His fuel must be almost gone. He coaxes the Voisin into a sweeping turn and brings it down as close as he can to where he started, holding it steady so he can hardly tell where the air ends and the ground begins and the wheels are spinning and rattling and every part of him is tingling.
‘Seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds,’ Adamson says, clicking the cover of his timepiece shut. ‘Blast!’
Everyone else is yelling and applauding but Harry cannot hear them. His ears are numb under the flaps of his cap. Rickards and Taylor congratulate each other and shake hands. Harry eases himself out of his seat and ducks under the elevator. His feet are close to the ground when the first of the running, laughing, whooping children reach his machine and try to touch him. His legs buckle and he almost falls, still feeling the vibrations. He tugs his goggles off. His wife is approaching, eyes down, smiling shyly as if they’d never met. The puffing cinematographer is unfolding his tripod. McCracken, the reporter, has his notebook out, waiting for him to speak.
‘Never any fear,’ Harry begins, ‘never in any danger.’
Through the viewfinder of his camera, Lestrange sees the birdman’s wife present her cheek to be kissed, just as she did before the flight. He keeps winding the handle as Rickards and Taylor come into frame together. Rickards is carrying something he has brought from Melbourne in a Gladstone bag, something he had knocked together by his backstage boys using pieces of wood and glass and metal from discarded theatrical props. It is a cumbersome and surprisingly heavy trophy that incorporates a map of Australia, a pair of eagle’s wings, and something that resembles a section of propeller. Rickards hands it to Taylor, who steps forward to present it to Harry. As he does so, Lestrange feels the tension in the hand crank he is turning suddenly ease. He knows what this means. He has run out of film.
He continues to rotate his right hand, but it is only for show. So there is no permanent record of George Taylor’s erudite speech about the importance of aviation to the future defence of the empire and the presentation of this ugly trophy that delights Harry as much as anything he has ever received in his life – not for what it is but all that it represents.
Triumph. Vindication.
Affirmation of all he has set out to do in this country so far from his home.
For there it is, etched in ornate script:
The Aerial League
of
AUSTRALIA
to
H. HOUDINI
for the
FIRST AERIAL
FLIGHT
in
AUSTRALIA,
March 16th, 1910.
McCracken moves closer and reads the inscription so he has it right for his Argus report. He takes some notes. Pauses. Flips a few pages back in his notebook. Underlines something on the fresh page. Frowns.
He waits until the aerialist poses for a photograph with Taylor and this trophy. Rickards is looking on, a proud uncle at a christening.
He grunts to acknowledge McCracken when he ambles up next to him.
‘What day is it?’ the reporter asks, lighting a cigarette.
‘Sunday,’ Rickards replies. ‘A day of rest and heroic achievement.’
‘And the date?’
‘You tell me.’
‘The twentieth, mate.’
‘Is that so?’
‘But that trophy is dated the sixteenth …’
Rickards appears to be enjoying their conversation.
‘Ah, but it refers to the first flight,’ he says.
‘I know. That was Friday. I was here. Friday the eighteenth of March.’
‘Fancy that! And the trophy says the sixteenth, you say?’
‘Yeah. Which would be Wednesday. The day before Custance had his crack at the record in Adelaide.’
‘Well I never,’ Rickards responds, shaking his head in astonishment. ‘The day before, you say? This Houdini truly is an extraordinary fellow. Even more remarkable than I had him pegged. What a marvel! He can leap into a river in chains. Escape from ropes and crates or a lunatic’s restraining vest. And now, in his greatest feat, fly backwards in time. Take off on a Friday and – Shazam! – come down the previous Wednesday.’
54
THERE is no moon. It has remained overcast much of the day and now it is very dark. Bess is standing close to Puccini on the roof of the Hotel Metropole but has difficulty making out his features. He exhales slowly.
‘No stars at all,’ he says. ‘A blanket has covered everything. I fear I am fated never to see the Halley’s Comet.’
