by Frank Wynne
Something happened after about six months of training with Tripura Babu.
On his way to college one day, Surapati noticed colourful posters on every wall in Chowringhee for Chefalo the Great. Going up to a poster to read the details, Surapati learnt that Chefalo was a famous Italian magician who was coming to Calcutta to perform. He would be accompanied by his fellow magician Madame Palermo.
At the New Empire Surapati had watched Chefalo’s magic from the one-rupee seats. Incredibly eye-popping and mind-blowing acts, all of them. Surapati had only read about such magic in books. Entire humans disappeared in smoke in front of everyone’s eyes, emerging again like Aladdin’s genie from coils of smoke. Putting a girl inside a wooden crate, Chefalo sawed the box in half; the girl appeared from a different box within minutes, laughing, without a scratch on her. Surapati’s palms had turned red with clapping.
And Chefalo himself was a source of continuous amazement for Surapati. The man was as good an actor as he was a magician. He was dressed in a shiny black suit and a top hat, with a magic wand in his hand. Was there anything Chefalo couldn’t conjure out of that hat with his magic skills? On one occasion, he reached into a hat and pulled out a rabbit by its ears. The poor thing had barely finished shaking its ears when pigeons flew out—one, two, three, four. The magic pigeons flew around the hall, their wings rustling. Meanwhile, Chefalo was pulling chocolate bars out of the same hat and tossing them into the audience.
And throughout, Chefalo kept talking. Verbal fireworks. Surapati had read that this was referred to as patter. This patter was the magician’s mainstay—while the audience drowned in its currents, the magician performed his sleight of hand unnoticed.
But Madame Palermo was a strange exception. She didn’t utter a single word, performing her tricks like a silent robot. When did she perform her sleight of hand, then? Surapati had later found out the answer to this as well. It was possible to perform certain magic tricks on stage that required no sleight of hand. These tricks depended on machines, which were run by people behind the black curtain at the back of the stage. Cutting people into two halves and rejoining them, or making them disappear in smoke, was all a matter of machinery. If you had enough money you could buy these machines—or have them made—to put on these magic tricks. Of course, there was a certain flair and art involved in performing them with showmanship and panache, making them more attractive with glittering clothes and shiny props. Not everyone had mastered this art, which was why wealth was not enough to be a magician. After all, not everyone could…
Surapati’s web of memories snapped suddenly.
The train had just left the platform with a bone-rattling jerk when the door to the compartment was flung open and the man who entered was…what! About to shout in indignation, Surapati held his tongue.
It was Tripura Babu! Tripuracharan Mullick!
Surapati had had similar experiences earlier. Someone he knew well, but hadn’t met in a long time, suddenly cropped up in his thoughts or in a discussion and, the next thing you knew, the person was actually in their midst.
But still Surapati felt that Tripura Babu’s sudden appearance put all those incidents in the shade. For a few moments he could not even speak. Wiping the perspiration off his forehead with the edge of his dhoti, Tripura Babu set his bundle down on the floor and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. Smiling at Surapati, he said, ‘Surprised?’
Gulping, Surapati said, ‘Surprised in the sense that—first, I didn’t know you were alive.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I visited your boarding house shortly after my BA exams. I found the door locked. The manager—I forget his name—said that you’d been run over…’
Tripura Babu burst into laughter. ‘Something like that would have been wonderful. I’d have been relieved of all my worries.’
‘And the second thing is,’ added Surapati, ‘I was thinking of you just the other day.’
‘What’s that?’ A pall of gloom seemed to settle on Tripura Babu’s expression. ‘Thinking of me? You still think of me? I’m surprised to hear that.’
Surapati looked contrite. ‘What are you saying, Tripura Babu! You think I can forget so easily? You introduced me to magic. I was especially reminded of the old days today. I am travelling for a show. Outside of Bengal for the first time. Did you know I’m a professional magician now?’
Tripura Babu nodded.
‘I do. I know everything. And I came here to meet you today because I know everything. Everything that you have done over the past twelve years, how you have established yourself and achieved the fame you have today, is known to me. I was present at New Empire that evening, the first day. In the very last row. I saw how everyone appreciated your craft. I admit to feeling some pride. But…’
Tripura Babu paused. Surapati was silent. What could he possibly say? Tripura Babu could not be blamed for feeling disappointed. It was true that Surapati wouldn’t be what he was today if Tripura Babu hadn’t taught him the fundamentals. And what had Surapati done for him in return? On the contrary, his memory of Tripura Babu had faded over the past twelve years. Even his sense of gratitude had diminished.
Tripura Babu continued, ‘I was proud of your success that day. But it was mixed with regret. Do you know why? The path you have chosen is not one of pure magic. A lot of what you’re doing is fooling people with smoke and mirrors, tricks using machinery. It’s not your own magic. Do you remember mine?’
Surapati had not forgotten. But at the same time he had felt that Tripura Babu had been hesitant about teaching Surapati his best tricks. ‘Not yet,’ he used to say. The time never came. Chefalo came before that. Surapati began to weave dreams, putting himself in Chefalo’s place. He imagined himself travelling around the world performing shows, making a name for himself, giving pleasure to people, earning their approval and applause.
Tripura Babu was gazing out the window absently. Surapati observed him closely. He seemed to be in a bad way. His hair was almost entirely grey, the skin on his face was slack, his eyes were sunken. But had his eyes dimmed at all? It didn’t seem so. He had a strangely piercing gaze.
With a sigh, Tripura Babu said, ‘Mind you, I understand why you chose this path. I know you believe—and perhaps I am partly responsible for this—that purity is worthless. To perform magic on stage you need a little glitter and showmanship. Isn’t that so?’
Surapati didn’t deny it. He had concluded as much after watching Chefalo. But was glitter necessarily bad? Times had changed. How much could you earn performing your magic tricks at a wedding, and how many people would come to know of you? He had seen Tripura Babu’s plight with his own eyes. What use was magic if performing it in all its purity couldn’t even bring you two square meals a day?
Surapati told Tripura Babu about Chefalo. Was something which gave pleasure to thousands, earning their praise, not to be appreciated? Surapati was not disparaging pure magic. But there was no future down that route. So he had chosen this one.
Tripura Babu seemed to become agitated suddenly. Hoisting his feet on to the bench they were sitting on, he leaned towards Surapati.
‘Look, Surapati, if you had really understood what genuine magic is, you wouldn’t have chased the fake kind. Sleight of hand is just one aspect, although there are countless kinds. Like yogic acts, you have to practise them for months and years. But there’s so much more. Hypnotism. Bringing people under your control with just a look, turning them into putty in your hands. Then there’s clairvoyance, telepathy, thought-reading. You will have unrestricted access to people’s thoughts. You can check someone’s pulse and tell them what they’re thinking. Once you’ve really mastered the art you won’t even have to touch them. Just looking at them for a minute will tell you their innermost secrets, what’s in their heart. Is all this magic? These things lie at the root of the finest magic in the world. There are no levers and pulleys here. There is only dedication, devotion, concentration.’
Tripura Babu paused
for breath. He had had to talk above the sound of the train, which had probably exhausted him. Now he moved closer to Surapati, saying, ‘I wanted to teach you all this, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t wait. You were taken in by a flashy, foreign charlatan. You abandoned the real path for the one that leads to quick wealth.’
Surapati was silent. He really could not deny any of these allegations.
Placing his hand on Surapati’s shoulder, Tripura Babu softened his tone. ‘I have come to you with a request, Surapati. I don’t know if you can tell from my appearance—but I have really fallen on hard days. I know so much magic, but the magic of making money has eluded me. The lack of ambition has been my undoing—I would hardly have had to worry about how to make a living otherwise. I have come to you out of desperation, Surapati. I have neither the strength nor the youth to establish myself now. But I do have the faith that you will help me during this difficult time, even if it means a little sacrifice. I shan’t bother you after that.’
Surapati was perplexed. What did the man want?
Tripura Babu continued, ‘The plan may appear somewhat drastic to you, but there is no other way. The trouble is that it isn’t just money that I need. I’ve developed a new desire in my old age, you know. I want to demonstrate my best acts to a large audience. Perhaps, for the first and last time, but I simply cannot suppress this wish.’
Surapati’s heart quaked with an unknown fear.
Tripura Babu finally got to the point.
‘You’re going to Lucknow for a performance. Suppose you were to fall ill at the last moment. And instead of turning back a disappointed audience, what if someone else…’
Surapati was flabbergasted. What was Tripura Babu saying! He really must be quite desperate to make such a proposal.
When he didn’t speak, Tripura Babu said, ‘Because of unavoidable reasons, your guru will perform instead of you—this is what you will inform them. Will people be very disappointed? I don’t think so. I am certain that they will enjoy my magic. Still, I propose that you will get half of what you would have been paid for the performance. Whatever’s left over will be enough for me. After which you can continue as you are doing now. I won’t bother you anymore. But you must give me this one opportunity, Surapati.’
Surapati was furious.
‘Impossible! You don’t know what you’re saying, Tripura Babu. This is my first show outside Bengal. Don’t you understand how much depends on the Lucknow performance? Should I begin my career with a lie? How could you even imagine such a thing?’
Tripura Babu looked steadily at Surapati for some time. Then his measured, restrained voice was heard above the clatter of the wheels.
‘Are you still interested in the coin-and-ring trick?’
Surapati was startled. But there was no change in Tripura Babu’s gaze.
‘Why do you ask?’
Smiling, Tripura Babu said,‘I shall teach you the trick if you agree to my proposal. Right now, if you give me your word. And if not…’
A train bound for Howrah passed theirs with a grotesque shriek of its whistle. Tripura Babu’s eyes glowed repeatedly in the light from the compartments of the other train. When the lights and sound had died down, Surapati said, ‘And what if I don’t agree?’
‘The outcome will not be pleasant, Surapati. There’s something you must know. If I’m in the audience, I can disrupt and humiliate any magician—I can even make them completely incapable of performing any magic.’
Taking a pair of cards from his pocket, Tripura Babu extended them to Surapati.
‘Show me your sleight of hand. Nothing very difficult. Basic tricks. Bring the jack of clubs from the back to the front with a shake of your wrist.’
It had taken Surapati a mere seven days to perfect this trick in front of the mirror at the age of sixteen.
But today?
Picking up the cards, Surapati discovered his fingers turning numb. Not just his fingers, but also his wrist and elbow. All numb. His vision blurring, Surapati could only see a strange smile on Tripura Babu’s lips; he was looking into Surapati’s eyes in an almost inhumanly penetrating way. Surapati’s forehead was covered in perspiration, and he felt himself shaking.
‘You realize my power now?’
The cards slipped out of Surapati’s hand. Gathering them, Tripura Babu said grimly, ‘Are you willing?’
Surapati was no longer feeling incapacitated.
In a weak, exhausted voice, he asked, ‘You’ll teach me the trick, won’t you?’
Holding the index finger of his right hand in front of Surapati’s nose, Tripura Babu said, ‘Because of your indisposition, your guru Tripuracharan Mullick will perform his magic skills instead of you at the first show in Lucknow. Correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘You will give me half the payment due to you. Correct?’
‘Correct.’
‘Come, then.’
Fishing a coin out of his pocket, Surapati handed it over, along with the ruby ring on his finger.
Anil arrived at his boss’s compartment with some tea when the train stopped at Burdwan, only to find him fast asleep. Surapati sprang up when Anil called out to him softly after some hesitation.
‘What…what is it?’
‘I got you some tea. I disturbed you, please don’t mind.’
‘But…?’ Surapati looked around frenziedly.
‘What is it, sir?’
‘Tripura Babu?’
‘Tripura Babu?’ Anil was bewildered.
‘No, of course… he was killed by a bus… in 1951… but my ring?’
‘Which ring, sir? The ruby’s on your finger.’
‘Oh yes, of course. And…’
Surapati took a coin out of his pocket. Anil noticed that his hand was shaking uncontrollably.
‘Come in for a minute, Anil. Quickly. Shut the windows. Yes, watch now.’
Surapati placed the coin at one end of the bench and the ring at the other. Then, praying for all he was worth, he applied the technique acquired in his dream to cast a concentrated gaze on the ring.
Like a dutiful child the coin rolled up to the ring and escorted it back to Surapati.
The cup of tea would have slipped from Anil’s hands had Surapati not taken it into his own with a miraculous sleight of hand.
When the curtain rose on the first day of the magic show in Lucknow, Surapati started by expressing his respect for his departed magic teacher Tripuracharan Mullick.
The last trick of the evening—which Surapati termed Pure Indian Magic—was the one with the coin and the ring.
THE LONG CROSSING
Leonardo Sciascia
Translated from the Italian by Avril Bardoni
Leonardo Sciascia (1921–1989). Born in Sicily, and raised in Caltanissetta, Sciascia developed a passion for literature in his teens while studying under the novelist and poet Vitaliano Brancati, who instilled in him a love of French writers. From the early 1950s, he established himself as a controversial commentator on political affairs and his first published writing, Fables of the Dictatorship, was a satire on Italian fascism. Sciascia was an outspoken public intellectual, critical of corruption, organised crime and entrenched power in his native Italy. He found fame with the novel The Day of the Owl, a fantastical thriller that shed light on the dark side of Sicilian public life. When told that his books in English were shelved in the mystery section, he replied: “At least I hope they will be regarded as metaphysical mysteries.”
The night seemed made to order, the darkness so thick that its weight could almost be felt when one moved. And the sound of the sea, like the wild-animal breath of the world itself, frightened them as it gasped and died at their feet.
They were huddled with their cardboard suitcases and their bundles on a stretch of pebbly beach sheltered by hills, between Gela and Licata. They had arrived at dusk, having set out at dawn from their own villages, inland villages far from the sea, clustered on barren stretches of feudal land. For some of the
m this was their first sight of the sea, and the thought of having to cross the whole of that vast expanse, leaving one deserted beach in Sicily by night and landing on another deserted beach, in America and again by night, filled them with misgivings. But these were the terms to which they had agreed. The man, some sort of traveling salesman to judge from his speech, but with an honest face that made you trust him, had said: “I will take you aboard at night and I will put you off at night, on a beach in New Jersey only a stone’s throw from New York. Those of you who have relatives in America can write to them and suggest that they meet you at the station in Trenton twelve days after your departure … Work it out for yourselves … Of course, I can’t guarantee a precise date … We may be held up by rough seas or coastguard patrols … One day more or less won’t make any difference: the important thing is to get to America.”
To get to America was certainly the important thing; how and when were minor details. If the letters they sent to their relatives arrived, despite the ink-blotched, misspelled addresses scrawled so laboriously on the envelopes, then they would arrive, too. The old saying, “With a tongue in your head you can travel the world,” was right. And travel they would, over that great dark ocean to the land of the stori (stores) and the farme (farms), to the loving brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, cousins, to the opulent, warm, spacious houses, to the motor cars as big as houses, to America.
It was costing them two hundred and fifty thousand lira each, half on departure and the balance on arrival. They kept the money strapped to their bodies under their shirts like a priest’s scapular. They had sold all their saleable possessions in order to scrape the sum together: the squat house, the mule, the ass, the year’s store of provender, the chest of drawers, the counterpanes. The cunning ones among them had borrowed from the money-lenders with the secret intention of defrauding them, just this once, in return for the hardship they had been made to endure over the years by the usurers’ greed, and drew immense satisfaction from imagining the expression on their faces when they heard the news. “Come and see me in America, bloodsucker: I just may return your money—without interest—if you manage to find me.” Their dreams of America were awash with dollars. They would no longer keep their money in battered wallets or hidden under their shirts; it would be casually stuffed into trouser pockets to be drawn out in fistfuls as they had seen their relatives do, relatives who had left home as pitiable, half-starved creatures, shriveled by the sun, to return after twenty or thirty years—for a brief holiday—with round, rosy faces that contrasted handsomely with their white hair.