Another thing she had to keep silent about was the nonexistence of their once active and always exciting sex life. She thought Wurlitzer knew, how could he not? Emily usually came downtown in the afternoons and returned to her apartment alone in the evenings. Michael walked her to the subway, kissed her, thanked her, sent her away. She had not even seen his room, where, presumably, he spent his nights alone. At first she tried to persuade him to come uptown with her, but he refused, gently, always holding out the promise, “not yet.” Then she got tired of asking and settled down to waiting and watching. He seemed happy to have her with him most of the time, and she functioned both as an assistant and a liaison to Sami, who was financing the refurbishing of the Little Cairo. But though beside her, Michael was seldom entirely with her; he was always at attention, one ear cocked, waiting for a word from his master, like a dog, she thought, smiling to herself. When he was working he was different, she had to admit, he was amazing. His anxiety seemed to vanish, and he was in total, perfect control of his audience. He looked different, Emily thought, older somehow, and wiser, exuding confidence and an aura of mystery. She found herself watching him, her mouth open, bursting into delighted applause along with the strangers around her.
So she stayed on, fascinated, in spite of her distaste for Wurlitzer, her fear of Michael’s obsession, her frustration at the loss of what had been for her an exciting love affair. And full of dread, a step or two behind Michael, she watched him and waited for something, she didn’t know what, something to change.
They had come to Fifth Avenue when Michael stopped, turned, and waited to cross the street. Emily said, “Why are we going into the square? I thought we were shopping.”
“Well,” Michael said, “I don’t need to do any shopping.” He looked ahead avidly, like a hunter who has spotted a deer, at the crowd milling about in the square. “I thought I’d do some street magic. It’s been a long time.”
Emily hurried to keep up with him as he dove into the traffic. “What are you going to do? You don’t have any of your stuff.”
“I don’t need ‘stuff.’ I’ll improvise, it’s more of a challenge. It’ll be like the old days, except…”
“Except what?”
He gave her a crafty look. “Except better. There’s something I’ve been wanting to try.” They were through the arch now, heading for the fountain; he gave her shoulder a quick pat and strode on ahead.
He quickly reached the fountain, turned around, and faced the arch with his heels touching the concrete basin. He swept the crowd with his gaze, on the alert for that momentary hesitation, that spark of interest or curiosity, that eye contact he used to build an audience. Meanwhile a silver dollar danced on the fingertips of each hand. “It’s magic time, ladies and gentlemen,” he cried, and began a prodigious demonstration of dexterity, making the coins walk across his knuckles, disappear from one hand and reappear in the other, twirl and spin and flip as though attached to his fingers by invisible wires. People took notice, a crowd started gathering. Public displays in Washington Square Park were commonplace, but free shows that featured such a talented performer were not. Emily watched Michael work the crowd, intriguing the onlookers, astonishing them, pulling silver dollars from their ears or pockets, making a smooth transition to card tricks, some old routines she had seen before, but more refined now, polished, brought to perfection.
Before long, most of the spectators were charmed and delighted. A few raucous young men sitting on the rim of the fountain not far from Michael indulged themselves in some puerile heckling, but the magician ignored them, and his audience was giving him all its attention. Michael was working at a feverish pace, intense, confident, focused, never ceasing to test the crowd, push it, overwhelm it, measuring its susceptibilities, gauging its inclinations, waiting for his moment.
It was provided, as he had hoped it might be, by one of the idle hecklers. After a stage-whispered conference with his friends, this young man rose to his feet and swaggered alongside the curve of the fountain in Michael’s direction. Michael was bowing deeply to the applause that followed a breathtaking series of card sleights. As the clapping and whistling died down, the heckler stepped in front of him. “Spare change,” he said, holding out a grubby palm.
He was a tall, broad, dull-eyed young man, towering over Michael, crowned by very dark, greasy hair that probably would have been a different color if washed and a Mets cap set backward on his head. The sleeves of his black T-shirt had been ripped off to reveal a pair of meaty shoulders. On the front of the shirt, a half-torn breast pocket flapped above big white letters I’M STONED. WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE? His blue jeans were an arrangement of various-sized holes held together by a few frayed pieces of denim.
Michael smiled up at him as though overjoyed at the sight. “Excuse me?” he said solicitously, in the voice of a man who knows he’s missed something important.
“I said, ‘Spare change,’” the other repeated, thrusting his hand out more emphatically, just under Michael’s nose.
“I haven’t got any on me,” Michael said, and felt his pockets with a regretful air. “But wait”—he reached up and plucked a silver dollar from the young man’s scaly ear—“you probably forgot you had this.”
The young man tried to snatch the coin, but Michael was quicker, evading the grab and tucking the silver dollar into what was left of his antagonist’s shirt pocket. “There you go,” Michael said, patting the other’s large chest. “Now you won’t misplace it again.” He turned back to the crowd, ostentatiously shuffling the deck of cards that had reappeared in his palm, leaving the tall young man standing beside him with his hand pressed against his breast pocket as though he were pledging allegiance to the flag. He remained that way for a few seconds, plainly unsure of his next move, then began digging inside his pocket for the silver coin; but the pocket yielded nothing to his fumbling except a few more stitches.
“Hey!” he yelled at Michael, who, apparently oblivious of him, was addressing the audience on the subject of his next trick.
Michael stopped and slowly turned his eyes to the other’s face. “Yes?” he said mildly.
“Gimme back my dollar.”
“It’s in your pocket.”
“No it ain’t, you took it. Give it back. Now.”
Alarmed by the man’s mounting belligerence, Emily started making her way through the crowd to Michael. Several members of the audience were annoyed at the interruption and let their feelings be known in ways New Yorkers were especially fond of.
“Screw you!” the man screamed in their direction and took a few threatening steps toward the nearest members of the crowd. His friends were suddenly a lot closer, some glaring, some whooping and egging him on.
“Go for it, Jason!” one of them hollered. “It’s Friday the thirteenth!”
“Please, ladies and gentlemen,” Michael said in a penetrating voice, raising his hands and gesturing to the audience. “Relax. Everything’s all right.” He turned again to Jason, who was still hulking obstinately at his side. “I’ll tell you what—” Michael began.
“Don’t tell me nothin’. Gimme my dollar.”
“You can have your dollar if you give us a show.”
Jason looked astonished, then suspicious, but his scowl returned at once when one of his friends laughed. “I ain’t givin’ no show. You give me my money.”
Michael’s mocking smile clashed with his wheedling tone. “Come on, it won’t take long. You seem like a good sport. Why not join the fun? Tell us what your favorite animal is.”
“I hate animals,” Jason said, eliciting guffaws and high fives from his more exuberant friends.
Michael persisted, negligently raising one hand to the onlookers for patience, the mockery in his smile now coloring his voice. “But suppose you were an animal,” he said as though looking at one, “what would you be?”
Emily gasped, then held her breath, suddenly aware of what Michael planned to do.
The crowd was growing restive,
as was Jason, who glanced at his grinning, expectant friends. “A big, mean dog,” he said.
“Show us,” said Michael, folding his arms and appearing to grow taller, bulkier.
Jason threw his head back, opened his mouth, and howled, very lustily, very convincingly: “Ow-ooooo!” Some nearby dogs paused in mid-romp and pricked up their ears. The howl lasted a long time; Jason’s face was brick red when he stopped. He shook his head savagely and took a step backward. “Hey!” he yelled at Michael. “What was that?”
“You want to be a dog, right?”
Jason shook his head again. “Yes! I mean no!” He stepped closer to Michael, who still stood with his arms folded, unmoving.
“Which is it?” Michael asked imperiously, staring into the young man’s eyes.
“I’ll be a dog, you’ll be a bone,” Jason growled.
“You first,” Michael said with a sneer. “Be a dog.”
At once Jason flung himself to the ground and began to scurry about on his hands and knees, barking and snarling, his tongue hanging out, his eyes fearsome and wild. He nipped at the heels of a few people in the audience, narrowly dodged a kick, backed off with a strangled growl, and loped to the fountain, where he lifted one leg clear of the ground and stood in a three-point stance, looking off into the distance, panting hard. His friends followed him, but he barked fiercely at anyone who approached.
Michael’s face was radiant with elation. “Any other volunteers?” he asked the audience. He glanced invitingly at the people nearest him.
A large-breasted, broad-hipped girl with braided hair and big brown eyes said timidly, “I’ve always thought of myself as feline.”
Michael watched the movement of her gum-chewing jaws for a second. “Are you sure you don't mean ‘bovine’?” he asked, looking intently into her eyes. “Don’t you really want to be a cow?”
“Moooo,” she replied, her eyes glazed over, and she plodded away, chewing contentedly, to a shady spot where she could scratch her behind against a tree.
People in the by-now large crowd applauded; some laughed nervously, not sure if what they were witnessing was a put-on, something funny or something monstrous.
“Anyone else?” Michael said urgently. “Who’s next? Step right up.”
“Stop, Michael! Please.” Emily approached him. “This is ugly. This is terrible! Please stop.”
“Oh, Emily, come on. These people are having fun,” he said. “What’s the harm?”
A few more people approached him, one by one. A girl wearing a ponytail went clip-clopping off, the bit between her teeth and the reins hanging free. A big gorilla turned away, beating his chest and making threatening displays. A shy-looking turtle crept under a bench, pulled his shirt over his head, and froze.
Then two little boys came up to Michael, brothers, each of them pulling one of their father’s hands. “Come on, Dad,” the older boy pleaded. “Can we? Can we?” And the father, reluctant, hesitating, uneasy, but not wishing to deny his children the possibility of validating themselves through a life-enriching experience, gave in. “I suppose so,” he said with a groan.
“Monkeys!” the brothers shouted together, jumping up and down. “We wanna be monkeys!”
“If you want to be monkeys,” Michael said, bending down over the two of them, “then you should just be monkeys.”
Off they shot, piping gibberish to one another, heading for a tree with low branches.
Next, three young people, members of three distinct races, stood in a row before him: obviously NYU students, despite the fact that one of them was carrying a book. They couldn’t quite make up their minds—they hated to give preferential treatment to any one species over another—so he left them huddled together, bleating sheepishly, and stepped back to admire his work.
He had succeeded. He had penetrated the will of another—of several others—comprehended it, conspired with it to control its owner. Rejoicing in his power as never before, transported by success, Michael raised his arms to the skies like an athlete celebrating a victory. But as he savored his triumph, shaking his clenched fists above his head, happily surveying the misbehaving animals, he noticed something he hadn’t foreseen, something strange and wonderful, as if it were a confirmation of the irrestible force of his will: the phenomenon was repeating itself. Transformations were starting to occur unbidden, spreading from one person to another like a contagion.
Over by the fountain, Jason and his friends tumbled together in a desperate, roiling pack, biting and snapping at one another, growling like demons. An amphibious couple, half in and half out of the water, performed a frenzied alligator dance across the rim of the pool. A large black man, sleek and powerful, bellowed a pantherish roar at some young white girls, who fled before him like frightened gazelles. Panhandlers sat on their haunches and begged, with dangling forepaws and lolling tongues. A kangaroo family leaped about wildly; the terrified baby bounced and jolted in the pouch slung across its father’s chest.
Michael stood at the center of all this whirling action, his exultation gradually changing to alarm. The park was literally turning into a zoo—but where was the keeper? He saw what was apparently a bull, thick-necked, heavy-shouldered, red-eyed, snorting furiously and pawing the ground. Michael moved toward him, speaking all the while: “Stop! That’s enough! Be a man! Stop! It’s over!” But the bull lowered his head and charged, forcing Michael to jump aside in order to avoid being gored. His eye caught Emily’s; she was kneeling on the ground, sitting on her heels with her hands on her thighs, rapt in utter amazement. From the welter of emotions inside her, one was beginning to emerge and dominate: fear. Michael gestured helplessly and had time to shout “I can’t” before the thunder of hooves announced the bull’s return charge and he once again had to dive out of harm’s way.
A pretty woman lay on her side on the ground, suckling a baby at her breast; both of them were purring loudly. Michael tried to speak to the mother, but she hissed at him and scratched his outstretched hand. He straightened up and turned away, only to confront penguins on the march, a group of eight all dressed in black and white and waddling in a column toward the fountain. Michael stood in front of one teenaged girl, grabbed her shoulders and yelled for her to stop, but her terror-stricken eyes looked through him and he released her to waddle on. He clapped his hands to his temples, felt his sweat-drenched hair, and covered his eyes.
When he removed his hands, three representatives of the New York Police Department were bearing down on him. “What the hell’s goin’ on?” one of them demanded roughly.
Michael managed a weak smile. “It’s a jungle out here,” he said.
“You tellin’ me,” the cop replied, bared his teeth, and charged yipping at a couple of black cats, one male and one female, who were mating frantically beside a bench, yowling and screeching in concert. The other two officers began to chase one another around the fountain, barking furiously.
The whole park was an uproar, uncontrolled bedlam, paradise inverted; these were the beasts of the apocalypse, chaos was come again. Violence and pain were everywhere, people were bleeding from bites and scratches. Every now and then an animal emerged from the tumult and presented itself to Michael, as though seeking help or instructions, sometimes pleading inarticulately, half-human, half-feral faces twisted by agony and terror. But soon they would gallop, trot, bound, crawl, slink, slouch, creep, leap, or bolt away, back on their driven, unfathomable rounds. Most of the animals were quite ready to be humans again, but something prevented them, something unimaginable. This wasn’t a trick. This wasn’t a game. Something was wrong—enough of their faculties were intact to tell them that. Panic was spreading among them.
Panic gripped Michael’s heart too, as the full realization of his powerlessness to undo what he had done came over him. He gasped as a frog hopped past him, eyes bulging, thighs pumping; “Rrib-it, Rrib-it,” said the frog, and plunged into the fountain.
Michael sprinted after him. The pool was a foaming, seething turm
oil of splashing water and thrashing animals. Many were vomiting, several were struggling for air as though drowning. Horrified, gagging, Michael started pulling animals bodily out of the pool.
Emily was still on her knees, too dismayed and frightened to move; she was conscious only of mortal danger and of her will to survive it. She put her hands on the ground, trembling to the marrow of her bones, the hairs on the nape of her neck standing up like fur. She had become pure instinct, a small machine that processed sensory information and acted upon it without reflection. Her nostrils dilated as she sniffed the air, and then the fear finally propelled her to her feet and she was running fast, fast as a vixen; she felt the wind sting her eyes as she darted to the arch, through the arch, across the street—her instinct identified the honking, squealing cars as a lesser danger than what was going on in the park—until she came to a sudden, joint-rending stop and found herself, her conscious, human self, looking up into Wurlitzer’s disdainful single eye.
“Tally-ho, my dear,” he said merrily as he shuffled past her. She leaned breathless against a building, watched him cross the street and pass under the arch.
Michael was in the fountain, standing in the now filthy water and hauling two drowning ducks by their collars to the side of the pool. With mighty heaves he draped first one and then the other over the rim. He was crying now, shattered, desperate; one of the ducks, quacking insanely, slid back into the water, and Michael began to slap and buffet him. Pausing for breath, he looked toward the arch and saw the lean somber figure of his master standing under it, arms akimbo, calmly pondering the shambles before him. Then, still looking around thoughtfully, he threaded his way between two rampant lions, past a suffocating python, a herd, and a couple of packs, toward the fountain. Halfway along he finally looked directly at Michael, who stood dripping and cringing in the pool, each hand propping up a draped, heaving, weakly quacking duck.