Saving Houdini (18 page)

The afternoon sun fell on the water and the fields and the woods, and reports of light went off here and there like blasts of sound, white and yellow suddenings of light. Dash let it calm him and lull him, and he put his head against the window and looked through his own face, floating over everything.

He closed his eyes. He had the impression of movement and shapes as shadows crossed over his lids. He felt the tall, plush seat-back against him, the soft end of the armrest under his elbow. The sound of the train joined itself to the pulse in his temple.

He didn’t think he’d sleep. He was too excited and worried. But when he opened his eyes again, the world in the window was different. Not in detail, but in light. A deeper light. It was six o’clock in the evening now and it would be dark soon. The little girl slept against her mother and the lady’s eyes were closed as well.

Dash noticed Walt was awake. He was looking at the girl sadly. “You okay?” Dash asked.

Walt turned his gaze to Dash, like he was coming out of a dream. “I guess we must be most of the way …”

“What can you see?”

“Fields.”

Dash changed sides, sitting beside Walt so he could see the night coming in the westerly distance.

“What are you going to do as soon as you get home?” Walt asked.

“Hug my mum. What about you?”

“Sleep for three days. I’ll hug my mum too, though.” He looked back over at the mother and daughter. “Probably even Dee Dee.”

“Do you like having a sister?”

“Most of the time,” Walt answered. “Not all the time.” He laughed at a private memory.

Dash had always wondered what it would feel like to have a sibling. “Do you have a best friend?”

“Sure. Peter. Christopher and me are good friends. Martin
thinks
he’s my best friend—”

“I only have one,” Dash said. “But he moved away with his mother.”

“His dad died?”

“No. They got divorced.”

“Oh. Whydee go with his mother?”

“She got a job somewhere else.”

“But his dad stayed in Toronto?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what?” said Walter. “Won’t he come back and visit eventually?”

“I guess so. But they moved to a place called
Leiden.
”

“Holland?”

“Anyway,” Dash said, looking sidelong at him, “he’ll visit, I guess. But we won’t be friends anymore.”

Walter nodded soberly. If Dash had said something like that in front of either of his parents, one of them—at least—would have given him a lecture on not being so negative. But Walt understood. Dash and Alex would still know each other, but when you can’t call someone up and meet them on the corner in ten minutes, it’s not the same.

They watched the towns speed by along the lake, lulled by the world in the window like something seen on a stage. Soon, in the distance, they saw night over Toronto. They watched the city expand in it. Then Dash sat back and a deeper dark swelled in the sky.

“Omigod,” Dash said.

Walt pulled his head away from the scene in the window. “What?”

“I forgot to tell you something. You have to remember this. There are going to be
superheroes.
”

“Superheroes.”

“Cartoon superheroes printed in little magazines called comic books. They haven’t been invented yet, but they’re coming. They’re gonna be awesome. You should get some when they come out.”

“When are they coming out?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Anything else?”

“Get Mickey Mantle’s rookie card! He’s a baseball player.” He saw Walt memorize
Mick-ey Man-tle.
He told him about Superman and Batman, and about Donald Duck and Little Lulu and The Spectre. “Tell your grandkids to buy
Giant-Size X-Men
, number one. And keep it safe,” he said. “And you have to grab
Action Comics
when it comes out—”

The city drew closer quickly. The train slowed as it pulled into Union Station.

The lady roused her daughter. “Goodbye,” Dash said to them as they made their way out into the aisle. It was thronging with people eager to be home.

“What do you say, Beatrice?”

“Goodbye, boy,” the girl said to him. She made a tiny bow to Walt. “Goodbye, other boy.”

Blumenthal waited for them on the platform. Dash rushed over to him.

“Is he coming? Did you ask him?”

“You’re lucky I’m such a good negotiator,” Blumenthal said. “I didn’t just get Harry to agree to come; Jacobson is coming too. They’re going to postpone the Detroit show!”

So good old Sol had come through as well! Dash threw his arms around him. “Oh! You’re amazing! Where is he?”

“Sol says they telegraphed ahead for a car. They’ll be there. What’s wrong with him?” he asked. Walt was coming down the train steps slowly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m exhausted,” said Walt.

“Walt, Houdini’s coming to the show!”

The boys allowed their chaperone to take all the bags and they walked down the stairs into the arrivals concourse.

“Do you think your parents will let you come and see the trick?” Dash asked. “Wouldn’t you like to see it?”

“I can ask,” said Walt, “but I’ll probably be grounded until I’m forty now.”

“Your mother might let you. Maybe she can let you out of the house for just an hour? We’re going to do it at
eleven.
That’s not too late! An’ it’s a Saturday night!”

They walked along under the main hall and then climbed the marble stairs with the polished brass railing into the hubbub and announcements. Dash looked behind him to see Blumenthal fumbling up with the rucksacks and his bags.

“Where is the, you know, the trick?” Dash asked him.

“It’s being delivered separately to the theatre.”

They stepped onto the gleaming floors of the station’s main hall, and immediately they heard Walt’s name being called. Dash saw Mrs. Gibson parting the crowd with her hands.

“Oh, Walter! Sweetheart!”

He ran to his mother. Mr. Gibson brought up the rear with a flat, suffering face. The man was so angry he could barely speak. He waited for his wife and son to finish their reunion and then he gestured for them to come.

“Wait a second,” Dash said, and he ran over to them. “Mr. Gibson, Mrs. Gibson? This was all my fault. I talked him into going with me. He’s such a … a great guy, you know? He couldn’t refuse me when I told him I really needed his help!”

Mr. Gibson pulled Walt beside him and stepped toward Dash. His face was inches away. “It’s up to you what you do with your own life, but you put my only son in the way of trouble? Don’t think I’ll forget it!

“Walt?” said Dash. “Walt? I’m sorry if I got you into trouble. Okay?”

“Sorry if you got him into trouble,” Mr. Gibson sneered.

Walter pushed his father aside and came forward. “Wait, I almost forgot!” He took a small paper bag out of his pocket and shook its contents out into his hand: two small, black rings. He gave one to Dash. “I got them out of a vending machine in the Prince of Wales,” he said. “I thought we could each have one. As souvenirs.”

Dash looked at his friend’s offering and he felt his spirits
sinking. “Give it to me tonight,” he said, trying to hand his back.

But Walter closed Dash’s fingers around the ring.

“In case I don’t make it,” he said.

Then Walter’s mother put her hand on his shoulder, and the three of them walked out into the cold, October air beyond the station doors.

Blumenthal flagged down a cab, and he and Dash got into the back. It was about nine o’clock on a Saturday evening in Toronto. The heavy black vehicle bumped over the cobblestone of downtown as it went up Yonge Street and passed by Wellington and by King.

These were the streets his father had been telling him about when they’d been waiting in line at the Canon Theatre, and Dash had only been half listening. This was the old heart of the city, full of theatres and restaurants, brownstone arcades and white-columned bank buildings facing each other over the busy thoroughfare. It was very much alive now. Little tongues of fire licked up the glass lamps atop their posts along the road. There were people walking arm-in-arm among constellations of gaslight, and the little fragile-looking black cars tooted in and out of traffic. The square, black tops of the Fords were echoed in the round, too-high top hats on the men. It was no wonder no one wore them anymore. They were just silly. Although, he had to admit, they were also kind of cool.

Everyone was out. It was the place to be, Yonge Street. Maybe
there were other places to be—in his own time, there certainly were—but here, this was it. Yonge and King Streets, Yonge and Queen, Yonge and Dundas. Downtown.

It had begun to snow.

Blumenthal directed the driver north. When they came up level with the Pantages, he pointed him onto Victoria Street behind the theatre and had him drop them off at the stage door.

He knocked, then turned around to Dash. “Don’t say anything!”

The door opened. The man who had chased him off the stage with a flashlight five days earlier stood at the bottom of a set of stairs. “Herman,” he said. “I see you made good time.”

“Hello, Charlie. This is the boy I was telling you about.”

Dash offered him his hand. “Dashiel Woolf.”

Gluckman didn’t remember him. Thank goodness. “Nice to meet you. Any friend of Herman’s …”

“Enough with the charm,” Blumenthal said, stepping into the foyer. “We have a problem.”

“Another one?”

“Houdini is coming.”

“WHAT? When?”

“Tonight.”

“He said nothing to me about that.”

Dash stepped in. “He decided on the train. Is there a problem?”

“Well, I didn’t think we were going to have an audience,” said Gluckman.

“You didn’t invite anyone?” Blumenthal was livid.

“Why would I invite anyone, Herman? I’m not your manager anymore! Remember,
you
fired
me
! I’m doing a favour for Harry. Giving you fifteen minutes on my stage, with my lights, and that’s it.
Audience.
”

“You need an audience, Herman,” said Dash.

“I told you to keep quiet.”

“This your new manager?” said Gluckman. “I see you traded up.” Dash wanted to stomp on the man’s foot. “What a head for business you have, Herman.
I’ll
find you an audience.” His lip curled. “For old times’ sake.”

He let them into his theatre.

“Where is he?” Dash whispered to Blumenthal. “Where’s Houdini?”

“He’ll be here, Mr. Manager. Go get yourself fixed up. Someone backstage will iron your suit for you.”

After the paying customers filed out of the Pantages’ eight o’clock show, a different kind of crowd began to form outside the theatre. It was ten now, and the snow was coming down
hard. Men and women, many in shabby coats, some with children, were waiting on the sidewalk. A few of the women carried baskets covered with white cloths.

“So this is my audience,” Blumenthal said gloomily, staring out the door from the lobby. “Fur-cutters and tobacco salesmen. And their big women with baskets fulla kishka.”

“What did you want on two hours’ notice?” asked Gluckman.

“These people
like
magic,” Dash said. “Look at them. Don’t you think they could use some? And I bet they’ll talk about it afterwards.”

The crowd continued to swell on the sidewalk. Blumenthal stood far back in the dark, his shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows. At ten thirty, they opened the doors. Quickly the seats filled up. Gluckman had got the whole of Kensington in on short notice: there were women with kerchiefs and children in little square suits; grandfathers with old black hats; and girls in long pigtails. A pale, bearded man who looked too young to be a father was playing with his three sons in the front row. There were many languages flying around. Dash recognized a little of the German and the Yiddish. There were other languages too: Russian? he thought. Chinese?

He and Blumenthal returned behind the curtains, where men with ladders were scattered over the stage now, working.

“So where’s Harry Houdini?” asked Gluckman, unimpressed.

“He’ll be here,” said Dash.

Dash tuned the men out. All of his thoughts were for Walter.
What chance was there that his parents would let him come? Had they said their final goodbyes in the crowded hall of Union Station? He knew Walt would try his best, but it was getting late. Gluckman’s audience was restless.

Men lowered cables from the ceiling through pulleys. The curtains remained closed.

“Where is your jacket?” Blumenthal said.

“I forgot to get it.”

“Go now, then! The pretty girl in the steaming room already did it, I saw.” He was doing up his tie in the wings. His shirt was clean. He looked good.

“I’m going outside.”

“Where to?”

“Just to get some air.”

“This is for you! Don’t run off.”

“I won’t.”

“Ten minutes.”

Ten minutes. Perhaps somehow, Walt would make it.

Dash grabbed his clean jacket from the laundry office. Hannah, who’d taken the wrinkled shirt off him, now helped him back into it. She helped him put his cufflinks on properly too.

“I saw Herman,” she said, a little shyly.

“Yes. He … seemed happy to see you too.”

“Oh!” She pushed her lips out a little to keep from smiling. “Such a nice man. And so talented!”

He thanked her for the pressed shirt and left through the
stage door, turning the corner toward Yonge Street. The snow was still falling. It gathered on the sidewalk in fluffy clusters like dandelions gone to seed. They puffed away from his feet as he walked.

Out front of the theatre, a few stragglers were arriving late for the free show. Dash went back to the front of the theatre and stood under the marquee lights. He tried to look through the falling snow to the other side, but all the electric light turned the air to fog.
Eaton Centre over there. Dundas Square just up the sidewalk. The streetcars are red.
More latecomers filed in, but Walt was not among them.

Gluckman was in the window of the door behind him, waiting to close the house. When Dash turned back to the road, he felt dizzy. He heard that voice again:
The circle of life
, it said, and applause sounded distantly. He saw a flickering in the snowbound road, like lightning through clouds, headlamps and street lamps breaking through the weather. Gluckman opened one of the doors and called to him.

“Hurry up!”

“What about Houdini?”

“He got here an hour ago. He wouldn’t come in until the house lights were down. His wheelchair is in the aisle, third row. Now get going.”

Dash ran to the dim hallway that led backstage. He was panting, frightened, but also excited. It dawned on him suddenly that if
he
was
going home, it would be mere minutes from now. He stopped in the wings and saw Blumenthal standing out there on the stage, lit by candles. The magician bowed slightly to him. Dash pulled his suit jacket down hard on his shoulders and nodded his readiness.

Gluckman was in the opposite wing. He pulled the curtains open and dimmed the house lights slightly, then more, and the audience fell silent. Dash looked out into the audience. All those open, expectant faces. He saw Houdini in the third row on the aisle—the seat that would have been Alex’s in the Canon Theatre. His wheelchair was empty in the aisle.

And Sol Jacobson was in the seat beside him. His face was a mask. No expression at all, like he was asleep with his eyes open.

Herman Blumental stepped forward. Then Wolfgang appeared, dashing into a circle of light with a wand in his mouth.
Oh no, not the stupid squirrel.
Blumenthal leaned down to take the wand from his assistant’s mouth. Dash had to admit Blumenthal was resplendent. As dazzling as a boney, messy-haired man could be, standing before them all in his borrowed suit. He even had a top hat. He took a bow. There were hoots and people applauded and beat their boots against the floor of the theatre. Wolfgang posed respectfully on Blumenthal’s shoulder, facing forward, chittering at the audience.

“Welcome!” he called. “I am Blumenthal the Believer. And tonight, I have something very special to show to you. Miss Strauss, please?”

Miss Strauss?

It was the lady from backstage. Hannah. She was coming on from behind Dash, and she laid a hand on his shoulder as she went past. He saw Blumenthal beaming at her, and she suddenly skipped a little and ran toward him, carrying in one hand a metal ring about three feet in diameter.

Hannah held the ring up in the air. She turned it this way and that.

“What is this, this circle of life?” Blumenthal began, taking the ring from her. “Such a mystery … how we get here, what happens to us, why we find the people we find.” He looked past the footlights at Houdini, who was still wearing his sunglasses.

“There are little
shapes
in the universe all around us,” Blumenthal said. “Close up and far away! Inside, outside, under! It gets so a person doesn’t know what way is up. But tonight …
tonight
, my friends … I will cast a light upon its dark mysteries!”

He winked and opened his right hand. A bolt of fire flew off his palm. The audience applauded for him. “For my big trick tonight, I propose we do the impossible!”

He clapped his hands twice and held them out. One went toward Hannah, the other toward Dash in the wings. Dash came onstage. They’d practised a little graceful entrance for him.

“Are you not going to take a volunteer?” came a voice from the audience.

It was Jacobson. He was standing. Houdini put his arm out to sit him down, but Jacobson shook him off. “I heard about what you’re going to do tonight, and I object!”

“In what way, sir, do you object?” asked Blumenthal. He seemed surprised by Jacobson’s interruption.

“You claim this will be the greatest trick ever performed. Other magicians have earned that mantle, sir. You have not. And you claim you can vanish this boy
without a trace.
”

“Indeed, and that is what I intend to do.”

“Then I have a challenge for you, oh great magician,” said Jacobson. “I have brought a few friends along. Perhaps you will let them stand at all the exits—both to the theatre and the auditorium—to monitor all the wings and the backstage area,
and
below-stage as well?”

“The more the merrier!” said Blumenthal.

Dash tried to keep a straight face. Clearly, they had planned this. To ramp up the excitement. No one knew who Jacobson was, and not a soul in the place had any suspicion of who the little man in sunglasses was in the seat beside him.

“You are a doubter, are you?” said Blumenthal.

“Powerfully,” said Jacobson.

“Well, if you insist, I have no choice. Bring in your men.”

Jacobson clapped his hands twice and the rear doors of the auditorium flew open. A file of men in dark blue uniforms entered. Gluckman had raised the lights a little so people could see: they were policemen. Dash shot a look at Blumenthal, and he saw on the man’s face that he had not been expecting Jacobson’s friends to be the law. He carried on gamely.

“Well … Mr. Woolf, if you wouldn’t mind—”

“Do you really think Harry Houdini would lend his name to
your pitiful cause?” snarled Jacobson. “You two charlatans? Go ahead and do your trick now. See if we don’t find you out!”

Houdini was asking him to sit. The policemen went everywhere, into the wings, to the front of the audience, down the stairs that led to the traps beneath the stage.

Blumenthal gave Dash the ring, and he knew exactly where to put it. He looked up when he got to his spot. The fly space above appeared empty. The second ring wasn’t up there. “Wolfgang?” the magician called. The squirrel had appeared again at the edge of the stage. The audience laughed nervously. They weren’t sure what was going on.

Jacobson finally took his seat as Wolfgang leapt into their midst, causing a minor uproar, and finally, jumped up onto a rope that crossed overhead. One end was secured to the railing of the second balcony, the other vanished into the flies. In the middle of the rope was the second metal ring.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” said Blumenthal.

The squirrel ran down the rope and went to work on it with his teeth. Bits of frayed fibre drifted down into the audience. When the last strand broke, Wolfgang jumped onto the disk as it looped down toward the stage. Dash leapt back—it looked like the squirrel and ring might crash into the backdrop, but just as it came to the level of the stage, it suddenly straightened, like the rope had gone solid, and then it clacked down into place.

Blumenthal went over to it as the crowd broke into nervous applause. The magician nimbly untied the rope from the disk just as cables descended over the ring on the stage. He carried
the ring to the cables and made a small show of attaching the cables to steel eyes distributed around the rim of the upper ring. The whole apparatus now rose and hovered about eight feet above the stage.

“If you will,” said Blumenthal to Dash.

Dash stepped into the ring on the stage floor. Blumenthal walked away from him, to the front of the stage, and leaned into the dark where his audience sat. He spoke to them quietly, confidentially—Dash couldn’t hear what he was saying. But he saw the hundreds of eyes gleaming in the dark beyond the magician, watching him intently, wanting to be amazed. Jacobson was sitting there with his arms crossed. But he was watching too.

The cops at the back of the auditorium locked the doors.

Walt
, thought Dash.

The lights dimmed.

Blumenthal returned to his side. “Ready?” he whispered.

“Not really.”

“But we go on anyway.”

“If this doesn’t work, we’re both going to be in trouble.”

“Then it had better work,” said Blumenthal.

There was the whir of pulleys and the upper ring lowered again. It passed over Dash’s head.

The magician intoned: “The line that divides life from death”—the upper ring clanked against the lower—”is as thin as the bubble that will now encase this young man.”

There was a pause, and then the upper ring began to ascend again. A shimmering film of soap came up with it.

Dash lifted his eyes and saw sets of cables moving in different directions above him. Some all the way into the flies, some not as high. And … he was almost sure of it … there was a
third
ring as well.

“Hello?” said Blumenthal, interrupting his study. He was looking at Dash through the soap bubble.

“Sorry.”

“As I was
saying
: only in magic can you disappear and … and then?”

It was cold now; the air felt like it was tightening around him. The bubble began to waver before his eyes.

“And then?” Blumenthal repeated.

“Come back,” said Dashiel Woolf.