The Girl in the Glass

by Jeffrey Ford

  THE EXTENT OF SUSCEPTIBILITY

  The next day, Schell and I took off in the Cord to stake out a new mark. There was a very wealthy gentleman over in Oyster Bay whose bank account required lightening. It was our practice to meet with perspective patrons first before performing a sйance in order to case the room where the event would take place and judge what effects would be possible. It was also an opportunity to pick up clues that we could spin into prescient revelations. The boss focused on artwork, the type of furniture, jewelry, repetitions of words and phrases the mark might use, hand gestures, pets. Not an errant nose hair escaped his attention, and he'd extract from these crumbs of information secrets of the bereaved as if he were Conan Doyle's detective.

  The thing he most concentrated on, though, was the apparent degree of the mark's grief, for as he always reminded me, "The depth of loss is directly equivalent to the extent of susceptibility." In other words, the more one longed for contact from the other side, the more readily one would embrace the illusion. Occasionally, we would run into a snake, some self-professed debunker, whose intent was merely to out us as frauds, but Schell could spot this within the first five minutes of an interview.

  "Watch the nose, Diego," he would say. "The nostrils flare slightly when one is lying. The pupils dilate an iota. In a thinner person, you can detect treachery by the pulse in the neck." For a man who trafficked in the spiritual, he was ever focused on the physical.

  "And how are your studies going?" Schell asked me as we sped along.

  "I'm reading Darwin, The Origin of Species," I said.

  "My hero," he said, laughing. "What do you make of it?"

  "We're apes," I said, adjusting my turban.

  "Too true," he said.

  "God's a fart in a windstorm. It's only Nature that rigs the deck."

  "It isn't a perfect being that's brought all of this about," he said, lifting his right hand off the wheel and gracefully describing a circle in the air. "It's all chance and tiny mistakes that give an advantage, which are compounded over time. Think of the intricate, checkered patterning of the spanish festoon [a butterfly we'd had a specimen of some time back]; all a result of some infinitesimal, advantageous mistake in the makeup of a single caterpillar."

  "Mistakes are at the heart of everything," I said.

  He nodded. "That's the beauty."

  "But you never make mistakes," I said.

  "When it comes to work, I try not to. But, believe me, I've made mistakes-great yawning gaffes."

  "Such as?"

  He was silent for a time. "I let my past dictate my future," he said.

  "I can't think of you employed in any other career," I said.

  "Perhaps," he said, "but I can certainly conceive of you doing something else. You don't want to remain Ondoo for the rest of your days now do you? This repatriation business will blow over eventually. The economy will rebound. By the time you're nineteen, I'd like to see you in college."

  "As far as my records are concerned, I don't exist. I have no past. I'm illegal." My education, although superior to any that could be obtained at a public school, was all garnered through a series of quality tutors that Schell had paid a small fortune for.

  "You leave the records to me," he said. "Arrangements can be made."

  "What if I want to stay in the sйance business with you and Antony?"

  He shook his head but said nothing. We drove on for a few more minutes, and then he turned off the road onto a private drive. The path wound, eel-like, for almost a mile before coming to a guarded gate. A man in a uniform approached the car. Schell rolled down the window and gave his name. "We're here to see Mr. Parks," he said. The guard nodded, and we continued on toward an enormous house that had turrets like a castle.

  We parked in the circular drive, and before exiting the car, Schell touched my shoulder and said, "Time to be mystical." We walked slowly, single file, to the entrance. As we ascended a long flight of marble steps, the front door opened and a man in a butler's uniform greeted us.

  I'd grown used to the opulence of the residences we frequented on our jobs, but, as they went, the Parks estate was impressive. Antony and I had done the legwork on him and found he'd had money left to him by his father, who'd invested in railroads and trucking and increased it during the Great War by selling munitions to both sides. Parks's wife had died recently at a sanatorium from TB.

  We met the man, himself-portly, with thinning sandy hair-in a parlor at the rear of the mansion. The large window that took up much of the back wall offered, at a distance, a view of the Long Island Sound. He sat, dressed in a white suit, in an overstuffed chair that resembled a throne, smoking a cigarette attached to an exceedingly long holder. I doubt he was much older than Schell, somewhere in his forties.

  "Mr. Schell," he said upon seeing us, and rose to shake hands with the boss. He turned to me and nodded but didn't offer his hand.

  "This," said Schell, waving at me, "is my assistant, Ondoo, a native of India. He has a remarkable facility with the mystical. Since working with him, I've found that the channels through which the departed travel from the other side are clearer in his presence."

  Parks nodded and took his seat.

  "There are spirits present now," I said as I sat in one of the chairs facing him.

  "Preliminary ethereal sensations have led me to believe you seek contact with a woman who has passed over," said Schell.

  Parks's eyes widened, and he gave a smile devoid of joy. "Remarkable," he said.

  "You must miss her very much," said Schell.

  Parks stubbed out his cigarette in a large, sterling silver ashtray in the shape of a sleeping cat. He nodded, and tears came instantly to his eyes. "Yes," he said, his voice having shrunk to a peep.

  "Your wife…," Schell said, but at the same moment, Parks said, "My mother…"

  Before Parks could register the slip, Schell continued, "As I was saying, your wife, of course, is sorely missed, but I knew it must be your mother to whom you wish to speak."

  "I won't lie, Mr. Schell," he said. "You're right again. I miss my mother. When she was alive, I would sit with her for an hour every day and confer with her on business, the news, the drama of the household. Though she's been gone for ten years, I still find myself thinking, after making some astounding transaction, 'I can't wait to tell Mother.'"

  "I understand," said Schell.

  "The mother is the milk of the universe," I added, wondering what kind of relationship he'd had with his wife.

  "Perhaps pathetic in a man of my age," he said. "But I can't help my feelings." He broke down at this point, lowering his head and lifting a hand to cover his face.

  I looked over at Schell, who shifted his gaze to direct mine to the wall. There were three paintings in the room-one was a Madonna and child, one was of a child standing alone by the seashore, and the last was of a train. Beyond this, I noticed that the room was painted and decorated in primary colors.

  My analysis of Parks's surroundings was leading me to a psychological revelation, but just then a young woman, no older than me, walked into the room. She was carrying a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses with ice. "Will you have the drinks now, Mr. Parks?" she asked.

  He dried his eyes. "Yes, Isabel," he said.

  I looked at her again and somehow knew instantly that she was Mexican. At the same moment, she took me in, and in the subtle heave of her chest and signs of a suppressed smile at the corners of her lips, I knew she had made me. I looked at Schell, and he at me. He ran his index finger along the thin line of his mustache, our signal that I should remain calm.

  Isabel poured Parks a glass of lemonade and handed it to him. Then she did the same for Schell. When she handed me mine, she nonchalantly turned her back to her employer, leaned in close to me and whispered, "Me encanta tu sombrero," glancing at my turban. I wanted to smile at her because she was pretty with a long woven braid of black hair and large brown eyes. At the same time I wanted to cringe in embarrass
ment. Instead I held fast to my Oriental role and never flinched. As she backed away, she winked at me.

  IMAGINE THAT

  Imagine that," said Schell as we passed the guard at the gate and traveled back down the winding driveway, "a captain of industry, a financial powerhouse, and what he wants most in life is his mother. I'd be touched if I went in for such things, but on a purely analytical level, it's instructive. Two points: there's little comfort in wealth, and one's childhood tags along through life like a shadow." He gazed out the windshield as if trying to reconcile these ideas.

  "But we're not going to take the job," I said.

  "Certainly we are," he said. "We'll do a world of good for Mr. Parks."

  "But the girl, Isabel, made me in a second," I said. "She whispered to me, 'I love your sombrero.'"

  "I think she liked you," said Schell and smiled.

  "She'll rat me out to Parks."

  He shook his head. "No she won't."

  "Why not?"

  "She's obviously a bright girl. You could see it in her eyes. And the phrase she spoke to you indicates wit, which indicates intelligence. She's too smart to interfere with her employer's business. I daresay she either finds him pathetic-his word-or she feels bad for him. Parks, for his part, wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a Hindu wise man and a Hottentot. I'm afraid, for him, you are a permanent resident of the kingdom, Other, phylum, Rabble. The fact that you might be useful in gaining him what he wants is, in his mind, your sole purpose in life. I'm sure he feels the same about the young lady. No, Parks is oblivious on this score."

  "Whatever you say," I said, and as Schell turned out onto the road and gunned the engine, I recalled a few years earlier, when I was in the process of becoming Ondoo. We had taken the train to New York City to visit the lepidoptera display at the Museum of Natural History. Along our route, from the train station uptown, Schell had regaled me, apropos of nothing, at least it seemed so then, with his opinions concerning bigotry.

  "I hold no preconceived prejudice against anyone," he'd said, "because to do so is utter folly for someone in my line of work. It's only ignorance that causes individuals to label an entire race as either good or bad. These are generalities so broad as to be both worthless and dangerous. I deal only in specifics. God, as they say, is in the details. I must focus on the unique traits of the individual in order to tailor an illusion that will ultimately enchant. To see others in this manner is to never give in to labeling. To fail to do this is the equivalent of putting on a blindfold. Do you understand? The devil is in the details."

  I understood well enough, and although, thanks to the reading I'd done the terms he used were not foreign to me, even at the age of fifteen it struck me as troubling that he'd never once mentioned the immorality of it. Schell never seemed to operate out of a sense of morality but instead took his cues solely from what worked and what didn't. In his view, prejudice wasn't evil, it was merely bad business.

  I asked him what he had in mind for Parks.

  "Parks has never left the nursery, one might say, so I think we should keep things light. I'm considering levitations, some butterfly effects, and to steal your idea from last night, I thought we could have Antony pose as his mother."

  "He'll have to go about on his knees," I said, laughing.

  "Precisely," said Schell, smiling at the thought of it. "And as the hoary old Mrs. Parks, what should she say to her son? Think hard now, how should she address him? What does he want to hear from her?"

  I thought for a moment and said, "A good scolding."

  Schell beeped the horn. "You're getting frighteningly expert at this," he said.

  "Did you get a good look at the old lady's photograph?" I asked.

  "Her image is emblazoned on my memory. Al Capone with rouge and a wig, minus the cigar," he said.

  "I think Ma Parks should suggest a raise for Isabel."

  Schell nodded. "Antony will have to start practicing his falsetto."

  When we arrived home, we found the future Ma Parks sitting at the kitchen table. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt, his mountainous tattooed biceps on display. Upon hearing us, he looked up, and it was evident that he'd been crying.

  "I hate to tell you guys this," he said, "but I got a call a little while ago from Sally Coots. He wanted to let us know that Morty bought the farm. Blew a fuse. They found him in his apartment."

  I watched the air go out of Schell as it went out of me. He took off his homburg, laid it on the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. I did the same with my turban, and took the other seat. He simply stared, but the tears came easily to my eyes. We all sat there in silence for a long time, as if about to begin a sйance.

  Eventually Antony spoke. "Morty was a fucking ace."

  "A gentleman and a pro," said Schell. "Best rope trick I ever saw. This truly marks the passing of an era."

  I dried my eyes. "Who's got Wilma?" I asked.

  "Sally said that the snake was dead too, must've died from a broken heart when Mort went. They were two peas in a pod. Sally said Mort had told him a while ago that if anything happened to him, he wanted you should get Wilma since you were his prodigy."

  Antony obviously meant protйgй and in this he was correct. I had learned everything I knew about being a swami from Morton Lester.

  In 1929, when the economy was really starting to slip and things got uglier than usual for illegals in the United States, citizens perceiving them as stealing scarce jobs, Schell and Antony were worried they might lose me. By 1930, Mexicans were being rounded up by law officers and "repatriated" across the border. Schell considered adopting me, but to do so would have made it necessary to reveal my illegal status. The nasty tenor of the times made him uneasy with this move, so it was decided that another way had to be found.

  Schell had told me that one afternoon he was in the Bugatorium, reading a treatise from 1861 he had recently acquired by a famous British naturalist, Henry Walter Bates. In it, Bates discusses the ability of certain Amazon species of butterfly to practice mimicry. According to him, in some cases, butterflies, specifically the yellow or orange Dismorphia, which predators find particularly tasty, are able to change their outward appearance to mimic the appearance of less tasty brethren, most notably, Heliconia.

  It was while Schell was in the midst of reviewing this essay that a brainstorm struck, and he hit upon the idea of changing my nationality. By that time, I'd been at him for a while to find me a role in his business, and so he conceived of a persona for me, that of a mystical assistant, whose very presence elevated spiritual possibility.

  As he'd put it at the time, "We can't change your complexion, so we'll shift your point of origin. From this day forward, you'll be a Hindu."

  "But I know nothing of what a Hindu is or does," I said.

  "Yes," he admitted, "but neither does anyone else. They'll maybe think of Gunga Din, or perhaps a brown man atop the back of an elephant, or, if you can carry it off, a turbaned swami whose holy presence negates the border between life and death."

  "People will be fooled?" I asked.

  "Diego, there was once a very famous Chinese magician whose name was Chung Ling Soo. He was world renowned. Part of his act was a trick called Defying the Bullets. Two bullets, marked by audience members, were loaded into rifles. Two marksmen fired across the stage at Soo. Night after night, he would catch those bullets on a china plate. One night, after having performed the trick for eighteen years, one of the guns malfunctioned, and a bullet was actually fired. It passed through his body, and he fell to the stage mortally wounded. When he was rushed to the hospital, it was discovered that he wasn't Chinese at all, but a fellow by the name of William E. Robinson. No one had ever suspected this, for Soo often spoke Chinese. Or was it Chinese? For all those years, he might have been mouthing gibberish. But he had the Oriental costume, beautiful stage settings, the right makeup."

  I never really considered what it would take for me to become a swami, and to be honest, I didn't care,
as I was hot to participate in the sйances. But I'd had to admit to Schell, "I don't know where to begin."

  "Leave that to me," he'd said and went straight to his office and made a phone call. Early the next day, Antony and I took the train from Port Washington into Jamaica, and from there boarded a train for Coney Island. We arrived at the gate to the Nickel Empire by the sea at midmorning. I'd never been there before, but Antony had. Upon taking a look around, he proclaimed, "This place is looking shabby. I remember the old days here. What a blast, the Drop and Dip, the Red Devil, the Ben Hur Race, Hula Hula Land, and dinner at Stubenbord's. Jeez Louise, this place is a dump now."

  We walked along The Bowery until we came to Sam Wagner's World Circus Side Show. Antony gave me two dimes and told me to go in and find Chandra. "He knows you're coming," said Antony.

  "Aren't you coming in?" I asked.

  "I'd come with you, kid, but I'm afraid of seeing those pinheads they've got in there." He shivered slightly. "They give me the yips. I'll be over banging the high strikers when you're done."

  I found Chandra, Prince of Swamis, after having spent a little time gaping at Laurello, the man with the revolving head, and Pipo and Zipo, pinheads extraordinaire. Chandra was a small, severe-looking Hindu fellow, sitting cross-legged on a platform before a velvet curtain. He wore a turban and a kind of diaper and was playing a long flutelike instrument with a bulge at the end. As he blew on that pipe, the odd music caused an enormous, hooded cobra to rise straight up out of a wicker basket that sat a few feet in front of him.

  There were no customers around, so I stepped up, giving the snake a wide berth and said, "Excuse me, Mr. Chandra, I've been sent by Thomas Schell to see you."