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nudged the man, who, surprised, tried to back away. Fanning the cards out with graceful expertise, Michael silently invited him to pick a card, any card. The man did so, looked at it, was flustered. Michael snatched the card, showed it around: nude male in black socks and striped garters doing things with nude female wearing black stockings and garters with rosettes. The man with the umbrella shied, started away. Michael went after him, riffling the cards in an accordion arc, catching them neatly. He caused them to disappear, then from the man’s ear produced the silver coin again. The crowd laughed, the man looked disappointed, embarrassed, tried to extricate himself. Michael let him go, momentarily, then made a wide circle, approaching from the opposite direction as if merely out for a casual stroll and coming upon an old and agreeable acquaintance. Confounded, his prey changed direction, while Michael hugged his side, aping his gait, his abstracted manner, in a perfect imitation of the absentminded professor. Now, from inside the man’s jacket, Michael magically plucked out a small paper parasol, using it to mimic the larger black one, holding it with carbon-copy primness, jiggling his head, pursing his lips like an old maid.
    “No, no,” the man muttered haltingly, but Michael was not yet done. The paper parasol disappeared, and out of the jacket came a whole string of objects: a fan, a watch, more colored silks, sausage links, and again the rubber duck—quack, quack!—in the man’s face. He shied again, turning redder, while Michael mimicked the tilt of his head, the hunch of his shoulders, even his acute discomfort was exaggerated into farce, moving the crowd to further hilarity.
    The victim shuffled confusedly, first looking about as if seeking help, then hiding under the umbrella as if shielding himself from closer scrutiny. Michael circled him once more, tapped him on the shoulder; the man turned, Michael popped around and lifted the back of the umbrella. Peekaboo! The man was not amused. He turned in greater agitation, hindered by this whitefaced fool who was making a fool of him. His bony elbow forced itself up between them as if to ward him off, but Michael slipped his own arm companionably through the offered crook, describing formulae, hypotheses, theorems. They were two nuclear physicists, devising between them the atom bomb.
    Now Michael was admiring the man’s neckwear, a shoddy cravat, horrendously knotted. He used the end to wave bye-bye, then pantomimed the arrival of a Great Idea. He was the magician again, making abracadabra passes. From his tunic flashed a pair of scissors, and with a knowing nod to the spectators he clipped off both ends of the tie an inch below the knot, tossed the pieces away, then did more abracadabra. The tie, supposed to be magically restored, was—oh dear—not. The painted-on mouth turned down in a parody of the Greek mask of tragedy. Michael shrugged, grimaced, shot an imaginary bullet through his brain. Miming profuse apology, he yanked out and offered a brand-new tie; furious, the man rejected the offer. Michael patted his shoulder, pillowed his head on it.
    “Never touch me.”
    The voice was softly sepulchral, wind-breath carrying dead leaves. Momentarily flustered as the man tried to make his way past the encroaching crowd, Michael hearkened to the rasping sound. Its resonances hanging in the stillness of his inner ear gave warning, one Michael palpably felt, yet imprudently chose to ignore.
    He moved quickly after the strange old man, flinging himself onto the pavement to impede his passage, then coming to a crouching position to do his frog bit: feet spread flat and wide, eyes bulging, mouth stretched into a great frog-mouth, tip of the tongue protruding slightly at the corner, jaw, neck, chest swelling as he hopped back and forth before the perturbed and halted figure, japing his indignation with ridiculous frogginess.
    As if better to inspect this very