The Manual of Darkness (13 page)

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 before. 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 changed 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.

‘It was at that point,’ he carried on, his voice now shaky, ‘that the handkerchief came into my hands. I felt a strange power surge through my fingers like an electrical current. From that moment on, everything I touched acquired magical properties. This pack of cards, for example …’

At that moment, Pablo started to cry. Annoyed by the interruption and convinced that he would never recover his rhythm, Víctor looked up and saw what had happened. The lollipop was completely covered in ants. Some of them were darting crazily across the toddler’s cheeks. Silvia tried to pacify the child, but Víctor got there before her. For the first time, he acted without thinking and did what he needed to do. He scooped the child up into the air, took the lollipop away and dropped it on the ground, kissed the boy on the cheek and wiped away his tears with the handkerchief from the Chinese boxes.

‘You’ll be OK …’ he said, more surprised than anyone at the sudden authority in his voice. ‘When I was your age, I used to get scared sometimes too. You know what my father used to say to me? My father used to say that the way to deal with nasty things is to make them disappear.’ With his free hand, he took three ants which were still looking for traces of sugar on Pablo’s cheeks. He had only to wink at Silvia for her to take the child from his arms. ‘Ants, for example. People are always trying to think of ways to kill them. But you don’t need to.’

He made his right hand into a fist, leaving only a small opening by the ball of his thumb, just as he had seen his father do so many times. He then put one of the ants into the hole and looked at the audience. For the first time, they were all staring at him open mouthed. The problem was, he didn’t know what to do next. He noticed that his glasses were jiggling on the bridge of his nose and thought about Galván and about his father as he slipped his finger into the hole and squashed the ant into the gap between his fingers. He did the same thing with
the other two ants. Only when he suddenly opened his hands, holding his palms out for the audience to see, did he realise the trick had worked. The squashed bodies of the ants were on the back of his hand, facing him. One of the ants was still wriggling. He did not grieve for it, even for a second.

‘You can do exactly the same thing with tears,’ he said. ‘Pablo’s tears are on this handkerchief, but I’m going to make them disappear.’

Very slowly, working close to the toddler’s face as though he were trying to hypnotise him, he pushed the silk handkerchief into his left fist. Then he opened both hands and showed them to the audience: they were empty. At last there was a burst of genuine applause and Víctor did not make the mistake of pausing to revel in it. He had barely found his rhythm, but he pressed on.

‘He was a big guy, my father. Make your problems disappear, invent your own solutions, that was his motto. He used to tell me that even poor people don’t have to worry because you only have to dig into your pocket and …’

He made coins appear, and balls and flowers. He made impossible flames leap from his fingertips. One after another he performed the tricks he had planned, combining them with the freedom only afforded to those who know exactly what they are doing. Nothing went wrong. Not a single trick went unapplauded and more than once he heard the magic words ‘It’s not possible!’ He was like an infallible robot. He didn’t know whether he had been performing for ten minutes or three hours and he didn’t care. He noticed that Silvia kept trying to catch his eye, tapping her wristwatch insistently.