The Spirit Cabinet (7 page)

Jurgen poked around underneath the sink and removed the piece of apparatus he’d constructed, a mesh basket. He was very proud of this contrivance, meticulously rendered out of screening, wood and wire. Houdini had not been helpful here; there were neither instructions nor handy hints. Houdini tended to write about the “mesh basket” with such insouciance that it took Jurgen two or three days before he realized this wasn’t something he could simply purchase in a shop. So he’d made one as best he could, and was very pleased with the results (although looking upon it right then, he briefly wondered if the basket didn’t seem a little small to contain Ha-Jo).

He cast that doubt aside, and reached further into the recesses of the cupboard beneath the sink, searching for the eyes.

According to Houdini, it was necessary to disguise oneself as a Cingalese because Cingalese people had odd eyes, silvered, almost mirror-like. This was the secret of the trick; one wore false eyes. Lengths of silk twine, thin to the point of invisibility, were attached to them, and tiny hooks at the ends of the silk twine latched onto the mesh of the baby-laden basket.

If Jurgen had found it hard to purchase a mesh basket, imagine his frustration when he tried to locate a pair of silvery false eyes. One of his brothers-in-law, fortunately, had a small interest in metal work, and at the bench in the back of the garden Jurgen was able to find a scrap of tin. He cut out two ovals with snips, took a small ballpeen hammer and pebbled the pieces until they were lens-like, then sanded and buffed the edges. He was able, although his ocular muscles rebelled and his fingers trembled, to slip these under his eyelids.

Attaching the silk twine had been more difficult, mostly because, as far as he could determine, there was no such thing. But he had a brother, Karl, who was an especially avid fisherman, always in pursuit of the huge zander that prowled the mud-blown rivers, and Jurgen found in his tackle box some line, fairly invisible and rated to withstand a weight of seventeen pounds. He calculated, quite wrongly, that Ha-Jo could weigh no more than seventeen pounds. He drilled two small holes, side by side, in the centre of each tin lens, poked the line through one and back out the other, tied it as best he could. Also in Karl’s tackle box he found some small hooks.

So he lifted his blanket there in the kitchen and fed the eyes up through the neckhole, allowing the hooked lines to dangle down below his knees. Then, after forcing his eyes open with one hand and plugging in the tin lenses with the other, he returned to the parlour.

Jurgen was quite blind with the tin in his eyes. What he could see through the line-filled drillholes was doubled and indistinct, which means that the first appearance of the Cingalese involved his reeling into the room after colliding with the jamb of the doorway. He quickly regained his footing and turned to greet the audience.

Beunruhigt
, alarmed, is the best word to describe his family’s reaction to the sight of the Cingalese, although there were
variants on the theme of alarm, ranging from nervous guffaws and giggles to his grandmother’s blood-chilling shriek and subsequent sobbing pleas for heavenly mercy.

The Cingalese placed the mesh basket on the floor before him, gesticulating at it. In his bedroom, Jurgen had assumed a voice and developed an accent that he thought sounded Cingalese, but this deserted him now. He was somehow mute, so he pointed at the basket several times and waved toward his blind, silvery eyes. Finally he pointed at Ha-Jo, who giggled muzzily and spit up all over his tummy.

Mrs. Schubert meekly surrendered the infant. The Cingalese cradled Ha-Jo in his arms and stepped backwards. He lowered the child into the basket. Ha-Jo’s diapered butt occupied most of the space, and the baby was able to draw in an arm so that he could suck a thumb comfortably. Everything else—the other arm, the ham-hock legs, the enormous lolling head—remained uncontained.

Jurgen bent over the basket, lowering his head near the child’s, as though transmitting mental information or casting a silent spell. In reality, he was moving his knees slightly, following Houdini’s instructions, trying to direct the small fishing hooks into the mesh on either side of the basket. Jurgen had practised this, but sequestered and alone, and the presence of the audience unnerved him. Not to mention his grandmother, whose whimpering had increased markedly when she saw the Cingalese steal little Ha-Jo. Not to mention little Ha-Jo himself, who apparently had no problem espying the invisible lines and was waving his hands in the air trying to grab hold. Jurgen was forced to move his knees with greater vigour than Houdini had intended. Indeed, it looked like the Cingalese was bending over the baby and dancing the Charleston. The little hook on the left dug in first, so Jurgen listed to his right and moved that knee in a broad circle, swinging the line, bashing the tiny hook into
the mesh. After about a minute of this, the hook caught, and although Jurgen suspected the connection was tenuous, he decided to move forward with the illusion.

The secret, Houdini had stressed, was to stand up and bend backwards, so that the line fell across one’s chest, bearing the weight. This Jurgen did. And then raising his hands into the air, he began the levitation. He felt the reassuring sensation of the lines biting into his breast. He straightened his legs.

The Cingalese’s head began to vibrate, as if it were mounted on a spring and had been given a little flick. Jurgen marvelled at how strong his eyelid muscles seemed to be. The tin discs were being sucked away with tremendous force—Ha-Jo had gotten hold of one of the lines and was jerking on it—but Jurgen squinted, pulling his lids together, and successfully resisted.

He took a step backwards. This is what Houdini had advised, although Jurgen knew immediately it was misguided, because the basket started swinging. Just a bit at first, but Ha-Jo, giggling and pulling harder on the wire, accentuated the pendulous motion. Jurgen’s lids now had to resist force from the sides as well.

The Cingalese desperately waved his hands in the air, indicating that a great miracle had taken place.

The Schubert family applauded, genuinely amazed and awestruck, not so much at the lifting of the baby—although they recognized the sheer athletic impressiveness of the deed—as at the colouring of Jurgen’s face. Bright purple circles had blossomed around the silver eyes, and the hues diffused outwards.

Jurgen’s head vibrations increased in frequency and modulation. Indeed, he pitched his head back and forth, like a dog who won’t let go of a sock, with such force that his conical hat, black and bleeding stars, flew off and landed on the far side of the room. The purple eyelids, darkening more deeply with every instant, pulsated and quivered, throbbed and vibrated, and just
when Jurgen was bringing his head forward to lower the basket, the right eyelid opened and vomited up the tin disc. The basket hit the ground with a resounding thud, the left tin disc popped out audibly and Jurgen fell backwards with both hands pushed into his wounded sockets.

Oma Schubert truly believed that the Cingalese had made Ha-Jo fly, using only the power of his wonderful eyes. When she saw those eyes pop out of his head, Oma succumbed to dementia, from which she never quite recovered.

In the hills that surrounded
das Haus
(ersatz hills bulldozed from a distant place) were the cages. Some were more like cabins or cottages, a little subdivision of happily familied creatures. Other pens were crudely dug out of the earth, but only for the timid, blinking animals that liked such things. The big cats had more proper enclosures, constructed with thick unbending pipe. The biggest cage was for the biggest cat (not counting Samson, of course, who lived in the mansion proper).

Rudolfo threw open the door to this cage, shoving it backwards into the bars and sounding them like dull, broken bells. He took up his stance in the entranceway, planting his feet with precision, clasping his hands behind his back. Across from him, the panther unfolded from slumber, rising to its hind legs and roaring all in the same instant. The creature lifted a paw and swiped it through nothingness, making the air whistle.

“Oooh,” said Rudolfo. “I’m in my boots shaking.”

Actually, he truly was in his boots shaking. He held his hands behind his back so that the animal could not see them
tremble. This was the crucial and perilous day, the day of opening the door. Every afternoon for three weeks, Rudolfo had taken the same stance in exactly the same place, but always with the door shut and bolted. The panther had growled and howled to begin with. It had tried with startling determination to force its lethal claws through the iron bars. Over time, the beast had calmed somewhat and contented itself with lofty yawns, aiming arrogantly half-closed eyes at Rudolfo. Occasionally, it would make a menacing dash across the sawdust or rear up to expose its genitals. For three weeks Rudolfo had stood there and gently taunted the beast. “
Ja, ja, ja
. Big deal.”

Now the panther, full of disdain, turned its back and lumbered away from him. Rudolfo braced, reminding himself of what he had learned from General Bosco. The panther turned suddenly and charged across the circle, sleek and lethal. Rudolfo concentrated on the humping of the shoulders, the attitude of the head. He saw immediately that the animal was not intent on a true engagement—this was all bluff. When the panther drew near, Rudolfo lifted a leg and deftly kicked the beast, his heel connecting with the animal’s furiously creased brow. The animal flew backwards but was on its feet immediately. It shook its head, making a few wet
wubba-wubba
noises, and then began to march the perimeter of the cage, as if making a survey of the circle had always been its intention.

Behind Rudolfo, across an artificial gully, at one of the mansion’s many rear doors, Jurgen was directing a small army of fat men. Always bashful speaking English in public, Jurgen tried to make do with imprecatory grunts and sounded, thought Rudolfo, like an ape. But he hadn’t much time for that thought, because the panther, nearing once more, was pressing itself against the bars of the cage, searching in vain for a corner from which to pounce. Rudolfo seized an opportunity, at least, he intuited suddenly that the time was right, and took a large step
forward into the cage. The panther glanced up, and stopped in its tracks. Rudolfo now stood in its path, which gave the creature two choices. It could either move around Rudolfo, or it could eat him.

“Unh!” grunted Jurgen from behind, a negative sound. Rudolfo could imagine him shaking his head, waving a thick forefinger at one of the fat men and pointing him off in another direction. Most of the Collection was being toted downstairs, into the Grotto, but some of the larger pieces were being housed elsewhere. The huge, hideous cabinet, for example, was too awkward and hulking for any room except their bedroom, which was domed to accommodate the fabulous skylight.

The panther, giving itself time to think, planted its hindquarters on the ground and twisted back to lick its genitals. Rudolfo took quick, quiet strides toward the beast. The panther left off its licking, looked up and saw the human towering above. It growled, but it was a strangled cry, more kittenlike than the panther might have wished. The beast lifted a front paw and threw it toward the man’s leg, but this small action knocked the animal off balance, so it ended up rolling onto its back. Rudolfo leapt then, impetuously and rather foolishly, digging his fingers into the cat’s belly. The panther twisted and writhed and emitted a low growl.

“Gucci koo,”
whispered Rudolfo.

The beast opened its maw and lashed its prickly tongue up the length of Rudolfo’s face. Rudolfo grinned, then giggled, then laughed out loud, a couple of huge, hoary barks. He hugged the panther tightly to his chest and pressed kisses on its head.

Rudolfo presumably was delivered upon the planet in a everyday manner, his mother bathed in sweat and gripped by pain, doctors and midwives hovering. But this event must be imagined only. There is no evidence of it, no birth certificate that names even
the general locale. His
arrival
, however, is better documented. The first anyone ever saw of Rudolfo Thielmann, he was slung under his mother’s arm like a bagpipe bladder. His mother stepped off a train in Bern, Switzerland, with such grandeur that a newspaper reporter, sitting in a nearby café and getting quite drunk, lurched to his feet and requested an interview. Anna Thielmann blushed and chewed her bottom lip, finally said a few confusing words and consented to being photographed. She then pushed the reporter away with her fingertips.

It was this reporter who first made mention of the baby, although he wrote that the infant was “cradled in his mother’s arms.” The accompanying photograph—the item was placed on the back pages of the morning
Zeitung
and given an illustration—belies this. Little Rudolfo is caught in the crook of his mother’s left arm, facing downwards, his arms and legs splayed awkwardly. The baby in the picture is trying hard to raise his huge head, to look at the strange world around him.