Maria shrieked in high-pitched, childish terror. The child wilted like a rag-doll, fainting where she sat. She toppled from her velvet chair. Secondari caught her as she tumbled.
Secondari rose with the child within his arms. Sympathetic cries burst from the ladies in the audience. Women fanned themselves in distress at the enormity. Several women swooned.
Alert to the mishap, the magician’s cowboy assistant bounded down from the stage. Efficiently, he urged Secondari—with this fainting child still draped in his arms—up the stairs and to the stage.
The cowboy led them slowly across the stage, in full view of the audience. Then, finally, he led them behind the draped curtains.
“I can carry her now, sir,” the cowboy offered, in English.
“I am her father,” Secondari replied, in the same language.
“So, can you speak American? That’s great! We’ll take the little lady over to the dressing room. These things happen sometimes. I’ve seen this before, sir.”
Out on his bright-lit stage, the Man Without Fear, entirely unperturbed and even urbane, was plucking the steel needles from his punctured face, then publicly eating them.
“Your maestro,” said Secondari, easing into his rusty English, “is the greatest magician that I see, ever. What kind of man is that man?”
“Well, he’s the greatest wizard in our modern world,” said the cowboy with pride. “Because he’s a Twentieth-Century wizard. His feats are all done with Knowledge and Science.”
“His face,” said Secondari. “My little girl…so much fear....”
“Oh, well, those needles aren’t black magic,” chuckled the cowboy. “Houdini just toughs that out!” The boy assistant made a sturdy bicep under his checked cowboy shirt. “See, it’s all about physical training! Because he’s a superman!”
The cowboy led them through the rear door of the hall, then down a short corridor.
Secondari recognized the magician’s dressing room. It was one of the Prophet’s own private offices. This office had a scrolled leather davenport for the Prophet’s frequent naps. It also had a polished teak desk and a posh white telephone.
The brocaded walls held a large collection of lethal Arditi daggers, and a startling number of blue faience Chinese jars.
Inside this borrowed office, another of the magician’s assistants was busily typing away, using two fingers, in reporter-style. The typist glanced up from his code-book.
“Oh my word,” he said alertly. He hopped up and cleared a suitcase from the davenport. Then he helped Secondari to set Maria onto the fine leather. The Prophet’s couch was butter-soft, wrinkled, and covered with fine silk buttons.
“So, the old needle trick, was it?” said the reporter to the cowboy.
“Yup. You betcha.”
“Does this guy in this weird, eldritch uniform speak any English?” said the reporter.
“A little, I reckon,” said the cowboy.
“I understand you,” said Secondari, putting his hand to his good ear. “But please, speak good, and also speak loud.”
The typist looked Secondari up and down, squinting alertly. “Say, I think I’ve been briefed about you, sir! Aren’t you Colonel Secondari, the weapons minister?”
“Yes,” said Secondari. He was not a colonel, but that was a minor matter.
“Then I am very pleased to meet you, sir! I am Howard Lovecraft, Mr. Houdini’s publicity agent. This young galoot is Mr. Robert Ervin Howard, from Cross Plains, Texas.”
“Benvenuti a Fiume,” Secondari muttered. He bent to look after Maria.
The poor child had soiled herself while unconscious. Secondari, who knew the City Hall well, left and found the nearest washroom. He returned with towels. He saw to the child’s comfort and decency. Then he covered her with his military jacket.
“You know what, Bob?” said Lovecraft to Howard. “Those jaspers at the State Department have tried to make monkeys out of us! This is General Secondari here. He’s supposed to be the most feared man in the whole regime. But he’s a fine young father, with a little girl. Look at him! I’m touched by this.”
“She looks so still, just lying there,” said young Howard mournfully. “She reminds me a lot of my mom.”
“The show’s almost over. The boss is not gonna top that needle bit tonight,” said Howard briskly. “So, you run on out to the street there, Bob. Fetch the little lady one of those vanilla ice-creams. That’ll bring her around.”
“Yes sir, Mr. Lovecraft,” said the cowboy. He departed at a trot.
“He’s a nice kid, Two-Gun Bob, but he’s always going on about his mom,” Lovecraft explained. “I’ve got a kid myself, you know. Just like you do, Colonel. Mrs. Lovecraft, she saw fit to present me with a fine young boy. Young Master Lovecraft has completely changed my life.”
“Childs are the future,” said Secondari in English. Maria Piffer began to stir. Secondari sat on the soft leather couch. He chafed her wrists, then patted her forehead. He murmured reassurances.
“Children are the future, that’s entirely correct. It’s thanks to little Ricky Lovecraft that I went into the advertising business. I sell progress, and my business is good.”
Secondari fixed the spy with a level stare. “Your maestro is a secret agent of the United States of America.”
Lovecraft was startled, but only briefly. He crouched against his writing desk, and plucked at his corduroy pants leg. “Well, I do like a man who can get to the point in a New York minute.”
Secondari patted Maria’s cheeks.
“We met your local head of intelligence, earlier today,” said Lovecraft. “That big flying ace of yours. The State Department says that he’s your master spy around here. Well, your master spy doesn’t speak-a the Inglese very good. He’s quite a cagey fellow. He wouldn’t slip one word to us that wasn’t all about giant sea-planes, and zeppelins, or civil aviation.”
Secondari was silent.
“The American government is one hundred percent for civil aviation,” said Lovecraft. “Civil aviation is a healthy development for your part of the world. Venice, Trieste, we know they’ll never build a proper airport. Too old-fashioned!”
“Is your President sick?” said Secondari. “Is Wilson dying?”
“That is a scurrilous rumor,” Lovecraft lied. “The British press should never have let that one slip. ‘Perfidious Albion!’ Now, I’m from New England, myself. A town called Providence, where we have plenty of Italians, by the way. I used to admire England, once. Boy, what a sap I was, before the War.”
“Wilson ate poison in Paris. A Communist try to kill your President.”
“Let’s just say that mistakes were made,” Lovecraft offered. “Now, listen to me, Colonel Secondari—is that your good ear? Forgive me. Now, let me make a few things clear to you. You see, Mr. Houdini—he’s my employer—often aids the American government. But we’re not that old-fashioned, cloak-and-dagger, European style of spy. Don’t think that of us, please. We’re much more like an Amateur Press Association.”
“What is that?” said Secondari.
“Well, Houdini, and Bob, and me, we’re American patriots, of a new, progressive kind. Through our radio, magazines, and private newspapers, we’ve assembled a new movement of the people who share our vision of tomorrow. We’re some all-American engineers, scientists, and inventors, but mostly, well, we’re writers. We aim to help our country out of a bad pinch.”
Lovecraft fiddled with the sharp tip of his folded celluloid collar. “My aim, here in your country, is to gather the news and pass a few good words along—to some very high-ranking Washington officials. That is: if you can give me a few good words, sir.”
Secondari warily maintained his silence. He wasn’t entirely sure that he had understood such a complicated speech, uttered in American English.
Young Bob Howard returned, with a gelato clutched in his hairy fist.
“That was quick, Bob,” said Lovecraft.
“I didn’t want her ice cream t
o melt, sir.”
“I just saw her little eyes flutter,” said the ad-man. “Let’s help her up.”
Maria awoke. She spoke in a dizzy confusion of Croatian, then German, then Italian.
“Your daughter can’t speak any English, I suppose?” said Lovecraft.
“No,” said Secondari.
“Then we can continue speaking here in confidence,” said Lovecraft. “You know what inspired me the most tonight, Colonel? It was seeing that royal personage of yours—the Duke!—taking his rightful place among his own loyal people. Now, I don’t call myself a royalist conservative—sure, I used to be one, but not any more—but seeing a brand-new country like yours, placed into the firm hands of a wise, royal leader… Well, there’s something about that spectacle that is really easy to write up and promote. The American public loves all that. It’s charming, and so European. Mark my words, the relations between your nation and mine will improve in short order.”
“That’s because he’s the Flying Aviator King of the Adriatic,” said the cowboy.
“Exactly. That’s just the hot, headline-grabbing stuff we need, Bob.”
“He’s a fighting King, with his sword and his fists. Maybe he could fly straight to Africa, and fight black magic!”
“Black, evil, ancient magic in Africa,” Lovecraft agreed. “Centuries old. Nameless aeons of black, necrotic, mephitic magic. Say, Bob, maybe you could write up another of your fun little pieces for the Journal of the American Magic Association. The younger readers love those Texas tall tales.”
“Well, okay, sir, maybe,” said Howard doubtfully. “Mr. Houdini, he keeps me pretty busy, boxing and walking the tightrope.”
“It’s a paycheck,” Lovecraft shrugged. “Say, Colonel, your little girl sure can tie into an ice cream.”
“My Maria likes sweets,” said Secondari.
“I can sure see that! Now, Colonel, we’re mere strolling players here in Carnaro, we don’t want to pry into your internal affairs. But there must be something that you want to tell me. Something that’s juicy, and newsworthy. Something I can take straight back to our patrons in Washington.”
“Yes. You can tell your master, Colonel House,” said Secondari, “that we have flying radio torpedoes. Torpedoes that fly. In the dark. With radio. No one can see them.”
“I’ve heard those rumors. Is that the truth? Those flying bombs can fly as far as Rome, eh? To the Vatican?”
“Through the Pope’s door,” said Secondari.
“You don’t plan to cut loose with those for no good reason, do you? Mr. Houdini just met the Pope. He seemed like a nice guy, for a Catholic.”
“I will tell you more news for your spies in Washington,” said Secondari, straightening on the couch. “Giulio Ulivi is here with me in Fiume. The new Italian radio genius. He is as good as Marconi. Better. The inventor of the ‘F-Ray.’”
“What’s that?” said the cowboy. “An ‘F-Ray’ sounds astounding.”
“A ray of death! Like the X-ray, but stronger, faster! It kills fast! Our flying torpedo, with the Ulivi F-Ray! It flies, with the radio, in the dark. Boom! Out goes the F-Ray, everyone go. Dead. Nothing left. Everyone dead.”
The room was silent, except for the crisp sound of Maria Piffer crunching through the cone of her ice cream.
“That’s very like H. G. Wells,” judged Lovecraft. “The Wells ‘land dreadnought,’ that bomb that employs radioactivity. Quite a strongly opinionated political writer, Mr. Wells.”
“Mr. Wells was here with us in Fiume,” said Secondari. “Wells came here for the dancing girls. Wells did not believe about our Futurism. Do you believe?”
“Oh, absolutely and ineffably,” said Lovecraft at once. “I heard you loud and clear.”
Distant, but frenzied applause filtered into the dressing room.
“So, that’s the end of our employer’s performance,” said Lovecraft.
“Tomorrow, they’ll drop Houdini into the ocean, head first, all covered up with locks and chains,” said the Texan. “So the whole world can see him drown. But he’ll wiggle out of it somehow! Ha ha! Houdini always does.”
Maria spoke up, in Italian. “Papa, who are these strange men? I ate my ice cream. Can we go now?”
“In just one moment, my treasure.”
“Please hear us out, Colonel,” said Lovecraft. “You see, we Americans believed that the Great War was the War to End All Wars. Now the League of Nations has failed, and we can see that our attempt to bring peace to the world was a rank superstition. This world only understands the virile force of arms, as wielded by a born conqueror, and…” Lovecraft smiled. “I’d better let my restless young friend tell you about that.”
“He means General ‘Black Jack’ Pershing!” the young Texan crowed. “General Black Jack fought Pancho Villa in Texas. He fought the Great War in Europe, and Black Jack won that war, too! Because fate put us here to fight! A weakling in the battle that is life deserves to die.”
“My little girl must go now,” said Secondari.
“I’ll be brief, Colonel. You see, General Black Jack Pershing understands—just as we do—that the next Great War is sure to come. Diplomats can’t stop it, law and order can’t stop it, that’s useless. Now, we have some can-do, take-charge people in America—who want to reach out to Carnaro. Because we admire your integrity, your spirituality. We can see what you’ve achieved.”
“Especially what you did about the Communists,” said Bob Howard. “We aim to do that ourselves.”
The Man Without Fear entered the dressing room. His face was streaming greasepaint, and a few tiny trickles of blood. He seized a plush white towel and threw it around his sweating neck.
“Did you tell him about our research project in Manhattan?” the magician said.
“Our Manhattan Project, yes, I was just getting to that,” said Lovecraft.
The magician stripped out of his white tail-coat, revealing a waistcoat thick with hidden loops and pockets. He confronted Secondari. “You’re the man who builds the bombs here.”
“Yes.”
“What if I told you,” said the magician, “that in America, we have a plan to build an almighty Bomb That Will End All Bombs? A bomb so huge that it could only be tested in an American desert? Would that entertain you, Mr. Weapons Minister?”
“Yes.”
“Then will you come to America with us to see that weapons-test of ours?”
Secondari, with grave deliberation, set Maria Piffer on his knee. “We are citizens of the Regency of Carnaro. We have no papers for America.”
“Now, all that legal rubbish,” said the magician, “is just tedious State Department paperwork, so I leave all that to my subordinates. Howard, where is the pissoir, for God’s sake?”
“It’s down the hall to the left,” said Lovecraft.
Houdini promptly departed.
“There’s no one quite like the boss,” said Lovecraft reverently. “President Pershing will make Houdini the next Head of the American Secret Service. Just imagine what we’ll do against World Communism, with a man like Houdini calling the shots.”
“Tell me,” said Secondari.
“Oh, we have visionary plans cooking in our Manhattan Project. They’re half science, half fantasy, and all classified.” Lovecraft adjusted his steel-rimmed spectacles. “But I can reveal this to you, sir, and I think you’ll find it relevant: we use the scientific séance techniques of Dr. Cesare Lombroso as our military parapsychology.”
Secondari drew and released a slow breath.
“Conventional scientists,” said Lovecraft, “may scoff at our federally funded psi powers and our anti-gravity drives; and I suppose they’re paid to do that, the poor things! But—well, let me speak as a professional New York public relations man.”
Lovecraft turned on an electric ceiling fan, then removed his pin-striped jacket. “Let us suppose that you, sir, and a corps of your progressive, far-sighted Futurist colleagues—all clad in your charming and fantastic unif
orms—were to fly to the United States? Suppose that you Futurists were to join us out on the road, in the forthcoming Pershing Presidential campaign?”
Lovecraft leaned back, examined the gilt, baroque ceiling of the Fiume City Hall, and eloquently spread his pale hands. “I can envision you Futurists flying to Chicago in a giant Italian flying pontoon boat, to be met with ticker-tape parades. Then, in a rigid airship over New York City, to be met with a symphony orchestra!” He lowered his gaze. “I know you people like that kind of pep, dash, and vim.”
“Yes,” said Secondari. “We like those things very much.”
“In New York advertising circles, I’m known as a big-idea man. Your Regency of Carnaro is too small. That’s the problem. The Land of Opportunity is a place of cosmic proportions.”
“Yeah, your little utopia here is just like a pioneer town,” said Bob Howard, sadly gazing at the toes of his cowboy boots. “Like some lonely place way out in the middle of nowhere, where y’all have only the dreams in your books.”
“Compare that meager, mundane reality to the world you really desire,” said Lovecraft. “Do you see the commonality of interests here? Imagine what we might achieve!”
“Imagine a city that experiments with the grain of the material.”
—Bruno Argento, 2008
On Sunday, September 14, 1919, the New York Times reported the state of the world as viewed from Manhattan on that weekend ten months after the end of the Great War. One-hundred and thirty-thousand war refugees ordered to leave Austria. Unrest in Boston as Governor Coolidge fought the police strike by sending out volunteer militia and state guards to put down rowdy crowds with truck-mounted machine guns. President Wilson visited Seattle, confronting a huge gathering of angry Wobblies with “giant” Secret Service agents and “a little army of sturdy Boy Scouts” who beat back the “great throng suddenly realizing its power” as they demanded Wilson “release all political prisoners”—including Socialist presidential candidate Eugene Debs, who Wilson’s government had imprisoned for speaking out against the war. An armed mob in Pueblo, Colorado, seized two Mexican farm hands from the local jail and hung them from a bridge at the edge of town. In a major speech, British Prime Minister David Lloyd George issued a call to “build up the new world” for which the fallen of the war had died—a future in which “labor shall have its just reward and indolence alone shall suffer want”—echoing Wilson’s call in Tacoma the day before for “all the great free peoples of the world to underwrite civilization.” And in technology news, an airplane managed to carry nine passengers from Syracuse in less than three hours—and even cook a meal on board! Buried on page 12, between anachronistic stories about the price of foxskins in St. Louis and the purple silk-lined yellow coyote skin gifted to the Prince of Wales on his visit to Edmonton, was this item of foreign news:
Pirate Utopia Page 9
