Free Fata Morgana by William Kotzwinkle Page B

beside a tin doghouse. The woman touched the dog’s tail and he moved along a groove to the house, where he deposited the coin through a slot in the roof. It clinked away, out of sight, and Picard moved too, toward another booth, where a dancing toy bear was turning. The toy maker was a young man, smiling, wearing a long scarf around his neck, and warming his fingers over his brazier.
    “Have you ever seen a toy that told fortunes?”
    “No, sir, I’ve not,” said the young man. “There’s precious little fortune in toys, I’ll tell you.”
    “You must work long hours on them.”
    “As a hobby, sir. To pass the time, after working seventy hours a week in the factory.”
    Picard moved on, from booth to booth, inquiring after a fortune-telling toy that clicked like a telegraph machine. The snow continued to whirl; no one had seen such a toy; indeed, it didn’t even sound like a toy. “If you want a toy, sir, a real toy, look here, at this kangaroo...”
    He stood in the middle of the square, with the medieval-like booths all around him, their many flags and banners whipping in the wind. The feeling was strange, as if he’d known it all before, long ago, on the jousting field of a bygone age. He smiled to himself, recognizing the enchantment of the toys again, which filled the mind with fairy tales.
    He stared up and down the rows of the toy makers, making certain that he’d inquired at every booth. He heard the embattled voice of two of the toy makers, somewhere toward the fringe of the fair grounds. While he could not quickly translate the shouts, he understood the universal language of resentment, especially when it is joined by the wife of one of the combatants, as now seemed to have happened. He caught sight of the contest, between one booth, already set up, whose owners, a man and a woman, were screaming at a bent little pin of a man, who was, with the help of an obviously dim-witted youth, trying to set up his own tent. Despite the scolding of his neighbors, he continued setting up shop, and smiled at the approach of Picard.
    “Having trouble?” asked Picard, answering the bent man’s smile.
    “None at all, sir,” said the bent man, as if the storm of protest were not falling on his head. Then, turning to the boy: “Hurry up there, lad, we’ve got a visitor.”
    Picard assisted the dim-witted youth in the securing of the tent pole, which brought a hiss from the neighbor woman and a grunt of disgust from her husband.
    “All right, sir, we’ll just be a moment,” said the bent man. He lit a lantern and opened his trunk, withdrawing a number of conventional toys—little hopping rabbits, birds who chirped when wound, and a fish on wheels.
    “I’m looking for an unusual toy, not the sort of thing I’ve seen anywhere around here,” said Picard.
    “Of course,” said the bent man, “a discerning collector. Of course, my dear sir, I have exactly what you’re looking for.” He signaled to the dim-witted young man, who lifted a second trunk onto the toy maker’s bench. The bent man opened it and withdrew a toy man, clothed in a barrel. “Now here is a somewhat unusual...” He lifted the barrel over the man’s head, and in so doing exposed the man’s miniature sexual member, which rose up quickly to erection, supported by a rubber spring. The peddler lowered the barrel again, covering the man’s private parts. “A novelty.” He smiled. “A comic piece.... Here we have something for your tree...”
    He brought out a large Christmas ball, beautifully made, wreathed with bright bands and bits of sparkle. Handing it to Picard, he said, “Look closely, sir. Yes, Father Christmas has come...”
    Picard held up the Christmas ball. On one side of it was a tiny glass window. He peeked through it, into the interior of the ball, where a tiny naked lady lay, upon a tiny bed, with Father Christmas atop her, delivering his gift.
    “Yes,” said the bent man, taking back the ball, “just a touch of