Nude Men

embarrassment for her. She resumes her skipping, shakes her head, wriggles her shoulders, leaps, waves the wand. From the box she takes a little orange hard candy, wrapped in a conventional transparent wrapper. She unwraps the candy, pops it in her mouth, and presents her open empty hands to the audience, letting the wrap, per flutter to the floor. It’s heartrending. She rocks her head, undulates her hips, flutters her fingers, flaps the sides of her jacket like wings, curves her spine concave and convex, shuffles her feet, meanders, zigzags. She takes off her top hat, pulls out some sort of stuffed animal, raises it with a flourish. Ludicrous. I smile stiffly. She bends her legs, twists and wiggles her body as though she has ants in her pants, shakes her hair, crouches, stands up, and pulls a knife out of her sleeve. I think: Oh, good, maybe she’ll do something traditional, like swallow it.
    But no, she drops it in the box on the floor. She takes a handful of white powder from the box, vigorously extends her wand, as though casting a magic spell, and throws some of the white powder in the direction of the wand, which thankfully is not aimed at the audience. She casts many rotten powdery magic spells in various directions, like a proud witch. Suddenly, she bows, and all her hair falls forward, and it is rather pretty; she has nice hair.
    People clap very softly. To clap with less enthusiasm would not be possible, but I am surprised they are clapping at all. A young man at a neighboring table claps with the tips of his two index fingers, to the amusement of his female companion. The performance lasted ten minutes at the most. Laura, the Obstinately Incompetent Magician, bows again and disappears backstage.
    “How long has she been doing this?” I ask.
    “A few months. Four or five, I think.”
    “How does she make a living?”
    “Her family is rich. She doesn’t do this show for the money, and she doesn’t do it to become successful. She does it for the respectability.”
    “How does she figure she gets respectability from this?”
    “It’s work. It’s more respectable than not working.”
    “Why did she choose this particular work?” I ask.
    “She probably thought of it off the top of her head. She’s a very easygoing person.”
    “Then why does she care about respectability?”
    “She doesn’t care about it passionately. It’s simply more comfortable to be respected than not. She also gives lessons to children, which adds to the respectability, because it’s additional work.”
    Henrietta stops talking, looks above my head, and smiles. I look above my head too. It’s Laura. She joins us, and Henrietta makes the introductions. Laura smiles warmly and shakes my hand firmly, to indicate intelligence and strength of character.
    “It was good tonight,” says Henrietta to Laura.
    “Oh, thanks. I was very nervous,” replies Laura, glancing at me.
    I feel I should say something. “You didn’t look nervous,”
    I say.
    “Thanks, but I was,” she answers, looking modest.
    “How was the lesson this afternoon? Was Sara good?” asks Henrietta.
    “She’s very talented, but I can tell she doesn’t practice enough.”
    Henrietta nods gravely.
    Poor Sara. Poor little, little Sara, to have to endure these inane dancing magic lessons. I sympathize with her completely and utterly. And to have to practice at home! I can just imagine Laura’s wise words: “One does not take one’s wand out of one’s boot in that manner. One takes it out in this manner.... Make sure your back is completely turned to the audience before you put on the glasses.... Be sure your pose is very grand and flamboyant after each and every magic trick, or people might not realize you’ve just done a trick. People are not always very bright, especially when they’re eating, so you have to help them understand that they have just been entertained.”
    Henrietta asks her friend if she has had dinner and whether she wants to order something. Laura says no, thanks, she’s not hungry. They start talking about Laura’s brother. Laura doesn’t seem at all as dumb as her show might suggest. In person, she is extremely normal, and therefore my mind starts to drift, I can’t concentrate. Normal people bore me, not because I feel superior but because I don’t understand them or what they are saying. They make me feel like a child watching the news; I look at the pictures but think of other things.
    I think of Henrietta and of the