— Einstein said, and I quote, "The imagination is more important than knowledge," says the Count.
Contesa glows.
The Count plucks his pocketwatch from his jacket pocket and looks at it with affection, while I'm considering saying I miss my cat or another remark that might establish a point of departure or even misdirection. Last night some of us engaged in an intense discussion about domestic and wild animals who'd performed extraordinary feats, a skunk who unzipped tents and stole food, a cat who turned doorknobs, a wild bird who bathed in a kitchen washbasin, a pet mouse who frowned and smiled, a cat who mothered a parrot, a large dog who lay on its owner and saved her from hypothermia, and I told the story of our family cat who, in addition to her other miraculous feats, was once left alone in our house, whose den had the six Eames chairs and table I loved, which were sold over my protests with the house I also loved, and when she couldn't go out, instead of fouling the floor, she defecated on the drain of my parents' bathtub, after which she tore sheets of toilet paper from the roll and placed them in a mound on top of her unsightly mess, and all of this was especially pleasing to my mother, who nonetheless killed her later. Usually no one is wrong or mistaken about animals to whom an unqualified love is due.
A jarring crash and shrieks disrupt us, erupting from the kitchen, and I jump up, as do several other residents, we run in and discover the kitchen helper on the floor surrounded by broken glasses and crockery, plates, cups, saucers, and near him the head cook is screaming, but when we enter, she claps both hands over her mouth, because the residents are meant to live in peace and quiet here, and no one but we can demonstrate distress, and the head cook must restrain herself on our account. The kitchen helper's hand is cut, his unblemished skin torn, there is a gash, blood on his pants leg, his long legs, and I feel as weak as a kitten drained by fleas. Wobbly, I walk out of the kitchen, hump into someone, experience additional pressure or a tighter grip around my heart, then collapse in a faint on the dining-room floor. I never know where I am when I faint, when the blood rushes from my head, flees, my brain empties, I can feel it until I feel nothing but a lightheaded coolness, and I can only hope my end is similar to fainting, since to die like this would he nearly pleasant. Then, as I awaken on the floor, the coolness leaves, I open my eyes and sense the Count kneeling beside me, with his pocketwatch near his face, he drifts around in soft focus, and I hear him say, "Helen, you lost consciousness for forty or fifty seconds. Are you well enough to sit up? Your friend will be fine, it's not deep, he'll be all right. Tea and cognac will fix you right up."
After I faint or swoon, I must always rush to a sink and splash cold water on the pressure points, wrists, at the pulse, on the neck, the jugular vein specifically, then all over my face, where the skin appears drained and blanched, and, when color returns, with blood to my brain, so do I. I return to the dining room, where, by now, my table, relieved to see me up and conscious, or almost conscious, is all sympathy for a bit, but also showing restraint because they are loath to interfere with me, to my detriment, and also they're ready for dessert, which tonight is chocolate pudding with chocolate chips and fresh whipped cream. I drink black tea and swallow a shot of cognac. This anaglyphic scene reforms and becomes again one room with just four walls and just three dimensions, the chairs and table return to their regular shapes, and the residents' disparate triple noses, eyes, lips, and brows congeal into single features and recognizable faces, my lightheadedness dissipates, a process I'm used to, and then Contesa rises from the table, and, in her spirited manner, announces to the room, first ringing a bell, that she has written a short play or spectacle, and hopes all assembled will attend a dramatic reading of it, but that is our decision, and she will understand our need for solitude, especially after what's happened, looking at me and toward the kitchen, which could be embarrassing but somehow isn't. It is tonight at nine in the Rotunda Room, she declares and sits down again. The tall balding man and disconsolate woman immediately leave, which the demanding man notes, sullenly, as the Turkish poet searches my face for explanation, so it is a moment to appear enigmatic.
"Wait, I'll do a trick for you," the Magician says sharply. He's looking at me. "You wanted to learn about tricks, I'll show you one, and it'll get your mind off it." It, I ask myself, what is it?
The Magician displays a quarter and sets it on the table near me. I look and then hear him say something and it's gone. The quarter's gone. "It's under the plate. Move it," the Count demands. The Magician pushes the plate slightly and says, "No, see, it's not." Then the Magician produces three more quarters and moves them around on the table, he slides them effortlessly, one after another, like baby silver mice, through his fingers, he holds them up to show the table, while he asserts: "I'm not good at doing magic acts, I'm really bad at it, but I belong to the International Brotherhood of Magicians, I don't know how they let me in, and the American Society of Magicians, and to the Magic Castle in L.A., it's been there in Los Angeles since 1906. But I'll make mistakes, so watch me very closely, I'll make a mistake, but do you know anything about physics, because there's a theory about the third dimension that. " As he talks, boldly and fast, he walks around the table, stopping at each chair, to demonstrate to each of us that the coins are real, he has us touch them and look at them, he bites all of them, after which most at the table wipe their hands and mouths, and, when he sits down again, having performed his patter without a lapse, he pulls out, from his sleeve or pocket, I can't tell, several items.
— Anyone missing anything? the Magician asks.
Each of us pats our pockets, even if we don't have any, looks down and up, looks at him, and then at each other. He sets on the table the Count's Breguet pocketwatch, Spike's hemp purse, the Turkish poet's slim purple notebook, Contesa's dark glasses, Arthur's and Henry's 1960s designer wristwatches, and my silver Bauhaus button I carry in my pants pocket. Everyone gasps, but the Count looks as if he might faint, too.
— What about the coins? Spike asks.
— I can do that another time.
— I hate being manipulated, numbers never do that, Spike says.
— I applaud it, the Turkish poet says.
— Jean Cocteau would choose the thief over the cops, says Arthur.
— I'm not stealing, ladies and gentlemen, I'm just showing you that the hand is faster than the eye.
— It's amazing, I say.
— You distracted me, says the Count.
— I practice the art of misdirection, I told you that, the Magician reiterates.
The Magician remains calm, but the Count fidgets in an active state of confusion that I'd never witnessed in him, he could jump out of his skin, but Contesa addresses him, talks softly, and strokes his arm. He pulls himself together and asks the Magician to hand over his treasured Breguet, and, with its return, his demeanor rejigs, but he must now experience the Magician as an enemy or an obstacle to his peace of mind, which was just shattered, while Contesa, though not delighted by the Magician's attitude toward spirits, asks to speak with him privately, later, and gracefully excuses herself from the table and leaves the room. The head cook, who rarely steps into the dining room, she keeps to her domain, except for special occasions or holidays, when she takes our applause for an elaborate meal, which she cooked for us when she wished to be home with her husband and grown children, if they're still on speaking terms, is now among us. She claims the room's attention by clanging a small triangle. Her long apron wears stains of recent meals, including splatters of the kitchen helper's blood, so I have to avert my eyes, otherwise I'll become lightheaded again. Finally, when everyone stops speaking, except the stout Wineman who is mostly audible throughout, she says she's very, very sorry for the commotion, that the kitchen helper is fine and probably won't need stitches, and we should just pretend it never happened. "Please pretend it never happened," she repeats, and her hands flutter absentmindedly. My tablemates shrug, their shoulders shunting off the immediate past, but I've never been able to pretend something never happened.