The Last Illusion

The cab took me safely back to my little house on Patchin Place. I made myself a cup of tea, then went up to bed. The window was open, letting in the summer breeze, scented with the roses growing over my garden wall. I stood at the window and took deep breaths, trying to shake the horrifying image from my mind. Suddenly I felt horribly alone and vulnerable. I had always considered myself to be a strong and independent woman until now. I had been in no hurry to get married and give up my independence. But at this moment I longed for strong arms around me and thought how reassuring it would be to fall asleep in his arms feeling safe and protected. Then, of course I reminded myself that I would be marrying someone whose own life would be forever tinged with danger. Like Bess Houdini, I’d be constantly worrying about my husband every time he came home late.

I slept at last and woke to a glorious summer morn with the sun streaming in through my window and the net curtain flapping idly in the breeze. The terrors of the night were dispelled. I got up, dressed, and was ready to start the day when there was a knock at my front door. I rather hoped it might be Daniel, stopping by on his way to work to give me the details of what transpired at the theater after I went home. Instead it was my neighbor Augusta Walcott, of the Boston Walcotts, usually known by the irreverent nickname of Gus. She had a basket over one arm.

“Good morning,” she said. “I’ve just been to the bakery on Greenwich Avenue and I’ve returned with croissants hot from the oven. Come and have breakfast with us. We are dying to hear your impression of this man Houdini.”

“As to that, I didn’t have a chance to see him perform,” I said. “I take it you haven’t read this morning’s Times yet.”

“No, I haven’t. It’s lurking at this moment in the basket with the rolls. Besides, Sid always likes to read it first. Houdini didn’t perform after all then?”

“There was a horrible accident in the act preceding his,” I said. “The illusion was supposed to be sawing a girl in half. But something went wrong and she really was sliced with the saw.”

“Good God,” Gus said. “Seriously hurt?”

I found it hard to force out the words. “She was not expected to live, I’m afraid. The manager stopped the show and sent everyone home.”

“How awful for you. You need a dose of Sid’s coffee to restore you to sorts.”

In truth I didn’t need a dose of Sid’s coffee. She made it in the Turkish fashion, abominably strong and more like drinking thick sludge. But my friends’ cheerful company more than made up for the coffee. I followed Gus across the street to her house on the other side of our little backwater. It was a charming haven of twenty brownstone houses set in a cobbled alleyway and gave the feeling of being miles away from the traffic and bustle of Greenwich Avenue and the Jefferson Market opposite.

Gus flung open her front door. “Sid, dearest. Here she is, and with such a dramatic tale to tell.”

We went down the long hallway and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. They had built a conservatory onto it and Sid was sitting in a white wicker rocking chair, the picture of country elegance. I should probably explain that Sid’s real name was Elena Goldfarb. She and Gus led the most delightfully bohemian existence, with Gus’s inheritance to keep them in that lifestyle. Their house was always full of artists, writers, actors—and extremely heady for a girl who until recently had lived in a primitive Irish cottage and whose entertainment had been the occasional dance at the church hall.

Sid jumped up as we arrived. She was wearing a red silk kimono with a large golden dragon curling over it and the effect with her black bobbed hair was stunningly oriental.

“Molly!” she cried, opening her arms to me. “We see you too seldom these days and now you’ve come to cheer up our drab little lives with a dramatic tale.”

I had to laugh at this statement. “Drab little lives? I don’t know of any lives less drab. Who else would convert their living room into a Mongolian yurt?”

Sid looked surprised. “Well, we decided we didn’t really want to go to Mongolia after all. Too cold and windy and bleak, you know. So we decided to have the Mongolian experience at home. Of course we’ve had to do without the horses galloping over the plain, but there are riding stables nearby . . .”

A vision of Gus and Sid, dressed Mongolian fashion and galloping astride through Central Park flashed into my mind before Sid said, “So tell us your dramatic tale.”

“A horrible tale, actually,” I said and repeated what I had told Gus.

When I’d finished there was stunned silence.

“How utterly awful,” Sid said at last.