Legerdemain

by Michael Barbato-Dunn

There is Martin: magician, weaver of spells. Natalia isn’t certain how long after Martin was laid off that he took up the hobby. A month, maybe two. Now he’s been out of work just short of a year, and magic is all he does.                                      

“Not magic, really,” he insists. “Legerdemain. Sleight of hand. Diverted perception. I convince you that you’re seeing something you’re not.”

She spends hours dwelling on his preoccupation. There are worse things to take up, certainly. Drinking, for one. The bottle killed Dmitri, her first husband. These tricks, she tells herself, hurt no one.

Yet she can’t get past the feeling there is something more Martin could do to find another job. At breakfast, she presses him slightly. “Do you have any interviews? Any leads?”

Martin scowls and his voice rises. “There isn’t a headhunter within three hours of here that doesn’t have my resume. There isn’t a single classified I don’t scan each Sunday morning. What more would you have me do, Nat?”

It was the angriest he’d been since the notice had come, and in a way, she thought it was good; he’d shown little reaction when first getting the news. She was the one who’d been shocked. Martin had been a department chief, responsible for multiple international accounts; she had assumed people so senior wouldn’t get cut.

“You could at least help with housework. The dryer bangs constantly. The front closet door won’t shut. That wasps’ nest on the oak keeps getting larger. Can you do something about them?”

He reaches out to her right ear, twists his hand, then produces a mock gold coin. “Here,” he says, placing it in her palm. “Call an exterminator.”

#

There is Natalia’s son, Sacha: tow-headed and a touch pudgy at seven. He is all bounce and romp, all day long, until he passes out by early evening. Natalia senses Sacha is unaware that his stepfather is changing, of the magnitude of that change. With no memory of Dmitri, the boy adores Martin.

Tonight, Natalia is pensive, for Martin has called them together for his first performance. A hand-painted sign hangs on an easel at the entrance to the living room. Sacha giggles in delight as she reads it to him: 

The Great Martino!
Thrilling Feats of Legerdemain!

Martin, with cape and baton, ushers them to seats on the couch. He stands behind a small table in front of the fireplace. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to an evening unlike any you’ve ever experienced. What you are about to witness will perhaps be shocking and mystifying, for I have harnessed the forces of the supernatural to present you with thrilling treats!” Natalia looks down at Sacha, who gazes out at his stepfather, enraptured.

Martin pulls out his first prop. “Observe: a single, solid piece of rope. Care to test it?” He hands one end to Sacha, who tugs and laughs. “Now watch closely. I know there are doubters among us,” his eyes look toward Natalia, “who will view this as simple trickery, while in fact, the tremendous forces of the occult are at work.”

He holds up the rope, one end clasped in his left hand, then grabs the piece at its mid-section and places that in his fist as well. With his free hand Martin produces a pair of scissors and, cautioning them to observe closely, thrust the blades around the midpoint of the rope.

“I will cut this rope in half, but just as quickly the spirits that flow among us will reunite those pieces into one. Observe!”

Natalia clenches her fists. Martin snaps the scissors and releases his grip. Two pieces of rope, perfectly bisected, tumble to the table at his waist. He stands silently, head bowed.

She studies Sacha, who peers at the rope, then his stepfather, and finally her, perplexed. With her hand, Natalia guides the child’s gaze back toward Martin. “He’s not done yet, sweetie. Just watch!” She locks eyes with Martin, hoping he can prove her right.

But Martin flees the room, a swish of his cape toppling the trick-filled table. Natalia cradles her young boy and tries to smile. “Martin needs to practice, honey. He just needs to work on it.”

Later, she peers at the volumes on magic that sit on Martin's desk: Misdirection and Direction and The Secrets and Mysteries of the Close-Up Entertainer and Showtime at the Tom Foolery. He has devoured them all, reading and practicing on most nights long past dinner, past the time Sacha is tucked in, past the TV shows that were once Martin’s favorites. Past the time Natalia turns off the set, walks upstairs and undresses, then lowers herself into the solitude of their bed.

#

There is Gregory, Natalia’s lover: also of Russian descent, though they’d only met recently, long after each emigrated. He, too, works at her plant, in Research. He sometimes passes her notes in their native language, and Natalia finds herself struggling to translate. It has been that long.

She’d found the job just weeks after Martin’s layoff. She is an electronics lab technician, putting on sterilized gloves and carrying containers room to room. Natalia is paid by the hour, and when a major project is due, she accepts all the overtime that is offered.

In his apartment, Natalia watches Gregory dress. She is not due home for another hour, yet he is always in a hurry. He has succumbed to the frenzied urgency of the Americans.

Gregory's small television set chirps. It is the president, announcing that Cuba is hiding Soviet missiles. Natalia cringes. A conflict with the Soviets would mean more difficulties for emigres. Natalia at least is married; deportation isn’t a threat. But Gregory could be forced back to their homeland.

The American president is handsome, young, refined. Such a contrast to Khruschev, gap-toothed yet grinning, bald and beady-eyed. Skin as gray as the skies of Minsk.

Natalia has convinced herself that she left the U.S.S.R. for Martin, and not because conditions in her homeland are so bleak. But how can she possibly separate the two? It is undeniable that a part of Martin’s charm is the allure of his own homeland, where even the presidents are beautiful.

Martin had come to Minsk as a consultant for the local electrical utility, which hoped to install modern generator plants. She was the daughter of a local politician, fortunate enough to have been schooled at the Belarus Academy of Sciences, to have a professional job, and her own apartment. One of only three female technicians at the plant, and the only widow. Dmitri had succumbed to liver disease a year earlier, when Sacha was three.

Over the succeeding months, during four separate visits, she became Martin's unofficial guide and translator, steering him through the twin jungles of the utility’s bureaucracy and Minsk politics, setting him up with the right people, advising him when the situation necessitated a bribe or a terse threat.

And later, during what would have been his last visit, Martin professed his feelings in clumsy Russian, saying that he wanted her and Sacha to come back with him. In that instant, she had stared past him, focusing instead on her decrepit apartment, with its falling plaster and noisy icebox, its dingy curtains and cracked Formica, a room many of her girlfriends had so slavishly praised, and Natalia had thought, “Here is my rescuer. My champion. He is flesh and blood, sitting right here.”

Gregory comes to her side and watches the president’s speech. “Shit,” he mutters, then stands and tucks in his shirt.

Once a week, they meet, no more, no less. Usually, she’ll tell Martin that she’s working overtime into the evening, and she knows he’s too preoccupied to probe further.

At thirty-two, Gregory is five years younger than Natalia, and has been in the States only three years. She studies the curve of his back. He and Martin have the same build, are of nearly identical height and weight, yet there is a solidity in Gregory, a firmness that, she has learned only too late, Martin lacks.

She reaches for Gregory, pulling his chin toward her. “We need to end this, Gregor. I have a child. I must stop this.”

He cups his palm around her cheek. “Sweet Natalia. You’ve said this now for the past three weeks. Yet you come back each time.” He leans over and kisses her, a swift brush against her lips, and then just as swiftly, he is at the door. “I’m late already. Set the door alarm before you go.” 

#

There is Paula: Natalia’s neighbor, confidante, reveler in gossip. Natalia brings Sacha over to play with her two children, both girls, the eldest Sacha’s age.

Paula plays country music incessantly and Natalia finds it infectious. When the children go out in the backyard, Paula dances around her living room to a Patsy Cline album. Natalia blushes as her American friend coaxes her to join. “Kick off your heels, partner!”

The music is off today, though. They’re watching Walter Cronkite talking more about the Soviet missiles. Paula rolls her eyes and sips her mid-day Pabst. “Looks like war isn’t so cold anymore. Bet you’re glad Martin brought you here!”

Natalia hasn’t told Paula about Martin’s magic, nor about Gregory. She only says she’s worried about Martin being out of work so long.

“You’re spoiling that man, Nattie,” Paula tells her. “He’s getting used to not working. Getting real used to you bringing home that paycheck.”

“And so what should I do? Just quit? Would that make a difference?”

“In a word, honey, yes. This is the U-nited States of America, and that means white males with college degrees are all created equal. Any of ‘em can get a job if they want to. Says so right in the Constitution.”

Paula often reminds Natalia she has never been overseas. “Tell me about the men in Minsk,” she says. “Tell me what they’re like on those cold Siberian nights.” Natalia ignores Paula’s convoluted geography, ignores her own memories of her city’s crass, odorous men, and instead obliges with tales of dark, bearded Slavs emerging from wind-whipped snowstorms to the passionate embraces of local women.

“God almighty,” Paula sighs, opening another beer. “Book me a ticket.” 

#

There is Natalia’s mother, Irina Pereskovich: now 74, still in Minsk. Natalia is thinking of her as she stands in the bedroom, packing her things into a suitcase, then unpacking it. Then, back again. She has been at it for two hours.

It is the day of Sacha’s eighth birthday party. It is the day the Great Martino is to dazzle him and a dozen classmates with his newfound vocation at a burger restaurant downtown called McDonald’s.

Now she packs a photo of her mother, capturing Irina’s stern gaze. The proud wife of a long-time party apparatchik, then the focal point of Minsk society. No longer. Her husband is buried, her only child, also a widow and re-married to an American.

Natalia knows Irina, alone and nearly friendless, is furious at her for leaving the country. Like many others, furious at Natalia’s good fortune.

She packs two more pictures: one of Sacha, taken last year as he entered second grade, the other of Martin and herself, before they married, before he brought her to the States. They stand on the shores of the Svisloch River, which runs through Minsk. They had gone there for a picnic during one of his business visits. These Americans are such strong people, Natalia remembers thinking. Unwavering, sure of themselves, while her people are only certain of hopelessness.

#

There are the mothers of Sacha’s classmates: greeting her with bouffant hair and stiff smiles as Natalia arrives late to the birthday party. She winces at their judgmental glares. This foreigner, she imagines them thinking, too busy for her own son.

The children are gathered around a table in a side room, a sea of French fries, burger wrappings, and soft drink cups spread out before them. Martin’s performance has begun. Sacha is at the front of the table, wearing a red cone birthday hat, ketchup smeared across his cheeks. Fixated on his stepfather, he is oblivious to her arrival.

Natalia stands at the back of the room. She has not seen Martin in costume since that abortive performance in their living room weeks ago. Now, along with the cape, he has added a purple turban that wobbles and threatens to fall as he moves about.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he announces in senatorial tones, “a demonstration of the powers of the cosmos. I need a volunteer!” The children erupt in pleas and waving hands, but Martin wastes no time in choosing the guest of honor himself. “How about you, young man? I understand you’re now eight years old!”

Sacha rushes to his stepfather’s side, blushes and looks at his feet. “Since you’re now practically grown up,” Martin continues, “you certainly won’t mind if I make you...disappear!”  The rest of the children roar in delight.

Martin wheels out a cart, on top of which sits a wooden box, rectangular and unvarnished, and Natalia’s skin chills as she realizes it is the size of a small coffin.

“Please, don’t be afraid; just step inside.” Then Martin casts a devilish smile toward the audience. Sacha climbs a small step stool and, with a moment’s hesitation, crawls in. “Oh, by the way, if we can’t bring you back, can we keep your presents?”

Sacha utters a plaintive, “No!” barely audible amid the laughter of the rest.

“Only kidding,” assures Martin. “Here we go!”

Then the box is shut, and Martin utters a chant. Natalia clenches both fists. Martin spins the box around, laughing along with the children, turning it in circles until Natalia herself feels dizzy.

“Now—” he stops the box in mid-revolution, “behold!” He opens the top and lifts it up for all to see. Sacha, her Sacha, is gone, and suddenly Natalia is fighting tears and the urge to rush forward and stop this spectacle.

The crowd breaks into rapturous applause, even the other mothers, but Martin quiets them with a wave. “We all know it’s easy to make someone disappear,” and now he is looking straight at her, “the hardest part is getting them to come back.”

With that he snaps his fingers, and a wand appears in his hand. Just as quickly he closes the lid of the vacant box and commands, “Hear me now, gods of the cosmos, return to us the birthday boy, so he can at least have a piece of cake!”

Again, he spins the box, rapping it repeatedly with the wand, and then halts its course and opens the lid. There is quiet, save for a few anxious titters.

Martin looks up, ashen. “Well! There seems to be a problem. The gods of the cosmos don’t seem to be cooperating!”

The others gasp, but Natalia is silent, her front teeth now bearing down on her lower lip, her legs unsteady, fingernails digging into her palms.

Sullen, Martin begins to walk away. There is a hush. “But wait!” he gasps, “I guess we get to keep his presents!”

The other children scream at the prospect, but suddenly, from directly behind her, Natalia hears, “No way!” Sacha bounds into the room, right on his stepfather’s cue, a willing participant in this grand hoax. She crouches down to hug him but the child shoots past her outstretched arms, rushing to the front and claiming his share of applause, his time at center stage with the star of the show, his American father.

# 

There is Natalia: in the kitchen the next morning with coffee and thoughts. Sacha is still sleeping.

She recalls returning home the previous evening after the party: stepfather and son, gleaming in tandem from the success of their well-rehearsed performance. Sacha rushed in with his presents, while Martin stopped and eyed her suitcase just inside the door.

He looked at her for a moment, offering no words, then retreated to the basement. His den of spell crafting.

Now, at the breakfast table, the transistor radio on the counter is excited. Khruschev has relented, the announcer explains; the missiles will be removed; the evil Soviets have been shown their place.

The unease that has gnawed at her stomach since the president’s speech dissipates. Natalia knows party underlings will suffer, with positions and fortunes stripped away, families disgraced. She pictures her mother, staring out at Minsk’s concrete landscape from her window. Perhaps she should call, not to gloat, but to offer that Irina join her in this hopeful land, with its kaleidoscopic landscapes, bright hamburger restaurants, and vibrant young presidents who win tests of wills.

Odd sounds come from the backyard. Natalia rises and peers out the window. It is Martin, dressed in odd garb, a netting of some kind, lugging a large canister across the lawn. She exits to the back patio to observe more closely.

“Get inside!” he calls to her.

“What?”

“I’m spraying the wasps’ nest. Get inside in case they swarm.” He waves her back and gives a thumbs-up signal.

Natalia starts to return to the kitchen, then pauses at the trash can next to the backdoor. Its lid is ajar and as she reaches to adjust it, she spies the contents: Martin’s cape, turban, wand.

His magic books. 

She looks back at him. He motions her to go inside. “Get in! I need to spray.”

In the kitchen, she flicks off the radio and studies the quiet house. She remembers how thrilled she’d been when they bought it, not at its superb design and charming appointments, but simply that it had three bedrooms. Back home, even top party officials didn’t have such space. But a lot can happen with so much room. Sometimes, there is too much room.

After a few moments, Natalia retrieves her suitcase from the front, brings it to their bedroom, and returns its contents—clothing, jewelry, shoes, and photos—to where they belong.

Later, with the wasps gone, the missiles soon to be gone as well, and Sacha watching a show, Natalia walks out back, to the trash can, and reclaims Martin’s magic.