Soon his breathing is slow and regular. Bess sits at the end of his bed with her hands in her lap. It is the same posture she used to adopt as one of the teenage Floral Sisters in the Coney Island act before she even met Ehrich Weiss, the bumptious young conjuror. The Floral Sisters would sing and dance, but Bess earned more quarters as a fortune-teller – sitting at a folding table, a gypsy scarf over her head and a pack of Tarot cards before her. People were fascinated by the tiny girl, still a schoolgirl, who studied the cards with limpid eyes and spoke of what was to come in a voice so soft they had to strain to hear her. It was all rehearsed, yet after some time she came to believe she could indeed glimpse the future.
‘Marry me!’ said the conjuror with eyebrows like question marks. Not so much a request as a stage-direction.
He was Jewish; she was Catholic. Her mother, Balbina Rahner, sprinkled holy water on family pictures whenever Harry came calling. But his energy seemed as limitless as his confidence and Bess knew for certain he could take her far from Coney Island. Now he has led her clear across the world to a place where it stays light in February well into the evening.
She still has her old Tarot cards, packed in the trunk as a souvenir of a former life. One day soon she should reacquaint herself with them: the Empress; the Hermit; the Devil; the Moon; the Magician and the rest. But now, when she assumes her fortune-teller’s pose and studies her husband’s calm face, as impassive as Mayer Samuel’s, she can summon no images of cabinets or cans full of milk or flying machines.
Once again, she has the odd sensation of observing a dead man.
11
BESS dines alone in the hotel room – smoked trout with a cucumber salad and a bottle of Beaujolais, delivered on a silver tray by the waiter named Gerald – and then decides she should wait up for her husband. She cannot shake a nagging sense of disloyalty about not accompanying him to the theatre for his performance. First the river leap, now a show – it is rare for her to miss two of his events so close together. She attributes her absences to the curious disconnected feeling she is experiencing. The dry heat has left her drooping like the flowers left too close to the windowsill overlooking the street and the hotel’s main entrance.
The window is open but there is no breeze. Only the acrid smell of smoke from a motor car and the voices of passers-by. It is getting darker; the Opera House show will be finishing soon. These people outside now, the men with their black hats, the women with bustles and long skirts, might have come out of the nearby Theatre Royal, where the musical Sergeant Brue is playing. She knows this because she has seen her husband and Mr Rickards poring over newspaper Amusements notices, Rickards scratching circles with his pen around any attractions that he fears could represent serious competition. He is not concerned about Sergeant Brue.
Leaning on the sill, Bess looks down and sees a woman pushing a baby carriage with large spoked wheels, taking advantage of the comparative cool of the evening. She cannot make out the bundle within the carriage, nor the expression on the woman’s face, but the way she is leaning forward suggests she is saying something to her child. Bess looks away. She would love to take Mayer Samuel outside and promenade with him in a similar manner. But strangers would never understand if they voiced foolish endearments and then looked closer – only to find a doll with an unchanging expression and sightless eyes. Bess turns from the window. Her boy is where she left him, propped on the bureau so he could watch her eat, one shoulder slumped down as if he were weary. She straightens him; smooths down the chestnut hair under his cap. He is her little man, her most faithful companion, a talisman for her husband. On the first night of every new season in each new city, Mayer Samuel is placed in the wings beside the stage so he can see Harry, who kisses the top of his head before he goes on. He cannot recall the Rabbi with the same name ever being as affectionate to his own flesh-and-blood son. From her seat in the theatre, Bess likes to think of their son watching a show with his eyes shining. And she has convinced herself this brightness is not just the reflection of lights.
Remnants of her meal remain on the tray. She has finished neither the trout nor the Beaujolais. She would like to drink some more wine but doubts she could stay awake for her husband’s return if she has another glass.
Perhaps a short walk will revive her. Watching the people in the street below has made her restless. She should go downstairs and take in some of the night air near the entrance; be there when her husband returns. Bess checks her appearance in the mirror. Perfectly presentable: a bonnet and shawl are all she needs. Pleased to have a plan, she takes her key from the bedside table and leaves the room, careful not to glance back at Mayer Samuel lest he sting her with a reproachful look. When she returns, she will tell him about all she has seen and heard outside.
The hotel corridor smells of stale tobacco smoke and something musty, probably the soil in metal plant boxes on either side of the stairs. New electric lights hang in clusters from the ceiling, which is decorated with elaborate stencilling. The pattern is repeated high on the walls, painted in shades of cream and burgundy, and again under the staircase with its elaborate wooden balustrade. It is all very grand, but to Bess it also seems oppressive as she walks along the strip of carpet in the middle of the corridor. The decorations and dim lights make the ceiling feel low.
She has reached the staircase and can make out voices in the foyer two floors below when she pauses. Is it … ? No. She takes a step down, stops and listens again before moving back up to the corridor. Yes. There is no mistake. It is not the effect of the wine. Not her imagination. She can hear music again. Different music this time: gentler, swirling around her, coming from the other side of the staircase. Quicker now, she moves along the corridor, ignoring the plant boxes and ash trays on ornate copper stands, stopping outside the closed doors of every second or third room to listen, following the corridor around to the left, where she has never been before. The music is louder. But there is nothing here other than a linen closet – she opens it to check inside – and, nearby, the door to another room with no number; only a single word in gold lettering: ‘Private’. Without pausing to wonder why or what or who could be behind it, she knocks firmly on this door.
It opens quickly, though she hears no footsteps approaching, and Bess is unsure whether she is more startled to see Horace Audran or simply to realise that the manager is not fully dressed. Everything is in place except for his customary black jacket. Silver expanding bracelets just below his elbows restrain his white shirtsleeves.
‘Mrs Houdini,’ he says, as unflustered as ever. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Mr Audran!’
‘This is my own room,’ he says, noting her surprise. ‘My refuge.’
With the door open it is as if the music she heard has been liberated. Notes dance around her. Lovely trills and chords from a piano.
‘Forgive my intrusion,’ she says, cowed by his unblinking stare through the rimless spectacles. ‘But I heard this music.’
‘Chopin. One of his nocturnes. Please come in.’
Bess sees a desk; a wardrobe; a bed, neatly made; drawn curtains in a familiar pattern and also, against the far wall, a full-sized piano.
A piano with nobody playing it.
The music continues to play even as she approaches. It is like water streaming from a tap, though there is no-one seated at the bench before the keys, which are moving up and down to invisible fingers. A tantalising trick. She stops, amazed, then smiles.
‘A pianola!’
‘With respect, madam, no. It is a reproducing piano. A Boesendorfer, from Germany. The best there is. I believe this to be the only one in Melbourne.’
‘Is it so very different to a pianola?’
Audran lifts the lid on the piano, releasing even more notes.
‘As different as a lantern and a star. A pianola can only play sequences of notes. A reproducing machine utilises electric current and a vacuum system to replicate the touch and tone of the individual player. In this case the incomparable Padarevsky. Listen.’ He pauses, one hand up as if urging silence as the piece comes to an end. The last notes float in the air.
‘How wonderful,’ she says. ‘I love music, but my husband doesn’t much care for it. Unless it’s an added element in his show to heighten an effect.’
Audran nods while pressing a switch and removing a roll of stiff paper from a drawer under the piano keys.
‘This is my one great indulgence. I apologise if it has disturbed you.’
‘No! It didn’t,’ says Bess, running her hand over the instrument’s gleaming wooden sides. ‘I was intrigued, that’s all. I heard it as I was heading outside to take some air and became curious. But …’
‘Madam?’ he asks, replacing the paper roll in a stiff oblong box.
‘… This is not the same music I have heard before. The opera music.’
‘No,’ Audran says, turning back to her. ‘It is not.’
He gently steers her into a chair near the piano while remaining standing. For just a moment he keeps his hands clasped together in front of his chin, as if making a decision. Then he speaks.
‘Mrs Houdini, I have no doubt you are used to keeping secrets. Especially professional secrets. Now I think I must take you into my confidence.’
12
