Breathing so very slowly, afraid that his exhalation would reach the candle and make it shiver; Malerick wanted proof positive that he was not alone.
Finally the candle burned itself out and Malerick sat for a long time in his meditative state, watching gray smoke curl toward the ceiling then vanish.
A glance at his watch. He could wait no longer. He gathered his costumes and props, assembled them and dressed carefully. Applied his makeup.
The mirror told him that he was "in role."
He walked to the front lobby. A glance out the window. The street was empty.
Then outside into the spring evening for a routine that would be, yes, even more challenging than the prior ones.
Fire and illusion are soul mates.
Bursts of flash powder, candles, propane flames over which escape artists dangle . . .
Fire, Revered Audience, is the devil's toy and the devil has always been linked to magic. Fire illuminates and fire obscures, it destroys and it creates.
Fire transforms.
And it's at the heart of our next act, one I call The Charred Man.
*
The Neighborhood School just off Fifth Avenue in Greenwich Village is a quaint limestone building, as modest in appearance as in name. One would never suspect that the children of some of the richest and most politically connected families in New York City learn reading, 'riting, and 'rithmatic here.
It was known not only as a quality educational institution--if you can refer to an elementary school that way--but was also an important cultural venue in this part of the city.
The 8:00 P.M. Saturday music recitals, for instance.
To which the Reverend Ralph Swensen was now making his way.
He'd survived his lengthy stroll through Chinatown and Little Italy to Greenwich Village without any harm other than your average accosting by your average panhandler, to which he was by now almost oblivious. He'd stopped at a small Italian restaurant for a plate of spaghetti (that and ravioli were the only dishes on the menu he recognized). And since the wife wasn't with him he ordered a glass of red wine. The food was wonderful and he remained in the restaurant for quite some time, sipping the forbidden drink and enjoying the sight of children playing in the streets of this boisterous ethnic neighborhood.
He'd paid the check, feeling somewhat guilty about using church funds for alcohol, then continued north, farther into the Village along a route that took him through a place called Washington Square. This appeared at first to be a miniature Sodom in its own right but when he plunged into the heart of the chaotic park the reverend found that the only sins were youngsters playing loud music and people drinking beer and wine out of containers in paper bags. Although he believed in a moral system that sent certain transgressors straight to hell (like noisy homosexual prostitutes who wouldn't let you get to sleep), the spiritual offenses he found here weren't the sort that'd guarantee a one-way ticket to the big furnace.
But partway through the park he began to grow uneasy. He thought again of the man who'd been spying on him, the one in overalls with the toolkit by the hotel. The reverend was sure he'd seen him a second time--in a store window reflection not long after he'd left the hotel. The same sense of being watched came over him now. He turned fast and looked back. Well, no workmen. But he did catch sight of a trim man in a dark sportscoat watching him. The man looked away casually and veered off toward a public rest room.
Paranoia?
Had to be. The man didn't look anything like the worker. But as the reverend left the square, walking north along Fifth Avenue, dodging the hundreds of strollers on the sidewalk, he sensed again that he was being followed. Another glance behind him. This time he saw a blond man, wearing thick glasses and dressed in a brown sportscoat and T-shirt, looking his way. Reverend Swensen also noticed that he was crossing to the same side of the street that he'd just crossed to.
But now he was sure he was paranoid. Three different men couldn't've been following him. Relax, he thought and continued north on Fifth Avenue toward the Neighborhood School, the street dense with people enjoying the beautiful spring evening.
Reverend Swensen arrived at the Neighborhood School at exactly 7 P.M., a half hour before the doors would open. He set down his briefcase and crossed his arms. Then he decided that, no, he should keep a hold on the attache case and picked it up again. He lounged against a wrought-iron fence surrounding a garden next to the school, glancing uneasily in the direction he'd come.
No, no one. No workmen with toolkits. No men in sportscoats. He was--
"Excuse me, Father?"
Startled, he turned quickly and found himself looking at a big, swarthy man with a two-day growth of beard.
"Uhm, yes?"
"You here for the recital?" The man nodded toward the Neighborhood School.
"That's right," he answered, trying to keep his voice from quavering with uneasiness.
"What time's it start?"