The Whiz Mob hung back by the wall; Jackie gave Charlie a little shove in the small of his back.
“Go get ’em,” she said, “lone wolf.”
Charlie stretched his shoulders and twisted his neck, as if prepping his body for the work to come. “All right,” he said, as much to himself as anyone else. He walked toward the crush, trying to take on the persona of someone who had just happened on the scene, someone exploring the city for the first time and coming upon a charming street performance. It felt good; he felt like he was writing a story for himself, not unlike one that he would ascribe to the characters in his composition book. He wasn’t Charlie the pickpocket anymore. He was Charlie the wandering tourist, the innocent child.
“Come on, then,” said the magician by the fountain. “Come in close. I won’t bite.”
(He was speaking in French. Charlie was able to understand most of what he was saying by context. As always, you have the luxury of an interpreter.)
The crowd followed his instruction. Charlie moved with them. He felt his shoulder push up against the arm of a man in shirtsleeves and his hip against a woman’s purse. He was surprised in both cases that neither audience member seemed in the least bit concerned about the close proximity of their neighbors. The environment was ideal.
The magician began his act. Charlie began his tip.
And in that sense, the two seemed almost coordinated in their work. While the magician wowed the onlookers with vanishing scarves and materializing coins, Charlie worked to do the very opposite—using purse flaps and handkerchiefs as cover, he disappeared coins and cash from the pockets and purses of the unsuspecting crowd. While the magician strove to direct their eyes to him and his show, Charlie worked to make sure the spectators’ eyes were anywhere but on his covert movements. And yet they were essentially doing the same work: they were manipulating the fabric of what people thought was real and using it to their benefit.
Charlie’s pockets were soon full; without a duke man, he would be unable to continue working. It happened that, just then, a pair of policemen appeared and began shooing away the gathered crowd, citing the magician for unlawful assembly and solicitation. The magician pleaded with the cops for clemency while the crowd wandered away, ignorant of their financial losses at Charlie’s hand. Charlie, for his part, took his time returning to the Whiz Mob, who were all still standing against the wall on the far side of the square. Just as he was making his way back to announce his success, he felt someone grab the sleeve of his shirt.
“Hey, you,” came the voice of a man. Charlie turned to see it was the magician.
“What?” asked Charlie, shaking his arm from the man’s grasp.
“Give me half.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t think you can fool me, Yankee Doodle Dandy,” the man said in English. “You think I do not see what you are doing? Little prat digger, pinching skins from my audience, yes? Give me half and I let you go.”
The police officers were no longer paying any mind to the magician, though they were still too close by for Charlie’s comfort. “Fine,” said Charlie. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of franc bills. He shoved them into the magician’s outstretched hand. The magician glanced at the pile and shook his head.
“Come on,” he said, still holding out his hand.
Charlie frowned and pulled out a tweezer poke he’d pinched from a woman’s silk purse. It was near to overflowing with bills. “Here,” he said. “That’s about half.”
“Merci,” said the magician. He glanced over Charlie’s shoulder. “You on the whiz, Yank?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie replied. “Maybe.”
“Careful with them lot,” said the magician, indicating with his eyes the group of kids standing by the wall. “If you know what’s good for you.”
With that, the magician leapt back a few steps and gave a stagey bow. “From one illusionist to another,” he said. “Adieu.” He then sauntered off, whistling a tune.
When Charlie returned to the Whiz Mob at the wall, they were bowled over in laughter. Borra threw his arm over Charlie’s shoulder and snared him in a friendly headlock.
“Amazing,” said the Bear. “You go up against wrong magic man, Charlie.”
“Still, that was ace work. Up until the end there,” said Molly. She was barely able to finish this sentence before she dissolved into fits of laughter.
“That magician’s finest trick of the day,” said Michiko. “Magically disappearing half of Charlie’s pinches.” She, too, was sputtering with laughter.
“Laugh all you want,” said Charlie. “I still made a haul.” He reached into his pockets and retrieved his takings: even with the magician taking part of the cut, it was an impressive bing.
Pluto pushed the wallets and cash back toward Charlie’s chest. “Shhh,” he said. “We’ve still got coppers about. Let’s not count the knockup till we’re safe as kelsey.” Once Charlie had stashed the goods back in his pockets, Pluto said, “But still. Nice work, Grenadine Kid.”
Everyone quieted to hear this admission. “Thanks,” said Charlie.
Pluto smiled. “For a sucker, anyways. Now we oughta get back to the scatter before Monsieur Presto over here fleeces us some more.”
Charlie, with Borra’s arm still draped over his shoulder, fell in line with the rest of the Whiz Mob as they wandered away from the square, each of them rehashing and laughing good-naturedly at Charlie’s tip. All, that is, save for Amir. Noticing this, Charlie ducked from underneath Borra’s embrace and fell in line with Amir.
“What’d you think?” asked Charlie. “Pretty good drift, decent press, right?”
Amir didn’t say anything at first. Charlie thought he hadn’t heard him. He repeated, “Pretty decent press, right?”
“I heard you the first time, Charlie,” said Amir, nearly cutting him off.
“Oh, I—”
“Yeah, decent press.” Amir then abruptly stepped away, jogging to catch up with Jackie at the head of the gang. Charlie was left in the rear, puzzling over his friend’s words. He soon found himself walking alongside Molly.
She apparently noticed his change in mood, because she said, “What’s up, Charlie?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie.
“Did Amir say something?”
Charlie was about to recount the entire exchange, but he thought better of it—perhaps it was nothing. A bit of sour mood, perhaps. Certainly nothing to be too thrown by. “Nah,” he said. “It’s really nothing.”
But the feeling Amir had driven into him lasted the rest of the day and into the evening. It stuck in his gut like a stone.
Chapter
FOURTEEN
And so the afternoons turned to long days and the long days turned to lazy weeks; April revolved into the depths of May, and the tourists began to descend from farther-flung reaches. The Whiz Mob’s daily and weekly take began to expand with each new wave of foreign travelers. Just as Charlie began to adopt a larger role in the mob, he began to grow closer and closer to the strange clique—he began to learn their funny mannerisms and their little insecurities. He began to recognize Molly’s little fits of stubbornness, born out of her being the runt of the gang; he could tell when one of Borra’s grumpy spells was about to come along, usually due to that morning’s or afternoon’s nearness to one meal or another. He once even stashed an extra sticky bun from the gang’s quick café breakfast and revealed it (much to the Whiz Mob’s—and particularly Borra’s—surprise) just when the giant Russian began to grumble about some chump he’d rumbled. He watched Pluto and Jackie spar, the two elder siblings of this large, strange family; Charlie often found himself in the role of mediator between the two of them, perhaps owing to whatever skill he’d gleaned from his father’s work, and he grew in estimation with both of them.
Most impressively, he began to learn how to tell Sembene and Fatour apart from each other, even when they were dressed identically: Sembene was the more art
iculate of the two—Fatour the blunt one. For this, he was rewarded with the twins’ admiration, even if they begrudged him his ability to see through their practiced grift. Michiko was a tough nut to crack, being somewhat quiet and introspective, but a respect was fostered between them as two kids, she and Charlie, who were perhaps more enigmatic than the world gave them credit for.
But as each member of the mob became more familiar and friendlier to Charlie, it was Amir who seemed to grow increasingly distant with every day that passed, with every tip they worked. The change seemed to emanate from their exchange on the roof of the scatter, those many weeks prior, when Amir had first pledged friendship to Charlie. There was a certain sorrow in Amir that Charlie had not seen, one that seemed to blossom as the weeks went by. One particular moment stuck in Charlie’s head long after it had transpired.
They’d just been working the lunch crowds gathering along the esplanade of the hilltop basilica—you were JUST THERE—and were eating sandwiches, sitting in a long line on the stony rampart of the lower deck, despite the complaints of the church’s volunteer staff. They were talking about what they planned on doing, once the Headmaster had called them home and they were allowed a respite before their next assignment. It was a topic of conversation that came up fairly often, and it always put a damper on Charlie’s mood.
“I’m going to go to America,” Borra was saying. “To New York City. I will go to the top of the Empire State Building and order the biggest steak you ever saw.”
“Hate to break it to you, Bear,” said Jackie. “There’s no restaurant at the top of the Empire State.”
“Who said anything about restaurant? I will have steak made for me, delivered while I sit at table on top of this building. I will buy out the whole top floor—it will become Borra’s Restaurant. Maybe I put up big neon sign to advertise.”
The rest of the Whiz Mob laughed at the suggestion.
“I’d eat there,” put in Charlie. “Sounds delicious.”
Borra, sitting next to Charlie, threw his arm over the American’s shoulder. “You can make reservation, Charlie. You will have best table in the joint. Aside from me.”
“Charlie’s not going to your restaurant, Borra,” said Amir suddenly. His tone was remarkably flat.
“Who says?” replied Borra.
“Charlie’s going to be here, in Marseille.”
“I am?” asked Charlie. He smiled at Amir, trying to gauge the boy’s sudden seriousness, but Amir did not budge.
“And we’re going to be right back on the whiz. We’ll be lucky if we get a weekend off in Bogotá.” Amir had finished his sandwich; he crumpled up the wax paper it had arrived in and threw it over the cliff edge.
Borra made a face at Michiko, who was sitting on the other side of him. The girl shrugged in response.
“Spoilsport,” said Michiko.
“And you, Charlie,” continued Amir, standing up to look down on Charlie, “you are going to stay here, be a good consul general’s son. Who knows, your pop gets lucky enough, he might make ambassador. Live in a nice flat on the Left Bank in Paris, a view of the Eiffel Tower from every window.”
“That doesn’t appeal to me,” grumbled Charlie. He’d suddenly lost his appetite; he looked down at his sandwich with something approaching disgust. He then glanced over at Jackie and saw her glaring at Amir.
“Don’t burst his bubble, Amir,” Jackie said.
“Yeah,” put in Molly, from farther down the line. “I mean, what if . . . Suppose Charlie comes with us?”
There came a general murmur of approval from the ranks, apart from Amir, who’d remained silent.
“Suppose,” continued the girl, “we take him along. He’s got a good hand on things. I bet the Headmaster’d take a shine to the lad, show him a few tips, put him through his paces. Turn him out a real proper tool.”
A shot of excitement pulsed through Charlie’s chest, though he tried to imagine the implications—his forlorn parents, his lost youth. He didn’t have to contemplate it long, however, because Amir had angrily stomped his feet to get the mob’s attention.
“Are you kidding me?” he said. “We’re a Whiz Mob, not some kind of press gang, recruiting kids for the Seven Bells. That ain’t our job, yeah? ’Sides, the Headmaster would take one look at Charlie and laugh his head off.”
Charlie flinched and looked down at his feet, shocked by this sudden appraisal from his friend.
“Quiet, Amir,” said Jackie, annoyed.
“Yeah,” said Pluto. “Go easy on him.”
“Be thankful, Charlie,” said Amir. “You get to be on the outside, looking in. At the end of the day, you go back to your mansion in the Prado, back to your father, your family. What do we do? Sleep in a tomb, surrounded by treasure that don’t belong to us.” He sniffed, once, and then said, “See you suckers back at the scatter.” He then hopped down off the ledge. A clattering tour train was wheezing by just at that moment, and Amir hopped onto its running board, making the train’s rear occupants start and shift away nervously. Amir, and the train, soon disappeared around a switchback on the road to the base of the hill.
“What’s got into him?” asked Sembene, after he’d gone.
“One pea soup poke too many,” said Fatour.
Charlie was silenced, wounded.
“Don’t listen to him, Charlie,” said Jackie. “He gets this way. You’re good with us.”
A group of clergy had amassed not far from where they sat, conferring quietly and looking over at the Whiz Mob; two local constables had joined them.
“Psst,” hissed Molly. “Whiskers. Let’s split.”
As they each vaulted the balustrade and scurried from the premises, Charlie felt Borra nudge him. “Best steak you’ll ever have, Charlie,” said the Russian. “Borra’s Restaurant. You’ll be my first guest.”
They made their way down the hill, knitted like a clutch of schoolyard ne’er-do-wells: balancing on curbs, throwing stones, and slapping fives. It didn’t take long for Charlie’s spirits to be lifted. The rest of the mob made an effort to bring him out. Amir’s outburst was quickly pushed aside, and the afternoon was again filled with the easy joviality of Borra and Molly’s antics, Jackie’s quick wit, and Pluto’s jibes. Michiko strutted at the head of the gang, cool as a Godard heroine in her black beret and striped shirt, while Sembene and Fatour traded piggybacks along the sidewalk.
When they got back to the scatter, Amir was sitting at the bar of the Bar des 7 Coins, sipping at a bottle of Coca-Cola. Bertuccio was standing near him, playing the sympathetic bartender and lending an ear to his sad-sack customer. When Amir saw Charlie enter the room, he quickly apologized and gave Charlie a good-natured slap on the back.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Charlie, but in truth, he could feel that the smallest fissure had appeared in their friendship, one that threatened to widen, one that he thought would be impossible to repair.
And that fissure broke wide open, some few nights after the day at the basilica.
It was a Thursday night. Charlie was sitting at the small desk in his room at home, working through his Latin conjugations, when he heard a clatter at the windowsill. Walking to the glass, he looked out at the darkened yard—not a soul could be seen. He returned to his desk, briefly, only to be brought back to the window when the noise, the sound of small stones hitting the glass, came again. He threw up the sash and stuck his head out. It was a warm evening and the scent of lavender perfumed the air, owing to the bushes Pierre painstakingly maintained on the ground floor below his window.
“Hey,” hissed a voice. It was coming from a large plane tree, one that grew from the boulevard. Its long, thick limbs had managed to surpass the top of the wrought-iron fencing.
“Who are you?” asked Charlie.
“It’s Amir!” came the voice. “I’m in the tree!”
“I see that. I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Oh, I’ll be . . .” What he would be was never made clear, because just then there
came a loud crashing noise as Charlie watched a silhouetted human body tumble from the branches of the tree to the yard below. The figure of Amir hopped to his feet, maybe overselling the rebound a tad, and ran across the grass to the flimsy wooden trellis that had been nailed against the wall of the house. It supported the vines of a climbing rosebush and clearly could not manage much more. Before Amir could cause himself further harm, Charlie half shouted from the window, “I’ll come let you in, Amir.”
It was late; his father was long gone to bed, and Charlie knew the staff would be busy at their nightly activity, smoking cigarettes and playing cards in the kitchen. He was able to easily smuggle Amir up to his room without alerting a soul.
“What are you doing here?” Charlie asked Amir. They’d parted ways earlier that evening, at the scatter. It had been a quiet afternoon, with no one particularly moved to organize a tip, and the Whiz Mob had all lolled on the rooftop of the Bar des 7 Coins, playing dice and drinking grenadines. Like days prior to that one, Charlie had paid particular attention to Amir’s quietness. It was a great surprise to see him here, in his home, in what appeared to be a bit of a lather.
“I’ve got to talk to you, Charlie,” said the boy. His face was now streaked with a few small abrasions, and there were leaves clinging to his hair. He looked like some actor AWOL from a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
“Okay,” said Charlie. “Talk.”
“You’ve got to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“You know what,” said Amir. “Stop playing around, yeah? You need to get off the whiz.”
Charlie laughed. “Why would I do that? Amir, what’s going on?”
Amir began to speak, but stopped after taking a quick glance around the room. His eyes fell on Charlie’s practice dummy. Charlie saw his attention drawn to the mannequin and said, “That’s Dennis.” He was trying to add a little levity to the conversation; it seemed to do little.