Untimely #21 - Fokusnik the Great

The doves fuss against their bonds in the sleeves of Fokusnik’s red coat. He strokes them slyly, soothing them with sweeps of his elbows against his sides as he spins and fingers the battered fez from which they will soon flutter. This small audience will be amazed – stupefied! Big Joe and his officers sit behind large desks on the other side of the room. Outside the parade chants in celebration. Fokusnik spirals the fez in demonstrative arcs, outlining its emptiness, its sturdiness, its wholesome trustworthiness. Now an act of daring to strengthen the dissolution of misbelief. Fokusnik skips across the pitted parquet and plonks the fez on the head of Big Joe. A smile barely registers beneath the resolute moustache. The others hide smirks behind their uniform cuffs or fiddle with their caps distractedly. Big Joe removes the too small fez, places it on the desktop next to his own cap, and smoothes back his hair. The doves tussle again in Fokusnik’s sleeves and he lifts the fez, flicking with his fingertips as he twitches the doves still once more.

            A whisker away from Big Joe now, with only a desktop between them, Fokusnik sweats over the sleight of hand to follow. Each little twist of the process must be perfect. Outside the parade hollers its support. Using the shouts as a screen, Fokusnik manoeuvres each dove up each sleeve. Big Joe squints, his eyes flitting to spot hints, signals of trickery. With his right hand Fokusnik snakes the fez, charms the eyes, as, with his left, he silently clicks his wrist back, pinching the neck of the dove, the cushion of his palm cloaking its eyes, stunning it for a second before, in one sinuous movement, he shadows it into the swirling fez, snipping its bands with his sharpened pinkie nail, for it to splutter free in a spurting snap of feathers. Beneath the wings and glances Fokusnik snatches Big Joe’s cap from its resting place upon the desk and, from it, whips the remaining dove in a second gasp of flapping and laughter.

            Applause fills the room. Then a flash and the clap of shot. The laughter falls silent. A second shot and the silence rings. The two doves lie dead on the parquet. Big Joe settles his pistol on the desk, stands, blows feathers from within his cap, replaces it upon his head and smoothes his moustache.

“Doves are decadent beasts. Inappropriate for a parade, a spectacle and celebration of the glorious accomplishments of the Russian people.” He turns to Fokusnik. “What is your name?”

“Gospodin Fokusnik the Great, Comrade.”

Big Joe absorbs Fokusnik’s words, the parade sounding outside, and, for the first time, smiles widely.

“Have this traitor, Fokusnik, shot.”