Diamonds Are Forever

Quintilius Tertius Faber sends his warmest greetings to his readers.

For a long, long time I pondered whether and how one could write something that some readers (whom I know well) might find blasphemous, disrespectful, or simply tasteless, while others—the majority, I believe, of readers who don't know me—would certainly consider enjoyable reading material. The more I thought about this publication issue, the clearer it became to me why such a discrepancy existed, albeit only an apparent one.

Firstly, after a death, it's simply not considered proper for the bereaved to be funny; a poet in mourning should put down his quill pen. Paradoxical, because what is a grieving poet supposed to do when confronted with Dionysian humor? Anything other than hearty laughter would be sour.

Secondly, a story always says something about the author. Suppose the author meant that the logical conclusion A + B = C was a given. But perhaps you see it differently; A isn't A to you, but an F or something similar. Then you would surely think, "Aha! So that's how the ancient Romans thought that A and B were connected!" I usually prefer to conceal my thought processes, but in this case, I'll make an exception and give in to the urge to write. Let it be.

Thirdly, a story says something about the characters. Thankfully, they're all fictional here. Because I wouldn't know how to defend myself against their indignant phone calls from Vindobona, Ostia, or Lutetia if these people were all real and alive.

Quintilius Secundus, my father, has passed away. When he was still alive, he fearlessly wrote against Caesars, consuls, and augurs, diligently sharpening his quill pen and often pondering at length before plunging it deep and fiercely into poisonous sores and papal entrenchment. But he also loved to laugh; then his serious face would crinkle into a thousand laugh lines, and he could sometimes laugh until he cried out, gasping, "Stop, stop, I can't anymore!"

I am writing this story for him, thinking of him and hoping that he reads it and laughs until tears run down his cheeks.

The blasphemy can begin. (Sit venia verbo.)

"Telephone for you," István's voice rasps angrily from the intercom. For days he's been working on the illustration of his family tree, which he promised his father he would create, since he has a graphics program on his Abacus Electronicus. During such creative phases, it's best not to disturb him at all, because he takes any interruption personally. Especially since this program comes from Giulielmus Gattus's company, Microproxx, whom István now considers a complete cretin, as his programs resist any continuous productivity and exist automatically with delightful irregularity. During these phases, the telephone is no longer a necessary evil for maintaining communication with the outside world, but a treacherous adversary whose ringing is a hostile intrusion into the genius's productivity.

"Thank you, and please excuse me!" I reply quickly and pick up the phone. "Quintilius, yes, hallus?" I answer, keeping one eye on my two grandsons, the twins Tiberius Primus and Tiberius Secundus, with whom I had just been playing.

On the other end of the line is my half-aunt Agrippina from Nova Scotia. I'm happy for her call, because she too is still very much affected by our father's death, and we talk about all the things relatives talk about in such times. After a while, Agrippina gets to the point.

"Tell me, do you know anything about a diamond? Did Father perhaps give you one?" I can hear in her voice that she's a little embarrassed by the materialistic nature of her question. Truthfully, I answer: "No, I don't know anything about it, and he didn't give me anything like that." I can see her face, a half-expected disappointment spreading across it.

"Well, it was just a question. It could have been," she says, steering the conversation in another direction. Apollonia, my wife and owner of A. Faber Grabstein Consulting GmbH (this must be mentioned again), has overheard snippets of conversation and is now waving her arms as if she urgently wants to tell me something, but I continue to concentrate on the phone call. Agrippina and I say goodbye, then I hang up.

"What was so urgent?" I growl somewhat irritably towards Apollonia, taking the Schuko plug out of Tiberius Secundus' mouth: "That's bad, little Secundus, very, very bad! That's electric, Stromus electricus, he can pinch little Secundus very, very badly!"

Apollonia's urgent need to communicate triumphs over her standard criticism that my parenting methods, and especially my chauvinistic, childish language, are simply idiotic. "The diamond, Grandma's diamond!"

I'm drawing a blank (no, not Stromus electricus). Which diamond? Which grandma? Apollonia beams at me like a quizmaster at his opponent during the five-thousand-sesterce question; it's that typical "Come on, tell me!" face. If there's nothing I hate, it's Apollonia's simplistic quiz shows on TV. Exempla trahunt.

István, who has retreated to our house because he finally wants to finish this project, gets up and paces restlessly. I ask him what's bothering him. He mutters something about Microproxx and how the Javascriptum doesn't always do what it's supposed to. Then he continues pacing in circles and absentmindedly tries to light his tobacco, but I grunt and point at Primus and Secundus; there's no need for Benzedrine from the tobacco!

Apollonia couldn't wait any longer and blurted out: "Remember when Grandma Constantia died? Everyone was looking for her diamond!" That hit me like a ton of bricks. This story was so infuriating that I could still explode with anger today. And this is how it happened:

Good old Constantia lived in that part of the empire occupied by evil eastern tribes, whose peaceful inhabitants suffered greatly under their rule—especially when it came to their pecuniary possessions. Those who had once been wealthy patricians were now poor paupers; inflation and expropriations had done their work. Constantia had inherited a small pouch of sesterces from her husband (Quintilius Primus), and when she felt her end approaching, she called me, her grandson most interested in money, and asked if it was true that the best way to invest one's money was in diamonds and then hide them. I agreed, because that's what we've all been doing since time immemorial. However, when I asked Constantia how many sesterces she was talking about, I had to tell her, much to my regret, that with that amount, it unfortunately wasn't worth taking the rather arduous detour via diamonds. Politely and considerately, I concealed from her the fact that with her sesterces she could hardly have paid for more than a single orgy for two at the "Drago Imperialis Pekinensis".

Some time later, when I learned that Mother Constantia's last hour had come, I immediately rode out with Apollonia and visited her in the hospice. When we arrived, she was already half-with the gods, talking to her ancestors, and probably didn't even notice our earthly presence. Sometimes she saw her Quintilius Primus through me and spoke to him, stammering blissful words of love until tears streamed down my cheeks. Apollonia and I remained silent and rode home again in silence.

No sooner had she lain in her humble mausoleum and the grave flowers begun to wilt, than my aunt Olivia called me from Baleum Mallorquiniae and asked if dear Grandma Constantia had passed away peacefully and happily. I was glad for her call, as she too was deeply affected by our grandmother's death; we talked about all the things one talks about in such times. After a while, Olivia got to the point.

"Tell me, do you know anything about a diamond? Did Grandma perhaps give you one?" I can hear in her voice that she's a little embarrassed by the materialistic nature of her question. Truthfully, I answer: "No, I don't know anything about it, and she didn't give me anything like that." I can picture her, a half-expected disappointment spreading across her face.

"Olivia," I say, "Grandmother Constantia was as poor as a church mouse. She just didn't know it, because sesterces don't weigh as much today as they did back then, in her time. She asked me about investing in diamonds, but I advised her against it."

"But I thought—we all thought, in fact, that she had a diamond, and so we thought she might have entrusted it to you." Olivia was a proud patrician before she became an impoverished proud patrician, and it was difficult for her to admit that she had followed a rumor. I solemnly declared once again that I had not received a diamond from Granny Constantia, for where would impoverished Granny Constantia have gotten one, and that was the end of the matter for me.

She wasn't. Years later, my mother also passed away. I often visited her on her sickbed and talked with her until she was already halfway to the gods and began to speak with her ancestors. Then I stayed away and mourned until she too lay in her humble little mausoleum and the grave flowers slowly began to wither.

A few days later, Aunt Cassiope called from Lugdunum. I was happy for her call, as she too was still deeply affected by the death of our mother—her sister—and we talked about all the things relatives talk about in such times. After a while, Cassiope got to the point.

"Tell me, do you know anything about a diamond? Did Mother perhaps give you one?" I can hear in her voice that she's a little embarrassed by the materialistic nature of her question. "You surely mean Grandma Constantia's diamond, don't you?" I ask cautiously, and she nods.

Truthfully, I reply: "No, I know nothing about it, she didn't give me anything like that, and as far as I know, it doesn't even exist." I can see her face, a half-expected disappointment spreading across it.

"Well, it was just a question. It could have been," she says resignedly, steering the conversation in another direction. I return to the diamond and explain to Aunt Cassiope that this has been happening sporadically with every death since Grandma Constantia's passing, and it's really starting to get on my nerves. There is no Constantia diamond, and that's that!

István, who was still pacing restlessly, suddenly stopped and interrupted my train of thought. "I'll put the program aside for now," he said to the wall, "and perhaps continue with the earliest ancestors; that's more fruitful. I've discovered an interesting branch of the family, the Weiss family from Budapest." And after a while, he added didactically, as if we Romans were uneducated barbarians: "Budapest, the capital of Pannonia." He looked at me questioningly. "Are you in?"

I had actually already played enough with the grandchildren and now left them to Apollonia, who retreated with them to the marble bench and tried to teach them Mices, even though I had repeatedly explained to her that they were still much too young for this dice game.

Then I sat next to István, and together we raced through the old databases, trying to place his ancestors in chronological order. But we got stuck on the oldest known white ancestor. "They might have emigrated to America!" I muttered to myself after a while, without giving it much thought. István, however, eagerly picked up the thread.

"America! Ah! We should definitely look into that!" and his fingers flew across the keyboard. Yes, someone had emigrated from Budapest, a Dr. Samuel Weiss and his family, in 1878. We silently read the lists of names, meticulously compiled by the Imperial and Royal State Archives.

István cleared his throat and said, "No, not what you're thinking, dear Quincy! There's definitely a catch, just like with that grandmother who, although she bore the same name as the Hungarian kings, turned out not to be my grandmother at all!" I remembered that grandfather had been a shrewd bigamist and, besides many broken hearts, had also left behind a few grandmothers... I couldn't help but mutter, "It seems to run in your blood."

We printed out what we had found and arranged the pages. It was an amazing and exciting story that unfolded before us. In the middle of it, he asked me what I knew about Houdini, so I rummaged through my memory: American escape artist, daring stunts, and famous performances where he freed himself from his chains underwater, until one day his jealous wife switched the key and he drowned miserably in the icy water...

"Easy, Romans, easy!" István interrupts my flow of words, "not a word of any of that is true!" Then he leans back, takes another deep puff on his tobacco and begins to tell his story.

Ehrich Weisz was born in Budapest on March 24, 1874, the third of five children of Rabbi Dr. Samuel Mayer Weisz and his wife Cäcilia Steiner Weisz. Four years later, the Weisz family emigrated to America, where immigration authorities changed their name to Weiss. Weiss settled in Appleton, Wisconsin, and became the spiritual leader of a new, German-speaking Zionist movement, as he spoke fluent German in addition to Hungarian and Yiddish.

Young Ehrich quickly Americanized his name to Erik, was already delivering newspapers at the age of seven, and took on a variety of odd jobs until he was thirteen to help his family, who were still very poor. His true passion, however, lay in magic and illusions; he first admired the traveling magician Dr. Lynn, and later the Frenchman Jean Robert Houdin. The turning point came with an apprenticeship—which he later abandoned—with a locksmith. Little Erik quickly learned how to pick locks. His first performance was on October 28, 1883, at the age of nine, as the rope and trapeze artist "Ehrich, Prince of the Air." Not yet thirteen, Erik was performing as "Erik the Great" on small stages and ran away from home, following the traveling circus and only returning a year later to his family, who by then were living in New York.

After his father's death (October 5, 1892), Erik worked as a messenger, electrician, cutter, and general handyman at the tie manufacturer Richter & Sons. He also became a photographer and once again an apprentice to a locksmith. At the same time, he kept himself physically fit for his acrobatic performances and won several sports medals in running and swimming. At 15, he read Jean Robert Houdin's autobiography: his life changed dramatically. Filled with enthusiasm for the then-world escape champion, he henceforth called himself Houdini, Harry Houdini.

At the end of 1892, he performed with his brother Theo "Dash" (who later achieved fame under the stage name Hardeen) in a show called "Metamorphosis Illusion – The Houdini Brothers." They gradually gained popularity and performed at the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago, as well as with P.T. Barnum's Museum Circus and the Welch Brothers Circus. Over the course of his life, Houdini would perform "Metamorphosis" 11,000 times.

In June 1894, he performed in Coney Island, where he fell in love with Bess, one of the Floral Sisters. Two weeks later, he married 18-year-old Wilhelmina Beatrice Rahner (June 22, 1894). Bess soon replaced Theo in performances, who embarked on a solo career as Hardeen, the Iron Man.

From 1898 onward, Houdini developed incredible acts involving straitjackets and handcuffs, soon earning the nickname "The Handcuff King." He never once failed. His acquaintance with vaudeville agent Martin Beck quickly lifted him out of suburban isolation. Beck promoted him with extensive newspaper coverage, even staging daring prison breaks in front of state police and paying audiences, of course. His fee skyrocketed to $125 a week, and his fame soon spread beyond the USA, leading to his first European tour (in London) in 1900. His weekly fee settled at $1,200 after he escaped from Scotland Yard custody—in handcuffs. In Paris, he jumped from a bridge over the Seine while bound and then fooled the horrified spectators by hiding behind a bridge pier for several minutes. After that, he not only allows himself to be handcuffed, but is chained to a chair in a straitjacket and pushed off the bridge—his fee increases to $2,000. Houdini and Bess buy a beautiful house in New York.

In 1906, he had himself elaborately bound and chained in the death cell of Charles Guiteau, the assassin of US President Garfield, and escaped: all of America went wild with excitement. He jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, chained, handcuffed, and weighed down with a 75-pound iron ball. On January 27, 1908, in St. Louis, when he performed the feat of escaping while hanging upside down in a giant water-filled jug, despite chains, a straitjacket, and handcuffs, an imitator drowned. Deeply affected, Houdini wrote article after article for specialist journals and began writing his autobiography, in which he also described some of his tricks in detail. At the same time, he publicly spoke out against all forms of occultism and the charlatanism associated with it; this interest stayed with him until his death. Houdini exposed several fraudsters, which also brought him worldwide attention.

He bought an airplane in Hamburg for $5,000 and in 1910, during a several-month tour of Australia, set the first Australian air record (in Diggers Rest) – the 17th air record in history. For whatever reason, Houdini never flew again after that.

He invented ever more dizzying stunts, escaping from water tanks at night or from the barrel of a massive cannon just fractions of a second before it was fired. His daring flirtation with death, a rather realistic death, contributed significantly to his fame. His most spectacular invention was the Chinese Water Torture Cell, which he knew how to prolong to such a nerve-shredding degree that the rumor that he had died during it soon arose and persisted in some places even today. Increasingly daring combinations of ropes stretched between skyscrapers or dangling from the world's tallest buildings, from which Master Houdini hung and freed himself from chains, handcuffs, and straitjackets, constantly brought him new headlines in the newspapers and a considerable income. In 1918, he made the elephant Jenny disappear at the Hippodrome in New York City in front of thousands of spectators.

Hollywood discovered him in 1919; he played several small roles and then starred in two films himself, both of which were a financial success. Houdini was at the height of his career and undoubtedly the most famous magician of his time.

On October 22, 1926, Houdini performed in Montreal. While preparing for the show in the dressing room, he chatted with some students from McGill University, where he had given a lecture that afternoon. One of the students, J. Gordon Whitehead, asked him if it was true that he could take any punch to the stomach (like his brother Hardeen, the Iron Man). Before he could answer, he was completely unprepared and received three punches to the stomach. Nine days later, on October 31, 1926, Houdini died in Detroit from internal injuries (peritonitis, to be precise).

I remained silent, deeply moved, because what István had unearthed in terms of history, starting with a previously undiscovered ancestor named Weiss in Budapest, was truly something! Admittedly, no jealous, murderous wife or a man writhing in his death throes in the icy Niagara Falls, but...

"Stay cool, Roman!" István admonished me, guessing my thoughts. "Our Weisses certainly have nothing to do with American Weisses, believe me! There must have been several more Weisses in Budapest!" A long pause followed, during which I remained thoughtfully silent while he blew his tobacco smoke to himself.

Suddenly he slaps his thigh, grins at me, and bursts into loud, pealing laughter. "That's it!" he gasps, "that's it!" And as I look at him, worried and questioning, it slowly comes out of his mouth, punctuated by booming laughter: "That's it: the Houdini diamond! It's there, it's not there! Vanished—reappeared—vanished!" I'm usually quick-witted, but now it takes me a while to follow his train of thought, from Harry Houdini to Aunt Agrippina's phone call from earlier.

Then I laugh too.

So much for the contribution from good old Quintilius, dear readers. How could he possibly know that sometimes at night, when everyone else is asleep, I sneak to my safe and take the beautiful, large diamond out of its leather pouch to admire its sparkle in the moonlight...?