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issue 8
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| Simon Says |
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|by Eric Stepp-Bolling
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Simon had a difficult time dealing with emotions. He knew this for a fact. His wife and his mistress both had told him. For years he had struggled with the problem of how to be open, more expressive, and how to cry, at the right time. At a dinner party with the Martins he attempted an emotional outburst somewhere between the salad and soup, but regrettably, Simon had lost control of the moment and cried unhaltingly throughout John Martin's punch line. The Martins left early, and he and Sylvia suffered through the next week with leftover squab and an abundance of strawberry shortcake. His life with Sylvia became more strained with each trial until finally she was forced to seek therapy and the two separated indefinitely. After a period of only a few weeks together, Simon's mistress threw him out of her apartment, claiming he had lost spontaneity as well as his sanity.
It was becoming obvious to Simon that existence in the real world would mean leading a solitary life, perhaps one of sexual abstinence. The thought convinced him that his next step should be carefully considered. Simon chose illusion. "I have become a prestidigitator," he would tell Mrs. Maybell, his next door neighbor, "only my magic is real." Then he would wink, for he had just discovered the power of winking, and he would disappear into a smokey haze which left Mrs. Maybell coughing and wheezing.
He began with the small tricks, the slight of hand maneuvers, only they were not tricks, or at least that is what he claimed. For the first week he made cards disappear and reappear inside the palm of his hand, leaving just a small residue of ash with a slight imprint of a club, spade, diamond or heart. He had no idea where the cards went or why they would miraculously appear again whenever he willed them to, but they did, and with that he was content. Soon after, Simon began pulling turtles out of a baseball hat which he thought worked quite well until the profusion of turtles made taking baths difficult. He hated to do it, but he was forced to ash the turtles, and thereafter he never conjured anything living within the animal kingdom.
The smaller tricks amused his friends and impressed strangers, but Simon hungered for something more, something grander. One day a man with a belly the size of several watermelons, a voice as deep as muddy water and a face framed with a gray beard and short cropped hair asked if Simon might be interested in meeting a certain acquaintance of his. This friend, he said, was the only magician he had met who could rival Simon's powers. She could make an elephant disappear, and make him reappear in a mirror's reflection, he had boasted in an obvious challenge. Simon agreed to meet her in the museum of art the following day. He preferred a setting rich in history and steeped in drama such as the ballpark, but he agreed to the museum since it was a block from his house.
Because he deemed art impractical and highly subjective, he had never visited the Master's Gallery before, and was so intimidated he tiptoed through the first floor. He liked his apples crisp and edible, not flat and contemporary. Still, a Goya on the second floor caused a sudden blinking of his left eye which only worsened as he passed a couple of Van Gogh's on the third.
"Mr. Shelton?"
The voice he did not recognize, but it sounded light and sure, not questioning and was followed by a whiff of cinnamon. A sturdy woman his own height appeared from behind a doughnut-shaped sculpture prompting Simon to notice the contrast between the rounded edges of the Henry Moore piece and the sharp angles of this woman. Undaunted, he held out his hand and took a firm step forward. The woman rushed ahead tripping on the single strip of carpet which circled the museum floor and fell into Simon's arms. He dropped her without a second thought.
"Oh, I am sorry, Mr. Shelton. My fault entirely." She now sat awkwardly on the floor, her auburn hair having tumbled into her eyes, her legs askew.
Instead of proffering a hand, Simon snapped his fingers and the woman rose miraculously to her feet.
"I am impressed." She straightened her dress and dusted herself off, never taking her eyes from Simon.
"Miss. . .?"
"Julia. Please dispense with titles." This time she offered her hand which he accepted. Her handshake was firm and he uncomfortably withdrew his hand prematurely.
"Simon Shelton. I am here at your friend's request."
"Peabody? That's his entire name. His first name is never discussed in public. He goes into a silent rage-- puffs up like a balloon, well a larger balloon. No one likes to see that so we just call him Peabody."
"Mr. Peabody. . ."
"Just Peabody. And he isn't my friend, exactly."
For a moment Simon found himself distracted by Julia's eyes which he thought of as a curious blend of brown flecked with gold nuggets sparkling here and there. And for a moment, he almost said something about their color, but he caught himself and let his gaze fall upon her mouth where he could concentrate on the clean white enamel of her teeth.
"Peabody has set a series of challenges," she said. She reached inside her purse and produced a number of long white envelopes. "There will be three with varying degrees of difficulty." Seating herself on the red cushioned bench in front of an overwhelming David, she patted the seat for Simon, but he shook his head and remained standing. "There is to be no publicity of the events, but Peabody will have everything videotaped by Ferris and Hall, a distinguished law firm specializing in fraud and deception cases. The winner will be declared on the basis of number and degree of difficulty of the challenges."
Now Simon was not a greedy man, but he understood the power of money; he understood his own powers to a lesser degree. "And the winner?"
"The winner will receive $200,000. The loser, $100,000. A matching amount will be donated to one or more of the winner's favorite charities."
Simon thought about that a minute. He had never performed under pressure, never had to prove himself in front of anyone, and never had a charity other than a tax write-off. Reality had become illusion, but now someone threatened him with the dropping of the veil. If he had been inclined to anxiety, this would have been the time to worry. Instead, he said, "When do we start?"
Julia rose with her hand extended and her perfect enamel teeth gleaming in a wide smile. "Today, Simon. Right now if it suits you."
He reached for her hand. It felt warm and soft in contrast to his own cold, clammy hand. "You do like to shake hands."
"I like to touch," she said and gave him an impish, knowing wink.
Responding before he had a chance to think, Simon returned her wink with one of his own. It sent an unfamiliar chill through his body, which he did not find altogether annoying. "How can we begin without Peabody?"
With a sweep of her hand, a camera crew appeared in the corner of the museum. From behind the crew, a man with a bulging middle waved in their direction. With another wave from Julia, the crew and Peabody vanished from sight. "I can render them visible or invisible, that's up to you. However, I usually prefer working without an audience, or at least a discernable one."
"Agreed." He thought that was most sensible of the woman.
"Then would you care to do the honors?" She offered him the first envelope.
"Thank you." He opened the envelope and read the contents. His face was momentarily distorted with intersecting lines and wrinkles. Then he looked up to see Julia smiling at him. "Do you know what it is?"
"No."
Simon cleared his throat briefly. "I am to destroy the David behind us, and you are to recreate it." He paused. "Then we are to determine which was the more difficult task."
"An interesting challenge."
"And one that does not test the powers of illusion," he said with a touch of irritability in his voice.
"Illusion or not, that is the challenge. Shall we get on with it?"
Simon stared at the painting. It was huge. He estimated the height at ten feet and the length at fifteen feet. The picture itself depicted an eighteenth or nineteenth century reproduction of Paris selecting Aphrodite as the most beautiful goddess. Paris, as a French gentleman, could be seen handing a golden apple to Aphrodite who was flanked by her rivals, Hera and Athena, all of whom were dressed in French costumes. Behind the three goddesses stood Helen who obviously had drawn the attention of the young man. His arm extended toward Aphrodite, but his vision and his heart were with the beautiful Helen. Simon shook his head slowly. Such was the undoing of an empire. Love destroys. Jealousy destroys. What fools we mortals be.
Still, Simon hesitated before accepting the challenge. He did not have a true understanding of his capabilities, and he did not wish to destroy something which he might not be able to bring back. He remembered the fine ash left in his hand whenever he attempted an illusion. And what if Julia could not recreate this painting? The price for such a loss would total millions, and he would be directly responsible. If worse came to worst, he could always vanish before the authorities arrived and walk out in the confusion. He glanced around the museum. No one else but he and Julia remained on the floor. Perhaps Peabody had already arranged for the possibility of a calamity? Finally, Simon made the decision to commit himself. Whatever else he was, he was not a coward. He slowly raised his hands and mumbled a few Latin biological terms he remembered from college. Then he thought about what he wanted done with the painting and it immediately was enveloped in flames.
When Julia saw the David ignite, she quietly closed her eyes.
The fire Simon had created touched only the painting, only the oils. The wall, the frame, and even the canvas remained intact while the figures in the painting slowly lost their shapes and began a languid journey to the bottom frame. There they simply disappeared into ash about the floor. The total effect was hypnotic. Simon gaped open-mouth at his own uncreation. When he finished, all that remained of the seduction of Paris was a blank canvas, as white as Julia's face had become. He wondered if she would ever be able to recreate the broad strokes, the fine brush work, and the nuances of color and shape. Surely only the artist or a photographer would understand every detail, every subtlety involved in such a work. It was an impossible task. Secretly he was relieved that he had been given the easier challenge.
Julia stepped to the middle of the marble floor beneath the blank canvas. She closed her eyes and simply seemed to freeze. For several minutes she remained statuesque prompting Simon to worry that perhaps her magic had backfired and she had turned herself into an art object. Then he noticed the drops of perspiration beading on her forehead and the slow, almost imperceptible heave her breasts made with the gentle release of something inside. When he looked back at the picture, the original David had returned. A small gasp of incredulity escaped him. He examined the painting in closer detail, his hand wavering just above the oils, his eyes caressing the newly created Helen. Even the hidden jealousy of Athena and the barely suppressed hatred of Hera matched perfectly with his recollection of the original. He began to doubt that the painting had ever been destroyed. Kneeling, he brushed his hand along the floor just below the bottom frame. The feel was the feel of fine ash. . . the cremation of a lost soul.
"Ah, that is wonderful, simply wonderful!" Peabody walked up to the David and let his hand linger on the oils. "I can't believe it! It's as though it were just painted. Not a crack, not a single crack. And look at the colors. Brilliant! I imagine this is what the piece looked like when the blasted Frenchman brushed his final stroke."
Then it came to Simon that what Peabody said had another meaning. The painting, or at least the original, had been cracked and faded by the element
of time, but this work had nothing but the polish and the magnificence of what the original might have had at one time. Julia had improved upon the painting which had hung in the gallery or in someone's home for most of the last century or two. Simon cleared his throat to make that very point, but Peabody was already talking.
"Of course the panel must take into account the changes which Julia has endowed upon this masterpiece. There is a difference between an old masterpiece and a newly created one."
Julia simply nodded.
"Are the two of you ready for the second task?"
Simon hoped that Peabody had forgotten the other half of the challenge.
"I would like to say one thing before we move on," said Julia. "In my opinion, Simon had the most difficult task of the two."
Peabody's eyebrows went up almost immediately. "And why is that?"
She glanced at Simon who stared back in stunned silence. "All I did was recreate something already created. A trick of memory and personal interpretation. He," and she nodded in Simon's direction, "had to destroy an original David. You might as well as asked him to murder his own child."
For a moment Peabody considered what Julia had said in silence. Then as if making a decision, he clapped his hands together and said, "Do you have anything to add to that Simon?"
Too dazed to say anything, Simon just shook his head.
Peabody adjusted his belt; the weight of his stomach shifted from one side to the other. "Fine. I'll see the two of you tomorrow morning in the Thompson warehouse. Until then, please enjoy yourselves at my expense at Anthony's."
Anthony's was a restaurant Simon had never frequented. The prices prohibited him from entering, and he was sure they would prohibit him from enjoying the food even if he did find the courage to splurge. His motto was: food was something he needed to live; he did not live for food.
"How would you like a little vino and dinner?" Julia had eased closer to Simon, so that when he turned to face her he almost knocked her over again. She smiled with those whiter than white enamels and straightened his tie in a very deliberate motion. "Peabody's treat."
Simon felt suddenly quite warm. He hastily loosened his tie, popping the shirt button onto the floor.
"Allow me." Julia picked up the button and placed it on the empty threads. When she released his shirt, the button had been rethreaded. "Much easier than recreating something from memory.
"I'm sorry," he said searching for words, "I'm not really hungry."
"Good. Then we can just have the wine."
"No. I think I need to be alone for awhile. I'm very tired."
Julia looked at him with the same steady smile. "No hurry. I just thought you might like the company." She turned neatly and trotted off toward the stairs. "I'll see you tomorrow morning then."
Oh, God, Simon thought. What have I gotten myself into? He had not been prepared for someone like Julia. She represented everything he feared. She had bested him at magic and she was unafraid of speaking her mind. He did not want tomorrow to come too quickly.
But the next morning, Simon felt renewed. The sun had flashed its energy, and for the first time in several days he absorbed it into his own system. After dressing himself in a black cape and a silk top hat, he soon found himself on the street and headed toward the center of town and the Thompson warehouse. He thought it somewhat odd that Peabody would have suggested a warehouse in the heart of the city, but then, there was nothing very normal about this whole affair. He began to breathe confidence into his soul again. The woman, after all, merely demonstrated a capacity for a good memory. This time around would be different.
Simon could tell he was approaching the warehouse district. The streets, lined with rundown apartment buildings and low rent businesses, were badly deteriorated. Potholes and loose chunks of asphalt filled the road. People with hollow eyes and listless bodies stood in doorways or panhandled
for loose change from tourists who had strayed from across town. On one corner, an old black man with a ring of white hair shaped like a halo played a banjo with surprising skill. His hat, an old derby, lay on the street in front of him with a few dollars in it. The man sat on a wooden crate and stared straight ahead watching the music his banjo made float through the heat of the day. He wore sun glasses, but Simon had no way of knowing whether the glasses were for sympathy or for eyes which only saw invisible music. Still, he admired the man's playing, and stopped for a minute or two while the music danced inside his head.
From the corner of his eye Simon noticed a sudden movement. A youth dressed in dark clothing came running toward the man with the banjo. A knife appeared in his hand, the blade catching the morning sun so it glistened like molten metal. Simon had only a second to think of the possible consequences of the situation. Then he acted. A hole the size of a small car opened up just in front of the running youth. Too late and too surprised to avoid the hole, the youth fell straight forward, but the knife had already slipped from his hand. The momentum of his run and of his fall continued into the momentum of the knife. As fortunate as Simon had been in his initial reaction, he now was unfortunate enough to lapse into inaction. The blade twirled end over end for the briefest of times and then buried itself into the chest of the old black man. With one final plunk of the strings, the man's hands went slack and the banjo slid from his grasp. There was a look of surprise in the man's face, but then it too went slack, and like the banjo, the black man slid to the ground. His body continued its slide right into the hole now occupied by the youth. Like a shot, the young man bolted from his temporary grave landing on the edge to face a growing crowd of spectators.
Simon had seen the results of his hesitation and now he stood too stunned to do anything but gape at the youth and the open hole with the dead man inside. He wanted to erase the event, to rid himself of the awfulness of the situation, but all he could do was watch.
His fall into the hole had broken his ankle, but it was obvious the youth's major concern was with the increasing anger of the crowd of people around him which continued to slowly choke in upon him. Terror soon took the place of concern as he realized the reality of the situation.
"I only wanted his money," he said practically in tears. "It slipped. The goddamn hole just appeared. It wasn't my fault!"
The space between the youth and the crowd shrunk even more. Some in the crowd were merely trying to get a better look at the old man in the hole; others began shouting at the youth. Their hands were clinched and their faces were bright red with anger. Soon there would be only room for the swing of their fists and their hot breath upon the broken pavement.
Simon snapped out of it just in time. He raised an iron cage around the youth who had fallen to the ground and remained curled in a tight ball. The blows of the crowd fell on hard metal and they quickly panicked. One particularly outraged citizen continued to threaten the shaking ball inside the cage, but the bars were too close and the man's arms too short. Finally the remaining bystanders turned their attention to the old black musician, gathering around the open pit and witnessing in silence the passing of a stranger.
Simon, too, turned his thoughts toward the body of the old man. He wondered if there were something, anything he could do. A few minutes earlier, this man had been blessing these faceless people with his music, and for all Simon knew, they had returned nothing until the moment of his death. But then, what had he done? What had he given? He had, through his own ineptitude, given the old man death instead of temporary poverty. He had created hatred in the hearts of those around him. All in all, he had done a very good job of mucking everything up. And now he wondered, he hoped there was something he could do about that. Did he dare to try to bring back life. He did not think he would make a very good God even if he did have the power, although that he doubted. Still, he had been the cause of the man's death. It was only right that he attempt his resurrection. He concentrated on the image of the old black man playing the banjo. Nothing. The body remained in the pit; the knife remained in the body. Perhaps he should try to remove the cause of death. In a instant, the knife dissolved and was replaced with a neat bouquet of flowers. . . carnations, his favorite. He concentrated again. Nothing. Then he remembered Julia's attempt at the museum, her total involvement, her total concentration. This time he took a deep breath and closed his eyes and mind to all around him. But the image which formed in his head was not the one he had wished for. Instead of a living, breathing banjo player all that came into his head was the picture of desolate field muddied by a constant rain which blotted out any discernible surrounding landscape. Whatever he did to try to alter the image only made the picture stronger in his mind until it became so overwhelming that he felt himself slipping in the mud, the rain coursing down his body in riverlets. Now he found himself unable to break the image. His knees buckled, and he fell into the mud. It was slick clay which sucked at him preventing any quick movements. The rain seemed to force him into the mud. With his arms extended, hands, knees, and feet entrenched in the bog around him, he experienced something which surprised him more than his own failures. He began to cry. His tears mingled with the rain and mud until he felt the last of his strength give way and he fell face first into the ground.
When he opened his eyes again, the world had become the familiar one he left earlier. He felt the warm sun on his face, yet it was cool, like water evaporating. He was somewhere near the warehouse on a nearly deserted street. Then he remembered the old banjo player and caged youth. They had disappeared, or had they ever existed. Slowly, he got to his feet and dragged himself to the spot where he thought the hole should have been. The pavement seemed broken but nothing beyond normal corruption of the surface. He leaned down to touch the street's asphalt. His hand came away with something that smelled of burnt wood.
"Ah, there you are."
The voice so startled Simon that he fell into a sitting position. Peabody carried his tremendous girth into Simon's view and the presence of the man blocked out everything else.
"You look a bit peaked, Simon. Are you all right?"
It was difficult to find an answer. He wasn't sure whether he was all right. He struggled to his feet and then felt the ash on the bottom of his pants. The whole thing reminded him of the time he had slipped into a dead campfire as a cub scout much to his chagrin and to the amusement of the other scouts. It made him feel like he had just swallowed lead, and his face had continued to burn long after his parents came and picked him up.
"I expected less trauma in your reaction. You surprised me."
At first Simon couldn't grasp what Peabody was saying. His stomach had filled with that burning lead and it was difficult to keep his attention focused on anything but the pain. Then someone took his hand. Whoever it was had strong hands, and their strength gave him a certain sense of security. He wanted to turn his head to see who it was, but he could barely move. The hands tightened their hold on him and he was suddenly pulled to his feet.
"Simon. Simon!"
He could hear the voice and he remembered it belonged to someone he liked. Maybe he should open his eyes again. But his eyes were opened. Everything around him just seemed so out of focus.
"Simon, you're stronger than this. Please, come back to us."
Then the voice became a body. "Julia?" He still wasn't sure what world he had awakened in.
"Right here." And he felt his hand squeezed warmly.
"The banjo player. . . I killed him. . . but he disappeared." He remembered, but he still wasn't sure if anything had happened. . . really happened. "Did you see him?"
"I created him."
She had said it in a small voice, but he thought for sure that she had shouted the words at him. Created him? Why would she do that?
"It was part of the second challenge, Simon. Peabody explained the scene, I visualized it, and you became an actor in it."
Simon could see her clearly now. She wasn't smiling though; she looked straight at him with what he guessed was worry in her eyes. She had bested him again. Perhaps it was better it ended now. He still felt the uneasiness in his stomach and he knew it would only get worse next time.
"I have this for you," she said softly. Then she handed him a small book bound in black leather. "Read it. Maybe it will explain some things."
She gave him a quick hug, brushing the tears from her eyes, and walked rapidly away.
Peabody came up from behind Simon. "An interesting challenge, n'cest pas? I would never have believed she could go through with it." He slapped his arm around Simon's shoulder and almost lifted him off the ground. "But then, I never expected you to come up with anything quite so dramatic, either. Tell me. . . did you really expect to raise that black Lazarus from the dead? The cage thing was good. Very inventive. But to bring back life? Don't you believe in limitations?"
Simon had watched Julia wander down the street, so he only half heard what Peabody had said. It had begun to sink in. Julia's challenge had been to create the scene: the banjo player, the thief, the angry mob. All the ingredients to the perfect conflict had been laid out for him. It had been up to him to react to the players, and he bungled it about as well as it could be bungled. "You like surprises, don't you?"
"There is so little in life that uniquely surprises me. When the opportunity comes along, I relish it completely."
"What would you have done?"
"Ah! The eternal question. . . would someone have done something differently? If I truly knew, then it would no longer be a surprise, and all would fall into the humdrum routine of life. I chose you for these challenges because I knew what to expect from you. Then I threw in the unexpected, and that has made all the difference. You continue to astonish me, Simon."
He was so shocked at this revelation, Simon could barely respond. Instead of the master, the creator, he had been relegated to the puppet, the pawn. He wanted to lash out at Peabody. The man was obviously filled with corruption. Instead he said, "When is the final challenge?"
"Whenever you wish. Julia has the last envelope. Find her and your trials will be over. That will be a sad day indeed for me." Peabody released his grip on Simon and with a final slap on the back he disappeared into a waiting limo.
The street where Julia had been was empty. He would have to set out in the general direction and trust in luck. It seems he could trust in little else these days. Then he remembered the book in his hand. He turned it over. The title struck him as somewhat odd: Eternal Truths. He opened the book to glance through it. Empty. The book had a strange weight to it. It was small and fit neatly into his palm, but it had the weight and feel of a book much larger. The paper, thin and yellowed, gave out a hint of a familiar smell, reminiscent of cinnamon. He slipped the book into his pocket and decided it was time to have a talk with Julia, if he could ever find her.
Setting out in the general direction he had last seen her, Simon wandered the city's streets trusting in luck and whatever else he could trust in for a compass. Several hours later he found himself outside a small antique store which featured a massive nineteenth century printing press in the window. For some reason the press had caught his eye. The antique stores he had visited were more noted for old clocks, bed frames, bureaus, and dusty furniture. He had never seen a printing press advertised as an antique and he doubted it would sell rapidly. Still, it held a certain fascination which only increased when he noticed in a display of old books toward the back of the store. They looked remarkably like the one he carried in his pocket. The temptation was too great. He had to see more.
The interior of the store was dark and cool, a pleasant change from the glaring sunlight of the day outside. Almost immediately he recognized her spicy scent. After his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he glanced around the room. To his amazement, it was filled with only two items: books and mirrors. But the store seemed to be well stocked with both as they lined the walls and adorned every available surface. Simon could not turn without seeing his reflection in at least a dozen mirrors. It was then he noticed that each mirror contained his whole figure, no matter how close he was to the reflection. Everywhere he looked he saw himself in full length, and what he saw depressed him. Before him was a man in his early forties with dark hair and dark eyes. He was slightly stooped as though he were carrying a load on his shoulders. The face was indistinguishable from every face he saw on the streets outside. No one would discern anything special or unique about this person, except perhaps that his trousers were cut too high and that he had one black and one blue sock on. Everything else said, "average".
"So you found my haunt."
Simon was beginning to think that it was simply a common occurrence when a voice behind him sounded familiar. "Is this where you work?" He saw that Julia had filled most of the mirrors with her figure.
"Owner and worker. This is my refuge."
"Why don't you call it a bookstore. It might be more appropriate."
She gave a quick laugh which pleased Simon like no other laugh he had heard.
"What would I do with the mirrors then?"
Simon felt a sudden urge to blink, but he managed to control it. He turned his attention to the shelf of small books at the back of the store. The books were tightly packed into the bookcase except for one noticeable open slot. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the book she had given him. "Is that where this belongs?" he said pointing in the direction of the open slot.
She followed his glance. "It belongs with you."
"I'm not much in the mood for joke books." He was still a little irritated that she would have done such a thing.
She gave him a curious look. "You know, I didn't want to play that scenario back on the street. It was Peabody's idea, and a bad one at that."
He shrugged. "I don't mind losing, but I don't like the thought that it's simply for his amusement."
She came up beside him and held his hand. "He has a strange sense of humor."
He thought he might be uncomfortable when she touched him as it had always been in the past, but instead he found it very pleasing, like her laugh.
"Tell me about you, Simon? What allows you to make it through the day? You never told me what you did before you turned to magic. Did you work? Are you independently wealthy? Why are you afraid of me?"
Why did she have to ruin everything, he thought. Why did people always ask questions?
Squeezing his hand she said, "That was a bit unfair. I haven't told you anything about me and here I am demanding your whole life story."
That made him feel a little better. The constriction in his throat eased, and he felt the lead in his stomach begin to dissolve.
"Sit over here." She took him to the only piece of furniture in the room, a large overstuffed sofa. "I have needs, Simon. At one time I thought I needed children to make my life complete. When I discovered I couldn't have children, I also discovered I could do quite well without."
Simon had no idea where this self-revelation was going, but he wasn't enjoying the sound of it yet.
"I tried replacing my need for children for a need of a man. I know, I know. I was doing things backwards, but not everyone takes the same road to paradise."
Simon saw that she was becoming more animated now. The gold flecks in her eyes flashed and her teeth were constantly in motion.
"That didn't work out either. For the longest time I thought of myself as a failure. I couldn't have children and I couldn't have the love of a man. Then it occurred to me. Why was I so dependent upon others to fulfill my needs? Wasn't there something I needed that I could fulfill? This time I looked deeper inside and you know what I found?"
Before he could get the words out Julia continued.
"Magic."
Simon nodded in agreement.
"But not the magic to escape. The magic to create. After all these years I discovered I had the need to create. I filled my world with books and mirrors of magicians and sorcerers. I bought this store, not because I want to sell any of these things, but because I want to learn more. And each new customer brings to me the experiences of their own creations, the experiences of their own special magic. And that is what I want from you, Simon."
She had finished, but her eyes still blazed. They dug into him, looking for something he knew was not there. Finally, he held out her book. "Here's your book back."
It caught her by surprise. "I told you it was your book."
"What do I want with a blank book?"
"So that's it. You have the power, but you don't have the truths to go with it." Suddenly she was angry. "What do you do? Do you borrow someone else's? Are you just playing at being a creator or are you simply a destroyer?"
He tried to get up but she stopped him with a straight arm that sat him down again.
"Did someone bend you, Simon? Is that it? Were you weak at one time? Malleable? Did someone turn up the flame and then pound away? Well what is done is done, and I'm certainly not the one to undo it. You've steeled yourself with efficiency, routine and illusion. What makes you think reality even exists beyond that?" Julia had begun a slow walking circle around Simon on the sofa so that he seemed to shrink smaller and smaller. The gold flecks of her eyes flashed in sequence with her words.
Simon concentrated on her lips. They moved and he saw the fury of her words rush at him. Each time she hurled another truth at him he flinched, wanting to duck or become a part of the sofa. Another few minutes of this and he knew he would break. She was wrong. She had made cracks. She had chipped away and now the damage was extensive, even fatal. What else was there to hide behind? He would do what he had to do before she destroyed him. But her words kept coming.
"You aren't a magician. You aren't a man. You almost gave up being human. Magic doesn't need someone like you."
"But I need it." That stopped her at least. "It's a matter of survival for me. I'm not looking to fulfill my potential. I'm just trying to make it through life."
Julia considered that a moment. Like a whirlwind, her anger had exhausted itself after a few intense moments. "You can do better than that you know." She sat down beside him. "I can help you."
For the first time in his life, Simon took the offer seriously. "I think. . . I think I'd like that."
"Good! I think we're on the right track." Reaching into the darkness, Julia produced two envelopes. "Now, what should we do with these?"
They were the final challenges of course. Simon's gut reaction was to burn them, but then a thought came to him. "How much do you owe on this place?"
"The rent is minimal, but I've got two hundred thousand dollars worth of stock which hasn't been paid off yet. Why?"
"We've been fighting each other for this money. Why don't we try pooling our resources instead?" When he heard himself say it, it gave him a feeling of being lighter than air. There were so many pleasurable feelings he had been introduced to that it only made him hunger for more.
"You would do that for me?"
"I would do that for us." He took the envelope with his name on it and tore it open. It didn't take long before his smile turned sour. He handed her the note.
"You must destroy something you care deeply about." She read it again quietly. Then she opened her own envelope and read the contents. "Mine says the same."
"May I come in?"
It was Peabody. Behind him were the attorneys, minicams in hand.
Peabody strolled into the store looking every bit the Cheshire cat. "Collaboration is a no, no. This is a contest and there must be a winner. What's life without a winner, eh?"
The two of them sat in silence. Finally Simon spoke up. "All right, Peabody, if that's your real name, we'll play it by the rules. But then watch out. There's no rules after that.
"A threat? You continue to surprise me, Simon. I'm so glad I found you."
It was Simon's turn to be surprised. "Found me? What do you mean, found me?"
Peabody's smile chilled Simon.
"I've been looking for you, or someone like you, all my life. You see, there are very few destroyers in the world. Most people want to exist. Let life wash over them, enjoying a rare moment or two. A limited number of people wish to create. Our friend, Julia, for example. But to be able to destroy, even if it is not a conscious desire, is a true talent. And an entertaining one at that. Simon, you can't help yourself."
The thought so totally stunned Simon that he didn't know how to respond. "But. . . but I create. . . I have created."
This time Peabody broke into laughter. "Your creations? Your creations are nothing but illusions." Then he bent over and whispered in Simon's ear, "Reality is the ash on your hands." And he winked. "Now, let's play out the final act of this piece. What do you say?"
Julia spoke this time. "I think it's time you left, Peabody."
"Not until we play this scene, my dear. Don't forget our agreement."
"A verbal agreement with him is hardly binding," Simon said.
"Ah, but her agreement with me is hardly verbal. Is it, Julia?"
Simon looked to Julia for clarification.
"Peabody owns this shop. He owns the books, he owns the mirrors and he owns the shop. I agreed to go through with this contest if he would sell the place to me."
Peabody handed a contract to Simon. "As you can see, Julia is much indebted to me."
Simon glanced at the contract and it exploded into flames.
"Amusing, Simon. But it's just a copy. I have many, many copies." Peabody said. "And to show you I am a man of good will, I shall double the winnings. Fair enough?"
Simon shrugged. He knew it would not be difficult for him to destroy, but it would be difficult for him to find something that he cared about.
"Would you like to go first, Simon?" Peabody said.
"There's nothing I love," Simon said.
"That's too bad. Love is the greatest of all destroyers. But I don't think love is necessary, just something you care about. Think, Simon. There must be something you care about."
He didn't like the way Peabody emphasized "something". It was beginning to sound as though he knew what it was already. Then it hit Simon. What had he been doing all this time? It was his key to illusion, his escape from everything around him. Magic. The thought of losing his powers frightened him. What was he without it? He would be like everyone else, and that did not please him at all. Still if it were true magic, it would find him again some day. The two of them were certainly compatible. He looked at Peabody who had that knowing smile. It was a smile Simon hoped he would choke on some day. Then he noticed Julia looking at him curiously. Well, he would surprise them both.
Into his mind he journeyed. He shut out the world around him, shut out the mirrors, the books, the people. He wasn't quite sure how he should visualize it. It came in so many forms. And actually the forms it came in were always in his head anyway. So how to pull the plug? Just freeze the images? Blank everything out? He decided to give it a try. He froze the first image that came into his head. Delightedly, he discovered it was the image of the two attorneys and their minicams. He slipped Julia and Peabody a quick glance. They watched him intently. Then he peeked at the two attorneys in the corner. They hadn't disappeared; they simply solidified. The left arm of the taller of the two looked slightly chipped, reminding him of a plaster statue. Well, freezing the images was good for statue-making, but Simon didn't think it worked for undoing whatever magical powers he had inside.
Next, he tried blanking the image. He concentrated on the two plaster replicas of Peabody's lawyers and then blacked out the image all together. After several seconds of blanking, he chanced another look at the two. Nothing. Where once two frozen men stood, now nothing but empty space existed. He didn't notice any ash on the floor, but it was dark and he wasn't sure there would be any this time. So blanking and freezing were out. There didn't seem to be much else he could do. His eye caught a vacuum cleaner in the corner of the room. Julia must like to keep things tidy, he guessed. Vacuum cleaner! It was worth another try.
This time as he drew everything in, he imagined himself as sucking it down. . . deep down inside his body, inside his soul. Every time a new image popped into his head, it was quickly sucked into the vortex and disappeared into the nether of himself. He felt a gigantic shuddering within his body, and then everything went still.
He was almost afraid to open his eyes. Around him were the shop with all its books and mirrors. Sitting next to him was Julia who seemed as inert as the former attorneys. Peabody stood, his jaw firmly shut and his eyes gleaming. The unholy Trinity, Simon thought. He pictured a rubber ball bouncing silently along the floor, its height increasing with each bounce until it nearly hit the ceiling. But no ball materialized. He brought to mind a twenty foot python with no sense of humor and an appetite for watermelon. But again nothing appeared.
"So, you've given up your powers?" said Peabody who didn't look the least bit displeased or surprised.
Julia had slumped back into the sofa, obviously aware of what Simon had accomplished. "I wish you hadn't done that," she said softly.
"What is done, is done," said Peabody. "Now, my dear, I believe it is your turn."
"No," said Simon.
"I beg your pardon?"
"No. She doesn't have to do a thing because I've already won. Contest is over. Give me the money and go home."
Peabody first smiled and then began a low laugh. "Entertaining at least. But your care taking is misguided." Then he turned to Julia. "What do you have to offer?"
Simon hoped she had enough sense to give up something irrelevant, something of little value. Burn out a favorite teddy bear or put to flames a set of pearl earrings. He would give her the money, or she would have already earned it with her first two triumphs. Nothing need be lost now. When he looked at her again, she had gone into deep concentration. He only hoped she was faking it.
Then it happened. The books on the far wall began to shake as though there were an earthquake hitting the area. Suddenly they burst into flame and disappeared completely.
Silently he pleaded for her to stop. The books were enough. No more. But the mirrors had already begun to vibrate. His reflection in them became distorted. Then the stress was too much and the glass cracked. The whole room seemed to be a whirling, spinning mass. Even the darkness became palpable and was caught up in the rising maelstrom. Simon closed his eyes wishing for the world around him to stop. At one point, he opened one eye and saw Peabody spinning up to the ceiling, his whole body convulsing in laughter as he whirled higher and higher. The room sounded as though a hurricane had come crushing in upon it so that Simon had to cover his ears to escape the awful whine of wind. Just when he thought he may as well join everything else on the way to hell, he caught scent of something familiar. Cinnamon. In all this storm of chaos, familiarity kept him anchored to the floor. Cinnamon. He filled his senses with it. He blocked out everything else and allowed the spice to penetrate him completely.
And it stopped. The room, the wind, the whirling. . . it all stopped. And all that was left was a strange quiet and the cinnamon. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he still sat upon the overstuffed sofa, but the rest of the room was bare except for a large desk and chair in the corner and a few wall plaques. Julia had disappeared. When she had destroyed the books and mirrors she had taken Peabody with her. But the mirrors must have created the vortex, and her own destruction. That thought filled him with a sudden sadness which seemed to rush out of him. He felt wetness on his cheeks, and he knew there would be nothing he could do to stop them. He didn't mind. There was so much inside that needed to come out, it felt like a relief.
"This was a good session, Simon. You seem to be coming closer each time."
Peabody stood behind him. It didn't surprise him at all. He carried his weight with a dignity which hadn't been there before. His voice was subdued, calming.
"We'll try it again next week. Maybe then you can tell her."
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