"Jesus Christ! Amazing!"

"Yay, Little Boy!"

The bird was at the window, hovering at the Venetian blinds in a way that made it look as if it was having a look outside. Paul tapped the table. The bird turned reluctantly and flew back to him. When it landed, Paul once again covered it with the hat. I started to clap, but India touched my arm and shook her head – there was more, the trick wasn't over. Paul smiled and turned the hat rim up again. He gave it the familiar two taps; the flame shot up for the third time. This time it didn't stop. Instead, Paul turned the hat over, and out tumbled a screeching, burning, live bird – a small package of fire that kept trying to stand up or fly . . . I was so aghast I didn't know what to do.

"Paul, stop!"

"My name is Little Boy!"

"Paul, for godsake!"

India grabbed my arm so hard it hurt. "Boy! Call him Little Boy or he'll never stop!"

"Little Boy! Little Boy! Stop it! What the hell are you trying to do?"

The bird continued to screech. I gaped at Paul, he smiled back. He casually picked up the hat and placed it over the staggering flame. He tapped the top and pulled the whole thing up and away. Nothing. No bird, no smoke, smell, ashes . . . Nothing.

I realized after some seconds that India was clapping.

"Bra-vo, Boy! Won-derful!"

I looked at her. She was having the time of her life.

Little Boy reappeared on Thanksgiving Day. I hadn't had turkey or cranberry sauce in years, so when India discovered that the Vienna Hilton served a special Thanksgiving dinner in one of its innumerable restaurants, we all agreed to go.

Paul had the day off and wanted to take full advantage of it. I would write until noon; then we would meet for coffee at the Hotel Europa.

After that we'd ramble around the First District and look at the fancy store windows. Then slowly we'd make our way over to the Hilton for a drink at the Klimt bar, and on to the big meal.

I got there a little late; they were standing in front of the hotel. They both had on light spring jackets that looked ridiculous in the midst of other people's fur coats, gloves, and an insistent winter wind. Both were dressed casually, except that Paul was holding the big leather briefcase he took to work. I assumed he'd been to his office for something that morning.

The Graben and Kдrntner strasse were alive with well-dressed, well-to-do people promenading from store to store. Everything in that part of town costs more than it should, but the Viennese love prestige and you often see the most surprising people wearing Missoni clothes or carrying Louis Vuitton handbags.

"There he is, Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, Mo."

"Hi! Have you been waiting long?"

Paul shook his head no, India nodded yes. They looked at each other and smiled.

"I'm sorry, but I got all caught up with work."

"Yeah? Well, let's get caught up on some coffee. My stomach's beginning to hiss." India marched off, leaving the two of us in the dust. She did that sometimes. I once saw them from afar walking "together." It was ludicrous; she was at least three feet ahead of him, striding and looking straight ahead like a serious military cadet. Paul stayed within a few feet of her wake, but he swiveled his head from side to side, taking in everything and in no hurry whatsoever. I followed them for a few blocks, feeling wonderfully voyeuristic, anxious to see when India would turn around and give him a blast to get going. She never did. She marched, he dawdled.

Our coffee went well. Paul had been to the airport the day before and described the passengers disembarking from a charter flight from New York. He said he could immediately tell who was who because all the Austrian women were dressed to the nines in chic new designer clothes, while their men favored tight new jeans and cowboy boots that ranged in color from sand to plum with black fleur-de-lis designs. All of them came down the ramp fast and assured, smiling because they knew the territory.

In contrast, the Americans on the flight were dressed in drably practical shoes with thick crepe bottoms and drip-dry clothes so stiff and unyielding that they made the people look as if they were all walking between sandwich-board advertisements. They came into the airport slowly, with dismayed or angry looks. Suspicious eighty-year-olds who had just landed on the moon.

Some stores on the Graben had already begun their Christmas push and I wondered when the men would come in from the country farms with Christmas trees for sale. The Austrian tradition is not to decorate your tree until Christmas Eve, but they are for sale weeks before.

"What do you do at Christmas, Joey?"

"It depends. I've stayed around here. Once I went over to Salzburg to see how they'd done it up. It's something you two should see if you haven't already – That town at Christmastime is something."

They glanced at each other, and India shrugged indifferently. I wondered if she was mad at me for some reason. After coffee, we walked toward St. Stephen's Cathedral; I put my gloves on. I was sure it was getting colder, but neither of them showed any sign of it. They were dressed for a day in late spring.

The restaurant was surprisingly full. Paul nodded to people at several tables while the hostess led us to ours. It was close to a large picture window that gave a full view of the Stadtpark and the purple puff clouds that hung, unmoving, over it.

"The reason why I asked before about what you're doing over the holidays, Joey, is because we're going to Italy for five days and wanted to know if you'd like to come with us?"

I zapped a look at India, but her face said nothing. Where had this come from? Whose idea was it? I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to say. I opened my mouth twice like a hungry fish, but nothing came out.

"Is that supposed to mean yes?"

"Yes, I guess . . . Sure, yes!" I fiddled with my napkin. It fell on the floor. When I bent down to get it, I pulled a muscle in my back. It hurt. I tried to get my mind to race into every corner at once to find out what was going on here. India sure wasn't helping much.

"That's great. Well, now that we've got that settled, you kids'll have to excuse me for a minute. I'll be back in two shakes." Paul got up, briefcase in hand, and headed out of the room.

I watched until I heard the crunch of celery in my ear. I turned to see India pointing a long green stalk at me.

"Don't you dare ask me how it happened, Joe. The whole thing was his idea. He woke up this morning in a big lather and wanted to know what I thought of it. What could I say? No? Maybe he thinks he's doing penance or something for being suspicious of you before."

"I don't know. It gives me the willies."

"You and me both, Joe. But I don't want to talk about it today. It's far away, and a lot can happen. Let's eat lots of turkey now and be happy."

"That might be a little difficult." I nervously wiped my mouth with my napkin.

"Quiet! I want you to tell me what the Lennox family used to do for Thanksgiving. Did you guys eat turkey?"

"No, as a matter of fact. My brother, Ross, didn't like it, so we had goose instead."

"Goose? Whoever heard of eating goose on Thanksgiving? That Ross sounds like a real weirdo, Joe."

"Weirdo? It's not the right word for him. He . . . Do you know you ask about him a lot, India?"

"Yep. Does it bother you? You want to know why? Because he sounds like an interesting demon." She smiled and plucked an olive off my plate.

"Do you like demons?"

"Only if they're interesting." She took another olive off my plate. "Do you know that line from Isak Dinesen: 'It is a moving thing to work together with a demon'?"

The waiter brought the salad, which cut off the rest of whatever else she was going to say. We ate for a while, and then she put down her fork and continued.