The Confabulist (2 page)

E
VERY SEAT IN THE OPERA HOUSE IN
G
ARNETT
, K
ANSAS
, was filled. Any free place to stand was occupied. The electric lights hummed and radiated heat, every particle of dust in the room whirling as though alive. From where he stood at centre stage Houdini, already a veteran performer at twenty-three, could feel the crowd breathe as a single organism. The room was his to do with as he pleased.

His wife, Bess, sat in a chair to his right, shrouded by a sheet. It was for effect—the spirit reading they were doing required no such concealment, but a little misdirection never hurt. These parlour tricks were all about the showmanship. He disliked them. There was no point to it if there wasn’t any skill involved.

Three years earlier, when his new bride had still been superstitious and ignorant, he had begun to teach her the tricks of a false medium.
Her sister’s fiancé had died as a result of what Bess believed was the evil eye. At first he’d thought she was joking, but when he’d realized the extent of her belief he’d decided to show her what a simple matter deception was.

He waited until it seemed that Bess had cried herself out, and then smiled at her. “You’ve never told me your father’s first name,” he said. She opened her mouth, but he hushed her. “Write it on a piece of paper and fold it up.”

As she wrote he paced away, appearing lost in thought. He couldn’t understand how people believed such things. No, he could. There was a time he believed as she did. Maybe he still did a little.

He’d been gutting it out in the low-end museum shows of vaudeville for years without success. His brother Dash had been his partner, but once Houdini married Bess there wasn’t room in the show for three people. The act could barely support two—their one-room tenement was evidence of that. It pulsed with smoke, rats, and clamour. In a few days they’d give it up to go back on the road.

He turned back to her. She was trying to act calm, but he could tell she was nervous. She held a folded square of paper.

“Burn it on the stove,” he said.

She did as he directed, and he rolled up his left sleeve.

“Very few things in this world are as they seem,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t an explanation for them. We are surrounded by what we do not understand. We will always be surrounded by what we do not understand. The mind plays tricks on us, makes connections that aren’t there. We must remain on guard against the deception of our own minds. If we can stop our minds from deceiving us, then we can stop the treachery of others.”

Houdini went to the stove and put his fingers in the burned
remnants of the paper. He rubbed the ash from the paper between his thumb and fingers, and then briskly up and down his forearm. He extended his arm toward her. Her face went from grief to rage and then, unexpectedly, to fear. Bess slowly backed away from him, hands outstretched, until she reached the door and ran from the room. On his forearm the name Gebhardt rose from his skin.

Houdini lowered his head and closed his eyes. Bess was prone to these sorts of outbursts, but he hadn’t intended for this to happen. So often this was the case; he thought he was being reasonable and full of sense but now he’d only made things worse.

He caught up to her on the street. Where she was going he had no idea, but when he finally stopped her they were both panting.

“The devil, you are the devil—my husband has been taken!” She kicked at him, and tried to bite him as he embraced her.

“It’s me, Bessie. I’m no devil. Come back and I’ll show you how I did it. It’s just a trick.”

She didn’t believe him, but she came with him anyway. Her eyes flitted from left to right, plotting escape. But he could see her realize that if he was the lord of darkness then escape was not possible. If the devil asks you to dance, you dance as well as you can. He could feel her resignation and fear.

With his arm around her they walked back up the street and ascended three flights of fetid stairwell, stepping over a man passed out on the second-floor landing. Back in their room he sat her down in the chair by the stove.

“Look here,” he said. He rolled up his left sleeve and took a vial of clear liquid and a toothpick from his pocket. “When you were writing down your father’s name, which I have known since a few days after we first met, I was doing this.”

He opened the vial and poured the liquid on his forearm. “Salt water,” he said. He breathed hard on his arm and the water evaporated. Then he took the toothpick and scratched out a message on his skin. “You have to wait until the initial redness fades,” he said. “It only takes a minute or so.”

There was nothing visible on his arm now. “It will bear inspection. It’s key to know just how hard to press into your skin. Too hard and your markings will be visible. Too soft and the effect won’t work.”

He took some ash from the stove and rubbed it over his arm. “You can use varnish thinned with turpentine and paint the name on your arm—then the ash will stick only to the varnish, but I find the effect lesser.” She read what he had written and held out her hand.

He placed the vial of salt water and toothpick in her palm. She did as he had instructed, waiting for the water to disappear and then etching into herself with the toothpick. She refused to look at him. It seemed to him that much more time than was necessary went by before she dipped her hand into the ash and moved it over her arm. She hid her arm from his view and looked at him. His arm read

Forgive me

The fear and skepticism left her face. Her shoulders dropped and her whole body seemed to slacken. She stepped toward him, her arm extended.

I do

She’d lost her sense of superstition after that, becoming a valuable part of his show. Their modest act took them from shabby dime museums into larger theatre engagements, though they were still living hand to mouth. Houdini now felt sure he was on the verge of a breakthrough. He signed on with Dr. Hill’s California Concert
Company, but soon heard rumours it was about to go bankrupt. In Garnett, Kansas, Dr. Hill asked Houdini for an act that would fill the house. So Bess agreed to another séance, even though it was risky.

From behind the sheet, Bess spoke, her voice high and ethereal.

“Is there a Harold Osbourne present here tonight? And his wife, Mary, as well?”

There was a rustling sound as people looked around to see who among them was being summoned.

Houdini stepped forward. “Is there anyone here who wishes to receive this message?” He made a show of peering out like a man looking through fog for a ship.

A couple in their late twenties and modestly dressed stood up. The man held out his arm to support his wife, and Houdini couldn’t tell if they were afraid or excited. “I’m Harold Osbourne, and this is my wife,” he said, firm and clear.

Bess waited for the crowd to quiet. “I have a message from little Joe.”

“Is this message for you?” Houdini asked, pointing at the couple. The man tried to speak, but either changed his mind or was unable. After a moment he nodded his head.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Houdini said, “please give your full attention to the stage, as the spirit world has a message for our dear Osbournes. It is of utmost importance that you allow the spirits to speak now, for the sake of both the spirits and these good people.”

Bess didn’t move. People whispered, shifted in their seats. The tension in the room reminded Houdini of holding a wishbone with
one of his brothers, each pulling it apart, knowing it would snap but not when. Bess remained quiet until the theatre was completely silent. “Little Joe says he’s in a happy place,” Bess intoned. “And he says, ‘Don’t cry, Mama. There will soon be another to take my place.’ ”

Those in the room who knew the Osbournes gasped, and the woman lost hold of her husband’s arm and slumped back. Word circulated that the couple had recently buried their six-year-old son, Joe, and that Mrs. Osbourne was two months pregnant. Slowly the furor rose, with cries of “Can you get a message from my father?” and “My wife, is she there?”

Houdini let this go on for a while, and when the crowd reached a frenzied pitch, he announced that the medium was spent and would rest for the night. He thanked the audience and made a pretense of removing the shroud and helping an exhausted Bess from her chair. She looked out into the theatre at the parents of the dead boy, her face blank. She didn’t resist him as he guided her offstage, nor did she go of her own accord. Her body remained stiff to the touch, like an overstarched collar, until she could no longer see the couple; then he felt her relax. The curtain fell and they stood there, listening to applause punctuated by desperate shouts. After ten minutes there was still no sign of anyone leaving. Dr. Hill, fat, white-bearded, and professorial, ushered them down the hall, breathless and grinning.

“It’ll be full houses from here on in,” he chortled, his jowls rolling. Bess glanced at Houdini and he knew that look, fuming and inflexible. He worried she was about to go off on Dr. Hill, so he stepped between them and put his arm around the promoter.

“I’m glad, Doctor. We did our best.”

Down the hall Houdini could hear a commotion, at first indistinguishable from the raucous crowd but gradually becoming distinct. He turned his attention from Dr. Hill to see the dead boy’s father hurtling down the hallway, closely followed by a pair of theatre attendants who had been roughed up.

“Houdini!” the man shouted. Dr. Hill shrugged off Houdini’s arm and stepped away. Mr. Osbourne was much larger than he remembered. His bulky hands were in tight fists. He stepped into Houdini and swung at his head. Houdini ducked and slid to the side. He struck back at the man’s stomach, connecting hard. The man fell to his knees, gasping, as the attendants and a few others caught up and stood around him.

“Let him alone,” Houdini ordered. He took a moment to prepare himself for what was about to happen. Once the man regained his wind he got to his feet and brushed the dirt from his clothes. None of his rage had lessened, but the fight was out of him.

“Why did you say those things? Why would you put my wife through all that again?”

“Look, Mr. Osbourne. May I call you Harry?” Houdini smiled.

Osbourne clenched his fists. “No, you may not.”

Houdini took a step forward, keeping his palms open and visible. “That’s fine, Mr. Osbourne. I just thought I’d call you Harry because that’s my name too. But it’s okay. I understand how you feel, about the name and about what happened just now.”

Osbourne shook his head. “I don’t think you do.”

“You’d be surprised. A lot of people, myself included, are taken aback when the spirits speak to them. It’s a common reaction.”

“No!” shouted Osbourne. “You don’t understand at all. I came
tonight because my wife believes in all this nonsense. I know it’s all malarkey. But she believes. And now she thinks that our son, Joe, has spoken to us.”

Houdini saw Bess out of the corner of his eye. She was about to speak. “Mr. Osbourne,” he said, quickly, “what if I could prove to you that there is no deceit behind my wife’s words?”

“I doubt very much that you could.” Osbourne was becoming more and more agitated. Dr. Hill and the theatre attendants had backed off. A crowd of other members of the California Concert Company had gathered down the hall. This type of encounter had never happened to the Houdinis before.

“Have a seat here beside me,” Houdini said, motioning toward a row of chairs set outside a dressing room.

Osbourne reluctantly sat. Houdini sat beside him. Bess stayed off to the side.

“I readily admit that there is an element of showmanship in what we do,” he said. “The sheet covering my wife or me, depending on who is contacting the other side, for example, is completely unnecessary. But people pay for a show, and we feel compelled to give them one. Will you allow me to dispense with all theatrics for the moment?”

Osbourne’s shoulders were set and stiff. “I wish you’d ditch both the theatrics and the false hope you give people.”

Houdini smiled, placed his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. He counted to twenty, exhaled, then opened his eyes and stared at Osbourne.

“You were born in Tennessee but moved to Kansas when you were still an infant. Your father and mother died ten and twelve years ago, respectively. You had a twin brother named Alphonse who died
when you were six. Your son, Joe, died of a fever and your wife stayed in bed for three months afterward. There is a scar on the back of her leg from a burn she received from the fire poker. You have an older brother whom you haven’t spoken to since your father passed, whose wife died this past winter, and your mother says you should give him back your father’s watch, as it belongs to him as the oldest son.”

Osbourne jumped out of his chair, shaking. “How do you know all this?”

Houdini rose as well, placing a hand on Osbourne’s shoulder. “They told me. How else could I know?”

“You can really speak to them?”

The disbelief drained from Osbourne’s face. He slumped back into the chair, put his head in his hands. No one said anything. Osbourne looked up at Houdini, his face wet. “My son. He is happy?”

Houdini paused for a moment. “Very. He misses you and his mother, but he is happy and knows he will see you again someday.”

Osbourne began to weep again, and Houdini sat beside him and offered his handkerchief. Osbourne took it and after a while managed to pull himself together. He gave Houdini his hand. “I’m sorry about before. But you don’t understand. When our son died, my wife … it was like she was gone too. And then, slowly, things began to get better. She began to recover. We’re having a new baby. I didn’t want to come tonight. Joe is dead, and there’s nothing to be done for that. But he’s not, not really. I see that now. Thank you. Thank you.”

Houdini saw Bess turn and leave.

He started after her, leaving Dr. Hill to deal with Osbourne. She retreated to their dressing room at the back of the building. They were one of only a few acts to have their own room—a recent development that Houdini was very happy about. He and Bess argued
often, and it disturbed him to do it in front of others. A magician should cultivate a certain air of mystique.