The Red Magician (2 page)

Vörös repeated his words to Imre. “Lately? Lately from Czechoslovakia.”

“No,” said Kicsi. “Where were you before that?”

Imre shot her a warning glance, but she ignored it and looked instead directly at Vörös.

“All over,” Vörös answered, smiling. “Europe, America, Asia …”

“Asia!” said Kicsi, breathing the word, savoring it.

“He means Palestine,” said Ilona scornfully. “No one goes any farther than that.”

“No,” said Vörös. “I've been to Palestine, certainly, but I've been farther. Shanghai.”

Shanghai. It was another word for Kicsi to store away and save, to bring out later and examine. This, then, was the way her wish would be answered. “Where else?” she said. “What was it like? Did you see statues and ruins and bazaars? Did you go to the Great Wall of China? To the Himalayas?”

Vörös laughed. “Yes, yes, all of that and more,” he said.

“What did—” She stopped, noticing for the first time the thin scar that ran from his hairline, cutting across one eyebrow and disappearing into his beard. “Where did you get that scar?”

“Kicsi!” said Imre.

“It's all right,” said Vörös. “I don't mind. It was during the last war. We were attacked by looters.”

“The war?” said Kicsi suspiciously. “You're not old enough.”

“Now that is really enough, do you hear me!” said Imre. “Excuse my daughter, please. She sometimes gets carried away.”

“Oh, she doesn't bother me,” said Vörös. “I'd be happy to answer her questions.” Then, seeing Imre's expression: “Some other time, perhaps.”

The next day Kicsi found Vörös seated at a table, looking through the books in the library. “Tell me a story,” she said.

Vörös put down the book he was holding. His hands, Kicsi noticed, were pale and slender, and covered with fine golden hair. “What kind of story?” he asked.

“Anything,” said Kicsi fiercely.

“Let me see,” said Vörös. Kicsi watched him carefully, studying his smooth young face, his clear wide eyes, his short curly beard. “All right. When I was in America I worked for a while for a magician.”

“Really?”

“Yes, a real magician. He looked like a cat—like an old cat that's been left out in the rain too long, sort of seedy and mangy—but you knew that he'd always find enough to eat, and somehow, no matter where we were, he'd always manage to keep himself spotlessly clean. He had long sleek black hair, and an elaborately curled black mustache, but under the mustache all his teeth were rotten. We'd travel around from town to town, putting on shows, and once a year we'd return to New York.

“He loved New York. I don't know why. New York is dirty and noisy and crowded, and likely to get worse. But he seemed very much at home there, and he'd always tell me, after a particularly good night, that when he'd had enough of touring he'd settle down in New York and never go back on stage again.

“Well, one night in New York we'd done fairly well. He'd taught me a few tricks with coins and flowers and cards—”

“Can you still do them?” said Kicsi.

“Surely. You never forget. I'll show you a few, after the Shabbos. Anyway, toward the end of the show we did a vanishing act. What usually happened was, I'd build a box around the magician, made of thick boards, and when I opened the box he would be gone. Then I'd close up the box, open it again, and—lo and behold—there he'd be again. But this particular night, when I opened the box again, he was still missing. I was panicked. The audience got restless, and then furious. Then they began to throw things. I hurried off the stage. But as I left, I swore I saw a sleek black cat walking out the stage door.”

Kicsi thought a while. “That's not a true story,” she said finally.

“Well, you know how stories are. Parts of them are true and parts are made up. And anyway, you didn't ask me for a true story.”

“Kicsi!” someone called.

“That's Magda,” said Kicsi. “I'd better go.”

“Come back any time,” said Vörös. “We'll talk some more.”

“I will,” said Kicsi.

The next day Kicsi waited impatiently for school to end. The few students that remained fidgeted restlessly, certain the curse was coming home to rest on their shoulders. They were afraid to stay in school and afraid to disobey their parents by leaving. The teachers could do nothing with them. Kicsi, unnoticed, sat in a corner and daydreamed of Vörös.

She ran home after school, stopping for no one. He wasn't there. All afternoon she waited, wandering through the old, vast house until at last she heard his footsteps at the door. She ran to the living room.

“Vörös!” she said. “Tell me a story.”

“Give me a minute, please,” said Vörös. He sighed and sat in one of the chairs, stretching his long legs in front of him. “I have a better idea. Why don't you tell me a story?”

“Me?” said Kicsi. “About what? I haven't been anywhere.”

“Oh, about anything,” Vörös said. “Why do they call you Kicsi, for example?”

“Oh, that,” Kicsi said. “That's not important. They've called me the Little One since I was born. Because I'm the youngest. My real name is—”

“No,” said Vörös. “If you tell me your real name I shall have to tell you mine. Tell me something else. What did you do in school today?”

“Well,” said Kicsi. She thought a while. “The school is under a curse.”

“A curse?” said Vörös.

“Yes. Because they teach Hebrew, and the rabbi says no one can speak Hebrew until the Messiah comes. So he cursed it.”

“Really? Can he do that?”

“I suppose he can,” said Kicsi. It no longer seemed as important. “A lot of people think he can, anyway. There's almost no one left in the school.

“Wait a minute,” said Kicsi suddenly. “Do you think he's wrong? Maybe the Messiah's come and no one has noticed yet. Do you think so? You've been to Palestine—maybe you've seen him there and didn't know it.”

Vörös laughed. “No, I don't think so,” he said. “When the Messiah comes, everything will be different. Elijah the Prophet will walk into Jerusalem and the Messiah, the son of David, will follow him. Then the air will be like myrrh and cinnamon, and the rivers will run with honey. The Temple will stand where it stood of old, built of gold and cedar wood and ivory. All promises will be fulfilled and all questions answered. We will come from the four corners of the earth, and the graves will give up their dead, and we will meet in the Promised Land and rejoice.” He sounded wistful, as though recalling a dream. “Didn't the rabbi tell you that?”

“No,” said Kicsi. “He just tells us what we can't do.”

“Oh, now,” said Vörös. “He can't be that bad.”

“You don't know him,” said Kicsi. It was strange to think that she had stood in almost the same place a few days ago and the rabbi had leaned on his walking stick to talk to her. “I don't like him at all.”

A crystal candlestick holder fell off the mantel onto the wooden floor and broke into a thousand pieces. Vörös half-stood, then sat back in his chair.

“Kicsi!” Sarah shouted from the kitchen. Kicsi heard hurrying footsteps and then Sarah came into the room. “What did you do?”

“I—it just fell. I didn't do it. I didn't do anything.”

“That's right,” said Vörös. “It just fell to the floor.”

Sarah saw Vörös for the first time. “Didn't your father say you weren't to talk to him?” she said to her daughter. “Now go. Get the broom and clean up this mess, and then come help me in the kitchen. And I don't want to catch you talking to Vörös again. Do you hear me?”

“But—”

“No buts. Do as I say.” Sarah left the room.

Slow tears formed in Kicsi's eyes. She went to get the broom and began to sweep, slowly, methodically. The pieces of crystal blurred and ran together, sparkling. Suddenly she turned to Vörös, leaning forward on the broom.

“When are you leaving?” she asked.

“In—” He cleared his throat. “In a few days.”

“Take me with you.”

“What? I can't. Why?”

“I want to leave home. I'm almost an adult, you know. They treat me like a child because I'm the youngest. They don't know. I want to see faraway places, I want to do things—I want to be like you.”

“Faraway places? What do you know of faraway places?” Vörös moved forward in his chair. “All too soon you will leave this place, your village. You will go through pain and fire and hunger, and I cannot say what the end will be. It may be that you will finally come to Palestine, or to America. And there you will tell your children stories of your childhood, and they will think this town as exotic, as far away, as Shanghai. And all too soon they will want to leave you for faraway places. Things happen, you know. You cannot rush them.”

She looked at him in amazement. America! What did he mean? “I don't understand,” she said.

Magda came into the room, turned slowly in a circle to look at both of them, and ended by looking at the broken glass. “Mother's very upset about something,” she said. “She said you're to clean that up and then go help her. I'm supposed to make sure that you do it. What did you do, knock it over?”

Kicsi said nothing. She resumed sweeping, quietly. After a while Vörös cleared his throat, interrupting the rustling of the broom and the clinking of glass. He stood, walked to the door, and let himself out into the cool evening. Kicsi never looked around.

She didn't see him for nearly a week. She suspected some conspiracy between Vörös and Sarah, designed to keep them apart for the time he was staying. The next Friday at dinner time, however, he came in with Imre. She was helping to set the table. As she saw him, her heart leapt like a salmon from a stream.

“I'm leaving after Shabbos,” he told the family, not looking at her. “I came for one final delightful meal.”

“Where are you going?” asked Sarah. Kicsi, setting down a wine cup, pretended not to listen to his answer.

“To England, I think,” he said. “And then to America.”

“We have cousins in America,” said Tibor. “In New York. Will you be seeing them?”

“Silly!” said Magda, laughing. “America's a big place. Not like here.”

“I
know
that,” said Tibor, furious. “I could give him the address—”

The telephone rang. It was the private line, recently installed, that ran from the house to the printing plant next door. Imre looked at his wife.

The phone rang again. One was not allowed to use the telephone on the Shabbos, the day of rest, since the rabbis had ruled that using electricity constituted lighting a fire, which was considered work and so prohibited. But any rule could be sacrificed in an emergency.

“Who can be at the plant at this hour?” asked Imre. “Everyone should have gone home hours ago.”

The phone rang again. “Perhaps you'd better answer it,” said Sarah. “Someone may have gotten locked inside.”

Imre went to the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello?” There was an unmistakable sound of relief in the voice at the other end of the phone. “Hello. This is Arpad.”

“Arpad?” said Imre. Arpad was an employee at the printing plant, stolid and unimaginative and not very bright. His face was marked with smallpox scars. “What are you doing there?”

“I—I followed a light,” said Arpad.

“A light?” said Imre.

“Yes, sir. When we were closing. I was about to leave, as all the lights had been turned off, when I saw this light, sir, and I thought that maybe one of them had been missed. So I went to look, and—and it moved. And I followed it, and it kept moving from room to room, past the presses, and into the offices, and then back to the presses—a sort of thin yellow light, sir. And then finally it went out, and I found the door, and then, well, I was locked in.”

“A light?” Imre said again. “I don't understand. Was it someone holding a torch? Do you think he's still there?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said Arpad. “It wasn't anyone holding a torch. I would have seen that. It was just a light.” He paused. “I'd rather talk about this outside, sir. You see, it's fairly dark in here. I can't seem to get the lights back on, somehow.”

“Very well,” said Imre. “I'll be coming through the entrance connected to the house. Just wait there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Just outside the dining room was a door that led to the plant. “Get me my keys, one of you,” said Imre, putting down the phone. “I think I left them upstairs.” Ilona ran to the stairs.

“Sarah, tell him I'll have to wait until I get the keys—”

A slow rumbling started. They heard it in two places—over the telephone and from the plant next door.

Magda cried out. Sarah said, “What's that?”

“The fool,” said Imre. “He's somehow started the presses.”

The sound became a muted roar. Occasionally the clanking rhythm of an individual press could be heard before it faded back into the general noise.

“Let me out!” said Arpad. “Please. Help. Let me out!”

Sarah picked up the telephone. “Imre will get you out as soon as he gets the keys,” she said. “How did you manage to start the presses?”

“I didn't start them,” said Arpad. “They're just going by themselves. I had nothing to do with it.”

“God help us,” said Sarah. “It's the curse. The rabbi's curse.” She sat down, the phone still in her hand, and looked blankly at the connecting door.

Ilona returned with the keys. “Here they are,” she said, panting.

Imre fitted the key to the lock. The door began to shake. With his paralyzed left arm he could not hold the door steady.

“The light!” said Arpad. “The light is coming back!”