The Magician's Elephant: Chapters 8–12

At the Orphanage of the Sisters of Perpetual Light, in the cavernous dorm room, in her small bed, Adele was dreaming again of the elephant knocking and knocking, but this time Sister Marie was not at her post, and no one at all came to open the door.

“Oh, elephant dreams, yes. I find elephant dreams particularly moving,” said Sister Marie, “and portentous, yes, although I am forced to admit that I myself have yet to dream of an elephant. But I wait and hope. One must wait and hope.”

“What was I like then?” she said. “When I first came here to you?”
“Oh, so small, like a mote of dust. You were only a few hours old. You had just been born, you see.”

“And how did you know it? How did you know my name?”
"The midwife said that your mother, before she died, had insisted that you be called Adele. I knew your name, and I spoke it to you.”

He knew how to construct a song out of the nothing of day-to-day life and how to sing that nothing into a song so beautiful that it could sustain the vision of a whole and better world.

“As you can see, Private Duchene, this was a particularly brilliant strategy on the part of General Von Flickenhamenger, and he executed it with a great deal of grace and bravery, bringing these soldiers from here to here, thereby performing a flanking maneuver that was entirely unexpected and exceedingly elegant and devastating. One cannot help but admire the genius of it. Do you admire it, Private Duchene?”

“So,” said Vilna Lutz. He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, as I was illuminating, as I was elucidating, yes, these men, these brave, brave soldiers, under the direct orders of the brilliant General Von Flickenhamenger, came around from behind. They outflanked the enemy. And that, ultimately, is how the battle was won. Does that make sense?”

Vilna Lutz stared at Peter with his mouth agape and the point of his heard trembling.

“Your sister? Am I mistaken? Were we speaking of the domestic sphere? No. We were not. We were speaking of battles, you and I. We were speaking of the brilliance of generals and the bravery of foot soldiers.” Vilna Lutz beat his wooden foot against the floorboards.

The old soldier grimaced. He put down the foot and pointed his index finger heavenward. “I told you. I have told you many times. She is with your mama, in heaven.”

“You said she died. Time and again, you told me that she was dead. You lied.”
“Do not call it a lie. Call it scientific conjecture. Babes without their mothers often will not live. And she was so small.”

The dream was so persistent that Adele could, after a time, repeat verbatim the words that the elephant spoke to Sister Marie when she came to the door.

The dream was so persistent that Adele could, after a time, repeat verbatim the words that the elephant spoke to Sister Marie when she came to the door.

There were young men with waxed mustaches and pomaded hair and old ladies dressed in borrowed finery, their wrinkled faces scrubbed clean.

There were young men with waxed mustaches and pomaded hair and old ladies dressed in borrowed finery, their wrinkled faces scrubbed clean.

Milliners stood with their heads held high, their latest creations displayed proudly on their heads.

Priests and fortunetellers stood side by side and eyed each other with distaste and wariness.

Priests and fortunetellers stood side by side and eyed each other with distaste and wariness.

The line inched slowly forward, and mercifully, late in the afternoon, the black-hatted man's mutterings were eclipsed by the music of a beggar who stood, singing, his hand outstretched, a black dog at his side.

"Are you juggling your hat, or are you waiting in line?” said a gruff voice.

The world had become too cold and confusing and chaotic to bear.

The countess Quintet had discovered that it was a somewhat messy affair to have an elephant in one's ballroom, and so, for matters of delicacy and cleanliness, she engaged the services of a small, extremely unobtrusive man whose job it was to stand behind the elephant, ever at the ready with a bucket and a shovel.

His name was Bartok Whynn, and before he came to stand perpetually and forever at the rear of the elephant, he had been a stonecutter who labored high atop the city's largest and most magnificent cathedral, working at coaxing gargoyles from stone.

Bartok Whynn's gargoyles were well and truly frightening, each different from the others and each more horrifying than the one that had preceded it.

On a day in late summer, the summer before the winter the elephant arrived in Baltese, Bartok Whynn was engaged in the task of bringing to life the most gruesome gargoyle he had yet conceived when he lost his footing and fell.

On a day in late summer, the summer before the winter the elephant arrived in Baltese, Bartok Whynn was engaged in the task of bringing to life the most gruesome gargoyle he had yet conceived when he lost his footing and fell.

Bartok Whynn hit the ground, and his broken, bleeding, and unconscious body was borne by his fellow stonecutters through the streets and home to his wife, who equivocated between sending for the funeral director and sending for the doctor.

And with a flourish, the doctor flung his coat to the side and bent over Bartok's broken body and offered him his ear.
“Heeeeeeeeeeee,” whispered Bartok Whynn into the doctor's ear, “heee, heee.”

"He said nothing?” said the wife. She wrung her hands.
"Madam,” said the doctor, “he laughs. He has lost his mind. His life is to follow. I tell you he will not, he cannot, live.”

Before the fall, Bartok Whynn was a dour man who measured five feet nine inches and who laughed, at most, once a fortnight.

Before the fall, Bartok Whynn was a dour man who measured five feet nine inches and who laughed, at most, once a fortnight.

After the fall, he measured four feet eleven inches, and he laughed darkly, knowingly, daily, hourly, at everything and nothing at all. The whole of existence struck him as cause for hilarity.

His new position in life did not at all, in any way, diminish his propensity for hilarity. If anything, if possible, he laughed more. He laughed harder.

His new position in life did not at all, in any way, diminish his propensity for hilarity. If anything, if possible, he laughed more. He laughed harder.

For the first time since she had come through the roof of the opera house, the elephant felt something akin to hope.