The Spirit Cabinet

by Paul Quarrington

  “So, Miranda,” says Rudolfo, leading her through dark hallways, “what are you doing?”

  “Same as I was last month. I’m over at the Lodeo.” Miranda notices a ghostly form trembling in the shadows. “Hey, Sammy,” she says softly. When Samson sees that the intruder is Miranda—I’ve got to do something about these old eyes, he thinks—he ventures out and lies down on his back to have his tummy rubbed.

  “Hey, Big Boy,” Miranda chuckles, setting aside her groceries.

  “The nudie show?” demands Rudolfo suddenly.

  Miranda’s fingers play on Samson’s belly, each stroke pulling out the few tufts of white fur that remain. “What?”

  “The Lodeo is a nudie show.”

  “Topless,” Miranda concedes. “No big deal. But let’s not worry about me. You—”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah. You. You look like a piece of shit—no offence—”

  “Ja, because I am not doing my exercises!” Rudolfo is filled with resolution and, as fortune would have it, they are near the Gymnasium. He peels off the bruised-purple jumpsuit, strips down to his tiny exercise briefs—quickly realizing that he is not wearing any, but his resolution is such that this doesn’t stop him—and marches into the Gymnasium.

  The bench is covered with a patina of dust. The bar and the plates are connected to the rack by intricate cobwebs.

  The plates are quite large. Rudolfo has lost what little aptitude with figures he ever had, so he has little hope of calculating the aggregate weight. The months since Jurgen went away have not been processed mentally. The days are like newspapers that get thrown into the recycling bin unread. The last time Rudolfo lifted weights, this is how much he lifted, so he lies down on the bench and takes the bar into his hands.

  “Don’t,” says Miranda.

  Rudolfo silences her through concentration. The key to everything, it occurs to him, is concentration, and the act of concentrating feels wonderful to him. This is what his life has been lacking—focus—a brutal trashing of sensory input. He wraps his hands around the bar. The metal has been roughed up in two short sections, the better to grip, but Rudolfo slides his hands to either side where it is cold and smooth.

  He pushes. It is as though he is lying under the foundation of an office building and attempting to hike it skyward. He does not manage to budge a single molecule.

  “Spot,” he cries out faintly.

  Miranda’s voice almost cuts through his mindset. She is saying a single word over and over again. But the word is deformed by weeping and he can’t make it out.

  Rudolfo takes a deep breath—didn’t his chest use to rise and fall splendidly whenever he took a deep breath, didn’t there used to be more than this wheezy clattering?—and pushes once more against the bar. He screams, remembering suddenly that this helps, and howls and shrieks and wails and when all the air has fled his body he passes out and goes, unwillingly, into the past.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “In America,” Miss Joe proclaimed, “they are going to line up around the block to lick the shit from between our toes.” These words were spoken on the deck of the Corinthian, a liner bound for New York City. “Royalty,” said Miss Joe, “that’s what we’re going to be. Royal-fucking-tee.” There was nothing around them, only a sea infinite in all directions. It was white-capped and roiling; most of Miss Joe’s proclamations were punctuated with gagging sounds, and she’d often have to pause in order to spew a strange greenish substance over the railing.

  Because she spent so much time bent over the railings—and this is to say nothing of the nor’easterlies and sou’westerlies, the cruel salty winds that buffeted the trio every waking moment—Miss Joe had developed very advanced methods of hairpiece stabilization. She had found some enormous clips and bobby pins, made of a silver so bright that one imagined the metal to be a product of the Space Race, that either the Russians or the Americans had developed the clasps to withstand the unimaginable heat of orbital re-entry. Miss Joe linked the hairpiece not to the blackened snood that lay beneath, but rather to her own costume. The back was anchored to her collar, and the sides were fixed to the straps of her undergarments, of which she wore many, despite the fact that she lacked virtually all human substance, to say nothing of the bits and pieces that contribute to gender differentiation. So the hairpiece was able to resist both gravity over the railings and the bullying winds, although it was a bit of chicken-and-egg deal, because without the hairpiece, which acted as lugsail or spanker, Miss Joe would have been able to stand in one place, not be thrown up and down the gangways and metal staircases.

  They had been outward bound for six days now, and Miss Joe had done nothing but predict adulation and world domination. Even Rudolfo—who sometimes went so far as to fantasize actual regal apparel, mantles of sable and fiery crowns—was tiring of it. And Jurgen, immune somehow to seasickness, but unable to sleep more than an hour or two a night, was irritable, even hostile. “It’s just a few cheap tricks,” he growled. “I could teach you to do them in a few minutes.”

  Miss Joe shrugged. “Cheap tricks are good.”

  “Just once,” said Jurgen, “I’d like to do something that isn’t a cheap trick. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s just to make a grain of sand disappear.”

  “There’s entertainment,” said Rudolfo, as a joke. Jurgen spun around and glared at him, his purpled eyelids crashing and pounding.

  “There’s no such thing as magic,” insisted Miss Joe.

  “Listen,” said Jurgen, and for a moment he tried to reposition everyone, moving and nudging his companions until their triangle was more arithmetically precise. Then he bent forward, inclining his head secretively. “I’ve never told anyone this.”

  “Which isn’t hard to believe,” commented Rudolfo, “considering you’ve never told anyone anything.”

  “When I was sixteen,” Jurgen continued, “I heard a noise in the middle of the night. That wasn’t very unusual; I mean, I heard noises all the time in that house, but this was a strange noise. Very musical, like a flute, but at the same time very, what would be a good word, um, wild.” Jurgen used the word barbarisch. “It was coming from Oma’s room. So I got up and went to see what was the matter. And I pushed open the door, you know, and I’ll tell you what I saw.”

  At which point he fell stone-silent and turned his attention to the endless face of the sea, which crested as though huge humpbacks romped just below the surface.

  “Yes?” prompted Miss Joe.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy,” Jurgen demurred.

  “Tell us,” whispered Rudolfo.

  “Okay. I saw Oma. She was naked. And she was glowing like a coal in the fire. She was floating three feet above her bed. And she, you know, was making this little whistling sound, like she was a bird, but when I came into the room she turned her head. And her eyes were like mirrors, I remember, silver and shiny. Oma looked at me and said the word Zauberei. Then she floated down, like a leaf, floated down onto the mattress, and her eyes went black and her body turned the colour of stone, and she was dead.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of dreams?” demanded Miss Joe.

  “It wasn’t a dream,” stated Jurgen evenly.

  Rudolfo had no opinion on the matter, not being entirely sure what a dream was, or should be. He was glad he was not afflicted by them if they launched naked old women into the air and made them glow.

  “So ever since then,” said Jurgen, “I’ve known that magic is possible.”

  Miss Joe blew a thick and watery raspberry, but Jurgen didn’t seem to notice.

  “I do the cheap tricks,” he continued, “but maybe one day …”

  “Maybe one day nothing,” snarled Miss Joe. “One day the bitch Mother Nature will turn your lights out. That’s it. Magic.” She spat disdainfully. “There’s no such thing as fucking magic.”

  Although Rudolfo was not then the amateur naturalist that he would become, he knew, judging from the size, that a royal albatross was descending
from the foggy heavens. These birds have the largest wingspan of any bird, sometimes more than thirteen feet. They are three years out to sea, these giants; the first years of their lives they spend flying above the ocean, often in the middle of nowhere, looking for food and/or a resting place. It is hard to say whether this particular albatross saw Miss Joe’s hairpiece as the former or the latter. It’s true that the bird came at it headfirst, burying its long hooked beak deep into the multicoloured complex of artificial hair. But then it brought up its feet in order to assay a landing. Royal albatrosses have a hard time landing. They hit the ground running; their legs buckle and they tumble butt over beak. Mid-sea landings are even harder, so albatrosses try to nail them emphatically, which is what this bird did, applying the brakes, lifting up its flippers, slamming into the monolithic coiffure. Miss Joe, that is, her substance and being, was not enough to stop the bird. She was simply and summarily picked up over the Corinthian’s railings and carried away. The albatross tried desperately to extricate its beak, but it was caught surely, Miss Joe’s hairpiece acting like a huge Chinese Finger Trap. The albatross squawked and shook its head, hopeful that the wig would perhaps separate from its odd human owner, but that didn’t happen. This might have been because of the futuristic bobby pins, or it might have been due to Miss Joe’s near-weightlessness, but either way, the giant creature soon settled down—finding Miss Joe not so great a burden—and ruffled the air with huge and decisive flappings. Guided by a certain system of celestial navigation that makes sense only to royal albatrosses, the bird turned to its left and disappeared.

  They now had an agent named Curtis Sweetchurch. Jurgen and Rudolfo never referred to Curtis as their manager, mostly because of a hopeless fidelity to Miss Joe. It was as though they still expected Miss Joe to return, soaking wet, seaweed threaded through her hairpiece. Curtis Sweethchurch had attached himself to them only when success was nigh, after the gloomy dark days spent in the desert. He’d had a stable of showgirls and lounge singers, but he shed them all when he found Jurgen and Rudolfo performing at the “The Oasis.” The duo made Curtis filthy rich, although he actually did very little for them. There simply wasn’t a lot of Jurgen and Rudolfo-related business to attend to. Their contract with the Abraxas Hotel reached far into the next century; raises, bonuses and increased patronage percentages had all been negotiated and laid out. (That was done by Rudolfo. He’d been flanked by lawyers, of course, but they were mere minions, tiny pawns with briefcases and bad toupées. He’d conducted negotiations like a dauphin, sitting at the huge oaken table and heaving sighs of prodigious ennui. When offers were made, Rudolfo would leap to his feet and march over to the boardroom’s window. He’d gaze out upon the desert, which stretched away until it turned into distance’s vapour. Rudolfo would communicate without turning around, his language as haughty and crude as he could manage: “Fuck yourself and also a horse.”) As if to atone for the lack of business, Sweetchurch undertook what little he had with zeal, chartering an airplane and dropping out of the sky to announce things that could have as easily been communicated over the phone lines that linked Los Angeles, California, and Las Vegas, Nevada.

  Rudolfo was in the cage with the panther. He was teaching the beast to flatten itself to the ground, to spread legs both fore and aft, to exhale air until the lungs were as deflated as blown tires. This was essential, of course, to many of the illusions—the Silver Ball, for example. There wasn’t much room inside the secret compartment, and the false bottom moved with power, carried by centrifugal force; any body part above a certain line would likely get guillotined cleanly. So Rudolfo pressed the panther’s head to the ground, drove and twisted it until sawdust came up to the creature’s bottom lip. Animals, Rudolfo knew, only related to their heads; in a sense they conceived of themselves as nothing but heads. Teach the head, one of General Bosco’s axioms went, and the body will follow. The panther’s body was trying to follow, squirming and worming as though squashed under a giant jackboot.

  Suddenly Curtis Sweetchurch was there.

  “Hi!” he said, startling both Rudolfo and the animal. Rudolfo loosened his hold momentarily and the panther became a confusion of limbs. The black creature brought its teeth together and Rudolfo muttered, “Fuckshit.” He grabbed hold of the loose skin at the back of the panther’s neck and twisted until the huge cat produced a whine of pitiable meekness.

  Rudolfo climbed to his feet, raising a bleeding finger and directing the panther back to its stand. The beast, evidencing great shame, prostrated itself. “No,” said Rudolfo. “Too late. You have been naughty.”

  The panther slunk away and Rudolfo turned to confront Curtis.

  “Whoops!” said Sweetchurch, brushing a hand across his lips, hiding a giggle that never came. “Sorry.”

  “That happens,” answered Rudolfo, referring to the gash on his index finger, although this wasn’t true. It didn’t happen, had never happened before. Rudolfo didn’t know how many days he’d lost, how far behind schedule this placed him. He was even concerned that he’d lost the panther forever. Even though the creature now cringed atop its stand, trying hard to summon up tears, anything to please the human, Rudolfo knew that it wouldn’t forget. Mayhem was now an option. He stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked. “Vot you vant?”

  Curtis Sweetchurch carried a huge Daytimer, clutching it to his chest like a schoolgirl. He now tore it open, savaged the pages with his fingers and eyes and said, “The Reno Show wants you. In two days.”

  “Who else is on?” demanded Rudolfo. He was still stinging over an appearance on one of these late-night talk shows. The other guest had been a gaunt comic who talked in a rapid, staccato fashion. He’d insulted Jurgen and Rudolfo, belittled and ridiculed them. Rudolfo comprehended almost none of the words, but he understood the cruel roar of the audience.

  Curtis Sweetchurch referred to his Daytimer again. He slid his fingers along the edges, locating little plastic tags and flaps. He flipped pages and consulted subheaders. “Umm,” said he, running his eyes over the pertinent page, “some up-and-coming starlet and a man who whistles the classics through his nose.”

  “I don’t know,” said Rudolfo. “Jurgen has not been feeling that well.”

  Jurgen picked that moment to come dashing out of the house. Rudolfo’s first thought was that some enormous snake had chosen Jurgen as its next meal, but Jurgen was not wrapped up in a snake; he was wrapped up in a thick piece of rope.

  He also seemed to be wearing a diaper, but as he drew nearer, Rudolfo saw that it was the unassuming loincloth of a fakir or swami. It barely clung to his meaty love handles; the front swooped low and exhibited a few downy, curly hairs. The loincloth was dingy and greyish, and Jurgen’s skin seemed all the more pale in comparison.

  “Am working on new trick!” he shouted, even though he was now within ten feet of the cage. Rudolfo stepped out and quietly shut the door behind him.

  “Jurgen,” said Curtis Sweetchurch, “is it true you’re not feeling well?”

  Jurgen ignored the question, which possessed an obvious and profound foolishness. Though he was pale, Jurgen exuded good health and vitality. “So look,” he said, dumping his burden, the rope, upon the ground. “So Rudolfo, first of all you say, um, for intro …”

  Rudolfo interrupted here. “Hold on to the horses,” he said. It was not Jurgen’s role to suggest introductions, after all. Not Jurgen Schubert, who, some years ago, had actually marched toward the audience and barked, “Here is trick!” with such crude brutality that several people choked on their martini olives.

  Jurgen suddenly adopted a very odd pose, laying one hand over his heart, sticking an index finger into the air. “Laddies and lassies,” he intoned, “the next miracle is the globally celebrated and much ballyhooed Hindu Rope Trick.”

  “Uh-oh,” moaned Curtis Sweetchurch, “will we have to pay royalties?”

  “Is miracle,” snarled Rudolfo. “You don’t pay royalties on miracles.”

  Jurgen now picked up the ro
pe and raised it over his head. “Here is music and dancing,” he said, setting the imaginary scene. “Miranda can show everyone her tits.”

  “Aha!” said Curtis Sweetchurch. “Misdirection.”

  “No, no,” said Jurgen. “Is not that. Everyone wants to see Miranda’s tits. Even me.” Then he threw the rope back onto the ground, where it lay, limp and lifeless. Except for the last five feet, which remained upright, undulating like a blade of grass in a strong wind. “Not bad, eh?” bellowed Jurgen, and he leapt upon it eagerly. For a few seconds he rode it back and forth, and then it collapsed and Jurgen crashed to the ground. He lay there with his face buried, emitting a strange sound that Rudolfo thought was sobbing, although when Jurgen lumbered to his feet it became clear that he’d been giggling. Still was giggling, as a matter of fact. He looked at Rudolfo and spoke German. “I’ll keep working on it.”

  Rudolfo only nodded, once, up and down.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rudolfo argued against any appearance onstage of the hideous old steamer trunk, the Houdini Substitution Box. He did so with admirable restraint, pacing back and forth in the cavernous dressing room contained in the deepest bowels of the Abraxas Hotel. Jurgen sat on one of the couches, very placidly, his fingers interlocked. Interlocking his fingers seemed to be his current favourite pastime. Jurgen would make his digits mesh with care and precision, almost as though he were three years old and the exercise just a little beyond him.

  “It’s not just that the box is ugly,” explained Rudolfo (that was top of the list, certainly), “it’s more that it doesn’t fit in. Everything else is very modern, high-tech.”

  Jurgen made the steeple, opened his hands and saw all the people, although his nails, which had grown so long they curled like ram’s horns, interfered with the process.

  “Stop that,” demanded Rudolfo.

  “I agree it’s different,” said Jurgen. “That’s what’s good about it.”