“No, there isn’t,” Carter replied briskly. “The fact of the matter is, Colonel Starling, there are few illusions that are truly original. It’s a matter of presentation.”
Starling said nothing; saying nothing often led to gold.
“In other words, I didn’t invent sugar or flour, but I bake a mean apple pie.”
“So you’re just as respected in the business for the quality of your presentation as the magicians who actually create illusions,” Starling said sincerely, as if looking for confirmation.
Carter folded his arms, and a smile spread to his eyes, which twinkled. “At some point this stopped being about President Harding.”
“My fault. I’m intrigued by all forms of misdirection.” Starling reached into his vest pocket, then withdrew his business card, which he looked at for a moment before handing to Carter. “If you think of anything else—”
“I’ll call you.”
Starling joined Griffin. They walked several steps before Starling turned around. “Oh, Mr. Carter?”
“Yes?”
“Did the President say anything about a secret?”
“A secret? What sort of secret?”
“A few people told us that in his last weeks, the late President asked them . . .” Starling opened a notepad, and read, “‘What would you do if you knew an awful secret?’”
Carter blinked. His eyes flashed in excitement. “How dramatic. What on earth could that be?”
“We’ll find out. Thank you.”
Carter watched them walk all the way down the stairs to their cab, which had waited for them. A half mile away, the pelican above the lake had been joined by a half dozen others. The day was turning out calm and fair, giving Carter a perfect excuse to visit his friend Borax, or to stroll in the park, or to take coffee and dessert at one of the Italian cafés downtown. For now, he watched the Secret Service agents depart, their cab lurching down Grand Avenue in traffic. There were a dozen houses under construction in Adams Point, and so Carter watched the cab alongside panel trucks owned by carpenters and plumbers and bricklayers until it turned a corner and vanished.
And then he tore Starling’s card into pieces and scattered them across the stairs.
. . .
With age, the world falls into two camps: those who have seen much of the world, and those who have seen too much. Charles Carter was a young man, just thirty-five, but at some point after his wife’s death, he had seen too much. Every six months or so he tried to retire, a futile gesture, as he knew nothing except how to be a magician. But a magician who has lost the spark of life is not a careful magician, and is not a magician for long. Ledocq had chastised him so often Carter could do the lectures himself, including digressions in French and Yiddish. “Make a commitment, Charlie. Go with life or go with death, but quit the kvetching. Don’t keep us all in suspense.”
Sometimes, Carter walked in the military cemetery in the Presidio. After the Spanish-American War, if a soldier were a suicide, his tombstone was engraved with an angel whose face was tucked under his left wing. But in less enlightened times, there was no headstone: suicides were simply buried facedown.
Six nights a week, sometimes twice a night, Carter gave the illusion of cheating death. The great irony, in his eyes, was that he did not wish to cheat it. He spent the occasional hour imagining himself facedown for eternity. Since the war, he had learned how to recognize a whole class of comrades, men who had seen too much: even at parties, they had a certain hollowing around the eyes, as if a glance in the mirror would show them only a fool having a good time. The most telling trait was the attempted smile, a smile aware of being borrowed.
An hour before the final Curran Theatre show, he had been supervising the final placement of the props, smiling his half smile when called upon to be friendly. Suddenly a retinue of Secret Service agents appeared, all exceptionally clean-looking young men in a uniform Carter committed to memory: deep blue wool jackets, black trousers, and highly polished shoes, a human shell around President Harding.
The President was still beloved by most of the country. Word had only just begun to trickle down from Washington that the administration was in trouble. Harding had made no secret of his intent to hire people whom he liked. And he liked people who flattered him. He innocently told the Washington press corps, “I’m glad I’m not a woman. I’d always be pregnant, for I cannot say no.”
Though significantly overweight, with a high stomach that seemed to pressure his breastbone, Harding was still an impressive man, olive-skinned and with wiry grey hair, caterpillar eyebrows, and the sculpted nose of a Roman senator. Yet in a glance, shrewd men noted his legendary weak nature: his several chins, too-wet mouth, and his gentle, eager eyes. More than one person who saw him during his last week on earth commented on his apparent deterioration. Even if they did not know of the extraordinary pressure he was under, they could see it reflected in his slack-skinned complexion.
Carter, who frequently had to size up a man in an instant, saw something more dismal. He remembered an unfortunate creature he’d seen in New Zealand: a parrot that had evolved with no natural enemies. Happy, colorful, it had lost the ability to fly and instead walked on the ground, fat and waddling slowly, with no sense that anyone could mean it ill. When humans arrived and shot into a flock of them, the survivors would stand still, confused and trusting that a mistake had been made, actually letting people pick them up and dash their brains out against the ground.
Harding approached Carter with his right hand extended. “I am so very, very pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Mr. President.” When they shook hands, Harding jumped back shocked: he now held a bouquet of tuberoses.
“For Mrs. Harding,” Carter said softly.
Harding looked around, as if checking with his company to see whether it was dignified to show delight. Then he cried, “Yes, these are the Duchess’s favorites. Wonderful! You’re quite good. Isn’t he good?”
They were a standard gift from Carter to potentates, fresh flowers—from his own garden, if possible, and in midsummer, his tuberoses were beautiful and fragrant.
“Now,” said Harding, “I’m supposed to talk with you man-to-man about my perhaps going onstage tonight. I have an idea.”
“Yes?”
“You might not know this, but when I was a boy, I did a lot of magic tricks.”
“No!”
“Let me tell you a couple I know pretty well,” the President said slyly.
Carter fixed a smile on his face. While Harding spoke, he focused on his ability to hold his breath and listen to his own heartbeat. As soon as Harding finished, Carter said, “Let us think about that.”
Harding leaned in close, whispering. “I understand you have an elephant tonight. Do you think I could see him?”
Carter hesitated. “I can take you. But not your aides. She’s in a small space, and a crowd would frighten her.”
Harding turned to a pair of Secret Service agents, who shook their heads—no, they would not let him out of their sight. Harding’s lower lip went out. “There, you see, Carter? So much for being a great man.” He wagged his finger at the agents. “Now, listen here, I’m going to see the elephant. Take me to him, Carter.”
Puffed up like he’d negotiated a tariff, Harding passed through a curtain Carter pulled back. The two men walked side by side down a narrow corridor toward the rear wall of the backstage area.
They passed the solitary figure of Ledocq, who nodded politely at Harding, and made sure Carter saw him tapping on his watch. “Not much time, Charlie.”
“Thank you.”
“You have your wallet?”
Carter touched his trouser pocket. “Yes.”
“Good. Always take your wallet onstage.”
Harding produced a hearty chuckle. He seemed uncomfortable with silence, so, as he and Carter continued walking, he admitted he had never seen an elephant up close, though at his recent trip to Yellowstone, he had hand-fed gingersnaps to a b
lack bear and her cub. He was elaborating on his poorly scheduled trip to a llama farm when Carter drew back a tall velvet curtain.
“My God.” They were in a small but high-ceilinged area closed off from the rest of the theatre with screens and soundproofing. There were two cages: one for the elephant, one for the lion. There were no handlers. The animals were quite alone. The elephant, eating hay, stomped twice on the floor when she saw Carter, who rubbed her trunk in response. She was wearing a jeweled headdress and sequins glittered by her eyes in the half-light. Harding cast but a brief glance at Baby, the lion, before approaching the elephant’s cage. “Is it safe?”
“Oh yes. Here.” Carter handed the President a peanut. With deliberation, Harding showed the peanut to the elephant, who took it with her trunk and put it into her mouth.
“It tickled when she touched my palm. Do you have more peanuts?”
Carter handed Harding a whole bag, which Harding had to keep away from the elephant’s probing trunk.
“What is her name?”
“I call her Tug.”
“I like her. She’s very quiet. You always think of elephants trumpeting and stampeding and so forth. But you don’t act naughty, do you, Tug?” Harding touched Tug’s trunk as it found more peanuts. “Do you always need to keep her chained up?”
“Luckily, no. Tug lives on a farm about a hundred miles south. When we go on tour, she is cramped up, but not much more so than the rest of us.”
Harding brought his eye near Tug’s, so they could look at each other. “I wish she could always be on her farm.”
“Have you met Baby?”
Harding shrugged. “Not much of a cat man. Allergic, you know. I have a dog.”
“Of course. Laddie Boy.”
Harding beamed, looking surprised. “You know him?” Then his face fell. “How foolish of me. Mr. Carter, for a moment I forgot I was President.” He fell silent, and directed himself to feeding the rest of the bag of peanuts to Tug. When he spoke again, it was to mutter, “I’ve been counting dogs these last few minutes. I’ve owned many dogs. People are so cruel to dogs, aren’t they? When I was a lad, I had Jumbo, who was a great big Irish setter. He was poisoned. And then Hub, a pug. Someone poisoned him, I’m sure it was the boy next door, who never liked him. Laddie Boy is lucky, if anyone poisoned him, it would be national headlines. Quite a scandal.” Tug’s trunk ran against his hands, which he held forth, palms out. “Sorry, sweetheart, all gone. You’ve eaten all the peanuts.”
“Mr. President, we should discuss what part of the act you might appear in.”
“Mmm? I was just thinking how tremendous it would be to have a pet elephant. It would be like a dream, wouldn’t it? If I had an elephant, I would walk him down to the shops on F Street, and, Lord, imagine the expression on the grocer’s face when the Duchess went for her produce!” Harding tilted his head toward the rafters. Even in the dimness, his face looked ravaged. “A pet elephant!” He smiled as if cheerful, and in that moment, Carter saw that the President of the United States had that awful, borrowed smile of a man who has seen too much.
“Mr. President—”
“I have a sister in Burma. She’s a missionary. One of the natives had an elephant who was old and dying. He tried to run off and die alone. I think the keeper couldn’t bear that, so he put his elephant in a cage. As long as the elephant could see his keeper by his side, he was calm, but if he left even for a moment, he became distraught. And when the elephant’s eyesight failed, he would feel for the keeper with his trunk. That’s how he finally died, you know, with his trunk wrapped around his best friend’s hand.”
Harding stood away from the cage, turning his back and bringing his big hands over his face. His shoulders quaked, and the floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. Carter was aware of motorcars passing outside, people laughing over dinner, bankers and factory workers and phone operators and ditchdiggers and chorus girls and attorneys speeding right now through their lives, gay and so very far beyond the four walls of this soundproof stage.
Harding faced him. He sniffed, bringing his voice under control. “Carter, if you knew of a great and terrible secret, would you for the good of the country expose it or bury it?”
Carter could see dire need in Harding’s face. It lit him up like electricity. As was Carter’s way since Sarah had died, he withdrew. He looked at his sleeve, inspecting his jacket for flaws. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer such a question.”
“Please just tell me what to do.”
He brought his stage voice into play. It was like a stiff arm holding Harding at a careful distance. “You are asking a professional magician. One of my oaths is to never reveal a secret. Intellectually—”
“Oh, hang ‘intellectually.’ This is not a secret like how a trick works. It is concealed to harm, not to entertain.”
“Then perhaps you already know the answer, Mr. President.”
Harding put both hands to his face and moaned through them. “I wish this trip were over. I wish I weren’t so burdened by this all. I wish, I wish . . .”
And here, for Carter, the ice cracked. Behind his sangfroid voice, he had the soul of someone who truly wanted to help. He had a glimmer of how he might best serve the President. He said, slowly, “I know of a way you might take your mind off this problem. Do you know of the Grand Guignol theatre in France?”
Harding shook his head, face buried in his fleshy hands.
“In any case, I know which part of my act you might enjoy the most.” Carter smiled his half-smile. “It involves being butchered with knives and eaten by a wild animal.”
Harding let his hands down a little, and peeked his face around them. It was very quiet for just a moment, and then the two men, president and magician, began a discussion. As time was short, they couldn’t speak at length, but they did manage to speak in depth.
. . .
Harding’s casket stood at the west end of the lobby of the Palace Hotel on Friday, August third. There was some embarrassment at first, as the only American flag anyone could find to drape over it was the one that had flown in front of the Palace since 1913, and weathering and soot made it a shabby tribute indeed. Eventually, a new flag was found, and wreaths from local, national, and world leaders began to arrive, and by dusk, the lobby was overflowing with floral arrangements, so the hotel had to start stacking them outside the front door. By the next morning, there were flowers, singly, or in bouquets, or in expensive vases lining the entire block. It was said that to breathe deeply by the Palace Hotel was to smell heaven, and for several weeks in downtown San Francisco, when foggy, the faint, sweet aroma of roses came in hints, then vanished.
The train that had carried Harding through his now abandoned Voyage of Understanding was converted to a funeral train. Black bunting draped down the sides of the locomotive and the three cars. The casket was placed just above the level of the windows so all of the pedestrians who stood by the platform at Third and Townsend could take off their hats and have a final moment with Harding’s remains.
Soon, Harding would become the most reviled of American politicians, his name synonymous with the worst kind of fraud and egotism, but for now, as the train left the platform, boys ran after it, trying to touch the side panels, to tag the Presidential Seal, to get a souvenir of his passing.
The plan had been to fly across the rails at full speed, to arrive in Washington, D.C., for official mourning, then to have the remains interred in Marion, Ohio, Harding’s birthplace. But even before the train reached the city limits of San Francisco, it became apparent that America would not let him go so fast. Crowds lined the tracks, holding candles, calling out to the Widow Harding, singing “Nearer My God to Thee,” and the Duchess ordered the train to slow down so everyone might see the coffin, touch the train, wave to her, so she might hear the hymn again and again.
As news of the train spread around the country, families who lived far from the tracks drove all night in all weather to reach them, so they, t
oo, could watch it passing. An eighty-six-year-old man in Illinois told everyone he knew that five presidents had died since he was born, and this was his last chance to see such a thing.
Soon boys began putting wheatback pennies on the tracks, retrieving shiny flattened ellipses once the train had passed over them. Someone discovered that putting two tenpenny nails in an X would fuse them together like a Spanish cross, and word spread by telephone and radio and telegraph, and in every town, while farmers changed into their Sunday best, and miners scrubbed their faces and washed their hair, and church choirs lined up on either side of the tracks and rehearsed “Nearer My God to Thee,” hardware store owners ran barrels of their nails to the tracks, to make more crosses.
But before the train had even left California, it traveled through Carmel, where it crossed a railway trestle over the Borges Gorge. The engineer blew the whistle, and on a hilltop not so far away, Tug the elephant answered briefly before returning to search her favorite eucalyptus tree for celery and oranges and other treats Carter had hidden there.
ACT ONE
METAMORPHOSIS
* * *
1888–1911
I have often sat at the table with Unthan the legless wonder, who would pass me the sugar, and the fat lady, Big Katie, would obligingly sit at the edge of the table, so as to give poor Emma Shaffer, the ossified girl, plenty of room.
—HARRY HOUDINI
It is well known that a magician feels no suffering while on the stage; a species of exaltation suspends all feelings foreign to his part, and hunger, thirst, cold, or heat, even illness itself, is forced to retreat in the presence of this excitement, though it takes revenge afterwards.
—ROBERT-HOUDIN
CHAPTER 1
He wasn’t always a great magician. Sometimes he said he was the seventh magician in his family, the great-great-great-great-grandson of Celtic sorcerers. Sometimes he claimed years of training at the feet of Oriental wizards. But his press releases never told the truth, that from the moment Charles Carter the Fourth first learned it, magic was not an amusement, but a means of survival.
Carter Beats the Devil Page 3
