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Felix Austria
and a white shirt; on its bare
face glistens a dashingly
curled prop mustache.
Next Thorn, at a lightning
speed, stuffs with straw
a little girl—a few circular
movements, a few tight
knots—and she joins the
family. He sits her down by
the feet of the big dummies,
crosses Turkish-style her limp
legs in britches, places a sitar
in her hands. Then he covers
the straw dummy with the
silk cloth; with careful, tender
movements he pats down the
head, the shoulders, the legs
of the doll, carefully slaps it
lightly, picks the folds of the
fabric, tucks it in, straightens
in, again returns to the face—
and all of a sudden it becomes
noticeable that where there
had only been a smooth fabric
ball stuffed with hay now the
features of a face become
perceptible: recesses for the
eyes, the tip of a nose, round
cheeks. Simultaneously a
quiet prolonged hum spread
around, echoing languidly
in a pulsating sensation in
the viewers’ bodies. The
sounds become louder, the
melody clearly comes from
underneath the fabric that is
beginning to move under the
palms of the illusionist. He
lightly picks the fabric with
two fingers and slowly pulls
it towards himself.
“Aaah,” sighs the audience.
Next to the two dummies sits
a real living child, small and
cute, with soft cheeks and
serious eyes, with heavily
made up eyes, picking the
strings of the sitar and slowly
rocking its head wrapped in a
large turban.
Thorn then, covering them
with fabric in turn, brings to
life the woman and the man.
The woman’s face is heavily
painted: rouged cheeks,