Sleight of Hand

An old-style stage magician has to face an unusual challenge

Most major cities boast at least a couple of glitzy theatres whose latest musical spectacular is booked solid for the foreseeable future. But off the main thoroughfares in the darker side streets of these same cities a sprinkling of smaller theatres can be found, relics of a bygone age where washed up performers present worn out routines to the audiences they deserve. One of these survivors is the Majestic. Although now rundown and far from being majestic it still manages two performances a day. On this particular afternoon a reduced price matinee plays to a small audience of elderly regulars more appreciative of a seat in the warm than of the thin chance of being entertained.

A harsh shaft of light is trained on the stage where a weary looking old-fashioned magician stands in an equally tired looking dress suit. Nearby an ornamental easel with a card identifies him as ‘The Great Zandar’. He struggles with a bouquet of feather flowers, a top hat and a live rabbit. A lone drummer bashes out a loud, inappropriate rhythm from an otherwise empty orchestra pit.

The magician glares at the drummer then casts a sour smile off stage where another elderly man stands and watches. Zandar turns back to his audience who exhibit no pleasure, no surprise or curiosity, he waves his arms dramatically signaling the climax of the trick, the drummer launches into a barrage of drum rolls and cymbal clashes. Zandar is put off and the trick ends in a shower of disintegrating feather flowers. A final very loud cymbal crash jolts a couple of audience members and makes Zandar jump. The drummer maintains a soft rhythmic background shuffle and an expression of distracted innocence. The magician is furious. He seizes the placard from the easel and stalks off stage.

Practically throwing the card at the man who watched from the wings he growls, “Don’t start ranting Marty, I’m dying out there”.

“You haven’t finished the act,” snaps Marty, “get back and do it right”.

“It IS finished and so am I! I don’t know how you talked me into this.” With a defiantly magical flourish Zandar produces a small whiskey bottle. “You are some agent. You said this was gonna be up-market,” the old magician downs a slug of whiskey.

Marty looks disapproving and says “It’s as up-market as I could manage... and it you who wanted a come back gig.”

“Lazarus couldn’t come back here...”

“You’ve been outta the loop. It ain’t that easy... look, forget the standard stuff, go straight into the finale.”

Zandar looks doubtful “The mind reading?”

“They’ll love it...”

Zandar takes a quick look around the curtain at his audience and ruefully shakes his head. Marty tries to sound encouraging. “It’s a matinee. Matinee’s are always slow.”

“It’s like playing a wax museum.”

“Just do the finale” Marty pleads. Zandar’s face sets in grim resignation, he takes a couple of pages of notes from his pocket and quickly scans them. His study is interrupted by a deep resonant boom that comes from the auditorium startling the two men, they both peer around the curtain to see fast fading wraiths of yellowish almost greasy vapour. The magician and the agent exchange puzzled looks, nothing in auditorium appears to be amiss. Zandar shrugs, “I was hoping that someone had shot that monkey on the drums.”

“Well they haven’t,” says Marty urgently, “but you are gonna lose the damn rabbit.”

Zandar’s eyes widen in alarm, the rabbit is hopping across the stage. The magician stuffs the papers back into his pocket and dashes onto the stage to scoop it up. The thin smattering of applause that greets his reappearance is immediately overwhelmed by one spectator who whistles and claps with wild enthusiasm. Zandar drops the rabbit into the top hat without looking up. Marty stage whispers from the wings “I almost forgot... Happy Birthday.”

Zandar rolls his eyes miserably and nods ironic thanks. He turns and squints through the spotlight at his audience. His enthusiastic supporter is a girl sitting three rows from the front, she continues to whoop and applaude even though she does so alone. Only when Zandar stares directly at her does the presumably sarcastic clapping stop. The girl is cool, youthful, and attractive. Zandar is now as aware of her as are many of the elderly men in the audience.

With renewed vigor the magician announces, “And now...for the exciting climax of the show...” Marty who makes encouraging signals as Zandar goes on, “I’m going to need one of you delightful people to assist me. Any volunteers?” Zandar smiles “No one? I’m only going to read your mind. It doesn’t hurt. No matter, I can see what you’re thinking...” Zandar’s gaze sweeps across his audience until he dramatically points a finger at an elderly man, “Archie Morton.”

Hearing his name an old man looks up, suddenly attentive. Zandar smiles, his confidence building “Right at this minute Archie, you’re thinking how the hell does he know my name... in a moment you’ll be thinking, how does he know my wife was Shirley and that my sons, Charlie and Max had a dog called... well, just easy stuff. Relax Archie...” The old man sags, plainly stunned by these revelations.

Zandar turns, scanning his audience. “Mrs Maltravers, yes, you! If you could write down the name of a pet, a dog or cat maybe... but you don’t have a pet do you. Not since William died...” Mrs Maltravers is simultaneously attentive and shocked.

The whole audience is coming around, the magician is in command but then the moment is almost lost by discordant clash of cymbals. Zandar turns to the drummer with a mischievous smile. “Yes, it’s er, ah, Marcus. The piano lessons, you regret that now don’t you? The money from your... aunt to pay for the lessons, if that money hadn’t disappeared at the race track you wouldn’t be here now... that’s what you thinking...”

The drummer is visibly discomforted. Concentration shot to pieces he is humiliated and unable to understand how Zandar knows. He throws down his sticks and stalks out.

Zandar shrugs, “As I was saying before I was so often interrupted, I shall need at least two of you to assist in a little mind reading... who’s got a little mind..?” Marty stands listening in the wings, he nods to himself, this is the real Zandar. The old performer adopts a suitably mystical expression hits his stride, indicating audience members in turn and revealing character traits and half forgotten facts, he miraculously steers clear of the uncomfortably embarrassing or downright criminal but the possibility of such a revelation ensures rapt attention. Marty watches from the wings in satisfaction. Only the attractive girl in the third row observes Zandar with the detached expression of one who studies rather than merely spectates.

Suddenly there is applause. Zandar has finished his act. He bows graciously to the audience. Then looking to the wings he nods toward Marty, who has been proved correct. Zandar comes off the stage carrying the rabbit in the hat.

In the dressing room a small radio speaker attached to the wall relays a muted version of the applause. Zandar enters with Marty following. The magician poses for a moment before the light bulb surrounded make up mirror then puts the hat and rabbit down next to a framed photograph and a single birthday card. The framed image shows a slightly younger Zandar with a pleasant looking woman of about the same age. The old magician’s eye lingers on the contented couple pictured.

Marty heads off what he suspects will be a melancholy moment, “You did great! What did I tell yer..?”

Zandar slumps tiredly into the chair in front of the mirror. “You can stop crowing. You’re paid to be right ten percent of the time.”

The agent nodes slowly, “Still wanna go through with it?” he asks, while sitting carefully on a dusty couch.

Zandar after a thoughtful moment answers “Yeah. Yeah of course. But it is hard work...” he is still focused on the framed photo, “And it’s a more difficult being out there on my own.” Zandar glances up at his agent, “Thanks for... the moral support.”

Marty is slightly embarrassed by this sudden show of gratitude, “Hey, you and Mary were my first clients.” He looks at his watch. “Hell, I gotta go. Look I’ll do what I can with the bookings...”

“Please, no more like this...” Zandar gestures to encompass the whole theatre.

Marty turns and opens the door, “I’ll try, but you know...” his voice is lost in a ruckus from the corridor outside.

A mans voice is raised aggressively, “I told you that you’re not going through. You’re not supposed to be back here...”

A girl's voice replies, “Let go of me...” her words are stilted and oddly accented.

Marty steps out into the corridor and sees Marcus, the drummer and the girl who was in the audience. The drummer grips her tightly by the wrist. Suddenly aware of Marty, Marcus adopts a more friendly, helpful tone, “You can’t just waltz back stage. It’s invitation only.” Zandar peers out of his dressing room as the drummer let’s go of the girl and lamely tries to justify himself, “She is a reporter, nosing around...”

“I am a journalist” the girl corrects him haughtily “and I want speak with him.” She indicates Zandar.

The old magician theatrically proclaims that “The Great Zandar is not currently receiving visitors,” and steps backward toward his dressing room.

“Great Zandar, my a*s...” Marcus calls from the far end of the corridor.

The girl smiles a strange distant smile and will not be put off, “Gillian Marchaux...journalist...” she pronounces Gillian with a hard “G”.

Marty leans into the dressing room after the retreating magician and in a low urgent voice asks, “What are you doing..? How many come-back gigs do you think get reviewed?”

“Reviewed? By who?” Zandar nods toward the corridor, “some pushy wannabe from the ‘Boondock Bugle’?"

“Maybe I should remind you that, right now, all your clippings are photo copies so no one will know how yellow they are”

Zandar is adamant, “I don’t wanna talk to her...”

“Some people can walk away from free publicity, you are not in that fortunate position. You don’t do this and I don’t know I can represent you...”

Zandar is stunned “Marty..?”

The agent’s expressions hardens, “I can’t help if you don’t help. It ain’t just doing the act, you gotta bat sometimes too. This is a sometimes...”

Zandar scowls, he knows he is going to back down. Marty turns back out into the corridor where Gillian waits pretending she hasn’t heard every word. Marty grins at her, “You’re in luck. The great Zandar has a few minutes and has graciously agreed to an interview.”

“That is good...” she says thickly and pushes past Marty into the dressing room and sits on the couch.

Marty hovers in the doorway about to leave, “I really have gotta go...”

Zandar is slightly panicked, “Marty..?”

“Com’n.” says Marty encouragingly “You can handle one journalist on your own...” Marty throws Gillian a grin.

She deadpans, “Especially someone from the ‘Boondock bugle’.”

Marty counters, “Humour..! Who’d have guessed? You two are gunna get along fine. And I do havta go...”

Zandar sighs defeated, “Okay. Okay...”

The agent mutters, “Break a leg...” as he closes the door and is gone. Zandar and the girl face each other for an awkward moment then Zandar opens a draw in his dressing table and fishes out a fresh bottle of whiskey. He finds two reasonable clean glasses pours a slug in one and offers it vaguely to Gillian. She shakes her head. With a drink in each hand Zandar explains, “I don’t normally of course. But a come-back performance on my birthday...” he raises one of the glasses in toast, “is a special occasion.” He drinks.

Gillian ignores this, “You know why I’m here, Zandar.”

He puts down the empty glass and stares quizzically at her, “I do..?”

Gillian smiles rather coldly, “Its in here...” she taps the side of her head, “why don’t you read my mind.”

Zandar stares in straight faced amazement and then breaks into helpless laughter. After several attempts he manages to contain his amusement and patiently explains, “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t actually know what people are thinking. It’s a trick. You’re going to have to tell me what you want.”

“I wanted to talk about your act.” Gillian says as if restating the obvious.

Zandar settles back into his chair, “Yeah, yeah. Who’s this for again? Local paper?”

Gillian ignores the question, an asks, “How long have you been a performer?”

Zandar throws himself into ‘interview’ mode. “Years and years. Longer than anyone could really be interested in.”

“And the mind reading, you’ve always done that?”

Zandar is puzzled by these rather specific questions but presses on, “No, my late wife. She used to appear with me, she suggested it. Stage mentalism was all the rage then. Not now. But I still do it.”

“You’re very good.”

Zandar genuinely pleased, “Well, thank you. But it was my wife who worked out the method...”

Gillian leans forward expectantly but Zandar falls silent with his memories. She bluntly cuts into his reverie “So, how’s it done?” The old magician smiles broadly and slowly shakes his head. “You are really good,” Gillian continues, “in fact TOO good. I don’t believe it’s a trick, you just pretend it is, but you really can read people’s minds.”

Zandar laughs again, “It’s just a better trick than you’ve seen before.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Suit yourself.” He pauses, thinking, then goes on, “If I could really tell what other people were thinking I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be lording it in Las Vegas as world poker champion.” Zandar looks theatrically upward, “Marty what are you doing to me? The matinee from hell, a manic drummer and... whatever this is?”

Gillian is very serious, “I think that you are genuinely telepathic...”

Zandar is suddenly all business, “Look I’m glad that you’re impressed, but I’ve another show in a couple of hours... and I’d like to take a nap.” He looks meaningfully toward the door.

“Please, you can not dismiss me...” Gillian pauses as if making up her mind then speaks in a rush, “I am an interdimensional security operative...”

This only confirms Zandar’s decision, “Time for you to go, Miss whatcha-ma-called.”

“You don’t believe me...

“Did you think I would? Look I’ll honest. I’ve put up with this because I thought you might be... you know, a stripper gram.” Gillian stares uncomprehendingly and Zandar’s voice starts to tail off. “Like a birthday treat. I thought maybe Marty and the boys at the door had chipped in... for a stripper..?” Zandar finishes weakly.

Gillian shrugs, “You believe I am a stripper and I believe you are a trans-physical projector...”

“That’s a first. A what projector..?”

“A being that can modify it’s visible exterior...a shape shifter...”

Zandar smiles as if this clears up the misunderstanding, “Oh, a shape shifter!”

Gillian miss-reads the sarcasm and continues, “I have been sent to these co-ordinates to recapture a shape shifter... who recently escaped from a confinement unit... a prison. I think you are who I’m looking for.”

Zandar pours himself another large slug of whiskey. “The expression is, I think, Lady, what are you on..?”

Gillian takes the question literally, “I am on a mission to recapture a shape shifter...”

Zandar, now a little drunk, adopts the stance of high melodrama, “Okay, you win. You have me cornered. I appear as anything I want and have transformed myself into the virile handsome specimen you see before you. Do I go into hiding? I do not. I do tricks on stage, in public. Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturday matinee and early evening. I don’t do ‘lates’ cause the place is always full of drunks and they don’t believe in magic...” Zandar grins as he gulps down some more whiskey.

“You seek to make my quest ridiculous.”

Zandar nods in agreement. Then he points at the framed photo. “That’s me. A younger me, with my wife. I didn’t just appear here...”

Gillian is unfazed, “You’d have taken an established identity...”

Zandar nods again, “Oh, right. I’m smarter than I thought...” he pauses a moment then, “what happened to the original me?”

“Dead. Without a doubt.”

“So,” says the old magician with some satisfaction, “I am not only smart but ruthless.”

“Which is why you were in prison.”

“But you’ve come after me alone and unarmed?”

Gillian is suddenly abrupt, “Now you are playing games...”

“Indulge me, please... I seem to have left my memory in a previous shape.”

The girl studies him a moment then explains, “I am an investigative tentacle. I will interlock our molecular structures, when I am retracted you will come back with me. There is no escape.” As if to demonstrate Gillian starts to shake, her eyes glaze, she is entering a trance like state.

Zandar is no stranger to such antics, he snorts derisively, pours another whiskey and asks, “No chance you are a stripper then..?” almost immediately he grimaces in pain. He also starts to shake as Gillian tries to take telepathic control of him.

“You can’t resist...” she insists.

“You are making my head hurt.” Zandar complains. He is fighting against her. His face set, his hands clench, he grips the whiskey glass so tightly that it shatters, a glass shard cuts into his hand. He cries out.

Gillian reacts as if with an identical injury, the apparently physical pain causes her to lose concentration. Breathing heavily she redoubles the effort and through gritted teeth mutters “You feel pain..?

Zandar lifts his injured hand and snaps, “Damn right. And it’s bleeding like hell.” He wraps a handkerchief around his hand.

The girl is obviously in great discomfort struggles to overcome the pain and to achieve control. She pleads, “You can stop pain. You can stop the leakage...”

For the first time his face clouds with anger, “Well plainly I can’t because if I could, I would.”

“Stop it hurting me.”

“I can’t!”

Gillian suddenly gives up and relaxes, she releases her mental grip on Zandar and flops back exhausted onto the couch.

Nursing his hand Zandar speaks with precision, “I don’t pretend to understand what this is about but I’ve had enough of it. You have to leave...”

Gillian offers no argument, she gets up rather shakily and walks unsteadily to the door. She goes out into the corridor, which is now bathed, in a yellowish oily light, she looks upward, “It isn’t him.” She pauses then states, “I am sure. Our information was not accurate. I’m coming back alone.” Gillian dissolves into particles that float swiftly upward and disappear.

Zandar stands a moment looking out onto the now empty corridor, and then steps back into the dressing room and closes the door. Looking directly at the rabbit which is still sitting in the top hat he asks “Well. What did you make of that?”

The rabbit replies, “It was damn close, but like I said, we’re a great team, I help you with the mind reading, you help me by confusing my pursuers...”

END

© 2019 Allen George Duck

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barleygirl

Another great story! Starting out, I was impressed by how vividly you paint the "tired old performers" circuit . . . I was picturing every move & sound! As the magician & agent squabble, the dialogue is so believable. The mind-reading part was clear & flowed well but I couldn't understand the crux of what he said to his drummer. As your story began to transform from being highly realistic to being fantastical, I kinda remembered reading another story of yours where you made this transition equally well. I love how you pull us in by telling a spot-on realistic story & then you don't disturb our belief in your storytelling by going radically off the rails. The shift in your story is so gradual, we still believe you even when it's clear this has become spoof of some sort. The conversation w/ journalist ends with a very fun scuffle, easily visualized, then terminated with a suitable ultimatum from the magician. All this is great seamless weaving of realistic & fantastical. I'm not sure the final rabbit remark adds anything enlightening, but it fun to bring the rabbit back around to the story (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie