The Swan Gondola Read Online Free

an electrical loom.
    There was to be another world’s fair in Paris in 1889, and Crowe intended for us to go together—not just as spectators but as performers.
    In his after hours, Mr. Crowe was a master of the art of ventriloquism, with a whole wardrobe of fancy-patterned suits that matched those of his dummy. No matter the kind of crowd or the size of it—whether in a saloon or on a stage—Mr. Crowe denied no one the exquisite beauty of his peculiar talents. He could throw his voice into the mouth of a doll with such stillness of lip, blink the doll’s eyes and flap the doll’s gums with such delicate twists of his wrists, you would forget the doll was nothing but wood and hinges and a ratty, yak-hair wig. You would find yourself falling in love with the soulless little thing.
    He had no sons of his own (and believed his daughter to have a voice too weak for throwing), so he revealed to me everything, and I think he longed for me to become even better than he ever was. I think he pictured me someday stepping from behind the curtains of the grandest of concert halls, my voice lifting from the very back of my throat and carrying to the very tops of the balconies. “And when you retire,” said Mr. Crowe, “you will write a book of betrayal. Give away all your mentor’s niftiest tricks. Make a fortune telling everyone how we did it.” Crowe, above all, loved books, and he longed to end up in one.
    As the ventriloquist’s apprentice, I grew out my mustache as much as a boy of that age could. I waxed and combed it, to best conceal my lips. And when I glanced in a looking glass, another young man looked back, a young man of fine style and dignity.
    â€œWe’ll perform on top of the Eiffel Tower and enter the history books,” Crowe vowed. I loved Crowe for his dream, but in my lowest moods, I couldn’t imagine crossing the river, let alone the ocean. He was not my father. I was not his son. I was a thief. The only things I’d ever owned I’d stolen from someone else. I deserved nothing and expected nothing, and was certain I’d never see a world’s fair.
    Nonetheless, we had prepared for our journey to Paris. Crowe had a fear of heights, so we stood together on rooftops, and on ledges, holding hands. I helped him to the tops of ladders and led him along the branches of trees, all in anticipation of the Eiffel Tower, eighty stories tall. He’d been so agile and spry, so determined to overcome his anxiety, I’d not realized how old he really was. And months before the tower was complete, before it reached its uppermost point, Crowe took ill and swiftly died.
    I convinced myself I’d doomed him with my doubt. I hadn’t truly pictured myself in Paris. And after his death, in a nightmare, I climbed the Eiffel Tower alone, moving up along its latticework, scaling its side. I fell before I reached the zenith. When just an inch from splattering, I woke with a gasp. And in that gasp, I inherited Crowe’s fear. Ever after, even just on steep, narrow steps, I could get struck with vertigo.
    I never went to Paris, and I certainly never dreamed any world’s fair would come to me. But ventriloquism possessed me and I became expert at the art. In the beginning, I imagined my act as something transcendent. When I got into character, like an actor, Crowe’s voice spoke through me. But soon enough I became more practical-minded about it all. I strengthened my voice by saying not a word, speaking only when rehearsing, spending all my time sucking lemons and gargling tepid water, warming my throat by day with a scarf even in the summer months. At night I pressed a cold compress to my neck and tied it there with a strip of flannel. When practicing, I stood in front of a mirror to watch for any twitch of my lips. The lip-heavy
p
’s and
b
’s were impossible, so I avoided all mention of pianos and bustles. When a letter trembled my mouth too