The Confabulist (15 page)

“Needless to say,” Grigoriev continued, “the interest the royal family has shown has eliminated any chance of Zubatov punishing you for embarrassing him. I think his days as head of the Okhrana are numbered anyway.”

“Would you like a drink to celebrate, Mr. Grigoriev?” Bess asked.

“Of course, that would be fine.”

Bess brought two glasses of brandy and handed one to Grigoriev, who took note that Bess didn’t bring Houdini one, and paused.

“Will you be joining us in a drink?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t drink,” Houdini said. “As a magician I cannot afford to dull my senses.”

Grigoriev chuckled. “Fair enough. As a member of the Romanov household, I can’t afford not to.” He raised his glass to Bess and took a large mouthful, swallowing it without any indication whether he enjoyed it or not.

“Tomorrow night, should the czar ask you to have a drink with him, I suggest you relax your policy. As well, should the czar attempt to give you money, you would do well to decline. If you accept, the royal family will see you as a commoner, which would greatly diminish you in their eyes.”

Houdini was about to protest that he was a commoner, then thought better of it.

“I must ask one thing of you, Mr. Houdini. The czar and czarina are extremely susceptible to fraudulent holy men. We have just succeeded in ridding ourselves of a man known as Philippe de Lyon, who using hypnosis convinced them that he could predict the future.
Only after several incorrect and very public predictions that the czarina was pregnant with a son did we convince them that he was a charlatan. As I understand it, you do not suppose that you have mystical powers?”

Houdini smiled. “No, I do not suppose so. Everything I do is by natural means.”

“So any man could do what you do if he had access to your secrets?”

“No, I don’t think so. I have cultivated and mastered abilities that few men would have either the patience or talent for.”

He took off one shoe and sock and removed a length of rope from his pocket. He didn’t look down, stared Grigoriev straight in the eye, while the toes on his left foot tied the rope into a series of knots and then untied them.

Grigoriev clapped his hands together, almost forgetting the glass of brandy he held. “Wonderful,” he said, laughing. Bess smiled as well, and Houdini put his shoe and sock back on and returned the rope to his pocket. “Best of all, I think, is that you keep a rope in your pocket.” Grigoriev threw back the remainder of his glass and stood. “I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to tonight. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’m sure the royal family is in for a treat.”

“What on earth are we going to do for them?” Bess demanded as soon as he was gone. “We can’t pack in props or any large equipment.”

“Don’t worry,” Houdini said. “I have some ideas.” He went to the desk in the corner of the room, sat, and took out some paper and a pen. Bess crossed behind him, pouring herself another drink.

“Are you writing a letter?”

“I am,” he replied, not looking up, writing quickly.

“To who?”

“Mother, of course.” The coded message to Wilkie was indeed addressed to his mother. He hated lying to Bess, but even more he hated how easy it was becoming, how he was able to do it almost offhandedly.

“Oh.” She sat down on the far side of the room.

He thought of his mother, far away at home. He missed her. “Ehrie,” she would say, “you should not have become involved with such men. No good will come of it. Do your tricks, entertain people. Be a good husband. That’s what you’re best at.”

He put his pen down. Perhaps the letter could wait. He turned to Bess. “I was thinking we’d do some close-up, and a couple of other things I’ve got worked out.”

“That sounds fine,” she said without enthusiasm.

He thought she wasn’t upset at him so much as she was worn down by the seeming futility of his endeavours. He was beginning to think there might be a fundamental flaw in his approach to life, the way he set about attaining goals that never seemed to bring him any real peace or happiness. But he wasn’t sure what to do about this other than simply redouble his efforts. When he did finally succeed in a manner that satisfied him, she would also be fulfilled. He was sure of it.

The next evening a carriage brought them to Kleinmichel Palace. Houdini had spent the day preparing, and whatever mood had overtaken Bess the night before had run its course. They soon found themselves in a high-ceilinged room, surrounded by various members of the Romanov family. Grigoriev chaperoned him around the room, speaking in French or English or Russian depending on the
situation and translating for him when necessary. They paused in front of a painting that he was pretty sure was a Rembrandt.

When he returned home his mother would want the whole story, as would both Wilkie and Melville, though they’d be interested in entirely different details. He noted the marble floors, polished to a high sheen, the plush Persian rugs, the ornately carved furniture. He catalogued the elaborate dresses and the pomp of the uniforms and formal wear on the men. Nearly everyone in the room was wearing diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. He had recently, at great expense, purchased for his mother a dress made for Queen Victoria. What he saw now made him feel fraudulent.

“Are you ready to begin?” Grigoriev asked him. “The czar will arrive at any moment.”

Houdini swallowed.

“The royal family is divided into those who believe in these so-called holy men and spiritualists, and those who do not. Your hosts tonight, Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich and Grand Duchess Elizabeth, do not, while Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra do.”

“And how are they all related?”

Grigoriev shook his head. “It’s a spider’s web. The grand duke is uncle to the czar, and the grand duchess and the czarina are sisters, German princesses from the House of Hesse and granddaughters of Queen Victoria.”

Grigoriev motioned toward two young men standing in the far corner. “Those handsome gentlemen are Grand Duke Dimitri, the czar’s cousin, and Prince Felix Yusupov, one of the wealthiest men in Russia. They’re lovers. Prince Felix has been off at Oxford, and things have been going badly between them since his return.”

Houdini observed the two men, who were each surveying the room as though looking for something interesting and not finding it. They seemed like everyone else, an odd mixture of casual power and arrogance combined with a naïveté, as though they were completely unaware of the true nature of the position they occupied on this earth.

Bess was speaking with Grand Duchess Elizabeth, an extremely attractive woman of about forty. The grand duchess seemed absorbed by whatever Bess was saying. He smiled. Back when they were living in that one-room tenement in New York, would she have believed that she’d be making small talk with ranking members of the House of Romanov?

At that moment all heads turned toward the entrance. It reminded Houdini of the way a flock of birds changed direction in flight, each individual moving exactly the same way. Conversations halted midsentence.

The czar and czarina had arrived. The czar appeared somewhat younger than Houdini had expected. He wore black evening clothes with a high white collar and no visible sign of his rank. His beard was trimmed longer than was the general fashion but it suited him. His eyes were lively, and unlike some of the other men in the room he didn’t look to be a complete fool. The czarina did not share her sister’s good looks. While she was not exactly ugly, Houdini found her somewhat equine, though she carried herself with all of the grace befitting her upbringing.

Grand Duke Sergei and Grand Duchess Elizabeth stepped forward and bowed, and the rest of the room followed suit. Houdini joined in, and after a moment everyone rose and the music resumed.

Bess returned to his side and he took her hand. She smiled at him, and he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“Well, my dear, it looks like it’s time for us to begin.”

Before the assembled crowd he went through a series of sleight-of-hand moves, some close-up magic. Then he did the Needles, inviting Grand Duchess Elizabeth to pull the needles from his hand.

Both the czar and Grigoriev were watching him intently. There was a way that people often watched a magician, where their attention was focused on his actions, trying to divine the means with which he was able to perform his feats. While Czar Nicholas was looking at him like a man who already knew a secret, Grigoriev was looking at him as though he’d just discovered one.

He had one remaining trick, and it was a good one.

“I would like, if you may permit me, to ask a favour of you all,” he said in his most commanding voice. Bess began to pass slips of paper out, and then pencils. “I would like to perform an impossible task. Please write, as briefly as you can, something you would like me to do, something impossible. My dear wife will gather your suggestions when you finish.”

A murmur rose. Houdini saw the grand duchess whisper into her husband’s ear and smile at him, and the czar was participating as well. After a few minutes he signalled Bess to collect the slips of paper from each person and drop them in a hat.

Houdini retrieved the hat from Bess and approached the czar and czarina. He bowed.

“Your Imperial Majesty, would you be so kind as to draw one of the suggestions, at your pleasure, from the hat and read it aloud?”

The czar reached into the hat and his hand emerged with a slip of paper. He slowly unfolded it, read it to himself, and smiled.

“Mr. Houdini,” he said, in lightly accented English, “I fear you’ve
done yourself in.” He showed the paper to his wife, who also smiled, and turned to the room. “Ring the bells of the Kremlin.”

Houdini kept his face blank as people laughed or gasped. He let it go for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What’s so difficult about ringing a couple of bells?”

Grand Duchess Elizabeth spoke. “My dear Houdini, the bells of the Kremlin haven’t been rung in at least a hundred years.”

The czar nodded. “I would think that the ropes have long since rotted away. I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.”

Houdini frowned, though he knew full well that twenty years earlier the clapper from one of the bells had fallen onto a crowd of worshippers, killing nearly a hundred people, after which it had been decreed that the bells not be repaired. “Oh dear. That’s too bad. Well, let’s have a look anyway.” He smiled at Grand Duchess Elizabeth. “Which of these windows faces the Kremlin?”

Grand Duchess Elizabeth led him to a set of large double doors which gave onto a balcony. She opened them and stepped outside. Houdini followed her, with the czar, czarina, and others close behind. The Kremlin was visible, far in the distance, illuminated by moonlight. It had begun to snow. Houdini frowned.

“This will indeed be a difficult feat. But I must try.” He bowed his head in concentration and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He waved it back and forth in the air, slowly at first, arcing his arm until his hand was above his head. He held it there, motionless, until he was sure every eye was locked onto it. Then he let the handkerchief go and the entire assembly of Russia’s most powerful family watched it fall to the ground.

It lay on the floor for a second, and it seemed as if this was all that would happen. Then, muffled by the falling snow, the sound of a
bell ringing could be heard, followed by another, until the clamouring of bells punched into the room.

The czar’s eyes widened, his mouth half open with shock or incredulity or both. Someone cheered and people began to clap. The czar grabbed Houdini’s hand and raised it in the air in triumph. Bess beamed at him, and from the other end of the world Houdini could feel his mother’s pride. The czar leaned toward him, his lips close to his ear.

“I have been waiting for you, magician. Welcome to Russia.”

It snowed heavily throughout the night in Moscow. In the morning Houdini snuck out of bed, leaving Bess asleep, and went down to the lobby of the hotel to get breakfast. There were a dozen or so people in the restaurant, and he tried to determine which if any of them were Okhrana. There was no way to tell. Everyone seemed suspicious but no one stood out as exceptional. He shook his head—he was becoming paranoid.

His food had not yet arrived when Grigoriev sat down at his table without acknowledging him or asking permission. As usual he was dressed in black and his pale hair was impeccably neat.

“Well, Houdini, you’re extremely fortunate you’re not in jail right now,” he said.

Houdini smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Was last night not to your liking?”

“I don’t think you do understand. You were there last night as a guest of the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich. The governor-general of Moscow, the man who directly controls Chief Zubatov. The purpose of your visit was to put on a show that made the point
that you do not possess magical powers. Instead you managed to convince the czar that you are some sort of wizard.”

“I never told the czar I had any occult powers.”

“Don’t be coy with me. You know what you did.” Grigoriev hailed a waiter and ordered coffee.

“I’m sorry for any trouble.”

“Sorry doesn’t matter. I was up most of the night attempting to convince the grand duke not to have you sent to Siberia.”

Houdini took a sip of his tea. “I’ve already escaped from your wagon.”

The waiter returned and set down the coffee. Houdini could tell that he’d misplayed this situation.

“Should it be wished that you were to be contained,” Grigoriev said, ignoring the coffee, “you would be placed in the Black Maria with only five digits on each hand to help you. You’re a clever man, Houdini, I give you that. When your wife palmed everyone’s slips of paper I wasn’t sure what you were up to. I assume all of the papers in the hat read the same thing. You’re lucky the snow didn’t stop you from signalling your confederate with your handkerchief. The same confederate who fired a series of gunshots at the bells of the Kremlin.”

Houdini said nothing. He didn’t know how Grigoriev had ascertained his secrets, but it was remarkable and frightening.