James Cain: The Magician's Wife

He promised, put on the living-room lights, and slipped down to the basement garage, getting his car out again and driving to the theater. He took a turn past it, to be clear on all locations, then drove to a point behind it, parked, and cut his lights. He was surprised at the thump of his heart and not too pleased by it. “Take it easy,” he told himself, then repeated it, adding, “goddamit.” But he cut off suddenly as he saw her come up Elm Street and turn toward the theater. He stared and stared at the fire door, then thought he saw it move. He winked his lights several times. Then he caught the sound of footsteps, and a shadow moved in front of him. Then she was tapping on his window, and he jerked the door open for her. She jumped in and he started his motor, putting on his lights and pulling ahead before finding her hand and pressing it. It was cold, and indeed the whole thing had a clammy, underhand feel to it, quite different from what he had expected.

When they reached the Marlborough Arms, he left the car on the street, and they started for the front door. But when he reached out to open it for her she caught his hand and held it. “Clay,” she whispered, peering at Doris at her switchboard, “I can’t go in there! That girl could know me — I see so many people!” And then, pulling him back toward the car: “Come on! It’s a nice evening — we’ll take a ride.” But he held her and said: “O.K., so you can’t go through the lobby. But there’s another way — nothing to it.” He led her up the alley beside the building to the tradesmen’s entrance at the rear, opening it with his key. Then they were in the freight elevator, creaking up to the seventh floor. Then they were tiptoeing along a hall, then stepping through his door. “Welcome to my humble abode!” he said, taking her light spring coat. As he hung it up in the closet she motioned to the rest of her costume, which consisted of sweater, pleated skirt, knee-length black stockings, and loafers. “Did you ever see such a mess?” she asked sourly. “Just ratty-looking, that’s all. But that’s what it had to be — or else I couldn’t come.”

It certainly thickened the clammy moment, but he managed to stammer out: “What do you mean, mess? You look fine.” She resumed her tirade against the neighbors, but broke off as she turned and saw the living room. Then, almost reverently, she whispered: “I might have known — should have known — you’d live in a place like this.” Then, out loud, and bitterly: “ I live in a dump. Oh, the house is all right — outside, anyway. But inside it’s just a storeroom, one endless storeroom for junk: mirrors and mirrors and mirrors; varnish cabinets, with stainless-steel legs; baskets with double sides, baskets with false bottoms, baskets with trick pockets, every kind of basket there is, lined up against the wall, like Ali Baba’s jars, so they give you the creeps, and you go around lifting the tops for fear there are thieves inside; tables, with servants, spring pulls, false bottoms — all kinds of different tables; playing cards, feather bouquets, levitation gear, and canopies — they’re the worst. Do you have any idea how sick brocade can look, always pink brocade, with a silver fringe on it, in the broad light of day?”

“Well, I can kind of imagine.”

“I doubt it. Nobody could. You know what it’s like, what it’s really like? Like a Christmas tree in July.”

She began inspecting the paintings, then waved her hand at them, saying: “Those things — my mother’s an artist — she’s buyer for Fisher’s and draws their ads for them — those goofy girls that look like the Easter parade — so I know a little about it — those things cost you something!”

He told her: “Not really. Those Mexicans paint too much for their work to bring a price. There’s a fellow down there who brags that his is the only restaurant in all Mexico City without murals by Diego Rivera. But their stuff does have a style, a dry desert smell. Makes me feel in a certain way.”

“Me too — like I want to cut my throat.”

She sat down at the piano, struck a chord, said: “I love a Steinway — it doesn’t sound like any other.” She started to play, not well, but accurately, with heavily accented rhythm.

“Chopin?” he asked.

“Mm-hm. Waltz in A flat minor.”

“I’ve heard it. I couldn’t have named it.”

When she finished, he clapped. “ Je vous remercie, m’sieur ,” she said, getting up.

“Oh? You speak French?”

“It’s easy if you lived there; I did when I was little. My father, before he died, was a professor at Goucher College, but he met Mother in Paris when she was an art student there and he was studying at the Sorbonne. They got married there, and I came along quite soon — within the law but without much to spare.”

“Your mother sounds delightful.”

“She’s terrific — young, talented, and beautiful, with a figure to write home about, and I just love her — providing she knows her place and stays in it.”

“And just what is her place?”

“Out of my hair, Clay.”

She resumed her walking around and, perhaps realizing that things were a bit flat, remarked: “ So! Now you know all about me, my practically unlimited bag of tricks: I can serve corned beef, cabbage, and spud, bat out a waltz on your Steinway, parlez-vous French a little, and fake along about art.” She sighed, then added, remembering: “ Oh! And twirl! Now, there’s an accomplishment for you!”

“You mean, like a majorette?”

“That’s it, and I was one, at the high school football games in Baltimore, where we lived. I was starred between the halves — what got me in trouble later and led to my plunge into show business.”

“With acrobatics, no doubt?”

“Oh, yes, especially them! ”

She was in the center of the room, and with no more ado, pressed her palms to the floor and cartwheeled over toward him, a flash of whirling skirt, silk panties, and soft, shapely legs. Then she came smartly upright before him — or would have except that a loafer flew off and threw her slightly off balance, so she toppled into his arms. Until then their moment at Portico and the other one over the phone, with little cat’s-paws of wantonness darting boldly out, hadn’t once returned. But now a tidal wave swept over them as their mouths came together and their hungry fingers dug in. Then, lifting her, he carried her back to the bedroom.

Two hours later, stretched out on one of the sofas, her head in his lap, she stared at the fire he had built and amiably answered his questions, about her childhood, her family, her schooling. She told of her years in Paris, of others in Baltimore, when her father had been summoned to teach there; of her attendance at Sarah Mitchell School, where “Bunny Granlund taught deportment before she married Steve.” This surprised him, and she admitted that at Portico she was Mrs. Granlund’s protégée. She told of her father’s death and her mother’s lean years, “when she couldn’t afford Sarah Mitchell and had to put me in Western High”; of how she had twirled with the band, “and then at one of our shows, I was the cute little thing that got picked to be sawed in half, by a young magician who came and helped us with our production.” He said: “O.K. — I can imagine the rest of that ,” but she pursued the subject a little, saying: “He’s the Great Alexis, and if you haven’t heard of him, you must have heard of the Lilac Flamingo, that club in Baltimore where he works.” He said he sold the Flamingo meat, and “Mike Dominick’s a pal — at least he thinks he is.” They laughed over Mike, and she went on: “Of course Alexis is what he calls himself — it kind of sounds like magic, so he took it. He’s really Alec Gorsuch.”