The Manual of Darkness (25 page)

However, none of these adventures explained why the book should have fired Peter Grouse – an eminently pragmatic man, from Galván’s description of him – with such passion that he left
his room, by now a thriving workshop, and boarded a ship for America. On the contrary, it seems clear that he was persuaded to do so by three short passages in the book, three passing comments to which no other reader would have attached the least importance. The first appears on page 131: ‘On the 9th of December 1878, under the management of the Redpath Lyceum Bureau, my master opened at Horticultural Hall, in Boston. One of his attractions at this time was the famous automaton, Psycho, and the entertainment he gave was one of great excellence.’ Full stop. The passage goes on to talk about Kellar’s financial difficulties at the time: there is no other reference to Psycho in the book. It is easy to imagine Grouse suspiciously reading on until he came to an extract from a review which appeared in the
Natal Mercury
in Durban dated 21 June 1881: ‘We have at Mr Kellar’s in perfection all the outstanding automata, which Maskelyne has made himself famous with.’ And if that were not enough to pique Grouse’s interest, on page 200, there is a mention of ‘an unprecedented run of 323 consecutive performances’ at the Egyptian Hall, with the singular difference that it referred not to the London theatre, but to one in Philadelphia.

Grouse would doubtless have found the rest of the book boring, irritating and, most of all, useless. A consummate braggart, Kellar missed no opportunity to mention the astonishment provoked by his devices – at no point does he refer to them as ‘tricks’ – but he never bothered to give any details about their workings. There was nothing here to steal, to improve on. In fact, there was little point in trying since, of all the illusions mentioned in the book, there was not one that could reasonably be considered original. They were all facsimiles of classics performed by the magicians of the Golden Age. And of course Grouse would have cared little for the rapturous descriptions of Kellar’s travels, and his sententious opinions on matters as diverse as the reform of the penal system, the beauty of the women of Ceylon or the subhuman nature of the indigenous peoples of New Zealand. He would undoubtedly have found Kellar exasperating, though he may have held a certain admiration for the man’s capacity to reinvent himself whenever he encountered a difficulty. The references to Maskelyne, however, made him suspicious. Doubtless when he finished the book, Grouse
did not close his eyes, as Víctor did, revelling in the glorious exoticism; instead he immediately turned to the contents page to find and reread the one brief chapter which described Kellar’s performances in Europe, entitled ‘Before Her Majesty’. At first reading, he had paid the chapter little heed since it seemed to have been included in the book purely because of the immense pride the magician felt at having performed for the Queen of England at Balmoral Castle. Rereading the chapter carefully, Grouse found other grounds for suspicion: Kellar gave an account of a glorious arrival at Portsmouth, bragged of a successful run in Edinburgh, mentioned a tour of ‘most of the cities and large towns of the United Kingdom’, mentioned Brighton and Cambridge, but London was remarkable only for its absence.

This was impossible. Grouse had reason to know better than anyone how jealously Maskelyne guarded his secrets. There were only two possible explanations as to how another magician, one famous enough to have spent years touring the world, could have used exact replicas of Maskelyne’s automata. Either he was a remarkable thief, or he had struck a deal with Maskelyne for the use of his patents. The fact that Kellar had never performed in London tended to suggest the latter: I will grant you the right to use my machines, but on no account should you set foot in my territory. Both possibilities aroused Grouse’s curiosity, and justified a visit to Kellar. If the man were a thief, measuring up to him would provide a challenge that made it worth leaving his self-imposed seclusion. And if Kellar had bought the right to use the patents, he might be persuaded to make another investment since, having checked the dates, it was clear that the American version of Psycho did not include Grouse’s enhancements. Could he manage to be paid twice for the same illusion? Now that
would
be magic. Like stealing the same wallet twice and finding it full again.

V
iktor
. Or is it
Vikter
?
Vikter Lousa
. Maybe
Loussa
. He pronounced his name with an English accent, stressing each syllable, speaking slowly and in a low voice – not in case someone might hear him and think he was mad but so that he could draw out this blissful feeling, something that existed only in his mind and yet filled him with wonder. He was alone in the dressing room, but he could still hear the echo of the applause, the joy with which the technical team had congratulated him after the performance, the respectful tone of the four journalists who had asked to attend, the flashes of the photographers’ cameras. Galván had been the last to take his leave, pleading that his health would not permit him to stay up all night. Though Víctor enjoyed the solitude and the silence of the dressing room, he was sorry that Galván was not there now so he could talk to him, so he could finally find a way to express his gratitude for everything he owed him. Mario Galván and Vikter Loussa.

As his lips formed his name for the last time, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, like a goldfish mouthing the water in a fishbowl. He took a deep breath. The success of his London debut meant a lot to him. It was not his ultimate goal, but it was the frontier to a country where he had long dreamed of planting his flag so he could say: ‘I have come this far. My name is Víctor Losa. Or Vikter Loussa, you decide.’

And all this for a shadow, for a dream, something he could not put a name to. All this so that, for an instant, he might recapture the moment when Galván, drawing on the past in order to speak of the future, had first shown him the techniques of Professor Pepper, warning Víctor that there was, of course, no proof that
the man was a genuine professor, although in this case the surname seemed to be genuine.

Víctor’s reaction the first time Galván mentioned Pepper could hardly have been less enthusiastic. The maestro had presented him with a metal box and told him to look through the two holes cut into the lid. Inside, Víctor could vaguely make out a theatrical scene with a crude backdrop of painted trees. When Galván manipulated the side opening to let in more light, a number of blurred shadows were projected against the backcloth. Víctor could see the expectant look in Galván’s eyes, but all he could think to say was:

‘It’s a cute toy.’

‘Toy?’ Galván blustered indignantly. ‘A toy? Pepper had only to look into this box for a few seconds to invent one of the most brilliant illusions in the history of magic.’

The maestro grabbed the box from the table and turned on his heels to go. Víctor quickly asked how it worked, feigning a curiosity he did not feel. Galván, without even turning back to look at him, brusquely interrupted.

‘You can go now. I’ll see you at four o’clock tomorrow at the Liceo.’

They knew each other so well by this stage in their relationship that a snub from the maestro upset Víctor more than any rebuke. Víctor made sure that he arrived at the theatre promptly the following day, and he feared the worst when he was met in the entrance by an usherette who showed him to the stalls, explaining that Galván had phoned to say he was running a little late. He made his way to the front row and sat down. While he waited, he contemplated the dimly lit set and the orchestra pit, which was covered by a black tarpaulin. There followed three or four minutes of utter silence. Suddenly, there came the rasp of a lighter and Víctor, accustomed to this calling card, glanced around the theatre.

‘Mario! Where are you? I can’t see you.’

‘I’m here.’ Galván’s voice seemed to be coming from the stage, but there was no one there. ‘I am here, but you cannot see me.’

There was a breath and a puff of smoke appeared on the stage. Something more ethereal than smoke. Mist perhaps. He could not see a trace of Galván’s face, his hands, his cigarette.

‘But you will see me,’ the voice announced after another puff of smoke. ‘You will see me, although I am not here.’

Suddenly an apparition of the maestro was floating on the stage. A ghost. There was no other word for it. The figure looked exactly like Galván, it moved like him, but it was transparent. Or translucent. It did not have the murkiness of a shadow. Víctor got to his feet and took a few steps towards the stage. As he drew closer, his brain furiously scrabbled to find an explanation. Ghost. Projection. Hologram. He was convinced that if he reached out to touch the figure it would disperse through his fingers.

‘I said see,’ Galván warned, ‘I said nothing about touching. Don’t come any closer. Though if you did, you would not catch me.’

The figure of Galván moved away each time Víctor took a step forward as though mirroring his actions. Then it began to move around the stage with such a natural motion that it was even more difficult to understand or sense the nature of this intangible body.

‘And even if you did manage to catch me, it would not do you much good,’ the voice went on. ‘For you will see, I can be in several places at once.’

At that point, the figure disappeared behind the backcloth, or rather across the backcloth, moving through it as though it were made of water. Víctor was speechless. He had only a moment to think before the figure reappeared at the front of the stage, as though out of thin air, and moved towards him accompanied by a strident, mock-imperious monologue:

‘Pure science, ladies and gentlemen. The only marvels you will see here are those the human mind is capable of creating when it understands the laws of physics, mechanics and optics.’

Víctor recognised this clumsy imitation of Maskelyne and smiled. Galván was inviting him to play the role of Peter Grouse. There was no need. He was desperate to work out how this miracle was performed.

‘Not another step, Víctor,’ the maestro commanded again. ‘For years now, I have been waiting for you to bring me a story. I’m still waiting. Go home. If you can bring me a story next Tuesday, I will tell you Pepper’s secret in exchange. If you can’t, don’t bother coming.’

The ghostly apparition vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Víctor turned and walked down the centre aisle. As he left the theatre, he formulated the words that he would say so many times in the years that followed. The first words of a long story: ‘My father died when I was seven years old. Although he had never smoked a day in his life, it was nicotine that killed him. Ants might have had something to do with it but, as we shall see later, it could truthfully be claimed that it was in self-defence.’

He suddenly remembered his second lesson with Galván, when the maestro had made him recount in the third person the death of his father, one Martín Losa, after having drawn from him, as he stood naked and embarrassed, the notes to a lullaby which over time had become embedded in his throat. Once again, as on that occasion, the words seemed to sweep away the dead leaves that choked up his life, the small trickle of truth that freed him, only now it wasn’t a trickle but a wild and roaring torrent. He was free to make up anything he wanted. Or rather, he was duty bound to make the most of this freedom.

As soon as he got home, he wrote down the first words and went on: ‘I saw his body lying on the floor and didn’t understand what had happened. I couldn’t even understand what it meant to die. I thought my father was playing a game.’ Martín Losa had become a figment, an alibi, something as intangible as the shadowy figure he had just seen projected on the stage. Víctor began to tell himself a story which was not precisely his own, since it included events he had never witnessed, but one which was more real than the factual account, because each of the details he invented had something to do with his longings, his fears and his desires, with what might have happened but never did, with what perhaps should have happened. The portrait of Martín Losa in his mind was more complete, more rounded, more distinct and truthful than the vague sketch offered him by memory. As he wrote, he constantly thought about the plume of smoke with which Galván had announced his presence on the stage at the Liceo that afternoon. Ethereal and yet much more real than some of the things he was currently writing down: the nicotine vapour that had killed his father, his puzzlement when he had found him lying on the ground, even the stabbing pain he still felt after all these years
whenever he remembered that day. All now seemed evanescent, as though they had dissipated with time, as though only by crystallising them into words could he bring them back. He spent hours writing, without stopping to erase or correct a single word, without knowing where this story would take him, wandering the no man’s land that exists between imagination and memory, jotting down all the scenarios that came into his head, in which Martín died and came back to life in impossible but conceivable ways, while the smoke seemed to breathe life into wondrous figures and he, Víctor Losa, as both child and man, as actor, spectator and narrator, created, correcting time’s blunders, playing hide-and-seek with the truth. At no point did he stop to think of the practical uses of this story, of the obstacles he would come up against when he performed it onstage. He went on writing until it was finished and then slept like a baby.

The following morning, he sat down a little apprehensively and stared at the pages, as though he had been drunk and only vaguely remembered writing them. After he had read through, he felt ambivalent. It was a story. A good story. Not even the most demanding reader, as Galván would no doubt prove to be, could deny that this somewhat confused and repetitive story, full of inconsistencies, had a ring of truth to it, a leisurely but powerful voice which both carried the reader forward, and yet made him want to linger over every word, to savour every phrase. And, having finished, to close his eyes, to allow the imagination to fix all these events in his mind.