6

THE comet is coming, its tail like the train of a luminous bridal gown.

As it hurtles closer to the earth its velocity steadily increases to around thirty miles per second. But the comet is still invisible to observers on the southern continent, where things happen especially slowly. Magistrates deem drivers of motor vehicles to be reckless if they exceed thirty miles per hour.

More than six years have passed since Americans Wilbur and Orville Wright used funds from their bicycle business in North Carolina to finance the world’s first powered flights. Nobody has yet emulated the feat in Australia, though several unsuccessful attempts have been made. A writer in a Sydney newspaper wonders whether the antipodean air is simply too hot or more rarefied than in Europe, making flight especially problematic.

But now, early on a Friday afternoon, the man who aspires to be the first to fly in Australia is in the dining-room of the Hotel Metropole, having lunch with his wife.

HARRY and Bess are seated opposite each other at their usual table in a corner. They look alike; could pass for brother and sister. The wedges in Harry’s shoes are no good to him when he is seated, so he tries to keep his spine straight. He leans forward attentively, responding to his wife.

‘Music? What kind of music did you hear?’

‘It was some distance away. Yet seemed familiar.’

‘This was a popular tune – a folk song?’

Bess meets his gaze, her eyes dark in her pale face.

‘Nothing like that. People singing, as if in an opera.’

‘Intriguing …’

This is not his well-projected stage voice, with a stress on almost every syllable. When performing, it sounds as if he is cutting words out of the air with scissors. Because Harry maintains that nothing is more contagious than a performer’s exuberant enthusiasm, he has trained his voice and lungs. He has made speeches to nobody at deserted racetracks and beaches to enable him to address the most distant gallery of a theatre as well as people in the first row. In his voice there is a melange of accents: New York Jewish via Hungary and the American mid-west. Now Harry strives for a tone of infinite receptivity as he strokes the back of Bess’s right hand.

‘I never cease to marvel at you, sweetness. Here we are on the other side of the globe to Milan, let’s say, yet it seems you can enjoy operatic entertainment. If only I could incorporate such a feat in my act …’

Bess withdraws her hand, knocking over a crystal cruet of salt. Harry mutters about bad luck and tries to whisk up the salt with his napkin.

‘You mock me, Houdini. But I tell you, I have now heard this music several times.’ Pale pink strawberries have bloomed on her cheeks.

Harry knows the warning signs, so he tries to defuse the situation with a performance. Even as she reaches for her handbag (crocodile skin, the trader in Port Said had assured her), Harry stands and bows so deeply his oiled hair brushes the tablecloth.

‘Forgive me, my darling. I am over-tired and under-sensitive. Any offence I have caused was not intended. I do not doubt what you have told me.’

He pauses, still with his head down, like a supplicant.

‘So … am I forgiven?’

‘Please sit. You’ll have everyone looking at us if you keep this up.’

Harry remains standing.

‘Imagine: people staring at me!’ He glances around – at the other diners and silver-covered trays on wooden serving trolleys and ornate stencilled decorations on the walls – as if reassuring himself he has an audience. But his voice is softer when he resumes his seat.

‘It is a tantalising puzzle. Italian opera in an Australian hotel. The kind of thing Sherlock Holmes would relish … The Case of the Corridor Chorus. Let’s start with the time. When did you first hear this music?’

‘The other evening. Then again yesterday afternoon.’

It occurs to her that he has said very little about his river leap that took place at much the same time. He had accepted her apology for not coming with a dismissive shake of his head, leaving her to assume it had been uneventful, like so many before it.

‘And for how long was the music playing?’

‘I cannot say. It was quite faint. And when I left the room to see if I could determine its source it seemed to disappear. I didn’t hear it again.’

‘A different kind of vanishing act!’

She suspects he is being flippant again. No. Harry has his hands on his chin and his eyes have narrowed, as if searching for the one missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. But his reverie and their conversation are interrupted by the arrival at their table of the Metropole’s head waiter, tall and bow-legged, bearing plates and bottles on a circular silver tray.

‘Your lunch, sir and madam,’ the waiter says, balancing the tray on his left hand while clearing space on the table between them with his right.

‘Swell!’ says Harry, tucking the napkin into the stiff collar of his shirt. His attention has turned to his meal. ‘Your timing is perfect, Roger. I am famished. I seem always to be hungry here … It is Roger, isn’t it?’

‘Gerald, sir. Roger is the doorman. Now. The mixed grill is for you, sir? Careful, the plate is hot. And, madam, the herb omelette for you. With shredded parsley from the window-box in the courtyard.’

‘That’s not enough,’ Harry tells her. ‘Let me give you a few kidneys.’

Bess shakes her head and holds a hand over her plate.

‘The Bordeaux is for you both?’ Gerald draws the cork from a bottle.

‘Just for me. My husband does not take wine.’

‘No wine, nor spirits of any sort,’ says Harry while chewing on a piece of steak. ‘Nor have I ever ingested tobacco. I think of myself as an athlete, Gerard, striving always to be in peak condition. Ginger-ale will suffice.’

The waiter, whose black jacket is flecked with dandruff, takes the last remaining items off his tray. After pouring Harry’s drink he catches Bess’s eye, then picks up the wine-bottle to fill her glass again. Harry frowns but says nothing. Gerald wishes them well and withdraws, though the fruity scent of his cologne lingers. For close to a minute they do not talk. Harry attacks his food as if fearful it might disappear. Bess takes dainty mouthfuls of her omelette and savours her wine.

‘It is wonderful to have an appetite again,’ Harry says. ‘There were times aboard the Malwa when I thought I would never eat again.’

‘You suffered greatly.’

‘Suffer is too mild. It was wretched. Do you know, I lost twenty-eight pounds during the voyage. Twenty-eight!’

‘You have mentioned that.’

‘And I cannot account for it. I have gone aloft in a flying machine in Hamburg, immersed myself in the depths around the globe, been suspended upside-down from window ledges of tall buildings in half a dozen major cities. All without serious mishap or distress. But put me on a boat and my stomach heaves before we have left port.’

Bess watches as he uses bread to mop up a pool of red-brown gravy. He chews noisily and with enthusiasm, swallows, takes a draught of his ginger-ale and starts sawing at a crumbed chop as if conducting a post-mortem.

‘Was it your certainty of seasickness that made you reluctant to make the long journey here?’

‘Not only that,’ he replies. ‘You know there are only two women in the world to me: yourself, and my blessed Mama. Never has there been such a distance between my mother and me. If anything should happen to her in New York while we are here, well, it would take such a time to get back …’

He has put down his cutlery and is twisting the napkin with both hands. Bess has witnessed this kind of display many times before, so stays silent. After another sip of wine she looks directly at him.

‘So remind me, please, for I also feel stranded far from everything – why, exactly, are we here?’

‘Because Harry Rickards offered me a handsome salary not only for my performances in Melbourne and Sydney but also for all our time at sea. Better than two thousand dollars per week! More than he has ever paid to anyone, he assures me. Think on it: I was being fully paid while doing nothing during the voyage.’

‘Lying on your bed with a bucket nearby …’

‘But worth it, I have no doubt of that now. Audiences here have seen nothing like me before. You have seen how they respond. I tell you’ – he looks around, as if fearful of being overheard – ‘I am certain I got the better of the deal with Rickards. I wager he must pay over the odds to get artists of note to come here. And surely I am the biggest attraction he has had.’

Bess has pushed her half-eaten omelette to one side.

‘I can accept that. There was money to be made. But your plan regarding your flying machine – I find that difficult to understand. You told me Brassac has almost finished unpacking the thing, which doubtless means you will want to see it soon. But with your commitments to Rickards, all those shows, when, precisely, do you plan to do that?’

Harry seems perplexed by her questions.

‘My dear, this is precisely why I hired Brassac when I bought the Voisin in Germany. There is no better mechanic than Brassac. No mother tends her child more tenderly than he looks after my machine. He worked for Bleriot – first man to fly over the English Channel. I trust him to get things ready. Only when everything is prepared will I take my place at the controls of the Voisin. Then I can soar like a gull swooping over the waves.’

He can picture himself doing this. Glows while recalling his first successful flight in Hamburg three months earlier – the exhilarating feeling it gave him of being completely liberated. After a lifetime spent being confined, restrained and locked up on stage, he experienced a novel sense of release. Harry can also remember the world’s response to Bleriot’s historic achievement the previous July. He had been performing in London at the time, but the response to his most daring routines were not a patch on the awestruck enthusiasm for the Frenchman and his rickety machine. Nobody, nobody, had ever done anything so bold. Fly clear from one country to another! In a matter of hours Bleriot became the talk of the world.

Always envious of anyone else’s success, Harry knew at once he had to achieve something similar – at the very least, incorporate aviation in his own act. Perhaps pull off one of his escapes while dangling from a moving flying machine …

Now, in this new country, he has a chance to add his name to the aviators’ honour board. His fork, with the last chunk of chop, is poised in mid-air. And Bess, who knows how quickly he can be distracted, is annoyed.

‘You didn’t answer my question. With everything else you already have on, when will you find time for your machine?’

‘Sundays, to start with. I have no performances on Sundays. Plus there are days clear without matinees. And, well, I will see what is necessary. Find a way to get things done. As I always do.’

‘And how will you get there? Isn’t this farm some distance away?’

‘Not so far, I am told. And it’s not a farm. My Voisin is being prepared in a field – a fine open space.’

‘You cannot drive.’

Harry hates to be reminded of any inadequacies.

‘I will engage a driver to get me to and from the field at Diggers Rest. A curious name, eh?’

His good humour is returning. But Bess isn’t done yet.

‘And why, exactly, are you so set on flying?’

‘To be the first. Wright was first in the world. I can be the first here. The Aerial League of Australia is offering a prize. You know I must be first. First in my profession; first in all I do. When I cannot strive for so much, well, goodbye to the joy of life for me.’

Bess flicks away a speck of meat he has sprayed on to the table.

‘So … I do not contribute to your joy of life? Myself, and our son?’

He flinches as if struck.

‘We are a team, my love. Just as we were as the “Original Houdinis” in the travelling circus, performing for dimes across the USA fifteen years ago.’

Bess has never forgotten the freaks, fat ladies, performing monkeys and trick bicycle riders in the Welsh Brothers’ circus. Between escape acts she doubled as a singing clown. Harry slapped on make-up to become a wild man from Mexico. She remembers the smell of the damp sawdust and animals’ pens. Remembers the strangers’ eyes piercing her clown’s costume. But she lets her husband continue.

‘We are still as one. Any glory I win as an aviator is yours as well.’

She gazes into her glass. Sips the wine.

‘It seems I will see very little of you. There are so many performances, and now your ambitious plans for the flying machine as well. I’m not at all sure what I will do during your absences, with only Mayer Samuel for company. I feel removed from everything I know here. Ah, Mr Audran …’

Horace Audran, manager of the Metropole, has appeared beside their table as suddenly and silently as one of Harry’s stage illusions. First there is an empty space between their seats. Then, all at once, it is filled by this slim, slightly-built man with thinning hair who is never seen in public without his long-tailed jacket, starched dress shirt, black tie and striped trousers. He reminds Bess of an undertaker. His manner is attentive; his fingertips pressed together and his head slightly to one side, as if always listening. Sunlight from a nearby window is reflected in his rimless spectacles.

‘Good afternoon,’ he says. ‘How are my distinguished guests today?’

‘Just swell, Audran,’ Harry says, half-rising from his seat.

Bess notices Gerald the waiter approaching. But Audran raises his right hand. He will attend to this table personally. He refills Bess’s glass and pours the last of the ale for Harry, who invites the manager to join them.

‘Thank you,’ Audran replies. ‘But I’m just passing to check that all your needs are being attended to, sir. You’ve already made quite an impression in Melbourne. You, too, madam. Your grace and charm have been noted.’

Smooth as soap, Bess thinks.

‘We have a question for you, Mr Audran. At least, my husband does … about a chauffeur.’

‘I need a driver, Audran. A reliable man who will make himself available for regular excursions out of town. And not too larcenous in his charges!’

The manager removes a slim notebook bound in black leather from his waistcoat pocket. A pencil is tucked into one side. He finds a clear page and makes a few quick annotations. Only then does he say anything.

‘I’m sure we can arrange that. One of the taxi-drivers from the Flinders Street rank could be persuaded to come to an arrangement.’

‘Swell. And there’s something else you can do. Solve a riddle for us.’

‘A riddle, sir?’

‘My wife believes she has heard mysterious music in the hotel. Not the sounds of a wind-up music-box either. Much more grand.’

‘Just once or twice,’ Bess interjects. ‘And I could have been mistaken.’

Audran faces her, his eyes a watery blue behind his spectacles. ‘Can you recall when you last heard this?’

‘Just yesterday afternoon.’

‘And get this!’ Harry has the delighted expression of a comedian delivering a punchline. ‘She heard the music – then it was gone. Vanished!’

‘I will make some enquiries,’ Audran says. ‘About this as well as a driver. Now, if there’s nothing more …’

He departs as quietly as he came. It is only later that something about this exchange strikes Bess as curious.

Audran the meticulous note-taker had not thought it necessary to write anything about the music in his little book.