___________________________________________________________________
From the window above, watching until the man and
boy were out of sight, sighing, “May the Lord Jesus be with
you, my boy.” The lady pressed her palms together, “May
the good Lord be with you!”
The drapes in the window of the second floor bedroom
fell into place.
__________________________________________________
Climbing Boy 12: Magician
London, England
December 24, 1843
Late Noon:
The afternoon show was nearing completion in a music hall
not too far away where the audience awaited the appearance
of the theater’s main attraction:
Garibaldi The Great: Master Magician
The muffled sounds of the stagehands moving the trapeze,
high wire, and parallel bars of the preceding act came from
behind the closed curtains, but could only be heard by those
sitting in the first few rows.
The happy pre-Christmas crowd of people in the audience
sat back, relaxed, and waited.
Cigars were lit and flasks of brandy or gin were passed
between friends.
“‘ow dare ya say such a thing to me? I’s a lady, I is!”
A woman in the sixth row stood, and to the laughter and
approval of the people in the neighboring seats, slapped the
man sitting next to her.
Stalking through the aisle, the woman stood a moment
looking for another seat, spotted one and made for it.
A drum roll.
Receding dimly into the theater’s dome, chandeliers
pulled upward on greased pulleys and the theater was cast
into a flimsy, nervous darkness.
A cough.
“Shhhh!”
The rustle of clothing.
“Shhhh!”
The sounds of the audience subsided slowly.
The squeaking of the parting of the curtains.
Quiet…
The transparent darkness…
Quiet.
Suddenly, amidst motes of dust, swirls, and spirals of
cigar smoke that formed floating phantoms in its narrowing,
gelatinous yellow beam, a gas-lit reflecting spotlight shone
fully upon the bare stage for the time of three heartbeats…
then the light abruptly disappeared leaving only the ghostly,
flickering gaslight from the chandeliers above.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
The hollow voice coming from somewhere, from
everywhere.
“GARIBALDI THE GREAT!”
Quiet…
The transparent darkness…
Quiet.
Now, a pinpoint of light shone directly center stage.
Slowly… Slowly, the light broadened upon a face—an
evil face…
Shoulders…
Torso…
“GARIBALDI THE GREAT!”
A rotund man of indeterminate age; round and youthful,
the face of Garibaldi had a shiny black mustache and a Faust like goatee, which in itself would not be frightful. However,
what was startling were the eyes, the fathomless eyes… for,
piercing black under pure white, arched brows, the eyes of
Garibaldi were the eyes of an old man, and when looking
into these eyes one was immediately reminded of one dimensional lumps of coal set into the face of a snowman…
Within moments, though, the flatness disappeared, leaving
in its place the awesome sensation of looking into bottomless
black pits. Flowing white hair came to just below the
magician’s shoulders and, except for a startling white shirt,
Garibaldi was dressed entirely in black: pants, cutaway coat,
and top hat.
Standing perfectly still, the magician silently regarded
his audience.
Not a sound.
Not a whisper.
Silence.
Silence…
…Till a low murmur came from the audience and, the
murmur of the audience being the magician’s cue, removing
the hat, bowing with a flourish, “Good afternoon, ladies and
gentlemen!” Garibaldi said in a deeply resonant, but
curiously relaxing voice. “What you see here in my hands is
a hat!” Pausing, he smiled. “Ahh, but it is not just any hat!
This hat is a magic hat…
“YOU!”
Startled, each individual bounded upward in his or
her seat.
“Yes! You!” Making a sweeping motion, Garibaldi pointed
vaguely into the audience.
Turning, people looked at their neighbors.
“Yes!” His voice rising, “Yes! YOU!” he repeated, his hand
dropping to his side. “You know who you are! I see your
doubt!” Sweeping the audience slowly, Garibaldi’s black eyes
looked everywhere, at everyone, yet, at each one person
individually…
“THIS IS A MAGIC HAT!” his voice boomed.
Silence…
There was absolute silence throughout.
Not a cough, not a rustle.
Three hundred and thirty-three pairs of eyes stared,
unblinking, at the man in the spotlight, and not one of those
three hundred and thirty-three people had a doubt that the
hat in Garibaldi’s hand was anything but magic.
Silence…
CHABOOOMMM!
A loud clap of thunder, a bright flash of light, and a cloud
of dense smoke simultaneously enveloped the magician.
Startled, the audience moved to the edge of their seats.
The smoke hovered… then, as if a curtain, lifting from
the bottom, the smoke slowly rose, and as it did it revealed
the magician standing as before, but…
Staring at the seated mass, yet staring at each person
individually, he reached into the inverted top hat, the top
hat that now sat on a waist-high, wooden table, which had
appeared directly before him.
Made of unvarnished wood, the top of the table was no
more than a foot square and an inch thick, and was held up
by four thin, spindly legs.
Obviously nothing was hidden beneath the table, for
Garibaldi’s sharply creased trousers could be seen through
the legs.
Hissing, “Disbelievers, watch!”
The magician’s fingers, hand and wrist, descending slowly
into the hat, appeared to be searching for something.
“I know he’s in here.” Seemingly speaking to himself, his
voice was heard by the furthest person in the furthermost row.
Deeper! His arm went deeper into the hat and was now
past his forearm and elbow, yet, it hadn’t emerged from
beneath the tabletop….
“Where are you?”
In a soft, singsong voice, the entire audience heard…
“Where are you?”
Murmuring…
Whispering, looking straight forward, “Where’s ‘is
bloody ‘and?”
Looking straight forward, too, the man’s companion
whispered back, “D’know. It ain’t under the table!”
“Where’s ‘is bloody arm?”
Deeper. Now, to the armpit.
“Where arrre you?” In a melodic, singsong voice, “Oscar,
my pretty baby, where arrre you?”
Searching, the lost arm moved in circles within the rim
of the hat.
“Ah-ha!” Garibaldi smiled wickedly. “There you are!”
Suddenly, the arm and table shaking violently, the hat
began to move furiously from one corner of the table to
the other.
“Come… Come, my friend. We won’t hurt you!” Looking
up, speaking to the audience, “We won’t hurt him, will we?”
Back to his hat, “Don’t make such a fuss.” As though speaking
to a child, “We won’t hurt you.” Cajoling, “Come!” the
magician pleaded, “Come!”
All eyes glued to the man in black, the audience strained
forward.
“Shhh! Shhh, my little baby,” Garibaldi sang in a voice
scarcely loud enough to be heard, but yet could be heard by
all, as slowly, his arm rose, still thrashing back and forth
within the confines of the magic hat, ever so slowly, still
singing, “Come, my little baby. Come, my pretty Oscar.” The
arm rose…
Upper arm. Elbow. Forearm and wrist until…
There!
Held tightly in the magician’s fist was the mottled…
Higher.
…green and brown head…
Higher.
…of a thrashing…
Higher yet.
…boa constrictor.
In unison, as though on cue, a collective, startled gasp
came from the people in the theater and all eyes were riveted
at the huge, squirming reptile as it slithered out of the hat
upward as now, standing on the tips of his toes, holding the
snake in both hands, Garibaldi lifted upward, lifting the
creature higher and higher above his head… and still it came
from within the bottomless hat till…
Oscar was out!
At least eight feet of fearsome, thrashing muscle, Oscar
was out of the hat.
Coming from the wings, looking as though terrified,
quickly, removing the hat and table, an attendant rushed
back to the wings, as…
Standing dead center upon the bare stage, Garibaldi held
the head of Oscar above his head as…
Thrashing back and forth, whipping up dust upon the
bare wood, the tail of the snake unexpectedly….
“Not so tight my beautiful baby.”
… flipped upward, wrapping itself around Garibaldi’s
lower body and chest.
“Oscar, not so tight…”
Coiling higher, upward, around his throat.
“Please!”
Was this part of the act?
“I can’t breath!” the magician gasped. “Please! I can’t
breath!”
Could something be wrong?
In shock, standing, a woman in the audience shrieked,
“’elp him! Someone ‘elp ‘im! The beast’s killing him!”
Hissing softly… though loudly enough for even the
furthest person in the furthermost row to hear, turning its
head to the audience, its small, beady eyes glowing red, its
long, forked tongue flicking in and out of its seemingly
smiling, evil mouth.
As the magician ineffectively tried to pull the tight coil
from around his neck, a man—a heroic man in the third
row—began to climb over the man in the seat in front of
him in an effort to get to the stage…
CHABOOMMM!
A loud clap of thunder, a bright flash of light, and a cloud
of dense smoke once again simultaneously enveloped the
magician and Oscar, and the stage momentarily went black.
Another flash of light and the stage was lit again, and…
As the smoke dissipated, standing with his arms spread,
the magic hat back on his head, the snake was gone, and in
its place, around Garibaldi’s neck, was a garland of flowers.
His leg held in mid-air, the man in the third row stopped.
“‘ow’d ‘e do it?”
The audience could not believe their eyes.
“It’s a trick?”
Turning to each other…
“How?”
In a multitude of accents and dialects...
“‘ow’d ‘e do it?”
“Can’t be!”
“Got to be!”
“‘ow?”
“Now!” His voice booming over the tumult of their voices,
Garibaldi said, “Do I have your attention?”
Silence…
A moment later the magician was answered by
tumultuous applause.
“And to the man in the third row!” Garibaldi pointed to
the man who had attempted to help him. “I thank you, Sir.
You are indeed a brave man. But,” smiling benignly, “you
do not really want to meet Oscar, because if you do…”
“No!” vigorously shaking his head, “No!” the man
answered, retaking his seat. “I thanks ya, Gov, but
no thanks!”
Sweeping the hat from his head, leaving a comet’s tail of
sparkling dust in its wake, Garibaldi bowed to the man.
The attendant returned the table.
The magician put the hat back on the tabletop where…
A white rat climbed onto the rim, circled twice, looked
inside the hat, and scampered up Garibaldi’s sleeve onto
his shoulder and hid behind the magician’s head as the head
of a small, black cat poked up through the hat. With
Garibaldi’s assistance, the cat was pulled out of the hat and
dropped onto the floor.
Sniffing the air, the cat walked in a wide circle around
the magician, stalking, as the rat ran around his collar in
front when the cat was behind and behind when the cat
was in front.
The audience roared with laughter.
A covey of partridges stumbled out of the hat, fluttered
to the floor, formed a straight line and ambled off stage.
The people were enchanted.
A dove chased a puppy.
Each ensemble was followed with enthusiastic applause.
“Now, as my final feat of magic and in keeping with the
season…” Garibaldi took the hat off the table, put it on his
head, lifted the table, threw it to someone in the wings, set
the hat, rim up, onto the floor, then, dramatically popping
his wrists out of the top coat, as though to show he had
nothing up his sleeves, kneeling, he put his hand into the
magic hat once again… And searching into the depths of
the hat, once again, his arm disappeared to the elbow. On
both knees, bending over, his face, almost lying across the
hat’s rim, was screwed in concentration…
But now, smiling his malignant smile, ever so slowly, the
magician began to extract his arm…
In his hand, held tightly between thumb and index finger,
was the tip of something green and bristly. Straightening
his knees, he pulled his arm higher, and there, in his hand,
was the tip of an ever-growing Christmas tree fully bedecked
with lit candles, strings of popcorn, and glass ornaments.
As the top of the tree reached near the magician’s fully
extended height, rushing on stage with a base, taking the
tree, setting it inside, the stagehand rushed back to the wings.
Taking his hat from the floor, Garibaldi placed it over the
tip of the tree, then, a moment later, removed it revealing a
star with burning candles on each of its five points.
Turning to the audience, bowing deeply, Garibaldi bid
them, “A happy Christmas to you all!”
The applause thunderous, the audience rose from
their seats.
Garibaldi the Great stood with his arms outstretched,
as…
Retracting within its gelatinous yellow beam there were
motes of dust, the phantoms of the swirls and spirals of cigar
smoke, and then, but a pinpoint remained on the magician’s face.
A puff of smoke, a flash of light, and Garibaldi was gone.
The performance over, pulleys squeaked as once again
the chandeliers were lowered and the theater, once again
was lit.
Putting their hats and coats on, the people filed outside,
into the cold gloom of this waning, prematurely dark day.
