The Manual of Darkness Read Free Page B

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 coulddo 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