cheeks.
“Could he have fit a two-koruna piece?” he wanted to know. He lay on his bed, on his belly, watching as Josef returned the torque wrench to its special wallet.
“Yes, but it’s hard to imagine why he might have wanted to.”
“What about a box of matches?”
“I suppose so.”
“How would they have stayed dry?”
“Perhaps he could have wrapped them in oilcloth.”
Thomas probed his cheek with the tip of his tongue. He shuddered. “What other things does Herr Kornblum want you to put in there?”
“I’m learning to be an escape artist, not a valise,” Josef said irritably.
“Are you going to get to do a real escape now?”
“I’m closer today than I was yesterday.”
“And then you’ll be able to join the Hofzinser Club?”
“We’ll see.”
“What are the requirements?”
“You just have to be invited.”
“Do you have to have cheated death?”
Josef rolled his eyes, sorry he had ever told Thomas about the Hofzinser. It was a private men’s club, housed in a former inn on one of the Stare Mesto’s most crooked and crepuscular streets, which combined the functions of canteen, benevolent society, craft guild, and rehearsal hall for the performing magicians of Bohemia. Herr Kornblum took his supper there nearly every night. It was apparent to Josef that the club was not only the sole source of companionship and talk for his taciturn teacher but also a veritable Hall of Wonders, a living repository for the accumulated lore of centuries of sleight and illusion in a city that had produced some of history’s greatest charlatans, conjurors, and fakirs. Josef badly wanted to be invited to join. This desire had, in fact, become the secret focus of every spare thought (a role soon afterward to be usurped by the governess, Miss Dorothea Horne). Part of the reason he was so irritated by Thomas’s persistent questioning was that his little brother had guessed at the constant preeminence of the Hofzinser Club in Josef’s thoughts. Thomas’s own mind was filled with Byzantine, houris-and-candied-figs visions of men in cutaway coats and pasha pants walking around inside the beetle-browed, half-timbered hotel on Stupartskà with their upper torsos separated from their lower, summoning leopards and lyrebirds out of the air.
“I’m sure when the time comes, I will receive my invitation.”
“When you’re twenty-one?”
“Perhaps.”
“But if you did something to show them …”
This echoed the secret trend of Josef’s own thoughts. He swung himself around on his bed, leaned forward, and looked at Thomas. “Such as?”
“If you showed them how you can get out of chains, and open locks, and hold your breath, and untie ropes.…”
“All that’s easy stuff. A fellow can learn such tricks in prison.”
“Well, if you did something really grand, then … something to amaze them.”
“An escape.”
“We could throw you out of an airplane tied to a chair, with the parachute tied to another chair, falling through the air. Like this.” Thomas scrambled up from his bed and went over to his small desk, took out the blue notebook in which he was composing Houdini, and opened it to a back page, where he had sketched the scene. Here was Houdini in a dinner jacket, hurtling from a crooked airplane in company with a parachute, two chairs, a table, and a tea set, all trailing scrawls of velocity. The magician had a smile on his face as he poured tea for the parachute. He seemed to think he had all the time in the world.
“This is idiotic,” Josef said. “What do I know about parachutes? Who’s going to let me jump out of an airplane?”
Thomas blushed. “How childish of me,” he said.
“Never mind,” said Josef. He stood up. “Weren’t you playing with Papa’s old things just now, his medical-school things?”
“Right here,” Thomas said. He threw himself on the floor and rolled under the bed. A moment later, a small wooden crate emerged, covered in dust-furred spider silk, its lid hinged on crooked loops of wire.
Josef knelt and lifted the lid, revealing odd bits of apparatus and scientific supplies that had survived their father’s medical education. Adrift in a surf of ancient excelsior were a broken Erlenmeyer flask, a glass pear-shaped tube with a penny-head stopper, a pair of crucible tongs, the leather-clad box that contained the remains of a portable Zeiss microscope (long since rendered inoperable by Josef, who had once attempted to use it to get a better look at Pola Negri’s loins in a blurry bathing photo torn from a newspaper), and a few odd items.
“Thomas?”
“It’s nice under here. I’m not a claustrophobe. I could stay under here for weeks.”
“Wasn’t there …” Josef dug deep into the rustling pile of shavings. “Didn’t we used to have—”
“What?” Thomas slid out from under the bed.
Josef held up a long, glinting glass wand and brandished it as Kornblum himself might have done. “A thermometer,” he said.
“What for? Whose temperature are you going to take?”
“The river’s,” Josef said.
At four o’clock on the morning of Friday, September 27, 1935, the temperature of the water of the River Moldau, black as a church bell and ringing against the stone embankment at the north end of Kampa Island, stood at 22.2° on the Celsius scale. The night was moonless, and a fog lay over the river like an arras drawn across by a conjuror’s hand. A sharp wind rattled the seedpods in the bare limbs of the island’s acacias. The Kavalier brothers had come prepared for cold weather. Josef had dressed them in wool from head to toe, with two pairs of socks each. In the pack he wore on his back, he carried a piece of rope, a strand of chain, the thermometer, half a veal sausage, a padlock, and a change of clothes with two extra pairs of socks for himself. He also carried a portable oil brazier, borrowed from a school friend whose family went in for alpinism. Although he did not plan to spend much time in the water—no longer, he calculated, than a minute and twenty-seven seconds—he had been practicing in a bathtub filled with cold water, and he knew that, even in the steam-heated comfort of the bathroom at home, it took several minutes to rid oneself of the chill.
In all his life, Thomas Kavalier had never been up so early. He had never seen the streets of Prague so empty, the housefronts so sunken in gloom, like a row of lanterns with the wicks snuffed. The corners he knew, the shops, the carved lions on a balustrade he passed daily on his way to school, looked strange and momentous. Light spread in a feeble vapor from the streetlamps, and the corners were flooded in shadow. He kept imagining that he would turn around and see their father chasing after them in his dressing gown and slippers. Josef walked quickly, and Thomas had to hurry to keep up with him. Cold air burned his cheeks. They stopped several times, for reasons that were never clear to Thomas, to lurk in a doorway, or shelter behind the swelling fender of a parked Skoda. They passed the open side door of a bakery, and Thomas was briefly overwhelmed by whiteness: a tiled white wall, a pale man dressed all in white, a cloud of flour roiling over a shining white mountain of dough. To Thomas’s astonishment, there were all manner of people about at this hour, tradesmen, cabdrivers, two drunken men singing, even a woman crossing the Charles Bridge in a long black coat, smoking and muttering to herself. And policemen. They were obliged to sneak past two en route to Kampa. Thomas was a contentedly law-abiding child, with fond feelings toward policemen. He was also afraid of them. His notion of prisons and jails had been keenly influenced by reading Dumas, and he had not the slightest doubt that little boys would, without compunction, be interred in them.
He began to