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Felix Austria
(the sitar continues playing
on its own—you can even
see the strings vibrating) and
joins the dance. It walks on its
hands, reaching with its feet
beyond the back of its neck,
placing them on the turban. It
crouches and tumbles several
times. It stands up straight,
then
bends
backwards,
touches the floor with its
hands and makes a few steps
on all fours, bent in half. And
then it rolls into a tight ball
and tumbles towards Thorn’s
feet. The Chevalier carefully
picks up the living ball with
both hands and puts it into a
round box—not much bigger
than a box for a top hat.
I can see that Mrs. Festenburg
is feeling sick: she has turned
her head away, leaning into
her hand, and has covered
her eyes. Viewers cover their
faces with their hands, shriek,
and clutch their chests.
Thorn places the box on a
small rug that who knows
when appeared on the floor,
next to the feet of the pair
of lovers who continue their
enchanted dance, and then,
after smoothly moving his
arms, covers all threewith the
same silk spread. For another
minuteor so fromunderneath
the fabric body parts still stick
out, but suddenly everything
stops. The illusionist pulls
the spread towards himself
and steps aside. “Ahhh,”
exhales the emotionally
drained audience. “Ahhhh,
aaahhhhh.”
The man and the woman
have disappeared. Not only
are they gone but so are the
dummies and the rags. In the
air, a few feet above the floor,
sits the child: the enormous
turban menacingly envelops
the tiny head; the face is
serious, not like a child’s; the
hand that reaches out of its