Escape (40 page)

'So, Jonny, you must be exhausted after that show. I don't know
how you do it – two hours performing at that pace. It's incredible.'

Jonny bows his head humbly, patting his stomach. 'That's why I
have to look after myself. No one else to do the job for me.'

'Well . . . !' I wish
I
could. I look into his storm-grey eyes. 'You were
marvellous, quite breathtaking. And you made it look
easy
. I loved the
quiet way you began the show – that was so original, that light trick. I
haven't seen it before. What's it called?'

'The Light from Nowhere. I'm glad you liked it – not everyone is
impressed by that illusion. It's kinda subtle, less showy than a lotta my
tricks.'

'Oh, I thought it was wonderful. It's like a symbol, isn't it, like
hope or something? You know, an idea flickering, hardly there? You
can't catch it, hold it in your hand – you just have to experience it, and
remember.' The wine is settling inside like a blanket, soothing me. I
lean forward confidingly. 'I think that's what magic is all about.'

Jonny leans back in his chair, glass in hand. 'Why, thank you,
Rachel. It's good to hear you enjoyed it.' He smiles, and his knee briefly
brushes mine. 'I think we're going to get along just fine.'

'Oh yes! And of course I've been madly pondering how the trick
was done. Extensions or wires or—'

Jonny laughs. 'And of course I can't let you in on that secret.
Magicians' rule book.'

'Yes, tantalising . . .'

Jonny takes off his jacket. A semi-transparent white shirt, shot
through with a silver thread, reveals a ripple of muscle as he turns to
hang the jacket on the back of his chair. I think of the tiger on the end
of Jonny's leash, the power of its shoulders as it padded across the
stage. I try not to look at Jonny's chest through his shirt. 'And that finale
with the tiger – extraordinary, so brave! The structure of the show was
extremely satisfying. And very original, I thought, very artistic. The
quiet beginning leading up to the explosive ending. I mean, really, a
tiger! I'd love to know how you got that animal to behave. Now you've
set the bar – a tiger whisperer as well as a magician!' I beam at him.
And a pirate as well, with your dashing torso and mermaid tattoo
. 'Do
you do that trick every night?'

'No, only every second night. Really, it wreaks havoc on my
system. My doctor says I'm allergic to fur, and my nasal passages
run riot. I can't take antihistamine of course because of the side-effect
of drowsiness. It's a goddamn pain in the ass – and last year
I got a sinus infection that took months to clear up. Had to put
a towel over my head and breathe over a sink filled with boiling
water.' He sniffs loudly. 'Steam is good for clearing the airways.
Especially with a drop or two of eucalyptus. I'm thinking of getting
rid of the tiger.'

'Oh.' Somehow I don't like thinking of Jonny with sinus. Not at all
piratical.

'Ah, here's the bread,' he says, as the waiter places a basket and my
glass of wine on the table. Oh
good
, I think, it'll be garlic or herb bread,
lightly toasted, a treat you never have at home.

'Organic wholemeal,' says Jonny, offering me the basket. 'Good
for the digestion.'

'Thank you.' I look around for the butter. There is none.

'Butter is bad for the heart and hardens the arteries,' Jonny
remarks.

Silence falls while Jonny chews his bread. I wish I could think
of a perfect line to restart the conversation. Possibilities hover in my
mind, float past, dissolve before I can catch them.
You can never hope
for brilliance
, says the voice.
Hope is just an illusion, like the light from
nowhere. Don't hope.

'So where do you hope to go from here?' I ask.

'I beg your pardon?' Jonny is inspecting his second slice of bread.

'I mean, your approach to magic is revolutionary – the way
you're always transforming the content of your show. First you
cultivated a female assistant into a partner, and now you're taming
tigers. You seem to reinvent yourself continually.
You'd
never get
into a rut!'

'They say the only difference between a rut and the grave is how
big the hole.' He smiles. 'You
have
been doing your research, what a
good student.' His fingers stretch out across the table. His filed nails
touch my notebook. 'And what have you got in here? Have you always
been a writer?'

A writer. It's strange to hear a man as creative as Jonny refer to me
like that. What I write about – bees, diseases – it's hardly in his league,
but the thought is more intoxicating than wine. A
writer
. I want to
reach out and touch Jonny's hand.

The waiter arrives with the risotto.

'Ah!' Jonny's face breaks open with pure joy. 'My guardian angel!'

'I beg to disagree, sir,' he says, 'just a waiter doing his job,' but his
face lights up just like Jonny's.

'Start before it gets cold, Rachel, it's too good to waste. You know,
after a show I'm always ravenous, empty as a drum. If I don't eat, I feel
as if my stomach is corroding with the acids of nervous tension. Why,
I'm eating myself alive. Ah, but this rice, it's so soothing, nourishing . . .
you know, I'm glad I came to Australia, even just for this culinary
delight.'

'So you come here each night after the show?'

'Yes. My room is just upstairs and you know, the service here is
mighty fine, so personal, I've never seen anything like it. And I've
travelled a lot, as you can imagine, stayed in many different places
around the world.'

'It was great to see you do the Bohemian Torture Crib. I've read
about it, but never seen it performed live. It's your own invention,
isn't it? I read that somewhere, a poster I think it was, advertising your
Chicago show.'

He shift ed in his chair. 'Are you going to print that?'

'What?'

'About the Bohemian Torture Crib being my . . .'

'Well, yes, I'd like to.'

He sighs. Then he picks up his fork and ploughs on with his meal.

'Well,' I say, 'I won't mention ownership if you don't want me to,
although I don't see why you shouldn't be proud of—'

'No, no. See, it's like this.' He sounds impatient. 'Magicians never
let real life get in the way of entertaining patter. It's just part of the act.
The creative nature of our profession. We have to pretend to
invent
everything, but if you really have to know, I didn't invent that chain
escape. Others like it I have for sure, but you betta not print that one.
Off the record it was John Novak who came up with it, but there's no
need to put that guy's name in there. I don't want my book to be used
for advertising other magicians. Hard enough to make a living as it is,
ha ha!'

'Oh, absolutely!' John Novak. I knew his name. He'd written a
series of excellent manuals – such generosity of information, warnings,
advice, dedication to other magicians. I used his Siberian Chain act
for Clara's school concert. I'd
like
to mention him – I should, in fact.
Maybe I could do that in my introduction.
My book
.

'It doesn't matter of course who invented what trick, it's how
they're performed that's important, of course,' Jonny goes on.

'Of course!'

'And the Bohemian Torture Crib isn't some amazing new
phenomenon, immaculately conceived. It's just a reworking of
the Australian Torture Crib that inspired it.' He burps softly
and winces, pats his mouth with his serviette. 'You see, just the
thought of all this gives me acid.' He puts down his fork with
deliberation, about to make a set speech. 'The improving of the
act, the beautifying of it, if you like, is one of the creative aspects of
escapology. It goes on constantly, like evolution. Something most
people don't appreciate.' He swallows and leans forward. 'But I'm
lucky to have found someone as perceptive as you. I know
you
get
it.' He grins suddenly, and looks boyish, mischievous, and I can't
help grinning back.

'And so tell me, exactly how are you related to Houdini? I found
that discovery so exciting!'

Jonny smiles again, but it is fleeting. 'Sometimes I wish I'd never
made that public. People get so caught up in origins and history, they
forget the present. And magic of course is all
about
the moment.' He
helps himself to another slice of wholemeal, breaking it up into small
pieces and mushing it into his risotto with his fork until it is completely
camouflaged. 'Excellent roughage.' He fishes out a soggy piece and
holds it on the end of his fork like a specimen in a laboratory. 'See these
seeds? They work away at your small bowel like champion diggers.
Getting enough fibre is always important but never more so than
when you're travelling. Airline food's atrocious, packet food lethal.
Blocks you up like a plug. Then of course sleeping habits are changed,
patterns interrupted, environments different. Take air conditioning,
for example. How often do you have to put on a sweater in a hotel on a
hot summer's day? Invariably that kind of fierce air conditioning gives
me a cold. And then how can a guy perform? This risotto is delicious,
don't you agree?'

'Oh yes, delicious.'

'And pumpkin, of course, any orange vegetable bursts with
vitamin A. Excellent antioxidant. What was I saying?'

'About magic and the moment. But actually, I
am
interested in
your origins, particularly the Houdini element—'

'Oh, it goes way back,' Jonny sighs with the wave of a hand. 'See,
Houdini's father was married before he met Harry's mother. Samuel
Weiss. He and his first wife lived in Budapest and had a son, but
the wife died in childbirth. So the thing is,
I
have Jewish Hungarian
ancestry, and my forefathers lived in the same area as the Weiss family.
But most Jews of that time were on the run from anti-Semitism.' He
sighs, shakes his head. 'A historian has been tracing my roots back to
that first son and his ancestors, but it's very hard to be specific when
names were changed and disguise was necessary. Harry's family of
course fled Budapest for America because of the pogroms. As did
mine. That was a truly great escape act, eh?'

'Yes, but—'

'
Your
name is Jewish in origin, isn't it? Rachel, I mean.'

'Yes, from the Old Testament, but it's a pretty common name
now, isn't it?' So tenuous, his connection to Harry. How can people
make these huge claims without a solid body of facts? How can they
sleep at night? But maybe that's just me – I'm probably judging this
too stringently.

'There's nothing I find very common about
you
, Rachel.' His eyes
search mine and hold them.

The waiter bobs back, filling up Jonny's glass with mineral water.
'Another bottle, sir?'

'Yeah, okay.'

'And for madam?

'Oh no, all good, thanks.'

Jonny turns to watch the waiter's retreating back. 'You know, it'd
be mighty fine to take that waiter guy back with me. He's respectful,
knows his place, does his job. Now there's an assistant I could handle.'

I realise I'm not getting far.
Do your damn job
, says the voice.

'That was one of the things I particularly wanted to ask you about,
Jonny. It's great to have this opportunity to talk with you in the flesh.'
I wince at the word flesh.
Carnivore
. 'What I mean is, I so admired the
way you were able to revolutionise your show, taking on a partner.
Giving up some control by sharing it with another person – when
being a magician is all
about
control. Was it difficult?'

'Well, now, that's an interesting question! I must say it's gratifying
being interviewed by someone as intelligent as you are. And attractive,
might I add.'

I duck my head, speechless. I look at the plate. Is he flirting? Surely
not. I look up. He smiles, his eyes alive.

'On stage, magicians often look as though they're powerless, not
in control – take levitation, when it's done well it looks effortless,
as if we're just lift ed off the floor by some natural phenomenon. But
no, working with another person meant I had to take more control,
if anything. Teaching, rehearsing, managing moods, timing – damn
tricky. Sure, there are less problems working alone. But the rewards of
working with a professional female can be sky-high. And the box-office
knows it! The most important word here is
professional
. You gotta pick
a woman who knows she's attractive to men and is prepared to use
her female charms. As I told Carole, escapology is an ideal medium
for women – it's universal knowledge that the image of a helpless
woman with her hands tied above her head is straight-out erection
material. That's just the way it is. Even if she's fully clothed – let's say in
a spray-on jump suit – the mere sight of her voluptuous torso writhing
to escape a chain is deeply arousing to men.'

His eyes sweep over my face and down to
my
torso. I can't think of
anything to say.

'But you gotta pick the right woman. You don't want those
hypocritical types batting their eyelashes and whining, upsetting
your program at the last minute with that "oh you don't expect me to
wear that!" stuff or "I didn't know you meant this" or "why can't I do
it my way?" I'll tell you something, Rachel – you know why women
don't succeed? You want me to tell you? Because they are their own
worst enemies, that's why. They're jealous of other women. Women
won't come to see a female escape artist. They're too jealous. They
won't support a good-looking woman enjoying some success. Are you
kidding me? No, the female is a competitive predator.'

Something bitter is rising in my throat. Maybe the deleterious
acids of the pinot noir are wreaking havoc with my digestion. Maybe
Carole's callous betrayal of Jonny has poisoned his view of women,
maybe she became a lesbian and ran off with another woman. He must
have felt so alone, abandoned. 'The break-up of a marriage must be
especially difficult when the partners are part of a professional team,'
I suggest.