In following his advice to pay homage to the greats, Víctor ensured that he numbered Galván among them. The maestro was the bridge, the invisible thread that made it possible, during the two hours of uninterrupted performance, to move effortlessly between the nineteenth century and the present, between wonder and admiration, between the ‘it’s not possible’ and the ‘yet it is’. Furthermore, Galván’s name still appeared next to his on the posters and the programme. Víctor had not forgotten how much Galván had contributed to the text, not only through his initial comments but more importantly when the two of them had sat down together in the workshop and begun turning this idea for a show into a script that could be performed. He still had the text in a drawer somewhere, in a red folder with the word MORTAL written on the cover, for that was the name of his new show.
There is no point looking for it now since to read it he would have to hold the pages two inches from his face, cover his left eye and trust his right eye to work properly for several minutes, something it has not done in the past two weeks. Besides, he is sure he can recite it from memory. In Spanish and English. He performed it in theatres the world over for five years. It is like a favourite song not heard for some time. He says the first words aloud, convinced that he has only to throw open the floodgates of memory and the rest of the words will fall into place:
‘My father died when I was seven years old. One day, I came home and found him lying dead on the floor. His body was there but he was no longer inside. Simple as that. Or not so simple. I remember there was music playing. The same music that is playing now.’
At this point, the andante from Bach’s first violin concerto would begin to play. Víctor would fall silent, allowing the tremulous chords to spill out over the audience. He even remembers how long he had to pause: eight bars, almost thirty seconds in most versions at standard tempo. During rehearsals, Galván had thought it was too slow, but in performance, with the musicians in one corner of the stage and Víctor standing alone in the spotlight, it was dramatic, all eyes were fixed on him.
No one is looking at him now, no one but the ghosts of the past. Four ants are crawling across the surface of the terrarium but, unless some evolutionary mutation has produced a miracle, they cannot hear him. He is alone here on the terrace, leaning on the railings and through force of habit his tone is slightly dramatic, his voice is barely audible:
‘My father loved music. At home, there was always music playing. Once, when we were going out, I asked him why he was leaving the music on and he said, “For the spirits.” My father was a scientist. I doubt he believed in spirits.’
Science and magic. It had been Galván’s idea to mention Martín’s profession. Before he goes on, Víctor throws his arms wide as he used to do onstage, indicating the void.
‘I don’t give them much credence myself. And yet, a long time ago, magic not only gave me hope they might exist, it seemed to offer the possibility of seeing them, of communicating with them. Today, I realise that all that exists is what we can see.’
At this point, the music would drop to an almost inaudible pianissimo so the audience could hear the creak of wood as the cabinet appeared from the back of the stage without anyone seeming to push it.
‘A hundred years ago, a cabinet just like this toured the world, leaving astonishment in its wake. Inside was a mirror, an ordinary pane of glass whose reflection …’
Víctor stops, thinks for a second, then begins again, ‘… a mirror, a pane of ordinary glass whose reflection … No, a pane of glass, whose …’
He thumps the railing and curses. There is no sense in carrying on. A single hesitation, a single misplaced word, has shattered his confidence. The echo lingers in his mind not of his own voice, but of Galván’s during the first rehearsals: ‘Fluidly, Víctor, fluidly. Think about water. All you need to do is let it flow.’
And he was water. Rushing water. For two whole hours he unleashed wild torrents only to have them ebb and then evaporate to the amazement of the audience. Galván had told him to be ambitious, and from the start, he had done just that. A chamber orchestra onstage. A battery of technical resources which had taken them two years of preparation in the workshop, he and Galván working side by side, to create precise replicas of nineteenth-century props and mechanisms.
It was a brilliant idea. It seemed to be simply a matter of recreating the finest moments of the golden age of magic. Onstage, Víctor practised every variation of the Davenport cabinet; he presented exact copies of Maskelyne’s automata; performed conjuring tricks using the methods of the great innovator Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin; sawed a woman in half using the techniques of Horace Goldin; floated above the audience as Kellar had done; decapitated his assistant on a table exactly like the one Stodare had used; became invisible like Tobin; at the climax of the act, he had a member of the audience fire a gun at him and caught the bullet in mid-air, uttering the very words used by William Robinson, who died onstage the day the trick went wrong. This was the list of great moments which he and Galván had agreed upon in long discussions during which the maestro refused even to allow Houdini’s name to be uttered.
Each time Víctor opened a performance, Martín Losa’s death served as a hinge to open a new door. Again and again, the tale returned to spirits, to the conflict between science and magic, moving it forward, giving it narrative drive, ensuring that the show did not simply become a succession of illusions. But the brilliance of the idea was that it only appeared to pay homage. Onstage, Víctor presented illusion after illusion, never forgetting to mention the name of the person who had invented it, the person who first performed it. Then he revealed the secret of the illusion. Not only did he tell the audience the mechanisms which made the illusion possible, he invited them onstage to see for themselves and then take it apart. The mirror that had served to hide the body of the decapitated man was smashed to smithereens, a pair of shears cut through the cables that had made possible the mysterious levitation.
And then he performed the illusion again. The audience spent two hours going from pillar to post, first watching in fascination as a historic trick was performed, then dazzled as the working of the trick was revealed to them only to be enraptured when the illusion was repeated without any possible explanation for how it was done.
Just when it seemed that Víctor could not possibly pull another trick from his metaphorical hat, the string quartet began to play the first notes of Mumuki, slow and disjointed as the sound of an approaching storm. Víctor would walk to the front of the stage and recite the valedictory:
‘There are no spirits. All things come to an end. Life is a fleck of gold glimpsed in the lode. Some day, someone comes and finds our body deserted.’ At that moment, with exquisite slowness, he collapsed onstage saying: ‘And we disappear.’
And he disappeared. The quartet unleashed the violent storm that is Mumuki, pure Piazzolla, profane tango, and the audience would sit, dumbfounded, as the music played on, three, five, six minutes as the measures spilled out and the magician did not reappear. Only after the last bar, when silence fell on the hushed theatre, did some of them realise that Víctor was not coming back, and they began to clap, and applause spread like contagion through the theatre.
It always worked. The clapping, the stamping, the rhythmic beating on the seats; it was not simply a testament to their appreciation, or even their gratitude for the marvels they had witnessed, it was a refusal to accept that this journey, which some felt during the performance might go on for ever, was over. It was a demand for Víctor’s return, as though only his reappearance on the stage could restore them to normality, the blind, unthinking humdrum life they had willingly relinquished when the show began on condition that it be restored to them at the end. More than once, Víctor felt tempted to reappear, to bask in the applause, but he never did so. He always stayed in the wings, paradoxically happy but alone, thinking of Galván and denying his audience the thought of a return after the end.
Standing on the terrace,
he now says the last words aloud: ‘And we disappear.’
Before, Now, After
He’s annoying you, Víctor, admit it. You only opened the door, only let him in, because you thought it would be the quickest way to get rid of him, but the conversation has gone on for more than two hours now and there is no end in sight. You are sick of his questions, irritated by his patronising tone; above all you are tired of the pauses, the scratch of pen on paper that follows your answers. Sometimes it is rapid, as though he is merely ticking a box, turning your answer into ‘yes’ or ‘no’ on a questionnaire. At other times, though the short strokes of the pen sound like a stenographer eager not to waste time, he seems to be writing long sentences you know nothing about. You know this is a standard questionnaire: yes or no; none, a little, some, enough, a lot, too much; never, daily, weekly, monthly, annually. But now and then there seems to be a box for observations over which the social worker lingers. You want to ask him what the hell he’s writing, but you say nothing. You’ve decided to confine yourself to short answers and pretend to be completely uninterested in this interview and its consequences.
He asks whether you have any family, and you say no. Friends? No. Acquaintances? No. There has to be someone. You raise your eyebrows in a gesture of mild irritation, as though this might force him to move on to the next question. But he insists: nobody? He glances down at his paperwork and mentions Mario Galván. He tells you it was Galván who called ONCE in light of your circumstances. This irritates you too, this carefulness with language, the euphemistic way he refers to your blindness as a visual impairment concomitant with atrophy of the optic nerve. Of both nerves. Galván? Oh, yes, my old teacher. But we don’t see each other any more. You can’t help but smile when you use the verb ‘to see’, a fact he quickly jots down. You don’t tell him that, since his last visit, Galván has been calling you. That would mean giving him an explanation that corresponds to the boxes on his questionnaire: initially, several times a day; now, never. We don’t talk any more. You have every right not to tell him you’ve disconnected the phone. Everyone has their secrets.
It’s possible this man thinks you are the most disagreeable person on the face of the earth, though from his tone it seems more likely that he pities you. You know: your circumstances. He may also think you’re stupid. Slow witted. Because given your obvious intention to get this over with as quickly as possible, you linger every time he asks you to clarify something. Come on, Víctor, it’s not hard. All he wants to know is whether you take the bus, whether you manage to shower, cook for yourself, cope with the housework, go out from time to time. Stuff like that. But on the questionnaire, there are three boxes for each of these questions. The first marked ‘Before’; the second ‘Now’. Before you lost your sight: yes or no, a little or a lot, daily, weekly. Now that you’re blind: no, no, nothing, never. You understand him, don’t you? What’s your problem? Box number three? This is marked ‘Prospects’. It’s just a name so the box fits the questionnaire. What it really means is: ‘Prospects with regard to rehabilitation’. Bluntly: before, now, after. Afterwards, in the future. Will you need to be able to take the bus? Or to take a more concrete example: will you want to eat? Everyone needs to eat, Víctor. They’ll teach you, but you have to do your bit. Get a move on and answer the questions, because he hasn’t told you yet, but after this section, there’s a general section with lots of white boxes with titles such as ‘Attitude’. You know, Attitude with regard to rehabilitation. He needs to decide whether you demonstrate hope, denial, euphoria, urgency, indifference or fear. And he doesn’t know what to put because every time he uses the word ‘before’, you take refuge in silence as though decades have passed, as though to remember what you did when you were blessed with the gift of sight, you have to cross over to some previous life. And every time he uses the word ‘now’, you freeze, as if the word is absurd, a meaningless sound to which your only response is an echo: now? You mean, now, now? And, naturally, with every passing second, the word now means something different. Now, Víctor, the present, Jesus! Today. Have you taken a bus? Did you shower and dress yourself? When he leaves will you be able to make a decent meal? Don’t just sit there looking bewildered, say no. Now, no. Today, no. In the present, not, nothing, never.
He’s a nice man, Víctor. Admit it. He’s not pressuring you, he’s trying not to make this any more painful than it has to be. Sometimes, he’s a little too persistent, but he’s only doing his job. OK, you don’t like his manner, he irritates you; when he’s not making notes, when he looks at you, waiting for you to answer, he constantly clicks his plastic ballpoint. Click, click, click, click. The unbearable sound of the little spring creeps into your ears, travels along the dead roads of your nervous system. You are about to reach out and rip the pen from his hands. You have lots of reasons to forgive him. Because this situation isn’t easy for anyone and he has as much right to be nervous as you do. Because in all probability he’s not aware that he’s doing it; he’s too busy studying your face, finding some word that sums up your attitude. And because he has only just met you. He knows nothing about your life. He doesn’t know that the sound of him clicking his pen is precisely what makes it impossible for you to travel in time, it is what anchors you to the last moment you want to think of right now.
Take a leap into the future, Víctor. Or just a little step. Ten minutes, fifteen, nothing much. At some point this interview will be over. The man will gather his paperwork, put it in the folder he was hugging to his chest as he arrived, the yellow folder you could barely make out, he will put his pen back in his pocket, get to his feet and, before he says goodbye, he may pretend to smooth the creases in his trousers so he can dry his hands, because he is sweating just as much as you are. And though he will tell you it’s not necessary, you will insist on walking him to the door and you’ll pretend not to be conscious of the fact that, as he walks behind you, he is watching the way you brush the walls with your fingertips, the slight deviation in your steps, the way your fingers hesitate before they find the handle and open the door. You’ll say your goodbyes, exchange awkward, interminable small talk about the heat, the rain, and eventually he will say what you expect him to say:
‘We’ll be in touch.’
We, plural. You won’t ask who: ONCE? Social Security? Who knows. Someone will call you. Maybe you should reconnect the phone. ‘When?’ you’ll ask. And you’ll realise that it took you too long to ask, because before you hear his voice you will hear his footsteps stop on the stairs, hear him clear his throat as people do before answering an awkward question:
‘I can’t really say, there’s a long waiting list. It’s usually within the year.’
‘Oh.’
This is what you will say: ‘Oh.’ Then you will close the door. And the social worker will be relieved that you have finally said something laden with meaning, a single word by which he suddenly grasps the before, the now, and can fill in all the little boxes relating to after.
Emptiness
Every journey, every voyage, imposes a suspension of time during which the armies of the past and future sharpen the swords they use in their permanent duel. Aboard the boat that brought Peter Grouse back to London, memory and imagination squared off in an unequal battle. Memory, though benefiting from superior forces and more effective weapons, stood to lose everything. For Grouse found it both difficult and unrewarding to recount precisely what took place during his last days in Philadelphia.
He records that he was held down by four thugs who gave him a good beating and threatened to cut off his entire thumb unless he stopped struggling. He records the feeling of cold steel against his skin. The sweat on the arms of the men who held him down, the noise of frantic breathing, the curses. He even records the moment when he took a deep breath and closed his eyes so that at least he might be spared the sight of the blood. But he says nothing about the pain. Nor the sound, the inescapable crunch of bone and cartilage. Memory cast a blessed veil over the time he spent in the hosp
ital, where he was dumped at the door by the four men. The sutures. The smell of flesh burning as it was cauterised. Even the days that followed, spent in bed in his lodging house, waiting for the infection and the fever to subside, not daring to sleep for fear that even a slight movement might drag his thumb across the sheets.
When, eventually, the fever passed, he made the sort of false account of losses we invariably make to console ourselves with what remains. He had come through with his life, and by the merest chance, with his right hand unscathed. He could use the tools of his profession as effortlessly as he had before. Of both his professions: picklocks, of course, but also pencils and tools for designing and constructing illusions. And though he lamented the loss of half his left thumb, he suspected that the remaining part could still fulfil the basic functions required of it: holding, pinching, pushing. But it would be weeks, perhaps months, before that was possible. Grouse was in no doubt that, as he had been told when he was given first aid, the skin of the stump would eventually scar and, with time, would become hard and insensible. But until that happened, the slightest touch was enough to send a shudder like an electrical shock all the way from his hand to his feet. Washing, dressing, eating, all the day-to-day activities could trigger excruciating pain which he could avoid only by keeping his left hand behind his back, as though it had been not his thumb but his wrist which had been severed. Moreover, the wound, which was still tender and raw, leaked pus continually, forcing him to change the dressing several times a day, something he could do only by biting his lip, distracting his attention with self-inflicted and hence manageable pain.