The Manual of Darkness (2 page)

By rights, he should feel exhilarated. He should take the stairs two at a time, fling the door open wide, stride into the room, throw his arms around Mario Galván and hug him hard. This, after all, is the moment they have both been waiting for, the moment they both – though they never dared say as much – feared might never come. Or might come too late; too late for Galván, who must be over eighty by now. Víctor has never known precisely how old the maestro is, but he was already an old man when they first met. And he has been ill for a long time.

What is stopping him? Not fear of what awaits him. He only has to perform one trick. He has been performing on bigger and more daunting stages than this for years, often before audiences who were much less receptive. He no longer remembers all the countries he has visited, the television studios where he was hailed as the star of the moment – a moment that has now lasted long enough to warrant another name – the festivals at which fellow magicians jostled to be in the front row so they could watch his work close up. So what exactly is this fear? Stage fright? The fear that some pathetic cliché is about to come true, that having reached this dizzy height, it will be all downhill from now on? Rubbish.

It is something else. A sense of foreboding. He wishes he could bring time to a standstill, he concentrates on this thought, like someone who has cut themselves staring at the wound as if to cauterise it before the blood wells up.

He reaches out his left hand and places his palm against the wall to steady himself. He will soon learn that this is not how it should be done, not with the palm of the hand. Soon, someone
will teach him that the best way is to brush things with the back of the hand. Soon? That’s just a word. At this moment, the future is beyond reach, as unattainable as the stair he cannot climb. Or maybe does not want to climb, since he seems to be making no attempt to do so. It should be easy. This is a man who has made bodies levitate onstage. Come on, Víctor. It’s only one step. Grab hold of the banister and push. Give me a place to stand, and I will move the whole world.

Take one step.
Hup!
Then another. Then the rest of the stairs, two at a time: eleven or twelve of them; it is dim, there is barely any light, but Víctor is no fool, he knows that now that he has reached the top, he must penetrate his lowest, darkest self. Magic? He strides across the landing, reaches out and grasps the handle. In the moment before he opens the door, he can hear the excited murmur of the crowd. On this side of the green door is the past, so many memories that they are forced to huddle together simply to carve out a small space for the present, even if that means blending into it. That little wretch is going to be one hell of a magician. That little wretch. That … On the far side of the door, he imagines, is the future; a cavernous room he would like to imagine is empty, almost dark, with just a faint glimmer of light from a small window at the far end of the hall. That is how he remembers it. But he knows there are ninety-two people inside now, Galván’s daughter phoned this morning to tell him. Ninety-two: seventy-four seated, the rest standing, some leaning against the walls, some crowding the aisle, who step aside now to let him pass. Víctor glances around him in astonishment at the winks, the whistles, the thunderous stamping of feet, the slaps on the back, urged on by hands warm from clapping so hard. He reaches the small platform that serves as a stage, steps up and melts into Mario Galván’s arms; Mario, who is standing, waiting as though he never left, as though through all the years that have passed since he uttered his prediction, his curse, he has been standing here, rooted to the spot, waiting for the moment when he might see his prediction come to pass. This moment.

Víctor’s arms squeeze Galván tighter and tighter, as though he is his salvation, the one thing that might prevent him from falling. The maestro is astonished. He finds it hard to believe that Víctor
could be nervous or afraid, but he cannot think of any other reason for his behaviour, for Víctor’s convulsive hug, for the rigid tension of his body, which slackens only at the neck as Víctor presses his face into Galván’s shoulder and, not relaxing his pincer grip even for a moment, bursts into tears. He could snap Galván in two. Galván is tall and thin. He is eighty years old or more. He smiles, strokes Víctor’s back. Up and down, with one hand. Twice, three times, four times. With his other hand he pats him on the shoulder. It’s OK, he says, it’s OK.

The master leads the student to one of the two chairs and sits him down. It is as though their ages have been reversed. Galván stands and turns to the audience. Only now does the applause fade, as though those present had made the most of Víctor’s lateness to rehearse their part in this tribute.

Mario Galván declares that this is a day not for speeches but for celebration. He promises to be brief and he keeps his promise. He finds precisely the right words to retell the story everyone in the room already knows yet wants to hear again: how when he first set eyes on Víctor, he knew this happy day would come; how his intuition was rewarded by the unstinting efforts of the best student it had ever been his pleasure to teach. He apologises, knowing that some of his other students are present, and insists that he follows their careers with pride and admiration, too. ‘But,’ he concludes, ‘this is not my opinion. It is that of the FISM, the International Federation of Magic Societies, which last week officially declared something I have always taken for granted: that Víctor, Víctor Losa, is the finest magician in the world. I give you Víctor Losa.’

There is another ovation, briefer but no less fervent than the first. This one is clearly for Galván, not so much for his speech but to acknowledge his part in the achievements of his student. This, at least, is clearly what Víctor thinks, because he throws out his hand, gesturing to the maestro, and joins in the applause. Galván thanks everyone with a shy nod and goes to leave the stage.

‘Wait, Mario,’ Víctor says. ‘Could you blindfold me, please?’

He takes a black scarf from his pocket and hands it to Galván, who blindfolds him, tying the scarf in a knot at the nape of his
neck. The maestro then leaves the stage and takes the only empty seat in the audience.

Víctor allows the silence to hang in the air for a few seconds longer than expected. It is not a calculated move, but an instinctive understanding of drama, of magic as theatre, a skill he incorporated into his act from the beginning. He knows from experience that at this moment, any word, any movement on his part, even a slight wave of his hand, takes on great significance.

‘Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,’ he says eventually. Scattered laughter. All those present know that Víctor’s success has been based on his way with words, but only the few who know him well know that his reticence in public is genuine. ‘I would like to thank Mario Galván. If only for pointing out to me the difference between a pianist and a typist. You know what I mean, Mario.’

Over the past few days, he has thought long and hard about this moment. If it were up to him, he would skip the performance, thank everyone for coming and suggest someone open the bottles of champagne that are sitting at the back of the room on a folding table that looks suspiciously like the one at which he had his first lesson in magic. But many of those present were not in Lisbon and missed the grand final. Víctor, they have heard, won with a single trick. While every other contestant performed tricks that were spectacular or showcased important technical innovations, Víctor had walked onstage with just a pack of cards and mesmerised the judges. They are hoping he will do the same trick now. It is only fair: there could be no better moment to share a success that even he does not believe is entirely his. He wants everyone to feel as though they are sharing in this chance blessing, and not simply out of generosity, but because all those present are links in a single chain of knowledge. He gets to his feet and takes three paces forward to the edge of the stage. Casually, as though he were not wearing a blindfold. Just as he is about to open his mouth to speak, someone in the front row pre-empts him and shouts:

‘My father died …’

The audience laughs at this joke. Víctor can hardly be irritated by it; for years now, every show has opened with these words. It is the one sure thing the dedicated fans know about a particular
show before they see it. This prelude, this opening, these talismanic words: ‘My father died when I was seven years old.’ In fact, part of the anticipation generated by each new show is the way these words will veer off in unexpected twists and meanders, to arrive, every time, at a different yet plausible conclusion.

Víctor enjoys the laughter and the sibilant
shh
that follows.

‘Of course,’ he concedes finally, ‘you all know that my father died, but what I’ve never told anyone is that his legacy to me was a wooden trunk full of his belongings. And in that trunk was a pack of cards. This pack of cards.’ He holds up the deck for the audience to see. ‘New, unopened, the seal still intact. For years I’ve been waiting for the right moment to use this deck. I was planning to perform a trick with them tonight, but now the moment has come, I can’t bring myself to use them. They scare me. So I’m going to ask you all to do me a favour: I want you to perform the trick for me. I’m hoping that together we can overcome the curse I suspect has been placed on these cards.’

He tosses the pack into the front row. Someone leaps to their feet and catches it.

‘Please, don’t sit down,’ Víctor says quickly. ‘Turn around so everyone can see what you’re doing. Everyone except me, obviously. I can’t see anything. Now, I want you to break the seal that has been on that pack of cards for thirty years. Take out the cards and hand them to a person in the second row. Anyone you like.’

As if the blindfold were not sufficient guarantee, Víctor now turns his back on the audience and stays that way for the rest of the trick. Yet he continues to give precise, perfectly timed instructions, as though he can see exactly what is happening in the stalls. He instructs the second person to pass the cards to a third, to whom he offers the opportunity to shuffle the cards. Since this person chooses an American shuffle – immediately recognisable by the sound of the cards as they cascade – Víctor asks the next person to do a traditional overhand shuffle. Lest there be any doubt that this has been a clean shuffle, he offers a fifth person the opportunity to cut the pack and pass it on. By now, most of the audience is on its feet, staring towards the middle of the sixth row so as not to lose sight of the cards.

‘Maestro Mario,’ says Víctor, as the man who has just cut the
cards hands the pack to the maestro, ‘I want you to pick a card. Take your time, then show it to anyone you like.’

Before picking a card, Galván fans out the deck and looks at them to make sure the cards are not in an order that could easily be memorised. He checks the backs of the cards, then snaps the pack together, checks the cards again to make sure they’re not marked, shrugs, then takes out the three of diamonds. He holds it up for everyone to see, then says:

‘OK.’

Víctor asks Mario to put his card back in the deck anywhere he likes and hand the pack to someone in the next row. The seventh person is instructed to shuffle the cards and keep passing them on. And so the cards reach the back row and slowly begin their return journey towards the stage. Víctor now asks that, on each row, someone cut the pack, keep one pile and pass on the rest. The shrinking pack moves forward until, when it reaches the second row, there are only two cards left.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Víctor says at this point, ‘but you are holding two cards. The person who took the deck out of the box is sitting in the front row. Could you please find that person and give him the cards.’

The murmur that has grown louder as the pack of cards shrinks is now overwhelming.

‘Please, don’t look at them. Take out the box you put in your pocket earlier, then place one of the two cards inside. You can keep the other one. Hand the box to Mario Galván. I think there’s something in there that belongs to him.’

Some of the audience break into applause even before Galván takes the box. Others laugh or shout or whistle. But many of them stand silently, waiting for the conclusion of the trick, unable to believe what they are seeing or, worse still, alarmed precisely because they can see it and cannot help believing. Someone shouts:

‘It’s not possible!’

Víctor has just performed the trick that won him the Grand Prix a week ago: a new trick devised by him in which magic truly seems to happen all by itself, without the intervention of the magician. His back is turned. He’s wearing a blindfold. In front of an audience of professionals. The most sceptical members of the
audience, instead of looking at Galván, glance around the room, at the ceiling, in the corners, looking for cameras, cables, mirrors, any gadget which, in conjunction with some illusion involving Víctor’s blindfold, might explain the trick. Everyone here knows what can be done with a single mirror. A number of people are still holding the cards they kept as the deck was being passed back. Some check their cards for the most obvious explanation, that they are all identical. Others slip cards into their pockets, happy to have a memento of this unforgettable moment; more than one does so convinced that, once he gets home, he will be able to work out how the trick was done. As Galván takes the box, there is a tense silence which lasts three full seconds before he opens it and shows the three of diamonds to the audience, not bothering to look at it before he does so, as though even to think about checking that the trick has worked would be an insult to his student. Víctor still stands, his back to the audience.