If you want to get off, you’re just going to leave it to me.”

  “You really can get me off?”

  “Your father wants me to try.”

  “I want you to try.”

  “You’re not paying my fee.”

  “Look, Mr. Thomassy, you get me off, and I’ll turn all I earn over to you—for the whole year.”

  Thomassy laughed. “The quarters?”

  “What quarters?”

  ‘The dough you get from the kids? For their lockers?”

  “No, I’ll get a real job and…”

  “You’re going to finish high school.”

  Urek sat back down.

  Thomassy thought for a moment. “I don’t want you giving anything—I mean anything—away in court. When the arraignment’s on…”

  “Yeah?”

  “You look down at your hands. Try it. Okay, that’s good.”

  “How long?”

  “When you get tired of looking down at your hands, look at a spot on the table. When you get tired of that, go back to staring at your hands. I don’t want the judge to see your face. I’m going to try something, and I don’t want him to see your reactions to it.”

  “What would l do?”

  “I’m taking no chances. You look down at your hands, u
nderstand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Even if you’re bored, keep looking down at them, don’t look up, don’t look at the judge, don’t look at any of the people who are talking, don’t even look at me, understand?”

  Urek thought about how long he could avoid looking at anyone. It was crazy.

  “Answer me!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  “Now, cheer up. I’m doing all I can for you.”

  Urek looked up at Thomassy’s thin face with the high cheekbones.

  “Mr. Thomassy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for everything. I mean it.”

  Thomassy called to be let out of the cell, patted Urek on the shoulder, a conscious gesture intended to relax him for tomorrow. He looked to see if anything could be improved in the boy’s physical appearance. “I’ll have your mother send some fresh clothes in the morning.”

  “I could use some underwear.”

  “The judge can’t see your underwear.”

  Thomassy saw the pulse leap in the side of Urek’s forehead.

  “Okay, son”—he hated to use that word— “You’ll get your underwear.”

  Urek, suddenly young, said, “Mr. Thomassy, can they come today, my mom and dad?”

  “I told them to stay home. It’s better for your case.” When the parents saw him in court tomorrow, he wanted them to come rushing up spontaneously.

  Urek didn’t understand.

  “Well,” said Thomassy, “just leave it to me.”

  Chapter 15

  In mid-afternoon Urek was awakened from a deep sleep by someone shaking his shoulder. He sat bolt upright, the copy of True dropping to the floor from where it had rested when he read himself to sleep. The two men looming over him came into focus. He recognized the sergeant. The man with the sergeant picked up the magazine and handed it to Urek.

  “This is Mr. Metcalf, the village Prosecutor,” said the sergeant.

  Mr. Metcalf, sixty, short, gray-suited, had a red-orange-yellow gash of tie-color down his front. His wire-framed bifocals looked to Urek like the kind of glasses you could smash with one stomp of your foot.

  “Young man, I’m here to try to be of some help. Are you fully awake?”