God,’ he said again. ‘Carry on.’
Víctor continued, his voice feeble. Galván had just ignored a feat which it had taken him endless hours to perfect and which he had good reason to be proud of. However valid the maestro’s criticism, the fact remained that as an inexperienced student, with no guide but Hoffmann’s obscure instructions and an English dictionary, he had managed to execute the fundamental skill required for any trick: forcing a card. What difference did it make whether it was an ace or a six? Didn’t he at least deserve some praise? It would be weeks before Víctor realised that this was a deliberate strategy on Galván’s part to encourage him to do better: negating every major success with some minor objection. But at that moment, nervous and resentful, he could only carry on because the muscles in his hands knew the routine by heart. When he came to the end, he had to drop the pack on to the table suddenly, from a height of about six inches. If he did it correctly, all of the cards would land face down with the exception of Galván’s card, which would land face up on top of the deck. But, instead of a subtle, final movement, he dropped the cards from three feet higher than necessary. Hearing the racket as they landed on the table, he started, and closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again, he did not see, as he expected, the packstrewn chaotically across the table, but a perfect pile. It looked as though, while he had his eyes closed, Galván had gathered them together out of sheer compassion. However, the first card, which had flipped over and was lying face up on the others, was not the six of clubs. Víctor stared at the pack. His hands were shaking. He touched them as though looking for some explanation.
‘It’s OK,’ Galván quickly reassured him.
Staring at the face and hands of his student, Galván did not even need to look at the table to know that something had gone wrong. Víctor’s eyebrows had just jackknifed twice, signalling the mistake.
‘Take off your glasses and try again,’ Galván commanded.
Upset, Víctor took off his glasses, set them on the table and tugged at his shirt cuffs. Galván immediately leaned forward, as though trying to discover the source of some hushed sound, and just as Víctor was about to pick up the pack, he slapped his hand down on the pile, like a cat catching a mouse.
‘Sing that song for me,’ he demanded.
‘Song? Which song?’
Something Very Strange
H e has been short-sighted since he was nine. Over the years he has had his sight tested dozens of times and, on occasion, his correction had gone up by half a dioptre. Look at the chart. Read as far as you can. OK, that’s it. You can go now. Sometimes, he would quickly try to make a word out of the letters before they moved on to the next chart. Once, he needed only an ‘I’ to spell INSECT and he cried as he left because he could not tell his father.
Now, he does not know where to begin. ‘Something very strange.’ This is the only phrase that occurs to him when he is asked the reason for his visit. ‘Something very strange happened to me.’ He prefers not to say that, just before the white halo appeared, he was blindfolded. It would be difficult to do so without explaining that he is a professional magician. If anyone asked him to do a trick now, he would not be accountable for his actions.
They sit him with his forehead pressed against a machine such that his eyes are only millimetres from a visor. If he were in the mood, he would say ‘Cuckoo!’ as the optician peers at him from the other side of the device. But he is not in the mood. He says nothing. He feels a point of warmth sweep slowly outwards from the inside of his left eye. Then the process is repeated with his other eye. Víctor imagines that this will cure him, that the heat will somehow dissolve the impurities. Easy. A magic laser that can make full moons disappear.
When it’s over, a nurse
Víctor continued, his voice feeble. Galván had just ignored a feat which it had taken him endless hours to perfect and which he had good reason to be proud of. However valid the maestro’s criticism, the fact remained that as an inexperienced student, with no guide but Hoffmann’s obscure instructions and an English dictionary, he had managed to execute the fundamental skill required for any trick: forcing a card. What difference did it make whether it was an ace or a six? Didn’t he at least deserve some praise? It would be weeks before Víctor realised that this was a deliberate strategy on Galván’s part to encourage him to do better: negating every major success with some minor objection. But at that moment, nervous and resentful, he could only carry on because the muscles in his hands knew the routine by heart. When he came to the end, he had to drop the pack on to the table suddenly, from a height of about six inches. If he did it correctly, all of the cards would land face down with the exception of Galván’s card, which would land face up on top of the deck. But, instead of a subtle, final movement, he dropped the cards from three feet higher than necessary. Hearing the racket as they landed on the table, he started, and closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again, he did not see, as he expected, the packstrewn chaotically across the table, but a perfect pile. It looked as though, while he had his eyes closed, Galván had gathered them together out of sheer compassion. However, the first card, which had flipped over and was lying face up on the others, was not the six of clubs. Víctor stared at the pack. His hands were shaking. He touched them as though looking for some explanation.
‘It’s OK,’ Galván quickly reassured him.
Staring at the face and hands of his student, Galván did not even need to look at the table to know that something had gone wrong. Víctor’s eyebrows had just jackknifed twice, signalling the mistake.
‘Take off your glasses and try again,’ Galván commanded.
Upset, Víctor took off his glasses, set them on the table and tugged at his shirt cuffs. Galván immediately leaned forward, as though trying to discover the source of some hushed sound, and just as Víctor was about to pick up the pack, he slapped his hand down on the pile, like a cat catching a mouse.
‘Sing that song for me,’ he demanded.
‘Song? Which song?’
Something Very Strange
H e has been short-sighted since he was nine. Over the years he has had his sight tested dozens of times and, on occasion, his correction had gone up by half a dioptre. Look at the chart. Read as far as you can. OK, that’s it. You can go now. Sometimes, he would quickly try to make a word out of the letters before they moved on to the next chart. Once, he needed only an ‘I’ to spell INSECT and he cried as he left because he could not tell his father.
Now, he does not know where to begin. ‘Something very strange.’ This is the only phrase that occurs to him when he is asked the reason for his visit. ‘Something very strange happened to me.’ He prefers not to say that, just before the white halo appeared, he was blindfolded. It would be difficult to do so without explaining that he is a professional magician. If anyone asked him to do a trick now, he would not be accountable for his actions.
They sit him with his forehead pressed against a machine such that his eyes are only millimetres from a visor. If he were in the mood, he would say ‘Cuckoo!’ as the optician peers at him from the other side of the device. But he is not in the mood. He says nothing. He feels a point of warmth sweep slowly outwards from the inside of his left eye. Then the process is repeated with his other eye. Víctor imagines that this will cure him, that the heat will somehow dissolve the impurities. Easy. A magic laser that can make full moons disappear.
When it’s over, a nurse
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