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Felix Austria
This gives chevalier’s face a
sly expression. The tip of his
nose parts just barely. He has
a neatly trimmed bristly gray
mustache and similarly neat
goatee.
On chevalier’s head a silk
top hat; he is dressed in
a swallowtail coat that
emphasizes his imposing
stature. Under the coat
there is a snow-white shirt
with a starched high collar
with bent tips. The lighting
picks out emerald sparkles
of his apparently precious
cufflinks. Over the shirt is a
white pique vest with three
buttons. A silk bow tie. A
white pocket square, white
gloves. Everything like it
should be on an illusionist.
Satin side stripes on his
trousers. His lacquered shoes
glisten. On his right arm bent
at the elbow, a piece of black
fabric hangs. In his hand,
Thorn holds a traveling trunk
with leather handles.
“I know how he did it,” I
whisper in Adela’s ear, as
she sits between Petro and
me, firmly holding both
of us by the hand. Petro
also leans in closer so that
he can hear. I notice Mrs.
Helena Festenburg, one of
the organizers of our city
amateur theater circle, sizing
me up angrily, her nervous
lips grown thin as a thread.
But I continue, seeking to
satisfy Adela and Petro’s
curiosity: “He was covered
head to toe with the fabric he
is now holding. On the inside
it is blue-and-red, stripy, just
like the pagoda, blending
with it.”
I am positive that I did not
imagine this, that I clearly saw
the silk cover smoothly slide
down—it was as if someone
pulled the thinnest upper
layer off the air.