‘One crash means finis.’
Slowly, carefully, Brassac manipulates the cogs as if they were pieces of a puzzle. Harry is reminded of Kukol testing an apparatus before a show.
‘We’ll be staying tonight, Brassac,’ he says. ‘Myself, and Jordan here.’
Brassac leaves the cogs balanced on the Voisin and goes back inside the tent. Harry walks to the rear of his flying machine and stands still, hands on hips, like a man making a hospital visit for a bed-bound patient. He has moved away from the tent, which strikes Jordan as a good thing. For Brassac has re-started his phonograph. And the American would surely sense a conspiracy if he recognised the tune that Banks had been singing.
23
HORACE Audran brings Bess the message late on Sunday afternoon. She is sitting at the desk in her hotel room, the doll in its sailor-suit propped nearby, composing a list of items she should buy for Mayer Samuel. A knickerbocker outfit would look smart, she has decided, and he will need a new hat to protect him from this relentless sun. It is so hot even birds have fallen silent. She has tried opening the windows but there is no breeze for relief, so she has drawn the curtains, as if the dim light in the room might make her feel slightly cooler. Yet still her bare forearms stick to the polished wood around her writing-folder and the ink seems unusually thick. She is wondering what kind of shoes would be best for her boy – button-up boots or lighter gymnastic slippers? – when there is a knock on the door.
This is surprising. It is too early for her husband to have returned. Perhaps a maid has come to change the cloudy water in the flower arrangement. Because it seems too much effort to cross the room, she simply calls out: ‘Come in.’
Audran enters with a folded piece of paper in his right hand.
‘Good afternoon, madam. I have some news for you from Mr Houdini. A telephone message received just now in the office.’
‘By telephone? That’s unusual.’ Her hand moves to the neck of her blouse and fiddles with a button.
‘The call was evidently placed by his driver from the general store in Diggers Rest,’ Audran explains. ‘Your husband will be detained overnight but plans to return in time for the evening performance tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Bess draws the word out as if it were a fine wine on her tongue. ‘Do you know, Mr Audran, it is very rare for my husband and I to spend even one night apart? So – tomorrow it must be.’ She moves to the main window and opens the curtains just enough to look out. A delivery van has stopped in a patch of shade opposite.
‘But what shall I do until tomorrow? I had wondered about taking a short walk. Perhaps to that garden with the statues. But it looks too hot to be out just now.’ She turns, leaving the curtains half-open.
‘It is warm,’ the manager replies. ‘Especially, I imagine, for anyone unused to summer here. I would generally suggest a quiet stroll in one of the fine undercover arcades downtown, as they have some interesting boutiques. But they are closed today. Melbourne on a Sunday is rather dull. One of the newspapers recently described it as being as tasteless as cold rice.’
‘My mother gave me cold rice as a sweet when I was a child in Brooklyn,’ Bess says dreamily. ‘Cold rice with sugar and nutmeg sprinkled on top.’
Audran is using a clean white handkerchief to polish his spectacles. Without them he reminds Bess of a hamster, blinking in the bright light. But after such a long, slow day – she rose late, yet still the hours have dragged – she is glad to have company. ‘How is our friend?’ she asks.
‘He is well. Tells me he has made progress with his work. Getting out on Friday night seems to have invigorated him.’
‘My husband noticed the pair of you departing,’ says Bess, smiling. ‘He’s unaccustomed to anyone leaving before the final routine. It puzzled him.’
Audran replaces his spectacles and folds the handkerchief before returning it to his pocket.
‘Ah. That is regrettable. I had hoped we would be less obtrusive. I wish it were possible to extend an apology. Your husband didn’t—?’
‘Recognise you? No. It was rather dark.’
‘Good. We both thought it best to avoid a crowd afterwards. The Maestro tells me there are many he knows – Caruso, for example, and Madame Melba – who would be greatly disappointed not to be recognised wherever they may be. But that is not his preference. Still, he did enjoy it.’
‘The show?’
‘Oh yes. And it was quite an honour for your husband. For the Maestro tells me he seldom attends a non-musical performance. But he recognises the professionalism in this performance. He calls it mastery of technique.’
‘A shame, then, that this cannot be conveyed to him. My husband never tires of compliments.’
‘Perhaps this is one that can be relayed indirectly. For I have a proposal, Mrs Houdini. I would be honoured if you could dine with me this evening, in my room. Our visitor will also be attending.’
‘I’d like that,’ Bess says, after forcing herself to wait a few seconds before replying. ‘Especially as it now seems I have no other appointments. Your guest is confident of making it down a corridor without being detected?’
‘I think getting out the other night has made him somewhat more daring. Shall we say 7.30, then? Excellent. I will be expecting you.’
Bess moves back to the window after Audran leaves. The van has gone. With the prospect of something to look forward to, the afternoon now seems replete with diversions. This street-scene, for example, feels like a theatre stage she can observe for her own amusement. A blue motor car passes by, followed by some boys without shoes chasing after it, heedless of the heat and stones. They remind her of her unfinished shopping list for Mayer Samuel, but when she picks up the pen again she makes just one entry – ‘Pyjamas? Light, loose-fitting’ – before she puts the sheet of paper aside, telling herself she can attend to it later.
She will bathe. That will refresh her. She gets up, pleased to have a task, and is humming as she splashes a few drops of fragrant oils into the bathtub before she lowers the plug and turns on the taps. She is watching the water swirl around when it occurs to her that she is thrilled by the prospect of doing something without her husband.
She recalls the sense of exhilaration and release she felt when dancing with the Malwa’s captain at the costume ball. His beard crackling against the hair of the fairy queen, his arm warm against her back, while her husband lay face-down on his bed in their cabin. Now he is away with his flying machine, leaving her alone in this hotel. She tells herself it is perfectly proper for her to accept the manager’s hospitality, yet a sense of furtiveness makes the prospect of dinner even more enticing. The ‘Great Mysteriarch’ has built a career on secrets; now she can have one of her own.
Before the bathtub is full she has removed all her clothes. The blouse with the mother-of-pearl buttons, the stays and half-length petticoat, the pleated skirt and long drawers and stockings lie in a pile on the floor near her shoes. She must raise herself up on her toes to see much of herself in the mirror above the basin. How small she is still, recalling how sideshow managers had insisted she always carry her birth certificate when she first performed so they couldn’t be charged with child exploitation. Her husband has told her he adores her boyish figure; says he is repulsed by women with matronly bosoms. Bess touches her breasts lightly, wondering if they might have been bigger if she had children, then traces the outlines of each nipple.
She turns off the taps and sinks slowly into the cool water, pondering what she will wear to dinner. The scent of oil makes her feel exotic, like a princess from one of the sultry Asiatic ports where the Malwa stopped for supplies. She closes her eyes, dozes with her head resting on the side of the tub. Damp hair spreading out all around her, dark on the white enamel.
THE composer bows and kisses Bess’s hand after Audran admits her to his room. It is clear he has been discussing the events of Friday night with the manager, for an apology follows his greetings.
‘I regret we caused a disturbance with our early departure. Especially after you assisted with the tickets. Also, I would have liked to see this milk-can I have heard about. Your husband got out?’
Bess nods. ‘He got out. He always gets out.’
Audran busies himself serving the dishes he has had prepared in the hotel kitchen. It seems to Bess that Puccini is quieter than usual. He keeps his head down as the manager makes small-talk about the weather and stores Bess might care to visit the following day, studying his chicken consommé as if seeking answers on the bottom of the bowl. Bess has the impression he is either tired or distracted. To draw him out, she tries a question.
‘When we talked of Caruso the other day you said he was a practical joker, even in a performance. What did you mean by that?’
The composer pauses before replying. Bess wonders if he is reluctant to revisit a memory. Or perhaps it is simply that the story has been told many times. But then he nods and addresses Bess, still holding his soup spoon like a conductor with a baton.
