As ever, he was in
the main square. Doing Houdini. The famous performance, the one they all wanted
to see. Yards of chain tight around his body, a dozen heavy locks, gaping kids
touching him with their fingers just to make sure. Then a thick screen to hide
him, twenty-eight record breaking seconds – and he was free. Chain in his
hands. Smiling.
This time the crowd
was much the same. A couple of scoffing teenagers, adults dragged here by their
kids, a few easily amused tourists and an old woman who had nothing to do on a
sunny day.
And it was her, this
old woman with sloppy hair and a huge bag of groceries, who made him feel uneasy
for the first time in years of doing this. He suddenly realised the most
astonishing thing: she had always there.
Standing in the back row, eyeing his every move. And then applauding and
throwing money into his hat – like everyone else. Except they changed and she
never did.
He was going through
his routine, forgetting a few words here and there but mostly doing okay: he
had done the show too many times now. But as a kid tried the lock for one last
time, as he made his solemn promise to get free, as his assistant put the
screen over him – he knew he would fail. This time, he would not do it.
“47 seconds!” scoffed
a teenager, looking at his mobile phone.
He looked around,
chain in his hands like a flaccid snake meaning shame, loss, disgrace. He
looked around, trying to find her. Stretching his neck, bulging his eyes. But
the old woman wasn’t there. The old woman was gone.
