37

DEMAND for seats at Harry’s shows has grown steadily, especially now that notices advise ‘Season Must Finish Soon!’ It pains Rickards to give away a ticket to a hotel guest that he might otherwise sell. Only when Audran reminds him that the Houdinis are staying at the Metropole at substantially reduced rates, a tariff that could easily be revised and backdated, does Rickards relent. But he insists that the late notice limits his options. So the composer finds himself seated near the front but towards the side of the theatre for the Friday-night performance at the Opera House.

He is unconcerned by the placement, and has assured Audran he will not risk drawing attention to himself with another early exit. With his collar tugged up high again, he has found his seat as the flickering cinematograph images signal the start of Harry’s segment of the show. In his vest pocket are both the ticket and the note that Audran brought him late in the morning. A note with just two words: ‘Come tonight.’

As Harry’s first routine unfolds, the composer pays little attention to the writhing on stage. But he does notice the bandage on his left hand: these escapes are not without risk, he thinks. He wonders if Audran noticed the slight look of disappointment that greeted him after he had knocked on the composer’s door. For the manager was not the one Puccini had been expecting. A couple of strides had taken him from piano to door, time enough to anticipate taking her hands and leaning down for a kiss.

But it was the manager at the door, and if Audran sensed any regret in the composer’s manner he was, as ever, sufficiently diplomatic not to let anything show. Audran delivered what he had brought with him, made polite enquiries about his work after apologising for the interruption, and withdrew. Only when he left did Puccini read the note. Two words he re-read several times. Before returning to the piano-stool he stood by his silent Edison machine, remembering Bess’s rapt expression while he assembled her own gramophone. If only his own music would come together so neatly: one piece here; one piece there; a satisfying click when parts were joined correctly … simple. Many small things making something much bigger and beautiful. But progress has been made. For the first time he can sense the final shape of the work he is creating.

NOW, from his seat near the side of the theatre, the composer barely listens as Harry introduces the latest challenge. He explains how he will first be laid flat on a plank, then tied with thick mariners’ ropes. Puccini knows that Houdini will extricate himself. He does not yet know how he will do so, but the result seems as inevitable as several deaths in the last Act of an opera. His mind wanders to his Dick Johnson and Minnie in the Wild West as Kukol and Vickery appear on the stage, each carrying one end of an eight-foot-long plank. They are followed by four men in the distinctive white shirts and blue trousers favoured by sailors. The one closest to the front of the stage, a young man whose forearms are covered in tattoos of mermaids and sea-monsters, is indeed a mariner, recruited that morning from Mrs Dawson’s boarding house near the docks with the offer of two pounds for his silence and a few hours’ work. The other three, lacking tattoos, are the two violinists and double-bass player who provide occasional musical accompaniment for the shows.

Watching from behind curtains at the side of the stage as Harry is secured to the plank, Bess is reminded of a Thanksgiving turkey being prepared for the oven – its drumsticks tied together and cavity sewed shut to secure the stuffing. She sees her husband smile confidently as his hands are tied, then attached to a broomstick; placed under his raised knees; with several knots securing the ends of the rope after they have been wound around Harry’s legs and torso. The rope and knots are real, though Kukol’s job is to ensure there is just enough slack in the restraints at critical points.

Harry can use almost every part of his body – his prehensile toes, his strong and flexible fingers, even his teeth – to work at the rope. His mouth fills with the taste of hemp and tar. His writhing becomes intense, the plank rising and falling on the stage with dull thuds. Everyone can hear the effort he makes to free himself and see the red marks on his arms when he celebrates another success, holding aloft one end of the rope like a jungle hunter who has slain a fearsome serpent. Puccini has decided that this rope challenge is the escape artist’s equivalent of Caruso singing scales: a display of technical excellence. Similarly, the demonstration of a handcuff escape that follows is impressive rather than moving.

Only when Kukol and Vickery manoeuvre the large curtained cabinet and trunk on to the stage, signalling the imminent start of the Metamorphosis routine, does Puccini concentrate. He leans forward as Harry reappears in his shirtsleeves and makes similar preliminary comments to those the composer heard two days previously, although his introduction of Bess is even more fulsome. He welcomes her as, ‘My wife, my shining light, my most beautiful assistant.’ Something seems to block Puccini’s throat when she appears, wearing the same boyish costume.

Once again there is whistling from the rear seats. She is smiling, yet there is also something resolute about her expression that the composer would love to see replicated by a soprano portraying his Minnie in her final scene.

As before, Bess has nothing to say until her husband has been sealed inside the long cloth bag and positioned within the cabinet. She steps forward. The crowd quietens, curious to hear what this slight figure has to say. But she stays mute, standing still and quiet as if she has forgotten her lines. She smiles and savours the intoxicating power of this extended pause. Enclosed in darkness in the cabinet, Harry wonders if something has gone wrong.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bess begins. Then she stops again. Puccini thinks he sees a fleeting nod of her head in his direction. He wishes he could make eye contact, but her gaze is now fixed forwards.

‘You must pay complete attention!’ she says. ‘For this is the final time I will ask this of you or any other audience. I shall now clap my hands three times. On the third and very last occasion, I invite you to watch closely for the effect.’

Then it is all as before: Bess stepping behind the curtains as they shut; the transformation; the reappearance of Harry; Bess coming out of the bag like a gorgeous gauzy butterfly from a chrysalis and taking her bows with her husband at the front of the stage. But the composer is repeating her words to himself: this is the final time. The same words that have caused Kukol and Vickery to turn to each other in the wings.

‘You hear that?’ Vickery asks. ‘Did the boss even know?’

Kukol cannot answer this. He is so shocked by what he has heard that he almost forgets to check his watch at the routine’s conclusion. A fraction over three seconds: Bess has bowed out in style. But was it really a finale?

This is what Harry wants to know even as they acknowledge the applause.

‘Did you mean it, my love?’ he asks while beaming at the spectators. She says nothing. It is only later in the dressing-room, after Bess has changed out of her costume, that she answers him. Yes, she chose her words quite deliberately. This was her last show.

‘But why didn’t you warn me, sweetness?’ he replies, upset. ‘I could hear you inside that trunk. I was so shocked I couldn’t concentrate on all I had to do. Metamorphosis might have been ruined!’ As always, it is the performance that matters most. But she stays calm as she tries to explain.

‘Why didn’t I tell you? Because I didn’t know for sure myself until just before I spoke. Then I was absolutely certain.’

‘But why now? So soon after your return. Was it those snide comments in that Sydney magazine about me using my wife as a right-hand man?’

‘Not at all. And it’s nothing you have done – or not done. I read an interview with Madame Melba in the newspaper. She said nothing but the best would ever suffice for her. That’s how it is for you too, Houdini. You have that in common. And I am not the best I can be. Not as good as I was.’

Before Harry can reply – he wants to protest that Melba knows nothing about their kind of work – Kukol coughs to signal his arrival. He is carrying Bess’s stage costume.

‘Should I put this back in storage, Mrs?’

‘No, thank you, Franz,’ she replies, taking it from him. ‘I would like to keep it with me. And I think I will return to the hotel soon.’

‘I’ll accompany you,’ says Harry. ‘We’ll have some dinner together. I’m famished! But first I must get out of this outfit – it’s ruined.’

Bess nods; tells him to send Franz to get her when he has changed. He will find her on the stage. She wants to stand where she has performed for the final time and ponder the real reason for her announcement – for what she told her husband about Melba’s interview is only part of the explanation. Melba’s recording with Caruso has much more to do with it. Since she first heard the aria, in Puccini’s room, she has been transfixed by the power of this music. Nothing her husband does in his act, as skilful and adroit as he is, can cause such intense emotion and touch her so deeply. To be an accessory to this artifice now seems hollow and false.

She lays her costume down and stands on the edge of the stage. She spreads the fingers of each hand, tilts her head back, and tries to imagine how it must feel to summon that heart-stopping note Melba reaches at the end of the aria. She closes her eyes. If only she could sing …

She cannot see the tall figure who has lingered and stands near the back, in darkness. This is perfect, he thinks. This is how it should be. The heroine alone at the end.

‘Mrs?’ Kukol asks from the wings. ‘You alright, Mrs? Are you ready?’

‘Yes, Franz,’ she replies, picking up the costume and turning her back on the rows and rows of empty seats. ‘I can leave now.’