Magician's Wife Read Online Free Page B

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?”
    â€œWell, I can kind of imagine.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œMe 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.
    â€œChopin?” he asked.
    â€œMm-hm. Waltz in A flat minor.”
    â€œI’ve heard it. I couldn’t have named it.”
    When she finished, he clapped. “ Je vous remercie, m’sieur ,” she said, getting up.
    â€œOh? You speak French?”
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œYour mother sounds delightful.”
    â€œShe’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.”
    â€œAnd just what is her place?”
    â€œOut 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