The Magician's Elephant

eager to please, did as she bade it do.

And so, in the matter of the elephant and the countess, this is how it happened – this is how it unfolded. There was not, at her home, as lavish and well appointed a home as it was, a door large enough for an elephant to walk through. The Countess Quintet hired a dozen craftsmen. The men worked around the clock, and within a day a wall had been knocked down and an enormous, brightly painted, handsomely decorated door installed.

The elephant was summoned and arrived under cover of night, escorted by the chief of police, who ushered her through the door that had been constructed expressly for her; then, relieved beyond all measure to have done with the affair, he tipped his hat to the countess and left.

The door was closed and locked behind him, and the elephant became the property of the Countess Quintet, who had paid the owner of the opera house money sufficient to repair and retile the whole of his roof a dozen times over.

The elephant belonged entirely to the Countess Quintet, who had written to Madam LaVaughn and expressed at great length and with the utmost eloquence her sorrow over the unspeakable and inexplicable tragedy that had befallen the noblewoman; she offered Madam LaVaughn her full and enthusiastic support in the further prosecution and punishment of the magician.

The fate of the elephant rested absolutely in the hands of the Countess Quintet, who had made a very generous contribution indeed to the policemen’s fund.

The elephant, you will now understand, belonged lock, stock and barrel to the countess.

The beast was installed in the ballroom, and the ladies and gentlemen, dukes and duchesses, princes and princesses, and counts and countesses flocked to her.

They gathered around her.

The elephant became, quite literally, the centre of the social season.

Chapter Six

Peter dreamed.

Vilna Lutz was ahead of him in a field, and he, Peter, was running to catch up.

“Hurry!” shouted Vilna Lutz. “You must run like a soldier.”

The field was a field of wheat, and as Peter ran, the wheat grew taller and taller, and soon it was so tall that Vilna Lutz disappeared entirely from view and Peter could only hear his voice shouting, “Hurry, hurry! Run like a man; run like a soldier!”

“It is no good,” said Peter. “No good at all. I have lost him. I will never catch him, and it is pointless to run.”

He sat down and looked up at the blue sky. Around him the wheat continued to grow, forming a golden wall, sealing him in, protecting him. It is almost like being buried, he thought. I will stay here for ever, for all time. No one will ever find me.

“Yes,” he said, “I will stay here.”

And it was then that he noticed that there was a door in the wall of wheat.

Peter stood and went to the wooden door and knocked on it, and the door swung open.

“Hello?” called Peter.

No one answered him.

“Hello?” he called again.

And when there was still no answer, he pushed the door open further and stepped over the threshold and entered the home he had once shared with his mother and father.

Someone was crying.

He went into the bedroom, and there on the bed, wrapped in a blanket, alone and wailing, was a baby.

“Whose baby is this?” Peter said. “Please, whose baby is this?”

The baby continued to cry, and the sound of it was heartbreaking to him, so he bent and picked her up.

“Oh,” he said. “Shh. There, there.”

He held the baby and rocked her back and forth. After a time, she stopped crying and fell asleep. Peter could not get over how small she was, how easy it was to hold her, how comfortably she fitted in his arms.

The door to the apartment stood open, and he could hear the music of the wind moving through the grain. He looked out of the window and saw the evening sun hanging golden over the field.

For as far as his eye could see, there was nothing but light.

And he knew, suddenly and absolutely, that the baby he held in his arms was his sister, Adele.

When he woke from this dream, Peter sat up straight and looked around the dark room and said, “But that is how it was. She did cry. I remember. I held her. And she cried. So she could not, after all, have been born dead and without ever drawing breath, as Vilna Lutz has said time and time again. She cried. You must live to cry.”

He lay back down and imagined the weight of his sister in his arms.

Yes, he thought. She cried. I held her. I told my mother that I would watch out for her always. That is how it happened. I know it to be true.

He closed his eyes, and again he saw the door from his dream and felt what it was like to be inside that apartment and to hold his sister and look out at the field of light.

The dream was too beautiful to doubt.

The fortuneteller had not lied.

And if she had not lied about his sister, then perhaps she had told the truth about the elephant too.

“The elephant,” said Peter.

He spoke the words aloud to the ever-present dark, to the snoring Vilna Lutz, to the whole of the sleeping and indifferent city of Baltese. “The elephant is what matters. She is with the countess. I must find some way to see her. I will ask Leo Matienne. He is an officer of the law, and he will know what to do. Surely there is some way to get inside, to get to the countess and then to the elephant so that it can all be undone, so that it can at last be put right; because Adele does live. She lives.”

Less than five streets from the Apartments Polonaise stood a grim, dark building that bore the somewhat improbable name of the Orphanage of the Sisters of Perpetual Light, and on the top floor of that building was an austere dormitory with a series of small iron beds lined up side by side, one right after the other like metal soldiers. In each of these beds slept an orphan, and the last of the beds in the draughty, overlarge dormitory was occupied by a small girl named Adele, who, soon after the incident at the opera house, began to dream of the magician’s elephant.

In Adele’s dreams the elephant came and knocked at the door of the orphanage. Sister Marie (the Sister of the Door, the nun who admitted unwanted children to the orphanage and the only person ever allowed to open and close the front door of the Orphanage of the Sisters of Perpetual Light) was, of course, the one who answered the elephant’s knock.

“Good of the evening to you,” said the elephant, inclining her head towards Sister Marie. “I have come for the collection of the little person that you are calling by the name Adele.”

“Pardon?” said Sister Marie.

“Adele,” said the elephant. “I have come for the collection of her. She is belonging elsewhere besides.”

“You must speak up,” said Sister Marie. “I am old, and I do not hear well.”

“It is the one you are calling Adele,” said the elephant in a slightly louder voice. “I am coming for to keep her and for taking her to where she is, after all, belonged.”

“I am truly sorry,” said Sister Marie, and her face did look sad. “I cannot understand a word you are saying. Perhaps it is because you are an elephant? Could that be it? Could that be the cause of the hindrance in our communications? Understand, I have nothing against elephants. You yourself are an exceptionally elegant elephant