On the fourth Monday, Víctor prepared carefully. He invited the girl he had picked up at La Llave the night before to come with him and made sure that the magician saw them gazing into each other’s eyes. He spent the break passionately kissing his date, and pretending not to notice Lápidus, who, as always, was watching the audience. In addition he had managed to get a good table, and as he ordered a bottle of champagne, he let it slip that it was his birthday.
During the first performance, six members of the audience were invited on to the stage and Víctor watched them enviously, but he remained calm. He was prepared to do this every Monday for as long as it took. In fact, the longer it took Lápidus to call him up onstage, the better prepared he would be. During the second half, the magician came to the front and said:
‘Now, I’ll need someone from the audience to assist me.’ A number of people immediately got to their feet. Víctor gave a start but decided to hold back for a few seconds so as not to draw attention to himself. Lápidus brought his hand up to shield his eyes and pretended to survey the room: ‘No offence, madame, but it has to be someone young and strong … How about you, sir?’ Víctor shrugged slightly but did not get up. ‘Yes, you there. Don’t go all shy on me …’
As Víctor stepped on to the stage, the magician spoke to him in the disparaging way the audience found so funny.
‘Wow … I was hoping for someone young, not a baby. Are you sure you’re eighteen, sonny? I don’t want your mamá giving me grief!’
‘Absolutely. In fact, I just turned eighteen today.’
‘What a coincidence. I think that deserves a round of applause.’
The audience obeyed and Víctor stood, motionless, on the stage. Lápidus came over to him, pressed a hand gently to his side and suggested he take a bow.
‘Say thank you to the audience! Young people these days … they have no manners.’
As he bowed slightly, the punchline to Lápidus’s joke, Víctor took it for granted that his wallet had now been purloined. Not because he felt the flutter of Lápidus’s fingers, but because he had put it in his right-hand jacket pocket so it could be taken and he now understood how the magician worked. Lápidus continued to use Víctor as the butt of his jokes, and told the audience that the young man was about to witness the classic Chinese Linking Rings. He used every cliché in the book: ‘This is the real deal,’ he said, sliding one ring over the other and announcing that they would be joined together ‘like two hearts in love’; he even found a way to use the execrable phrase ‘Now you see it, now you don’t …’ From time to time, he handed Víctor a ring so he could check it and tell the audience that it was completely solid. The more Víctor listened, the more he loathed the man. But he had to acknowledge the skill and ease with which Lápidus performed a dazzlingly fast, complex series of manoeuvres, shaping the rings into the symbol of the Olympic games, then uncoupling them again. Víctor, too, knew how to perform the Chinese Rings illusion, though he was much slower. Galván had shown it to him as an old-fashioned curiosity, unworthy of being performed onstage nowadays. Víctor tried to keep a surprised look on his face while focusing all his attention on every movement Lápidus made as he lifted another object from him. After all, that was why he was wearing them. Though he noted how Lápidus took his watch, he had to admit that an innocent observer would never have noticed. He could not help but smile when he saw Lápidus’s fingers take his tie-pin. When he had put it on, he knew that it was distinctly lacking in taste, but he had also been aware that the magician would be unable to resist the temptation.
When the time came for him to leave the stage, he walked quickly towards the steps and only began to gloat when the magician called out:
‘Hey! Our little man seems to be in a hurry. Hardly surprising, since he’s not wearing a watch …’
With the same theatricality, Víctor stopped, looked at his bare wrist, slapped himself on the forehead and walked back to Lápidus, who gave him the watch. As he did, he added:
‘Don’t forget to bow before you go. And enjoy your birthday, the champagne is on me …’
Once again, Víctor did what was expected of him. He even applauded before he turned to leave the stage a second time and did his best to look surprised when he heard the magician’s voice.
‘… because if you had to pay for it yourself, you’d be hard pressed.’
He didn’t need to turn round to know that Lápidus was holding up his wallet. The audience were splitting their sides as though they’d never seen this trick done before. Unless the magician’s nimble fingers had been skilful enough to escape Víctor’s keen attention, only the tie-pin and his glasses remained.
‘Thanks, kid,’ Lápidus said. ‘You’ve been a great assistant. I hope you didn’t mind me pulling your leg. As a token of goodwill, I’d like to give you this beautiful tie-pin. Yes, I know it’s yours, but I could have kept it for myself.’
The moment had come to act. Víctor found he had to raise his voice to drown out the audience’s laughter.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Lápidus. In any case,’ he turned brazenly to the audience, suddenly taking over the role of ring-master, ‘it wouldn’t be much use to you, since you always wear a bow tie.’ He held up the tie-pin for the audience to see, glanced at the magician, then added, ‘Because you do always wear a bow tie, don’t you?’
Taken by surprise, Lápidus brought his hand to his collar. For several seconds, the audience fell silent, only to burst out laughing again as Víctor put his hand in his trouser pocket and drew out Lápidus’s bow tie. He dangled it in the air as though he were holding a snake. The magician quickly attempted to improvise.
‘Are you sure it’s mine? Take a good look, you might be mistaken. Though you might need these,’ he said, proffering Víctor’s glasses.
‘No need, I’ll use yours,’ Víctor countered, putting his hand in his breast pocket and taking out the magician’s wire-framed glasses. ‘I think they’re about the same strength.’
The audience was in stitches now. Lápidus glared at him and Víctor knew he would have strangled him with his bare hands had he been able. But the man was a good sport. Lápidus raised his arms and took a step towards Víctor as though to hug him. Víctor went with the flow and as they hugged the magician whispered:
‘What’s your name, you little son of a bitch?’
Víctor hesitated for a moment before answering.
‘Don’t fuck with me or I’ll kill you,’ Lápidus growled, still clapping Víctor on the back. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Víctor,’ he said finally.
‘Víctor what?’
‘Víctor Losa.’
Lápidus took a step back and, gesturing to Víctor, asked for a round of applause.
‘Víctor Losa!’ he announced. ‘Víctor Losa, ladies and gentlemen!’ he said again, as though announcing the name of the winning horse at a racetrack. ‘A new star in the Lápidus constellation. A brilliant pupil. We’ll be hearing a lot more from him in future. Don’t forget, you saw him here first. Víctor Losa!’
It was a brilliant ad lib, and the audience seemed completely convinced that Víctor had been following Lápidus’s orders from the outset. Víctor still had a surprise up his sleeve, but he decided to play along.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he said, bowing. ‘But, to be honest, the pupil can’t take all the credit. Most of it goes to the master’s magic wand!’ He rummaged in the sleeve of his jacket, pulled out Lápidus’s wand and handed it back to him. As he came over to take it, the magician blocked Víctor’s path to the short flight of steps leading down to the stalls. He announced Víctor’s name again, one hand firmly clutching the boy’s shoulder, forcing him to leave the stage via the wings. Víctor had no choice. As he stumbled through the side curtain, two hefty thugs appeared and invited him to stay exactly where he was. His legs suddenly turned to jelly and his pounding heart leapt into his mouth like a hunted frog. He had to sit down on the ground. Not that he was afraid of what might happen
next. After all, even if they did give him a good kicking, it was no more than he deserved. The wooziness he was experiencing was the tension draining away, a floating sensation similar to what he had felt on his first night at La Llave, exacerbated by the torrent of adrenalin surging through him. From his position on the floor, he listened as the magician brought his act to a close.
The audience was still applauding when Lápidus planted himself in front of Víctor. He lit a cigarette and, without saying a word, gestured for him to get to his feet. Then, he had only to nod and the two thugs came over and grabbed Víctor, twisting one arm behind his back and pushing him down the corridor. When they reached the emergency exit, they stopped and waited for Lápidus, who was following slowly behind.
‘So, you are Víctor Losa, are you?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Give my best to Galván when you see him.’
‘How do you know that …?’
The sentence was never finished. Víctor could not protect his stomach since the thugs were holding him by both elbows and, though he tensed his abdominals, Lápidus’s punch still left him gasping for breath.
‘That’s how Houdini was killed,’ the magician said as he lashed out again. ‘Tell the maestro, so he knows I haven’t forgotten his history lessons.’ Then he grabbed Víctor’s right thumb. ‘And this is more or less how Peter Grouse invented the false thumb.’ He twisted the digit, bending it back until he heard a crack. Then the door was opened and the thugs tossed Víctor out into the street. Sprawled on the ground and doubled up in pain, Víctor thought the beating might not be over when he saw a shadow suddenly loom over him. As someone once again grabbed his throbbing thumb, he noticed the unmistakable smell of Galván’s tobacco.
Without saying a word, the maestro jerked the thumb back into its normal position with another loud crack. Víctor covered it with his other hand and squeezed, but he noticed that the pain had subsided. Still gasping for breath, he hauled himself on to his knees. Just then Galván slapped him across the back of the head.
‘Hey!’ Víctor turned to stare at Galván, ‘Why di—?’
‘Because you deserve it. Because I’ve told you a thousand times not to improvise. Because you can’t pull that sort of stunt unless you’ve planned your escape.’ Galván’s voice sounded more serious, more professorial, than ever, but he took a step forward, bent down and hugged his pupil hard. ‘And because you’re a genius, you little bastard.’
Víctor said nothing. Suddenly all the pent-up tension, all the aggression of his encounter with Lápidus, drained away, leaving him trembling. He did not answer. Or could not.
Galván broke the hug, pressed a finger under Víctor’s chin and helped him to his feet.
‘Did they do much damage?’
‘Nothing that won’t heal.’
Víctor suspected it would be some time before the pain and the swelling disappeared, but he did not care. He could do magic with one hand. With no hands. It was all in his mind. At that precise moment, he felt he could perform miracles.
Galván silently held his gaze.
‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘I’m always here, Víctor, you should know that by now.’
‘Lápidus said to give you his regards. Something about Houdini and Peter Grouse.’
‘I don’t care about Lápidus. It’s time to go. I think your girlfriend is waiting for you in the entrance.’
Víctor had not given the girl a single thought since Lápidus had called him up onstage.
‘Wait. There’s a lot of things I need to ask you.’
‘This is not the time, Víctor, we’ll talk about it in class.’
‘At least tell me about Lápidus.’
‘What about him?’
‘You taught him?’
‘Fifteen years ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘It didn’t work out.’
‘I’ve seen him do astonishing things.’
‘He has talent, I’ll grant you. He’s a great typist. But he wouldn’t recognise a piano if he saw one.’
‘You sent him away.’
‘Not exactly, I told him to come back when he was prepared to cross the line of fire.’
‘Hoffmann,’ Víctor muttered, ‘fucking Hoffmann.’ He bit his lip; now was perhaps not the time to ask this next question. But eventually, he looked Galván in the eye and said: ‘Mario … I’ve been working at La Llave for more than a month now.’
‘Very successfully, from what I hear.’
‘Yes. But you said that if I proved I was up to it, we could start doing real magic.’
‘We will start. Very seriously. But it will have to wait until tomorrow.’
Together they walked back to the front of La Scala. As soon as she saw him, the girl threw herself into Víctor’s arms, half overjoyed, half bewildered. As she hugged him, Víctor realised he hadn’t even said thank you to Galván. He glanced around, but the maestro had disappeared.
Counting Steps
The first step is to accept the strict limitations of this ruined new world, the closed borders, the permanent curfew. To act accordingly. Make no grand plans. Or at least start with small steps. After all, when the future is as imminent as this, it requires little imagination to adapt to it. Can he do so? Is he capable of seeing himself – apologies for the tasteless use of that verb – as a blind man? Can he imagine living out this little life with dignity? Yes. In spite of everything, he can. And he must. He knows every square inch of his apartment like the back of his hand. He can now move around it with his eyes closed and without stumbling. He has lived here since he was born. He needs to hole himself up here, make the most of the few days he has left to buy everything he needs, make sure he has everything necessary to survive. Eat, sleep, shower, a fresh change of clothes every day.
What else. The world. Small, Víctor, think small. His local area, at least. Or smaller still: his block. Would he be able to make it around the block with his eyes closed? Probably not, but he can prepare himself. Prepare himself to be one hell of a blind man. And now would be as good a time to start as any. He jumps out of bed. He puts on the clothes he wore yesterday. He goes out, determined to circle the block, every sense on the alert, making a mental note of the details which, when he loses what little sight he has left in his right eye, will have to be enough for him to find his way around. Don’t think about it, Víctor. Do what Galván always taught you; don’t tell us what you are about to do: just do it.
He walks, trailing his left hand along the wall, but surreptitiously. He quickly passes the first shops and two houses. The last door before he comes to the corner is that of a bakery. He stops as though simply curious, alert to every sense. It is a glass door, like any other. He closes his eyes and takes deep breaths through his nose, twice, three times. He should be able to smell bread. The place probably doesn’t even have its own oven any more; the bread is probably delivered from some factory first thing in the morning then the bakery simply sells it. It’s a sad day for a blind man, thinks Víctor, when the overriding smell in a baker’s doorway is that of dog piss rather than bread. Maybe he should have counted the number of steps from his own door. Some other day. He’s not going back now.
El Paqui. The good old corner shop. There’s an unmistakable fragrance. Open every day until 11 p.m., including Sundays and holidays. Everything you could ever need, just round the corner. Without realising it, Víctor quickens his pace. It would be ludicrous to say he feels euphoric, yet he blesses the benefits of this little world. Everything within easy reach. Everything easily memorisable. Who could ask for more? He moves away from the wall to step around a pile of dog shit and for an instant his imagination conjures a scatological vision of hell. There are lots of dogs in the area, Víctor. And lots of not very civic-minded dog-owners. Well, if necessary, he can always leave his shoes on the landing every time he returns home.
He speeds up, turns the second corner, makes a mental note of the smell of sawdust
coming from the upholsterer’s, and a few steps on, the smell of wine from the barrels in the winery, and he begins to think: yes, he can do this, everything he needs is just round the corner; a corner he can turn without seeing, he could walk round the block with his eyes closed even now, and if he can navigate the block, he can navigate the area, the world, the universe, because it’s all fairly much alike, you can recognise anything if you’re prepared. He has just turned the third corner; for some time now he has not been looking or smelling or listening, for several metres he has been making no notes for his mental map of the future. Keep walking, Víctor. Keep going. And count the steps you take. Don’t stop to think how deceptive, how fragile, how short lived is the peace of those who have been vanquished.
Nothing More Invisible than Air
When he first saw a tank of compressed air in the cold light of day, it was proof that Peter Grouse had already stopped thinking like a thief and begun thinking like a magician. The metal cylinder was just like the one he had seen at the Egyptian Hall, though it looked thinner and appeared to be less heavy, although in fact two men were needed to carry it. Throwing caution to the wind, he went straight over and asked them what they were carrying. Compressed air was a recent innovation and although it had been used in factories for some years now, the idea of storing it in relatively small quantities for use in workshops and on building sites was only just taking off. When he found out what it was, he did not, for a moment, think about how much it might be worth if he could steal it. On the contrary, his first thought was about its practical applications in magic. More precisely, how it might be used to operate Psycho the automaton. Nor was it a particularly detailed deduction. He was simply struck by the words ‘Nothing more invisible than air’. He started to run.