Meghan O'Toole: WIZARD OF A FAR TOWER • Cleaver Magazine

Fiction by Meghan O’Toole
WIZARD OF A FAR TOWER

Humbly, I want the universe, which is why I’ve decided to become an art thief.

I have always had an interest in beautiful things. This desire to trap and somehow harness beauty to propel my own desire to live is the reason I have recently taken up the craft of stained glass. I love scoring and snapping the brittle panels of color and piecing them into something new, painting with light and changing a room. Right now, I am putting the finishing touches on my largest piece yet, a modest eight-by-ten scene of a mountain and a pink sunrise. I solder the last line that connects a peak to a cloud. The work is done. I don’t quite trust it to stay in one piece, so I do not pick it up.

I collect many beautiful objects for my apartment—silver spoons bent into rings strung on a chain that hangs by the bathroom door, copper cake pans in interesting shapes, satin ribbons woven through vintage lace, rotary telephones, lovely old tablecloths embroidered with trains or waves or anything that isn’t a flower—but the lamps outshine the rest. I have harvested lamps from flea markets, thrift stores, and eBay.

Everything has its place. My space is not cramped or overcrowded or cluttered, although it is a fourth-floor studio apartment with two windows, one of which almost doesn’t count because it’s a small glass-block window in the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. I get enough of a glow from the lamps to make the place feel warm. I have a good eye for lamps.

I have explained this to my therapist, and she asks me, “George, how much time are you spending inside?”

Last time, she asked me to come up with ideas of new places in the city to visit, and she was the one who took me to the art museum. She knows of my interest in beautiful things. I did not speak as we went from painting to painting. She showed me the new exhibit—trinkets and treasures of old-regime rulers—and then we came across the Fabergé egg. But it was not the egg that interested me, that gaudy thing, but the small rosy chick beside it. My therapist joked that the chick is the thing that must hatch from the gilded egg, which came first, etc. I did not react to her. All the lines in my life met and formed a clear picture: I had to acquire the chick.

The Fabergé chick is a small, luminescent pink thing almost the shape of an egg on stilts, delicate gilded feet. I wished I could reach through the glass and touch the precious bird, put it in my pocket and take it home.

Back home, I can picture it in my apartment on the windowsill by my bed, next to the old brassy lamp I got from my grandfather and the pile of Charlie’s seeds.

The power snaps out from my lamps and stained glass tools, and after I change the fuse, I feed Charlie mixed seed from my palm. His beak is a pale dead petal color. Most people don’t know that pigeons make better pets than parrots. They were bred for domesticity. Parrots, unruly and vindictive creatures, were not. Charlie is the kindest soul I’ve met. He is quiet. My mornings start with the softest coos from his covered cage. Pigeons were bred to fly and come back, but I couldn’t bear it if he left me. If a cat got him. If he got lost. If he decided not to come back. So I keep him in the cage and sometimes let him fly around the apartment, but only when I’m home to watch him.

With the stained glass finished, I spend a long time curled over my laptop, digging my way down to the darkest parts of the internet until I find a local man who claims to be a thief. He agrees to meet me for coffee in the morning because my predicament is urgent and the chick will only be in town for a few more days.

In the morning, I give Charlie his boiled egg. He’s allowed one per week to keep his feathers glossy. Then I fill my mug with lukewarm coffee from my French press and meet the thief at the cafe across the street.

I recognize him by his getup: a black beret and a thin red scarf. Espresso crema on his upper lip, he nods politely at me as I approach and dabs his fine mustache with a napkin. In an accent I first mistake for Parisian, he introduces himself as Januś the Sneak. He is tall, pale, and very thin, and his hands hold every color in them—yellowish in the meaty patches, ruddy pink on the knuckles, and blue-green flashes where his veins thread under his skin. Those long spindled fingers are almost iridescent.

“I’m George,” I tell him.

He says, “I know. You said so online, which brings me to my first lesson. Say less online. As a matter of fact, we should be somewhere private.”

I tell him my place is across the street, and I am impressed that the five flights of stairs don’t wind him at all. I hurry to open the curtains and let some light in while he scopes out the place and shifts a stack of throw pillows to make room on the couch. I like the way he moves like loose string in water. Everything is easy and graceful because he follows the flow of a space. He seems acutely aware of everything around him, which is why I am extra bashful and a little proud when he nods approvingly at my place.

The first thing he says when I sit down is about Charlie. “You have a bird?”

“Charlie. A pigeon. I raised him.”

“How old is he?”

“Two and a half.”

“Pigeons don’t live very long,” he says. “You have him in a cage.”

“The cage will help him live longer,” I answer.

His hands are folded neatly in his lap, but though they are still, they have an air of attentiveness. I think if I scooted my phone off the armrest, he would snatch it from the air before it hit the floor.

He says, “In Kraków, we have a story about the pigeons who live in our square: a witch turned all the warriors into pigeons. These birds are a big tourist attraction. I love pigeons.”

I nod along with interest. His English is very good. I want to talk about stealing, but I am more interested in learning about him. “Is Poland where you learned to steal?”

“Steal,” he laughs. “Do not use that word. I am a thief. I will teach you to thieve.”

“Thieve,” I say to prove I have always been a good student.

“The very first thing I stole was the stained glass window from the church where my mother attended Mass. It was commissioned by my grandfather, a terrible man, and I wanted a challenge. I cleaned every joist with acetone and pried it free with spackle knives. It was as tall as I was, but I carried it home and slid it under my bed, leaving a great hole in the church where the cold wind got in. My mother found the window when she cleaned, but she was too ashamed to tell anyone I did it, and instead beat it to pieces with her broom and swept it into the dustbin.” As he speaks, Januś presses the pad of his thumb to each of his pink fingernails. “My first act of thievery was a collaborative work of art.”

I like the image he puts in my head. He has beautiful, shapely lips that almost quiver when he speaks. They are the color of the Fabergé chick.

“And you,” he says, “want to be a thief.”

I nod.

“It is about more than stealing things. You must understand this.” He pauses and swirls the air with one of his slender hands. “Thievery is a craft. An art.”

“I understand,” I say.

He eyes the suncatcher in the window. It’s the image of a bat done in scraps of purple and brown. “It’s good to have an artist’s soul when you want to be a thief. Thieving is not simply taking. It is choosing, admiring, plotting. I think of myself as honoring the work of the artist when I execute a thieving. To me, the process of taking, the story and heartbreak and fulfillment of it, is more important than the sale of the piece when it’s done.”

I am about to ask about his favorite theft when he claps his hands together. It startles me and reminds me I forgot to offer him a glass of water or tea, something to busy our hands with. I imagine he would enjoy sparkling water. “Let’s get to work. This museum is not an easy one.”

He pulls out a map and unscrolls it across the kitchen table. His fingers point out exits, entrances, cameras. He maps out my path with a green felt marker. I nod and trace the lines with my fingers while Januś the Sneak educates me on security systems, which he will take care of, and security guards, who he claims aren’t paid enough to pay real attention.

“Most importantly,” he says, “you must be confident. You must look unquestionable. You must command the room but be invisible. The course may change at any time, and you must change with it.” He tracks my nods, then asks, “Do you have wine?”

“No, but I have amaretto.”

“That will do.” He stands and rifles through my cabinets for two glasses while I fetch the liqueur. He pours a few inches of caramel-colored liquid into each glass and pushes one into my hand. We cheers to Charlie, who is cooing softly every now and then.

Januś has taken off his beret. His short hair is a flat mousy color, but it is arranged in a kind of boyish, messy way I wish my own hair would lay in.

Januś takes a long, generous sip of amaretto. “Tell me about the bird.”

My mind trips back to when I found Charlie. I tell Januś all about the dewy morning I found the egg on the windowsill presented like an invitation from the world. The pearly thing was sitting on a sorry excuse for a nest: scraps of crinkled magazine, strands of grass, two twigs. It would roll off the ledge once the afternoon breeze swept in. The pigeon perched next to the egg watched me but did nothing to stop me as I reached for the egg. I gathered up the nest, put it in a shoe box, and made an incubator with one of my lamps. Detroit has been bleeding pigeons for years, but this was my chance to bring one more bird back to the city. For eighteen days, I did not leave my apartment. My sister brought me bread and soup. Finally, Charlie hatched.

“I felt powerful in that moment,” I explained, “because the odds of actually hatching an egg were very slim.”

We both take a moment to admire Charlie. He is as gray and soft as very fine ash. He keeps himself clean by running his beak along the length of each feather.

Januś says, “You stole the egg.” He observes me for a moment and doesn’t scold me for kidnapping like I worried he would. I like the shape of his eyes when he squints. “You are a longing kind, my George. This will make you an excellent thief.”

I pour us more amaretto. My cheeks ache a little from smiling.

We discuss more thieving techniques. He talks me through scenarios that may require a diversion. After a few hours, I prepare us a lunch of pickles, bread, and cheese, which he accepts without fuss and with much grace, although I feel pathetic for not having something more substantial on hand. While we eat, Januś tells me about how his mother dreamed he would become a priest and work his way up to be a respected bishop. I tell him I know nothing about the Catholic Church, that my sister and I were raised atheist. He snorts a little at this and says, “Good for you. You can still appreciate the beauty of a church, its ornateness?”

“Of course. I like glass.”

His lips jut out a little in a satisfied smirk.

I wonder what brings him to Detroit. I look at his colorful hands. Januś is a man who has the universe as much as he is part of it. I catch hints of it in the way his lips curl impishly when he speaks. I envy him, which is natural; there is always envy at the heels of love.

I feel a little awkward about the subject, but I have to ask: “What do I pay you?”

He pauses and thinks for a while. His eyes linger on my clothes. I am still wearing my coat. “I want your pigeon.”

“Charlie?”

“He should not be shut up in a cage.”

“He’s a pet. He’s fine.”

“The cage makes him weak. You should give him to me, or I will not help you at the museum.”

I look at Charlie and picture the luminous flesh of the Fabergé chick in the warm yellow light of my apartment, and I feel my heart yolk in a sloppy way, but I turn away from the cage and think about it. When moving forward in life, there are always casualties, beloveds that must be left behind. “Alright.”

We don’t say much after that. I cover Charlie’s cage. Januś the Sneak picks it up. He wears his hat and scarf again.

“You will meet me outside the museum at the service entrance.” He glances at his watch. It is a thin, drapey gold thing. It looks like a woman’s watch. “In seven and a half hours.”

“I’ll be there.” I suddenly feel a little hot in my layers of wool and corduroy. Charlie coos beneath the blanket. I almost tell Januś about giving Charlie a boiled egg on Wednesdays, but the man knows what he’s doing.

Januś leaves with Charlie. My apartment is beautiful and still. I turn on every lamp until the whole studio glows golden, and when I lie in bed under all the light, the loneliness irradiates me worse than ever. I set a few alarms and try to sleep a little, but they go off before I manage to put real effort into closing my eyes.

At three in the morning, it is raining. I put on my corduroy and a cap and prop my umbrella in the crook of my elbow as I balance on my bicycle. It takes me about twenty minutes to bike to the museum. When I arrive, I circle the building a few times looking for the service entrance until I see Januś peering out of a steel door beckoning. I prop my bike and shake out my umbrella, which barely did a thing to keep me dry. My footsteps squeal against the floor inside as I catch my breath. Januś shuts the door firmly.

To my surprise, he has Charlie with him. The cage is uncovered, and Charlie cocks his head a little. He recognizes me. Shame flowers up my throat. It’s not like I’ve really traded him.

“How did you get in?” I ask Januś.

“One of the guards takes smoke breaks,” he says.

I expected the museum to be fully dark, but Januś steers me towards the basement.

Embarrassed, I have to admit I am not overly familiar with the museum. There are not many places I visit aside from my apartment, and this is beyond my radius. My coat drips and leaves a trail marking our path. Januś says Ay-yai-yai and makes me take it off. He bundles it and places it carefully in a corner behind the stairs, and the tenderness and patience with which he moves makes my heart swell with love for him.

We surface from the basement in a dimly lit hall that leads to the generous open space of a gallery. Here, Januś puts up a hand and makes me stop. “Do not move,” he says, and he very slowly sets down Charlie’s cage and opens it.

Charlie stays put for a moment, and a small sense of triumph overtakes me—he wanted the cage, see? But then in a dazzling display of glimmery tail feathers, he launches out of the cage and into the gallery. Charlie flutters loudly, chaotically. Januś points to the motion detector in the corner of the room. The light has turned from green to red. A silent alarm. My Charlie is causing a distraction. He buys us time.

I set aside my worry for the pigeon and follow Januś’s graceful, long strides into the next gallery space where the walls and ceiling have been drenched a deep royal burgundy. Glass cases display ornate jewels and fine works of art. Januś leads me right to the display with a fine Fabergé egg. Beside it on a lower pedestal is the chick.

Under the low light of the gallery at night, the chick is the lovely color of rose jam. The Sneak reaches into his inner coat pocket and pulls out a set of tools not dissimilar to a stained glass cutting set.

Down the corridor, I can still hear Charlie’s panicked flapping and the sound of irritated voices. They don’t yet know we’re here.

“When I hand you the chick, you must run quick.”

“What’s going to happen to Charlie?”

Januś places his free hand on my shoulder. “They will guide him out of here and put him outside where he will be free.”

The thought of Charlie outside in the cold and rain is not as comforting as Januś wishes it to be. I suck on my lower lip and watch him score the glass. His hands are as beautiful as ever, and I love seeing them move with skill. I wonder if they have soaked up the beauty from every work of art he has touched.

“You know you have gorgeous hands,” I say, and suddenly I fear he knows I laid awake thinking about kissing each of his knuckles.

He pops a panel of glass aside.

He picks up the chick and admires it for half a second before pressing it into my open palm. It is heavier and colder than I imagined. How did the artist manage to make it look so light and alive? I put it in my pocket so I don’t have to look at the bleak dot of its eye.

The Sneak says, “Go.” I take off running.

The guards hear me, of course. Two of them are after me, one already barking into his walkie-talkie, and suddenly I think I am just like Charlie, part of the Sneak’s distraction, since he is still upstairs and I am the one being chased.

One of the guards slips on a puddle left behind by my coat. I run faster, practically leap up the stairs, and I see headlights rounding the corner as I hop on my bike and race down the alley. Three blocks later when I check over my shoulder, no one is following me. I turn toward home and wonder if it would be appropriate to go back for my umbrella tomorrow. My coat is probably gone forever.

When I finally pull the chick from my pocket in the comfort and safety of my apartment, it is slick with rainwater. I am careful not to drop it as I set it on the windowsill.

I shiver and wipe my wet hands on my pants. I am soaked through. I hear helicopters in the distance. Januś the Sneak must have come away from our heist with millions. It occurs to me that I was supposed to get caught, but the heartbreak of this realization is not unlike other relationships I’ve had, so at least it feels like closure.

Under the light of all my lamps, the chick is luminous and pink as newborn flesh. The creature is egg-shaped and long-legged, and it looks as if it might turn its head to look about the apartment I’ve brought it to. I hold my breath and wipe a droplet of rainwater from my nose.

It is eerily quiet inside despite the steady rain. There is no slight rustle of feather or gentle coo or clinking of Charlie’s feet against the metal cage. There is only the sick brownish light from my collection of lamps and the aura of wealth the chick carries.

I have always loved my apartment for how it makes me feel apart from the world, like I am some wizard of a far tower wrapped up in my studies and more part of the universe than anyone around me for all my removal from them. But when I look at the chick very closely and see how the light passes through its quartz body, everything in my place—the lamps, the old books, the pocket watches from the flea market, the vintage lace and old spyglass—is stripped of the story I built around it. All of this stuff is cheap and ugly under the dingy hues of yellow in comparison to the chick. The gravity of the small bird sucks all the wonder into itself. My apartment is a collapsing star. I feel more far away from the world than ever because this chick will never be mine, and if I am found with it, I will be arrested. This no longer feels exciting to me.

The chick’s small dotted eyes regard nothing. The gold feet dig into the windowsill. I open the window screen and set it just outside where I found Charlie’s unhatched egg. Raindrops spark off of the pink stone. The rain must feel good on its flesh after so many years behind glass. I am tempted to push it off the ledge and watch it fall four stories into the alley where the stray cats live, but just as my fingers reach out, I look to the corner of the room where Charlie’s cage once hung.

I wonder if he is still trapped in the museum. If they do get him out and he is free, I wonder if he will truly enjoy the oppressive expanse of sky or if he will get hit by a car or snatched by a cat and die an early death. I once saw pigeons on the street fighting over leftover fried chicken. I wonder if the wild pigeons would fight over his meat.

I run a bath because I’m cold and because the chick takes up so much space. It is in the warm blue-cast water that I finally drift to sleep. The image of Januś the Sneak’s hands pinning Charlie’s wings to his side repeats in my dreams.

It is still pouring when I wake. I dress in warm clothes and read about the Sneak’s great theft: he got away with a Fabergé egg and several notable royal jewels. There is no mention of Charlie or of me. They say it may have been an inside job by a worker in the museum.

It is day now, a soft diffused light of late morning. I look to the window and see the rosy chick soaking up rain, and beside it, the smudgy gray feathers of a pigeon. I forgot they are bred to come home.

Meghan O’Toole is from Illinois. She has received recognition as 2024 Ninth Letter’s Regeneration contest winner, the 2021 Ploughshares Emerging Writers’ Contest winner, and received LitMag’s Virginia Woolf Award for short fiction in 2018.