Annabelle finally lit the cigarette. Her dirty red hair hung down in her face. She looked over her shoulder, at the cage. “Hey, Baby, how do they make you roar?” She glanced back at Carter. “He ain’t cooperating. Maybe you should get rough with him.”
Carter squared his shoulders, approached the cage, and pointed his finger, the way the Indian Chief did, and replicated his tone. “Will you have her as your bride?” But nothing happened. Carter looked at Annabelle. “Aren’t you curious?”
She shrugged. “It’s not my act.”
“Why was his cage open?”
“I let him out so we could play. Me and him are friends.”
“I see. Then you fell asleep?”
Annabelle nodded. “Did you think you were rescuing me?”
“No,” Carter said, “but I would have punched the lion in the nose if I had to.”
“What?”
“You know, the way you’re supposed to when . . .”
Annabelle seemed to be wrestling with a smile, and the smile lost. She gathered up her hair, binding it with the frayed ribbon he’d often seen her wear. Between lips that held her cigarette, her voice came out low and raspy like an oboe under a wool blanket. “You haven’t thanked me for saving your life.”
Carter frowned. “Well . . .”
“‘Well’ what?”
“The lion seems fairly docile. All you had to do was look at him right, and he put his tail between his legs.”
She stood up so fast that Carter actually flinched. “No, pal, all I had to do was look at him. You coulda looked at him all day long, sooner or later from inside his rib cage. He took one look at you and saw meat. Easy meat.” Grinding out her cigarette, she sat back down in the aisle where he’d found her. “Exactly what Mysterioso sees.”
He bowed. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
Her eyes were closed and she put her hand over her mouth as if yawning. “Try and pick the lock quietly on your way out.”
. . .
Throughout the day, it rained, and Carter paced in his room, thinking of pithy things he should have said to Annabelle.
When he went back to the theatre, he discovered, with a certainty that made his stomach turn, that someone had opened, then repacked, his new Martinka devices. It had been a careful burglary; had he not been so concerned with how he would customize his aga levitation, he might not even have noticed the way the spool had been repackaged, just to the left of where he’d put it. Had Annabelle done this? Unlikely. There was a very short list of people capable of opening the lock Carter used.
Because he sometimes thought best while walking, he walked in the rain, eventually finding a small carnival set up near the Lewis and Clark statue in Three Bridges Park. Most of the attractions had been canceled. The rides were closed, and the animals were penned off at the wettest corner of a leaky, sour-smelling tent where a few jugglers unhappily tossed batons back and forth, marching in place to keep warm. Carter gave a quarter to a fortune-teller, a beautiful, young Chinese woman with a terrible cold. She threw a fistful of twigs onto a folding table and looked at them, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief, and announced that, very soon, he would marry a woman named Sarah.
Carter folded his hands in his lap. He looked away from her, to a place in the grass that the rain was trampling. There had to be a handbook of prophecies, somewhere. “What if I told you Sarah had already moved away? Am I supposed to follow her?”
She blew her nose. “I don’t know.”
“Or something else?”
“I don’t know.”
Carter leaned back, letting his jacket open slightly, so that his pin from the Society of American Magicians showed. Rain pelted the roof as the woman took a lingering look at the pin, and nodded to show she’d seen it. She could, if she wanted, speak freely about whether she was simply following a handbook.
She shrugged. “I just have a gift, mostly.”
“Of course,” he sighed, “a gift. Wonderful.”
. . .
In bed that night, he fell into a restless sleep, waking at 4 a.m. with a disappointed, fading feeling: he’d dreamed of a new illusion Annabelle had performed. Unfortunately, it was a variation on a Robert-Houdin device, hardly original. Worse, it was a spiteful kind of trick, unworthy of consideration. Nonetheless, he sketched it in his notes and returned to bed.
And yet he did not sleep. He mentally turned the pages of Robert-Houdin’s Confidences d’un Prestidigitateur, then Les Tricheries des Grecs Déviolées, then Les Secrets de la Prestidigitation et de la Magie, then Magie et Physique Amusante; Annabelle’s trick wasn’t in any of them. His eyes snapped open.
He looked at his notes again by lamplight, drawing the bedsheets to his neck. He had just dreamed a completely original illusion. The device would be sloppy, ugly, and expensive, and would require several assistants, and only a fiend would use it. He almost was ashamed of dreaming it. Almost. With clear, bold letters, Carter wrote down a name for his new device: BLACKMAIL.
At 5 A.M. Carter dashed to the telegraph office, waking the operator in order to send a wire to the Martinkas. An emergency order. Three more optical mirrors. Another winch and pulley. Black magic, yards and yards of it. A flash pot. A table with a steel trap built in. A platform, hinged. And modify the aga to an asrah, hang the expense.
An hour later, there was a return wire. Francis Martinka said it would cost five hundred dollars and take at least a month. Carter said he needed everything in two weeks. He dictated to the operator: AM ON THIRTY-WEEK KEITH-ORPHEUM TIME.
He thought that would settle it, but there was another wire from Martinka: ARE YOU HEADLINING?
Finally, Carter realized he had to do something to impress Francis Martinka. Digging into the money his mother had sent him for emergencies, he placed a telephone call, all the way across the country, for twenty-two dollars. It took fifteen minutes to arrange, and then there was hiss and static and ghost voices from other calls, fading in and out, and he had to shout to be heard. “One of my men will hand you a cash deposit whenever you think fair, and the balance upon receipt.” Actually, it would be one of his father’s men, and Carter would face all the circles of hell for ponying up this kind of money, but he wasn’t going to stop now.
“In the past weeks, you have ordered some modest equipment from us, monsieur, but . . . this is five hundred dollars.”
“I need this for the last show of week twenty-seven.”
A pause. “The San Francisco Orpheum? Albee?”
“Albee will be there.”
Brightly, Francis Martinka declared, “So will my devices.”
CHAPTER 11
Carter, away at Thacher in spring 1906, had missed the earthquake and fire. But he’d read the newspapers, and received letters from his parents describing the rebuilding efforts that followed. The San Francisco city fathers invited E. F. Albee, head of the Keith circuit, to help make San Francisco truly world-class again by building the Orpheum, a mighty theatre at Fifth and Mission. The lobby had a million-dollar Tiffany glass barrel-vaulted ceiling depicting peacocks in top hats courting peahens in ball gowns among Elysian fields. The walls were mosaics and frescoes improving on Pompeii’s finest discoveries (Pompeii’s art, after all, was not trimmed with real Russian gold); the counters of the sixteen full-service bars were made of Italian marble inlaid with Spanish silver. Every seat in the house was crushed velvet. When construction was complete, Albee stood on the stage and said, of the impeccable acoustics, “This is where we can hear the Lord himself whisper.”
One unfortunate quirk to the theatre was the set of murals donated by the forty families on Greenway’s social registry. Each family sponsored a different mythological scene of their own choosing. As San Francisco was founded on gold dust and sin, however, the execution was problematic. Mrs. Mark Hopkins, for instance, dismissed all local artisans, claiming that she wanted to deal only with the “old masters, personally,” and sending to Europe for an unscrupulous Venetian who claimed
to be a direct descendent of Raphael. His mural was gaudy enough to impress the other families, who consequently hired his friends, who by striking coincidence were related to Bronzino and Titian. The results embarrassed Albee’s managers, but so as not to offend the rough-and-tumble millionaires, nothing was said about the well-muscled men in sandals rescuing undraped women from giant snakes, and society scribes pretended great appreciation for such little-known and suspiciously spelled adventures as Herculese and the Sabine Women and The Flagelation of Artimus.
The Carters, seeking to be discreet, had donated to a general fund for maintenance.
The Orpheum was thus sparkling and clean on the opening evening of week twenty-seven, when the tour came into town. When Carter entered the dressing room at 5 P.M. he found an envelope at his dressing table. His name and the theatre address were written on the outside in a wispy and sweet hand, and inside was a photograph, rather small, the size of a trade card. On the back, in the same blue ink as on the envelope: “Good luck, Mr. Carter.” It was signed Sarah O’Leary.
There was no time for him to consider what this might mean, for moments later, his mother and father were almost on top of him, along with James and a school chum. All performers, save the headliner, shared a large room, and on this night it was overflowing with jolly well-wishers. However, when Carter’s eye fell on his father, he knew there was trouble.
“Charles,” his father said, while his mother was still hugging him, “I understand that you drew a staggering amount from your trusts.”
“I think of it as a healthy amount, but—”
“A thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
Carter’s eyes went to the ceiling. Then they looked for help from James, who was engaged in quiet discussion with his pal. Carter tried to sound as sure of himself as he did when his father was not in the room. “I needed a new finale for the act,” he finally answered.
Mr. Carter was taller, broader, fleshier than his elder son. Like James, Mr. Carter had brown eyes, a stout build, and curly hair. Sometimes Charles Carter wondered if he had been found on the doorstep. “So,” his father said, “you spent everything you made this year?”
“I had the money, Father.”
“Not exactly.”
“It’s a loan from my trust.”
His father said nothing.
“It’s an investment for my future,” Carter added.
His father poked his tongue into his cheek, another bad sign, and his eyes stole toward Mrs. Carter, who was sorting through the postcards Carter had collected from around the country. Mr. Carter said, “You and I will talk after the show.”
“Of course,” Carter nodded. “But I also have to renegotiate my contract after the show, and as I have this new illusion to end with, I’m sure it will pay for itself.”
“It has to, Charles.”
“I understand,” nodding again, “you’re not in the business of bailing me out. And I will renegotiate for next season with that in mind.” He was nodding so much his collar had cut into his neck.
“I’m sorry? For next—for next season?”
“I have to pay back the loan somehow.”
Mr. Carter’s eyes narrowed like he smelled a stable nearby.
“When you’re finished tonight, Charles,” Mrs. Carter said, eyes sparkling, “you must come home and take a small quiz my women’s group has devised.” She whispered, “It concerns the Oedipus complex.”
“That sounds very relaxing, Mother.”
“Well, this is your big night,” she said.
Her interruption was just long enough to make Mr. Carter regard his son in the spirit of grudging armistice. Mr. Carter even tried to smile. “So. Negotiations.” His interest was piqued. “Do you meet with Albee?”
“No, Murdoch.” Murdoch, Albee’s assistant, was a sour man who kept pots of honey on his desk, ladling it onto soda crackers during negotiations. Only headliners met with Albee.
“Oh,” his father said. Carter wished that he at least slightly impressed his father. Then it was one of those moments when all parties simultaneously exclaimed “is that the time!” and, bidding his parents good-bye, Carter returned to his makeup mirror. His blue eyes looked back at his evening clothes, his thin frame, his scrupulously brushed black hair, as if at an unlucky stranger. On one side of him was Laszlo, who spoke in Czech to someone who had brought an immense summer sausage; on the other side was Chase the dramatic monologist, whistling, and arranging a bouquet sent by the girls at 46 Anna Lane.
Carter counted to ten, clearing all thoughts of his father from his head. He approached his brother, interrupting the conversation he was having with his friend Tom. “James, I need an assistant.” James rolled his eyes. Since their imprisonment by Mr. Jenks, James’s opinion of magic had been tentative at best. He would occasionally help his brother, but only when pushed. Carter continued, “You needn’t assist me in my act for the rest of your life, but tonight I need you, very badly.”
James rolled his eyes again, and Tom punched him in the shoulder. Tom, broad-chested, blue-eyed, was a varsity football player. Carter had seen his photo in a football program that James had sent him. The caption had been “Tom-Tom Crandall: Gritty, debonair, battling.” Tom said, “Hey, be nice to him, he’s your brother,” and Carter was grateful.
“Okay, Charlie, what’s your pleasure?”
Carter explained their duties. When he was finished, James said, “He’s a madman. Charlie, if anyone says you aren’t a madman, they’re lying.”
. . .
Carter peered through the curtains at 6:30. For the only time on the circuit, the entire audience was seated before the first act, Colonel Munson’s Russo-Chinese Flyers, began their acrobatic feats. No one wanted to miss a tradition at the San Francisco Orpheum: the late arrivals of Jessie Hayman and Tessie Wall. The center sections of rows G and H had been set aside, ushers turning back the few nitwits who tried to take the seats.
Carter avoided looking at his props, taking in the performance instead, but also absently glancing toward Tom, whom he’d stationed as a lookout. Tom scratched the back of his head, meaning no one had touched the levitation device. James stood nearby, in the prop storage area, with two local artisans from the Golden Gate Assembly of the S.A.M., whom Carter had paid five hundred dollars to style and modify the large Martinka device, the Blackmail illusion. It was wrapped securely under tarps and sheets, and anyone who asked was informed that it was the new set for the opium den number.
When the acrobats finished their athletics, to respectable applause, the curtains closed and stagehands immediately began maneuvering flats into place for the tableaux vivants production, in which actors struck poses from famous paintings. Carter heard whispers, laughter, and there was a group pushing toward the curtain, looking out at the audience, excited, for someone with friends in the orchestra pit had been tipped off, and Carter followed half the program to the wings, where they clustered and looked through the curtains, into the house.
The orchestra struck up “Ain’t She a Beauty,” and Jessie Hayman, leading twenty of the most beautiful women San Francisco had ever seen, took a leisurely stroll down the aisle. Jessie had a stately pace, her smile was perfectly controlled, and the only suggestion of a wilder character was her fiery orange hair, piled under a tall Arlington hat.
Chase, who could by no means afford Jessie’s girls, muttered, “I will take the black-haired one. No, the plump blonde.”
Carter looked at the women, and then remembered the photograph he’d received. Had Sarah signed it “fond wishes”? No, she had simply wished him luck. Perhaps she wasn’t thinking of him that way, but only as a friend in spirit. He watched the girls again. They wore muted colors, and small hats with real roses on the brims. Jessie led them to their seats slowly, casually, none of them behaving as if they were being watched by every eye in the house, but each girl careful to wave at Mayor Rolph, who sat with the Chief of Police.
When Carter laughed aloud, Chase gave him a cold look.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, really. That whole time, not one of them so much as looked at a married man.”
“How do you know who’s married?”
“I was born here. I know almost everyone in the audience.”
Chase whistled. “That’s some pressure.”
Carter frowned. He left the curtain, considering the group that would be watching him. He’d worried so long about the mechanics of his illusion he hadn’t even thought about the fact that he was debuting it before friends and family. Was Blackmail an admirable trick? This was a swamp he didn’t want to enter, but there it was. He was a native son indulging in his half-respectable, no, one-tenth-respectable profession. He turned around; Tom frantically spun his cap in his hand.
Carter straightened his tie to show that he understood. Mysterioso had used the girls’ entrance as a distraction. And had tampered with the levitation device. The swamp immediately dried up, the coast was clear, and Carter felt a transparent thrill of pleasure, knowing what he was about to do.
When Jessie and her girls were seated, the orchestra struck up a Debussy étude, and the curtains parted to show architectural vistas and a dozen figures frozen in the attitude of Raphael’s The School of Athens. The audience murmured faint appreciation, and then Monsignor Dilatorio, who stood stage left in mortarboard and red-piped academic robes, announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, The School of Athens. By Raphael Sanzio.” Then there was a wave of applause.
It was 7:15. Carter had exactly an hour before he had to be onstage, and a task that would take about twenty minutes, if he hurried.
Onstage, the performers were moving through biblical images. They performed St. Matthew and the Angel, from the Book of Lindesfarne, then moved to selections from the Sistine Chapel, panel by panel. Then Giotto, then Mantegna, then a few secular images, such as Jan van Eyck’s pious-looking study of Giovanni Arnolfini and His Bride.
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