Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

Ebey laughed, and said, “I believe you do.”

  I went out and went on backstage to where Collins and my other assistants were unpacking the various parts of the water torture cell. They were contained in five trunks and three crates, with a total, combined weight of over 1,600 pounds. Collins was opening the crate which contained the cell’s plate glass front.

  “It’s ship-shape,” Collins said, inspecting the glass.

  My assistant James Vickery came up to me.

  “Carter’s here,” Vickery said.

  I went over to the stage door and saw Charles Carter, the magician standing there, his hat in hand.

  “You’re in my town now,” he said haughtily.

  “You’re in my theatre now,” I said haughtily.

  “Your theatre is in my town,” Carter said.

  “No,” I said, “your town is in my theatre.”

  “Then who has what?” Carter asked.

  “Who knows,” I said. “Just don’t try peeking around that corner.”

  “Oh? Is it that corner?”

  I nodded.

  “Have you had breakfast?” Carter asked.

  “I have,” I said.

  “Are you ready for another breakfast?”

  “I’m always ready for another breakfast.”

  “Then, as they say in high society, let us depart.”

  Carter flipped his hat in the air and dropped it on his head.

  We went out at the stage door, down a few steps, and walked along the alleyway until we reached the street.

  “You’ll have to watch closely this week,” Carter said. “Lots of sailors in town. I bet some of them would just love to job your act.”

  “Anybody try to job my act and I’ll job them. And then I’ll lay ‘em out here in this alley and let them sleep it off. And next time they’ll think twice about jobbing somebody’s act, especially mine.”

  “Wonder why so many sailors are in town right now,” Carter mused.

  “It’s all about the war over in Europe,” I said.

  “But we’re not in the war,” Carter said.

  “Yet,” I said.

  “You sound certain about that,” Carter said.

  “That’s because I am certain about that,” I said. “It’s just a matter of time— better sooner than later.

  I heard the Navy’s doing maneuvers off the Farallones. Oakland must be crawling with German spies.”

  “I suppose,” Carter said. “You’d better keep an eye out for them, too.”

  “Carter,” I said, “I always keep an eye out for everybody.”

  “Well, I know there’s one person you’ll want to keep an eye out for, but for entirely different reasons,” Carter said as we stepped out on to the sidewalk. “Guess who is coming to your show?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest notion,” I said. “The King of Siam?”

  “Much more interesting than that,” Carter said. “It’s Jack London.”

  “Is he now?” I asked.

  “Indeed,” Carter intoned.

  “And from whence have you acquired this intelligence?”

  “From the man himself.”

  “You know London?”

  “We are acquainted only slightly. Jack—“

  “Jack, is it?”

  “—comes to all the shows. Magic especially. Read any of his books?”

  “Call of the Wild years ago. And, um, Sea-Wolf. That’s about it, I think.”

  “Haven’t read Star Rover?”

  “No. What’s it about?”

  Carter laughed. “Oh, my,” Carter said, “You have to read Star Rover. Look, here’s a bookshop. Let’s go in. I bet they have a copy.”

  Indeed they did have a copy of London’s book. I purchased it, and Carter and I went on down the street. Near the corner of Eleventh and Broadway I spied a little restaurant with a sign that read “MEAD’S LUNCH.”

  “Let’s go in there,” I said, pointing the place out.

  “That dump?” Carter asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “Haven’t you ever eaten there?”

  “Eaten there?” Carter asked indignantly. “Not only have I never eaten there, I have never before this moment even gazed upon the hovel.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I like places like this.”

  Carter followed me in reluctantly, and we sat down on stools at a bar. The fry-cook approached us.

  “My good man,” I said. “Bring me two quarts of milk in a big pitcher and six eggs.”

  “Six of ‘em?” the cook asked. “How ya want them?”

  “Uncooked,” I said. “In their shells. I’ll do the cracking.”

  The cook grunted, and said, “Some kind of character, huh?”

  “Just bring the order,” I said.

  “Sure, bub,” the cook said, and he sauntered away.

  “What’s this?” Carter asked.

  “Now I’ll show you how Houdini has his breakfast.” I said.

  The cook brought a pitcher of milk and six eggs in a dish.

  “That all?” the cook asked.

  “That’s all for me,” I said.

  “What’ll you have?” the cook asked Carter.

  “Nothing for now. I am waiting,” Carter replied.

  “For what?” the cook asked.

  “For my appetite to return,” Carter said.

  The cook sauntered away again.

  “Now watch,” I said, and I took two eggs in each hand, cracked them, and poured the whites and yolks into the pitcher of milk. Then I took the remaining two eggs in hand, cracked them, and also dropped their contents into the pitcher. I picked up a long spoon and rapidly stirred the eggs and milk together. And then I raised the pitcher to my lips and drank and drank until the pitcher was empty.

  “You should put that in your act,” Carter said. “It’s ever so much more dangerous than swallowing needles. In fact, you’re taking your life in your hands doing that in a place like this.”

  I pointed at the empty pitcher and said, “I do that in places like this all the time.”

  “That’s what I’m driving at. It’s a simple matter of statistics. You’re sure to come down sooner or later with ptomaine poisoning.”

  “Not me. I’m immune. I can eat anything. Including smart-assed magicians.”

  I dropped some money on the counter. The fry-cook came over and said, “Thanks, bub.” Carter and I got up and went outside and down the street.

  “Those smart-assed magicians,” Carter said. “Surely you’re not counting me as one among them?”

  “Surely not. But I am referring to several blokes I’m thinking about just now who have tried to steal my act.”

  “I don’t know why they try. Nobody can steal your act. You are the act. Look at your brother.”

  “You look at him.”

  “Hardeen does the same tricks you used to do, but he doesn’t get half the mileage out of them.”

  “Are you saying that because it’s true or because you think I want to hear it? Let me tell you something. My brother is all right, he is.”

  “But he’s in town this week.”

  “I know.”

  “Right across the street from you at the Pantages.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you see his advertisement in the Tribune?”

  “I did.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “I’ll tell you something,” I said in a low voice. “Keep it to yourself. People think Dash and I are in competition. But it’s just an act. It’s just part of our advertising.”

  “Really?”

  “Who do you think gave Dash his stage name?”

  “You?”

  “At first I thought ‘Hardeeni.’ But then I thought, that’s too much like my name. So it was ‘Hardeen.’ I made his name, I designed his act, which in those days was an exact duplicate of mine. You see, I had a lot of imitators over in Europe back then. And I thought— I’ve got to keep some of this business in the family. So I sent for Dash. B
esides my mother and my wife, he’s the only person who ever gave me a hand in this old world.”

  “Well, well,” Carter said. “And everyone thinks the two of you are feuding all this time.”

  “Everyone outside my circle of trusted associates.”

  “And I thought I was a member of that circle.”

  “Of course you are, old boy. I’ve just never got around to telling you. Say— what are you doing in town? I thought you were on tour.”

  “I was passing between Portland and Los Angeles, and knew you were here. So I stopped to say hello.”

  “You stopped to…. When have you ever stopped to say hello? Wait. Jack London sent you to see me— didn’t he?”

  Although Carter is a master of controlling his expressions, at that moment my question threw him off his guard and his face seemed to flush ever so slightly with the embarrassment of having been discovered.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Carter shrugged. “I don’t really know. He wanted me to mention Star Rover. I think he really wanted you to read it, but didn’t want to ask.”

  “Something in that particular book of his he wants me to know before we meet? What do you think it might be?”

  “I don’t know,” Carter said. “All I can tell you is that it is a very strange book about a man in a prison who lives his days strapped into a straitjacket.”

  “Really.”

  “And it’s based on a true story— a real man.”

  “Really. Now that is something.”

  I held up the book I had in my hand, and looked at its cover.

  “This is going to be a very busy week for me, but I will have to find time to read this book,” I said.

  We had reached 12th Street and Broadway.

  “I have a train to catch,” Carter said.

  “I have a rehearsal to catch,” I said.

  Carter waved, and turned back down Broadway toward the train station, while I turned up 12th Street toward the theatre and opening-day rehearsals. Carter never did get his breakfast.

  I approached the theatre from the front again. It was a four-story building, a rather typical American vaudeville theatre with the usual cigar store on the ground floor and upstairs a hotel with windows looking out over the street. The usual fire escape ran down the front of the building near one corner. There was an open lot next to the theatre which exposed the building’s side and allowed space on that wall for two signs. The top one read in white scroll lettering against a black background: “Orpheum Theatre.” And then in block lettering: “ADVANCED VAUDEVILLE - PERFORMANCES EVERY AFTERNOON AT 2:15 - EVERY EVENING AT 8:15” And then under that a big sign that read: “HOTEL ADAMS - EUROPEAN ROOMS WITH BATHS.” We— my assistants, Bess, and I— were staying at the Adams. It was not a great hotel, but economical. One came down a flight of stairs that led through a small lobby and then a door that opened out on to the street. This door was at the corner of the building near the open lot. The lot was closed off at the sidewalk with a fence of closely spaced pickets. My wife Beatrice— Bess— must have just come out of the door of the Adams Hotel, because as I approached I saw that she clung to some of those fence pickets and glared over into the empty lot as if she were a prisoner looking out through jail bars.

  I came up to Bess and stopped. She didn’t seem to notice I was there, but just before I started to speak she suddenly said, “It’s just like my life.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “That,” she said. “That empty lot. It’s just like my life. A whole lot of nothing.”

  “That’s not what I see,” I said. “I see a whole lot of prime real estate. Somebody’s going to put up a building there and make a fortune.”

  Bess looked up at me blearily, and said, “Is that all you think about—money?”

  “I think about you,” I said.

  “Sure you do,” she said.

  “Come on, honey-pie,” I said. “Let’s get you some black coffee and some Sedlitz. You’ll feel better and life will look better.”

  I wrapped my arm around her, and Bess dropped her head on my shoulder. We strolled along the sidewalk until we reached the striped awning to the theatre’s main entrance.

  “The show business,” Bess said wearily. “Whoop-de-doo. We’re in the Big Time now, ain’t we, young man?”

  “It’s better than starving,” I said.

  “Oh, happy days!” Bess said. “Our lives are better than starving. Let’s have a party.”

  “You had a party last night. Too much party.”

  “May the party never end.”

  “Come on, honey,” I said. “Let’s go inside. Be a good girl.”

  “I’m always a good girl. Are you always a good boy?”

  “You know what I am. Come along, pass on through,” I said, holding the door open.

  Bess went inside to the box-office foyer and I followed behind her. The box-office manager was behind the window with his assistant now. He looked up at us and his lips moved. I read them to say: “It’s the Houdinis. Go let them in.”

  The assistant to the box-office manager came around to the lobby doors and let us in.

  “Thank you, young man,” I said. “What’s your name?”

  “William, sir.”

  “Well, William,” I said, “we always come in through the front doors in the morning. Just an old habit of mine,” I said.

  “He’s superstitious,” Bess said.

  “I’m not,” I said. “It’s just my way.”

  “I’ll remember, sir,” William said.

  Bess and I started across the lobby.

  “Why did you say that to him?” I asked Bess as we walked down the main aisle of the theatre.

  “Because it’s true,” Bess said. “You’re the most superstitious person in the world. Except for me. I’m more superstitious. And the only real difference between us is that I know I am and you haven’t got a clue.”

  “Where did you get that turn of phrase? ‘Haven’t got a clue?’”

  “I don’t know, but I like it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “That’s why I like it.”

  “You really need some coffee.”

  “I don’t need coffee. I don’t need anything. Why should I? After all, I’m married to the greatest man in the world. I should know, you’ve told me so a thousand times.”

  “I’ve never said any such thing.”

  “You’ve never said it. But you’ve told it.”

  Bess mounted the stairs to the stage where my assistants were busy at work setting up the flats to close off the stage at the wings. Vickery came up to us, a bit perturbed.

  “You’d better come backstage,” Vickery said to me. “Trouble.”

  “What kind?” I asked, running up the steps.

  “Miss Davies,” Vickery said. “She’s having a fit about our set.”

  “What did you say to her?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Vickery said. “I didn’t dare. The manager told her you’d be here soon. Then she really let loose. ‘Where is he? Where is he?’ she shouted.”

  I turned to look at Bess. Her eyes had focused. She was looking right at me, and she said, “I’m right behind you.”

  We both knew what that meant. All our petty bickering was being set aside, and Bess was there to load the machine guns while I took aim.

  We went backstage. I first encountered Collins who stood very still in a seething, silent rage.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “What’s the matter?”

  Collins’ thin lips quivered, trying to form a word. It came out: “Th— that— that woman!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Miss Davies!” Collins whispered between clinched teeth. “She is— she is— I can’t say in polite company what she is. I can’t prove what she did. No, sir, I can’t prove it. But just come see what I think she did!”

  I followed Collins on around backstage. The door to the room we were using as our shop stood open. The Chinese Water Torture
Cell stood inside, completely assembled. Its plate glass front had been fractured, a long crack running its length. Bess gasped.

  “How?” I demanded. “How did this happen?”

  “We don’t know,” Collins said as angry as I had ever seen him. “We only turned our backs for a moment and the deed was done. But it was done just after that old bat blew her gasket yelling at all of us.”

  “You don’t really think Miss Davies did this, do you?” I asked.

  “She’s a mad one, she is, Mr. ‘oudini,” Collins said firmly. “She did it. Or paid someone to do it. I think she did it herself. I saw a hammer lying on a table. I really think she used that hammer.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said. “And stop making accusations you can’t back up. And pass the word to all the boys. Tell them to keep mum. Understand?”

  “Yes sir, Boss,” Collins said.

  “Mrs. H and I will deal with Miss Davies.”

  “What about the glass?” Collins asked.

  “Put in the replacement. It’s in the theatre, isn’t it?”

  “We left it in storage over at the train station,” Collins said.

  “Well, you and Vickery get over to the station and get the spare plate and get it back over here. You’ve got just enough time to make the repair before it’s our turn on the morning rehearsal.”

  “Yes, sir,” Collins said, and he was out the door in a flash.

  Bess and I approached the door to Miss Davies’ dressing room. She was speaking loudly to the theatre manager, Mr. Ebey. She was saying:

  “I don’t care who he is. In all my years in the thea-tuh I have never been so insulted! To think of the vile insinuation that I would be a common sneak! And to close in this thea-tuh so as to block out the passage of fresh air to the dressing rooms is an abomination! How can actors and singers perform when they can’t breathe?”

  I knocked gently on her door. It swung open, and the snarling face of a beautiful woman fighting the first cosmetic battles of middle-age glared back at me.

  “Yes?” Miss Davies growled. Then she recognized me and Bess and she shrank back.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh, it is you people. Well!”

  “Miss Davies,” I said smiling, “So charmed to finally meet you. I understand you are displeased with our set. I just wanted to—”

  “You wanted,“ she sneered. “You wanted. I don’t care what you wanted! I want you to know that your strange construction is a personal effrontery and a completely unacceptable assault on my artistry and that of my fellow players!