The Hanging Artist

by Jon Steinhagen

  “What the hell is a verrilionist?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gregor said.

  “You don’t know? Then why the hell did you tell me to tell her that?”

  “It’s the first thing that came to mind.”

  “A word like that? What kind of mind do you have?”

  “Don’t get upset, it’s—”

  “Now I have to find out what a verrilionist is and pray that I can pass as one!” He unbuttoned his vest.

  “What are you doing?” Gregor asked.

  “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m undressing!”

  “Now?”

  “I need a bath, and it’s smarter to use the bathroom now while the other lodgers are out doing their theatrical things than tonight or tomorrow morning, when there will no doubt be a line.”

  “But didn’t you hear what that woman said?”

  “I heard everything she said. Why do you ask?”

  Gregor rubbed himself up against the curtains to clean the grime off his shell. “Henker’s going to move on,” he said. “Now’s the night to see him in action.”

  “I’m sure tonight is not his last performance,” Franz said, removing his collar and undoing his necktie. “I’ll go tomorrow night.”

  Gregor, somewhat presentable, snatched up the vest and coat and held them out. “Now!” he said. “Go!”

  “What’s the rush?”

  Gregor fixed what Franz assumed was a steady, sober gaze at him. “When,” said the insect, “are you going to do some real detecting?”

  Franz returned the vermin’s gaze for several moments before he retrieved his collar and hooked it in to place.

  “All right,” he said, dressing himself. “I’ll go. But don’t think I haven’t learned anything, my disgusting friend. I have.”

  “About the murders?”

  “Well, no, not about the murders, per se, but…”

  Gregor handed him his hat.

  “You’d better run along,” he said. “May I come with you?”

  Franz put on his hat and checked his appearance as best he could in the saucer-sized mirror that swung from a peg above the battered bureau. “I didn’t think I had any control over your comings and goings,” he said. He regarded his reflection and said, “I look like I’m starving. And you know why that is? Because I am. It feels like it’s been a week since that breakfast this morning.”

  “We’ll get you a nice hot pretzel with mustard on the way,” Gregor said, watching as Franz opened the door and the doorknob came off in his hand.

  “The hell with it,” Franz said, throwing the knob on the hall carpet.

  Pretzel. Mustard.

  There was work to be done.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE PERFORMANCE

  HANS HENKER SAT in his empty dressing room, eyes closed, and began the process of escorting every trace of himself away from his mind.

  This was never easy.

  He had always encountered difficulties putting up the gray wall that would separate Hans Henker from The Hanging Artist. It took time, and it took dedication.

  Most of all, it took cunning, which didn’t come naturally to him; and practice, he had learned, did not always make perfect. Still, it had to be done, and he continued to conjure up a mental Pied Piper to lead his reality away to a secret chamber in the dark depths of his soul.

  Soul?

  He led that thought away.

  The show had begun. The voices of the performers, the hum of the audience, even the clatter of the machinery used to raise the curtain and olio reached his ears.

  One by one, he lured the sounds away.

  He heard the Dierkop Sisters begin to chirrup their first song. He listened, trying to separate Julia’s voice from her cousins. There it was: the alto. Her voice alone didn’t sound like a confused hornet: it was mellow, a warm thread underneath the—

  No. He led her away to the other side of the gray wall, down into the darkness.

  He resorted to his words.

  He knew his words, and would probably know his words until his dying day, perhaps even longer. He knew his words but said them anyway, because they were of The Hanging Artist. There would never be any variation to his words, because variation indicated contemplation—a constant fiddling about, making things better or worse—and Hans did not require variation or improvement. What he needed were the words, and…

  The smell of Spindler’s cigar, the crispness of the contract… of quality paper…

  It had been another step for him, more of a leap, and—

  No. Out. Away, down, in, shut, locked.

  Good evening, my friends, my dear new friends.

  THE HANGING ARTIST leaves his dressing room and closes the door behind him.

  He walks down the spiral staircase, one hand on the railing.

  He hears the audience laugh, but he hears the strain in their laughter, because they are waiting, waiting for The Hanging Artist. They’ve been waiting all week, all day, all night. Any other reaction is automatic: surprise, appreciation, laughter.

  He does not step aside as a clutch of barely-clothed dancers rush to get to the stage. They flow around him, southbound geese parting and rejoining around an unexpected weathervane.

  He waits where he always waits, next to the harp case, which may or may not contain a harp.

  He knows the dancers are doing their brightest routine. The music is wicked, the stamping insistent, defiant.

  He hears the applause for their efforts, plentiful but meaningless.

  The dancers swarm backstage, all tearing off their beaded headdresses at the same time, file up the stairs, their shoes making sounds like cannonball raindrops falling into tin pails.

  The Hanging Artist hears his music.

  It is the music of sunshine and romance.

  The violin has never sounded sweeter, the muted trumpet more coy.

  A young man in a cap and shirtsleeves, his powerful arms prepared to haul up the curtain, nods to The Hanging Artist, who smiles, but does not return the nod.

  The curtain and the olio rise.

  The orchestra stops. The conductor nods to the musicians. They douse their lights.

  The Hanging Artist walks onstage. He stops center stage and gives the audience a moment to take in his smart linen suit the color of fresh caramel, his pomaded hair, his spring green necktie, his polished fudge-brown shoes, his butter-colored calfskin gloves.

  He assumes a casual but authoritative stance: legs together but feet turn slightly outward, one foot an inch forward of the other, the left hand in the pocket, the right hand, unconcerned, at his side.

  He speaks.

  “Good evening, my friends, my dear new friends—and, I hope, new friends who have become old friends who have returned. You are welcome, and I thank you. Thank you for finding me.”

  He turns to his right and crosses to the gramophone perched on its delicate table. He winds the machine until the spring has no more give. He pushes the turntable brake, and the record spins. He lifts the reproducer and lowers it onto the spinning disc; the needle slides into the groove.

  He crosses back to center as the elegant, spry music—“Gigolette,” performed by Marek Weber & His Famous Orchestra—flows from the gramophone’s flowered horn, sounding as if smothered beneath a wet woolen blanket.

  He smiles.

  “I propose to hang myself,” The Hanging Artist says.

  He waits for the reaction to abate. It is much the same as it always is: the low, rolling expressions of alarm and disbelief, one or two nervous laughs.

  He continues.

  “Because justice must be done. And who am I, you might ask, to judge myself and pass sentence? Who am I to take my own life? Why, I am myself, and who else would know better than I for what sins I must answer?

  “The sins of living, my friends. The sins that live in my thoughts, my desires, my regrets, my hurts, my slights, my envies. Are these sins or are they demons? They are both.

>   “But are all of our internal demons just that—internal? Perhaps they are real: external, and gnawing at us. Perhaps those demons are your friends, your neighbors, your lovers, your spouses, your children…

  “The list, my friends, goes on and on.

  “And so, the rope, fashioned into a noose and slipped around the neck. The noose that cuts off air, cuts off consciousness, cuts off your relationship to this place of suffering and offers—what? Peace? Perhaps. An escape? Definitely.

  “Am I taking my own life? No. Do I do this to encourage you to take yours, to pass your own harsh judgments on yourselves? I would never do that. I would never encourage anyone to do something that I myself have not done.

  “Lastly, who am I to ask you to sit there and watch me do it?

  “I am The Hanging Artist, my friends.

  “It is expected of me.”

  He sketches a military bow to his audience and returns to the gramophone, as “Gigolette” is over. He replaces the record with another, winds the gramophone, and drops the needle on the new record. Everyone recognizes the tune: “Ausgerechnet Bananen,” although most of Europe has been singing the nonsensical American song in its English iteration: “Yes! We Have No Bananas!” The audience loves this record—loves the popular band, Efim Schachmeister Dance Band—and toes start tapping.

  While the audience adjusts and is soothed by the music, The Hanging Artist walks upstage to the chair. He takes up the rope coiled on the seat and returns to the audience.

  He shows them the rope, spooling it out as he speaks, until the noose is revealed.

  “This,” The Hanging Artist says, “is the artist’s instrument, the finest there is, delicate silken strands braided together into a larger and stronger form. And why shouldn’t this rope be made of excellent silk and not ordinary Manila hemp, or jute, or common straw? One could argue that the sinner deserves nothing more than the roughest fibers, that the demons must be routed by the coarsest means possible.

  “But this is the theater!”

  He raises the noose so all can see.

  “Does the sight of this strike fear in your heart? Terror? Be calm. Be sensible. Be joyous! There is no need to fear anything—for, as you know, whoever turns his mind to true goodness will be met with fortune and honor, and forever be free of sinful shame! Observe.”

  He gently shakes the rope, and the noose becomes undone.

  The audience responds in awe, because they think it’s impossible to undo a hangman’s knot so quickly. The Hanging Artist nods, holds up a hand.

  “Please, it is no miracle. I’m just showing you there is nothing to fear. This is just a rope. And to prove it to you—to prove myself to you—I will need a volunteer, someone to come up here, with me, to inspect this fine silken rope and my own person, to demonstrate that, after all, there is no trick. Now—who will do it?”

  A hundred hands, two hundred, three hundred.

  One arm rises from the front row, slowly but with confidence. Its owner signals as if hailing a taxi: index and forefinger.

  He points to the front row, to the calm, confident arm and its owner.

  “You, sir,” says The Hanging Artist, “the gentleman in the checkered coat. Please.”

  The Hanging Artist returns to the gramophone, just in time to lift the needle from the record as its last calamitous sounds play out. When he turns, he will have a new friend. He selects the next record, but a fresh needle in the reproducer, cranks the machine, and plays the new selection: “Tutankhamen.” Exotic, lively, mysterious.

  The Hanging Artist returns to center stage to meet the young man in the checkered suit, who does not appear to be at all nervous or awkward in front of an audience.

  “Thank you,” The Hanging Artist says. “And what is your name, sir?”

  “Leo,” says the man in the checkered suit.

  He does not take his eyes off The Hanging Artist for one second.

  The Hanging Artist places the beautiful, smooth rope in Leo’s hand.

  “Take your time inspecting it,” he says, removing his own coat.

  But Leo does not inspect the rope. He holds it, waiting for The Hanging Artist to complete his undress.

  “You trust me implicitly?” The Hanging Artist says, and laughs.

  “I trust the rope,” Leo says.

  A smattering of laughter from the audience.

  The Hanging Artist removes his necktie, then reaches behind his neck and unfastens his collar. He tosses his coat, waistcoat, necktie, and collar offstage, then extends his arms.

  “You may search me,” he says.

  Holding the rope in one hand, Leo pats The Hanging Artist’s shoulders and arms.

  “That’s all?” The Hanging Artist asks. He winks at the audience.

  Leo hands him the rope. “That is all,” he says, “and thank you.”

  Leo leaves the stage.

  The Hanging Artist hesitates again, but recovers to ask the audience to show their appreciation for Leo. They applaud.

  “And with that,” The Hanging Artist says, “we begin!”

  As the pseudo-Egyptian fox-trot thumps from the gramophone’s shining horn, The Hanging Artist twirls the rope once, twice, thrice, and restores it to the hangman’s knot.

  The audience is astounded.

  “There is no trick, my friends, my witnesses,” The Hanging Artist says. “Mere dexterity. And because I know how superstitious we all can be, I only use twelve coils, not the traditional thirteen. Because why not? No one needs invite bad luck, when bad luck is often sitting right there, or there, or there…”

  He stops, as he notices the man in the checkered coat—Leo—has not returned to his seat.

  The Hanging Artist concentrates.

  “The gallows!” he says, and he tosses the noose into the air.

  To everyone’s astonishment, the rope does not fall, but continues to sail up, winding itself around the stark gallows. It comes to rest, the noose hanging perfectly above the chair.

  Wild applause.

  The Hanging Artist accepts the applause with a gracious bow, one gloved hand resting on his breast.

  “And now,” he says, “we begin… the end.”

  He crosses to the gramophone, removes “Tutankhamen,” and places the final record on the turntable. The music is delightful. There’s not a member of the audience doesn’t recognize the tune. Is that Eric Borchard’s jazz band? It is.

  The Hanging Artist climbs onto the chair.

  It wobbles. He regains his balance, smiles. He always smiles.

  “No worries,” he says, and fastens the noose around his neck.

  Collectively, the audience makes low noises of protests. A few stand from their seats. Will this happen? Is it a trick?

  “What, after all, is a trick?” The Hanging Artists asks from his rickety perch. “By definition, a trick is a cunning or skillful act or scheme intended to deceive or outwit someone.

  “But I have no intention of deceiving or outwitting you. I am here to do what I proposed to do. I intend to pass judgment on myself and live.

  “Do I deserve to live?

  “I leave that to you.”

  The song shouts from the gramophone:

  “Ev’rybody shimmies now.

  Ev’rybody’s learning how.

  Brother Bill, Sister Kate

  Shiver like jelly on a plate.

  Shimmy dancing can’t be beat,

  Moves ev’rything except your feet.

  Feeble folks, mighty old,

  Shake the shimmy and they shake it bold.

  Oh! Honey, won’t you show me how?

  ’Cause ev’rybody shimmies now!”

  The Hanging Artist kicks the chair out from under him. It clatters into the dark behind him.

  He drops.

  His fall—and neck, from the sound of it—is broken by the rope.

  The audience cries out.

  The Hanging Artist swings at the end of the rope, back and forth, as the lively music plays on. The
audience cannot move.

  The record ends.

  The needle remains in its final groove, tracing an endless, ghostly ribbon of dull noise as the record wears down the needle and the needle wears down the record.

  The Hanging Artist’s body ceases to sway.

  Stillness for ten seconds.

  And the curtain comes down.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A NOCTURNE

  WE SEE THEM leave the theater, their steps mechanical, their eyes unfocused.

  “Of course he lives,” one says, after strolling along in heavy silence.

  “Then he should have taken a bow,” says another.

  “He’s always back the next night,” says another.

  “But he mightn’t be back tomorrow night,” says another.

  “Well, if something went wrong tonight, I suppose we’ll read about it in the papers tomorrow,” says another.

  We see them continue to their homes, wrapped in thought.

  “What was the purpose, then?” asks one.

  “What was his reason?” asks another.

  “Why were we subjected to that?” asks another.

  “I suppose we could have just left,” says another.

  We see them in their shadowy bedrooms. Some of them, who would kneel in prayer any other night, wonder if they should bother.

  Some of them, who have never knelt in prayer, do so.

  WE SEE FOUR women in a dressing room.

  “You’re not walking home with him tonight, Julia,” one says.

  “Why not?” Julia asks.

  “You shouldn’t have walked here with him in the first place,” another says.

  “He’s very nice,” Julia says.

  “All of them are very nice,” the third says, “and by that I mean all of them seem to be very nice.”

  “They can be very nice by daylight,” says the first, “and something else entirely at night.”

  “He’s a fellow artist,” says Julia.

  “It’s hardly the same thing,” the second one says. “We don’t blow our brains out after the last song.”

  “He doesn’t blow his brains out.”

  “You know what I mean.”