The Manual of Darkness (3 page)

‘What is the card?’

Nobody answers. Maybe because they know that the question is simply a formality, or maybe because, in the thunderous rumble of applause, they have not heard the question. A fleeting smile plays on Víctor’s lips and, in a whisper his audience cannot hear, he says: ‘It doesn’t matter. They are all God’s children.’

He turns. Acknowledges their applause with a slow bow. He smiles and removes the blindfold. Opens his eyes gradually as though the light were a lance. And it is; he quickly closes his left eye again and covers it with one hand. Then opens it, his hand still cupped to his face to protect his eye from the dazzling spotlight. Has he got something in it? He lightly touches his eyelid with one finger, applying no pressure, unable to resist rubbing it but terrified that he will find a piece of glass or grit, something abrasive. A moon. That is what is in his left eye. A diminutive full moon. A capsule. A small white wafer.

The applause does not stop. Víctor blinks. First once, slowly and deliberately, then rapidly, repeatedly, almost like a nervous tic. He scans the front row from right to left and notices that the white halo moves too. It is a strange sensation. Anyone else in his position would run to the bathroom and bathe his eyes under the tap. Víctor senses that this would not do any good, perhaps
because he cannot help connecting this strange episode with the powder flash that briefly eclipsed the green door barely half an hour ago.

Above the racket, a voice shouts:

‘Víctor! Here!’

It’s Galván. Seeing Víctor has heard him, with a flick of his wrist, he sends the three of diamonds leaping into the air, where it spirals across the room. This is something they have practised a thousand times. Galván could flick every card in the deck to him from much farther away, with his back turned; he could even walk around as he flicks one card after another, and every one of them would come to rest in the half-open hand Víctor now extends to catch the three of diamonds. Only the poise that comes from years of practice makes it possible for him to wait patiently, pretending to follow the card as it flies. Because he cannot see the card. The wait seems endless, as though some cog in the machinery of time has suddenly broken. Nothing outlandish, nothing that would make the earth shake, nothing that would deflect a planet from its orbit: it is a pitiful rattle, a turn of the screw. In a few months, when he tries to recall this moment, it will seem to him that he can only reach it by crossing a desert of empty days. He closes his hand just in time to pluck the card out of the air. He looks at it. At first, he can see no three, no diamonds, nothing but a blank card. Only if he closes his left eye can he see the blurred shapes printed on the card.

Confused, he steps down from the stage and mingles with the crowd. There is more back-slapping, more gentle nudging. They say things, whisper congratulations into his ear. And he can also hear, though they seem to come from another planet, the comments they make to one another. He’s the best, they say, the very best. He manages to smile, if his grimace could be called a smile, but he does not stop to speak to anyone. The inertia of the crowd has allowed him to reach the back of the room, where Mario and a number of volunteers are opening the first bottles and filling little plastic glasses. Víctor is next to the door. Before he leaves, he looks around the room one last time. Here, he believed he was reborn twenty-two years ago. Here he suffered, struggled, wept with rage at the impossible, wept with joy at the unexpected. His whole life
has been here, a life which, barely half an hour ago, seemed so happy. Hiding under these seats, melting into the shadows, all the men he has ever been since he first walked through the green door are watching him.

Before he realises it, he is two blocks away. He is walking quickly, fingering his house keys in his trouser pocket, clinging to the faint hope that he will be able to sleep and tomorrow will bring the miracle of recovery. He is still blinking, still jerking his head quickly as though there is a parasite in his eye, a bug attached to his cornea. It will be some time before his guests notice his absence and begin to ask who saw him last and where can he have got to. They will miss you, Víctor.

H
e arrived a few minutes early and, although the front door was open, he buzzed the intercom. No one answered. Víctor took a piece of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out and checked the address: 1st Floor, 6, Carrer de l’Oli. He stepped into the tiny hallway, rubbed his hands together and pulled up the collar of his cloak. It was colder in here than it was outside. He reached out to touch the wall, searching for a light switch, then pulled his hand away, revolted by the feel of the dank, spongy plaster. He climbed the stairs to the green door on the first landing. He pressed the doorbell, but it did not even seem to ring. He rested his hand on the handle and pushed gently, expecting the hinges to screech dramatically, but the door opened in well-oiled silence as though on to nothingness. At the far end of the room, a small window let in just enough light to emphasise the accumulated grime on its glass.

With one foot inside, but without crossing the threshold, Víctor called out:

‘Hello? Anyone there?’

He would have sworn he saw his breath misting in the air. He stood completely still, listening for the slightest sound, an intake of breath, any clue that might reveal the presence of another being in the room. In spite of the silence, he had the sensation of eyes crawling over him, like a persistent insect. All he could offer in return was his gangling adolescent body, his clumsy, short-sighted tics, his hesitant stance. However, the eyes that did move slowly in the darkness quickly noticed the artless way that Víctor moved, the gracefulness of his gestures, the natural candour of his smile, the way he refused to lean against the wall or put his hands in his pockets; all of which could be summed up with the simple word
elegance. Let us give Galván his due, it took him only a moment to recognise in this seventeen-year-old both the frozen image of the lonely boy he had been and the charming, charismatic man that time would make of him. He must have seen all this at first glance, since otherwise Víctor would have left the room thinking there was no one there. Galván was not prepared to settle for yet another mediocre student. Nor even a good one.

Víctor was about to leave when he heard the quick, rasping, instantly recognisable sound of a lighter being struck. He turned just in time to see the flame, a yellow quivering that disappeared immediately, leaving only a spark hovering in the air. Then, suddenly, a spotlight on the ceiling sliced through the darkness, a powerful beam, but one so narrow that, even when his eyes had adjusted to the semi-darkness, he could not make out the size of the room. In the centre, his faced shrouded by the first puff of smoke, was a man, sitting at a small table. He must have been dressed entirely in black because Víctor could see only a shock of stiff hair, the pale straw colour blond hair takes on with age, and the cloudy reflection of a pair of smudged spectacles. The man’s eyes peered out at him as though through a murky fishbowl.

On the table were a green baize cloth and two decks of cards. On the other side, an empty chair. With an impatient wave, the man gestured for him to take a seat. As he drew closer, Víctor could see the area around the table more clearly. The spotlight lent the green baize a dull sheen. Only the decks of cards were new. Everything else looked old, antiquated, shabby. Or fake: he had the feeling that if he moved to the other side of the table, beneath that floating head he would find the body of a robot, its back a tangle of plugs and wires. He concentrated on the man’s features: the harsh nicotine stains on his teeth, his clean-shaven face and, most of all, the pallor of his skin, so pale that it seemed to justify the darkness of the room.

As though bothered by this scrutiny, the man drew back his head a little, out of the spotlight, so that it merged into the darkness. It was almost a minute before he reappeared, the cigarette still clenched between his lips, his eyes fixed on Víctor.

‘Mario Galván,’ he introduced himself, stretching out a hand.
Víctor shook it, and said his name, his voice thin and barely audible.

‘Pleased to meet you, Víctor. Before we begin, I should warn you that if you arrive late again, I will cancel the classes.’

‘Late?’ Víctor said, surprised.

Only when he brought his hand up to his face to look at his watch did he remember that their handshake had lasted a fraction of a second too long. His watch was now swaying like a pendulum from Galván’s index finger.

‘Great trick,’ he conceded.

‘We’re getting off to a bad start,’ Galván said, peevishly. ‘Magicians don’t play tricks on each other. Clowns, yes. And thimbleriggers. Magicians perform magic.’ His voice was hoarse and thick phlegm rattled in his chest. ‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ he announced. He took a pack of cards, broke the seal on the box, removed the cards with his left hand then turned his wrist slowly to show them face up and said: ‘This is a deck of cards.’

‘OK.’

‘Let me stub this thing out first, they’ll be the death of me.’

Galván took the cigarette from his mouth with his right hand, brought it down to his waist, let it fall to the floor. Then he stamped on it. When Víctor looked up at his face again, he saw that Galván was still holding the cigarette, trailing smoke, as though it had never left the maestro’s lips.

‘The first thing we’re going to learn …’ he said, as though nothing had happened.

‘Hang on,’ Víctor interrupted. ‘How did you do that?’

‘Never ask a magician that question.’

‘It’s not that, it’s just …’

‘… just nothing. You did come here to learn magic, didn’t you? Lesson one: asking how something works is distasteful.’

‘But I saw the cigarette fall. I saw you stamp it out.’

‘So what? What’s important is what you
didn’t
see.’

‘Do it again.’

‘I can’t.’

Víctor smiled as though Galván had admitted defeat. If he were to do it again, Víctor might work out how the trick was done.

‘Make no mistake.’ The maestro’s eyes never left his. ‘I could
do it a thousand times and you still wouldn’t work it out. But that’s not the point. Magic is not a game, Víctor. It is an art. A typist can repeat something as many times as necessary, a pianist cannot; the art is lost.’

Víctor looked as if he was about to leap to his feet and run out the door; his back stubbornly refusing to relax, his body half-turned, his legs to one side. He was irritated by the cold, and the damp. but most of all by Galván’s self-important tone.

‘Let’s start again. I brought my right hand up to my mouth and took the cigarette. Like this.’ He repeated the gesture, though this time his fingers held only a cigarette butt. The filter smelled as though it was burning and the green baize was covered in ash. Víctor noticed all this, and thought that the maestro was about to burn himself. ‘Then, I brought it down to my waist and dropped it. All the while it never left your sight, did it? Then I moved my right foot to stub it out. And when I brought my hand back to my lips …’

‘Hey!’ Víctor thumped the table. ‘You’ve just done the same trick twice. You told me …’

‘I told you that I don’t do tricks,’ Galván corrected him.

At that moment, with a sudden burst of speed, he took his hand away. Between his lips was a perfect short-stemmed rose.

‘Besides, as you know, nothing is what it seems,’ he concluded before taking a deep breath. The rose, wreathed in smoke, hung from his mouth for only a moment before it wilted and crumbled to dust. ‘I smoke too much,’ said Galván.

With his right hand, he placed the remains of the flower on the table. Víctor leaned forward to touch it and, realising that it was not an artificial flower, he stared at the magician, incredulous. He ran through the sequence again, determined to find the missing link, the moment when, unbeknown to him, his eyes had been misdirected. Despite the maestro’s bluster, it had to be a trick, or a sequence of tricks, and he was here to learn. Sooner or later. With Galván’s help, or without it. Though he did not realise it, his fingers were still tracing anxious spirals in the air.

‘OK, let’s get to work,’ said the maestro.

He moved the decks of cards to one side of the table, smoothed out the green baize with his palm, and as his hand moved over the
remnants of the flower, it closed into a fist. Then he opened it, as if setting free a fly he had caught. Nothing – not the least trace of the flower. Víctor’s bewilderment crystallised into three simple words:

‘It’s not possible!’

‘At last,’ cried Mario Galván. ‘It’s not possible, it’s
not
possible. Say it again.’

‘It’s not possible,’ Víctor whispered.

‘Louder, damn it! Shout with me: IT’S …’

‘… NOT POSSIBLE!’ Víctor shouted, caught up in the maestro’s excitement although he did feel slightly embarrassed and faintly ridiculous.

Abruptly, Galván got to his feet, came round the table and crouched down next to Víctor. Barely a palm’s breadth separated their faces.

‘Listen to me, Víctor Losa. When you ask me how it works, you insult me. When you refer to it as a trick, you insult me. When you ask me to do it again, you insult me. But when your mouth drops open and you tell me it’s not possible, it’s like a breath of life. Because that is what magic is about, do you understand? Hearing someone say “it’s not possible”, but making it possible all the same. Now, let’s see if you’re any good.’