The Bullet Trick

Dix was as stone calm as he’d been at our last meeting, but Sylvie’s high was edging on a fever. She described the evening, acting out both of our parts, not minding that Dix only nodded where she laughed, but then she was laughing enough for all three of us, her eyes darting between Dix and me, as if unsure of whether she could hold us both on her leash while there were so many other distractions around.

'You have to come tomorrow, Dix, it’s an ace trick, they loved it.'

'OK.' Dix looked beyond Sylvie at the girls on stage, following their legs, his face unimpressed, as if he’d seen the act before and didn’t find it much improved. He turned to me. 'So, William, did they want to see a magical trick or did they want to watch you cut her open?'

'Is that not a bit sick?'

Dix’s face wore a serious expression, but it was hard to see his eyes behind his specs.

'Perhaps, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true.'

Sylvie’s smile was eager; her teeth shone white against the nightclub gloom.

'They want to see you murder me, William.'

'Aye, the greatest show on Earth.'

Dix looked me straight in the eye, his voice mellow, and I thought that perhaps he meant what he said.

'There are people who would pay a lot of money to see it.'

'Sick people.'

'Rich, sick people.' He stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray then levelled his stare to meet mine. 'Better they see a trick than the real thing.'

'Better they get treatment.'

He shrugged.

'Maybe it could be treatment of a sort. Get it out of their system. Seriously, we should talk about it. You’re a conjurer. We find the right sick people and make it look real enough

— it could be a good way to get rich.' His gaze held mine. 'Remember, William, we’re all sick in some way.'

'Speak for yourself.'

'You’re a dying man, William.' Sylvie leaned forward with an intensity that might have been sincerity or maybe just drink. 'From the moment we’re born we start to die.'

I lit a fag and said, 'All the more reason not to hasten things along.'

Sylvie slid the cigarette from my fingers.

'You’ll not want this then?'

And for the only time that evening we all laughed together. But even as we laughed, Sylvie grinning at me through the smoke of my lost cigarette and Dix almost managing to look avuncular, I started to wonder if this was the only late-night place in the district or if there was a quiet bar somewhere that I could slope off to. Sylvie and Dix began slipping between English and German. I listened for a while, keeping my eyes on the girls up on stage, then stood up and made my way unsteadily across the room.

The saucy sailor was perched on a stool by the bar in a pose that made the best of her long legs. I guessed she’d grown too tall to be a ballerina, but I had no problem with her height. I looked up to tall girls. The barman was wiping glasses at the opposite end of the small bar. I feigned interest in the matchbooks tumbled in a round fishbowl on the counter next to the dancer, picking one up and reacquainting myself with the champagne bather, wondering how drunk I was. I swung onto a stool, grasping the edge of the bar to steady myself, realising I was pretty blasted. But a man fit enough to get his leg over a barstool still has some hope. I treated the sailorgirl to the full force of the William Wilson grin and said,

'Great song.'

Close to, the girl’s thick stage makeup grew malicious. Face powder had drifted into the fine lines around her mouth; it rested in the creases that framed her dark eyes and hung amongst the fine down coating her cheeks and upper lip. She looked ten years older than she had on stage, but she was still out of my league. She gave a slight nod of the head, but there was no trace of the smile that had glittered throughout her performance.

'Thank you.'

Her accent was Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich and Ingrid Bergman all coiled into one well-tuned set of vocal cords. The barman gave me an amused look, then turned his attention to the glass he was cleaning, holding it up to the light, making no move to serve me.

I said ‘Ein Bier, bitte’, pleased my German was coming along, then turned to the girl and gave her my best chat-up line.

'Can I buy you a drink?' She hesitated. I followed her gaze to the table where Dix and Sylvie were deep in conversation, then caught her eyes in mine, forcing her to look at me instead. 'Singing must be a thirsty business.'

It was nowhere near hypnosis, just a cheap use of her good manners, but it worked.

'OK, that would be nice.'

I wondered if she’d put on any underwear, and if my new status as exotic foreigner would add to my pulling power. The ballerina said something to the man behind the bar then turned back to me.

'You’re from London?'

'Via Glasgow.' She looked uncertain and I said, 'Scotland — wind, snow, rain, tartan, haggis, heather, kilts, all that crap.' She nodded and I added, 'We don’t wear anything under our kilts either.'

She laughed, pretending to be shocked, hiding her mouth behind her hand geisha style.

'Then we have something in common.'

'Aye, cold arses.'

The girl giggled. I appreciated the effort.

'My name’s William, William Wilson.'

I stuck out my hand and she took it in her soft grip.

'Zelda.'

The name suited her and I wondered if she’d had it long. The barman returned with something pink and fizzy in a tall fluted glass and said a price that suggested he’d just handed her the elixir of life. I slid a fifty-euro note across the counter and she raised the glass in a jaunty salute.

'Prost!' Zelda took a sip of her drink and gave me a smile that was worth the money.

'You’re a visitor to Berlin?'

'I’m working here, performing at Schall und Rauch.'

The smile was genuine this time.

'I know it.' She rubbed away some imagined stain from the side of her face. Her eyes did a quick flit towards Sylvie and Dix then back to me. 'Is Sylvie dancing there?'

There was an enforced casualness about the girl’s question that made me wary.

'Sylvie is my lovely assistant.' I smiled and fanned half a dozen of the matchbooks seemingly from nowhere into my hand. 'I’m a conjurer.'

Zelda clapped, but it wasn’t my trick that had made her sailorgirl eyes wide.

'Sylvie isn’t dancing any more?'

The edge to her tone might have been gloating or maybe just surprise. I played it safe for Sylvie’s honour’s sake.

'There’s a lot of dance in the act.'

'Ah.' The glass went to her lips and I began to wonder if I had enough cash to buy her a second drink. 'You can’t have been together long.'

'This was our first night.'

'So you are celebrating.'

'Got it in one.' Zelda glanced towards the table where Dix and Sylvie were leaning intently towards each other, their faces serious. I asked, 'You know each other?'

Zelda smiled a small tight smile.

'A little.'

'Come and join us then.'

The smile grew tighter.

'Dancers need a lot of sleep. One drink is enough.'

I took a sip of my beer.

'There’s a saying where I come from, one’s too many, a hundred’s never enough.'

Zelda drained the last of the pink stuff from the flute.

'You seem like a nice man.' She hesitated. 'Sylvie’s a good dancer, good company…'

'But?'

Zelda shrugged her shoulders.

'There is always a but.'

Yes, I thought, and yours is very nice, but kept my opinion to myself and put a tease into my voice.

'And in Sylvie’s case?' She hesitated and I said, 'Remember, I’m going to be working with her.'

Zelda held her empty glass in front of her, studying its stem, all the better to avoid meeting my eyes.

'Things happen when Sylvie’s around. Sometimes they’re fun.'

At last she met my gaze, telling me that what she said was true, she and Sylvie had had fun together.

'But sometimes not so much fun?'