I turned around to find a young man staring at me. I do not know how he had got in, and was about to tell him that the place was closed when he offered to operate the Toyshop for me. How did he know I had visitors coming? He did not say. He just explained that he had worked here once and understood the mechanics of all the toys. Well, with the regular Toyman missing, I had no choice but to accept. He did not look like the Toyman, all jovial and welcoming and a favourite with the kids. He had a bone-white face, black hair and eyes and a black formal coat. I asked for his name. He paused for a second and said, ‘Malta.’ So that is what I called him until he left, or rather vanished. But more later.
The Hall of Mirrors was another matter. It is a most amazing place and though, in off-duty hours, I have been inside it myself, I have never been able to understand how it works. Whoever designed it must have been a sort of genius. All visitors have come out after a ritual stroll through the many constantly changing mirror-rooms convinced they have seen things they could not have seen and not seen things that must have been there. It is a house not just of mirrors but of illusion. In case, years from now, any soul should read this journal, having some interest in the Coney Island that once was, let me try to explain the Hall of Mirrors.
From the outside it appears a simple, low-built square building with one door for going in and out. Once inside, the visitor sees a corridor running to his left and right. It matters not which way he turns. Both walls of the corridor are sheeted with mirror and the passage is exactly four feet wide. This is important, for the inner wall is not unbroken but comprised of vertical sheets of mirror exactly eight feet wide and seven high. Each plate is on a vertical axis, so that when one is turned by remote control half of it will completely block the passage, but reveal a new passage heading into the heart of the building.
He has no choice but to follow this new passage which, as the plates turn on a secret command, becomes more and more passages, small rooms of mirrors that appear and disappear. But it gets worse. For nearer the centre many of the eight-feet-wide sheets are not only axled top-to-bottom but stand on eight-feet-diameter discs which themselves revolve. A visitor standing on a semicircular but unseen disc with his back to a mirror may find himself turned through ninety, a hundred and eighty or two seventy degrees. He thinks he is stationary and only the mirrors are turning, but to him other people suddenly appear and disappear; small rooms are created then dissolve; he addresses a stranger who appears before him only to realize he is talking to the image of someone behind him or to his side.
Husbands and wives, lovers and sweethearts are separated in seconds, stumble forward to be reunited – but with someone quite different. Screams of fright and laughter echo throughout the hall when a dozen young couples have ventured in together.
Now all this is controlled by the Mirror Man, who alone understands how it all works. He sits in a raised booth above the door and by glancing upwards can see a roof mirror, angled to give him alone a bird’s-eye view of the whole floor, so that with a bank of levers under his hand he can create and dissolve the passages, rooms and illusions. My problem was that Mr Tilyou had insisted the lady visitor should under all circumstances be urged to visit the Hall of Mirrors, but the Mirror Man was on holiday and could not be contacted.
I had to try to understand the controls myself so that I could operate them for the lady’s amusement, and to this end spent half the night inside the building with a paraffin lantern, testing and experimenting with the levers until I was sure I could guide the lady for a quick tour inside and yet show her the way out when she cried for release. For with the rooms of mirrors all open-topped, the sound of voices is quite clear.
By nine yesterday morning I had done the best I could and was waiting to greet Mr Tilyou’s personal guests. They came just before the hour of ten. There was virtually no traffic on Surf Avenue and when I saw the brougham coming past the offices of Brooklyn Eagle, past the entrances to Luna Park and Dreamland and on towards me down the avenue, I presumed it must be they. For the brougham was the smartly painted hack that waits outside the Manhattan Beach Hotel for those descending from the El-train from Brooklyn Bridge, though few enough there are in December.
As it approached and the driver reined in his pair I stepped forward with the megaphone up. ‘Welcome, welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Steeplechase Park, first and finest of the funfairs on Coney Island,’ I boomed, though even the horses gave me a glance as if looking at a madman dressed in all his finery at the end of November.
The first out of the coach was a young man who turned out to be a reporter from the New York American, one of Hearst’s yellow-press rags. Very full of himself he was and apparently the visitors’ guide to New York. Next out came a most beautiful lady, a true aristocrat – oh yes, you can always tell – whom the reporter presented as the Vicomtesse de Chagny and one of the leading opera singers in the world. Of course, I did not need to be told this, for I read the New York Times, being myself a man of some education, even though self-taught. Only then did I understand why Mr Tilyou wished to indulge the wishes of such a lady. She descended to the rain-slick boardwalk, supported on the arm of the reporter; I laid down the megaphone – no further use for it – gave her a most sweeping bow and welcomed her again to my domain. She replied with a smile to melt the stone heart of Cader Idris and said in a delightful French accent that she regretted having to disturb my winter hibernation. ‘Your devoted servant, ma’am,’ I replied to show that behind my Funmaster clothes I was aware of proper forms of address.
Next came a small boy of about twelve or thirteen, a good-looking lad who was also French like his mother but spoke excellent English. He was clutching a toy monkey-cum-musical box of the type I saw at once must have come from our own Toyshop, the only place in all New York to provide them. For a moment I was worried: had it broken down? Were they here to complain?
The reason for the boy’s good English emerged last, a stocky and fit-looking Irish priest in black cassock and broad hat. ‘A good morning to you Mr Funmaster,’ said he. ‘And a cold one for the likes of us to bring you out.’
‘But not cold enough to chill a warm Irish heart,’ said I, not to be outdone, for as a chapel-going man I do not normally have much to do with Papist priests. But he threw back his head and roared with laughter, so I reckoned he was perhaps a good fellow after all. It was thus in a merry mood that I led the party of four up the boardwalk, through the gates, past the open turnstile and towards the Toyshop for it was plain this was what they wished to see.
Thanks to the heaters it was pleasantly warm inside and Mr Malta was waiting to greet them. At once the boy, whose name turned out to Pierre, was entranced by the shelves and shelves of mechanical dancers, soldiers, musicians, clowns and animals that are the glory of the Steeplechase Park Toyshop and not to be found anywhere else in the city and perhaps not in all the country. He was racing up and down the alleys asking to be shown them all. But his mother was only interested in one type – the rack of music-playing monkeys.
We found them on a rear shelf, right at the back, and she at once asked Mr Malta to make them play.
‘All of them?’ he asked.
‘One after the other,’ she said firmly. So it was done. One after the other the keys in the backs were wound up and the monkeys began to bang their cymbals and play their tune. ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’, always the same. I was puzzled. Did she want a substitute? And did not they all sound the same? Then she nodded at her son and he produced a penknife with a screwdriver attachment. Malta and I looked on stunned as the boy eased away a flap of cloth at the back of the first monkey, then undid a small panel and put his hand inside. He took out a dollar-sized disc, flipped it over and put it back. I raised my eyebrows to Malta and he did the same. The monkey began to play again. ‘Song of Dixie’. Of course, one tune for the North and one for the South.
He soon replaced the disc the way it had been, and started on the second. Same result. After ten his mother signalled at him to s
top. Malta began to replace the wares as they had been before. Clearly not even he knew there were two tunes inside the monkey. The vicomtesse was very pale. ‘He has been here,’ she said to no-one in particular. Then to me, ‘Who designed and made these monkeys?’
I shrugged in ignorance. Then Malta said, ‘They are made by a small factory in New Jersey, all of them. But under licence and from patented designs. As for who designed them, I do not know.’
Then the lady asked, ‘Have either of you ever seen a strange man here? A man in a wide hat, with most of his face covered by a mask?’
At this last question I felt Mr Malta, who was standing beside me, stiffen like a ramrod. I glanced at him but his face was set as stone. So I shook my head and explained to her that in a funfair there are many masks: clown masks, monster masks, Hallowe’en masks. But a man who wore a mask all the time, just to cover his face? No, never. At this point she sighed and shrugged, then wandered off down the aisles between the shelves to look at the other toys on offer.
Malta beckoned to the boy and led him away in the other direction, apparently to show him a display of clockwork marching soldiers. But I was beginning to have my doubts about this icy young man so I slipped after them while keeping a rack of toys between us. To my surprise and annoyance my unexpected and mysterious helper began quietly to interrogate the child, who answered innocently enough.
‘Just why has your mama come to New York?’ he asked.
‘Why, to sing in the opera, sir.’
‘Indeed. And no other reason? Not to meet anyone special?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And why is she interested in monkeys that play tunes?’
‘Only one monkey, monsieur, and one tune. But that is the one she is holding now. No other monkey plays the tune she seeks.’
‘How sad. And your papa, is he not here?’
‘No, sir. Dear Papa was detained in France. He arrives by sea tomorrow.’
‘Excellent. And he really is your papa?’
‘Of course. He is married to Mama and I am his son.’
At this point I felt the impudence had gone far enough and was about to intervene when something strange happened. The door came open, admitting a blast of cold air off the sea, and in the frame was the stocky figure of the priest, who I had learned was called Father Kilfoyle. Feeling the chill air, the boy Pierre and Mr Malta came into sight from around the corner of one of the display racks. The priest and the white-faced one were ten yards apart and stared at each other. At once the priest raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross over his forehead and chest. As a good chapel man, I do not go along with this, but I know that for Catholics it is a sign of seeking the Lord’s protection.
Then the priest said, ‘Come now, Pierre,’ and held out his hand. But he was still staring at Mr Malta.
The clear confrontation between the two men, which was to be the first of two that day, had cast as good a chill as the wind off the sea, so in an attempt to restore the mood of merriment of just an hour before, I said:
‘Your Ladyship, our pride and joy here is the Hall of Mirrors, a true wonder of the world. Please allow me to show it to you, it will restore your spirits. And Master Pierre can amuse himself with the other toys, for as you see he is quite enchanted as are all young people who come in here.’
She seemed undecided and I recalled with some trepidation how insistent Mr Tilyou had been in his letter that she should see the mirrors, though I could not discern why. She glanced at the Irishman who nodded and said, ‘Sure, see the wonder of the world for a while. I’ll look after Pierre, and we have the time. Rehearsals are not till after lunch.’ So she nodded and came with me.
If the episode in the Toyshop was strange, the boy and his mother seeking a tune that none of the monkeys could play, what followed was truly bizarre and explains why I have been at pains to describe exactly what I saw and heard that day.
We entered the hall together through the only door and she saw the corridor left and right. I gestured that she should make her choice. She shrugged, smiled most prettily and turned to the right. I climbed to the control box and glanced into the upper mirror. I could see she had reached a point halfway down one of the side walls. I moved a lever to turn a mirror and direct her towards the centre. Nothing happened. I tried again. Still nothing. The controls did not work. I could see her still moving between the mirror walls of the outer passage. Then a mirror swung of its own accord, blocking her path and forcing her towards the centre. But I had moved nothing. Clearly the controls were malfunctioning and for her own safety it was time to let her out before she became trapped. I moved the levers to create a straight passage back to the door. Nothing happened, but inside the maze mirrors were moving, as if under their own control or that of someone else. I could see twenty images of the young woman as more and more mirrors spun, but now I could not work out which was the real person and which the image.
Suddenly she stopped, trapped in a small centre room. There was another movement in one wall of that room and I caught a swirl of a cloak, replicated twenty times, just before it vanished again. But it was not her cloak, for it was black while hers was of plum velvet. I saw her eyes open wide and her hand flew to her mouth. She was staring at something or someone standing with his back to a mirror plate, but in the one blind spot that my observation glass could not cover. Then she spoke. ‘Oh, it is you,’ she said. I realized that somehow another person had not only entered the hall but found a way to the centre of the maze without being observed by me. This was impossible, until I saw that the angle of the tilted mirror above and ahead of me had been altered in the night so that it covered only one half of the hall. The other half was out of vision. I could see her, but not the phantom to whom she spoke. And I could hear them, so I have tried to recall and note down exactly what was said.
There was something else. This woman from France, rich, famous, talented and poised, was actually trembling. I sensed her fear but it was mixed with a dreadful fascination. As the later overheard conversation showed, she had met someone from her past, someone she had thought to be free from, someone who had once held her in a web . . . of what? Fear, yes, that I could feel in the air. Love? Perhaps, once, long ago. And awe. Whoever he was, whoever he had once been, she still stood in awe of his power and personality. Several times I could see her shivering and yet he offered her no threat that I could hear. But this is what they said:
HE Of course. Did you suspect another?
SHE After the monkey, no. To hear ‘Masquerade’ again . . . It has been so long.
HE Thirteen long years. Have you thought of me?
SHE Of course, my Master of Music. But I thought . . .
HE That I was dead? No, Christine my love, not me.
SHE My love? Do you still . . . ?
HE Always and for ever, until I die. In spirit you are still mine, Christine. I made the singing star but could not keep her.
SHE When you vanished I thought you had gone for ever. I married Raoul . . .
HE I know. I have followed every step, every move, every triumph.
SHE Has it been hard for you, Erik?
HE Hard enough. My road has always been harder than you will ever know.
SHE You brought me here? The opera, it is yours?
HE Yes. All mine, and more, much more. Wealth to buy half of France.
SHE Why, Erik, oh why did you do it? Could you not leave me be? What do you want of me?
HE Stay with me.
SHE I cannot.
HE Stay with me, Christine. Times have changed. I can offer you every opera house in the world. Everything you could ever ask for.
SHE I cannot. I love Raoul. Try to accept that. All you have ever done for me I remember and with gratitude. But my heart lies elsewhere and always will. Can you not understand that? Can you not accept.
At this point there was a long pause as if the suitor who had been turned down was trying to recover from his grief. When he resumed there was a tremor i
n the voice.
HE Very well. Accept I must. Why not, my heart has been broken so many times. But there is one more thing. Leave me my boy.
SHE Your . . . boy . . . ?
HE My son, our son, Pierre.
The woman, whom I could still see, indeed reflected a dozen times, went white as a sheet and threw both her hands to cover her face. She rocked for several seconds and I feared she would faint. I was about to cry out, but my call died in my throat. I was a mute and helpless witness of something I could not understand. Finally she removed her hands and spoke in a whisper.
SHE Who told you?
HE Mme Giry.
SHE Why, oh why did she do it?
HE She was dying. She wanted to share the secret of so many years.
SHE She lied.
HE No. She tended Raoul after the shooting in the alley.
SHE He is a good, kind and gentle man. He has loved me and brought up Pierre as his own. Pierre does not know.
HE Raoul knows. You know. I know. Leave me my son.
SHE I cannot, Erik. He will soon be thirteen. In five years more, a man. Then I will tell him. You have my word, Erik. On his eighteenth birthday. Not yet, he is not ready. He needs me still. When he is told, he will choose.
HE I have your word, Christine? If I wait five years . . .
SHE You will have your son. In five years. If you can win him.
HE Then I will wait. I have waited so long for one tiny fragment of the happiness most men can learn at their father’s knee. Five years more . . . I will wait.
SHE Thank you, Erik. In three days I will sing for you again. You will be there?
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