The Manual of Darkness Read online

  Translated from the Spanish by Frank Wynne

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Also by Enrique de Hériz

  Epigraph

  Part One

  The Green Door

  Populus Vult Decipi

  As If By Magic

  Ants Have No Ears

  Aces and Kings

  Something Very Strange

  A Line of Fire

  If They Made Me a King

  An Exciting Case

  Papá is Asleep

  An Island

  The Seybert Commission

  Peace

  Children of God

  A Map of the World

  Grouse, according to Galván

  A Trick at Every Table

  One Bloody Nerve, Víctor

  Dust Thou Art

  The Queen Mother

  Double Feature

  0.2 Per Cent

  Mr Lápidus

  Counting Steps

  Nothing More Invisible than Air

  The Future

  A Madman Walking

  A Sausage Inside a Sausage

  Sparks in his Hand

  Burn, O Earth!

  Starting Over

  Even Though You Cannot See Me

  23°C

  A Just Man

  Music for the Spirits

  Before, Now, After

  Emptiness

  The Besieged City

  Part Two

  One Year

  Irina

  Ants

  ‘Al Dente’

  So Let’s Talk

  The Wellspring

  The Gallery of Famous Blind People: I

  Opening and Closing

  There Is Not A Place

  Light is God

  Behind the Mirror

  Free Bar

  Light Years

  Here is Your Shadow

  The Gallery of Famous Blind People: II

  A Trail of Ants

  Manners Of Speaking

  Down Is Where You Fall

  Moving

  If you weren’t so crazy

  The Light of Your Life

  And Have Not

  The Gallery of Famous Blind People: III

  Leave her alone, Víctor

  Without Edges

  Cliffwood Beach

  The Auzinger Toy

  The Gallery of Famous Blind People: IV

  The Last Step before the Last Step

  Your First Egg

  I’ll Wait Here For You

  Tickles

  A Double Grief

  Fire

  References

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  To Pere, up and down

  Enrique de Hériz was born in Barcelona in 1964. He has worked as an editor and translator, including translations to Spanish of the work of Annie Proulx, Nadine Gordimer, Stephen King, Peter Carey, and John Fowles. His first novel, Lies, won the Llibreter prize in Spain.

  Also by Enrique de Hériz

  Lies

  ‘We must conclude that man is this: someone who looks upon things and knows the names of them.’

  Carmen Gándara, from the story ‘The Ball of Paper’

  ‘It is just in this way that otherwise sensible people allow their senses to be deceived, and their imaginations preyed upon’

  Harry Kellar, in A Magician’s Tour

  ‘These grosser physical manifestations can be but the mere ooze and scum cast up by the waves on the idle pebble, the waters of a heaven-lit sea, if it exist, must lie far out beyond.’

  Horace Howard Furness ‘Preliminary report of the Seybert Commission for Investigating Modern Spiritualism’, University of Pennsylvania, 1887

  part

  one

  The Green Door

  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 th
at 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: