The carriage takes us at a leisurely pace through the town, down the wide streets, past beautiful homes set well back in tropical gardens. We go along Galle Face Drive that runs along the beach just out of reach of the waves that break on the sandy banks with a deeper mellow roar than I have ever heard water produce.
“We’re going to the breakwater,” he says, “Sarah wants to see the dedication plaque.”
The breakwater, which is a good half mile in length, is a favorite promenade for the citizens of Colombo, he tells us. “Morning and evening, gaily dressed people can be seen walking back and forth between the lighthouse and the shore. When the stormy season comes the sea dashes a full forty feet above the promenade, which must be cleansed of a green slime after the storms are over before it can be traveled safely.”
Well, maybe there will be too many people around to dispose of me, but I am still irked that they are up to some sort of shenanigans and I am excluded.
Sarah buys a rose from a street vendor and places it on a plaque that says Britain’s heir to the throne, Edward, Prince of Wales, had placed the first stone for the breakwater fifteen years ago.
“It is considered one of the finest breakwaters in the world,” Frederick says.
I take his remark as filling in conversation because he must find her dedication to an old brass plaque a bit unusual. She acts perfectly natural about putting a rose on an old brass plaque—and I mean act—that it arouses my own curiosity.
A tidbit about Sarah from the gossip columns back home stirs in my head. “Wasn’t there a rumor a while back that Sarah and the prince—”
“Quite,” Frederick snaps. “We must hurry to make it to the magic show.”
I have inadvertently hit a sore spot and scratched open that British sense of total loyalty and defense to their royals. Her name, of course, has long been linked with love affairs with European royalty, but Prince Edward is not just known for his flirtation with Sarah. He is a playboy of international esteem, known for his taste for beautiful women, fine food, aged brandy, and champion racehorses.
As we walk back to the carriage, I can’t help but think about Sarah’s remark the night I first met her when she told me her lover’s family was out to kill her. I can’t see Queen Victoria setting out to kill her son’s lover. Of course, if Sarah were pregnant or had already produced a claimant to the throne, who knows what a loyal Brit might do without the Queen’s permission …
I let out a long sigh and tell myself that I have enough mysteries to contend with without creating another.
“Did you say something, Nellie?” Frederick asks.
“No. Probably just thoughts leaking from the holes in my head.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry. An old American expression.”
That I made up, but it’s how I feel.
37
“The Indian Rope Trick is not just considered the most amazing feat of illusion ever performed,” Frederick tells us, “it’s almost as old as the Himalayas. Claims are found in ancient Greek and Egyptian texts that the magic trick was observed centuries before the birth of Christ. Marco Polo saw it performed during his travels six hundred years ago.”
We listen to Frederick’s explanation of the trick as we sit on logs set out in rows from a mostly open air stage formed by cloth over large pieces of bamboo. Gaily colored sheets of cotton covered the sides and back of the slightly elevated stage. The top was partly open with lengths of bamboo coming across to connect the walls.
The back side of the stage enclosed the trunk of a tall, bushy pear tree.
A drum beats and the fakir, the Indian term for a worker of wonders, comes on stage. The fakir has the robes of a monk, wisdom’s white beard, and the dark eyes of a traveling snake-oil salesman. A native boy about ten years old wearing a turban and loincloth joins him.
After much hand-waving and spoken incantations in what I imagine is the language of Ceylon, the old man’s demand to the boy is obvious—he wants the boy to go up the tree and bring back something.
“A fruit so tasty only a god is permitted to eat it,” Frederick whispers. “The fruit is guarded by the god’s jinnis in the tree.”
The fakir stands over a wide woven basket and plays a horn.
I expect an angry cobra with its neck fanning to glide up but instead it is a piece of rope. The rope continues up and disappears in the foliage of the tree.
“It’s being pulled up by a thin line, fishing wire maybe,” I whisper to Frederick and get a noncommittal shrug in return.
After the rope disappears into the spread of the tree, and after a bit of coaching, the boy grabs onto the rope. He begins to climb.
The audience cheers in amazement as he climbs hand over hand until he disappears into the foliage of the tree.
The fakir stares up at the tree, then moves about the stage yelling up at the boy, obviously demanding the boy come back with the fruit.
Instead of the boy descending, shouting is heard above, then cries of pain as the tree’s foliage shakes as if a struggle is taking place among the leaves and branches.
Something drops and the entire audience—including me—lets out a gasp.
It’s not a piece of fruit but an arm belonging to a small boy.
The jinnis guarding the fruit are obviously bloodthirsty little demons.
Then another piece drops. A leg.
A woman screams.
I begin to laugh hysterically and Frederick grabs my arm and whispers, “Don’t.”
He’s right, it’s purely rude, and I smother my laugh.
More pieces drop with the head coming last. By now the audience is on the edge of their seats. And staring at the basket.
The old man goes over to it, stares down into it, and shakes his head sorrowfully. Leaning over the basket, he begins to play his horn.
Soon the hair of a head appears … and then the head.
It’s the boy. A raw red gash around his neck with stitches shows that his head has been sewn back onto his shoulders. As he slowly unwinds from the basket we see that his arms and legs have been sewn onto his torso.
Finally he steps out of the basket and runs off stage with the fakir yelling at him for having failed at his task.
The audience responds with loud clapping and coins rain onto the stage, the three of us throwing not a few.
“Amusing,” I tell the other two as we wait for the crowd to disperse.
“You’re not impressed?” Frederick asks.
“Of course not. The boy disappears into the front of the tree, climbs down the back, puts on the bloody makeup, and goes through a short tunnel that ends up in the basket. There’s a hole in the basket and a tunnel beneath.”
Frederick stares at the stage. “I wouldn’t be certain of that. The stage is off the ground enough so that you can see beneath it. We would have seen the boy come up.”
“Mirrors,” I say, “it’s all done with mirrors.”
After the fakir and the boy clean the coins from the stage and leave, I make a dash for the stage to prove my point.
On stage I grab the basket and lift it. There’s no hole in the bottom of the basket, no hole in the stage beneath it, no mirrors anywhere.
“A twin then,” I decide. “There was a twin to the boy hidden in the basket. A child could easily wrap themselves around the inside of—”
Frederick grabs my arm and firmly pulls me off the stage.
“You are the most impetuous young woman I have ever met.”
“I need to examine the tree.”
“I’m getting you out of here before that fakir casts a magic spell and turns you into a mouse.”
“A mouse? I deserve to at least be a tiger.”
REPORT OF AN ENGLISH TRAVELER WHO OBSERVED THE ROPE TRICK IN 1681
I want to relate a matter which defies all belief and which I would hardly have dared to insert here had there not been a thousand eyewitnesses of this as well as myself. One of this same company took a coil of rope o
f which he held one end in his hand and threw the rest into the air with such force that we could barely keep the other end in our sight. Then he clambered so high up the rope that we could no longer see him. I stood, amazed not knowing what would transpire when a leg tumbled down from the sky. A wizard picked it up and threw it in a basket. A moment later a hand fell down and then the other leg, and soon all the rest of the body flew down and were thrown in the basket. The very last piece was the head and as soon as it was thrown in, the basket was upended and we saw before our very eyes all the parts join together again as a perfect human being again who could move without showing any injuries.
Never have I been so astonished as when I saw this miraculous work and now I did not doubt any longer that these benighted people were assisted in this by the Devil …
—Edward Melton
38
On the way back to the hotel, Frederick instructs the carriage driver to stop at a marketplace. “You’ll enjoy this place,” he tells us.
The three of us split up wandering about, looking at the exotic merchandise—gems and tapestries, silk so light it seems to float, and perfumes that come with a guarantee that the scent alone will seduce your lover.
Sarah goes for the aphrodisiacal scents, Frederick wanders to the huts of the gem merchants, and I step over to a vendor selling cool lime and mint drinks.
I know better than to get interested in beautiful things—my valise is designed to meet my needs, not my desires.
Wandering about with my drink, for the first time since leaving America I see American money. A silk vendor is wearing it—as jewelry.
He speaks a good bit of English and he tells me that American gold coins are very popular in Colombo as jewelry and command a high price!
“It goes for little as money,” he says.
I already knew that. When I offered it in payment for my bills I was told it would be taken at 60 percent discount. Gold is gold, but American gold is discounted when offered to pay a bill! But not if it’s to be worn.
“The Colombo gem merchants are very glad to get American twenty-dollar gold pieces and pay a high premium on them,” the silk merchant says.
The only use they make of the money is to put a ring through it and hang it on their watch chains for ornaments. The wealth of the merchant can be estimated by his watch chain, they tell me; the richer the merchant the more American gold dangles from his chain.
As I wander about, I see men with as many as twenty pieces on one chain. Women preferred daintier jewelry.
Dodging an oncoming group of children running after each other, I step off the main walkway and take a shortcut around a hut to a silk shop when a man says to me, “Beau jour, Mademoiselle, nous devons parler.”
It’s a disreputable-appearing sailor, a European, who has stepped out from behind the shop. His pants are stained with black smudges, his boots scuffed, his shirt has only been washed by sweat and rum, no doubt, for some time. He has a cockeyed sailor’s cap holding down a mop of unruly dark hair. Add his unkempt beard and the man looks pretty much like the seafarers who hang around the saloons at ports all around the world … sailors who can’t find a berth because their reputation for dereliction of duty and greater sins has spread.
The man was saying in French that “we need to talk.”
“I don’t speak French,” I lie, and turn to walk away from him.
“Hey, sorry, lady, thought you were a Frog.”
He had reverted to a working-class cockney accent, using “Frog” vulgarly for a person of French descent.
Turning my back and walking away only emboldened him.
“Have a drink with me and I’ll show you my tattoos. I’ve got one that dances.”
Frederick is suddenly between me and the man.
“Get out of here. You’ve made a mistake. Now move on.”
The man leers at Frederick. “And who are you to give me orders?”
“I’m the man who will beat you enough so you can’t crawl far before the police drag you out of the gutter.”
The rude sailor’s hand goes to the hilt of a knife he has strapped on his hip. He gives Frederick an appraising look.
Frederick stares back, giving the man a small smile as he taps his heavy walking stick on the ground. Walking sticks are carried for protection for good reason—they often conceal a weapon, not to mention that the head of the stick can deliver a powerful blow.
A man who has stood his ground with charging bull elephants, Frederick, tall and broad chested, has the posture of a soldier at the ready.
“Blimey!” The sailor takes his hand off his knife and raises his eyebrows giving both of us a look of mock surprise. “Unfriendly blokes, aren’t you?” He removes his hat and waves as he bows. “Your lordship, ladyship.”
He moves off and Frederick offers me his arm.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“I only intervened to keep you from thrashing the man.”
I warm to the great hunter. There is nothing like a man defending a woman’s honor to raise her esteem of him.
“Unpleasant chap,” he says. “Probably lost his berth for tapping into the rum cask too often and lives off the beach. You find them often enough in the warmer regions, beachcombers too lazy or dishonest to work, living off fish, fruit, and what they can steal.”
As Sarah joins us, Frederick says, “Here is something to remember Colombo by.”
He gives each of us a gold charm. “This is the Monkey King who brought peace to the island by ridding it of demons. He brings good luck to those who desire to spread peace in the world.”
We both express our appreciation, but petty woman that I am, I have still not forgotten that he was about to get me a gift before he saw the Divine Sarah.
Oh, well, the golden monkey is quite cute.
* * *
BACK AT THE HOTEL, Frederick escorts us to our rooms. We first say good night to Sarah and are at my door when he surprises me with something.
“You are a very special person, Nellie Bly. When I saw this, I knew it should belong to you.”
Hanging from a gold chain is a blue sapphire—the color of his eyes.
I am speechless. Thrilled. Instantly guilt-stricken because of my jealous thoughts.
“I … I don’t know what to say.”
I grab his lapels and stand on tiptoes to give him a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”
As I turn to leave he takes a hold of my shoulders and turns me back to face him. Before I know it, he bends down and gives me a kiss. A long kiss. “You’re welcome.” He leaves me speechless.
I float into my room and hold the necklace against my chest.
My heart is beating. I am breathless, and feel warm all over.
I recognize the symptoms.
I am infatuated with Frederick Selous.
* * *
THE BLACKBOARD IN THE HOTEL corridor bore the information that the Oriental would sail for China the following morning at eight o’clock.
This is my last night in Colombo—I hope. Tomorrow I board a ship for the leg to China—I hope. I fall asleep easily, tired from the day, but wake up sweating because I hadn’t left my balcony doors open.
Getting out of bed, I take a blanket and pillow with me to set up camp on the wicker chair on the balcony and to enjoy the mild night breeze and the bright moon.
My balcony looks down on the large courtyard in the center of the hotel. The courtyard is dark, but the hotel lounge where men gather for their drinks and tobacco is still open. Men are on the patio of the lounge, enjoying their brandy, tobacco, and conversation.
A familiar figure off to the left of the lounge patio catches my eye. I recognize the big, broad-rimmed, rugged hat that Frederick wears.
It is too dark to make him out or identify who he is talking to, but I keep watching, the thought of his special gift again warming the cockles of my heart.
The discussion breaks up and he approaches the patio doors and goes back inside. Passing under
the gas lamp, I can see that it is definitely Frederick under the hat.
The person he had been talking to is crossing the courtyard for the exit to the street. When he walks under a gaslight, I gape.
It’s the rude sailor from the marketplace.
39
My wake-up knock has been arranged for five o’clock, and some time afterward I leave for the ship.
Since Sarah had already informed me it would be much too early to even contemplate opening her eyes, I set out alone.
She did ask if I would go with her later that morning to buy some jewelry, but I told her I was so nervous and anxious to be on my way that I couldn’t wait a moment longer than was necessary to reach the boat that was to carry me to China.
In truth, I needed to be alone to deal with all the thoughts rattling in my head.
Frederick and the sailor carried off a deception at the marketplace. They knew each other. So why did they pretend otherwise?
What did Frederick say to the man? You’ve made a mistake. It was a message telling the man he’d approached the wrong woman.
He was supposed to approach Sarah.
Frederick hadn’t protected me from the man; he protected the secret that was behind whatever they’re concocting. And Sarah is part of it. A starring role, of course.
My role? A bit player cast as the romantic interest of the leading man, but who in reality is there to draw attention away from whatever schemes the two stars are involved in. That is when I’m not being battered as the understudy of the female lead.
That special sentimental gift he gave me, the sapphire that warmed the cockles of my heart?
“A bone thrown to a dog.”
I speak loud enough for others on the street to turn and look.
When I think about Frederick in the light of day, my mind unaffected by my feelings, it always boiled down to one thing: If it wasn’t for Frederick’s statement that he had personally spoken to Mr. Cleveland, my insistence that the man had been killed in the marketplace would carry some credibility.
An interesting angle to my ricocheting relationship is his statement that he worked on Warton and the captain to keep me from being arrested.
The Illusion of Murder Page 18
