The Manual of Darkness (21 page)

Even Grouse had to accept that the decision was legitimate, and, with a heavy heart, he felt he had to abandon his attempt. A substance that, besides being invisible, was capable of moving by itself? It seemed easier to accept the judge’s challenge and try to come up with some means of propelling himself to the moon. Until his conversation with the two workmen in the street. At that moment it was as though a light had switched itself on in his mind and, for the first time, he saw the solution he had been seeking for so long. The rubber tubes from the tank could run under the stage to a simple trapdoor, which would allow air up through the cylinder when required. Nothing was more invisible than air.

‘L
et’s leave it at that,’ Galván announced.

He had been telling the story of Psycho and had just come to the point where Grouse discovered the existence of compressed air and its possible uses for automata. Halfway through the story he had got to his feet and his voice continued its narration from the darkness. These sudden, increasingly lengthy disappearances had ceased to worry Víctor, but it did bother him if Galván moved around as he was talking because it forced Víctor to swivel round in his chair in order to be able to hear. Most of all, he was irritated by Galván’s tendency to break off in the middle of his stories.

‘Why?’ he protested. ‘Go on, just a little more … It’s not late. I still don’t understand what this has to do with Grouse’s thumb …’

‘There’s too much left to tell,’ the maestro said. ‘Right now, we need to talk about the future.’

At that moment, there was a noise and the lights came on.

Víctor rubbed his eyes and blinked before looking around the room. The island, these two square metres within whose borders he had been confined every Tuesday afternoon for almost two years suddenly became a vast, diaphanous space. Galván, dressed in black, as always, was standing with his back to Víctor near the door in front of a large bank of switches. Every time he pressed one, another section of the hall lit up, finally revealing a small stage right at the back of the room. In this new context the table and the two folding chairs looked like toys. The walls were plastered with old magic posters. Without moving from his seat, Víctor recognised several names: Maskelyne, Kellar, Stodare. Near the stage, the walls and the floor were completely black. At the other end of the room, on the wall with the small window, were
half a dozen objects which Víctor at first assumed were pieces of furniture until, taking a second look, he recognised the famous Sword Cabinet and an escape-artist’s trunk circled with stout chains and heavy padlocks.

‘Shit … this place is a museum.’

‘Not yet,’ Galván said. ‘But that’s what I want to talk about.’

He came over to the table, moved his chair next to Víctor’s and sat down. He smoothed the green baize tablecloth before carrying on.

‘I have emphysema,’ he announced matter-of-factly, as though he were telling someone it was raining outside. As Víctor opened his mouth, the maestro raised a hand to stop him. ‘It’s not going to kill me just yet, but I need to make a few changes. At my age …’

‘I don’t even know how old you are,’ Víctor objected.

‘Too young to die,’ replied Galván. ‘And too old not to face the fact that I’m dying.’ He put his hand in his pocket and took out his pack of cigarettes. Víctor could see the determination in his eyes and did not even try to comment. ‘I’m not going to bother you with all the gory details. Let’s just say it’s like having a hole in my lungs. Or rather, a tunnel. I can’t breathe properly. I tire easily.’

‘But, Mario …’

‘Let me finish. I’ve wanted to change some things in my life for some time, and this is exactly the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. I’m tired of giving lessons.’ Seeing the fear in Víctor’s face, he quickly clarified his meaning. ‘Not to you. It’s the others I want to give up. In fact, I’ve told them I’m not teaching any more.’

Víctor, who had not even realised that Galván had other students, breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I don’t really care about the shop either. I don’t want to get rid of it, because I’ve spent my whole life there, but from now on, my daughter will manage it. Right now, there are only two projects that interest me. One is the museum. I have a lot more old things in the workshop. I’d like to restore them and exhibit them. If I put in seats from here up to the stage, I think the place could hold just short of a hundred people.’ It was clear he had everything planned. ‘It could be used as a lecture hall for conferences, exhibitions,
masterclasses. All of this will take time that I haven’t had until now.’

‘And the other project?’

‘The other project is you.’

Víctor could not suppress a smile.

‘When do we start?’

‘We started two years ago. You’ve learned a lot. So much, in fact, that if you never set foot in this place again, I guarantee you could make a good living.’

‘Like Lápidus.’

‘More or less. All I need to know is whether you have the talent and the determination that he lacked. Whether you’re prepared to take the next step, prepared to think big, whether you’re interested in doing something that will make a difference.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you are. But that’s not enough. What I need from you is a commitment. If we’re to carry on, I’m going to put a lot of pressure on you. We’ll have to work, Víctor,
really
work. And if you fail me, I’ll never forgive you.’

‘Shit, Mario, you make it sound like we’re getting married.’

‘I’d never do that. You never stay with anyone for more than a couple of days.’

‘Anyway, the answer’s yes. Yes, I want to.’

For the rest of the conversation, Víctor had a smile on his face. He had spent two years waiting for this moment. He got up and hugged Galván, hopping from one foot to another like a little boy.

‘If everything goes well, you’ll make a lot of money. A lot. Even after I take my fifteen per cent. If not, it’s still worth having tried.’

‘Real magic.’ Víctor sat down again. Though he had returned the hug, Galván’s face was solemn, as though he was determined to ignore the magnitude of the moment. ‘At last.’

‘Yes,’ the maestro said. ‘Imagine. You wanted to talk about real magic. I wanted to talk about the future. As it turns out, they’re the same thing. But we can only make it happen if we go back to the past.’

‘Don’t start with the word games, Mario. Please.’

‘You’re right.’ Galván paused for a second and thought. ‘It’s
time to act. Stay there, don’t move and keep your eyes closed until I tell you.’

Víctor did as he was told, but he listened as Galván’s footsteps moved away towards the stage at the back of the hall. After a few moments, he gave Víctor permission to look. When Víctor opened his eyes, he could not see hide nor hair of the maestro.

‘We are in the Berlin Panoptikon. The year is 1886, ten years post-Hoffmann.’

Víctor searched the room but still could not see Galván anywhere, although he could not possibly be hiding unless there was an invisible trapdoor in the back wall. After a few seconds, a small table suddenly materialised in the middle of the stage. Víctor started as though someone had pricked him. It was not possible. Ignoring Galván’s orders, he got up and moved closer, only to stop, frozen in mid-stride, when he saw a red cup appear on the table. It did not simply appear, it seemed to have sprouted there. In a fraction of a second. As if this were not enough, at that moment a trickle of white liquid was spirited out of the air, filling the cup. Víctor crept closer, almost on tiptoe, as though the least sound would cause the illusion to vanish. He arrived at the stage, reached out and touched the table, the cup. Despite their solidity, he still believed they might be holograms. At that moment a strong hand grabbed his calf and Galván’s voice thundered:

‘I thought I told you not to move!’

Víctor let out a scream and stumbled, knocking over the cup and spilling the milk. Galván’s booming laugh echoed round the room. Still Víctor did not understand until he saw Galván’s hands in black gloves holding up what looked like a hood. As his student’s eyes lit up with the sheer simplicity of the illusion, the maestro said:

‘Welcome, Víctor Losa, to the Black Art.’

It was so simple it was insulting. Galván removed the gloves and explained the few details he had not grasped.

‘Apparently the illusion was discovered by a German actor, Max Auzinger, in 1885. According to him, the idea came to him by chance while he was watching a play his rep company were performing. At the climax of the play, a black man was supposed to appear suddenly at the back of the stage to rescue the kidnapped
heroine. On opening night, when the black man appeared – though of course it was actually a white actor blacked up – the audience didn’t react. Auzinger, who was sitting in one of the boxes since he wasn’t in the scene, immediately realised the problem. Since the backcloth was black, all the audience could see were the whites of the actor’s eyes.’

‘But …’

‘Hold on … I’ve told you this because it’s a charming story and it’s tempting to believe it, but all the research indicates it may not be true. The Black Art was well known long before that. In fact, this is the way puppet shows were done in Japan centuries ago. The background was always black and the puppeteer was dressed in black – he didn’t even try to pretend to be invisible, he simply dressed in black so that his presence didn’t interfere with the story. Some magicians had used it before too, but only as a minor illusion in the middle of a show. Maybe this is why Hoffmann only mentions it in passing. This was how Maskelyne’s floating harp worked. It was held up by a black cable.’

‘So Auzinger had read
Modern Magic
?’

‘Maybe. If so, there’s no record of it. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that Auzinger, perhaps without realising it, had discovered one of the ways of crossing the line of fire. Taking a minor technique, something Hoffmann barely mentions, and elevating it to an art form. He spent months perfecting the illusion, tested it with magicians who allowed him to take the stage briefly, but still it excited little enthusiasm until he came up with the final touch, the detail that made the illusion perfect: a series of spotlights at the back of the stage pointing towards the audience. Not enough to blind them, but enough to force them to squint a little.’

‘Didn’t it bother them?’

‘Absolutely. But you’ve just had the same spotlights pointing at you and you didn’t even notice.’ Galván nodded towards them. ‘Auzinger had crossed the line of fire and so collected the prize. For years, he toured the world with his Black Art illusion. And since orientalism was in fashion, he dressed in Arab costume, wore a turban and called himself Ben Ali Bey.’

‘I don’t understand. I thought he had to be dressed in black?’

‘That was another of his improvements. He wore bright, garish
colours and all he did during the illusion was speak. Onstage with him was an assistant, dressed completely in black, and consequently invisible as far as the audience was concerned. Auzinger would move about the stage, talking as he went, and from time to time he would raise his hand. He kept this hidden in his fist.’

Galván showed him a shiny, red metallic cylinder. Víctor took it, gauging the weight of the thing in surprise.

‘It’s very heavy for such a small object, isn’t it? Squeeze it in the middle and you’ll see why.’

Víctor closed his fist. There was a cracking noise and the cylinder shot out, becoming a long telescopic cane. Galván took it back, squeezed again and, with the same crack the cane telescoped back and disappeared into his fist.

‘I still sell a lot of these in the shop, though these days they’re made of plastic. They’ve become little more than toys. People only use them for cheap tricks, they attach something to the tip: a spray of flowers, a silk handkerchief, something like that. But Auzinger used the case as it should be used – as a signal. He would raise his hand and squeeze the cylinder and at that moment, his assistant would whip aside a black cloth and some object would magically materialise exactly where the rod was pointing. From the audience’s point of view, this enhanced the whole performance. Not only did things magically appear, but the magician seemed to have complete control over where and when they did so.’

‘I’m surprised I’ve never heard of him.’

‘You’re right. He could have been as famous as Maskelyne, or as that moron Houdini, but only real aficionados are aware of his existence. And do you know why?’

‘No, obviously, but I feel a lesson coming on.’

‘It’s an important lesson. It’s not enough simply to cross the line of fire. From time to time, you have to go back, get new material and cross the line again. If not …’

‘Kaput.’

‘Exactly. Kaput. Auzinger was happy to rest on his laurels. After a couple of years, he had imitators the world over. But there are other lessons to be learned from him. Maybe the most important is that Auzinger wasn’t a magician. He was an actor who for a couple of years made a good living performing an illusion. When
it didn’t work, he gave up. Cinema was the new thing for actors at the time. Auzinger, who was certainly no oil painting, managed to get a part in a silent horror film; later on he even appeared in Dreyer’s
Mikaël, Chained
. What I need to know is whether you are a real magician.’