The Manual of Darkness (48 page)

Ninety million years, he will say, can you imagine? Ninety million, Alicia. Some wasp had to stop flying, learn to build nests by burrowing into the ground instead of the bark of trees; it needed to transform itself into an ant, and it did. Well, not that ant but
her daughter, her niece, her grand-niece. A bug took a sideways step as it was born, before it was born, and wound up being something completely different. He will tell her about the importance of the discovery, because until then ants were popular with those determined to refute the theory of evolution. Man might be descended from apes, they used to say, but ants have no antecedents, they’re not part of any chain. They’re an example of the mysterious ways of God. This little piece of amber shut them up.

If he truly is as calm as he appears, perhaps Víctor may digress on the subject of chance, the enormous statistical odds, the endless possibilities, the tide that could have carried the discovery out to sea that day, the elderly couple who could have given this lump of frozen time to their grandchildren to play with, might have had it set into a necklace or, if they didn’t have the means, might have sold it for a couple of dollars so that it would end up in a glass case somewhere, its significance forever hidden from the eyes of science. And Alicia will take this opportunity to say that it’s beautiful, really pretty, interesting, but why are they still standing out here in the hall when she hasn’t even had a chance to put down her bag, they have work to do and she doesn’t see where this conversation is going. All this, she’ll say. And though he will not be able to see her, she’ll fling her arms wide to encompass the hallway, the apartment, the world and the curious motionless mass they form as they stand here.

‘You don’t see?’ Víctor will say. ‘You really don’t see? Jesus …’ He will sound almost indignant, though he will not raise his voice. ‘Use your imagination, Alicia. This little creature, this chain of genetic information, this aberration, was once crawling up a tree and it stopped for a moment. And a droplet of resin oozed out of the tree. The insect didn’t move. Wasps and ants don’t usually stop moving for very long so the whole thing must have happened in a few seconds. Maybe it felt an atavistic urge to fly but didn’t know how. It didn’t know who it was. Worse, didn’t know what it was. And the resin trickled down the branch and engulfed it, the way lava engulfs everything in its path. And before the insect realised it, it wasn’t a wasp, or an ant, or an insect: it simply wasn’t.

At that point, Alicia will begin to see where the conversation is leading, will realise that Víctor’s thoughts are hurtling off course and will try to derail them with the first thing that comes into her mind. Hang on a minute, she’ll say, there’s something I don’t get. Because unless I’m mistaken, wasps still exist. Not these ones, he’ll say, these are extinct. It’s a completely different species to those that exist now. They were solitary wasps. They laid eggs in the bark of trees. As a species, they didn’t have much chance of surviving. And she’ll say, but in that case, what you’re telling me is fantastic. It means that at some point in time these wasps were able to evolve, to progress, to make a change that was essential to their survival. They lost their wings, but they learned to burrow into the ground, to create a social hierarchy and transform themselves into an almost perfect creature. How many years did you say? Ninety million? And they’re still here. Ninety million years thanks to a sacrifice. They learned to walk, Víctor, because that’s what we’re talking about, isn’t it, learning to walk when you can’t fly any more? But though Víctor might be a bit obsessed, he’s nobody’s fool, and he’ll say: no, no, that’s not what we’re talking about, don’t try to use this as an excuse to give me another of your lectures. We’re talking about the amber. And about me. We’re not talking about the species, we’re talking about the individual. And that’s me, Alicia. Look at me. Can’t you see I’m trapped in amber? It’s inside my head, in my optical nerves, it has completely engulfed me.

When the day’s work is done, when they finally say goodbye, their mouths will be dry from having talked so much, because they won’t be practising anything today, they will just talk and talk for hours about the significance of this piece of amber without reaching any agreement. She will leave, feeling that she is missing something, that in spite of everything that has been said, in spite of the fact that she marshalled all her weaponry in an attempt to change Víctor’s outlook, she still has to find an argument, a weapon which, properly used, could shatter the wall of amber in which he encases himself.

And Víctor … Víctor will be left with the nagging feeling that he has lied, if only by omission. Because even if he is convinced of what he says, he cannot deny that right now, in spite of the year
he has spent trapped inside his stubbornness, a year which feels like ninety million years encased in amber, inside the resin he has felt a quaver in the air. The tremor of a minuscule evolution, however much he refuses to call it that.

I
t looks like a badly choreographed ballet. On one side of the street is Alicia, a reluctant Víctor clinging to her arm and complaining about all the pushing and shoving he had to suffer on the metro. What’s more, he is still limping slightly from his accident. Coming towards them is Galván’s daughter, pushing her father’s wheelchair, her face like thunder.

Alicia had to do a lot of work to arrange this meeting. This week, she has been to see Galván three times: the first time to suggest the meeting; the other two to make arrangements and to overcome his daughter’s reservations. At first the daughter refused to take her father out of the shop on the pretext that, given the state of his health, a stiff breeze could easily kill him. Alicia took it for granted that Víctor would not agree to visit The King of Magic. In fact, Víctor is the only person who has been tricked into this, he does not even know that he is meeting Galván. It was difficult enough to convince him to agree to what she told him were exercises to help him get around on public transport. This is the crucial moment. She has to pretend that the meeting is coincidental.

‘Hey, isn’t that your old teacher?’

That was awkward.

‘How the hell should I know?’

‘It’s Galván, Víctor.’ Alicia turns and takes his shoulders. ‘I’ve only met him once, but I’m sure it’s him. He’s in a wheelchair. He doesn’t look well. You can’t just ignore him.’

There is a café on the corner. This, too, is not a coincidence. The only neutral ground Galván’s daughter would agree to is a hundred yards from his shop. They greet each other at the door. Víctor kisses the daughter on both cheeks but Alicia hurries them
inside. When it comes to sitting down, the choreography becomes complicated. They have to move some chairs to get Galván’s wheelchair to a table and in the process almost buffet Víctor, who stands there stupefied, awkward, silent.

‘What’s that noise?’ he asks as Alicia sits him down next to the maestro.

‘It’s a bit crowded,’ Galván’s daughter answers, ‘and the waiters are quite noisy.’

‘No, not that …’ Víctor says. ‘It’s closer, like a hissing. It’s coming from here.’ He reaches out towards Galván’s chair and touches the back of it.

‘Oxygen,’ the maestro explains, his voice barely audible. He is surprised, although he has the tank next to him twenty-four hours a day, or perhaps because of that, he cannot hear the hiss of air.

Víctor does not react. Galván puts a hand on Víctor’s neck, forcing him to bend his head closer.

‘I said it’s the oxygen. Don’t make me repeat myself, talking wears me out. Look, here, feel this.’ He takes Víctor’s hand and forces him to touch the tubes coming out of his nostrils. ‘I have an oxygen tank to help me breathe.’

Alicia is nervous and cannot seem to stop her hands fluttering; she has already moved the ashtray and the napkin holder three times and shifted the position of her chair. She clears her throat. She has spent all week rehearsing this moment. She expects to start off with small talk so everyone is relaxed and then steer the conversation to the subject she wants them to discuss. Víctor and Galván will talk about the weather or something like that. Then Galván will scold Víctor for not introducing his friend. Víctor will have no choice but to explain that she is his technician from ONCE. The maestro will be surprised by the news, will congratulate Víctor and ask her about the progress he’s making. She will talk about his achievements but then go on to say that there is one small problem and explain Víctor’s reservations about using a cane. At that point, Galván knows what he needs to do. This is how they agreed things should go.

But it seems that the maestro is about to throw away the script. He is still holding Víctor by the neck and talking so quietly that
his daughter and Alicia have to lean in closer to catch what he is saying.

‘If I were thirty years younger, if I wasn’t in the state I’m in, I’d kill you with my bare hands. I don’t know if you’ll ever perform again, but you could be the best blind person in the world. You have the best teacher. Alicia is an angel.’

Alicia frowns and bites her lip. This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

‘A guardian angel,’ the old man continues. ‘She knows everything there is to know. And she needs you to pay attention, because a student who doesn’t want to learn is an insult. A waste of talent. I know that better than anyone.’

Rather than being angry at this ambush, Víctor seems bewildered. The hand with which Galván had forced him to feel the oxygen tubes now rests on the maestro’s chest and registers the strenuous rise and fall of lungs desperate for air. Now and then he turns to where he thinks Alicia and Galván’s daughter are sitting, as though hoping one of them might intervene. But Alicia has resigned herself to the fact that the old man is now in charge of this encounter and the daughter seems happy simply to wave her hands around, attempting to stop the cigarette smoke drifting over from the bar from reaching her father.

‘Mario …’

‘Don’t interrupt me. I’d be only too happy to have a nice long chat, to talk about old times, for you to tell me what you’ve been doing this past year. Or what you haven’t been doing. But I don’t have the time.’

‘Don’t give me that old speech about how you’re dying. You’ve been telling me you’re dying for twenty years.’

‘Exactly. I’ve been dying for twenty years, so now I’m ready. In fact, it’s long overdue. I can barely eat, it’s difficult to breathe, and it’s clear I find it hard to talk. If I could magically disappear, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. I’ve had a good life, Víctor. This is my daughter. My daughter is already a grandmother. I’m a great-grandfather, can you imagine that? Until last week, I thought there was nothing left for me to do on this earth, but then this girl, Alicia here, your guardian angel, persuaded me there is still something I can do. She gave me one last mission.’

Galván fumbles in a bag hanging from the arm of the wheelchair. He takes out his hand, fist closed, and gropes for Víctor’s hand.

‘Take this.’

Víctor opens his hand and is immediately struck by the weight and feel of the metal cylinder.

‘Auzinger.’

He squeezes his hand and the telescopic cane shoots out across the table, knocking the ashtray to the floor.

‘I’ll get it,’ Alicia says, resigned to her role as an observer.

Víctor squeezes the handle again and retracts the cane. He brings it to his face and sniffs it.

‘Smells of paint,’ he says, as though he can’t quite understand. Then a flash of understanding lights up his face. ‘You’ve painted it white, you bastard!’ He shrugs off Galván’s hand and turns to Alicia. ‘That goes for you too. Bastards, the pair of you.’

With surprising speed, given how weak he is, Galván’s arm shoots out again and he grabs Víctor’s lapel.

‘More than twenty years ago I made a prediction which, thanks to you, came true. You became one hell of a magician, and you’re still a little wretch. Now, I’m going to make another prediction: you will walk. You might never be a magician again. Nobody cares about that any more. And maybe you’ll always be a little wretch. But you’ll walk. You will use this cane and you’ll learn to walk down the street even if it’s only to come and visit my grave once a year.

‘You want me to put flowers in the tip of the cane? Or would you prefer a silk handkerchief?’

Galván strokes his chin. Víctor crouches down, takes the maestro’s face in his hands. He wants to hug him but the wheelchair is in the way.

‘You’re the best,’ he says.

‘Was, Víctor, I was. Now I’m nothing.’

‘I’ll walk. I don’t have anywhere to go, but I’ll learn to walk.’

‘To my grave.’

‘
Papá!
’ the daughter intervenes. ‘That’s enough now. Besides …’

‘Yes, you’re right. I shouldn’t tire myself. I’ve said all I came to say. Let’s go.’

The goodbyes take a long time. And not because of the words that no one says, but the hands that grip, that thank, that say goodbye for ever. Standing by the door, Alicia and Víctor watch as the maestro leaves, and hear his last words, almost drowned out by the roar of traffic.

‘Shit, I love the smell of cigarette smoke.’

There is a sudden metallic sound. Startled, Alicia turns and sees that the cane has been extended.

‘Right, then, over to you,’ Víctor says. ‘How the fuck do you use this thing?’

He is waiting for instructions.