the door.
“Have to shut out that awful racket,” she said referring to the Fairground’s music. She turned on a different kind of sound to play inside her booth—a voice softly singing. Carol could hardly believe it.
“It’s Mozart!” she cried. “The Magic Flute!”
“Of course,” said Madame. “We are very civilized here. Please sit down.” She waved her hand over the globe and shrugged. “Not everyone believes in the power of the globe. It works better for some than for others. It might work well for you. She became darkly serious. You must pay in advance. It’s twenty-five dollars.”
Mathew was shocked at the price, but Carol thought nothing of it. She told him afterwards she was sure it would be much more.
Madame Oolala carefully smoothed out Carol’s bills, folded them and slipped them into the front of her dress between her ample bosoms. Was that correct? Mathew wondered. Was it plural or singular? Did a woman have only one bosom? No, it had to be two, right? He tried not to look too hard while he searched his memory.
“I am feeling inspired,” she said smiling at him. “What do you want to know about this Mozart?” she asked.
“We want to travel back to his last day and get him to do something for us,” said Carol.
“Ah, my dear, that is beyond my powers,” she said. “What’s past is past and cannot be added to or changed. But I can look back and tell you what was happening on that day.” Now the lady closed her eyes, leaned her head back and placed her fingers on the crystal ball. Her voice turned strange and sing-songy. “It is cold and snowing,” she said and paused. “He is very sick and coughs a lot.” She paused again, whispering now. “In a few hours he will be gone.”
“No!” cried Carol. “No!! He mustn’t die. He must finish the Requiem.”
“I do not know what this Requiem is,” said Madame Oulala, “but I speak the truth. See for yourself.” In the middle of the crystal ball a faint image appeared as though inside a lavender fog. It showed a pale figure in what looked like an old-time night gown bent over and coughing.
“Mathew,” wailed Carol, “I can’t stand this. Let’s get out of here.” She rushed out of the little room.
“Young man,” said Madame holding his arm and keeping him there a moment longer. “Your young lady is asking for something very difficult to do. Traveling back in time to change what has already happened. But the hardest part is traveling back in time. You need to talk to another person here at the Fair. He has a ride---the Time Traveler. He claims he can do that---time travel.” She stopped and circled her forefinger around her ear. “I warn you. He is---very eccentric, but perhaps he can help you. Look for him at the far edge of the Fair,”
“Thanks, Mrs.---” Mathew didn’t know quite what to call her. He couldn’t pronounce the Russian name on her door, but it felt idiotic calling her Oulala. “Nice meeting you,” he mumbled and ran out of the booth to catch up with Carol.
Finding her standing just outside, he told her what Madame Oolala had said. “I’m sick of all this,” she said. “I don’t want to talk to any more of these loonies. They’re all con artists. $25 for nothing. No one knows how to go back in time. No one.”
“All right, Carol, I’ll go find this time travel guy, then. He may be onto something. We can’t afford to wait any longer. If we’re going to visit Mozart, it’s got to be like right now.” He started to walk toward the far edge of the Fair where Madame Oulala had said they could find the Time Traveler ride.
In a moment Carol followed him. “You’re right, Mathew,” she said. “We’ve got to follow every lead we have.”
At the edge of the Fair they found a total change of scene. Underfoot was a vast tangle of power wires, construction debris and wet mud. An elephant was gnawing on a bale of hay. A couple of zebras were tethered to a tree. Big-haired clowns with their shirts off but their makeup still on were sitting around smoking. It didn’t have the neat, cheery, brightly-colored look of the Midway.
They trudged through a smelly area alongside the Fair’s garbage dump, searching for a Midway-style attraction. There didn’t seem to be any attractions at all. Then, they saw it—an old fashioned yellow and red gypsy wagon with big wooden wheels and a gaudy sign that said “Time Travel, The One and Only Original.” One whole side of the wagon was open but curtained off like a stage. A flight of narrow wooden steps led up to a door at one end. A small sign on it said: “Mr. Ishmail, Time Travel Agent Extraordinaire.”
“Come on,” said Mathew. “This must be it.” Carol followed him half-way up the steps and waited while he knocked tentatively on the door. After a moment it opened a crack, and a man in a tuxedo peered through it. It had to be Mr. Ishmail. It opened wider, and the man stepped out to greet them.
“Howdy,” he said wearily. Carol thought it was the most worn-out tuxedo she’d ever seen. He had a tousle of shiny white hair sprinkled with blue sparkles---along with a white goatee. “I didn’t think anybody at all was coming today,” he said dispiritedly. “Of course, look where they put me. All the way out on the edge of the action. It’s an outrage. I’m used to first-class treatment. Not this. Now, what can I do for you, my dears?”
Carol had pulled herself back together by now and spoke up. “You do time traveling?”
“That’s what it says on the sign, don’t it?” He stuck his two thumbs under his lapels and rocked from his heels to his toes and back. “The fact is I invented it.”
“Can you go back to Mozart’s day?”
“I love the 18th century. It’s my favorite century.”
These crazies do seem to know things, thought Mathew. He loves Mozart’s century. Even so he couldn’t quite believe him. “You sure you can do that, Mr. Ishmail? That was 200 years ago.”
“I can add and subtract, young fellah---good as you, I expect.”
“How about giving us a demonstration?” said Carol.
“Why is Mozart so all-fired important to you?” he asked. “Why not Andrew Lloyd Webber or who’s that other guy---Sondheim?”
“Show biz folks,” said Carol. “My mom would love that. Broadway is where she’s at. She doesn’t dig Mozart.”
“Too bad about her,” said Mr. Ishmail.
“We want to find Mozart,” Carol said, “so we can help him finish his Requiem.”
“Ah-h-h,” said Mr. Ishmail. “His last work. That would be nice. lt would please a lot of people.”
“It sure would please my dad,” she said.
“Well, come along, then,” he said. “I’ll give you a demo. The King of Transylvania wanted one, too, so why not you?”
He sat them down on two chairs in front of the curtain that hung along the open side of the circus wagon. Leaving them alone for a moment, he disappeared into the wagon and, then, almost immediately stepped out through the curtain decked out in a complete change of costume. Dressed now in a bright orange satin suit and a matching top hat, he had become in a trice a circus impresario. His voice had changed with it—into a deep and mellow register.
“Lady and gentleman,” he said looking straight at them, “I am about to recite for you one of the most dramatic tales you have ever heard. The tale of Mellarosso Giannini, my beloved son who was stolen away by space fairies from our home on Mars and raised on the planet Christobina. But not to worry. It has a happy ending.”
He smiled and pointed to a wooden platform they hadn’t noticed before---a hundred yards away from the circus wagon. A spotlight came on revealing a long-haired blond boy about their age dressed all in white and posing like an angel on the platform. Carol felt compelled to clap.
“Why are you clapping,” whispered Mathew. “Nothing’s happened yet. When do they start the time traveling?”
“Wait,” said Carol. “Give them a chance.”
Now a tall, witch-like creature in a black peaked hat joined Mr. Ishmail on the wagon’s stage.
He spoke feelingly to her. “Oh, dear Witch Lady, tell me how we can bring my beloved Mellarosso back to me.”
“You must show the depth of your love for him,” she said. “Show the space fairies that you love him so utterly and profoundly that they must give him back to you forthwith.” She turned to look at Carol and Mathew. “Perhaps, this audience will be kind enough to kneel down and help you beg for his return.” She gestured dramatically to the angelic Mellarosso on his platform—three hundred feet away.
“This is madness,” said Mathew, but Carol pulled him down to kneel beside her. He could feel the wet mud creeping into his pants as he knelt down. A minute went by. The light on the distant platform dimmed and went out, and Mellarosso disappeared.
Seconds later, the boy miraculously materialized on the wagon’s stage under another spotlight next to Mr. Ishmaii and the witch. “Oh, my son!” gushed Mr. Ishmail. “How wonderful it is to see you again!” Laughing and crying, they flung their arms around each other, turned to the audience and bowed. The demo was over.
“That’s just plain impossible,” said Mathew.
“It’s the exact same boy,” said Carol looking awestruck. “He went from there to here---like that.” She snapped her fingers. “How did they do that?”
Mr. Ishmail had now joined them. “Very simple,” he said. “Time travel. Now this was a free demonstration. If you want to go all the way