Could he use this to his advantage? Could Grouse use Furness’s zeal, his indignation, to somehow help in his own machinations against Kellar? In other words, could he reawaken the commission’s interest and profit from its members’ gullibility?
He had to wait only two days to find out. That morning the newspaper announced ‘Harry Kellar’s triumphant return to the Philadelphia Opera House’. By dawn, the city was strewn with flyers advertising KELLAR’S STARTLING WONDERS and depicting the magician surrounded by goblins, demons and skeletons gesturing dramatically towards the dark interior of a wooden cabinet. Grouse made sure to get a front-row seat for the first night and had to admit that the show was first class, as long as he was prepared to ignore the integrity of the performer. Kellar effortlessly performed the finest illusions from around the world; the only problem was that none was his own invention. Zero. Not one. His only real addition was the introduction of magnets, clips and glues which he needed to perform the basic sleights of hand any other magician could perform without any help. So Grouse sat, silently recalling the names of the genuine inventor of each trick, grateful that at least Kellar’s tone and his attitude onstage were not as arrogant as those of Maskelyne. By the end of the performance, his only concern was financial. By now he understood that Kellar would not be prepared to pay for a new trick. He clearly would not give a damn about improving his version of Psycho. No one knew better than Grouse how difficult it was to sell something to someone who was prepared to steal it.
But he had not made such a long and costly journey to give up at the first hurdle. Early the next morning, he sent three anonymous telegrams, all with the same wording: ‘Henry Seybert requests your presence tonight at the Park Street Opera House.’ Two were addressed to the editors of Banner of Light in Boston and Mind and Matter in Philadelphia, magazines which, for years, had been engaged in a bitter campaign not only against the Seybert Commission but against anyone who purported to unmask the spiritualists. The third telegram he sent to the University of Pennsylvania, addressed to Horace Howard Furness. All the recipients believed that Kellar himself had issued the invitations, undoubtedly another piece of blatant self-promotion. The magazines duly dispatched their editors in the hope of catching the magician making some mistake they could use against him. Furness showed up as requested simply to be entertained and, perhaps, out of gratitude for Kellar’s honesty.
The brilliance of Peter Grouse’s plan was its apparent simplicity: at some point during the performance he would make something unexpected happen in the cabinet, something for which even Kellar would have no explanation. If those he had invited were in attendance, the magazines would give the event considerable coverage and the commission would be forced to intervene. This would bring Kellar new fame, something the magician would make every effort to turn to his financial advantage. And by subsequently revealing the secret of the illusion, Grouse would ensure that he too was amply rewarded. He realised, however, that to pull it off would require considerable skill, sang-froid and an ability to improvise. So, as soon as he had sent the telegrams, and although there were twelve hours before the show started, he set off for the theatre with his picklocks. Once inside, he spent no time examining the replicas of the automata or studying the marked cards and various mechanical devices Kellar used to make up for his lack of dexterity. Instead, he headed directly for the cabinet and, seeing that it was locked, could not help but smile. Did Kellar truly think this would protect the secrets he had had no compunction about stealing? Because to judge from its size, the cabinet was an exact copy of the one used by the Davenport Brothers. He quickly forced the lock, taking care not to damage it. The first part of the plan entailed hiding in the cabinet without anyone noticing – at least not until after the performance had started. He examined every inch of the interior. Sliding back the mirror, he found a nail from which hung a black canvas bag. He took it down and checked the contents: a cowbell, a folded hood, a small bag of flour, a stick of white chalk and a tiny pair of shears with blades so sharp they could cut through sheet metal. Kellar clearly did not do things by halves: when he asked his volunteers to tie him up, he did not give them ordinary rope, but ship’s cable. He had once allowed his wrists to be bound with chains.
Grouse put everything back in the bag and hung it on the nail. Then, he stepped into the cabinet, pressed himself into the corner and slid back the mirror. In the darkness, he opened his eyes and felt about him, calculating the size of the space. Though it would be tight, two people could fit in here, as long as the other was as thin as he was. This was all he needed to know. Now he could spend the remainder of his free time making a note of Kellar’s other mechanical secrets. And he could do what he most enjoyed: anticipate, run through in his mind every eventuality, every possible reaction, both of Kellar and of the witnesses he had invited. Memorise the score so he felt confident to improvise if he needed to.
Though he left the doors open, he spent a lot of time inside the cabinet, as though familiarising himself with it would make him more comfortable. He even sat inside while he ate the bread and sausages he had brought with him. In the early afternoon, a sudden hubbub alerted him to the fact that Kellar’s assistants had arrived to prepare for the evening’s performance. He savoured the last fresh air he would taste for quite some time, closed the doors from inside, pressed himself into the corner and slid back the mirror. Then he dipped his hand into the canvas bag and took out the stick of chalk. This, he knew, was the first thing he would need. Instinctively, he rummaged for the shears too. Though the cabinet required no preparation before the show, there was no way of telling whether someone might decide to pop their head inside.
He spent two hours standing in the darkness, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to relax his muscles and breathing shallowly so as not to give himself away. From the noises outside, he kept track of the assistants’ progress, heard Kellar arrive with a roar of last-minute orders and instructions, listened as the audience filed in and took their seats, their applause as the curtain went up and, somewhat distantly, the magician’s opening speech, full of bluster and clichés about modern science. He listened attentively until Kellar mentioned the cabinet and, steeling himself for what was about to happen, pressed himself into the far corner of his hiding place. Just then, the cabinet was pushed towards the stage, and someone swiftly opened the doors, slipped inside, and slid back the mirror. It was Eva, Kellar’s petite wife, who acted as his assistant for almost all of his illusions. As though his own presence was the most natural thing in the world, Grouse brought his finger to his lips to silence her and gestured to the space next to him. Perplexed, Eva hesitated for a moment, but then saw there was nothing for it but to do as he suggested. By now, the cabinet had been wheeled onstage by two assistants and she could not risk any part of her body being visible when Kellar threw open the doors. Nor could she say anything without alerting the audience to her presence.
Oblivious to what was happening inside the cabinet, the magician, as always, called for two volunteers from the audience. The editors of Banner of Light and Mind and Matter immediately jumped to their feet. As they made their way to the stage, Kellar announced that what they were about to witness was the fruit of his ingenuity, of his mastery of molecular transformation, blah, blah, blah.
He opened the doors and asked the volunteers to examine the cabinet and tell the audience of any irregularity they encountered. The volunteers eagerly examined it in minute detail and were forced to admit that it was just an ordinary wooden wardrobe.
‘Very well,’ the magician said with heavy irony. ‘Well, it can’t hurt to make sure. And since we know that the spirits like to communicate by writing on slates, let’s give them an opportunity to do so.’ He showed a slate to the volunteers to confirm that it was blank. Then he set it down on the floor of the cabinet, closed the doors and rapped on them with his knuckles. ‘As you can see, it’s made of solid wood.’
The knocking was a signal to Eva that she could get t
o work. Grouse slid back the mirror and grabbed the slate. Eva tried to stop him and, in the scuffle that followed, she gave a sort of grunt. Kellar thought that his wife had had some minor accident, but immediately recovered his composure, making a quick joke and still mentally counting off the twelve seconds he usually gave Eva to write the message.
When he opened the doors, the slate was on the floor where he expected it to be. Normally, he would hand it to one of the volunteers without even looking at it so that they could read the message aloud, which was invariably the same: ‘Enough with the spirits, Kellar, show us the science.’ But on this occasion, alerted by the curious sounds, he glanced at the slate before handing it over. ‘Summon Mr Furness. We have a message for him.’ Kellar had no choice but to accept the situation and allow the volunteers to read out the message.
Furness was not at all surprised to be called onstage. After all, if Kellar had sent the invitation it was logical that he should try to take advantage of his presence. The magician greeted the investigator and, as he looked at him quizzically, informed the audience that Furness was an eminent scholar, famous for debunking fraudulent spiritualists. He offered Furness the opportunity to examine the cabinet, which the professor did somewhat carelessly since he assumed he would find nothing. Then, he invited him to step inside and close the doors. This was the moment when Eva usually pulled the hood over the volunteer’s head and sprinkled him with flour, skilfully using only one hand since she needed the other to ring the bell for the audience to hear. But Grouse prevented her getting to the black bag, pressing her back into the corner with one arm so she could not move.
‘Horace, it’s Henry Seybert. Though you cannot see me, I am here,’ Grouse said, disguising his voice.
‘Furness, let my husband know there is someone in here with me,’ whispered Eva.
Neither had reckoned on the professor being quite so deaf. For several seconds nothing happened. Outside, Kellar realised that something strange was going on when he did not hear the bell ringing. A moment later he opened the doors and found Furness standing there, with no hood on his head and no trace of flour. Forced once more to improvise, the magician turned to the audience and said:
‘Well, well, it seems the presence of our illustrious guest has frightened the spirits themselves.’
One or two spectators laughed, but most shifted uneasily in their seats. A magician’s worst nightmare is not when an illusion goes wrong, it is when it does not go at all. When nothing happens for several moments. The audience’s suspension of disbelief depends on the magician’s ability to explain what is happening, to interpret each event before the next one occurs. Any break in this fragile narrative thread can ruin that rapport. There was no booing, but coughing and whispering indicated that the audience’s uneasiness was spreading. Kellar did what any magician with a minimum of experience would do under the circumstances: he ploughed on, trusting in his ability to improvise.
‘Let’s try it again, but perhaps this time I shall go in with him.’
He asked Furness to bind his hands and had the two volunteers check the knots. Then, he invited the investigator to step into the cabinet with him. As soon as the doors were closed, Kellar whispered, ‘What the devil is going on, Eva?’
Almost blindly, Grouse reached out and put the hood over Furness’s head and tipped the bag of flour over him. His other hand was still covering Eva’s mouth, but she bit him and managed to free herself. Grouse could not suppress a cry but he managed to ward off her blows as she tried to grab the shears from him. As they struggled he felt the blades snap closed on something hard and thick. The blades fell to the floor of the cabinet with a clang. Even Furness, through his deafness, heard the howl that suddenly rang out, startling the volunteers, who were standing outside the cabinet, and Kellar’s assistants waiting in the wings, the entire audience and possibly those walking past the theatre.
Kellar brutally pushed the mirror closed, opened one of the doors and leapt out on to the stage, blinking against the light. He had no idea what he was about to say. In their confusion, some of the audience burst out laughing: logically, they had expected him to emerge with his hands untied. The magician managed to play on their expectations. Slowly and deliberately he opened the other door and asked Furness to step out. There was a gasp, followed by thunderous applause – the trick was even better than they had expected: without untying his hands Kellar had managed to place a hood over Furness’s head and cover him in flour. The magician bowed deeply, then turned to the audience:
‘All that remains is for Dr Furness, who is renowned for his honesty in such matters, to tell us whether he sensed the presence of a spiritual force inside the cabinet.’ Kellar turned to the journalists. ‘Take off the hood.’
Furness, shaking his head in puzzlement, asked Kellar to repeat the question. Then he turned to the audience and said:
‘I felt a force, certainly, but it did not feel very spiritual.’
‘In that case, I can ask only that my assistants remove the cabinet,’ Kellar gestured for them to do so as quickly as possible, ‘and carefully guard its secrets.’
Hearing these last words, the assistants knew what was being asked of them. As soon as the cabinet was out of sight of the public, they opened the doors. Inside, they found Eva Kellar in hysterics. Though clutching her hands to her belly and doubled over in pain, she was still kicking out at Peter Grouse, who was virtually turning somersaults to avoid the blows. The assistants joined in but Grouse tried to ward them off, shouting that they should forget about him and take care of Eva, who had suffered a serious cut.
They helped Eva out and locked the intruder in the cabinet while one of the assistants took her to the nearest hospital, fearing she might bleed to death. The other stood guard over the cabinet, awaiting Kellar’s instructions. Sitting in the darkness, Grouse patted himself and withdrew the small, wet object stuck to his left buttock. He did not need any light; his sense of touch immediately recognised the skin, the nail, the blood, and he knew that it was part of Eva Kellar’s thumb.
Kellar concluded the performance with four hurried illusions, dispatched the audience and marched into the wings incensed, threatening to strangle his wife and demanding an explanation for this sudden fit of incompetence. The assistant attempted to explain what had happened but the magician interrupted him, demanding details, which finger, which hand, what weapon, which hospital, how and with whom. Then there was an uncomfortable silence. Grouse pressed his ear to the door of the cabinet, trying to work out what was happening outside. He heard only a murmur, a whispered conversation, words exchanged that undoubtedly concerned him. He heard footsteps retreating and then, from the door, Kellar’s last instructions to his assistant:
‘The same hand, all right? The same finger. Exactly the same part. Not an inch more. Then take him to the hospital. Let nobody say I am not a just man.’
When the doors finally opened, Peter Grouse knew what awaited him and could see no way of avoiding it.
Music for the Spirits
He remembers the cold, but he cannot quite remember what city they were in. It was fifteen years ago. Names come back to him: Dresden, Oslo, Vancouver. Nor can he remember what they were celebrating: a good review, perhaps, though they never paid the critics much heed; or perhaps the however many hundred performances of Espectros. Whatever the case, it was the early hours of the morning and they were on their way back to the hotel. They walked with their hands in their pockets and the collars of their coats turned up. He thinks he can remember that the pavement glittered with frost and, if he concentrates, he can see, can almost feel, their misty breath. They had been walking in silence for some time, their elation giving way to a quiet sense of satisfaction.
Galván was telling him that if he thought he had made it to the other side of the line of fire, he was mistaken; that he should not let himself be blinded by praise; that to rest on his laurels would be to run a terrible risk. Víctor listened politely; the speech fondly reminded him of
Galván’s lectures long ago, but he did not really take notice until – as usually happened in these lectures – Galván’s vague moralising resolved itself into a specific conclusion: he needed to come up with a new show. Something bigger, more ambitious. He had to come back across the line of fire so that he could pass through it again, or better still, dance amid the flames until he was burned. He had to take up the baton passed on by the great magicians of yesteryear and, in doing so, pay tribute to them. And one more thing: he would have to do it alone.
Víctor stopped walking and Galván stopped and stood next to him. This, he remembers. The silence gradually absorbed the echo of their footfalls. The maestro looked him in the eye and told him he was not abandoning him. He still believed in him, believed in his ideas and in his ability to execute them to the most exacting standard. He was sure the new show would be a triumph and it was because of this that he had to take a step back. He cut short Víctor’s protests, promising he would help him devise the new show and support him in the workshop, that he would be with him through rehearsals and was even prepared to direct the Barcelona premiere. And he was not about to give up his fifteen per cent, he said jokingly. But when it came to going on tour, he would stay at home. ‘Look at me, Víctor, I’m too old for this. I can’t keep travelling halfway around the world with holes in my lungs.’
It had been difficult for Víctor to get used to working without Galván. His missed his company on tour, and his advice after the obligatory rehearsals when he arrived in each new theatre. But most of all he missed the maestro’s presence in the moment just before his first performance in each new town. Standing in the middle of the stage, waiting for the curtain to go up, he felt a terrible emptiness in the pit of his stomach, a mental weakness which he could only rise above by constantly repeating the first words he would say when the curtain rose: ‘My father died when I was seven years old.’ He had said the words so often now that they no longer reminded him of death; quite the reverse, they were like a rebirth. Something magical about to begin. And a second later he forgot about the maestro and did not think of him again until the time came to leave the stage and, waiting in the wings, listening to the roar of the applause, he thought of Galván and murmured: ‘This is my tribute to you.’