The Final Act
I’m going through some old photographs I found in a cardboard box in the attic. All of them bring memories of times past, of course, but I stop at one. And remember.
It was London, in 1888. Our company had been booked for a month at the Gaiety Theatre and, as usual, I was the main attraction. The Marvelous Mist-Man, the billboards announced. You won’t believe your eyes, they said.
If only they had known.
Night after night it was a success. The theatre was packed. You could feel the tension mounting, act after act. Mr Smythe, the stage director, was a master of his trade. He could gauge the audience to the minute: some nights I’d take the stage sooner, some nights later, but always exactly when needed to claim the best response from the crowd, bar a riot.
I remember the night this picture was taken, because Mr Smythe knocked on the door of my dressing room as I was getting ready for my act, and entered on cue.
“Mac,” he said. “The Detective has come tonight!” And he left.
I still feel a shiver today. The Detective! Mr Smythe didn’t even need to mention his name. In the business, he was a legend. His exploits, as published in the Strand, were enjoyed by us all. It was said that almost all of us had met him some time, when he was under one disguise or another, digging for information for one of his cases. Rarely did he attend a show as himself, and when this happened, we all got nervous.
I calmed down. Nothing could go wrong. In my case, it was simply impossible. The company thought it was due to hard work, just like any of them.
I, of course, knew better.
“Marvelous Mist-Man, stage in three!” I heard Mr Smythe shout.
I stood. Time to make or break.
As usual, during my show the lights were directly on me, so it was hard for me to directly see the crowd, but I thought I glimpsed a couple of times a tall silhouette of a man sitting on one of the first rows. Was it him?
It didn’t matter. My gloved hands conjured playing cards at high speed, until a small mountain of them lied at my feet. My doves flew up and out of the theatre, up to the roof where I’d pick them up later. And so on.
The crowd roared and I drank it all, feeling invigorated. Fed.
Satiated? Nay.
As I announced the final number, I thought the tall man bent forwards to pay more attention. I just did the usual: my magic passes, the magic words, a twirl, and off with my mask.
For a second, I was just a mist, a puff of smoke. Then my clothes fell to the floor, to the astonished gasps of the audience. And seconds later, I reappeared at the entrance of the theatre, where my spare stage dress was, and the limelight focused on me, applause wrapped me and my soul swelled.
The knock on my door didn’t surprise me.
“Mr Mist-Man?” the Detective said. “A word with you? Do you know who I am?”
“Call me Mac,” I said from behind my mask. “I know who you are, sir. Please take a seat.”
He sat, and explained all my tricks to me. In detail. He had liked them, and he saw how the crowd would like them too. He even said some others tended to use simpler methods, but he praised mine.
He explained all of them, except the last one. Then he just fell silent.
I waited.
Then I asked him.
“And the last one?”
He stared at me. Those eyes… I’ve never faced eyes like those, before of after, in all my years.
“I always say that, once the impossible is discarded, the improbable, no matter how outrageous, must be the truth. And I checked the theatre last night. There’s no way -no human way- you could have moved that fast.”
I nodded.
“Will you show me?” he asked.
Slowly, I took off my mask, and my chambers filled with mist.
~~~~
This is my accompanying entry for the Weekly Writing Exercise: September 25–October 1, 2017 at the Writer’s Discussion Group on Google+. I am responsible for creating the prompts for the Exercise, so I don’t take part, but I still like to write a story each week.
I liked this image and as soon as I saw it I knew I wanted to use it as a prompt. However, when I started my brainstorming I surprised myself by going back to the Victorian era, and that’s what I ended up using. I wanted Holmes, but I usually hide him; I did it again this time.
