‘“A Fatal Dive. William James Thomson, fifty-five years of age, commercial traveller, was killed at the St Kilda sea baths through striking his head on a submerged object after diving from a platform. He plunged into six feet of water, and after about twenty-five seconds floated slowly to the surface.” Imagine that, Rickards. A man plunges into the sea then, half a minute later, floats to the top lifeless, face-down, arms spread wide.’ He tosses the newspaper back. ‘Where would they take someone who drowned like that?’
‘The morgue, I guess. Queen’s Wharf, right on the river.’
Harry leans forward. ‘And would they keep a body there indefinitely?’
‘I’m a showman, not a mortician. Terrible things happen all the time. Why do you seek such stories out when they disturb you so?’
‘Because all my life I have been certain that Death is pursuing me; that the Grim Fiend is only a step or two behind. I have smelled its foul breath, felt its rasping touch. My work contains an element of risk – on the stage, in the water, up in the air. Every success represents a triumph over Death. It means I have eluded the Fiend once again and it must slink away to make somebody else its victim, as evinced by this daily catalogue of disasters.’
There are blotches of colour high on Harry’s cheeks. And he is pushing down on the desk with both hands so firmly that the tips of his fingers are white. Rickards decided long ago that all performers are more or less mad; this one is clearly loopier than most. Still, house numbers are up, so he can’t complain. And there’s now less than a fortnight of the season to run.
‘Never mind that morbid stuff, Double,’ Rickards says. ‘Did you see this notice in Punch, the one about your escape from the custom-made chest? Here. I circled it: “Four carpenters took several days to construct their sarcophagus, yet were unable to confine the escapologist for very long.”’
‘What of that other magazine, the one that’s taken some pot-shots?’
Rickards makes a dismissive gesture.
‘The Bulletin? Wouldn’t bother yourself about it. Will always criticise anything worthwhile in Melbourne.’
Harry immediately senses evasion.
‘Ah, so they have had another go! I knew it. Where? I insist on seeing it.’
Rickards passes over the magazine, which he’s kept on the bottom of his pile of clippings, accounts, and performers’ testimonials. He points to a column headed ‘D.V from Melbourne’ beneath a picture of Marie Lloyd, the English variety artist. Harry reads aloud, words spilling into one another:
‘“Houdini’s performances are not pretty, yet his ability as a muscular contortionist and plucky diver (who frees himself of manacles under the water whilst giving a free show in every large town he visits) would be more generally respected if his stage performances were less pretentious.” Pretentious? And here: “Until he arrives in Sydney, his show will go on being almost an exact replica of the show last week and the week before.”’
‘Don’t give those sniping Sydney-siders a second thought,’ Rickards says. ‘Put your heart into your last shows and get that flying machine up. That’s the sort of thing to impress The Bulletin. We’ll be on a winner with Aviation Week in Sydney once you’ve cracked that record here.’
He pauses, looking at Harry suspiciously.
‘It is going to happen, right?’
‘Of course it is,’ Harry replies at once. ‘The rain and my wife’s performances are only temporary interruptions. My Voisin is ready. All we need is suitable conditions. We can’t afford to smash everything up, as Banks did.’
‘Witnesses. We must have the right sort of witnesses,’ Rickards says. ‘Newspaper men. Taylor himself of the Aerial League if we can get him. Main man in the League. Has to sign off on any record—’
‘A newsreel cameraman also,’ Harry continues, his manner much more animated. ‘Wouldn’t it be swell if my flying record is captured on film!’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t made more of this aviation business already. What say I try to arrange an interview with a fellow I know at The Argus about your grand plans for the flying machine?’
‘Not yet.’
This surprises Rickards, who’s never known him to knock back publicity.
‘Performance must come first,’ Harry explains. ‘Wilbur Wright himself once said: “The bird that talks the best and flies the worst is the parrot.” I must prove I can fly first and then do the talking.’
Harry is leaning over the desk again, flipping through papers while trying to scan their contents with his head twisted around. Rickards endures this for a few moments before asking what he’s playing at.
‘I wanted to see that liniment advertisement you mentioned.’
‘You’ve only got to ask, Double. Only got to ask. Here. Just a few pages on from that burning accident in Sydney.’ He taps at some headlines with a chewed finger-nail. Harry takes the newspaper and starts reading.
‘“I have had occasion to use Zam-Buk frequently, and heartily recommend it as a wonderful healer and a great reliever of pain. Sincerely yours, Harry Houdini.” Good enough. I guess it’ll do.’
Good enough … Rickards is irritated not to get more praise for his endorsement. But before he can say anything, Harry is distracted again.
‘Listen to this, down below that item: “The body of the woman who was seen to sink in the river at Abbotsford on Sunday was yesterday identified by Mr William Farrant, restaurant owner. She was Jessie McNamara, his daughter, aged twenty-two. She leaves a boy eighteen months old.” He lets the page fall. ‘Sunday? Cannot be the same one.’
He shuts his eyes, exhales slowly.
‘The same what?’
‘I must go,’ Harry says. ‘Must find Mrs Houdini.’
Left alone in his office, Rickards shakes his head. Houdini is less stable than he imagined. He wonders if he’ll have to coax him through the Sydney season, especially if it involves flying shows as well as stage performances. Up close, the man doesn’t look well. There is grey in his hair. His eyes are tinged with pink and the bags beneath them can no longer be hidden by stage make-up. His star attraction is like a violin string wound too tight. Rickards can only hope he doesn’t snap too soon.
KUKOL and Vickery meet them on the Opera House stage three hours before Harry’s Monday-evening performance. Bess is nervous, wondering if she is making a ghastly mistake. Perhaps it would be best to concede at once that she had fallen for a silly idea born out of restlessness. If she were to walk away immediately there would be no harm done. It is not that Bess cannot recall what she must do. She can remember all the necessary moves as soon as she sees the assistants waiting on stage and, beside them, the large open-fronted cabinet. But she is uncertain whether she is still able to pull it off. After all, she was a teenager when she first attempted Metamorphosis. Her husband is older, but he has regular shows to keep his reflexes sharp and an exercise routine she has never shared. Yet as she mounts the steps to the stage she senses a tingling in her fingers and toes; the feeling that always preceded a performance. The assistants watch her. Vickery grins. ‘Afternoon, Mrs Aitch,’ he says with a respectful nod.
Kukol has his right arm behind his back. Flowers, she thinks. How sweet. But it is not a bouquet he presents to her with a flourish. It is her old stage costume: black velvet knickerbockers; crimson tights; dancer’s slippers; white cotton shirt with a lace collar. ‘I thought you’d want this,’ he says.
She embraces him. ‘Dear Franz – you kept it?’
‘Never discard anything important.’
‘We should make a start,’ says Harry, inspecting the cabinet, which is studded with several padlocks and houses a trunk wrapped in rope.
‘I will change,’ Bess says, stepping behind the stage curtains in search of a secluded place to transform herself. In a gloomy corner she finds a chair over which she drapes her garments as she removes them. It feels quite thrilling to hear the muffled voices of the men, nearby but out of sight, as she performs her impromptu striptease. She cannot resist holding the white shirt close to her face and inhaling its scent of dust and sweat and lavender. The knickerbockers seem absurdly small; they will not cover her drawers. She has no option but to tug them down then quickly cover her naked lower half with the tights. She pauses, holding her breath. Will the knickerbockers fit? Yes. Snugger than she recalls, perhaps, but in less than a minute her costume change is complete. The billowing shirt is tucked in, the slippers are tugged on. Their leather soles are thin. She can feel the roughness of the boards underfoot as she returns to the stage.
