Escape

by Anna Fienberg

  '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 worki
ng 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.

  Jonny takes a gulp of water and pushes his plate away. 'You said it. Carole just couldn't take the hard work. And magic is ninety-nine per cent hard work. She just wanted the glamour, the applause, the magic! Wanted to have everything her own way. When you're choosing a protégé, you have to be very careful. I'd been warned, but I didn't listen. Not thinking with my head, ha, something further down! She won't do well, you'll see. I told her, women won't support you, women just don't come to see women, and they won't bring their men. It's just the nature of the beast, you know, the way we've evolved, females competing for men out in the wild. Oh, I know all this, but does it stop me trying? No, the ladies are my fatal flaw!' He throws up his beautiful hands, resigned. 'I'm like Othello, I can't see into a woman's character as I should. I see only her charms. I am a fool for love. It's tragic, really.' He smiles charmingly and mock-thumps his 'foolish', generous heart.

  He looks down, shaking his head. Beneath the table, I feel a solid weight lean on my toes. It's his foot, the sole of it, but soft , smooth, surely not the hard leather of those shiny shoes. His socked foot is winding around my ankle. I can't believe it. He finds me attractive? The light is gentle here, candlelight, wait till he gets me outside. Has he seen how old I am? Those silver dancing girls looked about twelve. My foot stays rooted to the floor. It seems so impolite to move it away. His foot strokes the bridge of mine. Rests there. What now?

  'So, tell me about you!' Jonny says. 'You've gotta bunch of books on magic. Maybe you got a thing for magicians? Am I in luck? Ha ha!'

  My cheeks burn red. 'Well, yes, I've been interested in magic for a long time. Years. I suppose you could call it an obsession – my daughter certainly would describe it that way. I've written three other books about magic, twenty-seven books in all for children—'

  'Oh, yes, I've always thought if I ever had the time, I'd write a book for children. I actually write well, my teachers constantly told me that. If a career in magic hadn't worked out I could easily have pursued a literary career. I remember a teacher in junior high told me I had a "rampant" imagination – I always remembered that because it was such an unusual word. To me, anyway. I went home and looked it up in the dictionary, that's how interested in words I was! I always did extremely well in English. In fact, I used to write for the school magazine. I did little excerpts about magic even then, write-ups about my shows, sometimes I put in how to do a trick. I earned quite a lot of pocket money at my shows. Never went away empty-handed. But that's a magician's trick, eh?'

  'That's great – exactly the kind of background I need for the book. So at what age did you put on your first magic show? What tricks did you do?'

  I reach for my notebook and start writing. Jonny was eleven when he put on his first show, for his neighbourhood. He charged five cents. By the time he was fourteen he was often asked to be the magician at children's parties, and he asked an adult wage. He spent a lot of his money on buying new tricks, became particularly interested in Houdini and escapology. He trained up his little sister to take the part of Bess, his assistant, but she demanded to do a ballet act as well, so he had to can it. The ballet, he said, was woeful. He hasn't spoken to her now for ten years, but he would rather I didn't mention that. His influences, besides Houdini, were many, but he particularly admired Norman Bigelow for his Door of Death.

  'You see, Bigelow's Door was also inspired by Mariano Palhinha's Australian Torture Crib. And if you want my opinion, Bigelow's was better than the original, as well. Then Markini electrified it with 220 volts. You should see that trick, the Electrified Mummy Lid Torture Board.'

  I wrote until my arm started to throb. I didn't look up for a long while but when I did I saw the waiter hovering, frowning at my half-full plate. Jonny's was scraped clean.

  'Has madam finished?'

  I would have liked to eat the other half of my dinner, but I noticed the waiter glancing again at his watch. Had we been here so long? 'Yes, I've finished, thank you. It was lovely.'

  'Anything else I can get for you? I know sir won't be having dessert. Would madam like to see the dessert menu?'

  Those little rum babas I saw under the glass when I first came in . . . 'No, thanks.'

  'So where were we?' says Jonny, hooking his toes under my shoe and slipping it right off . His foot is a shock against my bare stockinged sole. It feels so intimate, sudden. Love is two bodies, one soul. Who said that? His foot slides up the calf of my leg. But he doesn't know the first thing about me, does he? Just as well, says the voice. Go on, respond to him, this is what you've wanted isn't it? A miracle!

  I try to smile, and hold my leg still. His face stays the same, wide-eyed, handsome, bland. I wait for my skin to obey. Respond. I clench my pelvic floor muscles to make sure they still exist. The sex organs. He makes no acknowledgement of what is going on under the table, just keeps his foot there as if it is all normal. The part of us above the table might well be part of a performance, The Severed Torsos, with our lower limbs cut off and stowed away to tickle each other in a locked box.

  'Get your fucking hand off my knee,' I remember Doreen saying once to the married man sitting next to her at the dinner table.

  'Oh, yes, my influences, my childhood,' Jonny goes on. 'I kept a diary of my magic shows until I was about fifteen, so I wouldn't forget the steps. I put in notes of what was received well, what was more difficult. I'd write it up at night, in my room. My mother used to call me her "young scribe". With an audience of little kids, I soon learnt to keep the mothers informed, asking them to do crowd control, after one little kid nearly throttled my rabbit to see if it would turn into roses. That bunny never worked well again for me. No, little kids are too much hard work, they get into everything. I did better with the mothers, if you know what I mean,' and he winks at me.

  My stomach clenches. It's not a drag of desire. It's nausea. Maybe I had too much wine. That was your cue, you idiot! What are you going to do, sit there like a lump?

  Silence falls. I try to wink back but I just feel both eyes narrowing. I never could wink anyway, just like I could never raise one eyebrow in that withering way Guido did. Suddenly I think of Guido at our first meeting, the handsome Latin illusion.

  'Are you married, Rachel?'

  'Yes.'

  'So what does your husband think of you being out alone with a man for dinner?'

  'Well,
actually he doesn't know . . .'

  'Aha!'

  'We're . . . um . . . separated, only just recently. It's been a horrible time and my daughter has just left home—'

  'Oh, yes, I remember when Carole left . It was difficult all right, especially as we were in the middle of a contract. I had to revert to my old tricks, so to speak, ha! Come up with a one-man show practically overnight! All the publicity of course had promised new fare hinging on the delights of the feminine. But to tell you the truth Rachel, the audience's response was, if anything, more enthusiastic. I think my single state gave me an extra appeal – available, vulnerable, heroic, devastated by romantic tragedy. You know the kind of thing! And of course I had to put extra energy and focus into my performance – had to find extra "gold" as I call it. No, all things considered, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. Best not to mix work and romance, I say now!'

  I pick up my pen again, and write some notes. Why should I be surprised? Or disappointed? In real life, nobody's ever behaved how I wanted them to. And lately even imaginary people like Harry refuse to cooperate. Jonny doesn't want an assistant, or a protégé or a partner. He wouldn't trust again. How ridiculous you are, tickets on yourself.

  I feel myself collapsing inside. Sit up straight, he'll think you're not interested! 'And which contract was this,' I say, trying to keep my voice bright, 'the one interrupted halfway through?'

  'Detroit. Two weeks in. It was a test and I gotta say, I was pretty proud of my results. I'm surprised my agent didn't send you the clippings. I'll get on to her. Dammit, I'm always telling her, you gotta get organised. Make a list each day, but women, well, most women are a bit scatty, aren't they. Ruled by impulse. It's a gender thing, you girls can't help it. And who would want it any other way? What did Carole used to say to me? Oh, yes—'

  'Good. Fine.' I stop writing, close the book and place the pen on top. A wave of sickness washes over me. My head is sliding. I wonder if he notices.

  'So you were telling me about your life,' Jonny says suddenly into the pause.