Saving Houdini (15 page)

People ran up from parts of the workshop. Houdini had almost interposed himself between the two of them and he was pushing Jacobson away with his back while holding Walt at arm’s length.

“Stop it!” he said. “Stop it immediately.”

At last the two were separated.

“I’m gonna … I’ll tear out … the resta …” said Walt, gasping for air. “Ya big bully!”

“Keep that child away from me. Keep them both away from me!”

“Ya better keep looking over yer shoulder!” rasped Walt. His face was pale and shining and his eyes were wild. “Ya better …” he said, but then he leaned forward into Houdini and closed his eyes. “I’m gonna,” he said quietly, and then he slipped down the front of Houdini’s suit and fell to the floor in a heap.

“Now look what you’ve done,” said Jacobson.

Walter was out cold. To Dash, he looked like a gleaming white sculpture against the black floor. Jacobson and Houdini were staring daggers at each other.

“We’d best get the business of your scarpering off taken care of, then,” Houdini said, “so those of us left behind can get this poor boy to a doctor.”

“Don’t do me a melodrama, Harry. It’s not my fault you’ve never seen a dodge like this.”

Blumenthal gave Dash a look that was supposed to calm him down, except it didn’t.

What was wrong with Walt? He hadn’t even hit his head, but his eyes were closed.

“It’s not a dodge,” said Houdini. “Or if it is, it deserves the attention of the greatest magician alive. Is that not what you would say, Solomon? Even if this young man—oh, someone get that boy a glass of water, stop standing around!—has not come from the future with strange news …” He looked at Dash now.
Four glasses of water arrived at once from different directions. Someone had the presence of mind to bring a wet cloth. “Even if …”

Jacobson looked at Dash with cold mistrust in his eyes. His mouth moved, but for a moment he said nothing. Then: “I will keep my letter and see to Walter first. I’ll bring him back to your room and have the doctor you won’t listen to take a look at him. I will telegram his parents to inform them of the situation, and then I will put him on the 10 a.m. train tomorrow morning. And now I will take his ticket, Master Woolf.”

Houdini watched the ticket change hands. “He’d already given you those?” he said to Dash.

“He made me take them—I wasn’t going to leave. I’m staying.” He kept his gaze on the floor, unable to look up. “But I guess … Walt should go home.”

Jacobson put the ticket into a suit pocket. “When this is done, my resignation will take effect. I will update the letter.”

“Maybe I will accept it,” said Houdini. “If that is the best thing to do.”

“Dmitri!” Jacobson called. A man appeared instantly. He was dressed in a uniform and a cap. Houdini’s driver. A small, muscular man with bright, grey eyes behind thick glasses.

“Mr. Jacobson,” said Dmitri.

“Put this boy in the car.”

“Wait,”
said Dash. “Why can’t he come with us? To Blumenthal’s hotel?”

“That flea pit?”

Blumenthal stuck out his chest. “It is not a flea pit! I’ve stayed there many times.”

“I’m sure you have. Just the same, I would have him at our hotel.” He gestured to Dmitri.

Walt was awake now, sitting up, then kneeling. Dmitri leaned down to him, but Walt fended him off.

“Don’t touch me! I can stand on my own!” He tried a couple of times but couldn’t get off his knees. His face was the colour of a dolphin’s belly. “Do I get a say in any of this?” he asked pathetically.

“No,” said Houdini. “You need to rest, son. Drink a lemonade. Bess will look in on you.”

“But I want to stay.”

Houdini crouched in front of him. “Dashiel and I are lucky to have our Walter Gibsons, Walter Gibson. But you’ve done everything you needed to do today. And it is a fine thing to be looked in on by Mrs. Houdini. You’ll be your old self in no time.” He offered his hand and Walt took it. Houdini brought him to his feet. “Look at me, for instance. Healthy as a horse.”

Walt went to where Jacobson was waiting by a circular saw.

“Walt!” Dash called. “Aw, just let him rest here!” he called to the adults.

“In all zees dust?” Pelletier gestured around at the machinery.

“Wait, hold on! Walt,” he called again, and the other boy listened, his ear tilted up as he followed Jacobson out of the workshop. “Don’t get on that train! Don’t get on the morning train!”

But they were gone.

“Omigod—” He exhaled. “Thanks for backing me up!” he snarled at Blumenthal.

“I’ve backed you up plenty! But your friend is not well, and he’ll be more comfortable at Houdini’s hotel. Try to be a big boy about it.”

“DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE I’M A KID!” Dash shouted. “I’m almost twelve years old, okay?” He sat down heavily in a chair. There were so many eyes on him. “I’m never going to see him again.”

“I’m sure you’ll see him after you’ve both had a good night’s rest,” said Houdini. “Too much excitement for everyone.”

A terrible feeling flooded through Dash. “If this trick works, I’ll never see him again.”

Houdini and Pelletier exchanged looks and the master set-builder ushered his people back to their stations, leaving the two magicians alone with the boy.

“That is very possible,” said Houdini. “But think how much worse it would be if you had never met at all.”

“It would be better,” Dash mumbled.

Houdini laid a hand on his shoulder. “No it wouldn’t,” he said. “In this life, a friend is a friend, no matter any of the other details. I won’t be sad for you if the trick works, and you should not be sad for yourself. Or Walter Gibson. Now pull yourself together.” He called for Pelletier.

The man appeared, drying his hands on a cloth.
“Maître?”

“We’re going to dry-run it, but I need the lights. Can you run them in the manner I wrote down for you?”

“Absolument.”

“What are you doing?” Dash asked.

“We’re going to test the trick,” said Blumenthal.

“No! You can’t test it!”

“Everything has to be tested,” said Houdini. “To ensure it will work.”

“You can build it, but you can’t test it on anyone. What if there’s only, you know, like, one
charge
in it?”

“There must be more than one ‘charge,’“ said Blumenthal. “It sent you here, didn’t it?”

“Yeah?” said Dash, his hands on his hips. “And what if you test it and send me home
now.
Then what do you do for your encore? When you
do
have an audience?”

Blumenthal clapped his hand to his forehead. “An audience. How am I going to get an audience with twenty-four hours’ notice to come see a trick that doesn’t work yet?”

“Ask Gluckman.”

Blumenthal’s face curdled. “I am not asking Gluckman for a favour.”

“Who is Gluckman?” asked Houdini.

“My ex-manager.”

“And owner of the Pantages,” said Dash.

Houdini was smiling. “
That
Gluckman? Charlie Gluckman? I know Charlie! I’ll give him a ring, why don’t I?”

Blumenthal sighed. Houdini patted him on the back and then put his arm through Pelletier’s.

“I do like your trick, Jacques. Let’s hope it works on the first
try. Although, I have the idea to light the bubble from a different angle. And how low and how far away could you place two fans?”

They walked off together. “I’m going back to the Prince of Wales and I’m getting Walt,” said Dash. “I’ll bring him to your hotel.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone,” said Blumenthal. “You heard Harry. Don’t you go over there and start more trouble.”

“I don’t
like
Jacobson,” Dash snapped.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

“And I don’t trust him neither. How did Mrs. Alphonsine find us? Huh? How do you know Jacobson isn’t dropping Walt off at her door right now?”

“Because he isn’t. Use your overactive imagination for better purposes. You can trust Walt with Sol. He’s a good man.”

“So you say, but you’re in business with him now. I’m going to get Walt.”

“Dash—” Blumenthal began, but he was already out the door.

He sped back to the hotel, keeping his head down. He waved at the desk clerk and went to install himself on the circular couch that enclosed a tree with long, thin hanging leaves. He shifted around until he found a view of the door and the elevators that was neither too open, nor too blocked by fronds. He was going to wait here until he saw Jacobson leave for the evening performance.

After an hour, he was still sitting there. He’d sagged against the back of the couch. He wondered if Houdini and Herman
Blumenthal were going to test the trick anyway. Maybe Blumenthal was already standing onstage at the Canon Theatre in 2011 with a bewildered look on his face …

Around six in the evening, the lobby became busier. He’d passed the time seeing how long he could go without blinking, repeating his name over and over in his head until it sounded like Martian, and once or twice, he thought about girls. Voices bounced off the floor and the gleaming white ceiling hung with chandeliers. Eventually, Marcel spotted him on his way into the dining room.

“Monsieur Woolf?” he said.

“Hi, Marcel,” Dash said quietly.

“Where is everyone? You are coming for suppair?”

“I don’t think so.”

“
‘Oudini
is better?”

“I guess.” He wanted Marcel to leave him alone.

“You are coming for ze
bouillabaisse
again?”

“I don’t know,” said Dash. “Do you do it without the fish?”

Marcel smiled and messed his hair. Dash sank farther into the cushion below the lobby tree. He remembered flaking out on the couch in Alex’s basement. Once a month, Alex’s parents let him have Braindead Day, and that meant he had the whole day to play video games, read comic books, eat garbage, anything, and he could stay up as late as he wanted, too. The rest of the month, it was moderation, but Alex’s parents thought Braindead Day was a good way to put a little craziness into the mix. They’d seemed like a happy family …

Back then, Dash’s parents let him go every other month. Those were the best nights of the year. He and Alex were friends at school anyway, and it wasn’t like they
didn’t
see each other practically every day—and after school a lot of days as well—but those nights were just for them. No adults, no other kids. Nights of drinking pop and
eructating
the alphabet (they’d found the word in a dictionary), nights listening to the late-starting hockey games on the radio while playing Entrail Derby III: SkullSplash and eating so much popcorn and licorice that they’d have to sleep on top of their sleeping bags so they wouldn’t be trapped with their own farts.

But you couldn’t be friends with someone who wasn’t there. There hadn’t been a Braindead Day since his parents had split. Alex had emailed him a couple of times from Leiden, but Dash hadn’t replied. Why? Was he going to go over there and sleep in his Dutch house in
Leiden
for one night? What would be the point? Alex had
wanted
to go with his mother. He’d had a choice, and he chose to leave. Obviously friendship wasn’t that important to him.

He didn’t want his mind to keep going like this, but he didn’t have the energy now to shake off his thoughts. His guts felt like a fist.

It was nearly eight when Sol Jacobson entered the hotel. He hadn’t been upstairs after all! Where had he been? Dash leapt up and made a beeline for him.

“Where’s Walt?” he demanded.

Jacobson tried to sidestep him. “You’re a pest.”

“Where were you just now? Huh? You just drop him off?”

“What are you going on about?”

“Why aren’t you at the show?”

“I don’t watch every show,” said Jacobson. He continued across the lobby.

Dash followed him to the elevators. “No, I’m sure you don’t. You probably miss the ones when you have to go sneaking around doing stuff. I want to see Walt!”

Jacobson began pulling off his gloves. The arrow on the dial above the elevator showed it descending from the fifth floor. “He’s resting. You go see the show. Harry left you a ticket. Anyway, you’ll be on the train with Walter all day tomorrow.”

“I will, will I?”

“Are you planning on staying?”

“No. I’m going on Houdini’s train tomorrow afternoon. With Walt and Blumenthal.”

“Walter will already be home by then. I guess you’ll be wanting to change your ticket.”

The elevator arrived. The operator greeted them both with a small bow. Dash held Jacobson back.

“I want him to come to Blumenthal’s hotel.”

“The house doctor has said Walter is to rest. I suspect your friend will prefer the feather pillows here anyway.” He got into the elevator. Dash felt helpless. “Go to the show, whatever you are.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Harry does not believe in spirits, but I do. Go back to where you came from.” The gate closed and the arrow on the dial showed the car moving upwards.

If Walt was safe and sound—or if he was on a train somewhere—there was nothing Dash could do about it now. He decided he’d take a chance and leave the hotel. He’d never have another opportunity to see Houdini perform live, and he knew that Walt wouldn’t want him to miss it.

He walked down to the Princess Theatre. It was just around the corner—he had been too excited two mornings ago to realize sooner that the car they’d gotten into was driving away from downtown. They could have just walked it.

The lights were dark in the empty lobby beyond the front doors. The lady at the booth still had the ticket Houdini had left him. An usher led Dash in and told him to stand in the back. It was too late to go all the way down to his seat.

The lights were low; it appeared that Houdini was between tricks. Then a spotlight came on and the curtains parted on a stage with nothing but a huge tank of water. Houdini emerged from the wings in a ribbed, white tank top
and a pair of swimming trunks. His ankle was still bandaged and he limped on it. Even from the back of the theatre, Dash could see how weary he looked. His skin was sallow. But he was carrying on with the show.

“Ladies and gentlemen, to conclude my performance this evening, I am pleased to present to you the greatest death-defying act ever performed live on any stage: my Water Torture Cell.” He gestured ominously to the menacing glass tank. “There is nothing supernatural about it, and I am prepared to offer the sum of one thousand dollars to any person who can prove that it is possible to get any air inside the Torture Cell when I am locked up in it in the regulation manner after it has been filled with water. If anything should go wrong when I am locked up in it, one of my assistants will come through the curtain and release the water from the tank, thereby saving my life. I hope that this will not be necessary. Now, with no further ado, I will request my stage assistants to lock me into the lid of the Torture Cell and lower me into it.”

The tension in the room was terrible. Four men in black uniforms had rushed onto the stage wearing white gloves and they began to help the magician into his ankle harness. Houdini winced in pain as he was secured to the lid of the tank. The audience seemed to be leaning forward as one, drawn to the stage by the drama of this final effect, and as they watched, united in their worry and excitement, Dash scanned the edges of the theatre with his eyes. There were a couple of elderly patrons sitting in wheelchairs at the very back, and some ushers who had come in
from the lobby to see the finale. Then Dash saw Blumenthal, his face glowing in light from the stage.

“And now, if my assistants will carefully lift the lid so that I am upside down, the cables will take care of the rest,” said Houdini. The four men each took a corner and carefully hefted the small man into the air with his head hanging down, and then the cables attached to the lid pulled him even higher. He dangled above the mouth of the tank, his arms spread wide. “Ladies and gentlemen, I do hope I will see you again in a minute or so …”

Dash crossed behind the audience toward Blumenthal. He came up alongside him, and the man looked over briefly before returning his attention to the stage. Houdini was being lowered into the tank. Air bubbles escaped from his nose and ran up the side of the glass.

“Will it work?” Dash asked Blumenthal quietly.

“This? It better: he’s my sponsor!”

“No. The Soap Bubble Vanish.”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Someone wouldn’t let us test it.”

“Don’t you agree?”

Blumenthal’s eyes ticked over Dash’s face. “What does it matter if I agree? I am just a tiny cog in some larger machine. If you are to be believed.”

“Are you on my side or not?”

“I am on the side of the angels. Should there be any.”

Houdini was working away inside the tank. Dash couldn’t watch.

“He doesn’t look so good,” he said.

“That man can take care of himself.”

Suddenly, applause. They looked at the stage and Houdini was standing at the lip of it, dripping wet, his arms spread wide. The audience rose as one, all of them banging their hands together madly and hooting with delight.

Their view blocked, Dash and Blumenthal went to stand near one of the exits. Houdini looked as weak as a kitten.

“I saw Sol,” Dash said over the continuing applause.

“How’d that go?”

“Not so well. I don’t want him to put Walt on the morning train.”

“How do you propose we fix that?”

“You can go get him in the morning. Jacobson can’t say no to you.”

Herman Blumenthal stubbed his finger into the middle of Dash’s chest. “You’re a big
macher
, aren’t you? You think you can tell people what to do.”

“Walter deserves to see the trick! He has to stay with us to the end.”

“You mean
you.
That’s what you mean every time you say ‘us,’ isn’t it? Sometimes you seem a rather selfish young man.”

The applause grew louder and drowned them out as Houdini took his final bows.

The only hotel Blumenthal could afford was considerably more modest than the Prince of Wales. The Butcher’s Arms was a
house on Rue Aylmer and the room was in the basement. The ceiling was at a height of five feet, which was fine for boys or gnomes, but when Blumenthal entered, he had to crouch down. A pipe dripping with cold condensation travelled the width of the room a foot below the ceiling, and a sink stuck out of one of the walls like a tongue in a face. Two shapeless beds sat along one wall, squatting in the dark: dirty little mounds. There was a large, scoop-like indentation in the middle of each bed, where the bodies of previous guests had settled.

“You hungry, kid?”

“Starving.”

Blumenthal had an oily paper bag from which he pulled out a heel of salami and a couple things wrapped in waxed paper. It all smelled like the man’s apartment had: smoky, greasy, fragrant with spice and rot.

“I brought supplies from home,” he said. He laid out a few items on the little writing desk, including a cold cabbage roll and a few pickled herring, and put a couple of chocolate croissants alongside them. “You want a sandwich?”

“In a chocolate croissant?”

“All ends up in the same place.” He tore two of the croissants open with his thumbs, and ripped the salami into rough chunks, which he apportioned between the two of them. He unwrapped the cabbage roll, revealing a long, grey pill of ground meat within. With his finger, he wiped smears of the meat into the middle of the split croissants. “Fish or no fish?” he asked Dash.

“How about I get the fish on the side?”

“Don’t know what you’re missing,” said Blumenthal.

They ate in companionable silence. Dash’s energy, which had been flagging under the weight of fearful thoughts, was returning. He could feel something aligning now; there were times when he sensed he was inside a track or a groove of some kind. It sometimes made the past feel familiar. He had this same feeling sometimes when he was playing tennis with his dad and the ball was coming to him and he knew where it was going to be, and all he had to do was plant his feet and grip the racquet with both hands. Movement did the rest.

Was time a kind of motion? If you closed your eyes, it seemed to stop. Maybe this was how he’d done so much here, in the past, if time was actually stopped where his parents were. Two thousand eleven was dark and unseeable, so there was no movement and no time there, just as there had been no time in the past he’d once imagined Houdini in. Only where his eyes were open, where he could be witness, did time appear to run.

“What is it with you and the faraway looks?” Blumenthal demanded. “You gonna finish that half or not?”

“I’m finishing it,” Dash said. He was feeling stronger by the minute. “So do you want to hear my plan?”

“I don’t know,” said Blumenthal. “I might’ve had enough of your plans.”

“This one involves you being my hero.”

Blumenthal ran his tongue around his back teeth. “I’m listening.”

“You have to talk Harry into getting off the train in Toronto.”

“You heard Sol. Harry has a show that night.”

“I can give him a good reason not to go on to Detroit. A night in Toronto is what he needs.”

“What do you know that I don’t?” Blumenthal asked him.