Wizard of Washington Square Read Free Page A

them,” said the Wizard to David. “And it’s best not to try.”
    But whether the Wizard meant the table legs or the tapestry figures, David didn’t know. So he started to walk over to look at the tapestry more closely, and nearly bumped his head on a large object that jutted down from the ceiling. It had two handles and an eyepiece.
    Leilah, who hadn’t left his side, whispered, “That must be the periscope.”
    “Then I was right,” David whispered back. “We are under the fountain!”
    The Wizard shook his head. “Not fair,” he said. “Not fair at all. Most impolite. First you stand and stare as though you had never seen a wizard’s warren before, and then you whisper in company.”
    “But we never have seen a wizard’s warren before,” began Leilah apologetically.
    “Oh, yes. I forgot,” said the Wizard, a little sadly. “I’m always forgetting. I’m always forgetting, especially, that I’m in America.”
    “Maybe you’re wishing that you weren’t in America,” said Leilah. “That could account for the forgetting.”
    “I doubt it,” said the Wizard. “I doubt it very much. I even forget things I want to remember—like spells and incantations. And when I remember how to start them, I forget how to make them stop.”
    “How very sad for you,” said Leilah.
    “Maybe you could take a correspondence course to improve your memory,” said David. “I’ve seen some advertised in magazines.”
    “I once tried,” said the Wizard, “but the postman never knew where to deliver my mail. So he dropped it in the wastebasket near the Arch. I didn’t beat the garbage truck to it in the morning. Somewhere in New York City there is a garbageman with an excellent memory. But not me. Not the Wizard of Washington Square.” And he began to cry, with his head on his arms on the tilting oak table.
    David and Leilah looked at each other uneasily.
    “Well, we’ll just have to help you, that’s all,” said Leilah. “Won’t we, David?”
    David shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea how to help a second-class wizard. He didn’t even know how to help a first-class wizard, though he doubted that a first-class wizard would need any help at all. Instead, David bent down and held on to D. Dog’s collar, for the terrier was trying to grab the wooden ball from one of the table’s claws.
    The Wizard looked up, took a handkerchief from the air, and wiped his eyes with it. Then he snapped his fingers, and the handkerchief disappeared.
    David wondered how a second-class wizard could do such a thing:
    As though he had read David’s mind, the Wizard answered. “I can do simple things, like prestidigitation, but—”
    “Presti—what?” asked David.
    “Prestidigitation. Sleight-of-hand tricks,” said the Wizard. “It comes from presto meaning nimble and digit meaning finger.”
    “Oh,” said David, “I see.” But he didn’t.
    “Magicians are presti-whatchmacallits,” explained Leilah.
    David’s eyes lighted up. “Oh, magicians,” he said.
    “Magicians! Bah!” said the Wizard.
    “Why bah ?” asked Leilah.
    “Magicians are imitators, not creators. They are fakers. They make tricks to fool your eye. But that is all it is, trickery. What I do—when I can remember how to do it—is real.”
    “You mean you really made that handkerchief disappear?” asked Leilah.
    “Certainly,” replied the Wizard. “But a magician would make it disappear up his sleeve .”
    “Well,” said David, “if you can’t make it as a wizard, you could always be a first-class magician. No one would ever figure out your tricks.”
    “I would rather be a third -class wizard than the best magician in the world,” said the Wizard. His eyes were fierce. David was sorry he had ever spoken.
    “Is there such a thing as a third-class wizard?” asked Leilah quickly.
    “No, I’m the lowest there is. So low, in fact, that I have to live in a warren.”
    “That’s pretty low down,” agreed David.
    “It is. It is,”