The Confabulist

  “It’ll be full houses from here on in,” he chortled, his jowls rolling. Bess glanced at Houdini and he knew that look, fuming and inflexible. He worried she was about to go off on Dr. Hill, so he stepped between them and put his arm around the promoter.

  “I’m glad, Doctor. We did our best.”

  Down the hall Houdini could hear a commotion, at first indistinguishable from the raucous crowd but gradually becoming distinct. He turned his attention from Dr. Hill to see the dead boy’s father hurtling down the hallway, closely followed by a pair of theatre attendants who had been roughed up.

  “Houdini!” the man shouted. Dr. Hill shrugged off Houdini’s arm and stepped away. Mr. Osbourne was much larger than he remembered. His bulky hands were in tight fists. He stepped into Houdini and swung at his head. Houdini ducked and slid to the side. He struck back at the man’s stomach, connecting hard. The man fell to his knees, gasping, as the attendants and a few others caught up and stood around him.

  “Let him alone,” Houdini ordered. He took a moment to prepare himself for what was about to happen. Once the man regained his wind he got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes. None of his rage had lessened, but the fight was out of him.

  “Why did you say those things? Why would you put my wife through all that again?”

  “Look, Mr. Osbourne. May I call you Harry?” Houdini smiled.

  Osbourne clenched his fists. “No, you may not.”

  Houdini took a step forward, keeping his palms open and visible. “That’s fine, Mr. Osbourne. I just thought I’d call you Harry because that’s my name too. But it’s okay. I understand how you feel, about the name and about what happened just now.”

  Osbourne shook his head. “I don’t think you do.”

  “You’d be surprised. A lot of people, myself included, are taken aback when the spirits speak to them. It’s a common reaction.”

  “No!” shouted Osbourne. “You don’t understand at all. I came tonight because my wife believes in all this nonsense. I know it’s all malarkey. But she believes. And now she thinks that our son, Joe, has spoken to us.”

  Houdini saw Bess out of the corner of his eye. She was about to speak. “Mr. Osbourne,” he said, quickly, “what if I could prove to you that there is no deceit behind my wife’s words?”

  “I doubt very much that you could.” Osbourne was becoming more and more agitated. Dr. Hill and the theatre attendants had backed off. A crowd of other members of the California Concert Company had gathered down the hall. This type of encounter had never happened to the Houdinis before.

  “Have a seat here beside me,” Houdini said, motioning toward a row of chairs set outside a dressing room.

  Osbourne reluctantly sat. Houdini sat beside him. Bess stayed off to the side.

  “I readily admit that there is an element of showmanship in what we do,” he said. “The sheet covering my wife or me, depending on who is contacting the other side, for example, is completely unnecessary. But people pay for a show, and we feel compelled to give them one. Will you allow me to dispense with all theatrics for the moment?”

  Osbourne’s shoulders were set and stiff. “I wish you’d ditch both the theatrics and the false hope you give people.”

  Houdini smiled, placed his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. He counted to twenty, exhaled, then opened his eyes and stared at Osbourne.

  “You were born in Tennessee but moved to Kansas when you were still an infant. Your father and mother died ten and twelve years ago, respectively. You had a twin brother named Alphonse who died when you were six. Your son, Joe, died of a fever and your wife stayed in bed for three months afterward. There is a scar on the back of her leg from a burn she received from the fire poker. You have an older brother whom you haven’t spoken to since your father passed, whose wife died this past winter, and your mother says you should give him back your father’s watch, as it belongs to him as the oldest son.”

  Osbourne jumped out of his chair, shaking. “How do you know all this?”

  Houdini rose as well, placing a hand on Osbourne’s shoulder. “They told me. How else could I know?”

  “You can really speak to them?”

  The disbelief drained from Osbourne’s face. He slumped back into the chair, put his head in his hands. No one said anything. Osbourne looked up at Houdini, his face wet. “My son. He is happy?”

  Houdini paused for a moment. “Very. He misses you and his mother, but he is happy and knows he will see you again someday.”

  Osbourne began to weep again, and Houdini sat beside him and offered his handkerchief. Osbourne took it and after a while managed to pull himself together. He gave Houdini his hand. “I’m sorry about before. But you don’t understand. When our son died, my wife … it was like she was gone too. And then, slowly, things began to get better. She began to recover. We’re having a new baby. I didn’t want to come tonight. Joe is dead, and there’s nothing to be done for that. But he’s not, not really. I see that now. Thank you. Thank you.”

  Houdini saw Bess turn and leave.

  He started after her, leaving Dr. Hill to deal with Osbourne. She retreated to their dressing room at the back of the building. They were one of only a few acts to have their own room—a recent development that Houdini was very happy about. He and Bess argued often, and it disturbed him to do it in front of others. A magician should cultivate a certain air of mystique.

  He reached their room just behind Bess, in time for the door to slam shut in his face. He did not hear the lock click into place behind her—she knew that a lock was no impediment to him—but he knew her temper well enough. It would be best to wait until she had calmed herself somewhat.

  Houdini didn’t dare risk leaving the theatre yet—people would be waiting for him at all exits, anxious for a reading or a favour. Possibly one or two might even be planning to give him a battering, as Harold Osbourne had been.

  As he climbed the back stairs to the catwalk that ran above the stage, he wondered what exactly he had done. When people went to see a magic show, they knew the magician didn’t have supernatural powers, and that nothing they saw was real. If he passed it off as such, it was nothing more than showmanship, which they’d paid to see. If he offered them anything less, he’d be cheating them.

  He chose a perch on the catwalk with a view of the stage. The theatre was empty now save for a couple of custodians sweeping up. In a few moments the stage and back of house would be broken down and hauled to the train station, where in the morning they would depart Kansas for an engagement in Cedar Rapids.

  Tonight’s endeavour was little more than the culmination of some clever research and bribery. All over North America travelling spiritualists could, for a few dollars, purchase tests from others in their trade. These shorthand logs about local individuals were dutifully maintained and circulated by a network of charlatans. It was amazing what could be overheard in a tavern, what a drink could buy from a man, what people said without realizing. A trip to the local graveyard, a few coins in the hand of the right person—like magic, most people’s secrets were out in the open.

  In the case of Harold Osbourne, a cursory examination of the family plot revealed a fresh grave for little Joe, and an overheard conversation between the town doctor and Osbourne’s still bitter brother yielded the rest. It wasn’t even the best test Houdini had, but it was the best of the people who showed up that evening. His local contact had, of course, informed him of Osbourne’s presence before the show had begun. After he’d punched Osbourne, while he was down on the floor, he’d retrieved a square of paper from his coat pocket containing the relevant details, memorized them, and then palmed the paper. If Osbourne chose to believe he had supernatural powers, well, that wasn’t his problem.

  But he had the feeling, a feeling he often had, that his mother wouldn’t approve. She might have viewed such things as dishonest. She was usually right. Her disapproval stung, no matter how implied or imagined it was.

  Still, he had
no choice. They needed this job. Signing on with Dr. Hill’s California Concert Company represented the first real break he’d had in years. Hand-to-mouth—it was always hand-to-mouth, but this was the sort of show that could lead to bigger things. He had promises to keep, promises that a magician’s poverty could never keep.

  Below, the crew was beginning to break down the stage. He cradled his hat in his hands, turning it over and over, a habit he’d developed and continued to keep his fingers nimble. Most magicians he knew kept their hands in almost constant motion.

  He’d never had any money. No one in his family had. His father worked all his life, and was honest and treated everyone square and still died poor. Rabbi Mayer Weiss came from Hungary to America to improve his lot but was reduced to menial jobs for most of his later years. He never stopped believing that riches were right around the corner.

  When he was nineteen, Houdini had been called to his father’s deathbed. His father looked at him without recognition, his body worn out by its sixty-three years. “Who’s there?” he called.

  “It’s me, Ehrich.” Houdini moved closer so his father could see him.

  “My boy,” he said. “Good, good.” He held out his hand, and Houdini took it. It felt like paper.

  His mother came up behind him. “See? He’s here. I told you he’d come straight home.”

  “I came as quick as I could,” Houdini said. He’d been working a sideshow in downtown Manhattan, barking people in. A kid came up to him and told him his father was dying. “Go home, magician,” the kid said. He’d had to borrow money for the cab uptown, took the steps three at a time for five flights, then stopped outside his door and almost couldn’t go in.

  Inside, he found his brothers and sister waiting. He’d fix it, and if he couldn’t, then it couldn’t be fixed. He smiled at them and walked into their parents’ bedroom as though nothing was wrong.

  His older half brother Herman had died of consumption seven years earlier. His brother Nathan should have taken on the role of oldest son, but he was quiet and weak, and Houdini assumed the role, to Nathan’s relief.

  His father’s eyes were glassy, betraying none of the sharp intelligence that had once been ever present. He was gazing at an empty space between Houdini and his mother.

  “Ehrie,” he said, so quietly Houdini could barely hear him, “you must promise to look after your mother.”

  Houdini leaned in, his mouth close to his father’s ear. “Of course I will. You have my word.”

  His father smiled and motioned for Houdini to pass him the glass of water sitting beside the bed. Houdini held the water to his lips, cracked and nearly white, and his father drank. His mother could not prevent a sob.

  When his father spoke again his voice was stronger. “You hear that, Cecilia? It’s going to be all right. Ehrie will fill your apron with gold.”

  His mother shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. All the gold in the world doesn’t make a difference.”

  But his father continued to smile. He died three hours later.

  All Houdini could remember now was his promise, a promise he still hadn’t made good on. He’d tried it all. He’d done card tricks, close-up magic, larger stage illusions. He’d been the wild man at a dime museum, done handcuff escapes. None of it had led anywhere. Dr. Hill’s California Concert Company was almost a proper touring company. It could have been their break. It still might be.

  He looked at the theatre below him. He’d always thought a theatre felt strange without people in it. With its seats empty, its lights up, and its air still, it reminded him of a dead body.

  They were booked with Dr. Hill for fifteen weeks and were only halfway through their run. Two months earlier they’d nearly lost the job completely. They were due to join the California Concert Company in Omaha and needed to change trains in the middle of the night. But their train was late, their connection was an express, and there was no time to load all of Houdini’s trunks. For Houdini, though, proceeding otherwise was impossible. A magician without his tricks is nothing.

  “I must insist,” he told the porter, a boy barely old enough to shave. “My baggage must be loaded.”

  The porter shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The train is leaving.”

  “No,” Houdini said, “it’s not.”

  He walked to the front of the train, stepped onto the tracks, and grabbed hold of one rail with both hands.

  The porter gaped, then rushed off. He soon returned with another railwayman, a large fellow who stood six inches taller than Houdini and outweighed him by a good sixty pounds. “Get off of there, sir, or I’ll move you myself.”

  “I’ll get off when my baggage is loaded,” he said, “and, no, you won’t be moving me.” Bess crossed her arms and then marched away; off, he presumed, to board the train.

  The railwayman surged forward and grabbed Houdini’s arm. He was strong, but Houdini didn’t budge. The railwayman stepped back, seized Houdini by the back of his coat, and pulled, but still Houdini wasn’t moved. The man took off his jacket and tried again, grabbing Houdini’s arms and legs in several places without success. The porter tried as well, on his own at first and then together with the railwayman. Houdini had both hands gripped on one of the rails and his feet wedged into the other rail. It looked as though he were doing a push-up. He’d move slightly when one or both of them tried to pull him off, but was otherwise immobile. It was an old sideshow trick. They could bring out a dozen men and they wouldn’t move him. All he had to do was move the fulcrum of his body against their efforts, and his strength was magnified a hundredfold.

  Eventually the conductor came out to see what the commotion was. “Why are you on my rails?”

  “I have a ticket for your train, but they won’t load my trunks,” Houdini said, shifting his weight to account for the railwayman’s renewed efforts.

  The conductor watched for a moment as the railwayman, red-faced and sweating, heaved away at Houdini with no effect. He turned to the porter, shaking his head. “For God’s sake, load the man’s damned bags and let’s get moving.”

  Bess wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of the trip, but they arrived on time for their first show, and by the end of the night it was like nothing had happened. That’s how things went with her. He’d do something bold, brash, or possibly stupid, and she’d react by punishing him as if he’d failed. He ended up having to fight two fights—one with his task or feat or problem, and another with her afterward. It exhausted him.

  It wasn’t always this way. When they’d met, she’d reacted to his predilections with enthusiasm. That was part of what he liked about her. This tiny, beautiful woman, who looked as though a light wind could break her in two but who in reality was stronger than any man wedged onto railroad tracks. When his brother Dash had first suggested a blind double date with a couple of girls from the Floral Sisters, a song and dance act, he was reluctant.

  He often told people that with Bess it was love at first sight, but that wasn’t true. He had seen her several times before he ever really noticed her. But the night of the arranged date, sitting at a table with his brother, Dash’s date, and Bess, there was an instant when he looked at her and recognized that she was the mirror image of himself. Not the opposite but a perfect complement; her strengths addressed all his weaknesses, and he knew he did the same for her. And then, as unbelievably to him then as it remained now, Bess looked at him, and he could tell that she had seen the same thing he had. It was as close to a moment of real magic as he would ever experience.

  “Do you like our act?” Dash had asked.

  “Yes,” Bess said, “very much. I think you are destined for greatness.” She looked at Houdini as she said this, and her girlfriend giggled.

  A week later they were married.

  He felt bad about Dash sometimes. He’d picked Bess over his brother, but he didn’t really have a choice. It was the way he’d parted ways with Dash that troubled him—he had to concede he’d lost his temper.

  Their si
gnature trick at the time was the Metamorphosis. It was a standard cabinet switch where members of the audience would be invited to inspect a large velvet bag that Houdini would then get into. Dash would tie up and lock the top of the bag, and Houdini would be placed in a trunk. The trunk was inside a large cabinet, closed on three sides with the fourth side open to the audience. Once the trunk was securely locked Dash would address the audience, draw a curtain across the open side of the cabinet, and step inside, and in an instant the curtain would reopen and Houdini would appear in Dash’s place. The trunk would then be unlocked and the velvet sack opened to reveal Dash.

  It was a good trick, and they often performed variations on it, sometimes with Dash starting in the bag. One night, playing to a large crowd, they were doing the version where Dash went first. But Dash somehow managed to get stuck in the trunk, so when Houdini stepped into the cabinet he was alone.

  He couldn’t quite believe it. It was such a simple switch. You are out of the bag before the trunk is locked, and then out of the gimmicked back of the trunk before the curtain is even closed. Once the curtain closes the front man ducks behind the trunk and inside, wriggling into the sack while the reveal takes place. But there was no Dash.

  Until the day he died Houdini would hear the jeers of the audience. Even after he freed Dash and eventually did the switch, it was clear to all that something had gone wrong. A dime museum crowd loved seeing a magician screw up. Sometimes he thought that’s what people came for. To see the magician fail, to experience the thrill of seeing someone trapped just as thoroughly as they were.