The Confabulist

  Once he’d bent back the zinc and exposed the floorboards, he put down the cutter and picked up the Gigli saw, which was essentially a garrotte with teeth. He drilled a hole in one of the corners of his hatch, then another about ten inches away. It took some skill to thread the saw down one hole and up the next, but he was practised and patient. The wood was relatively soft. He focused on the rhythm of pulling the Gigli back and forth, and soon enough he’d cut two lines about a foot and a half long. He then cut away the short sides of the hatch. When he was done he had created a trapdoor in the wagon about eighteen inches wide and ten inches long with two inches of zinc sheeting extending beyond the wood.

  In drilling the holes and sawing, he’d been careful to make sure his cuts were at an angle, so the boards wouldn’t fall straight down. From there it was a simple matter of pulling up the hatch, bending the zinc so the location of his cuts would be virtually invisible, and squeezing through the hole in the floor. Once outside he reached up and moved the hatch back into place, shaking the straw he’d piled on top so that it would fall naturally across the floor of the wagon. He used the metal cutter to dig a small hole, buried the false finger and his tools, concealed the hole, and scrambled out from underneath the wagon.

  Now that he was free he considered undoing the locks—they were not complex locks by any standard—but decided against it. He had escaped, and while the courtyard was empty at present there was no guarantee it would stay that way. It would be a disaster if someone were to stumble upon him picking the locks outside the wagon. Now that he was free, even if his method was detected, Zubatov wouldn’t be willing to reveal it; it would seem to everyone that he was making it up.

  Houdini smiled as he thought of the reaction waiting for him inside. Zubatov had seemed so smug. They would never let him publicize what he’d just done, but word would leak out nevertheless. He’d make sure of that.

  The air inside the cabinet was hot and hard to breathe. His vision wobbled and his hands felt dull. From his pocket he retrieved his tools, and in less than thirty seconds he’d unscrewed the fastening mechanism on the cuffs and freed his hands. He then took his knife and cut away four inches of the stitching on the cushion. Inside was a small vial containing a phosphorescent liquid, a needle and thread, and the real Mirror cuffs. One shake of the vial and the cabinet was illuminated. He took the fake cuffs, placed them inside the cushion, and began to sew the seam back up. This should have taken him less than five minutes, but he was having trouble seeing straight, and he still felt as though he might pass out. After about ten minutes he succeeded in repairing the cushion.

  He didn’t know what was going on outside. The escape was taking far longer than it should have. He’d been in the cabinet for almost an hour, he thought, and there was a fine line between tension and boredom. His escapes offered very little for the audience to witness—it was mostly done out of their sight—and he relied on their tension to sustain the show. This was a lot to sustain, even given the frenzy they were in.

  But he wasn’t ready to leave the cabinet. There was more going on than he could process in his drugged state, and he didn’t know who he could trust.

  All magicians had to be on guard for jealous rivals. But there was something different about this. This was not the normal way that a magician would go about destroying a rival, and it was too sophisticated for a regular Joe. The common man used far blunter instruments than poison.

  The man who’d inspected the water. Houdini still couldn’t place him, but he had no doubt that he knew him. He had to be the one. It would be easy for him to have spiked the water. Magician or not, it would be a simple sleight of hand.

  He had to decide what to do. He couldn’t stay in the cabinet forever, but there was someone onstage intent on malice. Either way he was in trouble.

  In reaction to Houdini’s escape, Zubatov had barely said a word, just stood in the corner and chewed his lip. Grigoriev gave no indication whether he was pleased. Houdini was escorted out of the prison without fanfare and told it would be unwise if he were to in any way advertise what had happened. Zubatov’s grand spectacle of the American escapist being carted off to Siberia had been so unsuccessful that it might be wise for Houdini to leave Russia.

  By the time his show started at the Yar restaurant that night, it was clear that even the Okhrana couldn’t keep a secret. When Houdini stepped onstage, he knew that the story had spread. His presence was met with a mixture of whispering and applause, and he could see Bess growing more and more agitated as she became aware of the crowd’s fevered interest. Houdini searched the room for Okhrana agents but couldn’t detect any, which was in itself suspicious. There had always been at least a few, stern men whose modest dress stood out amid the opulence.

  Afterward Houdini retreated to his dressing room with Bess. They were both unnerved.

  “I want to go back to America, or at least England,” Bess said.

  “We can’t,” he said. “Not now.”

  “What are you trying to prove?” she asked. “Why is it you need to conquer the world? We have a good life. Or we could, if you would let yourself enjoy it.”

  “I enjoy our life.”

  She shook her head and began to fold a pile of discarded clothes, even though there were people who would do this for them. “Moments, maybe. But you’re never truly content. You’re always thinking about what’s next, what awaits you. It’s as though the present doesn’t exist for you. Only the past and the future. Why can’t you ever stay still?”

  He tried to answer her. There was a restlessness he could not contain—that his ever-expanding act could not contain, that other women could not contain—but he didn’t know how to describe it to her any more than he knew how to explain Wilkie’s and Melville’s holds on him. Facts and feelings were jumbled as they stood there, staring at each other.

  When the knock at the door sounded, his first impulse was relief—he had once again escaped. One more look at Bess, though, and he knew it had robbed him of a chance to explain himself to her, or at least to try to assure her that things were going to get better, that he would not always be this way.

  The knock repeated. He recognized it as Grigoriev’s and opened the door. As before, Grigoriev entered the room without saying a word. He handed an envelope to Houdini and bowed to Bess.

  “Mrs. Houdini. Such a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  Houdini watched Bess blush as Grigoriev kissed her hand. He didn’t seem at all Russian, or at least he didn’t seem like the Russians Houdini had met thus far.

  Grigoriev turned to Houdini. “That was quite a display you gave Zubatov today.”

  “I only did what could be expected of me as an escapist.”

  Grigoriev laughed. “Of course you did. There’s no need to be worried. Zubatov would love to have you disappear permanently, but he is no longer in a position to achieve that.”

  “Is that why there weren’t any Okhrana agents in the audience tonight?” Bess asked.

  “Oh no,” Grigoriev said, shaking his head. “There were at least ten that I counted. But they were of a superior grade. No, the crème de la crème of Okhrana were here tonight. They probably still are.”

  “I don’t understand,” Houdini said.

  “The Okhrana have many jobs. One of them, the most important, is protecting the royal family.”

  “What does the royal family have to do with this?”

  “If you look in your hands, Mr. Houdini, you will see that I have come bearing an invitation to perform for Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich and Grand Duchess Elizabeth at Kleinmichel Palace tomorrow evening. There is as well an excellent chance that the czar will be in attendance, in addition to several other members of the royal family.”

  Houdini tried to appear nonchalant. He had performed for royalty before. But this was a triumph for him. He imagined it would be of some interest to Wilkie and Melville as well.

  “Needless to say,” Grigoriev continued, “the interest the royal family has s
hown has eliminated any chance of Zubatov punishing you for embarrassing him. I think his days as head of the Okhrana are numbered anyway.”

  “Would you like a drink to celebrate, Mr. Grigoriev?” Bess asked.

  “Of course, that would be fine.”

  Bess brought two glasses of brandy and handed one to Grigoriev, who took note that Bess didn’t bring Houdini one, and paused.

  “Will you be joining us in a drink?”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t drink,” Houdini said. “As a magician I cannot afford to dull my senses.”

  Grigoriev chuckled. “Fair enough. As a member of the Romanov household, I can’t afford not to.” He raised his glass to Bess and took a large mouthful, swallowing it without any indication whether he enjoyed it or not.

  “Tomorrow night, should the czar ask you to have a drink with him, I suggest you relax your policy. As well, should the czar attempt to give you money, you would do well to decline. If you accept, the royal family will see you as a commoner, which would greatly diminish you in their eyes.”

  Houdini was about to protest that he was a commoner, then thought better of it.

  “I must ask one thing of you, Mr. Houdini. The czar and czarina are extremely susceptible to fraudulent holy men. We have just succeeded in ridding ourselves of a man known as Philippe de Lyon, who using hypnosis convinced them that he could predict the future. Only after several incorrect and very public predictions that the czarina was pregnant with a son did we convince them that he was a charlatan. As I understand it, you do not suppose that you have mystical powers?”

  Houdini smiled. “No, I do not suppose so. Everything I do is by natural means.”

  “So any man could do what you do if he had access to your secrets?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I have cultivated and mastered abilities that few men would have either the patience or talent for.”

  He took off one shoe and sock and removed a length of rope from his pocket. He didn’t look down, stared Grigoriev straight in the eye, while the toes on his left foot tied the rope into a series of knots and then untied them.

  Grigoriev clapped his hands together, almost forgetting the glass of brandy he held. “Wonderful,” he said, laughing. Bess smiled as well, and Houdini put his shoe and sock back on and returned the rope to his pocket. “Best of all, I think, is that you keep a rope in your pocket.” Grigoriev threw back the remainder of his glass and stood. “I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to tonight. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’m sure the royal family is in for a treat.”

  “What on earth are we going to do for them?” Bess demanded as soon as he was gone. “We can’t pack in props or any large equipment.”

  “Don’t worry,” Houdini said. “I have some ideas.” He went to the desk in the corner of the room, sat, and took out some paper and a pen. Bess crossed behind him, pouring herself another drink.

  “Are you writing a letter?”

  “I am,” he replied, not looking up, writing quickly.

  “To who?”

  “Mother, of course.” The coded message to Wilkie was indeed addressed to his mother. He hated lying to Bess, but even more he hated how easy it was becoming, how he was able to do it almost offhandedly.

  “Oh.” She sat down on the far side of the room.

  He thought of his mother, far away at home. He missed her. “Ehrie,” she would say, “you should not have become involved with such men. No good will come of it. Do your tricks, entertain people. Be a good husband. That’s what you’re best at.”

  He put his pen down. Perhaps the letter could wait. He turned to Bess. “I was thinking we’d do some close-up, and a couple of other things I’ve got worked out.”

  “That sounds fine,” she said without enthusiasm.

  He thought she wasn’t upset at him so much as she was worn down by the seeming futility of his endeavours. He was beginning to think there might be a fundamental flaw in his approach to life, the way he set about attaining goals that never seemed to bring him any real peace or happiness. But he wasn’t sure what to do about this other than simply redouble his efforts. When he did finally succeed in a manner that satisfied him, she would also be fulfilled. He was sure of it.

  The next evening a carriage brought them to Kleinmichel Palace. Houdini had spent the day preparing, and whatever mood had overtaken Bess the night before had run its course. They soon found themselves in a high-ceilinged room, surrounded by various members of the Romanov family. Grigoriev chaperoned him around the room, speaking in French or English or Russian depending on the situation and translating for him when necessary. They paused in front of a painting that he was pretty sure was a Rembrandt.

  When he returned home his mother would want the whole story, as would both Wilkie and Melville, though they’d be interested in entirely different details. He noted the marble floors, polished to a high sheen, the plush Persian rugs, the ornately carved furniture. He catalogued the elaborate dresses and the pomp of the uniforms and formal wear on the men. Nearly everyone in the room was wearing diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. He had recently, at great expense, purchased for his mother a dress made for Queen Victoria. What he saw now made him feel fraudulent.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Grigoriev asked him. “The czar will arrive at any moment.”

  Houdini swallowed.

  “The royal family is divided into those who believe in these so-called holy men and spiritualists, and those who do not. Your hosts tonight, Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich and Grand Duchess Elizabeth, do not, while Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra do.”

  “And how are they all related?”

  Grigoriev shook his head. “It’s a spider’s web. The grand duke is uncle to the czar, and the grand duchess and the czarina are sisters, German princesses from the House of Hesse and granddaughters of Queen Victoria.”

  Grigoriev motioned toward two young men standing in the far corner. “Those handsome gentlemen are Grand Duke Dimitri, the czar’s cousin, and Prince Felix Yusupov, one of the wealthiest men in Russia. They’re lovers. Prince Felix has been off at Oxford, and things have been going badly between them since his return.”

  Houdini observed the two men, who were each surveying the room as though looking for something interesting and not finding it. They seemed like everyone else, an odd mixture of casual power and arrogance combined with a naïveté, as though they were completely unaware of the true nature of the position they occupied on this earth.

  Bess was speaking with Grand Duchess Elizabeth, an extremely attractive woman of about forty. The grand duchess seemed absorbed by whatever Bess was saying. He smiled. Back when they were living in that one-room tenement in New York, would she have believed that she’d be making small talk with ranking members of the House of Romanov?

  At that moment all heads turned toward the entrance. It reminded Houdini of the way a flock of birds changed direction in flight, each individual moving exactly the same way. Conversations halted midsentence.

  The czar and czarina had arrived. The czar appeared somewhat younger than Houdini had expected. He wore black evening clothes with a high white collar and no visible sign of his rank. His beard was trimmed longer than was the general fashion but it suited him. His eyes were lively, and unlike some of the other men in the room he didn’t look to be a complete fool. The czarina did not share her sister’s good looks. While she was not exactly ugly, Houdini found her somewhat equine, though she carried herself with all of the grace befitting her upbringing.

  Grand Duke Sergei and Grand Duchess Elizabeth stepped forward and bowed, and the rest of the room followed suit. Houdini joined in, and after a moment everyone rose and the music resumed.

  Bess returned to his side and he took her hand. She smiled at him, and he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

  “Well, my dear, it looks like it’s time for us to begin.”

  Before the assembled crowd he went through a series of sleight-of-hand moves, some close-up magic
. Then he did the Needles, inviting Grand Duchess Elizabeth to pull the needles from his hand.

  Both the czar and Grigoriev were watching him intently. There was a way that people often watched a magician, where their attention was focused on his actions, trying to divine the means with which he was able to perform his feats. While Czar Nicholas was looking at him like a man who already knew a secret, Grigoriev was looking at him as though he’d just discovered one.

  He had one remaining trick, and it was a good one.

  “I would like, if you may permit me, to ask a favour of you all,” he said in his most commanding voice. Bess began to pass slips of paper out, and then pencils. “I would like to perform an impossible task. Please write, as briefly as you can, something you would like me to do, something impossible. My dear wife will gather your suggestions when you finish.”

  A murmur rose. Houdini saw the grand duchess whisper into her husband’s ear and smile at him, and the czar was participating as well. After a few minutes he signalled Bess to collect the slips of paper from each person and drop them in a hat.

  Houdini retrieved the hat from Bess and approached the czar and czarina. He bowed.

  “Your Imperial Majesty, would you be so kind as to draw one of the suggestions, at your pleasure, from the hat and read it aloud?”

  The czar reached into the hat and his hand emerged with a slip of paper. He slowly unfolded it, read it to himself, and smiled.

  “Mr. Houdini,” he said, in lightly accented English, “I fear you’ve done yourself in.” He showed the paper to his wife, who also smiled, and turned to the room. “Ring the bells of the Kremlin.”

  Houdini kept his face blank as people laughed or gasped. He let it go for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What’s so difficult about ringing a couple of bells?”

  Grand Duchess Elizabeth spoke. “My dear Houdini, the bells of the Kremlin haven’t been rung in at least a hundred years.”