The Manual of Darkness (15 page)

Beneath the drawing was a rambling explanation of the workings of the contraption, explaining the nature and the mechanics of each part and giving the necessary instructions for assembling it. Grouse turned over the page and saw that the text continued on the reverse with a list of incomprehensible instructions like
‘The lever being pivoted at
c
, it is obvious that by depressing the end, N, B will be set at liberty, and the hand will move along the cards …’ All this simply to make the little oriental-looking mannequin move its right arm and open and close its hand.

Peter Grouse screwed the page into a ball and angrily tossed it on to the floor. He considered himself to be a man of great imagination and he had undeniably brought considerable creativity to his chosen profession, but such fanciful displays as this, which had no practical application, made him nervous. Having been the victim of a madman or a fool did not alleviate his indignation. To make matters worse, he now had to ask that dinner be put on his slate. He did not expect this to be a problem since he was a regular at the pub, but as a matter of principle, it irritated him. As he got to his feet and was about to kick the ball of paper across the room, he spotted a scribble he had not noticed before. He picked up the piece of paper, and smoothed it out on the table once more. At the bottom of the page was a handwritten note: ‘Hoffmann has no idea. Raise the Egyptian Hall bet to 3,000.’

He examined the drawing again but this cryptic note offered no new insight. And yet, for the first time since his unfortunate encounter with Maskelyne, Peter Grouse took a deep breath and his lips widened in a tense smile. A bet? Three thousand what? Three thousand pounds? That was a fortune. If he could find out where this Egyptian Hall was, he would know where to start.

G
alván offered him his first real job, but warned him not to have great expectations. It wasn’t in a theatre, nor even one of the nightclubs which, in the mid-eighties, organised cabaret-style performances of magic. No one would be paying to see him and his name would not appear on the bill. He would earn only what he received in tips. La Llave was a modest little bar in the centre of Barcelona and it made a respectable profit, basing its opening hours around the schedules of the local office workers: two sittings at breakfast, a lunch special, beer and slices of tortilla in the afternoon.

Víctor went there for the first time on a Friday just after 9.30 and, since there were no customers, he could size up at a glance the place where, according to Galván, he was to work six nights a week for the next two months: a bright polished stone floor, a small bar with a grill and a coffee machine, three whole hams hanging from the ceiling, recessed halogen lights. There didn’t seem to be much sense in opening the place in the evenings.

The owner pressed him to get changed quickly in a small basement which was part stockroom and part wine cellar. Surprised at being asked to hurry, Víctor studied the excellent selection of wines as he buttoned his black jacket and slipped into his pockets the various things he had brought in Peter Grouse’s case. Suddenly, the basement ceiling started to shudder as though there were a stampede. He climbed the narrow wooden staircase and, when he reached the door, he had to lean all his weight against it to open it a crack. The place was heaving. Though he had been downstairs less than five minutes not only were all the seats at the tables and the bar occupied, but every inch of standing room too. The noise was unbearable. Two waiters had to shout to get past, moving
through the crowd as gracefully as tango dancers, each holding aloft a tray. Behind the bar a small woman was preparing tapas at such speed that, seen from behind, she looked like some Hindu goddess with six arms in perpetual motion.

Víctor stood, confused, wondering how he was going to clear a path through the crowd until suddenly the owner appeared next to him and shouted in his ear.

‘Follow me. And get a move on, you’ve only got an hour.’

As he followed the owner, Víctor went over the list of unforeseen problems he now had to deal with. He didn’t like being rushed. Working with barely enough space to move his arms would be a challenge, but the most difficult thing was there would always be someone behind him. However good, however subtle a magician, he is always vulnerable if someone watches him from behind. He cursed Galván, who he assumed was aware of the situation but had not told him so he would be forced to come up with solutions. In fact, the teacher had given him little advice. He hadn’t even wanted to help choose the routine. ‘You get to a table, you sit down, you do what you have to do, then you move on to the next table. You have to work quickly or they’ll leave before you’ve even finished. If all goes well, they’ll ask you to stay and do another trick. They’ll offer you a drink. But you’ll get up and leave. A different trick at every table for as long as there are customers. Prove to me you’re up to it and we’ll think about doing real magic.’ These had been his only instructions; this was the challenge.

The first problem was finding a seat. There wasn’t a single empty chair. Víctor fumbled his way to the first table, where he did not even have time to introduce himself before one of the diners, assuming he was selling something, waved him away without looking and said, ‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

Víctor snorted, raised the hand holding the deck of cards to shoulder height and dropped it in the centre of the table.

‘Anyone know how many cards there are in a pack?’

After a good start, everything became easier. He finished his first round feeling as though he had achieved his aim. The tricks worked and the cries and applause at one table guaranteed him a warm reception at the next. Every time he moved, he created a small
procession since some of the customers followed him around so as not to miss anything.

When he got back to the first table, there was an empty chair for him and the diners were waiting expectantly. Someone called for silence and although the clamour elsewhere in the bar continued, for the first time he found he could perform without shouting. The second round went better than the first because Víctor had used the first as an opportunity to select objects at each table that he could adapt for his second trick. One of the diners tore a card into four only to find it, apparently whole again, under their soup plates; a handbag with its buckle fastened turned out to contain the card on which its owner had signed her name. Víctor heard the words ‘It’s not possible’ and he knew he was on the right track. In fact he was euphoric. At one point he felt as though, floating above the noise and the crowd, he could see himself, see the pleasure, the joy, if it could be called that, on the faces of those around him. He had just turned eighteen. In a month, it would be one year since he had started taking lessons and here he was achieving what, by any standards, was a resounding success.

And the best was yet to come. As he finished his second tour of the bar, he made a mental inventory of the items in his pockets and decided that this was the perfect moment to move on to more spectacular tricks. He had powdered phosphorus which, with a subtle flick of his index finger, could cause spectacular flames to leap; harmless dyes a single drop of which could change the colour of a drink in an instant; a tiny saucepan into which he could put a raw egg and, with a wave of his left hand, transform it into a steaming omelette.

When he came to the last table, surreptitiously patting his pockets to check that everything was where it should be, he felt a blast of cold air and noticed a sudden silence. The door was open and people were streaming out into the street as though someone had shouted ‘Fire!’ The waiters quickly collected the plates and the tips. The woman who had been preparing tapas had come out from behind the bar and was sitting at a table, massaging her aching feet. At the far end of the room, a swing door Víctor had not noticed opened suddenly and a chef arrived carrying trays
loaded with croquettes, Russian salad, ham and tuna
empanadillas
.

‘Did it go well?’ she asked him.

‘I think so,’ Víctor said, still in shock.

‘Come on, sit down with us and have something to eat. But you’ll have to do a little trick for us too.’

Before he did so, Víctor asked for an explanation. The secret to La Llave’s popularity at night was its proximity to Scala Barcelona, a ballroom which dominated the nightlife in the city at the time, with its spectacular shows featuring contortionists, acrobats, ventriloquists, magicians and, above all, two dance troupes capable of performing the most complex routines as long as they required the wearing of almost nothing or, failing that, the removal of a costume piece by piece. The early show offered dinner at nine o’clock, but was so expensive that many people, especially the younger audience, preferred to have a snack at La Llave and then go to the second show at 11 p.m.

‘So that’s it, they bolt down some food and then head off?’ asked Víctor.

‘Not quite. Now we get our second sitting – the people who went to the first show and spent so much on dinner that, instead of having a drink in the Scala bar afterwards, they come straight here. It’s one of the advantages of being cheaper. They’ll be streaming through that door in half an hour.’

This explained why the waiters were wolfing down the food the cook had brought out. Víctor complimented her on the croquettes and did as they did, gobbling his food with one hand and performing simple magic tricks with the other. When the first customer came through the door, the staff all got to their feet.

Víctor discovered that things went much more smoothly when customers were not eating. All he needed to do was take an empty chair and start performing and the customers would come to him. He felt completely at ease. Most of the customers just came to have a quick drink and then head home, or go on to some other bar, but one or two hung around to see another trick, and then another, until suddenly it was two o’clock in the morning and Víctor realised he had been sitting in the same chair for over an hour, performing for a group of about forty people who seemed
in no hurry to leave. The shutters came down at half-past and even the owner sat and watched him perform while the waiters cleared up. Víctor brought the show to a close, only to hear the inevitable request for just one more trick.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the woman sitting next to him.

‘Inés.’

‘Inés, can I borrow your hand?’

‘With pleasure.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t make it disappear,’ he announced, taking her hand gently. ‘I just want to write your name so it’s imprinted on your skin and will remain with you for ever.’

He told her to make a fist, then he dipped his finger into an ashtray and, on the back of her hand, traced the letters ‘s-é-n-i’ in ash.

‘As you can see, I’ve written it backwards. It’s like a nickname. The only people to know your real name will be those who know you like the palm of their hands,’ he said, as he turned her wrist and, stroking her fingers, asked her to open her fist.

On the palm was the name ‘Inés’, written the right way round, as though the letters had travelled through skin and bone. Víctor got to his feet as the audience applauded and gave a little bow, which seemed to bring the performance to an end. Suddenly Inés looked at her hand and screamed:

‘Oh my God! My ring!’

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Víctor. ‘I think your husband is the jealous type. Maybe he decided to look after your wedding ring while you did me the honour of lending me your hand. If he denies it, tell him to look in his left-hand jacket pocket.’

The man sitting on Inés’s right looked startled. He slipped his hand into his pocket and piled the contents on the table, a handful of coins and his car keys: Inés’s ring was threaded on to the keyring. Before taking it back, she looked at Víctor and said:

‘Not bad! There’s just one problem. He’s not my husband. I’ve never even met him before. Besides, it’s not a wedding ring. I’m not married.’

Víctor held her gaze. She was short, a little plump. She had narrow lips and her face was tense. It was almost 3 a.m. and he was exhausted. ‘What the hell,’ he thought, ‘tomorrow’s Saturday.’
For his last trick, he decided to put a smile on that face.

Before they left together, he slipped the envelope of money the owner had given him into his leather case. He hadn’t counted it, but the jingle of coins told him it wasn’t much.

‘T
he cause is in your DNA, it’s a mitochondrial mutation. Until recently the only way to diagnose it was by a process of elimination but nowadays we can confirm it by molecular analysis,’ the neurologist says, as though this were good news.

Twenty minutes of incomprehensible technical jargon. Now more than ever Víctor envies the efficient language of ants. He makes a list of useless words: the haloes are cecocentral scotomas; there are signs of retinal vascular tortuosity in the blood vessels supplying the eyes; the fundus of the optic nerve is swollen and, most seriously, the nerve itself is suffering from irreversible atrophy.

He assumes it will not be long before the neurologist finally utters the word ‘blind’ and he knows that, at that moment, the eagle in his brain will have a field day.

Even more than the technical jargon, the numbers bother him. The percentages the doctor intones like a litany. Fifty per cent of men with this genetic mutation go on to develop the disease. Only 10 per cent of women, however, contract it. In 25 per cent of cases, sight is lost in both eyes simultaneously; in 75 per cent of cases it is sequential.