The Spirit Cabinet Read online

  Praise for The Spirit Cabinet

  A Best Book of ‘99 The Globe and Mail

  “Let it be said that Quarrington’s language is a consistent source of pleasure. With each succeeding novel, his command of comic tone is refined and deepened, to the point where even the most outlandish scenes are described with pinpoint economy and deadpan irony.… The Spirit Cabinet [is] a sort of twisted cousin to Robertson Davies’ World of Wonders.”

  —The Montreal Gazette

  “Quarrington’s bountiful and engaging vocabulary, his delicious facility for facetious irony, and, above all, the storyteller’s expertise, make The Spirit Cabinet a highly entertaining experience from the first page to the last.”

  —Books in Canada

  “Sharply written and amusing throughout, The Spirit Cabinet is Quarrington’s most complete work to date.”

  —The National Post

  “Quarrington’s rare comic gift has always been to combine the zany and the melancholy in his fiction and he manages to pull off that daring trick again in [The Spirit Cabinet].”

  —Quill and Quire (starred review)

  “One of the most charming aspects of The Spirit Cabinet is the unpedantic way Quarrington uncovers the history of the profession of magic.… The book’s structure is rather like a marked deck of cards: Only the dealer knows what’s coming next.”

  —Eric McCormack

  VINTAGE CANADA EDITION, 2000

  Copyright © 1999 by Fizzy Dreams, Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, in 2000. First published in hardcover in Canada by Random House Canada, Toronto, in 1999. Distributed by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Vintage Canada and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House of Canada Limited.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Quarrington, Paul

  The spirit cabinet

  eISBN: 978-0-307-36409-8

  I. Title.

  PS8583.U334S64 2000 C813′.54 C99-932504-3

  PR9199.3.Q37S64 2000

  v3.1

  “Never reveal the secrets in this book.”

  PRESTON THE MAGNIFICENT (SENIOR),

  The Secrets of Magic Revealed

  I’d like to thank Gabi Czech, who helped me with the German, and a host of magicians, from whom I learnt not secrets, but the nature of secrecy.

  The author is also deeply indebted to the Canada Council for the Arts (I mean I owe them a debt of gratitude. I’m not giving back the money).

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  There are animals everywhere.

  They sprawl across the broadloom and furniture, all pale bellies and matted fur. Barbary doves and aracaris rest on the bookcases, feathers falling from them like raindrops after a bad rain. The birdshit on the floor is oily and oddly colourful.

  A rabbit thumps across the room, its legs stiff from disuse. The creature was once white, but shadows have turned it grey and taken the pinkness from its eyes.

  A Van Hasselt’s sunbird hides in the shadows. A mute swan hangs its head over a chairback and gives forth silent sighs.

  The largest of the animals lies on the sofa. There is a sliver in his paw and he sucks at it in a desultory way, but it has been there for weeks and he is only slightly determined. Mostly he watches the television, a huge Japanese machine that occupies the entire far wall, surrounded by a small artificial pond filled with mottled carp. Most of the water has evaporated, though—the fish lie on their sides, flapping fins arrhythmically, making little bubbles that pop weakly in the stale air.

  The largest of the animals—he is an albino leopard, snow-white but somehow still spotted, spackled by patches of light and dinginess—stretches, coughs up a furball, swats himself across the snout a couple of times.

  On the television screen, young Kaz, having just dismembered and reassembled a woman, shoots his arms heavenward and thrusts his pelvis back and forth.

  Rudolfo Thielmann enters the room at that moment, holding a scrap of meat in his hand. It is brown, almost spoilt. All of the animals look at the meat for a long moment, but there are few healthy appetites in that room, in that house. One of the blond ringdoves squawks. Rudolfo mutters, “Fuck you, bay-bee,” and flips the meat onto the sofa.

  The meat lands near the maw of the albino leopard, whose name is Samson. He lashes out with his tongue, colourless and dry, but the meat is too far away. He tries a couple of huge snorts, hoping to draw the meat closer. Unsuccessful, Samson produces a mournful sound and refixes his eyes on the large screen.

  “Oh, look,” says Rudolfo, “it is that asshole on my television set.”

  Words creep across the screen: THE WORLD-FAMOUS KAZ, THE WORLD-FAMOUS GALAXY HOTEL, THE WORLD-FAMOUS CONSTELLATION ROOM.

  Everything in Las Vegas is world-famous.

  Rudolfo himself was once world-famous, not even that long ago. It has only been a few months since he and Jurgen attended the auction.

  Rudolfo lies down beside Samson, stretching his naked body along the length of the white leopard. Samson stirs slightly. Rudolfo picks up the morsel of tainted meat and gently pushes it into Samson’s mouth. Many of the teeth are loose and Samson’s breath is foul.

  Rudolfo pulls weakly at the creature’s throat, coaxing the food down into Samson’s belly, which is bald in places and studded with colourless wens. The albino leopard sighs with what might be contentment, but then spits the scrap back up. The meat falls to the floor with a small, ugly sound. A spotted genet, skinny and vicious-looking, appears out of nowhere and drags it away.

  Rudolfo closes his eyes. Although he does not sleep, he dreams.

  Chapter One

  Preston the Magnificent, Jr., (or, as he preferred to call himself privately, Preston the Adequate) stood outside the George Theater dressed in an old morning suit that had belonged to his father. Being a much larger man than Preston the Magnificent, Sr., he had only managed to do up one button on the slate-grey jacket. The lapels wowed over his girlish breasts; the jacket fell away on either side of his belly and the tails splayed. Despite the fact that he complemented it with sandals, exhibiting his oddly shaped and quite hairy toes, Preston felt that the suit lent an air of mournful dignity to the proceedings. He undermined this formality by glowering at people as they approached the George, his face warped by fury. Preston conveyed the impression that he could turn people away should he choose to, and might choose to do so
violently. So people darted by him, ignoring the grunt that he meant as a greeting.

  Once inside, the people would approach the glass box containing the ashen and improbably beehived Mrs. Antoinette Kingsley. Mrs. Kingsley shoved a crude little booklet at them, sets of photocopied sheets stapled together. Then, still alarmed by Preston’s bristling, sorrowful presence outside, the people would seek refuge in the old theatre hall, which smelled like time kept too long in an icebox. They would look at the little booklet, a catalogue of the McGehee Collection, as compiled by Preston. The script was produced by an old and infirm typewriter. The letters refused to sit upon the straight line, each jumping or dipping according to whim. Some letters were truncated, ghostly patches of grey left behind where serifs had broken off the keys.

  Seeing as there were still quite a few minutes before the auction’s commencement, the people would allow the booklet to fall open. It always did so to pages eight and nine, where the most prominent listing was for item number 112: “The Davenport Spirit Cabinet.”

  Preston didn’t frighten everyone, of course. For example, he didn’t frighten a very tall man wearing a white shirt with foppish collars and what appeared to be black tights. This man, the world-famous Kaz, had known Preston for many years. Of all the magicians in Las Vegas, Nevada (and there are many), Preston and Kaz were the longest resident. Kaz had moved to the desert when he was thirteen years old, there to perform illusions with towering topless showgirls. This accounted, Preston thought, for Kaz’s acne-ravaged skin and the spectacles with the thick, yellowed lenses.

  Kaz approached Preston and announced, “I’m buying it. Just try and stop me.”

  “Why would I want to stop you?” responded Preston. “Go ahead and buy it.”

  “I’m buying it because I know.” Kaz exhaled heavily on the last word, and Preston noted the sourness of his breath. Kaz’s breath was spectacularly awful. Preston had heard that Kaz had had two or three operations trying to fix it, though he couldn’t imagine what sort of operations they might have been. He began reflecting on this question, but only as an evasive tactic, and could not escape the profound sickness that came to twist his belly. Kaz would buy it. Kaz had nothing but money; he made an obscene amount, half a million a week or something. Preston remembered hearing that Kaz was the highest paid act in Las Vegas—

  No, wait. He took a breath and silently corrected himself. Kaz was the highest paid individual performer.

  “Preston! Kaz! How are you hanging?”

  The highest paid act, Preston realized, was coming down the sidewalk.

  They were led by the albino leopard, Samson, who had lowered himself into stalking position but allowed the pads of his paws to slap the pavement heavily. The big cat knew this was a foolish way to get about; in a jungle he’d have cleared every living creature out of his path hours before he himself arrived. But he didn’t live in a jungle any more and retained only the vaguest memories of those first few weeks of life so long ago. The jungles he’d seen on TV didn’t look all that appealing, despite the presence of sleek young females. Not that Samson was interested in that so much, not since he’d awoken one day to discover that his testicles were missing. But, despite that grim morning, Samson was a contented and obedient animal, so he lowered his old bones and gamely continued the loud, menacing strut. When he felt a slight tugging on his jewel-encrusted collar, Samson licked his lips and produced a roar guaranteed to turn bowels watery.

  “Oh, Samson,” tsked Rudolfo, even though it was he who had pulled upon the leash, “put a lid on top of it.”

  Rudolfo’s partner, Jurgen Schubert, came to an abrupt halt. “Preston and Kaz,” he announced. “Two people.”

  “Two people,” said Rudolfo, hurrying to help out, because offstage his companion lacked confidence and tended to strip down his English to the barest of bones, “that are your favourite people.”

  “Ja,” said Jurgen.

  Kaz leaned down and whispered, his fetid breath stirring the hairs in Preston’s ear, “What a couple of assholes.”

  Preston the Adequate merely grunted. He didn’t approve of mean-mouthing fellow professionals, although it was hard to deny that Jurgen and Rudolfo were assholes. Leaving aside the fact that they’d brought a huge albino leopard to the auction, they themselves were done up in outlandish fashion. Jurgen, known as the more conservative of the pair, was clad in red leather, the jacket, pants and boots all the exact same bloody shade. Only his belt was otherwise, a foot wide, black and intricately tooled with a pattern of gnarled ivy.

  Rudolfo was dressed in some sort of futuristic cowboy getup. His chaps were golden and the jeans beneath were made of a denim that was bleached until almost incandescent. His vest, which was all he wore on his upper body, was rendered out of metal and jewels and pieces of mirror, held together by thin silver wire. Beneath this peculiar garment, Rudolfo was all muscle, beautifully shaped and coloured. Due to an odd, utter hairlessness, his body looked as though it were made of porcelain.

  “Hey, Kaz. Hey, Preston.” Miranda appeared magically. Both Kaz and Preston, who between them knew the workings to every gimmick, rig and apparatus ever invented, thought of Miranda’s appearance as “magical.” She seemed to step out of a cloud of light, in a blink of Preston’s eyes, in a sharp, sudden squinting of Kaz’s. There she stood, towering above her employers, Jurgen and Rudolfo, dressed in some sort of plastic bodysuit that sucked itself to her flesh. “So,” she asked bashfully, “how’s everybody?”

  Miranda seemed to be having a profound effect on Kaz, who was panting audibly, although this might have had something to do with Samson, who was sniffing at Kaz’s genitals, shoving bits and pieces around with his snout.

  Jurgen grinned, the owner of a vast number of blindingly white teeth. As the corners of his mouth turned upwards, his eyelids began to flutter girlishly. “Don’t worry, Kaz. Rudolfo has given Samson his lunchtime.”

  “Ja, but Jurgen,” said Rudolfo, “maybe now is time for a little schnawk.”

  Everyone laughed, no one with much enthusiasm. Samson backed away and sneezed, fluffing the folds of skin that hung over his colourless lips. It was his attempt to laugh along, although only Rudolfo recognized it as such. After that, a silence descended as each man looked into the others’ faces, trying to decipher purpose and plan.

  The group paid no attention to the people who walked around them, through the open doorway into the George Theater. It was understood that these others were not players. They were lesser lights, mostly, magicians from the smaller hotels. There were a couple of illusionists of international stature, but they seemed to be down on their luck, sporting shiny tuxedos and cheap toupées. Preston recognized Theodore Collinger, a friend of his father, once famous for his work with the Chinese rings. Collinger was now badly wrinkled, and his hands, shrivelled and clawlike, trembled awkwardly at his side. Preston shook his head. If any of these people had thoughts of competing in the auction, they would soon be dissuaded. While there might be any number of people in the world who wanted to own the Collection, only three (two if you counted Jurgen and Rudolfo as a single unit) could afford to.

  A photographer from Personality magazine rushed up with the desperate singlemindedness of an assassin, the camera already stuck to his eyeball. Rudolfo, Jurgen and Kaz smiled with practised naturalness, upper lips trembling as they each tried to display just the right amount of enamel. Miranda bent her knees so as not to loom over her bosses, and Samson shifted his weight onto his forelegs, assuming a heroic pose. Preston the Adequate scowled so profoundly that he would eventually be airbrushed out of the picture. The flashbulb exploded six or seven times, all within the same short moment, and then the photographer abruptly turned and darted away.

  Preston stared at the other men, his dark eyes registering both wonder and judgement. He looked at Kaz, whose smallish eyes darted back and forth behind the lenses of his spectacles like small children trying to avoid the wrath of a bully. Then he looked at Jurgen and Rudolfo. The two men
grinned still, somehow merrily frozen in time. Their faces were tanned, the whites of their eyes preternaturally white.

  “Piss!” blasted Preston. He produced a cigarette and lit it clumsily. He looked at the others on the sidewalk and fashioned what he meant as a smile, although, judging from their reactions, his efforts again fell well short. He drew deeply on his butt and tried not to weep. It had been two months since Eddie McGehee had told him the Collection was to be auctioned off, but Preston’s feelings upon hearing the news—disgust, panic and the deepest of sorrows—had not diminished in any way.

  The McGehee Collection was originally assembled by Ehrich Weiss, the man we know better as Harry Houdini. Despite remaining itinerate throughout his life, never owning more than a series of pieds-à-terre in New York City, Houdini was obsessed with collecting. His chief obsession was with books, ancient and historical, the learned weight of which would lend his profession of Vaudevillian an austerity that even his father, the Rabbi, might respect. Houdini also liked to own the actual mechanical appurtenances of his forebears. He enjoyed demonstrating to people just exactly how these devices worked, pulling apart the boxes to expose trapdoors and helpfully pointing out the hiding places created by angled mirrors in dark interiors, the implication being (although even Houdini lacked the chutzpah to say it aloud) that his own stage boxes lacked similar subterfuges.

  By the year 1920, Weiss laid claim to the largest collection in the world of material regarding magic, magicians, books, scripts, spiritualistic effects, documents, steel engravings and automata. Unfortunately, around that time Weiss also became involved with movies, creating the Houdini Picture Corporation, responsible for flickers like The Man from Beyond and Haldane of the Secret Service. These were not the successes he’d imagined. Houdini was one of the most famous men on earth, but what people wanted was to see him, actually view him in the flesh, as he did battle with chains and ropes, dangled from skyscrapers or was tossed into icy rivers. They liked to watch him go one-on-one with the Grim Reaper, but distrusted his smug, silvery screen image; they suspected that the stunts were done with photographic trickery (even when they were not). Weiss had invested much of his own money in the Houdini Picture Corporation, so with great reluctance he let it be known that he might be willing to part with a portion of his wonderful collection.