Illusion

by Stephanie Elmas

  The fluttering colours caught at the audience’s faces as they looked up in delight. For a moment Tom spotted the girl, Tamara, amongst them. Her face, now tinged with violet and pink, was a picture of wonderment.

  The glow of the room slowly grew a little brighter and the hummingbirds seemed to flock away into a corner, suddenly and miraculously gone. The audience turned back to the stage, for the first time completely silent, all eyes resting on Walter. He stood alone, the mirrors about him reflecting his image a thousand times. Now, in this strange landscape of his creation, his extraordinary silk attire seemed to suit him rather well.

  ‘May I have a volunteer, a gentleman perhaps?’ he asked softly. ‘You, sir? I trust you have no objection to me putting you under a spell?’

  A young man in the front row snorted with amusement, sucking at his protruding front teeth. He leapt to his feet and marched up onto the stage. A few of the young ladies clapped encouragingly, inching forward in their seats. Walter put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and fixed him with his eyes.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Hugo Metcalfe.’

  ‘Well Mr Metcalfe, I am pleased to meet you. You have a very smart suit on I have to say.’

  The young man smiled a little sheepishly. His face was rather pink and the colour spread into the scalp beneath his fuzzy blonde hair. ‘Fresh from the tailor just yesterday,’ he replied. ‘All in good time for Miss Gallop’s party.’

  Rosalind bowed her head down immediately as a few titters circulated the room. Mrs Gallop puffed up her proud, hen-like bosom.

  ‘Yes, I can see that. It is very well cut and quite immaculate in appearance,’ continued Walter. ‘Now, Mr Metcalfe, I am going to put you into a deep sleep and when you wake up it will be snowing and you’ll be quite terrified about damaging your handsome new suit in the snow. Do you understand?’

  As Walter spoke, small white flecks began to descend from the ceiling. Tom watched on as the young man seemed to wilt under Walter’s hands. His knees buckled slightly and his head hung down.

  ‘Do not be alarmed, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ Walter urged them all. ‘It is simply white tissue paper. But your friend, Mr Metcalfe, will think otherwise. On the count of three, Hugo Metcalfe, you will wake up. One… two… three…,’

  The young man opened his eyes and looked around the room with a bewildered gaze. The small flakes of paper began to thicken and he suddenly noticed that some of them were landing on his jacket. His affable pink face contorted itself into an expression of horror. With frenzied hands he began to brush them off his clothes.

  ‘Good gracious,’ he gasped. The audience started to snigger as he brushed at his clothes more and more violently. Soon the sniggering turned into roars of laughter. Tom could see Mrs Gallop’s head wobbling on her shoulders.

  ‘Confounded nuisance! Get it off, get it off!!’ He hopped about the stage looking more like a man who’d been set on fire than covered in snow, his arms and legs flailing in all directions. Tom could see that Tamara was laughing with the crowd, her slim shoulders shaking a little. He could feel her smile emanating through her body, through the thick expanse of her dark hair. He longed to sit beside her, take her hand, laugh at Walter’s brilliance in her company. And yet her mother was sitting there instead, still as a stone. He could see the chiselled outline of her profile: not laughing. She was the only person in the room apparently untouched by the absurdity of the act. The hawk faced man seemed to be aware of her displeasure; he glanced repeatedly at her face, his eyes sparkling.

  Finally, Walter released the poor man and he sucked his teeth affably at the uproar of applause that followed. And then it was Rosalind’s turn to be beckoned up on stage, accompanied by her father. A lone fiddle began to play; its gentle notes filling the air with a slow waltz.

  ‘I’m sure, Mr Gallop, that you would like to dance with your daughter on this very special day. Please, take her hand,’ said Walter. His voice was now as serene as the music; so fluid and melodic that it seemed to fill the entire room, draw the audience into its rhythmic pace.

  Mr Gallop didn’t look like the sort of man who was fond of dancing, particularly in front of an audience. But he consented, taking his daughter by the hand and leading her into a gentle dance. And as he did so the lights immediately dimmed so that they seemed to dance in shadows and one of the mirrors behind them lit up with a golden glow.

  Walter’s voice came again, although no one could see him now. ‘Ah, surely you must be very proud of your daughter, Mrs Gallop. It must seem like only yesterday that she was a little girl, playing at dancing at a grand party just like this.’

  And with these words an image of a small girl appeared in the glowing glass of the mirror. She danced in time to the waltz, her hands clasping her imaginary partner. She flitted, ghost-like in the glass, her dress a perfect miniature of the one Rosalind was wearing now, her hair piled and pinned in just the same way. The audience barely seemed to breathe. Tom caught a glimpse of Mrs Gallop raising her handkerchief to her eyes. As the music drew to an end, the mirror faded and Rosalind and Mr Gallop took centre stage again. The audience rose with applause, their hosts rather flushed and stunned by their standing ovation.

  And Tom clapped too, even louder than the rest. How could he ever have doubted his friend? The shame of it crept through him. Because Walter’s magic was real. He was a true wizard. And his magic had nothing to do with lights and smoke and music and mirrors. It was a different sort of power: the magic that could make a scared boy in a workhouse laugh again, the magic that could turn Miss Rosalind Gallop into a princess.

  As the audience regained their seats and the lights grew a little bolder again, a rough looking man in a dirty brown coat brushed past Tom’s shoulder and marched up the aisle. Tom couldn’t see his face, but he had long unkempt black hair and bullish shoulders.

  ‘You!’ he snarled, raising a dirty finger at Walter. An alarmed hush fell across the room. Those nearest to the man recoiled in disgust and Tom felt his stomach falling into his shoes.

  ‘Me?’ replied Walter from his place on the stage, his eyebrows innocently arched.

  ‘Yes, you! You’re wanted for theft.’

  The audience inhaled unanimously.

  ‘But what have I stolen?’

  ‘One of my cats, the best in show!’ and with that the man pulled out a whip.

  Everyone flinched back now, but Walter calmly stepped off the stage and walked towards the man.

  ‘So you are that rogue ringmaster who whips his poor beasts to shreds!’ he snarled back at the man. ‘You are the vagabond who makes small boys steal for a living.’

  ‘I …I…,’

  But Walter had caught him by the eyes. The man’s hand went limp, his whip falling to the floor. Slowly Walter retreated back towards the stage and, as he did so, the man followed him.

  Walter shook his finger solemnly. ‘You should see what it is like to be one of your poor beasts, my man. Perhaps we should start by putting you in a cage. How would you like that?’

  As he spoke, the mirrors behind him parted to reveal a large, empty cage. Walter pulled open the door and the man obediently climbed in, his bulky frame now shamefully contorted in its prison.

  ‘How does that feel? Do you now see what it is like to be one of your beasts? Perhaps you should go to sleep. After all, there is nothing else to do in a cage. Let me help you; I can make it dark for you inside there. As black as the night.’

  Walter unfolded a black velvet blanket and threw it over the box, obscuring the cage and the man inside it.

  ‘It seems to me that this man is not of a pleasant nature,’ he said, slowly circling the blanketed cage. ‘It seems to me that he is more beast-like than his own poor animals. Well, if that is the case then perhaps I should change him into one! Let him see how it truly feels!’

  And with a grand flourish Walter whipped the blanket off the cage to reveal a vast black panther sitting in the man’s place. It flicked its tail,
wiped its pale pink tongue across its lips, and roared deeply. The gasp that flew around the room seemed to spark with lightning. There was a silence and then the clapping began; slowly at first before rising to a tumult. Even Rosalind applauded wildly.

  Tamara turned to look at Tom. Her dark eyes were like night and coffee and dreams that can’t be spoken and the noise in the room exploded with the force of canon-fire in his head.

  ‘Thank you Ladies and Gentlemen,’ said Walter, taking his bow. ‘Thank you.’

  Chapter 6

  Tom took a swig from the flask and let the joyous burn of it slip down his throat. He began to chuckle again.

  ‘Father and daughter, dancing together? I never thought you had it in you.’

  ‘Had what in me?’ Walter flicked at the reins. The pony picked up a little pace.

  ‘The sentimentality.’

  ‘I have many skills, although I believe Kayan has yet to forgive me for that one.’

  Tom looked back at the boy, so muffled up against the cold that only the smallest square of his face was visible. But it was enough to reveal an expression of deep thunder.

  ‘What ails you?’

  The boy shrugged, as if words couldn’t suffice, but then suddenly blurted, ‘Would you like that, Master Tom Winter? Dressing up like little girl with silly wig? Dancing stupid dance in mirror?’

  He glared at both of them with deep, accusing eyes.

  ‘You were more fortunate than me, young man,’ slurred Cornelius, rousing himself from a deep, snoring sleep at the back of the trap. He took a long glug from a half-empty bottle in his hand. ‘My wig had fleas in it I tell you. And Walter…Walter!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When you forced me into that cage, I thought I’d let one off! D’rather waltz about like a girl.’

  Kayan snorted with amusement and then looked angry at himself for having failed so readily at anger. ‘No, you had better deal. I can do tricks, with cards.’

  ‘And you waltz excellently, too.’

  The boy rolled his great hazel eyes. ‘Ah, go back to being drunk old man!’

  ‘Much obliged,’ replied Cornelius and in seconds he was snoring again.

  The fog was still dense as they ploughed back into the East. Tom threw his head back and let the air glide over his face like silk covered fingers. His friend had been a sensation and Mrs Gallop had actually embraced both of them as they said their farewells.

  ‘So wonderful,’ she’d effervesced. ‘The dancing, the panther, the platters, the suitors …,’ It was all too much; she had to bury half her face in a handkerchief to regain composure whilst Mr Gallop bustled her away.

  Tom pulled his coat about him. Finally he had started to cool off from the heat of success and he suddenly realised that he had no idea where they were going. A sound, like a heavy footfall, or something being knocked into, disturbed the night air behind them. Tom and Walter looked back, but it was impossible to see anything. A moody growl reverberated from one of their boxes.

  ‘Hmm, he heard it too,’ murmured Walter.

  ‘Quiet, Sinbad,’ Kayan whispered through the holes in the box. ‘We’re nearly home.’

  Tom eyed Walter and took another burning swig of the liquor. ‘Sinbad? Home? What’s the boy talking about? Surely we’re returning the panther now, where did you get him from?’

  Walter looked calmly ahead of him, bridle in hand. He seemed to know exactly where he was going in spite of the wall of grey before them. ‘I bought him from an animal dealer along the Ratcliffe Highway. Such beasts he had there, it was despicable. Ripped from their land, their mothers. Confused, dazed. I’ve seen those animals in the wild, Tom. In all their glory. Vicious sometimes. But alive! No, Sinbad stays with us.’

  Tom groaned. ‘Are you really saying that you are planning on keeping a wild panther in London?’

  ‘Oh, he’s quite tame; taken from his mother as a small cub.’

  ‘And where on earth are you going to keep such a creature?’

  Walter pulled softly on the reins and the pony slowed down to a gentle pace.

  ‘Here,’ he replied.

  Tom peered through the haze of fog until his eyes started to dance. He wiped them with the back of his sleeve and peered again. Something ahead began to take shape. It was as if the fog was moulding itself into a form of some sort, just beyond them. They got closer and closer and the form acquired curved cheeks, a nose, grey eyes gazing down. His heart jolted as the face suddenly came into full view; a woman, leaning over from above, close enough to kiss. But her eyes were unblinking, her skin corpse grey. Behind her rose the tips of two great feathered wings of the same hue.

  ‘Have no fear, friend,’ came Walter’s amused voice. ‘She’s a statue. Quite lovely though, it’s rather disappointing.’

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Bow Cemetery.’

  ‘You intend to keep a panther in Bow Cemetery?’

  ‘Yes, as well as ourselves. I’ve come to an excellent understanding with the warden. Kayan and I have adequate lodgings in some housing where he stores his tools and Sinbad will help keep the body snatchers and degenerates away.’

  There were few words that Tom could find to respond to this. This was Walter after all. And could Walter Balanchine possibly live in a normal house with a pet dog or cat for company? No, of course not. In a matter of one evening the man had levitated, filled a drawing room with hummingbirds, changed a man into a panther and, most miraculously, won the adoration of an elite set of wealthy Londoners: the same people Tom had bowed and pandered to for years with only moderate success.

  Before Walter’s return, Tom’s life had been marked by a perimeter of neatly trodden lines: from his home to his pupils and back to his home again. Straight, defined pathways. And now… now he was lingering, half drunk in the early hours of the morning, in a cemetery with a panther.

  Kayan unlocked the box and out slipped Sinbad. He was lithe and sinuous; the subtlest of shivers travelled from the top of his head to the tip of his tail as he stretched his body in the cold night air. Kayan laid a loving hand on the beast’s head and it nuzzled up against him in response. But the boy still looked sullen.

  Walter drew a deep breath. ‘But you made such a fine young Rosalind, even her mother was quite convinced.’

  ‘No more dresses,’ said the boy, obstinately.

  ‘Alright then. No more dresses.’

  And in a moment Kayan’s miserable expression adjusted itself into a beaming smile again. How easily he forgave. He clicked softly at the great cat and together they turned and walked into the mist.

  ‘And what about us?’ Tom asked, when they had disappeared completely.

  ‘We have one more delivery to make.’

  They turned to look at the back of the cart where Cornelius was purring in his sleep. The bottle in his hand was now empty.

  ‘Where did he get the drink?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but perhaps you’d better not mention it to the Gallops.’

  *

  Cornelius’s home was at the end of a drapers’ alley of sturdy brick buildings. As the pony’s hooves clicked over the cobbles, a small crowd could be seen huddled at his door.

  ‘Something’s afoot,’ murmured Walter.

  A small boy ran towards them. He eyed Cornelius, lying inebriated in the back of the cart, and at the same time a woman’s muffled scream floated through the air. They looked up at a lone lit window to find the source of the cries, the unmistakeable wail of childbirth. The lamp flickered ominously against the glass.

  The boy shook his head soulfully. ‘Cornelius is gonna be in that much trouble. His missus is up there, labouring for hours. Baby won’t come. They say it’s spine against spine, she’s kept the ’ole street up.’

  Another agonized wail shook the night air and the small crowd shrugged ceremoniously.

  Walter’s eyes flitted across the window again.

  ‘I better go and help,’ he said.

  ‘Good Lord, you didn�
��t learn birthing out there on your travels too, did you?’

  Walter shook his head. ‘No Tom, haven’t got a clue about that. But I know how to numb pain,’ he said, fingering the bottles around his neck. ‘Should have enough to take the edge off.’

  He hopped down from his perch on the cart and the crowd made way for him respectfully, as if this tall, cloaked stranger were some sort of magical healer from an ancient tribe. The door yawned open and he disappeared inside the house. Tom looked back at Cornelius, still snoring liquor fumes, his lips rippling to the tune of his song. The small boy was also still standing there, looking soulfully at the drunken man.

  ‘Could you fetch me a bucket of water?’ Tom asked him.

  After a frenzied bout of coughing, spluttering and cursing, Cornelius seemed to come to his senses. His blood-shot eyes grimaced back at them and he shook the water from his head like a wet dog. But before Tom had time to explain anything, yet another ghastly scream from above curdled the air around them. Frenzied shadows passed across the window.

  ‘Lord have mercy,’ murmured Cornelius, suddenly appearing to have made sense of the situation. He jumped to his feet, muttering under his breath, and raced into the house.

  Tom quietly slipped away; he wasn’t needed here and the screams set his teeth on edge. He turned a corner, out of earshot, settling himself on a step. The roads were empty here; a single lamppost glowed where two streets converged, teasing the fog away.

  Finally he was alone. Finally he could indulge in those thoughts that probed desperately at his mind; thoughts he shouldn’t even dare invite. Tamara. Where was she now? Perhaps only a few miles from here; sleeping in the comfort of her bed. Under the roof of this same city but encased in a life as remote to him as the place where that panther once came from. God she was beautiful. And he’d actually spoken to her; only one word, but she’d responded. She’d smiled that sweet honey smile at him …