kitchen. They illuminated Paul’s face; I saw he was wearing his Little Boy top hat.
A trumpet fanfare and a blasting drum roll followed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for your after-dinner enjoyment, the Hapsburg Room would like to present the Amazing Little Boy and his bag, or should I say hat , full of tricks!”
Paul remained deadpan throughout the introduction. When it was over (I assumed it came from a tape recorder in the other room), he bowed deeply and reached behind him. The lights in the room came on again, and at the same instant the candles went out. Poof! Just like that.
“Hey, Paul, that’s a great trick!”
He nodded, but put a finger to his lips for silence. He had on the familiar white gloves from India’s Little Boy painting and a cutaway jacket over a white T-shirt. Taking off the hat, he placed it rim up on the table directly in front of him. I looked at India, but she was watching the performance.
From inside his jacket he took out a large silver key. He held it up for us to see and then dropped it into the silk hat. A burst of flame shot upward, and I jumped in my seat. He smiled and, picking up the hat, turned it so we could see down into it. A small black bird swooped out and winged over to our table. It landed on India’s dessert plate and pecked at a piece of cake. Paul tapped the table twice; the bird flew obediently back to him. Placing the hat over it, Paul made a loud kissing noise and pulled the hat up again. Twenty or thirty silver keys fell out of it with a metallic clatter.
India began clapping furiously. I joined right in.
“Bravo, Boy!”
“Paul, my God, that’s fantastic!” I’d had no idea he was so talented. “But where’s the bird?”
He slowly shook his head and put his finger again to his lips. I felt like the bad seven-year-old at the second-grade puppet show.
“Do your mind reading, Boy!”
Although I didn’t believe in it, just the idea of Paul reading my mind at that point made me uncomfortable. I wanted to give India a belt in the mouth to keep her quiet.
“Little Boy is not reading minds tonight. Return another time and he will tell all, including Joseph Lennox’s vast unhappiness with tonight’s dinner!”
“No, come on, Paul —”
“Another time!” He moved his arm through the air as if he were pushing a curtain across an invisible window.
One white hand stopped above the rim of the silk hat. Paul made the kissing sound again, and the blade of orange flame burst up for the second time that night. It disappeared in an instant, and the hat toppled over on its side. There was a tinny, clinkety-clink sound, and out hopped a large toy tin bird. It was black, with a yellow beak and black wings, and a big red key in its back. It slowly goose-stepped to the edge of the table and stopped. Paul snapped his fingers, but nothing happened. He snapped them again. The toy rose off the table and began to fly. It flapped its wings too slowly and cautiously: an old man getting into a cold swimming pool. That didn’t matter, because slow or not, it glided up and off the table and flew in a loud putter around the room.
“Jesus Christ! Amazing!”
“Yay, Little Boy!”
The bird was at the window, hovering at the Venetian blinds in a way that made it look as if it was having a look outside. Paul tapped the table. The bird turned reluctantly and flew back to him. When it landed, Paul once again covered it with the hat. I started to clap, but India touched my arm and shook her head — there was more, the trick wasn’t over. Paul smiled and turned the hat rim up again. He gave it the familiar two taps; the flame shot up for the third time. This time it didn’t stop. Instead, Paul turned the hat over, and out tumbled a screeching, burning, live bird — a small package of fire that kept trying to stand up or fly … I was so aghast I didn’t know what to do.
“Paul, stop!”
“My name is Little Boy!”
“Paul, for godsake!”
India grabbed my arm so hard
A trumpet fanfare and a blasting drum roll followed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, for your after-dinner enjoyment, the Hapsburg Room would like to present the Amazing Little Boy and his bag, or should I say hat , full of tricks!”
Paul remained deadpan throughout the introduction. When it was over (I assumed it came from a tape recorder in the other room), he bowed deeply and reached behind him. The lights in the room came on again, and at the same instant the candles went out. Poof! Just like that.
“Hey, Paul, that’s a great trick!”
He nodded, but put a finger to his lips for silence. He had on the familiar white gloves from India’s Little Boy painting and a cutaway jacket over a white T-shirt. Taking off the hat, he placed it rim up on the table directly in front of him. I looked at India, but she was watching the performance.
From inside his jacket he took out a large silver key. He held it up for us to see and then dropped it into the silk hat. A burst of flame shot upward, and I jumped in my seat. He smiled and, picking up the hat, turned it so we could see down into it. A small black bird swooped out and winged over to our table. It landed on India’s dessert plate and pecked at a piece of cake. Paul tapped the table twice; the bird flew obediently back to him. Placing the hat over it, Paul made a loud kissing noise and pulled the hat up again. Twenty or thirty silver keys fell out of it with a metallic clatter.
India began clapping furiously. I joined right in.
“Bravo, Boy!”
“Paul, my God, that’s fantastic!” I’d had no idea he was so talented. “But where’s the bird?”
He slowly shook his head and put his finger again to his lips. I felt like the bad seven-year-old at the second-grade puppet show.
“Do your mind reading, Boy!”
Although I didn’t believe in it, just the idea of Paul reading my mind at that point made me uncomfortable. I wanted to give India a belt in the mouth to keep her quiet.
“Little Boy is not reading minds tonight. Return another time and he will tell all, including Joseph Lennox’s vast unhappiness with tonight’s dinner!”
“No, come on, Paul —”
“Another time!” He moved his arm through the air as if he were pushing a curtain across an invisible window.
One white hand stopped above the rim of the silk hat. Paul made the kissing sound again, and the blade of orange flame burst up for the second time that night. It disappeared in an instant, and the hat toppled over on its side. There was a tinny, clinkety-clink sound, and out hopped a large toy tin bird. It was black, with a yellow beak and black wings, and a big red key in its back. It slowly goose-stepped to the edge of the table and stopped. Paul snapped his fingers, but nothing happened. He snapped them again. The toy rose off the table and began to fly. It flapped its wings too slowly and cautiously: an old man getting into a cold swimming pool. That didn’t matter, because slow or not, it glided up and off the table and flew in a loud putter around the room.
“Jesus Christ! Amazing!”
“Yay, Little Boy!”
The bird was at the window, hovering at the Venetian blinds in a way that made it look as if it was having a look outside. Paul tapped the table. The bird turned reluctantly and flew back to him. When it landed, Paul once again covered it with the hat. I started to clap, but India touched my arm and shook her head — there was more, the trick wasn’t over. Paul smiled and turned the hat rim up again. He gave it the familiar two taps; the flame shot up for the third time. This time it didn’t stop. Instead, Paul turned the hat over, and out tumbled a screeching, burning, live bird — a small package of fire that kept trying to stand up or fly … I was so aghast I didn’t know what to do.
“Paul, stop!”
“My name is Little Boy!”
“Paul, for godsake!”
India grabbed my arm so hard
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