needed to animate. By proclaiming himself a true artificer, Rouncival may well have become one at that moment, and directly in front of Ellstein’s lovely multi-colored eyes to boot. As a brief aside, Robert would later say that was why he billed himself as “The Great”: “If I say I am great, the audience, catcalls at hand, will probably hope to see that I am not, but the mere suggestion makes actual greatness possible. That is why no performer, ever, has dubbed themselves ‘The Adequate.’ ”
With a combination of wheedling, boasting, and Silver’s bemused compliance, Robert managed to get himself insinuated at the carriage house as a magic act. He and Sherpa began to open for the Minsk Troupe as a warm-up. While Davidoff, a sour personality at best, wasn’t especially pleased to see any more of Robert’s presence—he had taken to attending every one of the company productions, sitting front and center and no doubt gazing non-stop at the also bemused, yet charmed, Ellstein—Robert’s sheer pluck was a hit with the audience. The weekly gate at the carriage house doubled as more and more came to see the fresh-faced conjuror and his silent, supposedly Tibetan assistant. That his act, with the dead vaquero brought down from the berth to the stage, was so seemingly at odds with the typically moralistic dramas of the Yiddish theater only seemed to enhance each show’s effect. Rouncival, in love with his own, newly invented abilities, became a magician of startling confidence. He told shaggy dog stories, teased and taunted the audience, and loosed his illusions so casually that by the time the audience realized he had transformed a chair into a burning candle, they’d explode into applause even as the candle floated away into the rafters. One of his running gags was that he was scared witless of Sherpa, pointing at the dead vaquero with a shaking finger as though that had been the last man to cross the sinister Tibetan. Certainly he had more than a few flubs—his early attempts at ventriloquism failed badly, though later he would master that art to a terrifying degree—but his will was strong. If a joke or an illusion flopped, Robert would ignore the stillness and toss off yet another one-liner to break the silence. All in all, his youth, Welt-ian flourishes, fiendish energy, and simple ability to make objects disappear astonished the audience nightly. It should also be noted that Sherpa’s previous experience constructing pirate hideaways was an invaluable help; by the time Sherpa had completed his adjustments to the stage, Rouncival would smirk, Hannibal’s army of elephants could have been hidden beneath there.
Such were matters as winter progressed and the New Year, 1922, was rung in. Robert began to perform on his own one night a week on Saturdays, and while Silver took half of every show’s gate, still, Rouncival and Sherpa had at least a bit of pocket money. Soon, it was Ellstein, escaping from the Sabbath dinner at her aunt’s house, who could be seen seated on the front bench as Robert performed his routines. It was obvious to all that a romance was budding.
But then, in February, Rouncival received word that his father had died. It was Silver who handed Robert the telegram and Silver also who watched the silent Rouncival slowly limp up the Palace stairs seeking his berth. The top hat was placed on the doorknob, and for two days Robert remained in his berth, alone. Though Sherpa knocked, Rouncival never answered. Finally, Robert emerged. He came down the stairs as slowly as he had mounted them, took Silver’s arm, and said, “I need help. I want to sell my father’s house. Now.” Silver tried to intervene, pleading with Rouncival not to rid himself of the inheritance, but it was to no avail. Rouncival was determined to have nothing to do with his past. Stating his categorical objection to the entire matter, Silver then brought Rouncival to a shyster attorney, who had the place sold well under market value within two weeks. At the signing, Silver could only sigh with resignation, “Well, I suppose every young man must piss away at least one inheritance in his lifetime.” Determined indeed to flush his new assets away, that night Robert took Sherpa, Silver, Ellstein, and Davidoff out for a night on the Bowery. The intention was to paint the town red, and by the end of the evening, Ellstein found herself in Rouncival’s arms. Here, taken also from his lecture to the Harbingers’ Club, is Robert’s account of that wild night.
Before I begin, I would like to add that now is perhaps an appropriate time for the young gentleman to take a moment to wash his hands. Rouncival’s account contains some explicit descriptions of his liaison with Ellstein. The young sir will stay? Ah, but it is good to see parents unafraid to allow their children at least a brief glimpse into the pleasures of the adult world. I am sure the young master will also, by the end of Robert’s account, be a fervent admirer of Roza Ellstein.
What can I say of that evening? My father dead, my home sold, a roll of bills in my pocket, dressed in a new black shirt, collar, and coat, that beastly watch ticking solemnly next to my heart as we gathered in the lobby of the Half-Shell. Silver demanded that I give him at least half the money roll for safekeeping, but I’d have none of it. Sherpa too was duded up, though where he’d gone to purchase that crimson silk shirt was beyond me. He’d trimmed his moustache and beard down into an empire, and for the first time since the Yucatan he truly looked the swashbuckler. Silver, a dowd as always, wore black in honor of my father, though he brandished a wonderful hip flask before we went to fetch Roza. He displayed the inscription, “Bill Silver, for 20 Years of Valued Service, ‘Little’ Tim Sullivan,” and we all sipped, in memory of Tammany’s greatness and my father the watch repairman. Then we went out into the Bowery.
It was a short stroll up 6th Avenue to Roza’s aunt’s house. It was late February, starting to become dark, though an unseasonable thaw had enmeshed the city, and everyone was out on the streets, breathing air that didn’t ice the lungs for the first time in months. Roza too was on her stoop, wearing a long fawn overcoat I’d never seen her wear before and shadowed as always by that fool Davidoff. The cashmere hung beautifully on her tall frame, and with those eyes, my god those eyes, gazing carefully at me from beneath what looked also like a new cloche hat, I could barely stand to look at her. I thought my chest would implode. I shook Davidoff’s hand, a fishy grip if ever one existed, then inhaled deeply as Roza embraced me, whispering, “I am so sorry, Rober t . . .” She smelled of violets or some such flower, she smelled like spring. Then she looked at me closely, holding me a moment at arm’s length, and smiled. “Whiskey?” she asked, for let us not forget that Prohibition was nominally in place. Caught out as we were, I could only grin. With a charm I’d hardly ever seen him display, Silver reproduced the flask with a bow, and Roza and Davidoff also imbibed, both uttering a Hebrew toast, perhaps prayer for the dead, as they did so. With a wave to Roza’s aunt lurking in an upstairs window, we were off.
If you’ve ever been on a carnival thrill ride at Coney Island or some such place, you will then know how that evening felt. Everything a blur, everything in motion, shouts, screams, open mouths, then the occasional stillness that has such import it becomes burned into the memory from amidst the maelstrom. Such was that night. Miracles, marvels, and many other things besides as we celebrated my newfound fortune. Down 6th Avenue we went, and down into some foreign, almost infernal, world we descended. I wish I could relate more of the night, but with so much a haze, again, it is only the marvels that stand out.
It began at Duffy’s Point, perhaps the most decent establishment we would venture into the entire night. Silver passed the flask, glasses were raised, and the minstrels, a bunch of Irish waifs, struck the first chords. From there, already with a gaggle of drunken followers, we went to the Paladin, where Davidoff’s impatience for drinks made the barkeep so irate that he flicked beer foam into Davidoff’s shocked face. From there to the Gas-house where a man referred to Sherpa as a nigger and had his nose broken for his efforts while Sherpa somehow didn’t even get a speck of blood or gristle on his shirt. On for a quick sup at a chinaman’s chophouse before reaching the underground gin mill the Copper Penny, where a scaly eye peered at us through the peep-hole. It was only at the Penny that we paused, Silver taking Roza’s arm quickly as he solemnly informed her, “This is not a place for ladies.” Roza laughed and such a laugh it was, head thrown back with the deepness from her strong throat, those green and amber eyes flashing. “Since when has an actress been considered a lady?” she smirked, grabbing the flask from his coat. Drinking heartily, Roza pounded the door directly beneath the watch-man’s eye and all together we reeled inside.
The Penny was bedlam, and we were yet another group of inmates taking charge of the asylum. The throngs pressed back and forth from the bar