Harry is a strong swimmer. His training swims in New York’s East River, scummy on top and cold below, has prepared him for his bridge leaps. And as a teenager in Wisconsin he would swim in Appleton’s Fox River for the pure joy of it, leaving his younger brother Theodore, known as Dash, spluttering far behind. He should write to Dash – he would be interested to learn about the paddock out of town and the canvas shelter Brassac has rigged up for the Voisin. Brassac is dependable, he is sure of it. The flying machine is in good hands. It shouldn’t be long before he can take a crack at the record, which will mean plenty of attention, membership of a unique group of adventurers, and possibly also some more jam on his bread. Harry touches the wall, turns, starts another lap.
The thing that bothers him about Brassac is his excessive caution. He is like an over-protective mother to the machine. He has explained the need for patience – one crash-landing could mean the end of everything – but Harry wonders if Brassac has underestimated their rival. Ralph Banks impressed Harry when they met three days earlier. His manner was cordial, but there was a look in his eyes that Harry recognised. Banks isn’t in Diggers Rest as a spectator who will sit back and allow Harry to grab the glory. His backer, the schoolmaster, has doubtless offered him incentives. And his Wright machine is in good shape. When Harry plucked the bracing cables between the wings they thrummed like piano wire. He must watch Banks. He breathes out and slaps at the water with increased ferocity. Tries to clear his mind and think of something else. His wife.
After such a long haul at the paddock on Sunday – it was almost dark when Jordan returned him to the hotel – Harry was unsure what to expect from Bess. He had feared she would be aloof, complaining again about being abandoned and uninterested in the flying record. Instead, the clouds had cleared. She seemed to enjoy his report of the outing, laughed at his impression of Banks’ English accent, even offered to rub his shoulders when he complained they were stiff. They’d sat up late, discussing what Mayer Samuel must think about this place with so few people. Before they retired to their separate beds, he kissed her once on the forehead. He sensed that she had given her blessing to his flying, raising no objections to further trips to the paddock, where there is so much to be done. Testing. Tinkering. Listening to the Voisin’s engine as intently as a doctor with his stethoscope on a patient’s chest. Keeping an eye on Banks. And more. Much more.
The tepid water stings his eyes but he continues to swim, willing his arms and legs to move to the same beat. After twelve lengths – perhaps it is ten; he has lost count – he pauses at the end from which he started. Halts ostensibly to tug at his costume but really to assess what is happening. He hears nothing. No conversation. No splashing. The other swimmer has also stopped. After exchanging a glance with Kukol, who has put down the towel and robe, Harry looks to the far lane.
Such a young man. Little more than a schoolboy, one smooth arm on the rope. Hair wet as if he’s carelessly plastered it down with one hand. No shadow of stubble on his face. Just a cheeky smile as he acknowledges the visitor’s stare. Then he holds up a hand with his thumb folded back. Four fingers. Harry knows at once what this means. Four lengths it will be.
The race is on.
He nods, takes a deep breath, and turns. But even as he pushes off from the pool wall with his feet, he has the impression that the boy has stayed put. Harry sees him blow out a stream of water like a fish in a fountain before he bothers to begin.
Then Harry is swimming and he can’t see any more until he turns for the first time and glimpses a dark head across the pool – two body lengths behind him. Got him whipped. He doesn’t bother about rhythm now. Speed is all. He can rest later. The boy will feel no shame when Kukol tells him the name of the man who has defeated him. At the second turn he forces himself not to glance across. He is sure he is still ahead and must make the winning margin as convincing as possible. When he turns for the last time he forces all air out of his lungs as if yelling underwater. Yelling in triumph at facing down another challenger. If only Banks were here to see this.
Every muscle hurts now. He can barely see where he’s going and senses the wall a moment before his leading hand touches it. He forces his head up, gulping a breath and looking over. But the boy has gone. His lane is empty. He has performed his own disappearing act in the pool.
Harry hears clapping. Then cheering.
‘On yer, Franky!’
Clutching at tiles for support, Harry looks again to his rival’s end and sees a pair of legs dangling down, feet idly kicking the water. The boy is sitting up on the pool wall, grinning at him again, not even breathing hard. He must have pulled himself out after just two lengths, leaving Harry swimming alone. This was his joke. Or …
‘Beaten, boss.’
Kukol’s voice. The Austrian has come down from the gallery and is holding out a towel to Harry. ‘It’s a barracuda you were racing,’ Kukol continues, looking at the man in the cap shaking hands with the boy. ‘He was out of the water when you still had ten strokes to go.’
Kukol offers his hand and helps him up. Harry winces and looks down: his knuckles are raw, scraped by his dive. He rubs his hair and face but then returns the towel and strides over to his conqueror, water dripping from his costume. The fellow with the stopwatch gives him a quick once-over and steps aside so that Harry can meet the boy, whose face looks even younger close up. His shoulders and upper arms, however, are well developed – out of proportion to his slight lower body.
‘Congratulations,’ Harry says. ‘Do you know who I am?’
The boy shrugs.
‘I do,’ the stopwatch man says. ‘You’re the escapist. I’ve seen posters.’
Harry tries again to talk to the boy.
‘Now you can say you’ve out-swum the great Houdini.’
Another shrug.
‘I’d like to invite you to my performance tomorrow night. Franz here could have tickets left for you at the stage-door. What about that?’
The man answers before the boy can shrug again.
‘Yeah. Maybe. Could be a bit of fun.’
As Harry and Kukol walk away there is a splash. The boy is back in the water. Harry anticipates his assistant’s question.
‘No more for me today, Franz. I’ve had enough.’
In the change-room, with his costume a damp pile near his feet, Harry steps into the shower and lets water stream over his upturned face as if it might wash away all memory of what has just happened. Kukol has recognised his mood. Knows to stay quiet and wait near the wooden benches with a fresh towel and his clothes. Harry hates to be bettered at anything.
It is lucky, he thinks, only a handful of people saw the impromptu race. A similar result in a staged event would represent a public humiliation. Best to redouble his efforts to get the Voisin off the ground at Diggers Rest. That must be his goal: victory in the air.
Kukol has almost finished dressing him when the boy strides into the room. He raises his right hand in acknowledgment as he passes. In the shower stalls, which are open, he tugs the straps of his costume to bare his hairless chest. Then the rest of the costume comes down.
‘Quite a specimen, eh?’ says the stopwatch man, who has entered unnoticed and is inserting a key in one of the lockers fixed to a wall. ‘Those who know reckon he has the perfect physique for swimming.’
‘Well, they could be right,’ Harry responds as the boy rubs his face with both hands. ‘Don’t forget. Tomorrow night. The Opera House.’
‘Oh yeah … got a question about that. Franky’s not one for shows. If he doesn’t want to come himself, can I bring a mate?’
‘Of course,’ says Harry, very quickly. Then, to Kukol: ‘Let’s move it.’
But he turns around before he goes. The boy is out of the shower, crossing the change-room, his costume dangling from his left hand. His indifference to his own youthful beauty leaves Harry breathless. His chest aches.
He is reminded of something he saw years before in the museum in New York. A painting, probably. Or maybe a vase.
One of those naked Greek athletes. Lithe. Unashamed. Ageless.
18
CRITICS have been impressed. The Argus declares Harry’s show to be excellent; one that should draw full houses. The Age describes his frenetic movements on stage as being ‘more akin to those of an electrified eel than a human being’. Only The Bulletin, a Sydney publication, sounds a sour note: his manipulation of handcuffs and other restraints ‘is of little interest except to gaolers’.
Harry Rickards the showman, ‘Sole Proprietor and Manager of the Opera House’ (as his posters declare), hides this notice from his star attraction, aware that he is sensitive to any criticism. Besides, he can report with uncharacteristic honesty that his season is already a success.
