10
LATER that afternoon, Harry is immersed once again. Eyes closed, senses acute, he feels the piercing cold and hears a buzzing in his ears as he forces himself to hold his breath even longer. But there are no chains this time and the air is only a matter of inches away. He is submerged in a bathtub, enduring a training routine of his own invention.
Harry is not alone. With the sleeves of her pale-yellow blouse rolled up, Bess is assisting her husband as she has done so many times before. She knows the regimen as well as he does. When he gives the signal, raising his left hand out of the water, she adds some more ice to the bath. There is still some left in the metal tray near her feet, brought up in grey chunks covered in sacking by one of the hotel’s kitchen boys.
Bess adds ice to the water, then checks the thermometer submerged at the tub’s deeper end near the brass taps. The temperature is forty-nine degrees. Her husband’s physician in New York, Dr Kennedy, has warned of the dangers of sustained submersion in water much colder than this. Yet still she adds another portion of ice when he lifts his hand once again. She watches the ice slowly sink to the bottom of the enamel tub, which has feet moulded to resemble those of a lion, and notices that for a moment the surface of the water is absolutely still. There are no drops, no ripples, no movement at all. It is as still and cold as a pane of glass.
Then Harry rises up with a gasp, causing waves to sluice over the rim of the tub. His face is pale; his dark hair flattened to the top of his head.
‘I feel so alive,’ he says between shuddering breaths. ‘As if a current has been run through my body, making every nerve tingle. Now, once again … Is there still ice?’ More water slops on to the tiles as he leans over the side.
‘Ah – just a little. Put that in, too. It’ll only melt if left out.’
Bess hesitates.
‘Are you sure? You know what the doctor said.’
‘Doctor Kennedy believes it is risky to rise in the morning,’ Harry replies. ‘If I adhered to all the doctor’s edicts I would have zilch to show the public. The “Great Mysteriarch” would be the “Great Nothingness”, reading a newspaper on stage, perhaps, or drinking a glass of water – and mind it’s not too cold! One last time – with the watch.’
He breathes in and out, quickly at first and then slowly, as Bess counts down while the second hand on her wristwatch creeps towards twelve.
‘Now!’ she says. He slides under the water. It slops and sways and then is calm. Harry is not moving at all. Bess stands next to the tub, looking down, checking her watch occasionally. Her naked husband is lying with his hands by his sides and his eyes closed. She might be studying a dead man.
The sides of the tub are a pale green colour, giving his skin a lifeless hue. Yet this is not the posture of a corpse. The tub is not nearly as large as the one he has had specially built for their home on 113th Street in Manhattan. Here, his legs must be slightly bent. His knees rise out of the water like islands in a lagoon. Not for the first time, Bess thinks how much he resembles a muscular boy rather than a man of thirty-five. There is very little hair on his body, and because the water is so cold his private parts have withdrawn almost completely. He might almost be Mayer Samuel, with nothing at all between his legs whenever she changes his costume.
Bess glances at the time, then looks at the tip of her husband’s penis. Such a curious little pink thing, swaying upwards as if seeking air. She crouches. Quickly dips her right hand into the water. Touches his penis like a museum curator gently brushing dust from a precious figurine. It moves away. So soft, so light. Always so soft.
Then she rises, wiping her damp hand against her dress. Forty seconds have now passed. She knows, from previous immersions, that he cannot endure water so cold for much longer. He lurches upwards, clutches the side of the tub with both hands, and pulls himself into a sitting position. His lips have a blue tinge, but he can speak between gasps.
‘Forty-five seconds?’ he guesses. Then he asks for a towel, which she passes to him from the wooden stand near the basin even as he clambers out of the tub. Without a hint of bashfulness he dries himself in front of her, rubbing himself so forcefully she is reminded of her mother scouring a burnt cooking pot with salt and a stiff brush. When he has finished with the towel there are pink swirls on his skin.
‘After ice comes fire,’ he says. ‘I can now feel blood coursing through my veins. All rivers in the world will feel lukewarm, like a mother’s milk.’
He falls silent as he towels his hair and underarms, his penis keeping time like a tiny metronome, and she knows his thoughts have turned to his own mother, whom he resembles so much. He drops the towel in a puddle near the tub and strides across the bathroom to take down his monogrammed maroon robe from the hook on the back of the door. After putting it on he stands in front of the mirror over the basin, running fingers through his hair, which has regained its curls. He studies his face from several angles before turning to Bess and asking her the time.
‘Daylight lasts so long here I find it hard to guess,’ he explains.
‘Almost five,’ she tells him. ‘Will we be eating together this evening?’
‘Not unless Mrs Houdini is prepared to stay up very late, I’m afraid. I shall dine after this evening’s performance. Audran has said he will keep someone on in the kitchen until eleven. I should take a nap now. I’ve been sleeping poorly since our arrival here. It seems I’ve quite lost the knack of it. And I have a very early start tomorrow. The driver I mentioned, Jordan, will be waiting for me outside at six in the morning.’
He replaces the robe, which he drapes over the end of his bed, with a pair of dark blue silk pyjamas, also with an embroidered ‘HH’ on the chest.
‘Tomorrow is Sunday …’ Bess begins.
‘And I have no performance. So I will be visiting Brassac and my Voisin, which I expect to be almost in a state of readiness.’
‘Leaving me here. Waiting.’
She speaks quietly while standing before her dresser, wondering if there really are more grey threads in her hair or it’s just the way the mirror catches the light. She sees the reflection of her husband as he turns from the bed, where he has been looking for something, and approaches her. It is the illusion of a man she sees, an inverted figure with the monogram on the wrong side of his chest.
‘My lovely …’ He touches her shoulder, entreating her to face him. ‘When I have satisfied myself that conditions are suitable for the most beautiful woman in the world, then you shall accompany me to this crude airfield. And when my Voisin leaves the ground and I claim the Australian record you will be there, too. I promise you this.’
He hasn’t asked. He promises. In the mirror she sees his beseeching expression. She turns to face him and allows him to kiss her once on the cheek. Her expression softens: he is forgiven.
‘I will be there,’ she repeats.
‘And you will be at the theatre tonight?’
‘Tonight? I think … probably not. I am rather tired myself. From the heat. I will stay with our son. You are not performing anything new?’
‘Nothing more remarkable than the wonders you have already witnessed. But soon I will be introducing a variation on the milk-can effect. I have received a challenge from the management of a local dairy, the Willsmere Certified Milk Company. They have dared me to perform the trick with a can full of its product. It seems they believe my escape depends on being able to see through the liquid in which I am submerged.’
‘You will immerse yourself in milk?’ Bess cannot hide a look of disgust.
‘Why not? I don’t plan to swallow any and it’s never good to shirk a challenge. I’m quite sure, too, it will be warmer than my bath just now!’
He is near his bed again, checking the side table and under the pillow.
‘My eyeshade … Have you seen it?’
‘On the side table,’ she replies. ‘Where you left it this morning.’
‘Indispensable.’ He secures the strip of black silk around his eyes and feels his way into the bed. Only when he is under the covers, flat on his back with his face towards the ceiling, does he speak again.
‘I must try to rest now. Can you wake me at a quarter before seven? That will give me ample time to prepare for the performance. Kukol will have everything ready. I can rely on him. As I rely on you.’
