The Manual of Darkness Page 12

  Dust Thou Art

  Although he had no reason to hide, Peter Grouse took cover in a doorway in order to observe number 22 Piccadilly on the opposite side of the street. He had passed the outlandish building many times but, assuming it to be a museum, had never stopped to give it a second glance. Somewhat narrower than the surrounding buildings, it was notable for the opulent pilasters that flanked the doorway and for the two enormous statues above the entrance. He had no possible way of knowing that they depicted Isis and Osiris, but anyone with even a minimal education would have been able to identify them as Egyptian. This was how he knew he had found the right place, since nowhere on the building were the words Egyptian Hall. The only word carved into the stone was EXHIBITION.

  The figure of John Nevil Maskelyne came around the corner of St James’s Street, threading his way through the traffic towards the entrance. Let us give Grouse due credit for what might otherwise be taken as chance: since his encounter with Maskelyne had occurred the previous day at about 6 p.m., he had stationed himself there since five o’clock. As soon as he saw the magician, he threw himself back and dissolved into the shadows. One could never be too careful. All his attention was focused on the case, once again attached to the man’s left wrist by the braided leather strap.

  Maskelyne opened the front door with his own key and then locked it again once inside. Grouse thought it prudent to wait before approaching any closer, and even then, he went to the next corner before crossing the street so that nobody might see him arriving directly and conclude that he had been waiting. Ever the professional.

  He stopped and read the poster next to the entrance:

  MASKELYNE & COOKE

  ENGLAND’S HOME OF MYSTERY

  EGYPTIAN HALL

  EVERY EVENING AT 8.

  TUESDAY, THURSDAY AND SATURDAY AT 3.

  SEVEN YEARS IN LONDON OF

  UNPARALLELED SUCCESS.

  A MAN’S HEAD CUT OFF WITHOUT LOSS OF LIFE

  A STRANGE STATEMENT, BUT NO MORE STRANGE

  THAN TRUE.

  This was followed by a promotional text which guaranteed unrestrained laughter and the verisimilitude of the decapitation. Grouse scanned the text to the next paragraph in bold type:

  THE FOUR AUTOMATONS

  PSYCHO, THE WHIST PLAYER; ZOE, THE ARTIST;

  MUSIC BY MECHANISM, ILLUSTRATED BY FANFARE ON THE

  CORNET; AND LABIAL, THE EUPHONIUM, ARE ATTRACTING

  VISITORS FROM ALL PARTS OF THE GLOBE.

  He was confused by what he read, but the name Psycho told him that this was indeed the right place to try to shed light on what had happened the previous evening. Although ‘magic’ did not appear on the poster, the word certainly summed up what was written and moreover explained the skill with which Grouse’s intended victim had picked his pocket. He felt one step closer to avenging this slight, though he had not yet decided what exactly he was going to do to the man when they came face to face once more. He immediately dismissed the idea of resorting to violence. Not only because he was peaceable by nature, but because he took pride in the fact that he had made a living from his profession without ever having to shed a drop of blood. However, he needed to think of some means of recovering the money he had lost. More than that: he licked his lips at the prospect of multiplying his loot by robbing the man of everything he possessed, though he could not begin to plan his revenge until he discovered what exactly went on in the Egyptian Hall.

  He wandered around the area until the box office opened then willingly paid five shillings for a front-row seat. It was a good investment. When the theatre doors opened, he waited for a large crowd to come inside so he could mingle with them and make his way to his seat. The walls were decorated with vast murals depicting dogs, huge birds, snakes and Egyptian gods. He recognised one of the signs of the zodiac. The show took place in a large room on the ground floor. Grouse counted the rows and estimated that the place seated at least two hundred people, although tonight the audience barely numbered one hundred. Judging by their appearance, most were visitors to the city. In Grouse’s profession, the ability to recognise a tourist was crucial.

  Music began to play and the curtain rose. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness the audience noticed that, aside from the pianist, all the other musicians were automata. A harp flew above their heads and for a moment Grouse thought he saw the light glinting on a piece of wire or rope that was holding it aloft. The orchestra were playing a merry tune which seemed to go on too long; only when the last notes died away did the man with the leather case finally appear and begin to speak. First he introduced himself as John Nevil Maskelyne, thereby confirming what Grouse had suspected when he read the poster at the entrance. Then a second man appeared, whom Maskelyne introduced as Mr Cooke, his assistant.

  Onstage, Maskelyne looked even shorter and his walrus moustache seemed all the more ridiculous. His voice had a grating quality and his attempt to sound authoritative served only to make him sound unpleasant. What most surprised Grouse was his refusal to use the word ‘magic’ or anything similar. On the contrary, he insisted on warning the public that everything they were about to witness had a scientific explanation: ‘Pure science, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said between bows, ‘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.’ Since he knew nothing of the controversy surrounding the spiritualists at the time, Grouse did not understood why Maskelyne was saying this. Where was the mystery? What was the point of paying to see something which, in the words of the inventor himself, could be performed by anyone with the necessary knowledge? Why was the audience applauding? Clearly the spectacle had not been conceived for minds as pragmatic as his. And since he did not care much for the music, the first half-hour of the show, during which each of the automata performed long solos, seemed interminable.

  When Maskelyne announced that the moment had come to introduce Psycho, Grouse started in his seat. As the assistant pushed a large bundle swathed in black cloth to the centre of the stage, the audience gave their loudest ovation yet. Apparently this was the part of the show they had come to see. Maskelyne removed the cloth and finally Grouse could see in three dimensions the figure that had so perturbed him the night before. He took the illustration from his pocket and surreptitiously glanced at it to compare the two. Introducing the piece, Maskelyne asked the audience to note that the trunk was standing on a glass cylinder which was completely transparent and consequently was not connected to any ropes or cables. Although the cogs and pistons visible in the illustration were not apparent onstage, Maskelyne was not trying to pass this off as a man of flesh and blood. On the contrary, he was emphasising the fact that it was mechanical. Its great achievement was the ability to play cards unaided. With slightly stiff movements, accompanied by the suspicious hiss of valves, one of its hands would systematically run along a metal shelf on which a dozen cards were laid out and, at the magician’s request, would hand him a card in order to play a game of whist. Maskelyne deliberately exaggerated the movement as he stretched out his arm to take the card so the audience would discount the possibility that he was influencing the automaton’s movements in any way. Every move was greeted by a round of applause Grouse thought excessive. When the hand was over, the magician turned to the audience and issued a challenge: for years, he had offered a reward of £1,000 to anyone who could show him a similar apparatus capable of playing cards that was genuinely automatic. But that evening, he was feeling particularly generous and felt disposed to increase the reward to £3,000. Having said this, he covered Psycho with the black cloth and announced there would be a short interval.

  It was a tempting figure. For the first time Grouse began to believe he might recoup his money with interest, and in doing so heal his wounded pride. His mind immediately began trying to work out the mechanics of how Psycho moved and how to get the automaton to choose and present the appropriate card when requested. Magnets, maybe? Some hydra
ulic mechanism. Perhaps Maskelyne had managed to hide a cable connected to it in spite of the transparent glass cylinder. Grouse did not move from his seat and spent the twenty-minute interval racking his brains.

  When the curtain rose once more, there was a round, three-legged table in the middle of the stage bordered at the back and on both sides by a thick black canvas screen. After a moment, Maskelyne appeared at the back of the stage. In his left hand he held a box by a bronze handle. In a tone intended to be comical he told the audience that, given Mr Cooke’s frequent blunders when repairing the automata, there was nothing for it but to cut off his head. As he spoke, he moved towards the table and placed the box on it.

  ‘I am reluctant to pass up this magnificent opportunity to demonstrate for you one of the latest advances in science,’ the magician went on. ‘Because today, ladies and gentlemen, the simple presence of a part of the body of someone who has passed away makes it possible to summon, for a brief moment at least, that person’s spirit.’ As he said this, he removed the front section of the box and stepped to one side.

  Inside the box was Cooke’s head, completely dishevelled as though the man had indeed been decapitated after a brutal fight. There was even a trickle of blood on the neck. At first, Cooke’s eyes remained closed. Then slowly he opened them and glanced to either side as though he had just woken up and did not know where he was. Maskelyne immediately engaged him in conversation.

  Though his mind was still preoccupied with Psycho, Grouse began to feel a genuine curiosity about what was happening onstage. This truly was magic. Cooke’s body could not possibly be hidden beneath the table as he had first suspected because you could still see the black screen between the three legs of the table. He had to force himself to turn away from the stage. He had come to the Egyptian Hall to recoup his money and avenge a slight, and the information he needed to do so was not to be found up there but might well be waiting in the wings or in the flies. He apologised to those sitting next to him and crept out into the aisle. When he reached the hall, he quickly found the door he was looking for: it was the only door that was locked. As the levers of the lock fell to his picklock he thought of Maskelyne and smiled sardonically: pure science, ladies and gentlemen, the only marvels you will see here …

  He found he had to grope his way along a dark corridor but he knew he was headed in the right direction because as he advanced Maskelyne’s voice grew louder. At that moment, he was encouraging the audience to ask Cooke – or rather his head – any question they liked. Grouse finally came to the end of the passageway and found a small room next to the stage. He glanced around and recognised the shapes of the musical automata covered by tarpaulins. The only unexpected object was a strange cylinder more than three feet tall topped by a headboard covered in tubes which ran down to the ground then disappeared through a trapdoor. Farther away was a table strewn with papers, tools and small contraptions he could not make out in the half-light. And at the foot of the table was the leather case. Open. Fearing that the magician might hear his movements, Grouse peeked through the curtains to see what was happening onstage. The magician approached the table, closed the box and picked it up to carry it away. In the thunderous applause that followed there were shouts for Maskelyne to perform the trick again. He set the box on the table once more and went to the front of the stage to deliver his last words to the audience. Seeing that the show was almost over, Grouse crept over to the leather case and fumbled blindly inside it, all the time listening carefully to what Maskelyne was saying: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately the march of science, though sure, is slow. Though the day has not yet come, it cannot be long before we triumph over death completely.’

  All that was inside the case was a book. Grouse cursed silently, then took it out and slipped it into the waistband of his trousers. Disappointed, he crept back to the curtains in the hope that, from this privileged position, he might discover where and how Cooke’s body had been concealed.

  ‘For the moment,’ Maskelyne went on, ‘the charm by which I am enabled, as you have seen, to revivify the dead lasts but fifteen minutes. That time once expired, not only does the mind vanish, so too does the head wherein it was contained, in accordance with the words of the Bible: dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’

  As Maskelyne said this, he opened the box once more, lifted it up so that the audience could see it was empty and, as he blew into it, a small cloud of dust appeared.

  The ovation was so deafening that Grouse was able to run away without worrying that the magician might hear his footsteps.

  The Queen Mother

  Careful with that or you’ll burn yourself. Don’t look at the sun. Come over here right now. Close your mouth when you’re eating. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Don’t tell lies. That’s not how you ask for something. Don’t drag your feet. If you don’t know, ask. Don’t make fun of people. Don’t sit so close to the TV. Make your mind up. Aim at the bowl when you do a wee and don’t forget to flush. Your eyes are bigger than your stomach. Look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t shovel your food. Don’t talk back to your elders. Knives are not for playing with. Don’t waste water. Sit up straight. Don’t leave everything to the last minute. Don’t play with your food. Stop biting your nails. Wrap up warm, it’s cold out there. Don’t slurp your soup. Tidy your room. Don’t use dirty words. Didn’t I tell you to tidy your room? Is it too much to expect a civil answer? Be on time. Blow your nose. Answer me when I talk to you. Don’t pick your nose. Do your homework. Look me in the eye. Don’t leave your stuff lying around. Polish your shoes. Don’t interrupt when the adults are talking. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, tidy your room. Turn that music down. Do as I say. Don’t be home late, darling.

  In spite of the frustrations, in spite of the tedium, the constant need for patience, in spite of the fact that no one did a hand’s turn and she was constantly wearing herself out, trying to do everything in what little time she had before she had to go back to work so she could support her son, Víctor’s mother managed to write for him, in clear, neat writing, the one true book about life. A text that made no mention of the loneliness she must have felt, of her helplessness, of the silent grief that scarred her. An instruction manual filled with slip-ups and crossings-out, with uncertainties and second thoughts, with rejections and capitulations, but all dispensed with enough love to look after her son until he felt the need to set off and find new instructions elsewhere. Anywhere: at university, at work, on the curious island he returned from every Tuesday afternoon with that gleam in his eyes. Afterwards he’d shut himself away in his room to practise without so much as a word. Don’t call them tricks. Don’t ask how it’s done. Don’t raise your eyebrows. You hold the pack like this. Sing that song for me.

  Later, when Víctor was old enough and wise enough to begin to write the story of his own life, his mother learned to be a passionate, even critical reader, but one prepared to accept that the only instructions she could now offer had to be couched in parentheses, or followed by a question mark. Just because you’re earning a lot of money, don’t think that means you’ve got life all figured out. Magic isn’t everything, son, you have to do other things. Isn’t it about time you got yourself a girlfriend and settled down?

  Víctor still has an image of his mother sitting in the front row, on the day of his first performance in Barcelona. He remembers the mental short circuit, the four interminable seconds of silence, before he addressed the audience with the words that would one day be famous: ‘My father died when I was seven years old’. Truth be told, at that moment, he would have liked to say: ‘My mother is here. Look at her. She brought me this far. Everything I know, I owe to her.’ But he carried on with his monologue as it was written, focused on his work, did not look at her or even think about her again until afterwards, in the dressing room, when they hugged each other and did not say a word. And after that, everything that happened, happened, and Víctor began to go off on world tours and when
ever he came home, never for more than a few days, his mother would hone her instructions: You need to eat more, you’re looking very thin; relax for a while, I don’t understand why you have to work all the time; I hope you wrap up warm when you’re over there; words that were now no more than footnotes in someone else’s story, or an epilogue, since they were her last words, almost her last. Though no one suspected it at the time, her heart would not go on beating for much longer.

  ‘My mother died when I was twenty-six years old,’ Víctor says aloud. ‘Her heart was always too big. She left me the house where I still live, an instruction manual for life which over time has proved to be quite useful and, according to my neurologist, a lottery ticket in the game of darkness.’ It would make a good opener for future shows, he thinks. He imagines the curtain rising to reveal him, as always, standing alone in the middle of the stage, his hands balled into fists. He opens them and in his right hand he holds a heart. A living, beating heart that is too big. Because that was what did it. Those were the words Galván used on the phone, too big, you have to cancel the show and catch the first flight back, fuck the tour, you’re coming home now, she’s in a coma, she can’t hold out much longer. It’s not uncommon, the cardiologist told him later, the heart grows too big and each beat requires twice as much energy.