The Manual of Darkness (22 page)

‘Put me to the test, Mario. Put me to the test.’

H
e still has some vision in his right eye, but he is ready to walk as a blind man and trust himself to his sensory memory. Or he thinks he is. After all, he has spent his whole life trusting in his fingers. He opens the wardrobe, finds the black jacket he last wore at the party, and from the pocket he takes the black scarf he used to blindfold himself. It is three o’clock in the morning. Nobody is going to notice a lunatic walking around wearing a mask. As he knots the scarf behind his head he thinks of Galván, who did this for him the last time … Can it only be two months ago? Can the time have passed so slowly?

He starts to walk, hugging the wall. This is something anyone can do at home. We all manage to go to the toilet in the middle of the night without turning on the lights. Besides, Víctor has moved confidently across a hundred different stages blindfold. He can trust his sense of direction. Without realising it, he adopts a rather faltering gait. He hunches his shoulders slightly and, from time to time, he puts his arms out in front of him. He looks as if he is chasing invisible insects. He also stoops as he walks, as though expecting the roof to fall in at any moment. He gets to the door without incident and stops for a moment, his hand on the latch. This should be enough to prove his point. But something, perhaps something that might be called hope, urges him on.

He opens the door, crosses the landing, hesitates for the first time as he comes to the first flight of stairs, then starts his descent. Walking down six flights, he stumbles only once. In fact, he does not even stumble, he missteps, forgets to bend his knees. There are three steps in the middle of the lobby. He hugs the wall for support that he does not actually need and slows down a little. He
negotiates them easily, then reaches the front door and throws it open.

He closes it immediately.

There is no traffic at this hour, there are no pedestrians. It is nothing but a gust of wind, the night’s cold breath, but it is enough to confound his senses. The closed door is not enough to protect him from the onslaught. He needs to get back to the safety of the walls. His heart in his mouth, he starts to run as though some hideous beast has crossed the threshold after him. He trips on the first step. He quickly gets to his feet and lashes out, then climbs the stairs as best he can, clinging to the banister. If Galván could see him now. What has become of his elegance now, his celebrated poise?

He gets to the top floor and hurls himself against the door. It is closed. He does not need to put his hand in his pocket to know he has come out without his keys. He pounds on the door as though there were someone inside. He turns round, leaning against it, bends his legs and allows himself to slide down until he is sitting on the landing. Then he puts his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. Only when he is about to burst into tears does he remember he is wearing a blindfold. See how easy it is, Víctor? You wanted to put yourself in a blind man’s shoes. The same shoes that will all too soon be your own. This was a test. You just wanted to dip your toe in the water and you’ve ended up drenched to the bone. You have just discovered that the frontier that separates you from the world works both ways. You wanted to go out into the world, but the world has come in to you. You wanted to understand the blind man, and you have found him inside you. Take the mobile phone from your pocket and call Galván, he has a set of keys. All you need to do is press number two. Find it with the gift of sight your right eye still affords you, press and hold for a few seconds. And get a grip on yourself. The only beast here is the one inside you. A blind animal.

W
hen he realised there was not one but three locks on the door which led backstage, Peter Grouse stopped to think. He was not particularly bothered by this hitch, which at worst meant it would take him three times as long to get through, but he was worried by what it meant. Obviously Maskelyne, suspecting that someone had stolen his copy of
Modern Magic
, had decided to double his efforts to protect his secrets. Maybe someone would be waiting for Grouse on the other side of the door. Or worse, they might be watching him right now, in which case he would be caught the moment he set foot in the corridor. It was not a particularly pleasant thought. He turned and quickly surveyed the entrance.

He had spent several weeks perfecting his automaton and although he still had some doubts as to how rigorously the words ‘genuinely automatic’ might be interpreted, he was satisfied. He had not managed to steal a tank of compressed air for the simple reason that he did not know where to find one. At some point he had even thought of breaking into the Egyptian Hall in the dead of night and stealing Maskelyne’s, but he quickly dismissed the idea: it would set off alarm bells and jeopardise his objective. However, he believed he had found a simple solution to the problem: reefing all the pieces to make them lighter so they would move at the slightest burst of air which he would provide by blowing into a tube. Though the automaton’s hand moved very slowly, despite Grouse filling his lungs to bursting point, he considered the concept proven. Explosive bursts of compressed air, he was certain, would resolve this issue.

However, he knew that Maskelyne could make a host of technical objections to his invention and Grouse did not want to find
himself in the position of being forced to deal with these in a courtroom. In spite of his consummate skill as a pickpocket, he had a number of prior convictions and knew all too well how judges would react to someone like him. Consequently, he had devoted the past few evenings to the thought experiment he enjoyed the most: putting himself in his victim’s shoes. Anticipating Maskelyne’s every possible reaction. He was certain the magician would refuse to pay. Even if Grouse created a precise replica of Psycho piece by piece, Maskelyne would find some excuse to avoid having to pay out. Unless Grouse could forestall his every move and back him into a corner. He needed a little more time to think and, above all, he needed to gather information. This was what had brought him back to the Egyptian Hall.

Maskelyne and Cooke’s performance had been exactly the same as the first time except for the fact that, now the element of surprise was gone, Grouse found the show rather boring, Maskelyne’s pompous tone faintly ridiculous, and his scientific pretensions barely credible. The only thing that was new was that when he introduced Psycho, Maskelyne spelled out the conditions for claiming the reward and implored the audience not to waste his time with ‘spurious automata which, at the moment of truth, cannot function without human intervention’. Grouse made a note of his exact words. It was clear that Maskelyne felt he could not depend on always having a sympathetic judge. However, the magician’s speech did not prevent Grouse from noticing something he had failed to spot on his first visit: Cooke was entirely absent from the stage during Psycho’s performance. If Grouse now found himself, picklock in hand, in the entrance of La Scala, it was not simply to gather more information but in defiance of what was, the more he thought about it, nothing more than a crude and ugly scam. Psycho was not a genuine automaton! It required human intervention in order to function. The arm was made to move using compressed air, but someone had to operate it. Somebody had to open the stopcock on the tank every time Maskelyne asked Psycho to choose a card and close it again so the arm would stop moving. And that somebody was George Alfred Cooke.

This was why he did not force the door. To dash down the corridor and find Cooke standing next to the tank would only
confirm what he already knew. It was too big a risk for too little reward. Besides, as often happens when we think we know all the answers, a new question had formed in his mind: could he improve on Maskelyne? Could he find a means by which the compressed air regulated itself? He thought perhaps he could, although he needed to collect more materials to do the relevant tests. He turned and left the Egyptian Hall. He felt euphoric. If he had finally found the answer, only one marvellous question remained: how would he spend the £3,000?

It took him a few days to organise everything. The following Monday, he planted himself outside the Egyptian Hall armed with courage and, more especially, with patience. He knew this would not be his last visit. At 6.30 p.m., Maskelyne came round the corner, heading for the theatre wearing his black coat, carrying his leather case. Grouse smiled: he liked men who stuck to their routine. When the magician arrived at the door, Grouse did not say a word. He simply stood next to him, leaning nonchalantly against one of the enormous pilasters of the façade. Maskelyne, alarmed by his silent presence, returned his gaze and, with none of the artifice or pretension of his stage performance, he asked:

‘May I be of some assistance?’

‘I hope so,’ replied Grouse.

‘Go on …’

Maskelyne’s frown indicated that his patience was already wearing thin. From the way the man was scrutinising him, Grouse thought that perhaps Maskelyne remembered his face from their first encounter, but as the conversation developed he quickly realised this was not the case.

‘I am here as a representative of Mr Grouse.’

‘I have not had the pleasure.’

‘You shortly will.’

‘Ah …’ Maskelyne gripped the key, clutched the handle of his leather case and took a step back. ‘And how precisely might I be of assistance to this gentleman, this Mr …?’

‘Grouse. Peter Grouse. You might give him the three thousand pounds that he considers to be rightfully his.’

‘I see. Another nincompoop who believes he has solved the riddle.’ Maskelyne could not help smiling. ‘Tell him my answer is
no. And tell him not to waste my time. If, of course, he wishes to take the matter to court, I shan’t stop him. Now, if you don’t mind …’

‘You have things to do. I can well imagine. Mr Grouse asked me to give you this.’

He handed Maskelyne a folded piece of paper and, without waiting for him to open it, took his leave and set off east along Piccadilly. Hardly had he taken a few steps before the magician called out to him:

‘Hey! Wait a minute. Tell Mr Grouse that I am prepared to meet with him here, tomorrow, at the same hour.’

‘I shall do that, sir.’

Mission accomplished. Grouse suppressed a smile. This was precisely the response he had been expecting. On the sheet of paper there were only two words: ‘compressed air’. He had made two attempts at writing them, his tongue sticking out as he concentrated, persuaded that writing was clearly a more difficult task than reading.

The following day he arrived fifteen minutes before the appointed time and once more took up his position against the column.

‘What of Mr Grouse?’ Maskelyne asked when he saw him.

‘He is about his business. But I shall take your reply to him promptly.’

‘My reply is the same as it was yesterday. Now …’

‘I know. You have much to do. And no, I don’t mind. On condition that you be so good as to take this.’

Once again, Grouse handed him a folded sheet of paper, but this time he made no move to leave. He wanted to see Maskelyne’s face as he read it. Though it was not exactly a long text, it had taken much more effort to write than the previous one. The magician unfolded the paper and read: ‘Genuinely automatic. I don’t need Cooke to make it function.’ Maskelyne’s face showed annoyance and curiosity in equal measure. The man frowned, pondered for a moment, then said:

‘Tell him … tell Mr Grouse that he will have to demonstrate his claim. Tell him I wish to see him here, at the same time tomorrow. In person. Without fail.’

Grouse resisted the temptation to feel sorry for Maskelyne. If he persisted in giving the expected response at every step, Grouse would soon have him cornered like a rat. But he could not afford to drop his guard: cornered rats were known to bite.

‘Very well. However, I have another message. Like you, Mr Grouse is a busy man and as a result he, too, cannot afford to waste his time. He has asked me to insist that you come with the money.’

‘He has my word on it. But he has much to prove to me before I hand it over.’

On the Wednesday, Grouse arrived several hours before the appointed time. In fact he arrived even before the sun had risen. He forced his way into the Egyptian Hall without substantial difficulty and when he came to the tank of compressed air, he set down the heavy sack which contained his tools and materials and gave a sigh. This, he thought, was the happiest moment of his life, but he could not stop to enjoy it. He had work to do.

Much later Maskelyne arrived and, not finding Grouse by the entrance, took this to be an auspicious sign. But when he slipped his key into the lock and found the door already open, a shudder ran through him. He turned quickly and gestured for the two boorish men who had been following him to come closer. Grouse, who had been watching from a safe distance at the rear of the entrance hall, walked calmly towards the stage, stopped for a second in the wings to open the tank of air and, before he concealed himself beneath the table Maskelyne used for the ‘Decapitated Head’ illusion, he silently gave thanks to Hoffmann – he had found the solution to this trick in
Modern Magic
and, unlike the entry for Psycho, the diagram was so clear and comprehensible that he had not even had to decipher the text. Between the legs of the table, two pieces of looking-glass are set at such an angle that the spectator sees what appear to be the curtains at the back of the recess, but are in fact a reflection of the curtains at the sides. Simple as that. During the interval, Cooke took up his position under the table, concealed by the mirrors, and waited for the second act to begin. Maskelyne appeared on stage holding an empty box which he held up for the audience to see, but was careful that they did not see it was hollow at the bottom. When
he placed it on the table, Cooke had only to release a trapdoor and poke his head up into the box. Just before Maskelyne opened the box to reveal him to the audience, he would close his eyes and adopt an otherworldly expression.