Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

  We reached the dock and got off the boat and went over and got on a pier car. At the end of the long pier the three of us got into a cab. Jack told the driver to take us to the train station. Ed had to return to Los Angeles. At Seventh and Broadway the cab driver pulled the car to the curb and Ed opened the door and got out. He turned, bent down, and looked back at me.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Ed said to me. We shook hands.

  “Thanks for trying,” I said, and added: “Good luck to you.”

  “Same to you,” Ed said to me, and then he shook Jack’s hand.

  Ed put on his hat, turned around, and went into the door of the train station.

  “Take us over to the Orpheum,” Jack said to the driver.

  The cab driver pulled the car away from the curb and we proceeded up Broadway until the driver took a left turn at 12th Street. When we got to the theatre, the cab driver slowed down, pulled to the curb, and stopped.

  “I’ll say so long here,” Jack said, lighting up a cigarette. “Charmian and I will see you after the matinee. I’ve got to get back to the hotel.”

  “Falling behind on the writing again?” I asked.

  “Always,” Jack said, blowing a puff of smoke from his nostrils. “I’m always falling behind. Every day. Aren’t you?”

  “Falling behind?” I asked, and then nodded. “Yes, I’m always falling behind on something, it seems.”

  “We must catch up,” Jack said. “If we can.”

  “We can,” I said. I opened the door, slid out of the car, and stood up on the sidewalk.

  “Perhaps we will really catch up tomorrow,” Jack said. “Perhaps up in the Valley of the Moon you and I will find a way to catch up.”

  “We’ll find it, Jack,” I said. I shook his hand and closed the car door. The driver pulled away from the curb and proceeded on down 12th Street.

  I turned around— and received a sudden shock. In my hurry to and from the hotel the night before and earlier that morning, I had not noticed my immediate surroundings. But now I faced the corner of the Orpheum building and could suddenly and clearly see that the open lot next to the building was no longer there. In its place stood a building— an old building that looked as though it had stood there for decades. Here was the first tangible evidence that now I was existing in a parallel universe.

  I went up to the front of the old building to look at it, and suddenly noticed that Bess was standing under its awning looking in one of the building’s store windows which was dark and empty. I went up to her and started to speak, but she didn’t seem to notice I was there. I stood behind her and she suddenly said:

  “It’s just like my life.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “That,” she said. “That empty store. It’s just like my life. A whole lot of nothing.”

  “That’s not what I see,” I said, and stopped myself from saying more. I suddenly realized that Bess and I had spoken these exact words several days before in this exact spot, except before there had been an open lot where this derelict storefront now stood.

  “What do you see?” Bess asked.

  “I see a beautiful woman,” I said.

  “Don’t kid a kidder, Harry,” Bess said. “I’m forty years old.”

  “Tsh-tsh,” I said, “and a couple of fiddle-de-dees. We’re just reaching our prime of life.”

  “Hah!” Bess cried out contemptuously.

  “You’re just bored,” I said.

  “I’m bored to death,” she said. “What happened to all the fun?”

  “How would you like to be in the show again?” I asked. “We could put the sub trunk back in the act.”

  “That’s your idea of fun?” Bess asked, exasperated. “Doing the sub trunk’s not fun. It’s work. Hard work.”

  “You know you love it,” I said. “You’ve just forgotten. Remember how it is when you come out of the bag? Remember the audience? The applause?”

  “I remember,” Bess said, thinking about it all, and then she looked up at me, and said, “And I remember nursing my bruises climbing out of that damned trunk twice a day.”

  “I don’t ever remember seeing a single bruise on you,” I said.

  “I didn’t let you see,” Bess said.

  “Just think about it,” I said. “You’ve forgotten what it’s really like. Anyway, you don’t have to do the trunk with me. You could do something else.”

  “What else?” Bess asked.

  “You could sing,” I said.

  “Sing?” Bess asked, and then burst out laughing. “Me sing? In the Big Time? Are you crazy?”

  “You started out as a singer,” I said.

  “I was just an ornament,” Bess said. “I just mouthed the words. The other girls did the singing.”

  “Remember the tramp act?” I asked. “We sang in that.”

  “That was just a gag,” Bess said. “It was a comedy. And we were just kids. Nobody cared if we could carry a tune— and we couldn’t! Me sing? By myself? For real? That’s the craziest…. Harry!”

  I had been looking away from Bess. I looked her in the eyes.

  “Harry!” Bess repeated.

  “What?” I asked.

  “What?” Bess asked. “What do you mean ‘what’? What’s happened to you? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s something wrong with you,” Bess said. She grabbed my shoulders and stood on tip toes to look me square in the face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Your face,” Bess said. “It’s your face, your expression, it’s…it’s….”

  “What?” I asked.

  “It’s…different,” Bess said. “Your expression is different. It’s different. You’re different.”

  “That’s silly,” I said.

  “No,” Bess said. “No, you’re different. You’ve changed.”

  “I have not,” I said.

  “You have!” Bess said, gripping hard on my shoulders. “You’re not the same!”

  “Since when?” I asked.

  “Since now!” Bess said. “Since the last time I saw you! Since— since last night.”

  “Nonsense!” I said, affecting a chuckle.

  “Harry!” Bess shouted. “You went up to that prison. That prison! What happened up there? What…what happened to you up there? Did you see something? Did you…did they…did they do something to you?”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, trying to sound incredulous.

  “Your face!” Bess cried, tears welling in her eyes. “I— I’ve never seen your face like this before— no. I have! I have! Only once before— the day you learned Mama died!”

  “No!” I shouted. “Don’t speak of that!”

  I turned from her. She threw her arms around me and hugged me tightly from behind.

  “I’m sorry!” Bess cried.

  “Never speak of that day!” I groaned. “Never!”

  “Forgive me,” Bess said. “Forgive me! I’m a fool! I’m such a fool! Forgive me, Harry. I love you, with all my heart, I love you.”

  “I know,” I said, caressing her hand where it was pressed tightly across my chest. “Just don’t speak of that time. You know we never speak of that time.”

  “I know,” Bess said. “Do you forgive me?”

  I turned around and embraced her.

  “Of course,” I said. “Now let’s get in to the theatre. We’re making a spectacle of ourselves out here on the sidewalk. People are beginning to stare.”

  We turned, and hand and hand went toward the entrance of the theatre.

  “Harry,” Bess said, “I’m worried about you. You need a holiday.”

  “We’re going up to Jack’s ranch tomorrow,” I said.

  “That’s one day,” Bess said. “I mean a real holiday. A long one.”

  “You know we can’t do that now,” I said. “We’re in the middle of a vaudeville tour. I’ve got obligations, contracts.”

/>   “You could get out of them,” Bess said. “You could take some time off and we could go up to the farm or take a cottage on Long Island and you could write a book.”

  I stopped at the theatre’s entrance door, and turned to Bess.

  “You know how to tempt me,” I said.

  “I hope so,” Bess said.

  I started to speak again, but Collins suddenly came up to me from inside the lobby.

  “Mr. ‘oudini, I need to speak with you,” he said.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said to him.

  Collins looked over at Bess, sized up the situation, and went away.

  “The show,” Bess said.

  I said, “Come on back to the dressing room. We’ll have lunch. You’ll feel better.”

  “I’ll feel better,” Bess said, “but will you?”

  I took hold of her hand and pulled her across the box office vestibule. An usher opened the lobby door for us.

  “Hello,” I said to him.

  “Afternoon, sir,” the usher said.

  We went across the lobby and through the main door to the house. The front curtain was up and I could see that the flats for our box set were missing.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” Bess asked.

  “The flats,” I said.

  “What about them?” Bess asked.

  We walked on down the aisle. My eyes were moving all around, noticing every detail of the stage. Something was different. The stage was bigger than I had remembered it.

  “Harry?” Bess asked.

  I mounted the stairs to the stage, all the while looking up into the fly gallery. When I got on to the stage, I could see that all the flats to our set were hanging aloft along with the Leighton’s box set.

  “What is it, Harry?” Bess asked from the house. “What are you looking at up there?”

  “No ‘Column of Air’” I muttered.

  “What?” Bess asked.

  “No— “ I started to repeat, but then said: “Nothing.”

  I looked down and all about the stage, and then over to Bess. She was still studying me with that worried look.

  “Harry!” Bess said, mounting the stairs. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  I started to speak, but then from off in the wings I heard a rustle, and then a young woman appeared, very smartly dressed and quite beautiful. She was blonde with porcelain skin; she was almost doll-like in the perfection of her features. She walked toward me, and I suddenly received a tremendous shock. This young woman, I saw, was Reine Davies— Reine Davies about twelve or fifteen years younger than when I last saw her— and as many or more pounds lighter!

  Miss Davies extended her right hand to me as she approached, and I took it.

  “I wanted an opportunity to express my gratitude for the graciousness of you and your wife,” Miss Davies said.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Davies said. “It means so much to me, just starting out as I am. I have heard of you since I was a little girl in Marshalltown, Iowa, and now appearing on the same bill with you is something of a dream come true.”

  “We have been delighted to share the stage with you,” I said. “You mentioned Marshalltown.”

  “Yes,” Miss Davies said.

  “A friend of mine is from Marshalltown,” I said. “T. Nelson Downs.”

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Davies said. “He was a neighbor of ours.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Miss Davies said. “My father knew him quite well. In fact, it was Mr. Downs who convinced my father that a life upon the stage would not be so bad for me, and he has been proven right.”

  “Well,” I said. “I am mighty glad to hear it. You’ll be coming to our little backstage party tonight, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Miss Davies said. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Miss Davies turned to Bess and gave a slight bow.

  “Mrs. Houdini,” Miss Davies said, “thank you for your kindness.”

  “Not at all,” Bess said, mocking the tone of voice I had been using to speak to Miss Davies.

  Miss Davies gave a smile and a nod and turned and went back into the wings.

  As soon as Miss Davies had disappeared behind a curtain, Bess hissed, “The flirt!”

  “She’s nothing of the kind,” I said.

  “Sure,” Bess said. “I guess you ought to know.”

  “What do you mean by that remark?” I asked.

  “You know what I mean,” Bess said, and then she turned and looked squarely at me, and said, “You know exactly what I mean.”

  I looked away from her.

  “I have to see Collins,” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” Bess said. “You have to see Collins. You must see Collins. You must always see Collins.”

  And then she turned and walked into the wings and disappeared behind the same curtain from where Miss Davies had vanished. Disappeared. Vanished.

  I was noticing it again: my heightened awareness of motion and change of place. I could feel time passing, like a stream of water flowing over me. Time was flowing around and through my body, and the flow was everything I saw and felt around me, and at the center of the twisting, surging flow was my own self, quiet, motionless, unchanging. Or was I unchanging? Was something flowing in my mind as well?

  “Mr. ‘oudini,” Collins said. He was standing right in front of me. How did he get there? He seemed to have just appeared.

  “Yes?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “You should come with me,” Collins said. “Something’s happened.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “I’ll show you— in the shop,” Collins whispered.

  I followed Collins backstage to the dressing room we were using for our shop. The water cell stood inside. Beside it sat my red trunk with all my essential tools and notes.

  Collins went to the trunk, opened it, and pulled back the false bottom. He brought out my plan book.

  A plan book is something most professional magicians carry with them. Mine consisted of the blueprint drawings for the water cell. We carried the drawings in the event that some part of the cell had to be replaced and a new part fabricated on the spot. The secret release catches, their dimensions and positions, were all detailed in the notes. I saw that the page with the illustration of the release catches had been torn from the book.

  “Who’s been in here?” I asked, not looking up at Collins.

  “No one but the boys and me,” Collins said.

  “As far as you know,” I said.

  “Yes, sir,” Collins said.

  “What about stage hands?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen any about this morning,” Collins said, “except a strange chap with a handlebar mustache.”

  “What?” I asked, looking up at Collins.

  “A chap with the handlebar mustache,” Collins repeated. “I saw him outside a few minutes ago. He was just going about his business.”

  “I thought—“ I said, but then stopped. I realized that the stagehand we had fought with at the beginning of the week was now still working in the theatre, but the fight— and the stagehand’s escape— had happened in a parallel universe. I realized that in this universe where I now existed, the fight had never occurred— but what about the stagehand? Was he a parallel version of the man with whom I had fought— or was he the same man?

  “Have you seen this stagehand before?” I asked.

  “No,” Collins replied. “He seemed to have just appeared out of nowhere.”

  I handed Collins the plan book, said, “Lock it back up,” and went out of the room.

  In the far back of the stage I found the man with the handlebar mustache on the verge of stepping out the back loading door.

  “You there!” I shouted.

  The man with the mustache did not turn about, but went straight out the door. I went after him.

  In the alley the man and I repeated th
e foot race which he ran with my assistants several days earlier. This time I noticed the automobile pulling forward at the end of the alley. I had no intention of allowing Mr. Mustache to reach that automobile. I put on a good deal of speed— and caught the back of his shirt. He stopped and began a swinging turn— just as he did several days before when he slugged me in the face while we were up on the catwalks. I knew his style now, ducked quick, and his fist flew past the top of my head. I landed a hard right and left in quick succession on his chin, and Mr. Mustache staggered and fell, hitting the dirt on his back.

  “Hold it right there or I’ll beat you into the ground,” I said.

  Mr. Mustache’s hand shot inside his coat. I thought he was going for a pistol. I instinctively stepped back. He brought his hand out holding a small box with a metal rod extending from its top. The thing he held in his hand wasn’t a gun, but I was still cautious and stood still.

  Then Mr. Mustache instantly disappeared. His sudden disappearance held no resemblance to the illusions of stage magic. There was no report of sound, no flash of light. There was simply a sudden non-existence so complete, so total that I was left wondering whether or not Mr. Mustache had ever existed at all.

  I looked up to the end of the alley and saw the automobile pull out of sight again. It rolled away slowly, deliberately. I couldn’t see the driver, but I felt like, if I could have seen him, he would have been laughing at me.

  I was standing there thinking about that when Collins came up beside me.

  “Got away in the car, eh?” Collins asked, looking down to the end of the alley.

  “So it seems,” I said.

  “Who do you think he’s working for?” Collins asked.

  “There are a number of possibilities,” I said. “I’ll explore them all. But the secret of the cell is out. We’re going to have to start all over and design a new method of release. Wire Hinson and Wood about the situation so they can start working on ideas.”