by H. P. Wood
The stage, such as it is, is an elevated platform made from an old bed frame. The frame is set at about waist height, and it sits atop complex machinery—gears and levers and pulleys—like the honeymoon bed of a mad watchmaker. Ringing the edges of the bed are handheld magnifying glasses, attached to the structure by long chains. What used to be the headboard is painted with a large—and not half bad, if Zeph does say so himself—mural of the Palace of Versailles in France, with its thousands of windows. At the foot, a second mural faces the first—the comparatively modest Royal Palace of Madrid. A red velvet curtain is laid out across the bed, obscuring everything else from view. P-Ray scuttles around and underneath the platform, finalizing his preparations.
Zeph motors into the room in his cart and parks by the headboard. “All right, little man? We ready?”
P-Ray’s head pops up at the foot of the bed, and he nods.
“Everyone!” Zeph calls the audience to attention. “Please, gather round. Come in close, and grab yourself one of them magnifying glasses. You don’t want to miss nothing. C’mere, Chief. You can watch from up here by me, if you like.”
Whitey pulls himself up onto Zeph’s cart, his beautiful fortune-teller standing beside him. The rest of the crowd assembles in a circle around the platform, each holding a magnifying glass up to one eye. “You are about to witness a reenactment in miniature of the infamous road race from France to Spain. Twentieth-century gladiators facing off in the modern arena of the open road. More than two hundred took part in that doomed race last year. Who survived? Who perished? Ladies and gentlemen, Theophilus P. Magruder’s Theatron Prodigium presents the Paris–Madrid Race of 1903. Or, as the papers called it, the Race to Death.” He winks at P-Ray. “Okay, kid. Do your stuff.”
P-Ray runs to the headboard and turns a crank, which eases the red curtain off the bed to reveal the landscape separating Versailles and Madrid—seven-hundred-plus miles of countryside rendered in miniature. Green felt for grass, blue for water, brown for sand and dirt. Rolling hills dotted with little wire trees and shrubs, with a line of tiny flags marking the border between the countries. A winding gray road connects the two palaces. It stretches up hills and down valleys, twists sharply right and left, through towns, over bridges, across borders. Scattered along the route are collections of tiny black specks. The crowd leans in, squinting through their magnifying glasses.
Fleas. Dozens of fleas.
Each flea is in costume. There’s a French pastry chef flea, with a white apron and puffy hat. A pair of flamenco dancer fleas in dramatic black-and-red outfits. A soldier flea, a priest flea, a little old lady flea, a mother flea pushing a baby carriage. A flea dressed as Émile Loubet, the president of France, and one dressed as Alfonso XIII, king of Spain. Photographer fleas with tiny cameras at the ready, and firemen fleas on little red trucks. One sad old flea costumed as a town drunk.
They are arranged in clumps at various points along the gray road—witnesses to the coming horror. The human audience stares down at the insect one. The fleas waggle their little legs in the air.
“Wait a minute,” one of the teenagers says. “They’re alive?”
Whitey’s date casts him a worried glance. “They won’t come after us, will they?”
“No,” Whitey assures her. “Of course not. They…” He pauses, feeling the sudden need to scratch. He turns to Zeph. “They won’t…right?”
“Don’t worry,” Zeph replies with a smile. “The costumes are attached to the board…keeps ’em pretty well tethered.”
One of the respectable gentlemen huffs and itches. “Pretty well, eh?”
“More or less,” Zeph says with a wink.
Joe the anarchist chortles into his single sleeve. “I love this place.”
P-Ray scuttles underneath the bed, and soon a small motor whirs to life. Then he runs back to the headboard and pulls another lever. A panel in the headboard slides open, and four cars smaller than matchboxes roll forward. Each has a tiny flea driver and a tiny flea engineer, all wearing tiny hats and goggles.
Zeph claps. “Here come the starting cars. There are several French drivers in our opening lineup today. On the far left, Marcel Renault in a car his brother designed, and beside him, a second French driver, Charles Jarrott. Next to Jarrott is Camille du Gast, one of the first ladies to earn a driver’s license—”
“The beginning of the end,” Whitey intones, and his date smacks him playfully.
“—and that fourth car is driven by none other than William Vanderbilt, of the illustrious Vanderbilt family.”
Joe spits on the floor. “May they rot in hell.”
“P-Ray, a little racing music, if you please.”
P-Ray hustles to the corner. Beside Robonocchio’s cabinet sits Timur’s homemade orchestrion, a silver player piano rigged with a kettle drum, two flutes, cymbals, and a triangle. The boy pulls a lever, and the machine shudders. The kettle drum pounds, and the cymbals crash as the orchestrion floods the room with a sarcastically happy tune—surely the most chipper version of Chopin’s Funeral March ever played. Timur programmed it himself; it’s the only evidence Zeph has ever seen that the Doc might possess a sense of humor. Dum, dum, da dum, dum da dum, da dum, da dum (ting! goes the triangle).
Zeph reaches into a small drawer in his cart and removes a starter pistol. He holds it up. “Ready, set…and as they say in Versailles, allons-y!”
Bang! Zeph fires the pistol, and the audience jumps. He gazes at them happily. Startled and itchy, he thinks. Just how we like ’em at Magruder’s.
The cars toddle down the road, little puffs of smoke rising from their engines. And no sooner have those four cars begun their journey than four more appear at the headboard and start down the track as well, followed by four more and four more.
Zeph continues his narration as the cars chug along the track. “Ah, Monsieur Renault has taken an early lead. You know, the Renault car is capable of reaching an astonishing ninety miles per hour.”
A Moon Maiden gasps. “Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Well,” Zeph says with a smile, “we don’t call it Race to Tea and Crumpets, now, do we?”
He gives P-Ray a tiny nod, and the boy pushes another lever. Suddenly, one of the cars in the middle of the pack skids out. It flips over twice, sparks shoot out of the engine courtesy of a small firecracker in the back, and the car bursts into flames. Oncoming cars swerve to avoid the crash. One miscalculates and hits a tree.
“No!” Zeph cries. “Our first incident! I’m so sorry, that’s a German driver down.” He addresses the last to the old couple. The husband smiles politely, but the woman doesn’t respond. She daubs at her wet face with her scarf, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else.
Zeph gives P-Ray a subtle wink, and this time, a small panel in the road flips over, revealing a flea dressed as a small child, holding a tiny red balloon. “Look!” Zeph shouts. “An innocent child has wandered into the road! Whatever shall we do?”
P-Ray pulls a string, which drags the brave soldier flea into the road to rescue the child, just as a car veers around the bend. The child flea goes flying into the shrubbery, but the soldier can’t escape in time. Car and soldier tumble down a tiny hillside in a puff of smoke.
“Oh dear,” Zeph says. “The ultimate sacrifice.”
Joe bangs his sole hand against the bed frame by way of applause. The German lady starts murmuring, and her body starts to quiver. Zeph watches carefully—occasionally, you get a bad reaction to killing a soldier, even a six-legged one.
“Tragic but historically accurate,” he says quickly. “Look now! Camille du Gast has stopped her car to provide first aid! Isn’t that the most noble—”
The German lady cries out, her body stiffens, and she falls face-first onto the track. The audience backs away from the bed fearfully—is this part of the show?—except for Joe, who leans in, fascinated.
As her husband tries to peel her off the bed, the German lady moans and convulses. She smashes the platform with her face, her hands, her heaving body. Trees are crushed, cars sent flying. P-Ray screams and starts to cry. He tries to rescue his pets, but Zeph pulls him back, afraid the boy will end up on the wrong end of the woman’s flailing sausage fists. She foams at the mouth, and white spittle sloshes over the little gray road.
Then, as quickly as it began, the seizure ends. The woman lies in the middle of the miniature landscape, panting and sobbing. The audience stands in shocked silence while the orchestrion sings away heedlessly. Dum, dum, da dum, dum da dum, da dum, da dum. Ting!
“My word,” Whitey says. “I do believe the German has flattened Barcelona! International incident, for sure.”
“You’re not funny,” his date mutters.
The spell broken, the rest of the audience retreats: from the back room, from the Cabinet, as far from this lousy part of town as possible. As they file out, P-Ray rushes around the bed, trying to collect his fleas. But like the humans, most of them have fled.
Whitey offers to fetch an ambulance for the sick woman. The husband says, “Nein, nein.” Zeph and Whitey object, but the old German is stubborn and angry—as though Magruder’s were somehow to blame for his wife’s episode.
“Ich sagte nein! We go to hotel!” He takes off his coat and puts it around his wife as he drags her off the bed and into a standing position. “Wir brauchen keine Hilfe aus einer Gruppe von gottverdammten Missgeburten!”
“What was that now?” Working for Timur has provided Zeph with a wide variety of experiences—being insulted in foreign tongues is one of his least favorite.
Whitey turns to his date. “You’re vaguely Prussian, aren’t you? Did you get any of that?”
“Ah…” She hesitates. “Gottverdammten is, ah, goddamned. And Missgeburten is…freaks.”
“Right!” Whitey says brusquely. “No ambulance for you!” He pulls his fortune-teller to the door. “Enjoy your doom, mein herr. Zeph, I’ll stop by later.”
Zeph goes to P-Ray and rubs his back as the little boy sobs. “Shh, it’s okay, little man. Machines get fixed. Fleas get found. Don’t worry… It’s okay.”
Joe looms over them. He’s holding one of the smashed-up cars in his hand, and an eerie expression plays across his face. “Quite a show,” he says. “You should charge more.”
Chapter 8
Cantilever
“Real Rat Orchestra! Really Real Rats!”
Kitty and Archie pick their way along Surf Avenue, past the many independent operators plying their trade in the nooks and crannies between the major parks. Shooting galleries and catchpenny games and crayon portraitists. Hot pretzels, cold beer, three chances at a prize for one thin dime. In the distance, a brass band plays.
Kitty pauses at the painted banner. Beneath the lettering is a picture of a chamber orchestra comprised of eerily chipper rats with big, black eyes. She turns to Archie. “Really real rats?”
“They’re really real, all right. Really dead. Taxidermied rodents with violas and sousaphones, with Schubert playing on a Victrola in the background. Care to see?”
“The image you’ve painted is plenty.”
They continue. Kitty stops at a booth with an elaborate display of china settings—a perfectly Victorian sitting room crowded with dinner and salad plates, cups and saucers, sugar bowls and creamers, all painted in demure blue and white. She reads the sign. “Can’t Smash Up Your House? Smash Up Ours! Four balls for five cents!”
A man in a white suit and straw hat pops his head around the booth. “Afternoon, miss! Care to have a go? Release your frustrations with the modern age!”
“But…it seems such a waste.”
“Don’t be coy, child.” Archie hands the man a nickel. “Aim for the teapot with Queen Victoria on the front. It’ll do you good.”
Kitty’s first ball goes low, not even worrying the dishes.
Archie scoffs. “Surely you’ve more spirit than—”
She fires her second ball into a serving platter with a picture of Buckingham Palace, which shatters delightfully. The shards take out teacups as they fall, which in turn knock down some dessert plates—a waterfall of destruction.
Kitty laughs. “What a wonderful sound!”
• • •
Twenty cents later, Kitty’s had her fill of smashing china, so they continue past the Bowery. A crowd has gathered on one corner. “Well, well,” Archie says. “Look who’s here. Come—this you must see.” He elbows his way through the crowd, maneuvering himself and Kitty to the front. “Feast your eyes, Miss Hayward.”
She looks, then blinks a few times, then looks again. No. Yes. Can’t be. Really?
In front of Kitty is a young woman of Asian descent in a voluminous black robe, embroidered in gold, with long, wide sleeves. She wears a cylindrical hat wrapped in multicolored ribbons and edged with ivory beads that dangle down her face. Her eyes are closed, her expression one of purest relaxation. Her right hand holds an intricately carved walking stick with a dragon’s head at the top, while her left hand rests serenely in her lap. She sits cross-legged…hovering about three feet off the ground.
Kitty turns to Archie. “Is she…?”
“I certainly don’t know. Do you think she is?”
New York audiences are a voluble bunch, but this crowd stands silent, a mixture of awe and disbelief playing across their faces. Finally one brave—or just obnoxious—soul steps forward to run his hand along the space between the girl’s robes and the ground.
He reports his findings with a shrug. “Ain’t nothin’ under her.”
People shake their heads and whisper.
“Of course there isn’t,” says a young man. Kitty was so taken with the girl, she hadn’t even noticed she had an assistant nearby. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “in this city of hucksters and frauds, you are the fortunate witnesses of a true act of spiritual majesty. May I present Yeshi Rinpoche, holy priestess of Tibet.”
“Ha!” Archie snorts. “Rinpoche, my eye!”
“Rinpoche?” Kitty asks.
“A Rinpoche, my dear, is a highly respected teacher of Buddhism.” He takes a step forward. “If this scalawag is a Rinpoche, I’m a llama. The four-legged kind.”
The levitating girl tilts her head, causing the beads along her face to rattle slightly. Her assistant nods. “I’m sorry,” he says to the crowd, “but we must end our demonstration. Yeshi Rinpoche cannot possibly continue in such a hostile environment. We hope our demonstration has intrigued you and that we will see you soon at West Eighth Street, where Her Holiness is available for spiritual consultations.”
Archie chuckles. “Ahh, so that’s her game. I was wondering.”
The disappointed crowd disperses, and the assistant opens up a trifold screen, placing it in front of the girl so she can leave her trance in privacy.
A moment later, she bursts through the canvas and storms up to Archie. “What in hell is your problem?”
He bows low. “Your Holiness…”
“Oh, shut up. I’ve got a right to make a living, you know.”
“You were making a perfectly fine living with me, as I recall.”
“No, Archibald, I was making a perfectly fine living for you. Very different.” She notices Kitty. “Who is this, then? Found a new pigeon, have you?”
“This is Miss Kitty Hayward, recently of London. Miss Hayward, may I present the most celestial Yeshi Rinpoche, formerly known as Yeshi Lowenstein.”
Kitty coughs. “I’m sorry? Lowenstein?”
“Archie here loves to imply that I’m a fraud, but I am actually from Tibet. But we Tibetans don’t have surnames. So when I arrived in America, I borrowed the surname of the people in line ahead of me.”
Archie smiles. “My practical girl.”
She f
rowns. “I’m not your girl, Archibald. Not anymore. My brother and I make our own way.” She points to her assistant, chatting up the crowd and passing out business cards. “That’s him. Tenzin.”
Kitty raises an eyebrow. “Tenzin…Lowenstein.”
Archie laughs. “I love America! Miss Lowenstein, if you please, Miss Hayward and I had a rather profitable morning. Would you and Mr. Lowenstein care to join us for lunch?”
“We’re too busy, no thanks to you.” Yeshi glances at Kitty disdainfully. “Mind yourself around the old man here. If he tells you how many fingers you have, count them anyway.” She stalks off toward her brother, but Kitty stops her.
“Please, wait. The levitation. How is it done? I must know.”
Yeshi smiles. She stretches her out her arms, and her long sleeves brush the sidewalk. “I am Her Holiness Yeshi Lowenstein, the first American Rinpoche. I can do anything.”
• • •
The trout stares vacantly up at Kitty. You don’t scare me, she thinks. I’m so hungry, if you sat up and begged for your life, I’d eat you anyway.
The unlikely companions attack their platters. Archie and Kitty are seated in one of Feltman’s numerous outdoor dining areas. The courtyard is bordered by high trellises on three sides, with lanterns strung along the top. The trellises create the illusion that diners are gathered in an intimate environment where they were terribly lucky to get a table—rather than in the three-acre behemoth that is Feltman’s, serving thousands of patrons every night from its many kitchens.
Feltman’s menu is itself a marvel of mixed signals, with French cuisine competing for attention with sausages and hot dogs for fifteen cents each. “Bratwurst versus meunière,” Archie muses. “It’s the Franco-Prussian War on a plate. Of course, we’d be eating even higher off the hog if Pearson had done right by us. You should have heard the greedy little muskrat. ‘Boohoo, this painting will sit in my warehouse for months, la la la,’ all the while licking his chops over the image of your father’s big, fat wallet. I had to take the painting halfway out the door before he raised the offer to a hundred bucks. Meanwhile, Pearson stands to collect ten times that amount.”
