The Prestige (11 page)

He lowered his arms, and for two or three seconds stood in silence, submitting to the
awful spectacle he had made.

Then he vanished.

One moment Angier was there; the next he was not. His apparatus made a shrieking, tearing
sound, and appeared to shake, but with his going the bright shards of energy instantly
died. The tendrils fizzed and popped like small fireworks, and then were gone. The stage
fell into darkness.

I was standing; without fully realizing it I had been standing for some time. I, and the
rest of the audience, stood there aghast. The man had disappeared in front of our eyes,
leaving no trace.

I heard a commotion in the aisle behind me, and with everyone else I turned to see what
was happening. There were too many heads and bodies, I could not see clearly, some kind of
motion in the darkened auditorium! Thankfully, the house lights came on, and one of the
manned spotlights turned from its position high above the boxes, and its shaft of light
picked out what was going on.

Angier was there!

Members of the theatre's staff were hurrying down the aisle towards him, and some of the
audience were trying to get to him, but he was on his feet and pushing them away from him.

He was staggering down the aisle, heading back towards the stage.

I tried to recover from the surprise, and quickly made estimates. No more than a second or
two could have elapsed between his disappearance from the stage, and his reappearance in
the aisle. I glanced to and fro the stage, trying to work out the distance involved. My
seat was at least sixty feet away from the front of the stage, and Angier had appeared
well to the back of the aisle, close to one of the audience exits. He was a long way
behind me, at least another forty feet.

Could he have dashed one hundred feet in a single second, while the darkness from the
stage masked his movement?

It was then, and is now, a rhetorical question. Clearly he could not, without the use of
magical techniques.

But which ones?

His progress along the aisle towards the stage briefly brought him level with me, where he
stumbled on one of the steps before continuing onwards. I was certain he had not seen me,
because self-evidently he had no eyes for anyone at all in the audience. His comportment
was entirely that of a man wrapped in his own anguish; his face was tormented, his whole
body moved as if racked with pain. He shambled like a drunk or an invalid, or a man
finally exhausted with life. I saw the left arm he favoured hanging limply by his side,
and the hand was smudged grey with flour, the red ink smeared into a dark mess. On the
back of his jacket the burst of flour was still visible, still in the haphazard shape the
volunteer had created when he slapped the bag against him, just a few seconds ago, and a
hundred feet away.

We were all applauding, with many people cheering and whistling their approval, and as he
neared the stage a second spotlight picked him out and tracked him up the ramp to the
stage. He walked wearily to the centre of the stage, where at last he seemed to recover.
Once more in the full glare of the stage lights he took his ovation, bowing to the
audience, acknowledging them, blowing kisses, smiling and triumphant. I stood with the
rest, marvelling at what I had seen.

Behind him, unobtrusively, the curtains were closing to conceal the apparatus.

#############

I did not know how the trick was done! I had seen it with my own eyes, and I had watched
in the knowledge of how to watch a magician at work, and I had looked in all the places
from which a magician traditionally misdirects his audience. I left the Hackney Empire in
a boiling rage. I was angry that my best illusion had been copied; I was even angrier that
it had been bettered. Worst of all, though, was the fact that I could not work out how it
was done.

He was one man. He was in one place. He appeared in another. He could not have a double,
or a stooge; equally he could not have travelled so quickly from one position to the other.

Jealousy made my rage worse. In a Flash, Angier's catchpenny title for his version of, his
damnable
improvement
on, The New Transported Man, was unmistakably a major illusion, one which introduced a
new standard into our often derided and usually misunderstood performing art. For this I
had to admire him, no matter what my other feelings about him might be. Along with, I
suspect, most of my fellow members of the audience, I felt that I had been privileged to
witness the illusion for myself. As I walked away from the front of the theatre I passed
the narrow alley that led down to the stage door, and I even momentarily wished it were
possible for me to send up my card to Angier's dressing room, so that I might visit him
there and congratulate him in person.

I suppressed these instincts. After so many years of bitter rivalry I could not allow one
polished presentation of a stage illusion to make me humiliate myself before him.

I returned to my flat in Hornsey, where at that time I happened to be staying, and
underwent a sleepless night, tossing restlessly beside Olive.

The next day I settled down to some hard and practical thinking about his version of my
trick, to see what I could make of it.

I confess yet again: I do not know how he did it. I could not work out the secret when I
saw the performance, and afterwards, no matter what principles of magic I applied, I could
not think of the solution.

At the heart of the mystery were three, possibly four, of the six fundamental categories
of illusion: he had made himself
Disappear
, he had then
Produced
himself elsewhere, somehow there seemed to be an element of
Transposition
, and all had been achieved in apparent
Defiance of Natural Laws
.

A disappearance on stage is relatively easy to arrange, placement of mirrors or
half-mirrors, use of lighting, use of magician's “black art” or blinds, use of
distraction, use of stage trapdoors, and so on. Production elsewhere is usually a question
of planting in advance the object, or a close copy of it… or if it is a person, planting a
convincing double of the person. Working these two effects together then produces a third;
in their bafflement the audience believes it has seen natural laws defied.

Laws that I felt I had seen defied that evening in Hackney.

All my attempts to solve the mystery on conventional magical principles were unsuccessful,
and although I thought and worked obsessively I did not come even close to a solution that
satisfied me.

I was constantly distracted by the knowledge that this magnificent illusion would have at
its heart a secret of infuriating simplicity. The central rule of magic always holds good
— what is
seen
is not what is
actually being done
.

This secret continued to elude me. I had only two minor compensations.

The first was that no matter how brilliant his effect, my own secret was still intact from
Angier. He did not carry out the illusion my way, as indeed he could never have done.

The second was that of speed. No matter what his secret, Angier's performance effect was
still not as quick as mine. My body is made to transport from one cabinet to the other in
an instant. Not, I emphasize, that it happens quickly; the illusion is worked in an
instant
. There is no delay of any kind. Angier's effect was measurably slower. On the evening I
witnessed the illusion I estimated one or at most two seconds had elapsed, which meant to
me that he was one or at most two seconds slower than me.

In one approach towards a solution I tried checking the times and distances involved. On
the night, because I had had no idea what was about to happen, and I had no scientific
means of measurement, all my estimates were subjective.

This is part of the illusionist's method; by not preparing his audience, the performer can
use surprise to cover his tracks. Most people, having seen a trick performed, and asked
how quickly it was carried out, will be unable to give an accurate estimate. Many tricks
are based on the principle that the illusionist will do something so quickly that an
unprepared audience will afterwards swear that it could not have happened,
because there was insufficient time
.

Knowing this, I made myself think back carefully over what I had seen, re-running the
illusion in my mind, and trying to estimate how much time had actually elapsed between
Angier's apparent disappearance and his materialization elsewhere. In the end I came to
the conclusion that certainly it had been no less than my first estimate of one or two
seconds, and maybe as many as five seconds had passed. In five seconds of complete and
unexpected darkness a skilled magician can carry out a great deal of invisible trickery!

This short period of time was the obvious clue to the mystery, but it still did not seem
enough for Angier to have dashed almost to the back of the stalls.

Two weeks after the incident, by arrangement with the front-of-house manager, I went round
to the Hackney Empire on the pretext of wishing to take measurements in advance of one of
my own performances. This is a fairly regular feature of magical acts, as the illusionist
will often adapt his performance to suit the physical limitations of the theatre. In the
event, my request was treated as a normal one, and the manager's assistant greeted me with
civility and assisted me with my researches.

I found the seat where I had been, and established that it was just over fifty feet from
the stage. Trying to discover the precise point in the aisle where Angier had
rematerialized was more difficult, and really all I had to go on was my own memory of the
event. I stood beside the seat I had been using, and tried to triangulate his position by
recalling the angle at which I had turned my head to see him. In the end the best I could
do was to place him somewhere in a long stretch of the stepped aisle; its closest point to
the stage was more than seventy-five feet, and its furthest extremity was greatly in
excess of one hundred feet.

I stood for a while in the centre of the stage, approximately in the place where the
tripod's apex had been, and stared along the central aisle, wondering how I myself would
contrive to get from one position to the other, in a crowded auditorium, in darkness, in
under five seconds.

I travelled down to discus: the problem with Tommy Elbourne, who by this time was living
in retirement in Woking. After I had described the illusion to him I asked him how he
thought it might be explained.

“I should have to see it myself, sir,” he said after much thought and cross-questioning of
me.

I tried a different approach. I put it to him that it might be an illusion I wished to
design for myself. He and I had often worked like this in the past; I would describe an
effect I wanted to achieve, and we would, so to speak, design the workings in reverse.

“But that would be no problem for you, would it, Mr Borden?”

“Yes, but I am different! How then would we design it for another illusionist?”

“I would not know how,” he said. “The best way would be to use a double, someone already
planted in the audience, but you say—”

“That is not how Angier worked it. He was alone.”

“Then I have no idea, sir.”

I laid new plans. I would attend Angier's next season of performances, visiting his show
every night if necessary, until I had solved the mystery. Tommy Elbourne would be with me.
I would cling to my pride so long as I could, and if I were able to wrest his secret from
him, without arousing his suspicions, then that would be the ideal result. But if, by the
end of the season, we had not come to a workable theory we would abandon all the rivalry
and jealousies of the past, and I would approach him direct, pleading with him if
necessary for an insight into the explanation. Such was the maddening effect on me of his
mystery.

I write without shame. Mysteries are the common currency of magicians, and I saw it as my
professional duty to find out how the trick was being worked. If it meant that I had to
humble myself, had to acknowledge that Angier was the superior magician, then so be it.

None of this was to be, however. After an extended Christmas break Angier departed for a
tour of the USA at the end of January, leaving me fretting with frustration in his wake.

A week after his return in April (announced in
The Times
) I called at his house, determined to make my peace with him, but he was not there. The
house, a large but modest building in a terrace not far from Highgate Fields, was closed
and shuttered. I spoke to neighbours, but I was repeatedly told that they knew nothing of
the people who lived there. Angier obviously kept his life as secure from the outside
world as I did.

I contacted Hesketh Unwin, the man I knew to be his booking agent, but was rebuffed. I
left a message with Unwin, pleading with Angier to contact me urgently. Although the agent
promised the message would reach Angier in person it was never answered.

I wrote to Angier directly, personally, proposing an end to all the rivalry, all
bitterness, offering any apology or amends he would care to name in the cause of
conciliation between us.

He did not answer, and at last I felt I had been taken to a point that was beyond reason.

My response to his silence, I fear, was insensible.

During the third week of May I caught a train from London to the seaside town and fishing
port of Lowestoft, in Suffolk. Here, Angier was booked for a week of performances. I went
with only one intent, and that was to infiltrate myself backstage and discover the secret
for myself.

Normally, access to the backstage area of a theatre is controlled by the staff who are
employed to ensure just that restriction, but if you are familiar either with theatrical
life or with a particular building there are generally ways of getting inside. Angier was
playing at the Pavilion, a substantial and well-equipped theatre on the seafront, one in
which I myself had performed in the past. I foresaw no difficulties.

I was rebuffed. It was hopeless to try at the stage door, because a prominent handwritten
notice outside announced that all intending visitors had to obtain authorization in
advance before being allowed even so far as the door manager's stall. As I did not want to
draw attention to myself, I retreated without pressing my case.

I found similar difficulties in the scenery bay. Again, there are ways and means of
getting inside if you know how to go about it, but Angier was taking many precautions, as
I soon discovered.

I came across a young carpenter at the back of the bay, preparing a scenery flat. I showed
him my card, and he greeted me in a friendly enough way. After a short conversation with
him on general matters, I said, “I wouldn't mind being able to watch the show from behind
the scenes.”

“Wouldn't we all!”

“Do you think you could get me in one evening?”

“No hope, sir, and no point neither. The main act this week's gone and put a box up. Can't
see nothing!”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Not too bad, since he slipped me a wad—”

Again I retreated. Boxing a stage is an extreme measure employed by a minority of
magicians nervous of having their secrets discovered by scene-shifters and other backstage
workers. It's usually an unpopular move and, unless substantial tips are handed out,
brings a noticeable lack of cooperation from the people with whom the artiste has to work
during his run. The mere fact that Angier had gone to so much trouble was further evidence
that his secret required elaborate defences.

There remained only three possible ways to infiltrate the theatre, all of them fraught
with difficulties.

The first was to enter the front of house, and use one of the access doors to reach the
back. (Doors to the Pavilion auditorium from the foyer were locked, and staff were
watching all visitors vigilantly.)

The second was to try to obtain a temporary backstage job. (No one was being hired that
week.)

The third was to go to a show as a member of the audience, and try to get up on the stage
from there. As there was no longer any alternative I went to the box office and bought
myself a stalls seat for every available performance of Angier's run. (It was additionally
galling to discover that Angier's show was such a success that most performances were
completely sold out, with waiting lists for cancellations, and those that were left had
only the most expensive seats available.)

My seat, at the second of Angier's shows I attended, was in the front row of the stalls.
Angier looked briefly at me soon after he walked on the stage, but I had disguised myself
expertly and was confident he had seen me without recognizing me. I knew from my own
experience that you can sometimes sense in advance which members of the audience will
volunteer to assist, and taking an unobtrusive glance at the people in the front two or
three rows is something most magicians do.

When Angier began his playing-card routine and called for volunteers I stood up with a
show of hesitation, and sure enough was invited on to the stage. As soon as I was close to
Angier I realized how nervous he was, and he barely looked at me as we went through the
amusing process of choosing and concealing cards. I played all this straight, because
wrecking his show was not what I wished to do.

When the routine was complete, his female assistant came swiftly up behind me, took my arm
in a polite but firm grip, and led me towards the wings. At the earlier performance, the
volunteer had then walked down the ramp on his own while the assistant went quickly back
to the centre of the stage, where she was needed for the next illusion.

Knowing this, I grasped my opportunity. Under the noise of the applause, I said to her in
the rustic accent I was using as part of my disguise, “It's all right, m’dear. I can find
my seat.”

She smiled gratefully, patted me on the arm, then turned away towards Angier. He was
pulling forward his props table while the applause died. Neither of them was looking at
me. Most of the audience was watching Angier.

I stepped back, and slipped into the wings. I had to push my way through a narrow flap in
the heavy canvas screen of the box.

Immediately, a stagehand stepped out to block my way.

“Sorry, sir,” he said loudly. “You aren't allowed back stage.”

Angier was just a few feet away from us, starting his next routine. If I argued with the
man Angier would doubtless hear us and realize something was up. With a flash of
inspiration I reached up and pulled off the hat and wig I had been wearing.

“It's part of the act, you damned fool!” I said urgently but quietly, using my normal
voice. “Out of the way!”

The stagehand looked disconcerted, but he muttered an apology and stepped back again. I
brushed past him. I had spent much time planning where the best place to search for clues
would be. With the stage boxed it was more likely that I would find what I was seeking on
the mezzanine floor. I went along a short corridor until I reached the steps leading down
to the sub-stage area.

With the rigging loft and flies, the mezzanine is one of the main technical areas of the
theatre; there were several trap and bridge mechanisms here, as well as the windlasses
used for powering the scenery sliders. Several large flats were stored in their cuts,
presumably for a forthcoming production. I stepped briskly between the various pieces of
machinery. If the show had been a major theatrical production, with numerous scene and
scenery changes, the mezzanine floor would be occupied by several technicians operating
the machinery, but because a magic show largely depends on the props the illusionist
himself provides, technical requirements are mainly confined to curtains and lighting. I
was therefore relieved, but not surprised, to find the area deserted.

Towards the back of the mezzanine floor I found what I was seeking, almost without at
first realizing what it was. I came across two large and strongly built crates, equipped
with many lifting and handling points, and clearly stamped: Private — The Great Danton.
Next to them was a bulky voltage converter of a type unfamiliar to me. My own act used
such a device for powering the electrical bench, but it was a small affair of no great
complication. But this one of Angier's bespoke raw power. It was giving off noticeable
heat as I approached it, and a low, powerful humming noise was issuing from somewhere deep
within.

I leaned over the converter, trying to fathom its workings. Overhead, I could hear
Angier's footsteps on the stage, and the sound of his voice raised to be heard across the
auditorium. I could imagine him striding to and fro as he made his speech about the
wonders of science.

Suddenly, the converter made a loud knocking noise, and to my alarm a thin but toxic blue
smoke began emerging with some intensity from a grille in its upper panel. The humming
noise intensified. At first I leapt back, but a growing sense of alarm made me go forward
again.

I could hear Angier's measured tread continuing a few feet above my head, clearly unaware
of what might be happening down here.

Again, the knocking noise sounded within the device, this time accompanied by a most
sinister screeching noise, as of thin metal being sawn. The smoke was pouring out more
quickly than before, and when I moved round to the other side of the object I discovered
that several thick metal coils were glowing red hot.

All around me was the clutter of a mezzanine floor. There were tons of dry timber,
windlasses grimed with lubricant, miles of ropes, numerous scraps and heaps of discarded
paper, huge scenery flats painted with oils. The whole place was a tinderbox, and in the
centre of it was something that seemed about to explode into flames. I stood there in
terrible indecision — could Angier or his assistants know what was happening down here?

The converter made more noises, and once again the smoke belched from the grille. It was
getting into my lungs, and I was beginning to choke. In desperation I looked around for
some kind of fire extinguisher.

Then I saw that the converter was taking its power from a thick insulated cable that ran
from a large electrical junction box attached to the rear wall. I dashed over to it. There
was an Emergency On/Off handle built into it, and without another thought I grabbed hold
of it and pulled it down.

The infernal activity of the converter instantly died. Only the acrid blue smoke continued
to belch out of its grille, but this was thinning by the second.

Overhead there was a heavy thud, followed by silence.

A second or two passed, while I stared contritely up at the stage floor above me.

I heard footsteps dashing around, and Angier's voice shouting angrily. I could hear the
audience too, a more indistinct noise, neither cheering nor applauding. The racket of
hurrying feet and raised voices from up there was increasing. Whatever I had done had
wreaked havoc on Angier's illusion.

I had come to this theatre to solve a mystery, not to interrupt the show, but I had failed
in the former and inadvertently succeeded in the latter. For the sake of this, what I had
learned was that he used a more powerful voltage converter than mine, and that his was a
fire risk.

I realized that I would be discovered if I remained where I was, so I stepped away from
the rapidly cooling converter and returned the way I had come. My lungs were starting to
ache from the smoke I had inhaled, and my head was spinning. Overhead, on the stage and in
the general backstage area, I could hear many people moving quickly and noisily around, a
fact that I felt would work in my favour. Somewhere in the building, not too far away, I
heard someone screaming. I should be able to slip away in the confusion.

As I ran up the steps, taking them two at a time, and intending to stop for no one, no
matter what the challenge, I saw an amazing sight!

My mind was unhinged by the smoke, or by the excitement of what I had just done, or by the
fear of being caught. I could not have been thinking clearly. Angier himself was standing
at the top of the steps, waiting for me, his arms raised in anger. But it seemed to me he
had assumed the form of an apparition! I glimpsed lights beyond him, and by some trick
they also seemed to glint through him. Immediately, several thoughts flashed through me —
this must be a special garment he wears to help him do that trick! A treated fabric!
Something that becomes transparent! Makes him invisible! Is
this
his secret?

But in the selfsame instant my upward momentum propelled me into him, and we both sprawled
on the floor. He tried to grab me, but whatever he had smeared on himself prevented him
from getting a good grip on me. I was able to release myself and slither away from him.

“Borden!” His voice was hoarse with anger, no more than a terrible whisper. “Stop!”

“It was an accident!” I shouted. “Keep away from me!”

Having gained my feet I ran from him, leaving him lying there on the hard floor. I
sprinted down a short corridor, the noise of my shoes echoing from the shinily painted
bare bricks, rounded a corner, ran down a short flight of steps, went along another bare
corridor, then came across the doorkeeper's cubicle. He looked up in surprise as I dashed
past, but he had no hope of challenging or stopping me.

Moments later I was outside the stage door, and hurrying along the dimly lit alley to the
seafront.

Here I paused for a moment, facing out to sea, leaning forward and resting my hands on my
knees. I coughed a few times, painfully, trying to clear the remains of the smoke from my
lungs. It was a fine dry evening in early summer. The sun had just set, and the coloured
lights were coming on along the promenade. The tide was high and the waves were breaking
softly against the sea wall.

The audience was straggling out of the Pavilion Theatre, and dispersing into the town.
Many of the people wore bemused expressions, presumably because of the sudden way the show
had ended. I walked along the promenade with the crowd, then when I reached the main
shopping street I turned inland and headed towards the railway station.

Much later, long after midnight, I was back in my London house. My children were asleep in
their rooms, Sarah was warm beside me, and I lay there in the darkness wondering what the
night had achieved.

Then, seven weeks later, Rupert Angier died.

To say I was consumed by feelings of guilt would be an understatement, especially as both
of the newspapers which recorded his passing referred to the "injuries’ he had sustained
while performing his illusion. They did not say that the accident had happened on the date
I was in Lowestoft, but I knew that must be the one.

I had already established that Angier cancelled the remainder of his season at the
Pavilion, and as far as I knew he had not performed elsewhere in public afterwards. I had
no idea why.

Now it transpired that he was fatally injured that night. What was inexplicable to me was
that I had run into Angier less than a minute after my accidental intervention. He did not
seem fatally injured then, or even hurt to a minor extent. On the contrary he was in
strenuous health, and determined to confront me. We had scrapped briefly on the floor
before I managed to get away from him. The only unusual thing about him had been the
greasy compound he had smeared on himself or his costume, presumably to perform the
illusion, or to help in some way with making himself vanish. That Was a genuine puzzle,
because after I had recovered from the effects of the smoke inhalation, my memory of those
few seconds was exact. It had quite definitely been the case that for a split second I had
“seen through” him, as if parts of him were transparent, or if all of him were partially
so.