Zal gripped his seat, both in fear and anticipation — he imagined springing out of it and into a real night sky, by the real moon. As his eyes followed Silber and his teasing swirls, like the circling of vultures over prey, his whole body began to shake in a sort of rhythm, and for a moment he had the irrational worry the bird in him was bursting out.
No. I am not a bird, he told himself, as he had told himself several thousand times before. I am a man. Not a bird not a bird not a bird. .
And he knew no part of him wanted to be back with the birds, back in the cages, back to the birdseed and the beaks and the water feeders and the messes. No. The part of him he missed the most was the part he never possessed: wings.
Zal wanted to fly more than anything. And apparently Silber shared this longing. And here they were.
Silber came lower and lower, swooped toward them, in and out, while Zal tried to meet his eyes — at one point he even reached a hand out. He was not the only one. The audience was filled with longing — it was in the gasps, the moans, the nervous giggles, the idle chatter. Everyone was suddenly incredibly audible, everyone involved, everyone implicated.
As Silber swung lower and lower, the music broke, except for a thin wispy flute sound. Silber reached out, both arms wide and ready, reached them out like a black-winged angel-savior, and came down down down down to the front row—Zal, my God, my name is Zal, I am yours, hands out, heart down, when in doubt breathe breathe breathe—until his arms were just over and then around a waist.
The waist of a thin blonde in a long white dress who made what could only be called a soft scream, almost a singsong holler, as he scooped her into his arms and up.
Silber rotated her as the audience applauded even louder and faced her and embraced her and for a moment everyone wondered if they were kissing or more.
It was hard to say.
On the ground, Zal watched with a red face, eyes overflowing, his hands in fists without his knowing it. He left for the bathroom while Silber and his volunteer — his stooge, no doubt, Zal would later learn to call her — were still up in the air.
He stayed in there until he was sure the show was over — men flooded the bathroom with Well, that was somethings, and Did you see thats, and By Georges, and Holy shits—and finally people were out. When he left, Indigo was pacing outside, waiting for him.
“What the hell did you do in there?” she snapped. She did not look at him any differently than before.
It was possible the potential and therefore the disappointment had all along been in his head only.
“Did you like it?” she asked. “Out of this world, right?”
Zal nodded slowly.
“Ready to go back? There’s def an after-party, but I’m not sure—”
Zal pretended to look at his watch. “You know, I’m exhausted. These past three days have been a lot for me. I’ve never in my life really traveled like this. And I have my train tomorrow, pretty early.”
Indigo looked at him with wide eyes, but it was clear she wasn’t going to insist. “Okay. . well, dude, I just waited for nothing. Nice meeting you, have a sweet life!”
“Indigo,” Zal said suddenly. “Will you tell Mr. Silber I am so grateful? And that if he needs any help or anything at all, or will even take me as volunteer or apprentice or whatever is possible, I would be most glad to help. I was very much interested in his act tonight. I’d love to be, you know, involved.”
Indigo nodded, softening for a second, then flashing a smile he took to be real. “Gotcha. He likes you. He’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll write him, too,” Zal said as Indigo passed him one of his gold cards, the third time she’d done it in three days. He kept every one in a different spot, in case.
Zal did not know exactly what love was, but if he had to guess he would say that it was love he felt for Silber that trip. And that love had to do with possibility, he guessed. So it made sense to him that night why he felt, as he walked home alone, heartbroken and lovesick and consumed by, more than anything, wishes, real wishes.
And so Zal’s fascination with Silber had germinated in a season of a particularly contagious strangeness, when he was acting off, but then the whole world was, too: Y2K season. When he’d announced to Hendricks he was going to Las Vegas to see his favorite magician, Hendricks had been so caught off guard that he’d almost just shrugged at it.
Then he’d paused. “Really? You feel that your first trip alone could be to Las Vegas, of all places, and it’s fine?” he had asked. “Do you know about Las Vegas?”
“Yes,” Zal had replied. “I have read about it. I understand the pros and the cons. I know what I am getting myself into.”
Hendricks had looked deep into his eyes, searching, a near-impossible task with Zal, even for his father. “You’re sure, Zal? You can tell, I’m sure, that I am not comfortable with this. You’re really, really sure?”
Zal had thought about it for a few seconds more. “I think so. I would have imagined you would have thought this is one of those perfect opportunities for me to come into my own.”
“Yes, I suppose. . Your favorite magician, though? I didn’t know you had one.”
His tone had irked Zal. Why couldn’t he have a favorite magician? “There is a lot you don’t know.” It had sounded harsher than he’d meant. “Well, I don’t mean that.” Even though he mostly had. “I mean, I’ve been following this one guy and saving my allowance, and I think it would be nice to get away.”
Something in Hendricks’s face had softened. The words get away were almost surprising on Zal’s lips for their absolute banality. Hendricks often wanted to get away; people he knew did, people on TV did, everyone really. It was a most universal thing that had never occurred to him could belong to Zal. Why would he deny him that? “Of course. It’s been a trying period, huh, Zal?”
Zal had nodded. “For everyone, it seems.”
Everyone. His son was slowly but surely becoming everyone. Hendricks had looked down before he thought Zal might see the wetness gathering in his glance.
So Hendricks had given his blessings and Zal went. But every time Zal had been cut off from cell phone reception on his Amtrak ride, Hendricks had felt a despair like he hadn’t experienced since his wife’s death. The thought of losing Zal, who of all people was constantly in danger of being lost — in spite of the advancement and progress and the whole miracle of him — had been much too much. He could not imagine living through that.
But Zal had made it. And when he’d come back, they’d had lunch at a local vegan diner they both liked. (For a while, Zal could not endure normal diners because of the plethora of egg options and hovering egg dishes and smells, a horrific concept to him that he didn’t need to explain to Hendricks.) But Zal had seemed not at all energized or refreshed but rather somewhat exhausted and confused.
“Well, come on! What did you see?” Hendricks, who had never been to Vegas, kept asking.
“I mostly stayed in the hotel and then I went to three magic shows. Except they weren’t really the magic I thought they might involve.”
Hendricks chuckled. “Illusion, they call it, right?”
Zal shrugged. “Something. It was strange. I made friends with Bran Silber, though.”
Bran Silber—Hendricks, unaware of most popular culture, had forgotten to look him up. “Well, that’s astounding! You and the Bran Silber! Did he know about you?”