The Manual of Darkness

by Enrique de Heriz

Genres: General Fiction; Literary Fiction; Magical Realism

Synopsis

The world's best magician is going blind, but is there a story in his past that can save him? Victor Losa has spent his life studying magic. His mentor, Mario Galvan, taught him not only the practical aspects of the art, but also its history and the lives of famous Victorian magicians such as Hoffman, Maskelyne, and Cooke, and the most enigmatic historical figure of all, Peter Grouse, a pickpocket who decided to challenge the best magicians of the day. But suddenly things change for Victor Losa, just as he is proclaimed the world's best magician. A light appears in his eye, but this is no magic trick - he is diagnosed with a rare degenerative condition of the optical nerve. In short, he is rapidly going blind. As he loses his sight, Victor finds that there are new ways to conjure the world through stories of the past, present and future. And finally he learns the secret behind his mentor's teachings.

Release date: July 14, 2011

Publisher: Weidenfeld & Nicolson

Print pages: 309

Sample

There are only a few steps between him and the green door – eleven, twelve, maybe. It is too dark to count them. Víctor Losa stops, takes a deep breath; this, he thinks, is the happiest moment of his life. He did not feel like this a week ago in Lisbon when he was named World’s Best Magician at the FISM World Championship. Nor will he still feel this way a moment from now when he reaches the landing, opens the green door and steps into the room to receive an ovation from the professional magicians of Barcelona, gathered at the behest of his former teacher Mario Galván to pay tribute to him. He knows that this is a haven, a hiatus in life, a vantage point offered to him by time.

He does not want to jump for joy, to rush up the stairs and revel in the applause that awaits him. No, he wants to stay here, to float, to hover above this moment. He has his reasons, for this is where it all began. It was here, twenty-two years ago, after his first lesson with Galván, that he overheard the curious prediction from the master’s lips: ‘That little wretch is going to be one hell of a magician.’ He was standing on these stairs, who knows, perhaps on this very step, petrified, listening to the voice behind the door, muttering words the maestro could not have known he might overhear. So it is hardly surprising that Víctor should want to stop here, halfway up the stairs, to relive that moment when he heard the maestro make his prediction through gritted teeth, and revel in the long series of triumphs that have led from that moment to this.

As he is about to climb the last remaining steps, Víctor looks up and gets the fright of his life: the green door has vanished. It is still there, of course, it has to be; but he cannot see it. Instead he sees a milky stain, a whitish halo as though he were looking at the world through a veil. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes. When he looks again, the door is there in front of him, scruffy, the paint peeling, just as it has always been. Things disappear and reappear in unexpected ways. No one knows that more than he does.

It was an optical illusion, one he can easily put down to lack of sleep, due to some rather extravagant celebrating of late. Besides, it lasted only a second or two. It can’t be anything serious; it cannot account for the fear that suddenly grips Víctor, rooting him to this spot as though the air on which only a moment before he felt he could float has suddenly turned to cement.

By rights, he should feel exhilarated. He should take the stairs two at a time, fling the door open wide, stride into the room, throw his arms around Mario Galván and hug him hard. This, after all, is the moment they have both been waiting for, the moment they both – though they never dared say as much – feared might never come. Or might come too late; too late for Galván, who must be over eighty by now. Víctor has never known precisely how old the maestro is, but he was already an old man when they first met. And he has been ill for a long time.

What is stopping him? Not fear of what awaits him. He only has to perform one trick. He has been performing on bigger and more daunting stages than this for years, often before audiences who were much less receptive. He no longer remembers all the countries he has visited, the television studios where he was hailed as the star of the moment – a moment that has now lasted long enough to warrant another name – the festivals at which fellow magicians jostled to be in the front row so they could watch his work close up. So what exactly is this fear? Stage fright? The fear that some pathetic cliché is about to come true, that having reached this dizzy height, it will be all downhill from now on? Rubbish.

It is something else. A sense of foreboding. He wishes he could bring time to a standstill, he concentrates on this thought, like someone who has cut themselves staring at the wound as if to cauterise it before the blood wells up.

He reaches out his left hand and places his palm against the wall to steady himself. He will soon learn that this is not how it should be done, not with the palm of the hand. Soon, someone will teach him that the best way is to brush things with the back of the hand. Soon? That’s just a word. At this moment, the future is beyond reach, as unattainable as the stair he cannot climb. Or maybe does not want to climb, since he seems to be making no attempt to do so. It should be easy. This is a man who has made bodies levitate onstage. Come on, Víctor. It’s only one step. Grab hold of the banister and push. Give me a place to stand, and I will move the whole world.

Take one step. Hup! Then another. Then the rest of the stairs, two at a time: eleven or twelve of them; it is dim, there is barely any light, but Víctor is no fool, he knows that now that he has reached the top, he must penetrate his lowest, darkest self. Magic? He strides across the landing, reaches out and grasps the handle. In the moment before he opens the door, he can hear the excited murmur of the crowd. On this side of the green door is the past, so many memories that they are forced to huddle together simply to carve out a small space for the present, even if that means blending into it. That little wretch is going to be one hell of a magician. That little wretch. That … On the far side of the door, he imagines, is the future; a cavernous room he would like to imagine is empty, almost dark, with just a faint glimmer of light from a small window at the far end of the hall. That is how he remembers it. But he knows there are ninety-two people inside now, Galván’s daughter phoned this morning to tell him. Ninety-two: seventy-four seated, the rest standing, some leaning against the walls, some crowding the aisle, who step aside now to let him pass. Víctor glances around him in astonishment at the winks, the whistles, the thunderous stamping of feet, the slaps on the back, urged on by hands warm from clapping so hard. He reaches the small platform that serves as a stage, steps up and melts into Mario Galván’s arms; Mario, who is standing, waiting as though he never left, as though through all the years that have passed since he uttered his prediction, his curse, he has been standing here, rooted to the spot, waiting for the moment when he might see his prediction come to pass. This moment.

Víctor’s arms squeeze Galván tighter and tighter, as though he is his salvation, the one thing that might prevent him from falling. The maestro is astonished. He finds it hard to believe that Víctor could be nervous or afraid, but he cannot think of any other reason for his behaviour, for Víctor’s convulsive hug, for the rigid tension of his body, which slackens only at the neck as Víctor presses his face into Galván’s shoulder and, not relaxing his pincer grip even for a moment, bursts into tears. He could snap Galván in two. Galván is tall and thin. He is eighty years old or more. He smiles, strokes Víctor’s back. Up and down, with one hand. Twice, three times, four times. With his other hand he pats him on the shoulder. It’s OK, he says, it’s OK.

The master leads the student to one of the two chairs and sits him down. It is as though their ages have been reversed. Galván stands and turns to the audience. Only now does the applause fade, as though those present had made the most of Víctor’s lateness to rehearse their part in this tribute.

Mario Galván declares that this is a day not for speeches but for celebration. He promises to be brief and he keeps his promise. He finds precisely the right words to retell the story everyone in the room already knows yet wants to hear again: how when he first set eyes on Víctor, he knew this happy day would come; how his intuition was rewarded by the unstinting efforts of the best student it had ever been his pleasure to teach. He apologises, knowing that some of his other students are present, and insists that he follows their careers with pride and admiration, too. ‘But,’ he concludes, ‘this is not my opinion. It is that of the FISM, the International Federation of Magic Societies, which last week officially declared something I have always taken for granted: that Víctor, Víctor Losa, is the finest magician in the world. I give you Víctor Losa.’

There is another ovation, briefer but no less fervent than the first. This one is clearly for Galván, not so much for his speech but to acknowledge his part in the achievements of his student. This, at least, is clearly what Víctor thinks, because he throws out his hand, gesturing to the maestro, and joins in the applause. Galván thanks everyone with a shy nod and goes to leave the stage.

‘Wait, Mario,’ Víctor says. ‘Could you blindfold me, please?’

He takes a black scarf from his pocket and hands it to Galván, who blindfolds him, tying the scarf in a knot at the nape of his neck. The maestro then leaves the stage and takes the only empty seat in the audience.

Víctor allows the silence to hang in the air for a few seconds longer than expected. It is not a calculated move, but an instinctive understanding of drama, of magic as theatre, a skill he incorporated into his act from the beginning. He knows from experience that at this moment, any word, any movement on his part, even a slight wave of his hand, takes on great significance.

‘Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking,’ he says eventually. Scattered laughter. All those present know that Víctor’s success has been based on his way with words, but only the few who know him well know that his reticence in public is genuine. ‘I would like to thank Mario Galván. If only for pointing out to me the difference between a pianist and a typist. You know what I mean, Mario.’

Over the past few days, he has thought long and hard about this moment. If it were up to him, he would skip the performance, thank everyone for coming and suggest someone open the bottles of champagne that are sitting at the back of the room on a folding table that looks suspiciously like the one at which he had his first lesson in magic. But many of those present were not in Lisbon and missed the grand final. Víctor, they have heard, won with a single trick. While every other contestant performed tricks that were spectacular or showcased important technical innovations, Víctor had walked onstage with just a pack of cards and mesmerised the judges. They are hoping he will do the same trick now. It is only fair: there could be no better moment to share a success that even he does not believe is entirely his. He wants everyone to feel as though they are sharing in this chance blessing, and not simply out of generosity, but because all those present are links in a single chain of knowledge. He gets to his feet and takes three paces forward to the edge of the stage. Casually, as though he were not wearing a blindfold. Just as he is about to open his mouth to speak, someone in the front row pre-empts him and shouts:

‘My father died …’

The audience laughs at this joke. Víctor can hardly be irritated by it; for years now, every show has opened with these words. It is the one sure thing the dedicated fans know about a particular show before they see it. This prelude, this opening, these talismanic words: ‘My father died when I was seven years old.’ In fact, part of the anticipation generated by each new show is the way these words will veer off in unexpected twists and meanders, to arrive, every time, at a different yet plausible conclusion.

Víctor enjoys the laughter and the sibilant shh that follows.

‘Of course,’ he concedes finally, ‘you all know that my father died, but what I’ve never told anyone is that his legacy to me was a wooden trunk full of his belongings. And in that trunk was a pack of cards. This pack of cards.’ He holds up the deck for the audience to see. ‘New, unopened, the seal still intact. For years I’ve been waiting for the right moment to use this deck. I was planning to perform a trick with them tonight, but now the moment has come, I can’t bring myself to use them. They scare me. So I’m going to ask you all to do me a favour: I want you to perform the trick for me. I’m hoping that together we can overcome the curse I suspect has been placed on these cards.’

He tosses the pack into the front row. Someone leaps to their feet and catches it.

‘Please, don’t sit down,’ Víctor says quickly. ‘Turn around so everyone can see what you’re doing. Everyone except me, obviously. I can’t see anything. Now, I want you to break the seal that has been on that pack of cards for thirty years. Take out the cards and hand them to a person in the second row. Anyone you like.’

As if the blindfold were not sufficient guarantee, Víctor now turns his back on the audience and stays that way for the rest of the trick. Yet he continues to give precise, perfectly timed instructions, as though he can see exactly what is happening in the stalls. He instructs the second person to pass the cards to a third, to whom he offers the opportunity to shuffle the cards. Since this person chooses an American shuffle – immediately recognisable by the sound of the cards as they cascade – Víctor asks the next person to do a traditional overhand shuffle. Lest there be any doubt that this has been a clean shuffle, he offers a fifth person the opportunity to cut the pack and pass it on. By now, most of the audience is on its feet, staring towards the middle of the sixth row so as not to lose sight of the cards.

‘Maestro Mario,’ says Víctor, as the man who has just cut the cards hands the pack to the maestro, ‘I want you to pick a card. Take your time, then show it to anyone you like.’

Before picking a card, Galván fans out the deck and looks at them to make sure the cards are not in an order that could easily be memorised. He checks the backs of the cards, then snaps the pack together, checks the cards again to make sure they’re not marked, shrugs, then takes out the three of diamonds. He holds it up for everyone to see, then says:

‘OK.’

Víctor asks Mario to put his card back in the deck anywhere he likes and hand the pack to someone in the next row. The seventh person is instructed to shuffle the cards and keep passing them on. And so the cards reach the back row and slowly begin their return journey towards the stage. Víctor now asks that, on each row, someone cut the pack, keep one pile and pass on the rest. The shrinking pack moves forward until, when it reaches the second row, there are only two cards left.

‘I don’t know who you are,’ Víctor says at this point, ‘but you are holding two cards. The person who took the deck out of the box is sitting in the front row. Could you please find that person and give him the cards.’

The murmur that has grown louder as the pack of cards shrinks is now overwhelming.

‘Please, don’t look at them. Take out the box you put in your pocket earlier, then place one of the two cards inside. You can keep the other one. Hand the box to Mario Galván. I think there’s something in there that belongs to him.’

Some of the audience break into applause even before Galván takes the box. Others laugh or shout or whistle. But many of them stand silently, waiting for the conclusion of the trick, unable to believe what they are seeing or, worse still, alarmed precisely because they can see it and cannot help believing. Someone shouts:

‘It’s not possible!’

Víctor has just performed the trick that won him the Grand Prix a week ago: a new trick devised by him in which magic truly seems to happen all by itself, without the intervention of the magician. His back is turned. He’s wearing a blindfold. In front of an audience of professionals. The most sceptical members of the audience, instead of looking at Galván, glance around the room, at the ceiling, in the corners, looking for cameras, cables, mirrors, any gadget which, in conjunction with some illusion involving Víctor’s blindfold, might explain the trick. Everyone here knows what can be done with a single mirror. A number of people are still holding the cards they kept as the deck was being passed back. Some check their cards for the most obvious explanation, that they are all identical. Others slip cards into their pockets, happy to have a memento of this unforgettable moment; more than one does so convinced that, once he gets home, he will be able to work out how the trick was done. As Galván takes the box, there is a tense silence which lasts three full seconds before he opens it and shows the three of diamonds to the audience, not bothering to look at it before he does so, as though even to think about checking that the trick has worked would be an insult to his student. Víctor still stands, his back to the audience.

‘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.

He 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