Víctor is sorry the tribunal has disappeared; he would like to see Furness’s face right now. The tone of his appendix is ruthless and cynical and there is a barely controlled fury when he comes to describe the various crude methods used by spiritualists to profit from other people’s grief. He wants to go on reading, but the chalk marks disappear. Víctor protests:
‘Fullerton! Tell me something – according to the title, this is only a preliminary report!’ He waits for a few seconds but there is no reply. ‘There has to be something more! A definitive report, a list of conclusions … You spent all the money, the least you could have done was adjourn the commission. No? Nothing?’ When he realises that the commission will not rematerialise, his voice drops to a whisper and he says, almost to himself, ‘It’s not possible. Long ago, Galván told me that the commission met one last time, about two years later. Peter Grouse summoned them. I’m just a student, but Galván … He can’t be wrong. Bah!’ He heaves a sigh. ‘Grouse hoodwinked them. That’s why they’re playing possum.’
As he says the word ‘possum’, he falls into a deep sleep, one mercifully devoid of images, though he is still walking on a tightrope.
Peace
When they ask whether he is claustrophobic, he immediately says no. It is hardly likely that the MRI scanner will be as dark, as cramped, as airless as the inside of the Proteus Cabinet. As the table moves into the tunnel, Víctor thinks of the countless women, magicians’ assistants, who, down the centuries, found themselves confined in boxes and trunks of every shape and size. Beautiful women, though usually petite. Anonymous women. Women with small heads. The human head is the one thing no magic trick can shrink or fold or reduce in size. Víctor could not possibly work as a magician’s assistant because from the nape of his neck to the tip of his nose measures more than twenty-two centimetres, the maximum depth of the hidden compartments in every stage contraption.
They have him remove all metal objects, including his glasses, so now he cannot see clearly this machine which is slowly devouring him. Everything is white. Or perhaps it’s just the light that seems milky, as though filtered through a white curtain. The final instructions come over the speakers just before the MRI scan begins: he is to keep still, try to relax, keep his eyes closed at all times. He should let them know if it gets too much for him, though if that happens they would need to start over again. He closes his left eye and immediately a lump comes to his throat: he could swear that the halo, the veil, the full moon, the wafer, is now also in his right eye. It’s not possible. He is about to scream for them to get him out of there, to lash out with his arms, his feet, kicking nervously, but a reassuring voice once again commands him to close his eyes and relax. We’re about to start, it says. He does as he is told. Or tries to. Five metallic taps indicate that the magnetic resonance imaging has started. In the fifteen minutes that follow, all he senses is the table moving back and forward slightly and a series of irritating noises. Like a terrible piece of disco music from which everything but the percussion has been stripped away. Or worse, like a washing machine full of screws. It is strange: his whole body is relaxed, he does not move a muscle, does not even blink. He could be at home, in bed, asleep. If he were to open his eyes now, he thinks, Lauren Bacall would greet him from the opposite wall. He thinks about tombs. About white cradles. He thinks about Galván’s island, the white light spilling from the ceiling, can almost hear Galván’s voice saying, ‘Pick a card.’
Pick a card. Víctor dares not smile, afraid he might interfere with the MRI scan. Every Tuesday, during the first year of their lessons together, Galván crushed him, forced him to practise again and again until he finally mastered the technique of forcing a card. There are many ways to make the victim in a trick believe he is freely picking a card when in fact he is choosing one previously selected by the magician. There are mathematical methods in which the magician pretends the selection depends purely on numerical chance. Others are mechanical: the card is marked, or has a corner cut away, or is in a particular position in the deck. But a good magician, a real magician, one of the scant few who, in Galván’s words, are worthy of the name, cannot resort to such crude bungling. Such a magician has to fan out the deck, to pass the cards from one hand to the other, bringing them close to the victim at precisely the right moment, making his voice hypnotic, pick a card, any card, any one at all. He has to put himself in his victim’s shoes, to know exactly what he is thinking and act on that knowledge, speeding up or slowing down so that when the victim finally closes his nervous fingers, it is on the predetermined card and no other. Every Tuesday, Galván would demonstrate the trick once. Pick a card, he would say. Time after time, Víctor tried by any means possible to ensure the maestro failed: he would pick the first card, the last, pretend to choose one only to pick the next at the last minute; allow the whole deck to be dealt out so that Galván had to start again from the beginning. Never, not once, did Galván fail to identify his card correctly. He would tell him what it was even before Víctor looked at it: two of clubs, he would say, almost always in a whisper, his mouth half closed, lips clenching one of his endless cigarette butts. King of hearts, five of spades. He was always right. And whenever Víctor asked him to explain the trick once and for all, the maestro would merely bring his hand up to his forehead and say: ‘It’s all in here. There is no trick.’ Then he would ask Víctor to do it.
For a long time, Víctor thought Galván was cheating. It took a whole year, but in time his hands became just as skilled. Galván had been right. It was possible. Nor was it definite that his mind had anything to do with his success. It was sheer manual dexterity. The hands knew. The hands knew which card the victim wanted to pick and simply offered it to him.
Why am I thinking about all this now? Oh yes, the white light. The island. ‘Here are your glasses, señor,’ a voice says. ‘Señor,’ the voice comes again and with it a gentle tap on his shoulder, ‘your glasses.’
The table, with Víctor lying face up, has emerged from the scanner. He takes the glasses the nurse is holding out and puts them on. In only a wink, he knows that the halo is still there in his right eye but, rather than being panicked, he feels a mysterious sense of peace. Fate has forced a card on him and on it is written his future. His immediate future. He is going blind. It is only a matter of days. It seems futile to resist. He cannot change the card. He picked what he picked; it was always going to be the one that fate dealt him. There is no more frenzied pursuit in his brain, no more useless running away. Blind. There is peace, even if he knows that it is the meek, regretful peace of those who surrender in the face of defeat. Like a conquered village, he must stop dreaming of some unattainable victory and begin to think about survival.
Children of God
After six months of lessons, Galván suggested he make his debut at a children’s party. Víctor immediately agreed and the maestro did nothing to curb his excitement, though he knew that children were the toughest possible audience. Contrary to what most people believe, children are not remotely innocent when it comes to magic; they treat magicians with scepticism and laugh at even the smallest failure. Perhaps in order to lessen the chance of stage fright before his debut, or perhaps because he thought the time had come for him to fend for himself, Galván spared Víctor these details, telling him only the date and time of the performance. Víctor would have to entertain the guests for forty-five minutes. The party, to celebrate the eleventh birthday of a boy named Manuel, was to take place on the outskirts of Barcelona.
He had less than two weeks to prepare himself. In the months he had been studying, aside from getting the benefit of the maestro’s advice, Víctor had memorised and rehearsed Hoffmann’s techniques. Those within his powers. Galván had not yet allowed him to attempt tricks that required complicated equipment, professional staging or those involving animals. Together, they made a list of the tricks he performed best and a second list of the materials he would need to perform them.
He worked harder than ever befor
e. He faked a sudden stomach ache in order to skip school. The following Tuesday, he proudly demonstrated the results, and for three-quarters of an hour he smoothly performed the tricks he had prepared. Galván allowed him to perform without interruption, and when he had finished, praised his fluidity and his technical precision. He made a few comments concerning Víctor’s posture and his voice, pointing out that the party would be in the garden, so he would need to speak loudly and project his voice. He also made one or two suggestions about his rhythm.
As Víctor began to gather up his equipment and put it in his backpack, Galván went to the back of the room and returned with a small leather case, like those once used by country doctors. It was old, but well preserved. The leather and the buckles were freshly polished and a braided leather strap hung from the handle.
‘I’d like you to have this,’ he said, giving it to Víctor. ‘This is so you can tie it to your wrist,’ he added, nodding at the leather strap.
‘If you lose it, I’ll cut your hands off. It’s not very big, but I think it’ll do,’ he said, cutting off any attempt by Víctor to thank him for the gift. ‘Stick to your routine. Don’t be tempted to try something you haven’t planned to do. Otherwise, you’ll become flustered and end up getting yourself into a fix.’
Víctor stood, staring at the case, while Galván continued with his advice.
‘Don’t be obsessive. You don’t need to practise any more. Sooner or later a routine loses its sparkle, it becomes mechanical.’
His words were futile. They both knew that Víctor would rehearse the routine at least a dozen times in the three days that remained.
‘Who’s Peter Grouse?’ Víctor asked.
There was a tiny inscription stamped into the leather of the case: PETER GROUSE – EGYPTIAN HALL.
‘A magician. I’ll tell you about him some time.’ He handed Víctor a piece of paper. ‘That’s the address. The party is in Malespina. It takes about an hour to get there by train, but it’s best to give yourself plenty of time. You can give me chapter and verse next Tuesday.’
‘What? You mean you’re not coming?’
‘No. They’ll give you an envelope with your fee, four thousand pesetas. Don’t forget to bring me my fifteen per cent.’
Too many surprises. It hadn’t occurred to Víctor that he would be paid for the privilege of performing. In fact, it was not good news, it simply heightened his sense of responsibility. Knowing that Galván would not be there was worse still, though he knew the maestro too well to raise any objection.
As he was about to leave, Galván hugged him goodbye, but, before letting him go, he whispered in his ear:
‘What do you do if they ask you to do the same trick twice?’
‘I refuse. And they’re not called tricks.’
‘And if they insist?’
‘I refuse again.’
‘And what if they won’t drop it? They’re only kids, Víctor.’
‘I’ll pretend to give in. I’ll start over, then quickly change the end of the trick so they’ll be doubly surprised.’
‘Good.’ Galván still did not relax his embrace. ‘How will you spot the little shit who wants to ruin the act?’
‘He’ll be sitting in the front row.’
‘And …?’
‘He won’t take his eyes off my hands.’
‘Good. So what will you do about him?’
‘Go over and casually ask him something. If I can get him to look into my eyes, I can make the most of the moment …’
‘And if you can’t?’
‘I drag out the first couple of tricks and wait for his attention to wander.’
‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘I snub him. I don’t look at him at all.’
‘What else?’
‘Whenever I need help from the audience, I pick someone sitting behind him. I make some joke so he thinks it’s not me he should be watching but the rest of the audience.’
‘And if he doesn’t stop? He’s a little shit, remember?’
‘I forget about him and start praying.’
‘Perfect.’
Having concluded his interrogation, Galván relaxed his grip, but now it was Víctor who clung to him.
‘What if I mess up, Maestro?’
Silence.
‘What if I make a mistake? What if it all goes wrong?’
Galván placed a kiss on his forehead and answered:
‘Then you come back here and you tell me about it. We’ll both cry a little and then we’ll start again. But that’s not going to happen.’
On the Saturday, he arrived at the house so early that he had to walk around the block several times before he rang the doorbell. A rather ugly girl answered, holding a freckled little boy of about three in her arms. She looked him up and down: he was too old to be invited to the party; too young to be the father of one of the guests.
‘Hi, I’m Víctor,’ he said, to break the silence. ‘Víctor Losa,’ adding, with a trace of embarrassment, ‘the magician.’
‘Oh … come in. I’m Silvia, Manuel’s sister. And this is Pablo, he’s the baby of the family.’
She smiled a little condescendingly as though she had decided at first glance that Víctor was an obnoxious twerp who was far too young to be a magician. She was about two or three years older than Víctor, though the disdain in her eyes made her look even older.
The shrieks of the children playing in the garden sounded like the war cries of some tribe of cannibals. He asked Silvia whether she could give them a snack indoors so that he could set up without anyone watching.
Before leaving him, she looked at the case.
‘I thought you told me your name was Víctor?’
‘It is.’
‘So who’s Peter Grouse?’
‘A magician. I’ll tell you about him later,’ he said, as though he were in a hurry. ‘I have to set up now. I’ll let you know when I’m ready.’
There were about thirty folding chairs set out in four rows in front of a teak table. Víctor placed a black cylinder on the table, along with three boxes of different colours, and covered them with a red silk handkerchief. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. A perfect line of ants was marching across the lawn, towards the table, from one of the hedges that bounded the garden. Víctor bowed his head and stared at them for a moment. He did not know whether to take their presence as a good omen.
Getting the children to sit down and be quiet proved difficult, but finally, Víctor lifted the silk handkerchief and the show began.
‘You’ve probably been told I’m a magician, but actually, that’s not quite true.’
He stopped abruptly. He was talking loudly and, rather than masking the quavering of his voice, the volume simply amplified it. Silvia had taken a seat in the middle of the front row and was staring at him expectantly. Víctor had to remind himself that the party was not for her but her brother Manuel, who was sitting beside her. Between them, little Pablo sat cross-legged on the grass, holding a multicoloured lollipop, and completely uninterested in the show.
‘The thing is, I was once in China, and I was given these antique boxes which have a long and strange history … As you can see, the cylinder is empty.’ He held it up so the audience could inspect it. ‘A long, long time ago …’
Something was happening. Or more precisely, something was not happening. In front of a mirror, Víctor had rehearsed every look, every gesture, every piece of patter designed to win over his audience. He thought he had a comeback for any reaction; but he was not prepared for indifference. The children were looking at him, but their faces were blank, as though they felt it had been a terrible idea to take them away from the party food and force them to watch something that felt like being in school.
In theory, the Chinese Box Trick was the perfect trick to start off with. It was a classic. It worked every time. The silk handkerchief magically disappeared, reappearing in one box after another as the order of the boxes inside the cylinder chang
ed and he recounted a strange and mysterious story. Furthermore, the first magic tricks happened within seconds. The dramatic pause so people could clap felt endless and awkward since no one in the audience said or did anything. Forcing a smile, Víctor accomplished the labyrinthine series of movements so he could manipulate the cylinder and carry on with his story about the powerful mandarin, the little thief and the handkerchief endowed with magical powers.
Although his hands rose above the temptation to tremble and, one after another, managed to perform all the necessary steps to perfection, he could not shake off the horrible feeling that he was making a fool of himself. When he concluded the trick, waving the handkerchief in the air, a single person applauded sadly, as though taking pity on him; three or four slow, booming claps that could only be made by the hands of an adult. He did not need to look up to confirm that one of the children’s parents was standing behind the rows of chairs, making sure the children behaved themselves, rather than watching the magician.