Carter Beats the Devil (77 page)

C
URTAIN

In offering a farewell to the public, you should not wait till there are none left to receive it.

—ROBERT-HOUDIN

The
San Francisco Chronicle
of August 27, 1924, ran a story on page one with the headline “Local Man Invents Radio with Pictures; Calls It Television.” Only one word of this headline was disputable, and it was inaccuracy for the sake of civic pride—Philo had been working in a laboratory on Green Street long enough that he was claimed as “local.”

The remainder of the article summarized his great achievement, with quotations from financiers and notable scientists from the University of California. Briefly mentioned was a live demonstration held that day at the Palace of the Legion of Honor. Philo had worked out the faulty schema that had tended to make his invention untrustworthy, so now it was just a matter of increasing the fidelity of transmission.

The show at the Legion of Honor was for the general public. The idea here was less science than spectacle, and to that end, his connections in San Francisco had leased the services of many interesting performers, each of whom stood before the camera for but a few minutes. Fifty people at a time could fit in the auditorium with the television set, and well over a thousand came that day, so there was a line down the side of the building, and into the park, where hawkers sold hot dogs and taffy apples.

Every fifteen minutes or so, a group was ushered out into the sun, and another group went in, doffing their boaters, adjusting their eyes to the darkness, and then squinting at the small blue flickering images with deep horizontal veins. And when their time was over, a new audience came in.

The show lasted from noon until dusk, with ventriloquists, chorus
girls in spangles, comedians in black shoe polish, political speeches by the mayors of San Francisco and Oakland, fencing demonstrations by masters of the épée, a pair of boxers who sparred rather unconvincingly, and of course one magician.

Like all the performers, Carter was startled at the room he had to perform in—it was the size of a phone booth—and the necessary makeup—to be seen by the camera, his face had to be painted a brilliant purple. The heat under the lights was unbelievable, but Carter was luckier than the ventriloquist, who had left his dummy on the stool unattended for five minutes. It melted.

Carter did a one-handed close-up routine involving coins and cards. He could not see himself or how he looked to the audience, but he smiled (his teeth were painted red) and hoped for the best. When his time was up, he bowed quietly and left the broadcasting studio, peeking in at the audience, which sat transfixed by the three-inch screen now occupied by puppets fashioned from hosiery.

He stripped off his makeup. He needed to go outside, and quickly. He saw James and Philo standing with a small group of men in the shade of a willow tree, so he went to join them. They were all smoking cigarettes and having a friendly chat, and when he approached, James introduced him all around: several were managers for various aspects of Radio Corporation of America. The rest worked in military laboratories. Carter gave them polite nods. He accepted a cigarette from one of them, who said his performance just now had been spectacular. Soon after, the man admitted he hadn’t seen it himself, but still, the audience must have loved it.

Since Philo had retained patent attorneys, his relationship with the corporations had improved. They wanted to fund his research into broadcasting sound and color images. Furthermore, the army seemed to have worked out their differences with their industrial competitors, and they now were quite friendly with each other. They’d rather struck up an alliance in fact. As part of their deal with Philo, they paid Carter not to perform the television illusion. This, coupled with his vaudeville appearances (he had debuted four new illusions in as many months), lent him a vague stability that James explained to him as “adequate.” So Carter listened to the impeccably dressed young men share their views with Philo. He found himself massaging his right hand, which ached.

He excused himself. There was a vista nearby, a view of the park, and his shoes crunched over gravel as he made for it.

A moment later, he heard James whistle behind him.

“You aren’t happy,” James said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You have your way.”

They had reached a vista: a gentle slope of pasture, and then hills dotted with small houses. Carter stood here for a moment, and then asked James what would happen next with Philo.

“Well, he’s filed for a number of patents. He’s talking to the right people, people who can develop them.”

“They’ll eat him alive.”

“You’ve done everything you can. He owns all the rights to the devices for seventeen years. Perhaps he’ll become extremely wealthy.” James looked at his brother then the ground. “Maybe.”

“Have you been watching the television performances?”

“Somewhat. But it hurts my eyes.” James rubbed at his tear ducts to prove this, and, because he sensed the next question, he added, “I saw some of your act.”

“Some?”

“I did mention my eyes hurt, didn’t I?”

“I think the audience hated my routine.”

“They didn’t. But they didn’t love it, either, I can’t claim that. They were . . . apathetic, I suppose.”

Just then, a new group left the auditorium. Several boys in knee pants ran back to the end of the line, and their parents called out to warn them that this was the last time.

“James?”

“Yes?”

“Nineteen forty-one,” Carter said. “That’s when the patents move into the public domain, correct?” When James nodded, Carter said, “RCA will keep it from mass production until then.”

“I’m sorry to say you’re beginning to understand business.”

“Nineteen forty-one,” Carter declared. “That’s how long I have.”

“Well, you see, Philo—” he paused. “How long
you
have?”

Carter blinked. His hands were deep into his pockets. He began to walk, James coming with him along the pathway, Carter looking at the Durants and Packards and Model Ts parked on the shoulder of the road, but hardly seeing them. James put his arm around his brother’s shoulder. They walked together.

. . .

But seventeen years, properly considered, was a very long time for adventure. To begin: September 1924, Lakeside Park, Oakland, was the site of a wedding.

Carter had envisioned a small, dignified ceremony. Phoebe listened to him carefully, eliciting every detail—perhaps a string quartet, a guest list of ten, quiet moderation—and she told him in no uncertain terms that this would never do.

Lakeside Park, the site of their meeting, was transformed in a way Oakland had dreamed of: it was beautiful. The boathouse walls were covered with trellises of jasmine and stargazers, a pathway between the oak trees had been strewn with rose petals, and there was in the air both the music of laughter and actual music in the form of Sid LeProtti’s So Different Jazz Band, which Phoebe had engaged.

A few days before the wedding, Carter was sitting in his workshop in a kind of quiet panic. He had invited only friends who were in no way associated with the magic fraternity, for he knew how
that
group behaved around ceremony. Then, with a single knock at the door, his preparations went straight to hell, for standing there in the morning sunshine was Howard Thurston. Thurston was grinning—he grinned much of the time, for he had recently had his face lifted—and held in his hand an invitation to the wedding. Phoebe had sent it, with a request that he bring as many magicians as possible.

This meant Carter was treated to a wedding rehearsal that was far more complicated than most. Thurston fought like a tiger to be Carter’s best man, not because they were close, but because he was wicked. He loved being married so much, he said, he’d done it three times himself. Of course, a more likely explanation was his behavior on the road—he kept a trunk on each tour that he gradually filled with ladies’ underpants on which he had written the owners’ names and corresponding letter grades.

“Howard, I’m so sorry,” Carter said to him, truly sounding sorry, “James is going to be my best man.”

So Thurston planned Carter’s bachelor party instead. It was held in San Francisco and was exceptional only in that the groom, who had changed not one whit since the days of Jessie Hayman’s parlor house, did not attend.

. . .

Carter had photographs of his first wedding in an album his parents kept for him. He’d never looked at them. First, he’d been touring, and then they were too painful to look at. He and Sarah had married in a Lawrenceville, Kansas, church, with their families in attendance, and there was a picnic afterward. He looked through the photographs now, and saw on his face and his bride’s anticipation of a bright future.

Once he’d been afraid that seeing these photos might ignite a kind of sadness that could never be extinguished. Instead, two days before he married Phoebe, he looked through the album and wished he could shout back to the young couple he saw, “It will be brief, but you’ll have a remarkable time together.” He had changed; his heart was overflowing with benedictions. Since meeting Phoebe, he was anticipating the future again, and yet he wasn’t a fool.

Then, on a lovely fall morning, he felt like he’d simply gone into a coma, and recovered at the altar in front of 155 people, dressed in his morning coat and listening to an unexpectedly poignant version of Pachelbel’s
Canon
performed on trumpet, trombone, banjo, clarinet, alto sax, and washboard.

Phoebe wore white roses threaded through her hair and clutched a spray of exotic flowers. She wore white, a simple silk dress with beaded fringe, but no buttons or lace. She did not wear a veil—she’d had enough of them—so her face showed fantastically white, like marble, during her walk down the aisle.

No one gave her away. She had been quite insistent on this point. She was led to the altar by her new companion, a German shepherd named Lili Marlene.

When she stood next to him, Carter whistled, fully unconscious of having done so, which caused quite a ripple of laughter. James later described him as a man who raced through the vows for he could not wait for the kiss.

. . .

The reception was an odd collision among past, present, and future: introducing Thurston to Lee Duncan, who had trained Lili Marlene, or his father to Philo and Pem, who had come up from Hollywood, where they had established another laboratory. There were blind men and women with their faces pointing toward the sun, enjoying the jazz music, which included intermittent dancing and vocal stylings by Lottie Brown.

At some point, Phoebe disappeared. Carter couldn’t find her anywhere. Ledocq was the last one who’d seen her—she’d asked him to look after Lili Marlene, and he was amusing himself by teaching her commands in Yiddish. Mrs. Ledocq wasn’t so sure this was a good idea, but even she was impressed that it took but two pieces of cheese for the dog to learn
schmooze
, offering her paw to shake.

Carter saw Phoebe’s purse on a table, and his father sitting near it, like a lookout. So he approached him.

“Have you seen my wife?” Carter asked.

His father looked up with a smile that anticipated the delivery of agonizing news. “She’s currently taking a walk with
my
wife.”

Carter sighed, drawing up a chair. “God only knows—”

“Where Lillian is concerned, I’m not so sure he does,” Mr. Carter interrupted. They laughed together. But after a moment, they had nothing more to say, and each man found himself reaching for a second smile while the music played in the distance. Carter withdrew his pocket watch and pulled the repeater lever. It was 5:37.

Mr. Carter squinted. “When did you get that watch?”

“This? I’ve shown you this.”

“No, you never have.”

Carter thought about it. And he realized that, no, it was a story they’d never shared. “Nineteen eleven. Albee gave it to me.”

“Is that an Edward Koehn?”

In surprise, he asked, “How did you know?”

Mr. Carter reached for the watch. “That’s simple. It sounded like angels. Hand it over.”

“Do you own one?”

“I have three of them,” Mr. Carter declared, looking satisfied as he inspected the dramatic masks. “But none as fine as this,” he hastened to add. He opened it and tilted it back and forth to better read the name the dial detailed. “This isn’t a jeweler’s name, it’s—oh!” He looked at his son, pursing his lips. “Now I’m
certain
you haven’t told me this story.” Before Carter could say anything, his father continued, “Perhaps I should ask on a day when you aren’t getting married.”

Carter accepted the watch back. He said, “I’ve missed having you and Mom at my shows, you know. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yes, well, we’re proud of you,” he replied, tightly. A moment later, he added, with somewhat more intent, “I’ve heard you were just paid a nice lump sum—have you considered how you might invest it?”

Carter shook his head. “I need some advice.”

“We’ll discuss it then.”

A few moments later, Carter spied Phoebe, arm in arm with his mother, returning from the boathouse. They were approaching the table, but first they stopped by Ledocq, who was teaching Lili Marlene to
plotz
, at which command she was supposed to roll on her back.

“What are you doing to my dog?” Phoebe asked suspiciously.

“You have a very smart dog here,” Ledocq said, sounding a little
guilty. “It’s good for her to learn another language.” He handed the dog on her stiff leather strap over to Phoebe, who, in a mock huff, walked with Mrs. Carter to join their husbands.

Carter eyed his mother, as she could still without effort make him feel roughly seven years old. She smiled. “Phoebe is wonderful.” She listed Phoebe’s graces and predicted wonderful things for their future. Carter awaited the moment she would become theatrical or turn to psychological analysis, but his mother surprised him and did nothing but beam.