As soon as he stepped into the theatre, Maskelyne saw that the lights were on and that Psycho was in position onstage. He dispatched his thugs to either side of the automaton, while he went back into the wings, where everything seemed to be in order.
‘Grouse!’ he roared, standing at the front of the stage once more. ‘Enough of these games! I’m warning you …’
He trailed off in mid-sentence, alerted by the familiar puff of air and the grinding of gears that heralded Psycho’s movements. He quickly turned and saw the arm of the automaton moving towards the rack that held the whist cards. Maskelyne was dumbfounded: he had just checked to make sure there was no one near the tank of compressed air. Only when Psycho’s hand stopped in mid-air did he notice that it was not holding a card, but a piece of folded paper suspiciously similar to those Grouse’s emissary had delivered. Still glancing around the theatre furiously, he came closer, took the piece of paper and read: ‘As I said: genuinely automatic.’ Maskelyne screwed the paper into a ball, threw it on the floor, and attempted to invest his voice with a calm he did not feel.
‘Grouse!’ he called. ‘We need to talk. There’s no need for you to hide. We can settle this matter like gentlemen.’
Maskelyne jumped, startled by another burst of air. By the time he turned round, Psycho’s arm was already proffering a second slip of paper. ‘I have made three copies of the plans which I have entrusted to my associates. Should any mischief befall me, they are instructed to register the patent this very day.’
From his hiding place, Grouse could not see Maskelyne, but the hail of insults and blasphemies was enough for him to know that the man was still following the script he had penned for him. Slowly, Grouse smoothed the creases of his black jacket. He would soon be making his entrance.
‘You win, Grouse. I am a man of my word.’ As he spoke, the magician’s head jerked about like a fretful bird, trying to find his rival. ‘I have the money here.’ He slipped a hand into his pocket and took out an envelope. ‘But you must understand that I cannot pay you unless …’
Another burst of air. Infuriated, Maskelyne did not even wait until Psycho had completed its move. He marched over to the rack, took the next piece of paper and read it: ‘Place the envelope on the card rack and withdraw to the back of the stage.’
Maskelyne did as he was ordered but, unable to contain his fury, he lashed out at Psycho’s metal arm as he passed. It now hung limply at the elbow as though a tendon had been broken and there was a sudden whistle of compressed air as it escaped the entrails of the automaton. The moment had come for Grouse to play his starring role. It would have amused him to pop his head out of the trapdoor in the table and speak, but he was afraid that in such a vulnerable position he would be at the mercy of the magician. Instead, he emerged from behind the table and rose to his feet.
‘Tell your thugs to stand next to you, Maskelyne. I have as much concern for my health as you do for your patents.’
The magician gestured to his henchmen to move to the back of the stage. When Grouse was still some paces from Psycho, Maskelyne came forward and stood ten feet away from him.
‘Don’t touch the money yet,’ the magician warned, attempting to invest his tone with what meagre authority remained. ‘In the first instance, there are a number of matters to be settled.’
‘Of course,’ Grouse replied, but his every muscle was tensed and primed. ‘… like gentlemen.’
‘Like gentlemen. I cannot pay Mr Grouse unless he comes here in person and surrenders all copies of the plans.’
‘I regret that will not be possible, sir. Moreover, it would serve little purpose. I have seen Mr Grouse working on this project and, believe me, he could walk out of here and draw the diagram again from memory. Right down to the last nut.’
‘How can I be sure that he will not attempt to steal my patent?’
‘Mr Maskelyne, I truly believe you have not quite understood the situation. There is no theft here. On the contrary, it is a gift. Mr Grouse is giving you the gift of integrity. Because from now on, every time you utter the words “genuinely automatic”, every time you boast about how your automaton works without the need for human intervention, you will be able to do so with a clear conscience. And that, I think you will agree, is priceless.’
Maskelyne reflected for a moment in silence. He had just witnessed his invention functioning completely independently. Three thousand pounds was a considerable sum, but it would put him several steps ahead of his rivals and extend Psycho’s lifespan, and consequently his earnings, by several years.
‘You yourself put a price on the invention; so it is only fair that you should pay it,’ the thief went on. ‘In addition, Mr Grouse is offering you a significant improvement, and his silence on the matter for the remainder of his life, for which he asks only the modest additional sum of four and thruppence.’
‘Four shillings and …’ Maskelyne looked him up and down, a look of contempt that suddenly changed to a flash of recognition. ‘Ah! I see … It seems I have been dealing with Mr Grouse in person all along. I confess, it was somewhat irksome, parleying with a ghost.’
‘They say he who robs a thief is pardoned for a hundred years, Maskelyne. But you should not believe everything you hear.’
‘That much seems incontrovertible,’ the magician replied, ‘but one important detail remains.’
‘There is nothing, I’m sure, that we cannot settle here,’ said Grouse, ‘as gentlemen.’
‘This gift that you speak of … I cannot take full advantage of it unless you explain to me how it works.’
‘You are right. However, I’m sure you will agree that the problem cuts both ways. The moment I show you how it functions, I lose all legitimate claim to the money. This, I suspect, accounts for the presence of your friends.’ He nodded towards the back of the stage. ‘But this can be resolved by the order of events. Shall we begin with the matter of the money?’
With an irritated expression, the magician rummaged in his pocket and began counting.
‘Leave it, Maskelyne. We are not going to haggle over loose change. After all, on the night in question, you were merely acting in self-defence. But I shall take the envelope. And I would like the leather case, too. I took a liking to it the first time I saw it.’
‘You’re mad. The case contains nothing of any val—’
‘I don’t care what it contains,’ Grouse interrupted him. ‘It could be empty for all I care. It is symbolic.’
It took a little longer than expected for Maskelyne to untie the leather strap attached to his wrist. Perhaps because he was stalling for time, perhaps simply because his hands were trembling with rage. But finally he untied it, and when he turned it upside down some papers tumbled out, together with two or three small metal parts which rolled across the stage. Grouse moved closer, took the envelope from the card rack, placed it inside the leather case and tied the strap about his wrist.
‘And now, if you don’t mind …’ he said. ‘I have things to do.’
‘You’re playing with fire, Grouse,’ the magician said, grabbing him by the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Tell me the secret …’
‘Had you not interrupted Psycho in his duties, you would have discovered it some time ago,’ Grouse said, gesturing to the card rack in front of the automaton on which there were two more pieces of paper.
Maskelyne turned and reached towards the metal rack. As he did so, Grouse jerked his arm away, freeing himself. He leapt from the stage and ran off between the tables.
‘Don’t worry, Maskelyne!’ Grouse called out before vanishing into the hallway. ‘At least I am a gentleman.’
The magician watched his henchmen disappear after Grouse, and though they had no hope of catching him, Maskelyne made no attempt to stop them. He held both pieces of paper in his hands. One read: ‘Open the tubes’. The other: ‘Pig’s intestines. A sausage inside a sausage.’ These words were enough to give him a general idea of how Grouse’s improvement worked. He ran into the wings, c
losed the stopcock on the tank and reeled in the tubes that ran under the stage. He found a sharp knife among his tools and made a cut lengthwise into one of the tubes. As he pulled the rubber apart, Maskelyne silently cursed Grouse: he could see nothing inside. But when he got to the other end, he cursed again, aloud this time, because the trick was so simple, so brilliantly simple, that he was both astonished and insulted. With a pair of tweezers, he removed the transparent tangle that stopped the tube and held it up to the light. Pig’s intestines. Exactly what was used to make sausages. He sniffed the material, touched the tacky surface with his fingertip. The little pop he had heard before each of Psycho’s movements helped him deduce how it worked. Grouse had used the pig’s intestine to create a valve in each of the tubes. When the stopcock was opened, the flow of air was blocked by the valve. In a matter of seconds, the compressed air popped the valve, but the force of the air pulled it along such that, reaching the narrow end, it clogged the tube completely. During this brief period, a blast of air hit the workings of the automaton and set Psycho’s arm in motion to select the first card. Now that the first tube was clogged, air could move only through the second, where the process was repeated: another pop, another blast of air, the tube became clogged and the arm stopped over the second card.
Bravo. Maskelyne used the knife to cut along the second tube, in no hurry now, knowing what he would find. The only complication was calibrating the position of each tube and the various valves to precisely regulate Psycho’s movements. If a common pickpocket had been able to do so, Maskelyne, who considered himself a scientist, could surely replicate the process easily.
Meanwhile, Grouse, safe from his pursuers, had taken refuge in a darkened doorway where he stood contemplating the coveted leather case. With a finger, he traced the gilt inscription that glittered next to the lock: JOHN NEVIL MASKELYNE – EGYPTIAN HALL. Any leatherworker, he thought, could replace this name with his. He was prepared to pay to have it done. Although, thinking about it, he could just as easily buy the tools and do the work himself. He enjoyed manual labour, he realised, and for the first time in his life, thanks to the contents of the envelope, he would have time on his hands.
Sparks in his Hand
In his right hand are the sleeping pills. It feels strange holding them in his palm, feeling their heft yet not seeing them. Not for a moment has he considered taking them all at once. He simply wanted to see them, to toy with the idea. But they are green and he cannot see them. There are shadows in his hands, and a scattering of sparks. It is difficult to take an overdose of shadows. He does not know whether to laugh or cry. One by one, he flicks them into the air, hoping they will fall into his mouth, the way he always ate popcorn as a boy. Only three find their mark. He sleeps through the night and does not dream. Or if he does, he cannot remember.
Burn, O Earth!
When he sees him, Galván is terrified because his face, the grin that all but dislocates his jaw, the hearty greeting, the sing-song tone and, most of all, the way he launches into a conversation on the landing without so much as inviting him in, offering him a seat, letting him take off his jacket, does not lead Galván to think that Víctor is his old self again, but rather that he has gone completely mad.
Víctor has had an idea. A brilliant idea. Come on, he says, come in. He takes Galván by the elbow and drags him to the bedroom. Though he needs to put his arm out and feel his way along the wall, he walks quickly, almost fitfully. Come on, look, I’ve packed my suitcase. We can leave today. I’ll take care of everything, the flights, the hotels, everything. For a moment, Galván stops listening to him. He takes a step back, looks Víctor up and down, notices how his eyebrows are bobbing around, how he is tugging at the cuffs of his shirt. He tries to focus his attention, to fill in the holes in what Víctor is saying with something akin to logic, but he barely makes out a few random words: Java, Tasmania, Calcutta and the South Seas. Inventory. Journey. And Kellar. Most of all, Kellar.
It takes some moments before the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. Víctor is suggesting that they recreate Harry Kellar’s grand tour, which took him halfway round the world. A month, he says. Kellar went by boat and it took him two years, but we can fly. A month will be more than enough. We can take his book along as a guide. We’ll see everything he saw, see it through his eyes. Can you imagine? We’ll discover the world. You can’t tell me it wouldn’t be fantastic. Víctor’s voice is insistent, imploring. He promises every possible creature comfort, assures Galván they will stop and rest for a few days in every city so they can get over the jet lag. He promises him jungles, undiscovered lands, lakes, tribes. He is babbling faster than ever now. He says he needs to make an inventory of the wonders of the world. Ever since this shit started, he says, you’ve been telling me to be brave, to accept my situation, to do something, to look to the future, not to give up on magic. OK, well, now I’m doing it. The key to the whole thing is Kellar. Kellar’s great lesson is that it’s never too late to start again. I have only a little sight left in one eye, but at least it’s something. And if I can’t do it, if I can’t see something that really deserves to be seen, you’ll be there to explain it to me. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to face up to things, to stop deluding myself: I’m about to go completely blind. This is the line of fire, and like all the magicians of 1876, I can choose whether or not to cross it, to pretend it doesn’t exist and carry on as before. I can become a pale imitation of the man I was, I can perform from memory, go on performing what has already been written, again and again for the rest of my life. Or I can take a step forward, and cross the line. To do that I have to see something new. I have to build up a store of new, beautiful sights in a dusty corner of my memory because soon, when darkness engulfs me, the past will be the one window I can stick my head out of in search of consolation. Memory will be the only store with which I can feed my imagination. I need to fill it to the brim, and I can’t do that without your help. We have to set off today. I’ll come with you back to your house, we’ll pack a suitcase for you and …
Galván opens his mouth but he cannot bring himself to say a word. He crosses over to the bed, sits down and says nothing. For the first time Víctor, too, is silent. It is impossible to know whether he is still expecting the maestro to answer or whether he has registered the refusal implicit in his silence. Víctor sits down next to him. Or rather, he slumps, he falls back as though someone has suddenly yanked away the cable that has been supplying him with this frantic energy. Galván puts an arm around his shoulder. Before he speaks, the maestro takes several deep breaths. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I’ve been here for a while now and I still haven’t recovered from climbing the stairs. All the air disappears out of the holes in my lungs and I can’t seem to get my breath. You’re talking about going halfway round the world and I can barely manage a few steps.’
Galván could leave it at that. He could pretend this is the only reason to reject the suggestion, assume that his terrible health might at least invoke Víctor’s sympathy. But he knows he is going to say more. He cannot help it. After all, he is Víctor’s teacher. Much more than that: he is his friend, his mentor, and – why not admit it? – his father. ‘Besides,’ he says, and perhaps he squeezes Víctor’s shoulder before continuing, ‘maybe you’ll never forgive me for this, but I have to tell you it’s a stupid idea. It’s a mistake. You’re in no fit state to travel, Víctor. Look at you – you’re wearing one black sock and one brown one. You haven’t shaved in over a month. You’re looking to the past to create a future. But the only thing that matters now is the present. And the present is already set in stone. For both of us. Mine is simple: I’m going to die. Today, tomorrow, next month, before the year is out. And I’m going to die properly. In my own home. Your present is to call ONCE, the National Organization for the Blind, they’re the only ones who can help you now. They know about these things. They have specialists, people who can teach you. You want a magic wand, you want to take it with you to the ends of the earth,
drive it into the ground and roar “Burn, O Earth!” just like Kellar. But you don’t need a wand, Víctor, you need a cane. A white cane. And someone who can teach you how to use it.’
They do not argue. Mercifully. Víctor gets to his feet, goes out into the corridor and walks to the door, dragging his feet as though Galván’s words have brought him down to earth. He throws the door open. Galván understands the gesture. He follows Víctor and stands in the doorway, trying to think of some parting words, something that might take away some of the bitterness of this fruitless encounter. There is nothing to say. He brings his hand up and strokes Víctor’s face, his coarse beard. Víctor takes his hand, perhaps to push it away, but maintains contact for a moment. They are antennae. They are almost like ants.
The maestro slowly heads down the stairs. He has already gone three flights when he hears Víctor close the door. Then he takes his mobile phone from his pocket, calls directory enquiries and asks for the number of ONCE. It is the only thing he can do for him.
Víctor goes back to his room and sits on the bed. He knows Galván is right. He tries to think about the future, but his imagination is tired, filled with nostalgia, it is suspended on the step where he stood two months ago, twenty-two years ago, more than a century ago, lost in the secret compartment of a cabinet, hounded by shadows and spectres. He stares at Lauren Bacall. He cannot see her, but he knows that she is there. There are those who believe in ghosts. He points to the floor. His lips curve into an ignoble, disbelieving smile and in a barely audible voice, he says: ‘Burn, O Earth!’