27
SHE is sure she heard someone at the door, but nobody is there. She steps out a little way, looks in both directions. The corridor appears empty: all Bess can see is a maid with a brush and pan and the hall-stand decorated with a large and rather ridiculous floral arrangement. Perhaps the sound was something dropped on the floor above. She returns to the room; tries to resume her reading of a novel by Rider Haggard. Set in Africa, it only makes her feel hotter. The lace collar pricks the back of her neck. She has barely settled when again there is a knock – on the door, it has to be … nobody. She looks right: the maid has worked her way further along the skirting board. She looks left: only the hall-stand with flowers.
Then the flowers begin to move, rising up above the top of the stand itself, and she sees that the flowers – pansies and daisies and roses and other blooms she doesn’t recognise, interspersed with long, spear-like spiky things – are not even in a vase. They are being held by a human hand that now rises up and up, bearing its colourful load. She sees the hand and a bare, muscular forearm and just when she is struck by a flash of recognition, her husband emerges from his hiding-place behind the hall-stand and uncoils himself, holding the flowers aloft like a flaming torch.
‘Your Houdini is home,’ he says, bowing to present her with the bouquet.
She takes the flowers. Lets him kiss her cheek.
‘Well, that was quite an entrance – even for you.’
‘After an endless night of painful separation, something special was required,’ he says.
They enter their room together and close the door. The flowers are tied together with a crimson ribbon. Bess must hold them away from her body to avoid being spiked. Her husband is fond of extravagant gestures, but practicalities often elude him. She has nowhere to put this huge arrangement. There are already bleached yellow roses near the window. She will have to see if Audran can find another vase. Until then, she will leave the flowers in the bathroom. She unties the ribbon, places the flowers in the sink, and runs some water over the stems.
When Bess comes out her husband seems to have forgotten about his gift. He is pacing between the window, beds, and door in a peculiar manner. His gait is awkward, as if his limbs were bruised or his clothes too tight. This is odd. Her husband prides himself on his athletic grace. He modelled his on-stage movements on a caged big cat he once saw as a child in a travelling zoo that came to Wisconsin – its steps suggestive of speed and balance and harnessed power. Yet now he is hunched over. And in the light from the window he doesn’t look well: his hair is windswept, the smudges under his eyes are darker than usual, and he needs a shave. And when he came close to kiss her, she smelled stale sweat and onions. Very different to the composer’s tobacco and cologne tang. But despite his haggard appearance her husband crackles with energy. He is bursting to share a secret. And now he wants her near him once again.
‘Here,’ he says, smiling, slowly raising his arms. The sleeves of his shirt are crumpled and streaked with black. She hesitates.
‘Shake me!’ he says. She takes a step back. But he is undeterred. ‘Go on,’ he says, with an impish grin. ‘Shake me. I’m magic!’
‘Shake you?’
He nods. His eyes are closed. He is ready. His arms are still outstretched, so she holds his elbows. She shakes his arms, gently at first and then, as his whole body starts to move, more vigorously. She is reminded of her mother leaning out over the back porch of their Brooklyn apartment, flapping a mat to remove all the dust. Her husband is now her mat. No – more like a marionette. She lets go his arms but he is still moving, all his bent-over awkwardness gone now, hands and arms and head and neck and trunk and legs and knees and feet flying out at crazy angles. He is a possessed native from the Rider Haggard story, slave to a powerful heathen spell, and she is both entranced and a little scared by what she sees.
Money starts falling from him.
A large coin slides out from his right shirt sleeve and drops to the floor. Then comes another coin from the left sleeve, and yet one more. Harry jumps up and there is a stream of coins falling from his trouser legs and pockets. He tugs the shirt-tails out of his belt, liberating even more money. He is stamping on the coins as he continues to shake and jerk and twist but still he doesn’t stop. He lowers his head: coins slide out from under his collar. Hopping, he removes one shoe and then the other. From both, when he up-ends them, comes a stream of silver, and now Bess understands why his movements seemed so peculiar. He had coins secreted all over himself, hidden inside his clothing.
The shower of money slows, then stops. His face is streaming with sweat.
‘I’m magic,’ he says between gasps. ‘Made of money!’
He moves closer to her. The onion smell is stronger as he leans forward and, for his finale, plucks one last coin from behind her left ear and offers it to her – a diver emerged from the ocean depths with a lustrous pearl for his queen. Bess claps. He bows, taking a solo curtain-call.
‘You can still find ways to amaze me, Houdini. But what is this? All these coins – where have they come from?’
They sit down, Bess in her reading chair; Harry, breathing heavily, at the desk. He leaves the coins lying where they have fallen.
‘I had Jordan stop by the Opera House on our way back from the paddock. I found Rickards in his office looking pleased with himself, tallying up proceeds from the first three weeks of my season. I told him I wanted a share of my payment in coins right then and there. You should have seen his face! As if he had never heard anything so extraordinary. But his cash-box was plainly visible – it seems he does his weekend banking on Monday afternoons – and I made it clear that if he didn’t oblige me his feature attractions for this evening’s performance would be Little Tich and the Brothers Martine! He must humour me. I’m gold to him.’
Then he stops.
‘But how thoughtless I am! I haven’t properly apologised for my absence last night. Or fully explained the circumstances.’
‘It’s quite alright,’ she says, her eyes still drawn to the scattered piles of coins. ‘I got your message. Mr Audran passed it on to me in person.’
‘Good, good. I had to stay because Banks, the other flier, announced he would make his attempt this morning. And, moonbeam, he crashed!’
Her husband has the same delighted expression he assumed when telling her about Rickards and his profits. But this news seems much more serious.
‘Crashed?’ she asks. ‘Whatever do you mean? Did the poor man survive?’
‘Banks? He’ll be fine. Bloodied about, but nothing that can’t be fixed. Unlike his machine, which is a wreck. You appreciate what this means?’
‘The dangers of flying …’
‘No! It means the record is mine for the taking! This morning I thought I was condemned to stand there, helpless, and watch Banks snatch something precious from my grasp. Instead, I saw him fall. Now the field has been cleared. As soon as the Voisin is ready I will be the first man aloft here.’
Harry cannot sit still. While speaking he has got up, removed his right shoe, and found one more coin tucked inside. She wants to share his excitement, but is already pondering the implications of what he has said.
‘So you will be spending even more time at the paddock?’
‘I must. We only have three more weeks here. The Voisin has to be tuned like a violin. Brassac insists I wait for the right day. Which means being there, ready, when conditions are perfect.’
He pauses, gazing at her, seeking approval and understanding.
‘But what am I to do?’ she asks. ‘And how will you manage all your other commitments? Rickards is paying you all this money to perform, not fly. You’re pushing yourself too hard, Houdini. Look at the state you’re in.’
Harry peers at himself in the wall mirror. He strokes his chin; runs fingers through his unruly hair. Spying the marks on his sleeves, he mutters: ‘Grease, I guess, or oil from Banks’s machine.’ Then turns back to Bess.
‘Rickards knows I will never short-change him on a show, and advance bookings are excellent. Also, I told him what befell Banks and he grasped its significance immediately. He is encouraging me to press for the record, which will enhance commercial opportunities. Exhibition flights during my Sydney season, for example. Things are falling my way. Don’t you see?’
He wants her to share his enthusiasm. But she is still seated, looking down.
‘Falling your way,’ she says, so softly he wonders if she is speaking to herself. ‘But where will that leave me?’
