The Confabulist Read Online Free

doesn’t make a difference.”
    But his father continued to smile. He died three hours later.
    All Houdini could remember now was his promise, a promise he still hadn’t made good on. He’d tried it all. He’d done card tricks, close-up magic, larger stage illusions. He’d been the wild man at a dime museum, done handcuff escapes. None of it had led anywhere. Dr. Hill’s California Concert Company was almost a proper touring company. It could have been their break. It still might be.
    He looked at the theatre below him. He’d always thought a theatre felt strange without people in it. With its seats empty, its lights up, and its air still, it reminded him of a dead body.
    They were booked with Dr. Hill for fifteen weeks and were only halfway through their run. Two months earlier they’d nearly lost the job completely. They were due to join the California Concert Company in Omaha and needed to change trains in the middle ofthe night. But their train was late, their connection was an express, and there was no time to load all of Houdini’s trunks. For Houdini, though, proceeding otherwise was impossible. A magician without his tricks is nothing.
    “I must insist,” he told the porter, a boy barely old enough to shave. “My baggage must be loaded.”
    The porter shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The train is leaving.”
    “No,” Houdini said, “it’s not.”
    He walked to the front of the train, stepped onto the tracks, and grabbed hold of one rail with both hands.
    The porter gaped, then rushed off. He soon returned with another railwayman, a large fellow who stood six inches taller than Houdini and outweighed him by a good sixty pounds. “Get off of there, sir, or I’ll move you myself.”
    “I’ll get off when my baggage is loaded,” he said, “and, no, you won’t be moving me.” Bess crossed her arms and then marched away; off, he presumed, to board the train.
    The railwayman surged forward and grabbed Houdini’s arm. He was strong, but Houdini didn’t budge. The railwayman stepped back, seized Houdini by the back of his coat, and pulled, but still Houdini wasn’t moved. The man took off his jacket and tried again, grabbing Houdini’s arms and legs in several places without success. The porter tried as well, on his own at first and then together with the railwayman. Houdini had both hands gripped on one of the rails and his feet wedged into the other rail. It looked as though he were doing a push-up. He’d move slightly when one or both of them tried to pull him off, but was otherwise immobile. It was an old sideshow trick. They could bring out a dozen men and they wouldn’t movehim. All he had to do was move the fulcrum of his body against their efforts, and his strength was magnified a hundredfold.
    Eventually the conductor came out to see what the commotion was. “Why are you on my rails?”
    “I have a ticket for your train, but they won’t load my trunks,” Houdini said, shifting his weight to account for the railwayman’s renewed efforts.
    The conductor watched for a moment as the railwayman, red-faced and sweating, heaved away at Houdini with no effect. He turned to the porter, shaking his head. “For God’s sake, load the man’s damned bags and let’s get moving.”
    Bess wouldn’t talk to him for the rest of the trip, but they arrived on time for their first show, and by the end of the night it was like nothing had happened. That’s how things went with her. He’d do something bold, brash, or possibly stupid, and she’d react by punishing him as if he’d failed. He ended up having to fight two fights—one with his task or feat or problem, and another with her afterward. It exhausted him.
    It wasn’t always this way. When they’d met, she’d reacted to his predilections with enthusiasm. That was part of what he liked about her. This tiny, beautiful woman, who looked as though a light wind could break her in two but who in reality was stronger than any man wedged onto