First Look Book Club
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Suzanne Beecher


Dear Reader,

Like a lot of people this time of year, I've been under a lot of stress lately--busy, busy, busy. It's all good stuff, but nevertheless it's taking a lot out of me. When I get to feeling worn out, I long for a place to go where someone who cares, is waiting to pamper me. When I was a kid, I always felt that way when I spent some time with my Grandma and Grandpa Hale.

Every morning at Grandma's house I'd wake up to the smell of freshly scrambled eggs with bacon, toast and homemade jam--made from berries she grew in her backyard. Grandma’s freezer always had New York Vanilla ice cream in it, and if I wanted some for a breakfast dessert, no problem.

A trip to Grandma's house also meant I'd go home with at least one new pair of shoes. Walking down Main Street with Grandma, when we'd get to the shoe store I'd always pause and take a long look in the store window. Our conversation at that point was always the same. We each knew our parts by heart.

Grandma: "Suzanne, do you think you need a new pair of shoes?"

Me: "Well, I think I could use another pair. Those right there look pretty nice." And into the store we'd go.

I miss my Grandma and Grandpa Hale, but I'm left with wonderful memories I can revisit anytime I need some special TLC…and I think that's just what I'm going to do today.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book The Circus Train: A Novel by Amita Parikh. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 




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(continued from Thursday)

The orphanage director proceeded to spin a tale about how the girl, named Pari, was royalty, a direct descendant of Nadir Shah, but that no one in her family wanted her because of her Russian mother. Horace sighed. This tale, no doubt, would hike up the price, but as Horace left the orphanage, Pari's little hand clutching his, he somehow knew the girl would be a good return on his investment.

In the Atlas Mountains, he found strongmen who could lift two-hundred-pound barbells like they were bags of feathers. In a Nigerian church, an uncommonly tall ten-year-old girl named Nneka took his breath away. Her skin was a dark brown, save for a perfectly symmetrical patch of cream cascading down the middle of her face. Her hair splayed out in all directions like it had a mind of its own and refused to be tamed. When she noticed Horace staring at her, she immediately cast her gaze downward. For a moment, Horace's heart ached. He knew what it was to be an outsider. When he inquired about her face, the church director shrugged.

"Some kind of skin condition she was born with. She's been sleeping on the corn sacks in the back. Her mama's dead. Her daddy don't want her. She just sleeps there, sweeps the floors, and sings. All day long." The church director shook his head. "It's a shame." And then Horace heard it. Her voice—so powerful, so melodious for someone so young. He listened in awe to the skinny girl, sweeping the sanctuary floor and belting out song after song with a maturity that belied her years. When Nneka sang, she transformed into another being.

"Name your price," he said. The church director shook his head. "God has bestowed upon this child a rare gift. Something so holy cannot be bought." But after a few more rounds of haggling, the church director decided that Nneka and her voice were indeed worth something and, armed with a string of rosary beads and a Bible, she joined Horace on his tour.

Across the ocean in Brazil, a troupe of capoeira dancers and drummers were only too willing to join Horace, as their form of entertainment was being suppressed by the authorities. In Germany and the Soviet Union, he found swimmers who'd been cut from Olympic teams and still had something to prove.

And so it went. For nearly a year Horace traveled, adding to his collection of performers. He never went for the best, most popular ones. Instead, he was careful to choose the ones who had either lost someone (a parent, a spouse, a child) or who were consistently finishing third or fourth in their respective sport or art form. These people, he reasoned, were right on the edge of glory, the people who would fight for acceptance and who would continually strive to be the best.

His cache of acts almost complete, Horace returned to London, installing his recruits in a home next to his own under the supervision of his assistant, Chadwick. The only thing Horace was missing now was an illusionist. One act that would end each performance and leave people's jaws hanging. He got his wish in Thessaloniki, where he spotted Theo Papadopoulos.

To many, Theo Papadopoulos was the greatest illusionist of all time. When he performed by the Amsterdam port, sailors from as far as the Caspian Sea would halt their expeditions, anchoring their boats, so they could see him walk on water. Children gasped as he turned the tepid beige of the stray goats dotting the Italian hillside into all the colors of the rainbow. In Vienna's famed Burgtheater, women swooned as he transformed simple pebbles into glittering diamonds with a squeeze of his hand. Grown men regularly forgot they were men and unleashed childlike squeals of disbelief when he emerged, intact, after having an assortment of Japanese knives inserted into his body while in a wooden box. Everywhere he went—London, Prague, Berlin-people came to marvel. There was nothing Theo couldn't do, no trick he couldn't master.

As Horace watched him perform, spellbound, he experienced a tingling feeling, the sensation that what he'd been working toward was finally complete. Theo had the showmanship of Houdini, the skill of Devant, and the intelligence of Kellar.

When the performance finished, Horace waddled through the dispersing crowd like a penguin, sweating in the searing Greek sun. It was important to him to maintain an air of professionalism, he told himself, glancing down at his suit's long tails. He didn't care what he had to promise the illusionist, he thought, as he mopped his forehead with a cotton hankie. He was determined to sign what he knew would be the crown jewel in his World of Wonders.

But Horace's smile faded when he saw the dapper illusionist's wife, Gia, turn around. She was a classic beauty, her face resembling that of a goddess. She looked like she had been carved from marble. Her long dark hair was swept to one side and fastened with a clip. But her stomach, although not as big as Horace's, was certainly larger than normal. Still, he forged ahead, introduced himself, and invited them both to dinner.

Later that night they dined on Cypriot food at the top of a hotel overlooking the Thermaikos Gulf. Theo told Horace how he got his start in the business. He'd fallen in love with magic after visiting a circus that had come through the city when he was five. After his father had cast him out of the house for choosing an unconventional career, Theo worked as a carpenter to pay his bills and honed his magician skills at children's birthday parties. It took many years, but he eventually worked his way up to being one of Europe's most in-demand illusionists. By the time Theo was finished, Horace had decided he was perfect. Tall and commanding but in a nonthreatening way. Relatable to adults and children alike. And women loved him, Horace observed, catching more than one lady sneaking a look at the handsome performer while he spoke. Horace outlined his plan for the Beddington and Sterling World of Wonders and, not wishing to waste any more time, made them a verbal offer. Theo glanced at his wife.

"You must understand that I can't travel at the moment."

Horace nodded. "We can wait till after the baby's born. Our carriages are outfitted like first-class train cabins, and I'll see to it that a nursery is built. The child will want for nothing." Gia cleared her throat. Horace continued. "And for you, Madame. We have a state-ofthe-art games room. Billiards, darts, mah-jongg, cards. Access to the finest European society gatherings. Quite often, it is the rich who are clamoring to associate with us. Martha, my head costumer, and her team were hired away from the house of Lanvin. They can make anything you want. Velvet gowns, silk flapper dresses, diamante skullcaps. Anything."

Gia sipped her San Pellegrino and glanced at Theo. "What do you think?"

He placed a protective hand on her stomach. "We'll wait, of course. But afterward . . ."

Gia nodded thoughtfully but didn't look entirely convinced. Horace played his trump card.

"My staff physician, Dr. James Wilson, ran the best clinic on Harley Street before joining us. He was educated at St. Bart's and graduated first in his class." He smiled, satisfied at the look on Gia's face.

"We'll join, but I have one condition," Gia said. "I want my child to have an education. The best tutors. The finest books. Access to the top universities. All at your cost."

Horace couldn't believe his luck. If all the most talented illusionist in the world and his wife wanted was a few good schoolteachers, he had hit the jackpot. He wiped the corner of his mouth with his cloth napkin and extended a hand.

"You have a deal."

The next morning, Theo signed his contract and Horace promised to return in three months.

Producers are used to being ready for the worst-case scenario: performers suffer injuries, things go wrong, contracts don't work out. But Horace wasn't expecting a widower. When Theo opened the door on a hot July morning, clutching a baby wrapped in a white blanket, a shock of dark brown hair peeking through the folds, he looked worse for wear.

"Forgive me, Horace, but I don't see how I can honor our agreement," Theo said, after explaining what had happened to Gia and his daughter. The baby stirred and Theo rocked his arm back and forth. Horace was flummoxed. He'd been prepared for any situation but this one. He briefly considered trying to find another illusionist, but he knew that no one could hold a candle to Theo. Besides, he thought, he was Horace Beddington the Third. He was used to hard work, used to things not going right the first few times.

So Horace called Chadwick and told him there'd been an unexpected obstacle and that he'd be back in a few weeks. He took up residence in a two-bedroom flat on Tsimiski Avenue. Horace rose with the morning market peddlers, bringing fresh leek and spinach 'plastos' to Theo's doorstep. He hired a team of the best doctors, instructing them to do everything they could to make the girl's life as bearable as possible. He found round-the-clock wet nurses and had a cook prepare fresh meals using ingredients he picked up at Modiano Market each morning. Horace insisted on paying for a new tombstone to mark Gia's grave, and he watched from a distance as Theo paid his respects every Sunday following the weekly service at the Agia Sophia. Driven by a will to succeed, Horace plowed the remaining bits of energy and money he had into Theo and his daughter's well- being. He had to have him on board the World of Wonders, and if that meant giving this man more than he'd bargained for, Horace was willing to do it.

His persistence paid off. One morning in September, Theo showed up outside Horace's flat, the baby swaddled in a pink linen blanket. If the show would pay for Lena's medical expenses and a governess, plus allow him two months off to return to Thessaloniki each year, they'd have a deal.

A month later, Theo Papadopoulos arrived at Victoria station with two trunks, his daughter, and a desire to leave his old life, along with the secrets he'd kept hidden for so long, behind him. The Beddington and Sterling World of Wonders would open at the London Palladium and from there begin traversing the continent. It was 1929. Trotsky had been exiled, Hoover was now president, and the stock market had just crashed. No matter what happened, Horace insisted on moving forward. The show must go on, he said.

Yes. When Horace Beddington the Third wanted something, nothing stood in his way. 

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