The Cure for Dreaming(23)

“And none of these stepped-upon volunteers ever complains?”

Henri shook his head. “None so far.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Well”—he lowered his papers and rubbed his smooth chin—“I never force anyone to come on the stage, madame. The volunteers join me up here because they want to, even if they initially demur. I think they want—need—to be seen. To be noticed.”

The organist scowled. “And having a hypnotist stand on their torsos, while they’re sleeping like pacified infants, is preferable to remaining shrinking violets?”

Henri shrugged. “As I said, they never complain, and the audiences adore viewing them up here. You should hear the applause. Americans gobble up magic and visual oddities, such as viewing a man standing upon a near-floating woman.”

“It is scandalous. You may as well be in New York City, debasing yourself in Sapho, that rrribald”—she rolled the r in ribald with dramatic flair—“theatrical production I keep reading about in the newspaper. The one about the strumpet and her lovers.”

“As I was saying . . .” He pointed to his notes again. “This is where you transition into ‘Sleep, Little Rosebud.’”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Start with an adagio tempo. The notes should be delicate at first.”

“Youth these days will be the death of morality.” The organist flipped through her sheet music to find the right selection. After a cough and an outward thrust of her chest, she blundered her way through a musical number that would have sounded quite pretty if it were being played by anyone else.

Henri wandered across the stage with his hands in his pockets, wincing and hunching his shoulders as the off-key notes assaulted his ears. His gaze turned to the (almost) empty auditorium, so I ducked my head down farther and inhaled a noseful of dust.

Before I could control myself, a sneeze exploded from my nostrils.

“Who’s there?” asked Henri, which made the organist stop playing.

I froze at first, but then I felt like a fool crouching down on the dirty floor that way, my feet stuck in something sticky and my nose itching with the threat of another sneeze. I stood up and let myself be seen.

Henri squinted up at me. “Miss Mead?”

“Yes. It’s me—I mean, it is I, to be grammatically—”

“Stay right there. Don’t go anywhere.” He leapt off the end of the stage and landed on his feet with a thump—a startling maneuver that made me think of illustrations of lions chasing down gazelles.

I turned and lunged for the door.

“No! I need to speak to you.” I heard him bounding up the aisle behind me. “Don’t go. For your own safety, don’t go. I’ve been worried sick about you.”

At those unexpected words, I stopped.

“Please . . .” He skidded to a halt a few feet away from me and held out his arms to catch his balance. “Please tell me— you have got to tell me—what terrified you so badly when you saw your father yesterday.”

I bit my lip and hesitated.

“Please”—he braced his hands on his hips and regained his breathing—“tell me. I swear to God, you can trust me, Miss Mead.”

“My name is Olivia. I have no intention of calling you anything as respectful as Mr. Reverie, so please stop this ‘Miss’ business.”

“What I do on that stage, Olivia”—for some reason his accent suddenly sounded more American, less French—“all that showy stuff, it’s just to earn money. I want to help people with hypnosis, not hurt them. I want to cure people of their addictions and fears and—and—”

“And dreams,” I finished for him.

“No, not dreams.” He swallowed and stepped closer. “Why did you react to your father the way you did? How did he look after the hypnosis?”

“Are you done flirting, young man?” called the pumpkin-haired organist from the stage. “I’m not being paid to watch you fraternize with girls.”

“One moment, please, madame.”

“I have a good mind to tell Mr. Gillingham you’re wasting the theater’s money—”

“Please—this is important.” He turned back to me and softened his voice to a whisper. “I’m going to tell you something I don’t usually share with anyone.”

“No! I don’t want to become your confidante.” I backed away. “I just want you to return my mind to the way it was.”

“Listen—”

“No.”

“Olivia”—he came to me and took hold of my arm—“my sister has a cancerous tumor the size of a goose egg in her bosom.”

My jaw dropped with a gasp of shock.

“It’s rare in girls her age,” he continued, his eyes moistening, “but it’s there. She needs surgery. There’s a specialist in San Francisco. His fees . . . they won’t be cheap.”

“What? No.” I wrenched his fingers off my arm. “You’re lying. That’s a cruel story to tell a person just to get your way.”

“You can see the world the way it truly is, so be honest”— he straightened the bottom of his vest with a sharp tug of the black fabric—“do I look like someone who’s lying about his sister’s health?”