“Max!”
He stared first left, then right, but saw no one he knew. The voice called again and he turned toward it, his eyes staring straight up the street past the blackened hole that had been the Nickel & Dime. In the middle distance, he saw a man break into a gallop. His horse was a paint—the kind of small, spotted mongrel favored by the tribes. He was dressed in fringed buckskins that were undecorated and seemed nearly new. His face and hands were as brown as a Pawnee’s, and the mouth beneath his black mustache was set in a wide, white smile. At first, Max took him for a savage, but the man’s dark head betrayed him as something other. Instead of falling straight to his shoulders, his hair exploded outward in a halo of ringlets, curls so thick and tight, they seemed immovable even in the wind.
The rider streaked past him at full speed, letting out the kind of cry cowboys made on Saturday nights; the pony whistled high and long as the curly-headed man reared him toward the sky. The cigar fell from Max’s mouth as the rider jumped his mount onto the wooden boardwalk and made straight for the spot where he stood. Before the animal had fully stopped, the rider reined him in and leaped from the paint’s back, bouncing to a landing directly in front of him. Max made to turn and run, but a strong hand pulled hard on his sleeve and spun him around.
“Max, it’s me!”
Max squinted at the rider. The voice was that of his brother, but the boy he had known was a scrawny, graceless youth, shy and awkward in his movements. This was a full-grown man—broad at the shoulder and fluid in motion. Julius’s face had always been clean-shaven and pale, a yeshiva bocher who saw much of the library but little of the sun. This face was tanned and broad, the mustache thick as a horse brush and drooping at the corners.
Max stepped back and looked the man up and down as if he were an order to be inspected and assessed in value: Julius Meyer. Sibling. Former clerk and traveling salesman. Feared lost. Returned in good condition.
“I said kaddish for you,” Max said. “I sat shiva. But as you are not dead, I wonder if this was a sin.”
Julius smiled. “If the almighty is all-knowing, I don’t think he’ll hold it against you.”
“So. You’re an Indian now?”
“I don’t know. I think it must take a long time to become an Indian.”
Max picked his burning cigar up from the cracked boardwalk and surveyed his brother one more time.
“That’s an Indian’s answer.”
Without another word, Max turned and walked back into the store. Julius followed him to the back room where Eli Gershonson stood, taking inventory of the new trinkets, separating them by size, color, and kind.
“Feter Eli!”
The peddler looked up from his work. He studied the source of the greeting for a few seconds and then rushed from behind the table. Holding his arms wide, he embraced Julius with all his strength.
“Julius, God bless you,” Eli said. “You’re an Indian now?”
“He says he needs time,” Max said.
For the next hour, Julius explained his disappearance: how he had escaped death; his period as a lowly outcast; his elevation to Speaker and his adoption by Standing Bear. He told his brother and uncle of learning to ride a horse and shoot a rifle. The Ponca, he told them, had their heroes and villains, their faithful and their hypocrites.
“In a way,” he said, “they are very like us.”
Max’s head jerked up. “Like us? We gave the world the Torah. We taught the world what the law is and how a scholar or a statesman should behave. We even gave the Christians their God. Like us? It has been four thousand years since we were a band of vilda chiyahs, screaming on horses and fighting and killing; and even then we produced Maccabeus.”
Julius frowned at his brother. “They are like us, Max, not because of their holy books or their learned men, but because they are unique—just as we have always been unique. They see their gods in everything they touch or hunt or eat and are mocked and killed for it just like we once were for having only one god.
“They have had their country taken, as Jerusalem was taken from us. If the Indian surrenders, they say he is craven—a coward with no stomach for battle. If he fights, he is a beast, said to drink the blood of his victims. Where have we heard that before?”
Max’s face colored in rage. It could be explained that when one is forced to live among primitives, one has little choice but to adopt primitive dress. But to take the part of the savages against the white race was not only a shame before the gentiles; it was the kind of talk that could ruin his trade in a place where some still refused to buy even a cigarette from one who killed Christ.
“Politics can wait,” he said. “We will make an appointment with Gaita immediately for a haircut and bath for you. While you are there, I shall arrange with Simmons to fit you for work clothing and you may borrow some of my things until he can make you a proper suit. I will advance you the money and you can repay me some each week from your wages.”
Julius picked up a bauble and frowned. It was a necklace of claws, similar to the one favored by Standing Bear; except this one consisted of the claws of a cub, something the tribes would never have created until the whites came.
“I am sorry, dear brother,” Julius said, “but I am not coming back. At least not yet.”
Max’s eyes opened wide. He was now certain that exposure to the world of the savages had made his brother as messhugah as they.
“I have been honored in a way you may not understand. A king has made me his son. Given me a name—Boxkareshahashtaka—it means ‘curly-headed chief who speaks with single tongue.’ He has asked me to use the gift God gave me to be his ‘speaker’—his interpreter. For him I translate the Jewish peddlers, the German homesteaders, the French fur trappers. Soon, I’ll meet with General Crook himself—and with any luck, I may help prevent the Ponca being driven from lands that have known them a thousand years.”
“So?” Max said. “I should care about savages running through the woods praying to trees? You think the Army will stop hunting them because all of a sudden you’re their mouthpiece?”
Julius’ face darkened and he sat down on the table. His legs dangled a foot from the floor.
“Max, I have no illusions that the Indians will win their battle with the white man. Those left fighting are too few in number and too poorly armed to hold out much longer. In ten years, perhaps less, they will be conquered. But conquered is not the same as exterminated.”
Max stubbed his cigar out on the shop floor.
“Conquered … exterminated … what difference does it make? You say the Jew is like the Indian. Persecuted and banished. Did anyone care when we were being killed? Pushed from country to country? Forced to convert or die?”
“Perhaps that’s why you should care, Max. If you can kill all the Indians, you can also kill the Catholics, the Chinese, and the Jews. But what if we let them keep some land? What if we gave them a place to sell their art for what it is really worth? Then they could prosper as they never have. Everybody rich, everybody happy.”
“I’ll assume that includes me?”
Prophet John McGarrigle stood in the doorway. Judging by the film on his eyes, he was slightly the worse for firewater.
“Just the man I want to see,” Julius said. “My brother and I were just discussing the new store we’re going to build to sell the craft work of the Indians. For the place to work, I’ll have to spend two or three weeks in the month with the tribes, so I’ll need an inside man. We all know Eli here won’t ever give up his wagon. That leaves you. I’ve never seen you drink when you’re working and you’ll know when the weather will affect the business. Besides, I figure all your bullshit will either fascinate the customers or bore them into buying.”
The gray man hiked up his pants and spat onto the boardwalk.
“Thank you, young Jules. You always was complimentary.”
“I try my best. I need you for this, John. The last thing I want to do is deal with the public. I’m not sure I’
m civilized enough for that anymore. I’ve sort of gotten into the habit of thanking the spirits for the day and moving on. Fighting with some farmer over the price of a buffalo head could interfere with that serenity.”
“From what I hear,” the prophet said, “you’re thankin’ the spirits for more than the day. Be careful, young Jules. Indian or not, she’s the boss’s daughter.”
“Please, John …”
“Don’t ‘please’ me, boy. You got two eyes and two ears inside Ponca camp—I got a couple dozen. They tell me you been fraternizin’ with the Prairie Flower. Voice Like A Drum says the conversations go on long past the point they’re interestin’—and that you’ve come to him for love charms and ordered a courtin’ flute. Says your practicin’ hurts his ears.”
“Just because you saved my life, does that entitle you to run it?”
“It does.”
“Do you want the job or not? Ten dollars a week and found.”
“Sold, young Jules—I just hope she’s worth the in-laws.”
With these last words, Julius walked past his apoplectic brother and out the door. The paint had stepped down from the wooden boards and now stood grazing on a pot of flowers in front of the McGreevy boardinghouse. A crowd of boys had gathered to look at the animal. It wasn’t every day you saw an Indian pony close up.
“Hello, Lemuel,” Julius said. “Still reading your books?”
Lemuel Norcross turned from inspecting the horse in time to see Julius leap into the saddle. The “Indian” kicked the pony in the side and the animal lashed out with its hind legs, barely missing the head of young Giorgio Gaita, the barber’s eldest.
Julius whirled the pony and shouted back toward his brother and uncle.
“Figure to start building by June. The only good Indian isn’t a dead Indian if he’s filling your cash box, Max. Even you can understand that.”
As the boys ran in all directions, Julius reared the paint, spun him around twice, and began to gallop hard out of town. As he reached the doors of Third Congregationalist, he stopped short and began to scream a series of short, strangled yips followed by a long wolf howl. Then he turned the horse once more to the west and was gone.
Max and Eli stared after Julius as he dissolved through the dust. Lemuel Norcross stood thrilled but puzzled. How did this Indian know his name? And when did the red man learn to curl his hair?
15
DURING CONSTRUCTION, THE CORNER OF FOURTEENTH AND Farnam came to look like the camp of a particularly productive tribe.
Robes, drums, and jewelry hung from every column and rafter; weapons and the bleached skulls of buffalo piled up beneath the windows. No sooner had the merchandise been nailed to walls or placed on shelves than Eli Gershonson arrived with another wagonload. John McGarrigle barked orders at the new employees as they sorted the cargo and boxed it for pricing. Once a day, Max came by and placed a value on each item, grumbling his disapproval in several tongues.
Less than three weeks later, the shop opened its doors to great fanfare. Its windows were hung with red, white, and blue bunting, and territorial flags waved from its roof. The shop’s wares tumbled out onto the boardwalk and hung from the shop’s great awning. Spotted Tail of the Brulé, Iron Bull of the Mountain Crow, and Pawnee Killer of the Arapaho were the guests of honor, each bringing a colorful retinue with them. Men and women, some on horseback, most on foot, banged on drums and chanted songs. The citizens of Omaha nodded in approval at the riot of feathers and jewels, and the volunteer firemen’s brass band played patriotic songs as Governor William H. James cut the ceremonial ribbon.
Julius made a speech thanking his native friends. The Daily Herald quoted him as saying:
I hope that my new emporium will educate the citizens of Omaha and all who visit here that the Indian is not a savage or a brute, but a human being who tends his garden, creates great art, and loves his children as they do.
As the public was admitted to the shop, each patron was handed a complimentary printed souvenir photograph. It depicted Julius and Pawnee Killer standing against a painted backdrop of plains and hills. Seated in front of them were Spotted Tail and Iron Bull, surrounded by imitation shrubs and wildflowers. In addition to the free photo, customers could also buy for twenty-five cents a version with two images, side by side, specifically designed for stereopticons. On the reverse was printed:
INDIAN WIGWAM
234 Farnam Street OMAHA, NEB.
JULIUS MEYER
Box-Ka-Re-Sha-Hash-Ta-Ka Indian Interpreter
Indian Trader and Dealer in American Indian Curiosities
Tomahawks, Bows and Arrows, Blankets, Pipes, Moccasins,
Garments, Beadwork, Shells, Antediluvian Fossils,
Petrifactions, &c.
SPECIMENS OF ALL WESTERN MINERALS
Photographs of Indians and Western Landscapes, Views of Omaha
Buffalo Robes, Beaver, Mink, Otter, Wolf and other kinds of Indian
dressed furs and skins.
Prophet John watched the hoopla from the train depot across the street. Looking at the number of chiefs present, he wondered how many horses this day had cost the boss. Only young Jules could have managed to persuade Indians who were often at each other’s throats to appear together to open a business. Still, no Ponca was here to support their Speaker. Had Standing Bear held out for more horses? Or had the chief simply decided that no matter how good Julius’s intentions, it was beneath his dignity to play the performing seal?
The prophet’s reverie was broken by the high, strangled sound of a whistle. As one, the people on the platform stepped closer to the tracks and began to wave and a great locomotive came into view. As its huge wheels seized to a halt, a cloud of soot blackened the raised handkerchiefs of the ladies. Prophet John pulled a red bandanna from his back pocket, sneezed into it, and made for the rear of the train.
He walked down the line and thought of how times had changed since the locomotives pulled basic freight and exhausted, miserable passengers. With railroad executives and eastern millionaires now regularly visiting the West, private railroad cars were a common sight in Omaha. Some sported gold accents, others purpose-built nurseries or glass ceilings. He had even visited one car that included its own chapel, complete with holy-water font and Stations of the Cross.
But never had he seen the like of this.
It was painted in red and green with a solid brass roof polished to a mirror finish. Delicate white pinstripes separated its windows and surrounded its doors. Above each of these was an arch in stained glass, its workmanship fine enough for any cathedral; but rather than illustrate the wonders of the bible, these windows depicted miracles of a different sort: a hand fanning a deck of cards; a magic wand spewing lightning; a smiling, mustachioed devil. A copperplate sign flew above the car’s rear observation deck. It took the prophet four tries to sound out its name:
PRESTIDIGITATOR
John stopped at the end of the car. Through its frosted glass door, he could see urgent movements. Before long, a huge young man with close-cropped red hair and a fine dark suit emerged. He carried large suitcases in each hand. The color of their leather was nearly impossible to discern, so covered with labels was each one: LONDON, ST. PETERSBURG, DUBROVNIK, DETROIT …
The redhead jumped down from the train and, smiling, bounded up to the prophet.
“You’d be Mr. John McGarrigle, then?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Seamus Dowie. Great pleasure. The gov’nor ought to be out any minute.”
“Have a pleasant journey from Chicago, did you?”
“Just fine, Mr. McGarrigle. But then, ol’ Pressy here’s got all the comforts a’ home … if home is Versailles. We even saw a few Indians here and there.”
“Well, if you’re a friend of Jules, young Seamus, I daresay you’ll see a few more.”
As the men shook hands, a deep and impatient voice called out across the platform.
“Mr. Dowie!”
The two men tu
rned around in time to see the owner of the voice descend from the observation deck. Outside of an Oglala painted for war, he was the most extraordinary-looking human the prophet had ever seen.
His long cape, his swallowtail coat, his striped trousers, even his beaver topper were purple. In contrast, his gloves, waistcoat, cravat, and spats were snow-white and patterned in a lotus paisley. He was about six feet tall and slender as a whippet with a pale, fine face and penetrating blue-gray eyes. His mustache was waxed into curlicues just above a beard as pointed as a pencil. If his clothing had been red and included a tail, John would have wondered if he was seeing the model for the stained-glass devil that decorated the Prestidigitator.
The purple man walked down the car’s gangway, his cape flowing behind him. He strode up to the prophet, removed his right glove, and offered his hand.
“Mr. John McGarrigle,” Seamus Dowie said, “allow me to introduce the Great Herrmann.”
The prophet took the magician’s hand. Alexander bowed slightly.
“So you are the famous Prophet John! My cousin tells me that, while I fool people into belief in magic, you possess the real thing.”
“I wouldn’t call it magic, exactly, professor. Just a little present from who knows where that does who knows what and comes and goes who knows when.”
“I’ll be most interested to hear all about it, sir,” Alexander said. “Little enough real magic in the world today, and most of it bad. But now, let’s away. I’m famished, and Julius tells me the best steak in the world awaits us at a place called The Big Cheese.” With a grin, Alexander released the prophet’s hand and the trio began down the platform toward Farnam Street.
Magic Words Page 14
