An Agent of Utopia

by Andy Duncan

  “Please, Champ, don’t do this to us,” Lou whispered, reaching up with both hands in what might have been an attempted embrace. Willard grabbed Lou’s wrists, too tightly, and yanked his arms down. “Ah,” Lou gasped.

  Houdini’s drone continued as he paced the stage, his eyes never leaving the balcony. “I see, ladies and gentlemen, that the champ is attempting to retreat to his corner. Mr. Willard, the bell has rung. Will you not answer? Will you not meet the challenge? For challenge it is, Mr. Willard—I, and the good people of this house, challenge you to come forward, and stand before us, like a champion. As Mr. Johnson would have.”

  Willard froze.

  “Or would you have us, sir, doubt the authenticity of your title? Would you have us believe that our champion is unmanned by fear?”

  Willard turned and leaned so far over the rail that he nearly fell. “I’ll do my job in the ring, you do your job onstage,” he yelled. “Go on with your act, your trickery, you faker, you four-flusher!” The audience howled. He shouted louder. “Make it look good, you fake. That’s all they want—talk!” He felt his voice breaking. “Tricks and snappy dialogue! Go on, then, give ’em what they want. Talk your worthless talk! Do your lousy fake tricks!” People were standing up and yelling at him all over the theater, but he could see nothing but the little strutting figure on the stage.

  “Mr. Willard.”

  Willard, though committed, now felt himself running out of material. “Everybody knows it’s fake!”

  “Mr. Willard!”

  “Four-flusher!”

  “Look here, Mister Jess Willard,” Houdini intoned, his broad face impassive, silencing Willard with a pointed index finger. “I don’t care what your title is or how big you are or what your reputation is or how many men you’ve beaten to get it. I did you a favor by asking you onto this stage, I paid you a compliment, and so has everyone in the Orpheum.” The theater was silent but for the magician. Willard and those in the balcony around him were frozen. “You have the right, sir, to refuse us, to turn your back on your audience, but you have no right, sir, no right whatsoever, to slur my reputation, a reputation, I might add, that will long outlive yours.” In the ensuing silence, Houdini seemed to notice his pointed finger for the first time. He blinked, lowered his arm, and straightened his cummerbund as he continued: “If you believe nothing else I do or say on this stage today, Mr. Willard, believe this, for there is no need for special powers of strength or magic when I tell you that I can foresee your future. Yes, sir.”

  Now his tone was almost conversational as he strolled toward center stage, picked up a rose, snapped its stem, and worked at affixing it to his lapel. “Believe me when I say to you that one day soon you no longer will be the heavyweight champion of the world.” Satisfied by the rose, he looked up at Willard again.

  “And when your name, Mr. Millard, I’m sorry, Mr. Willard, has become a mere footnote in the centuries-long history of the ring, everyone—everyone—even those who never set foot in a theater—will know my name and know that I never turned my back to my audience, or failed to accomplish every task, every feat, they set before me. And that, sir, is why champions come and champions go, while I will remain, now and forever, the one and only, Harry Houdini!” He flung his arms out and threw his head back a half-second before the pandemonium.

  There had been twenty-five thousand people in that square in Havana, Willard had been told. He had tried not to look at them, not to think about them—that sea of snarling, squinting, sun-peeled, hateful, ugly faces. But at least all those people had been on his side.

  “Go to hell, Willard!”

  “Willard, you bum!”

  “Willard’s a willow!”

  “Go to hell!”

  Something hit Willard a glancing blow on the temple: a paper sack, which exploded as he snatched at it, showering the balcony with peanut shells. Willard felt he was moving slowly, as if underwater. As he registered that Mrs. Whoever, way down there somewhere, was pummeling him with her parasol—shrieking amid the din, “You bad man! You bad, bad man!”—Willard saw a gentleman’s silver-handled cane spiraling lazily through the air toward his head. He ducked as the cane clattered into the far corner. Someone yelped. With one final glance at the mob, Willard turned his back on the too-inviting open space and dashed—but oh, so slowly it seemed—toward the door. People got in his way; roaring, he swept them aside, reached the door, fumbled at it. His fingers had become too slow and clumsy—numb, almost paralyzed. Bellowing something, he didn’t know what, he kicked the door, which flew into the corridor in a shower of splinters. Roaring wordlessly now, Willard staggered down the staircase. He cracked his forehead on a chandelier, and yanked it one-handed out of the ceiling with a snarl, flinging it aside in a spasm of plaster and dust. His feet slipped on the lobby’s marble floor, and he flailed before righting himself in front of an open-mouthed hat-check girl. Beyond the closed auditorium doors Willard could hear the crowd beginning to chant Houdini’s name. Willard kicked a cuspidor as hard as he could; it sailed into a potted palm, spraying juice across the marble floor. Already feeling the first pangs of remorse, Willard staggered onto the sidewalk, into the reek of horseshit and automobiles. The doorman stepped back, eyes wide. “I ain’t done nothing, Mister,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing.” Willard growled and turned away, only to blunder into someone small and soft just behind him, nearly knocking her down. It was the hat-check girl, who yelped and clutched at his arms for balance.

  “What the hell!” he said.

  She righted herself, cleared her throat, and, lips pursed with determination, held out a claim ticket and a stubby pencil. “Wouldja please, huh, Mr. Willard? It won’t take a sec. My grandpa says you’re his favorite white man since Robert E. Lee.”

  Jess Willard lost the heavyweight title to Jack Dempsey on July 4, 1919, and retired from boxing soon after. When the fight money dried up, the Willards packed up Zella, Frances, Jess Junior, Enid, and Alan, left Kansas for good and settled in Los Angeles, where Willard opened a produce market at Hollywood and Afton. By day he dickered with farmers, weighed oranges, shooed flies, and swept up. Nights, he made extra money as a referee at wrestling matches. He continued to listen to boxing on the radio, and eventually to watch it on television, once the screens grew large enough to decently hold two grown men fighting. He read all the boxing news he could find in the papers, too, until holding the paper too long made his arms tremble like he was punchy, and spreading it out on the kitchen table didn’t work so good either because the small print gave him a headache, and there weren’t any real boxers left anyway, and thereafter it fell to his grandchildren, or his great-grandchildren, or his neighbors, or anyone else who had the time to spare, to read the sports pages aloud to him. Sometimes he listened quietly, eyes closed but huge behind his eyeglasses, his big mottled fingers drumming the antimacassar at one-second intervals, as if taking a count. Other times he was prompted to laugh, or to make a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, or to sit forward abruptly—which never failed to startle his youngest and, to his mind, prettiest great-granddaughter, whom he called “the Sprout,” so that despite herself she always gasped and drew back a little, her beads clattering, her pedicured toes clenching the edge of her platform sandals—and begin telling a story of the old days, which his visitors sometimes paid attention to, and sometimes didn’t, though the Sprout paid closer attention than you’d think.

  One day in 1968, the Sprout read Jess Willard the latest indignant Times sports column about the disputed heavyweight title. Was the champ Jimmy Ellis, who had beaten Jerry Quarry on points, or was it Joe Frazier, who had knocked out Buster Mathis, or was it rightfully Muhammad Ali, who had been stripped of the title for refusing the draft, and now was banned from boxing anywhere in the United States? The columnist offered no answer to the question, but used his space to lament that boxing suddenly had become so political.

  “Disputes,
hell. I disputed a loss once,” Willard told the Sprout. “To Joe Cox in Springfield Moe in 1911. The referee stopped the fight, then claimed I wouldn’t fight, give the match to Cox. Said he hadn’t stopped nothing. I disputed it, but didn’t nothing come of it. Hell. You can’t win a fight by disputing.”

  “I thought a fight was a dispute,” said the Sprout, whose name was Jennifer. Taking advantage of her great-granddad’s near-blindness, she had lifted the hem of her mini to examine the pear-shaped peace symbol her boyfriend had drunkenly drawn on her thigh the night before. She wondered how long it would take to wash off. “Boyfriend” was really the wrong word for Cliff, though he was cute, in a scraggly dirty hippie sort of way, and it wasn’t like she had a parade of suitors to choose from. The only guy who seemed interested at the coffeehouse last week was some Negro, couldn’t you just die, and of course she told him to buzz off. She hoped Jess never found out she’d even said so much as “Buzz off” to a Negro boy—God knows, Jess was a nut on that subject. Nigger this and nigger that, and don’t even bring up what’s his name, that Negro boxer, Johnson? But you couldn’t expect better from the old guy. After all, what had they called Jess, back when—the White Hope?

  “No, no, honey,” Willard said, shifting his buttocks to get comfortable. He fidgeted all the time, even in his specially made chair, since he lost so much weight. “A fight in the ring, it ain’t nothing personal.”

  “You’re funny, Jess,” Jennifer said. The old man’s first name still felt awkward in her mouth, though she was determined to use it—it made her feel quite hip and adult, whereas “Popsy” made her feel three years old.

  “You’re funny, too,” Willard said, sitting back. “Letting boys write on your leg like you was a Blue Horse tablet. Read me some more, if you ain’t got nothing else to do.”

  “I don’t,” Jennifer lied.

  Jess Willard died in his Los Angeles home December 15, 1968—was in that very custom-made chair, as a matter of fact, when he finally closed his eyes. He opened them to find himself in a far more uncomfortable chair, in a balcony at the Los Angeles Orpheum, in the middle of Harry Houdini’s opening-night performance, November 30, 1915.

  “Where you been, Champ?” Lou asked. “We ain’t keeping you up, are we?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, these our volunteers have my thanks. Shall they have your thanks as well?”

  Amid the applause, Lou went on: “You ought to act interested, at least.”

  “Sorry, Lou,” Willard said, sitting up straight and shaking his head. Cripes, he must have nodded off. He had that nagging waking sensation of clutching to the shreds of a rich and involving dream, but no, too late, it was all gone. “I’m just tired from traveling, is all.”

  “My friends, as I am sure you have noticed, our committee still lacks three men. But if you will indulge me, I have a suggestion. I am told that here in the house with us tonight, we have one man who is easily the equal of any three.”

  Lou jabbed Willard in the side. “Knock ’em dead, Champ,” he said, grinning.

  For an instant, Willard didn’t understand. Then he remembered. Oh yeah, an onstage appearance with Houdini—like Jack London had done in Oakland, and President Wilson in Washington. Willard leaned forward to see the stage, the magician, the committee, the scatter of roses. Lou jabbed him again and mouthed the word, “Surprise.” What did he mean, surprise? They had talked about this. Hadn’t they?

  “And so, ladies and gentlemen, will you kindly join me in inviting before the footlights the current heavyweight boxing champion—our champion—Mr. Jess Willard!”

  In the sudden broil of the spotlight, amid a gratifying burst of cheers and applause, Willard unhesitatingly stood—remembering, just in time, the low ceiling. Grinning, he leaned over the edge and waved to the crowd, first with the right arm, then both arms. Cheered by a capacity crowd, at the biggest Orpheum theater on the West Coast—two dollars a seat, Lou had said! Hattie never would believe this. He bet Jack Johnson never got such a reception. But he wouldn’t think of Johnson just now. This was Jess Willard’s night. He clasped his hands together and shook them above his head.

  Laughing above the cacophony, Houdini waved and cried, “Mr. Willard, please, come down!”

  “On my way,” Willard called, and was out the balcony door in a flash. He loped down the stairs two at a time. Sprinting through the lobby, he winked and blew a kiss at the hat-check girl, who squealed. The doors of the auditorium opened inward before him, and he entered the arena without slowing down, into the midst of a standing ovation, hundreds of faces turned to him as he ran down the central aisle toward the stage where Houdini waited.

  “Mind the stairs in the pit, Mr. Willard,” Houdini said. “I don’t think they were made for feet your size.” Newly energized by the audience’s laughter, Willard made a show of capering stiff-legged up the steps, then fairly bounded onto the stage to shake the hand of the magician—who really was a small man, my goodness—and then shake the hands of all the other committee members. The applause continued, but the audience began to resettle itself, and Houdini waved his hands for order.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen! Please! Your attention! Thank you. Mr. Willard, gentlemen, if you will please step back, to make room for—The Wall of Mystery!”

  The audience oohed as a curtain across the back of the stage lifted to reveal an ordinary brick wall, approximately twenty feet long and ten high. As Willard watched, the wall began to turn. It was built, he saw, on a circular platform flush with the stage. The disc revolved until the wall was perpendicular to the footlights.

  “The Wall of Mystery, ladies and gentlemen, is not mysterious whatsoever in its construction. Perhaps from where you are sitting you can smell the mortar freshly laid, as this wall was completed only today, by twenty veteran members, personally selected and hired at double wages by the management of this theater, of Bricklayers’ Union Number Thirty-four. Gentlemen, please take a bow!”

  On cue, a half-dozen graying, potbellied men in denim work clothes walked into view stage left, to bow and wave their caps and grin. Willard applauded as loudly as anyone, even put both fingers in his mouth to whistle, before the bricklayers shuffled back into their workingmen’s obscurity.

  “Mr. Willard, gentlemen, please approach the wall and examine it at your leisure, until fully satisfied that the wall is solid and genuine in every particular.”

  The committee fanned out, first approaching the wall tentatively, as if some part of it might open and swallow them. Gradually they got into the spirit of the act, pushing and kicking the wall, slamming their shoulders into it, running laps around it to make sure it began and ended where it seemed to. To the audience’s delight, Willard, by far the tallest of the men, took a running jump and grabbed the top of the wall, then lifted himself so that he could peer over to the other side. The audience cheered. Willard dropped down to join his fellow committeemen, all of whom took the opportunity to shake Willard’s hand again.

  During all this activity, Houdini’s comely attendants had rolled onstage two six-foot circular screens, one from backstage left, one from backstage right. They rolled the screens to center stage, one screen stage left of the wall, one screen stage right. Just before stepping inside the left screen, Houdini said: “Now, gentlemen, please arrange yourselves around the wall so that no part of it escapes your scrutiny.” Guessing what was going to happen, Willard trotted to the other side of the wall and stood, arms folded, between the wall and the stage-right screen; he could no longer see Houdini for the wall. The other men found their own positions. Willard heard a whoosh that he took to be Houdini dramatically closing the screen around him. “I raise my hands above the screen like so,” Houdini called, “to prove I am here. But now—I am gone!” There was another whoosh—the attendants opening the screen? The audience gasped and murmured. Empty, Willard presumed. The attendants trotted downstage into Willard’s view, professionally ba
lanced on their high heels, carrying between them the folded screen. At that moment the screen behind Willard went whoosh, and he turned to see Houdini stepping out of it, one hand on his hip, the other raised above his head in a flourish.

  Surprised and elated despite himself, Willard joined in the crescendo of bravos and huzzahs.

  Amid the din, Houdini trotted over to Willard, gestured for him to stoop, and whispered into his ear:

  “Your turn.”

  His breath reeked of mint. Startled, Willard straightened up. The audience continued to cheer. Houdini winked, nodded almost imperceptibly toward the open screen he just had exited. Following Houdini’s glance, Willard saw the secret of the trick, was both disappointed and delighted at its simplicity, and saw that he could do it, too. Yet he knew that to accept Houdini’s offer, to walk through the wall himself, was something he neither wanted nor needed to do. He was Jess Willard, heavyweight champion of the world, if only for a season, and that was enough. He was content. He’d leave walking through walls to the professionals. He clapped one hand onto Houdini’s shoulder, engulfing it, smiled and shook his head. Again almost imperceptibly, Houdini nodded, then turned to the audience, took a deep bow. Standing behind him now, feeling suddenly weary—surely the show wouldn’t last much longer—Willard lifted his hands and joined the applause. Backstage to left and right, and in the catwalks directly above, he saw a cobweb of cables and pulleys against stark white brick—ugly, really, but completely invisible from the auditorium. On the highest catwalk two niggers in coveralls stood motionless, not applauding. Looking about, gaping, he was sure, like a hick, Willard told himself: Well, Jess, now you’ve had a taste of how it feels to be Harry Houdini. The afterthought came unbidden, as a jolt: And Jack Johnson, too. Disconcerted, Willard turned to stare at the stage-right screen, as two of the women folded it up and carted it away.

  Jennifer barely remembered her Grandma Hattie, but she felt as if she sort of knew her by now, seeing the care she had lavished for decades on these scrapbooks, and reading the neat captions Hattie had typed and placed alongside each item: