That, Welles says. He takes a long sip of beer. That is Cynthia’s room, he says.
Stanley looks at Welles with upraised eyebrows. Then he takes a long stagy glance at the sliding bolt, and looks at Welles again. You scared maybe she’ll get loose while you’re sleeping? he says.
Welles forces a laugh. Ah ha ha! he says. It looks a bit eccentric, I know. Often I have wondered why the previous occupants saw fit to install such a door. The realtor claimed total ignorance. I used to imagine all sorts of things. A bootlegger’s storeroom. A white-slave dungeon. The asylum of some grown idiot son. All plausible in this neighborhood. Nowadays I hardly think of it at all. Shall we have a seat on the lanai?
The what?
The lanai, Welles says, opening the french door to the deck. I was afraid that we’d have rain again tonight, but for now it looks to be lovely. We’ll come back in if we get chilled, of course.
Outside there’s a stumpy wooden table ringed by folding canvas chairs, the kind of chairs that Claudio’s screen magazines always show movie-stars and famous directors sitting in. The deck doesn’t afford a view of much except the side of the neighboring house, but Stanley still has a sense of the ocean’s closeness. An armada of small dense clouds sweeps across the dusk-blue sky, and the moon hangs among them like a bruised apple, its perfect circle on the wane.
Welles gives Stanley the chair with the best west-facing vista. Stanley doesn’t want it—it’ll put Welles in silhouette; he’d rather to be able to read his face—but he takes it anyway, because it seems rude to decline. So, Welles says, getting comfortable in the creaking chair. You have some questions for me.
Yeah, Stanley says.
They sit in silence for a while. The hi-fi downstairs must have played through the LP’s side. Overhead, the buzz of an airplane grows and fades.
Well, Welles says, there’s no rush. Take whatever time you—
I want to know about magic, Stanley says.
All right. What can I tell you?
You can tell me how to do it. How to get it to work.
Welles is quiet. Then he chuckles. The sound is smug, patronizing—and fake, too. You’re asking the wrong fellow, I’m afraid, he says.
Whaddya mean?
I don’t know anything about magic, Stanley. I learned a few card tricks in the Army, but I’ve forgotten even those. I’m sorry.
Stanley shifts his beer from hand to hand. Crivano knows about magic, he says. You wrote about him. So you must know something.
Welles seems to think about the question for a while, but Stanley can tell he’s not really thinking. It courts banality to make the point, I suppose, Welles says. But I am hardly Crivano.
Like hell you’re not. C’mon, Mister Welles. I’m not talking here about the real, historic Crivano. I ain’t interested in that. I’m talking about your guy.
Welles opens his mouth to reply, then closes it again. He leans forward in his seat, puts his beer on the table, steeples his fingers across his lips. He seems irritated, but also—somewhere deeper—nervous. Stanley takes long breaths. He’s closing in, but this next turn will be tough to make.
Is that really what you wanted to ask me? Welles says. You want to become a magus. An alchemist. A magician. Is that right?
That’s pretty much it, yeah.
I can’t tell you how to do that, Stanley.
Stanley nods, sips his beer. I don’t believe you, he says.
Welles is blinking fast, trying to work himself up, to maintain his front. This is fantasy, Stanley, he sputters. I mean, come now. You are not a child. These are not things that happen in the world. They exist in our imaginations.
Bullshit, Stanley says.
Stanley.
Bullshit. That is bullshit. I’m sorry, Mister Welles, excuse me, but it is. I know. I have read your goddamn book many, many times, and I know what is real and what is not real, and I know that that is bullshit. I know magic ain’t about sawing ladies in half, or telling the future, or changing Coca-Cola into 7-Up. I know it’s about seeing a pattern in everything. I want you to show me how.