at you curiously. “Are you sure?”
“I just like old cars.”
“But this isn’t really true, what you say about not caring. I can see many qualities in you and apathy is not one of them. I know about making impressions on people. I was in a similar profession.”
“What was it?”
He digs around in his pockets and produces two fat little parakeets, one in each hand. He lets them go and they fly around the room.
“A magician,” you say, laughing.
“Yes. But do you want to know the trouble with magic? It is its own worst enemy. And since we are both in the business of making illusions, we can understand each other, yes? An illusion makes the impossible, possible. And yet it is the worst kind of trickery.” He smiles as if this is obvious, showing his imperfect teeth. “For example, I could not save my wife with it.”
You nod with sympathy, understanding.
“I can make people believe, because it makes them happy to believe. The possibility that there is something else, something larger than ourselves. Something beyond what we can imagine. Something inexplicable.”
“Like God,” you say.
“Or heaven,” he says. “Do you believe in heaven?”
You think about it for a moment. “Yes,” you say finally. “Because it’s better than dirt and worms.”
He reaches out for your hand. “Let me hold your hand a moment.”
“All right.” You give him your hand.
“You are very warm,” he says, giving it back. “You have good circulation.”
“Do I?”
“You see, there is an explanation behind every phenomenon.” He smiles meaningfully.
“Ella no quiere escuchar un sermón, viejo,” Flora scolds. “A ella le gusta el automóvil, déjala manejarlo.”
“Pero ella se ve muy triste,” he says to the woman.
“Sí, sí, el auto la va a hacer feliz.”
You don’t know what they’re talking about and you don’t mind not knowing. It’s pleasant to be sitting in such a grand room, drinking tea, and you like the sound of the Spanish, a beautiful language. Tea in the afternoon is nice, you think, resenting the fact that you have become an American fool, always rushing from one insipid activity to another. Your life, you conclude, is a series of neurotic solutions to the inevitability of death. Your diets and remedies, your trainers, your amino acids and vitamins, your ineffectual therapist, your personal masseuse.
“Flora says I’m lecturing you. I should let you drive the car. You don’t have all day to be sitting around with me. You are busy, an important person.”
“Not so important.” You suddenly don’t like the adjective. It is true that, in the context of your life, you are important; you make enormous decisions; you control millions of dollars; people wait for your calls. But thinking about it now, in relation to your conversation with the old man, you are not so sure. What good have you really done? Who have you helped? How deeply have you felt about anything? Maybe everything you’ve accomplished is meaningless. “I’m in no hurry.”
“Do you want to drive it?”
“Maybe not today, with the rain.”
“You’re hesitant. I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinking it wasn’t smart to come here. You don’t usually do things like this.”
“Like what?”
“Buy things from strangers.”
“That’s true, but this is different.”
“I am not a stranger, yes?”
You smile at him. “I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sorry about your wife.”
“We are all strangers to each other.” He smiles. “Flora, dale las llaves del auto.”
Flora disappears for a few minutes and when she returns you hear the tinkling sound of the keys and see them now in Flora’s hand. To your surprise there is a rabbit’s foot on the keychain. It is a white rabbit’s foot and when you hold it in your hand you can feel the tiny bones beneath the fur. The bony foot makes your hand sweat.
“Buena suerte.” Flora smiles regretfully, as if she feels badly about whatever she has
“I just like old cars.”
“But this isn’t really true, what you say about not caring. I can see many qualities in you and apathy is not one of them. I know about making impressions on people. I was in a similar profession.”
“What was it?”
He digs around in his pockets and produces two fat little parakeets, one in each hand. He lets them go and they fly around the room.
“A magician,” you say, laughing.
“Yes. But do you want to know the trouble with magic? It is its own worst enemy. And since we are both in the business of making illusions, we can understand each other, yes? An illusion makes the impossible, possible. And yet it is the worst kind of trickery.” He smiles as if this is obvious, showing his imperfect teeth. “For example, I could not save my wife with it.”
You nod with sympathy, understanding.
“I can make people believe, because it makes them happy to believe. The possibility that there is something else, something larger than ourselves. Something beyond what we can imagine. Something inexplicable.”
“Like God,” you say.
“Or heaven,” he says. “Do you believe in heaven?”
You think about it for a moment. “Yes,” you say finally. “Because it’s better than dirt and worms.”
He reaches out for your hand. “Let me hold your hand a moment.”
“All right.” You give him your hand.
“You are very warm,” he says, giving it back. “You have good circulation.”
“Do I?”
“You see, there is an explanation behind every phenomenon.” He smiles meaningfully.
“Ella no quiere escuchar un sermón, viejo,” Flora scolds. “A ella le gusta el automóvil, déjala manejarlo.”
“Pero ella se ve muy triste,” he says to the woman.
“Sí, sí, el auto la va a hacer feliz.”
You don’t know what they’re talking about and you don’t mind not knowing. It’s pleasant to be sitting in such a grand room, drinking tea, and you like the sound of the Spanish, a beautiful language. Tea in the afternoon is nice, you think, resenting the fact that you have become an American fool, always rushing from one insipid activity to another. Your life, you conclude, is a series of neurotic solutions to the inevitability of death. Your diets and remedies, your trainers, your amino acids and vitamins, your ineffectual therapist, your personal masseuse.
“Flora says I’m lecturing you. I should let you drive the car. You don’t have all day to be sitting around with me. You are busy, an important person.”
“Not so important.” You suddenly don’t like the adjective. It is true that, in the context of your life, you are important; you make enormous decisions; you control millions of dollars; people wait for your calls. But thinking about it now, in relation to your conversation with the old man, you are not so sure. What good have you really done? Who have you helped? How deeply have you felt about anything? Maybe everything you’ve accomplished is meaningless. “I’m in no hurry.”
“Do you want to drive it?”
“Maybe not today, with the rain.”
“You’re hesitant. I can see it in your eyes. You’re thinking it wasn’t smart to come here. You don’t usually do things like this.”
“Like what?”
“Buy things from strangers.”
“That’s true, but this is different.”
“I am not a stranger, yes?”
You smile at him. “I don’t want to trouble you. I’m sorry about your wife.”
“We are all strangers to each other.” He smiles. “Flora, dale las llaves del auto.”
Flora disappears for a few minutes and when she returns you hear the tinkling sound of the keys and see them now in Flora’s hand. To your surprise there is a rabbit’s foot on the keychain. It is a white rabbit’s foot and when you hold it in your hand you can feel the tiny bones beneath the fur. The bony foot makes your hand sweat.
“Buena suerte.” Flora smiles regretfully, as if she feels badly about whatever she has
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