Sidewalk Magician

Chairil Gibran Ramadhan

People were crowding in the middle of a public park. They were watching traditional herbalists, who fascinated passers-by with their remedies: for promoting moustache growth, for virility, injuries and even charms or talismans. That's one way to make a living and avoid a futile death from starvation on some street corner.

My religious teacher used to tell me as a child: "Life is a struggle for survival. There's no use expecting miracles or the charms and mantras of charlatans, who are nonbelievers hiding behind white robes ..."

I drifted into reflection.

My younger brothers and I had to accept the reality that we could not afford to continue studying. I should have graduated from the school of economics at 23. Life was frustrating as our family was so poor and my brothers faced an extra burden with the death of our father three years earlier following a train accident. Iie, 16;, Wawan, 14; Dedi, 10 and Iden, 9, worked part- time to earn money to pay for their school books. To meet our daily needs, I worked as an office messenger and my mother opened a food stall in front of our house. Ipan, 19, my other brother, worked with a furniture firm.

A man wearing a black suit and a black hat, encircled by a crowd, was talking a lot of nonsense while making preparations. He was tall, with hollow eyes and protruding cheek bones, making him look even skinnier. He frequently raised his right eyebrow to convince people, reminding me of one of the world's masters of illusion, David Copperfield. Nobody knew who he was or where he came from.

He produced his magic wand from a black box.

The crowd watched attentively.

"I'm Manzarek, the famous magician from Wonderland. Today, as always, I will present a one-man show. I need no assistant," quipped the scrawny entertainer. "And if any of you recognize or have ever seen me, please come forward."

There was no answer. Nobody came forward. They looked at one another, exchanging comments and glances.

"And if any of you have higher skills, please don't disturb the show."

Still there was no response. Nobody nodded, nor was there any gaze of hatred. They just exchanged comments and glances.

I thought he was obviously new at it, as amateurs would only appear in night fairs or birthday parties. Like most magicians, Skinny sold nothing but entertainment. He expected the audience to toss coins into a huge, open black box. A closed red box of the same size was placed beside the black one.

"It's empty," he said, though nobody asked.

But I was sure it would be part of the magic show.

I often urged Emak to stop selling food. After my father's demise, she would go to the market every day at dawn with Uti, 23, my only sister, who would work in the kitchen after her morning prayers to prepare food for the stall. Emak would only rest by nine in the evening, with the cries of my other brothers Pian, 6 and Uta, 4, disturbing her. Ah, Emak.....

"I'm OK, it's not so hard. Your brothers and sister help me, too."

"But if you get too tired ... you'll fall sick."

"If any of us stop earning, your brothers will be forced to drop out of school." That's what she would repeatedly say. "At least they should finish high school like you, Ipan and Uti. Hopefully they can go to university. We won't be poor forever."

At 40, she looked older than her age, though she was strong enough to take care of us all on her own. Married at 14 and with only third-grade elementary school education, she came from a needy family and had never enjoyed the comforts of life.

Skinny was glancing around at the crowd -- accompanied by a shower of coins in the black box -- following his display of tricks: a pigeon from the hat, flying handkerchiefs, sword swallowing, a fireball on the palm, leaves turning into banknotes, a floating red box and fire eating. He invited a volunteer to come forward while fiddling with the wand in his left hand.

Nobody responded.

"Well?" He raised his right eyebrow. "No one dares?"

With all our hardships, I wished I had a magic wand that could make everything easy. I would change the fruit trees in the front yard into gold and sell them for a large deposit to cover our daily needs and school fees, build a luxury house and a fancy restaurant with my mother as manager, continue my graduate and post-graduate studies abroad, along with all my brothers and sister. Emak would stay young due to the happy life she led and nobody would dare to regard us with contempt.

But finally I realized that I was still poor and had no such wand.

Unexpectedly, a pretty girl with shoulder-length curly hair and a blank gaze raised her right hand. The man holding her hand promptly forbade her, but she insisted. Her stiff-haired brawny young boyfriend could only snort.

They were the couple I'd seen on the bus.

On a bright Saturday afternoon, I was on an orange bus packed with passengers but its conductor kept motioning to more people on the roadside to get on the bus.

It stopped and a middle-aged woman got on, and stood in the aisle making no attempt to find a seat. A muscular young man with brush-like hair, perhaps five years older than me, sat right behind the woman, refusing to budge like the other seated passengers. He, and his girlfriend kept laughing and squeezing each other's fingers. What an ignorant fellow! Or he had no respectable women at home. This sight portrayed the greed and cruelty now prevailing in our society, amid the slogans boasting eastern morals.

A rich man in my village once said women were respected and given special treatment in Europe and America. Even Bangladesh and India, plagued by natural disasters and civil wars, had special seats for women and disabled people on city buses.

"No, Clara, you don't need to do it. Just let the others."

"I'll be all right. You trust me, don't you?"

The bristly-haired man snorted again.

Skinny approached and smiled, "have we met before?"

"No," the cute girl shook her head.

"So you have never seen me before?"

"No," she said shaking her head again.

"Are you really ready to be my guest star in this show?"

"Yes", she nodded.

"Very well," the Skinny took her to the center of the arena, approaching the red case.

The gathering focused its attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to lie in the black case and this beautiful lady in the red one," he said illustrating by spreading out both his arms. "The game is ... I'll be moving into the red ... and this lady into the black."

The onlookers held their breath.

Skinny then asked the bristly-haired guy to make sure that his watch kept perfect time. "As soon as I got into this box, after exactly three minutes, you must have someone open the red case. It must be that way because only I can open the black one. OK?"

The young man nodded, a bit confused. "All right."

"Remember, the red first. Don't fail. Three minutes. Not more and not less," repeated Skinny loudly. "This is the key for the black case where I'll by lying. Understood?"

"Yes."

The magician instructed the girl to lie in the red case. He locked it tightly and mumbled for a moment, knocking it with the wand.

There was silence. Everybody was speechless. Only the rumble of buses could be heard from the terminal across the road.

Skinny gave the key to the red box to another spectator before lying in the black box. Two other onlookers immediately locked it tightly.

The counting began. All eyes focused on both cases. Again they exchanged comments and glances.

The red case was opened. It was empty! Skinny was not found. The crowd was startled. Some people turned pale.

Then followed the black box. There was nobody inside! The pretty girl was gone, along with the coins and notes tossed into it. All those watching grew worried, their faces pallid. The magician and the beauty had vanished. The bristly-haired young man passed out.

I witnessed it all. I just looked on. All at once, I gave up my craving for a magic wand. I realized that life was a struggle for survival. We cannot expect anything from miracles or charms.

I was on an overcrowded bus that Saturday evening bound for the southern outskirts of the city, but its conductor continued to gesture for more people to enter the bus.

Emak and my eight brothers and sister were waiting at home.

Translated by Aris Prawira

Note: Emak: mother