by Tahir Shah
“Strapping the four-and-a-half-pound iron helmet to his head, Bensley set out from Trafalgar Square on the first of January 1908, pushing a two-hundred-pound iron pram.
“For the next six years he pushed the pram across twelve nations, including the United States, Canada and Australia. More than two hundred women petitioned him for his hand; but he declined them all. Then, in August 1914, Bensley arrived in Genoa with only six more countries to visit. With the onslaught of the First World War, he was forced to call off the remainder of the trek. On his arrival in Britain, Morgan and Lonsdale offered him a consolation prize of $4,000, which he gave to charity. He enlisted soon after. Unfortunately, in 1917, with the Bolshevik Revolution, his Russian investments were nationalized. Harry Bensley died impoverished in 1956, in a bedsit in Brighton.”
When I had finished the tale, Feroze directed me to descend and remove the blindfold. Outside in the courtyard Gokul was peeling potatoes. It was not yet six a.m.
The Master stood up and strode over to the shelves which contained his magical texts. Without pausing, he removed a book from his Houdini collection. It had a torn violet dust jacket.
“This is for you,” he said, passing it over with both hands.
I read the title aloud:
“Houdini’s Magic.”
Feroze nodded.
“The Magnificent Houdini,” he said, frowning. “Acquire his eye for detail, develop his sense of timing, perfect his skills, master his tricks and …”
The magician fell silent. His nose twitched, the nostrils distending sharply.
“And … and what?”
Feroze smoothed a hand over his mustache.
“You will know when you have become it,” he said.
NINE
Swallowing Stones
The morning light drenched Feroze’s study like syrup, illuminating its gilt frames and warming the lacquered bookcases. Outside, a pye dog had found its way into the courtyard and was marking its new territory with a chorus of melancholic howls. Dogs rarely ventured anywhere near the mansion. A man who came to sharpen the knives told me in broken English that, like all animals, they were fearful of the Master’s witchcraft. Long ago, he said, Feroze had put a spell on a thief, turning him into a mange-ridden mutt.
Rublu, the hunched acquaintance, had turned up for a cup of tea and a twelve-minute lunch. Only a friend of many years would tolerate bolting down the midday meal at five past ten.
Feroze sat cross-legged on the study floor. He had removed his shoes and had undone the top three buttons of his twill shirt. Rolling up the cuff of his left sleeve, he asked me to take his pulse. I applied my index and middle fingers to his wrist. The rhythm seemed normal.
“Keep your fingers there,” instructed the magician.
I edged closer. Pushing his shoulders back, with his palms upturned, mouth closed, and eyes staring forward like a zombie’s, Feroze began to meditate. His body was soon trembling. Within seconds, he had fallen into a trance, a state known to Indian mystics as dhyaan, literally “concentration.” His eyeballs rolled back in their sockets. A trace of foamy saliva oozed from the right corner of his mouth. Crouched only inches from the Master, I watched with awe as something quite astonishing happened. Feroze’s pulse grew slower. And slower. Then it stopped altogether.
Concerned that my teacher was about to expire, I called out to the hunchback. His head bobbed up from the newspaper.
“His pulse – it’s vanished!” I yelled.
“Relax,” said Rublu, returning to the crossword. “I wouldn’t worry too much.”
“How can you be so unconcerned? I think he’s dead!”
“Really!” scoffed Rublu from behind his paper. “Better call an undertaker then.”
A spry Scottish nurse, who had been dressing an Afghan mujahed’s gangrenous leg, once passed on to me a trick of her trade. To check if someone’s dropped dead, tug both their earlobes down twice, as hard as you can. If they’re alive, they wake up. Until that moment I had never had a chance to try out the tip. But far more enticing than testing the nurse’s information was the prospect of yanking Feroze’s ears. On the off-chance he was still alive, a brusque yank of the lobes would pay him back for the suffering he had inflicted upon me.
So, stretching out, I grabbed the Master’s earlobes, and as if I were milking a cow I wrenched them twice.
The result was immediate. Feroze’s eyes spun back into position. His body ceased quivering, and his pulse was instantly normal again.
“I brought you back to life!” I clamored, my hands still clamped to his ears. “Even Rublu thought you were a goner!”
“I thought nothing of the sort,” puffed the hunchback.
“Nonsense,” declared the Master, rubbing his sore earlobes. “It was nothing more than a simple illusion. And, next time, leave my ears alone!”
“But, your pulse disappeared. You died … It was I who brought you back. I'm incredible,” I gasped, staring in disbelief at my miracle working hands.
“You aren’t incredible,” corrected Feroze. “But it is … What you saw was incredible. First I died. Then returned from limbo. If I were a godman, you might have fallen down and worshiped me. But unfortunately, I an illusionist, and I performed a simple trick.
“Anyone can return from the dead – they don’t have to be zombies,” said the magician. “This is the first piece of stage magic that you are to learn.”
Feroze slipped his right hand inside his shirt, and withdrew a miniature object from his armpit.
“This,” he said, holding up a walnut, “is the secret of returning from the dead.”
I might have asked how a humble walnut had played a part. But I was embarrassed at being taken in by what was now being hailed as a deception. Uplifted that my hands-on magical training had at last begun, I paid close attention.
“The illusion is elementary,” intoned Feroze when he had buttoned up his shirt. “First, stick the walnut in your armpit, and pretend you’re going into a state of pologi. Next, gently press down on the nut. The trembling of meditation masks the contraction of one’s shoulder muscles. Soon, as you saw, the nut reduces the pulse, by pressing on the axillary artery.”
The Master instructed me to clear away all the notes I had taken up until then. The trials beneath the mango tree had been a preparation for my body; and the random tutorials had prepared my mind. With the groundwork completed, the stage was set for the real lessons to begin.
It was with trepidation that I entered the new phase of instruction. But the prospect of at last getting down to serious magical scrutiny after the long build-up was thrilling. So appealing was it that I became blinkered to the anguish of the previous sections of the course. In a single, depraved moment I counseled myself to forgive and forget … to work towards détente. The regime had changed. I was already learning the magic of godmen.
The Master replaced the tarnished silver cuff-link at his wrist. Its familiar design – a set-square and compasses – confirmed my suspicions: Feroze was a Freemason. I had seen no overt symbols of Masonry in the mansion, but since we first shook hands at the Albert Hall, I had had little doubt. Feroze had pressed his right thumb between the knuckles of my middle and third finger: the cryptic sign of a Master Mason.
“Rublu,” he said dryly, “please excuse us for a moment.”
Opening the glass-fronted display cabinet, the magician snatched a square-edged key from one of the trophy cups. Then, leading me to the door beside the store-room, he slipped the key into the lock, clicked it anticlockwise, and pressed his thumb to the doorknob twice.
“Come with me,” he whispered, pulling the door towards him. “From now on this is where you will be studying.”
The chamber beyond was a scientist’s laboratory. Stinking of astringents and gamy meat, it was stone-floored and windowless, with pastel-blue walls. A broad workbench filled much of the space. Upon it lay an array of alembics: distillation retorts, test-tubes, beakers, Bunsen burners, a Van de Graff gene
rator, and an assortment of chemicals. A thick layer of oily olive-black dust covered everything. Cobwebs dangled from the ceiling like silken parachutes; and rat droppings were scattered everywhere like hail. I showed surprise that a workplace should have fallen into such a state of disuse.
Well,” Feroze snapped curtly, “I told you I’d retired!”
Gokul was called. With a brush in one hand, and a rag mop in the other, he set to work spring-cleaning the laboratory. The magician led me back to the study. We would start lessons in the lab in due course. He launched into one of his many passionate orations on the theory of magical science. This time would I be given an opportunity to practice tricks?
“First,” said Feroze, as the crash of a glass flask echoed next door, “think of the word ‘illusion’. Ask yourself what it really means.”
I mulled over the question.
“It means ‘the effect of …”
Feroze interjected: “It means something that deceives by producing a false or misleading impression of reality.”
I repeated the magician’s definition; but he had already moved on.
“As I told you before,” he expounded, “you have to study all the great masters of illusion. Watch for what they find important … learn their techniques of sleight-of-hand … see how they manipulate a crowd … question everything that the audience does not. Then,” commanded the Master, “Practice, Practice, Practice!”
Gokul shuffled through the study in his mule slippers, ferrying a dustpan of rat droppings outside.
“But beyond all else,” grunted Feroze, his concentration unbroken, “you must pay attention to detail. From now on, detail – any detail – is of prime importance. Become a connoisseur of detail, and you will excel as an illusionist.”
“Is detail more important than the tricks themselves?”
“Of course the illusions are key,” replied the Master, “but you can go away and devise your own deceptions. I won’t be standing beside you forever. Before you leave me, your eyes have to be looking in the correct places; your ears must be tuned to pick up the right frequencies.”
The long-case clock chimed noon.
As if signaled to move by a clarion call, Rublu sprawled out on the chesterfield and promptly fell asleep. He must have had a hard life. His clothing was disheveled and reeked of stale tobacco; his shoes were scuffed, and his spine hopelessly contorted – most probably from years slouching in a stifling Calcutta office.
Feroze noticed me glance over at his friend.
“Close your eyes,” he ordered. “Now, tell me: what’s Rublu wearing? Describe his clothes in as great detail as you can remember.”
The disorderly figure slipped into my mind.
“He’s wearing brown lace-up shoes,” I reported. “His shirt is white; his cardigan is a sort of dusty green; and his pants are a blotchy shade of blue, I think.”
The magician was unimpressed at my description.
“Where was the detail?” he contested.
Closing his eyes, Feroze began to speak:
“Rublu is wearing one of my old cotton shirts. I believe the tailor called the shade of cloth ‘cornhusk’. It has a spread collar, an accentuated yoke, single cuffs, two gusseted breast pockets, in-box pleat and mother-of-pearl buttons. Over the shirt, he’s wearing a fern-green V-neck cardigan, knitted in moss stitch, with a single welt pocket on the left side, and with light ribbing on the cuffs. The cardigan is fastened by six elm-green shank buttons. His pants are tailored from a lightweight polyester-rayon blend.” Feroze paused for several seconds, his eyes twitching surreptitiously beneath their lids. “I recall that they have turn-ups,” he continued, “and button flies, a knife pleat and, as for the color … it’s Dresden blue.”
“Very good,” I sniffed. But Feroze had not yet finished.
“His shoes,” he went on, “are rather inferior Calcutta-made buffalo half-brogues. If I not mistaken, they were made in the Chinese district of Tangra. The leather has been dyed a rather uneven tint of iris leaf gray. The shoes’ back cuffs have been trodden down; the lace-tags are severely frayed; and the vamps are badly creased – a result of poor Rublu’s posture. I think that’s about it …” The sorcerer opened his eyes and smiled. “Oh no,” he remembered, “I quite forgot his wristwatch: it’s a Titan chronometer with a steel casing and a vinyl strap. It loses between three and six minutes a day.”
Feroze set an example which was hard – if not impossible – to emulate. He considered the observation of detail to be the most important factor in the course. “Learn to perceive the smallest insignificance,” he would say, “and the rest will follow.” This approach, I soon learnt, had been preached by the century’s most famous illusionist, Harry Houdini.
As I studied more of Houdini’s methods, I began to realize the similarity between his character and that of Feroze.
Both men understood the unlimited strength of conjuring and illusion – especially when used in the developing world. Both were arrogant beyond the point of reason; both accepted nothing short of miracles from their students; both were masters of crowd manipulation and showmanship, and were preoccupied with observing minutiae. Yet most significant of all, both were tormented by obsessive-compulsive behavior.
Now he had reached the main body of his course, Feroze moved speedily from one illusion to the next. After an initial demonstration, I was expected to explain how each trick was accomplished, before repeating it myself. Many of the simplest illusions involved sleight-of-hand. Although easy to grasp, sleights require hours of frustrating practice to perfect.
In India, one deception is performed by godmen and religious pundits more frequently than any other. It involves the sprinkling of silvery white holy ash, known as vibhuti. The chalky dust is materialized from nowhere by spiritual leaders and shaken on to the palms of their devotees. The faithful generally lap at the ash with their tongues. Anyone with the ability to produce vibhuti is considered to have supernatural powers.
I protested that the exercise would be of little use to me, for I had no intention of becoming a godman. Feroze insisted that mastering vibhuti would develop my sleight-of-hand abilities. Adept conjurors, he said, can eat, drink tea, and write with one or two of the pellets hidden in position – lodged in the web of skin between the thumb and forefinger. With a single circling movement of the hand, they can withdraw the pellet and crush it with the fingertips.
Feroze demonstrated how to make the tiny pellets. A quantity of perfume and ash is mixed in a pan with a few drops of kanji, starchy water in which rice has been washed. Stir in enough ash and one gets a form of dough. Pea-sized beads of the preparation are dried, ready for use.
As I had suspected, the practice schedule of the routines was relentless. Feroze introduced ten new illusions a day. He expected me to master each one before the next morning. My demonstration of the previous day’s tricks was followed by a random quiz on the life and work of famous illusionists. After that, I was ordered to describe an object of his choice in infinite detail.
Despite the concentration-camp style of Feroze’s tutelage, the study of illusions was supremely satisfying. The rules and regulations which surrounded every aspect of life at the house were still unbearable. The only consolation was that, for the first time, my concentration was applied to studies, rather than survival. Finally, I was learning what I had come to learn.
As I practiced the experiments in the hush of Feroze’s laboratory, it was as if I had traveled back two decades in time. I could almost sense Hafiz Jan breathing down my neck as he leant over the desk in my attic. To be learning from the man who had taught the Pashtun gave me a rush of joy. I was certain Hafiz Jan would feel proud that his own teacher had accepted me.
* * * *
One morning, Feroze came to the laboratory carrying a faded shoebox. A series of holes had been poked through the top with a ball-point pen. Placing the carton at the far end of the desk, the magician tested me on the illusions studied the previous day.
&n
bsp; First, I demonstrated the “smoking fingers” routine. A mixture of yellow phosphorous and carbon disulphide is prepared, with a ratio of 1 : 6. Two drops of this are applied to the thumb and forefinger. When the two fingertips are rubbed together, a plume of smoke rises upwards from the hand.
Next, Feroze commanded me to sip a cup of tea and take dictation with two pellets of vibhuti concealed between my fingers. I complied with reasonable success. After that, he directed me to burn a cube of camphor and place it on my tongue. Despite regular practice sessions, the experiment is always distressing. A piece of camphor a little smaller than a sugar lump is set alight. As the flames lick upward, it’s quickly thrown on to the tongue, and the mouth is snapped shut. The cheeks glow for two or three seconds as the fire burns inside. Many Indians believe that camphor will only burn when offered in front of an idol. Although impressive to an audience, the trick is not overly dangerous. Even when the camphor is burning, the bottom of the cube – resting on the tongue – stays relatively cool. Before the fire has a chance to burn the saliva-coated tongue, carbon dioxide exhaled from the lungs extinguishes the flame.
Other illusions followed. Feroze awarded points for performance and general style. As one might expect, he was parsimonious when it came to awarding high grades. I never received more than three out of ten for any illusion.
When I asked what was in the shoebox, the magician called for me to describe the piano in the sitting-room. He disliked others steering the agenda. For the first time I could relax: the piano was my trump card.
“It’s a Steinway upright piano,” I asserted, “manufactured in Hamburg, with a standard eighty-eight-note keyboard. The keys, which are elephant ivory, have yellowed with age. Those most frequently played have worn down slightly at the ends. The middle-C key is cracked, filled at some point in the past with window putty. The casing is veneered in seasoned walnut, with a mahogany base frame. Its top flap has a circular scuff, where a jardinière may have stood. The brass pedals are well-polished; but the fronting board, into which they slot, is stained where the polish has spilt over on to it. One of the casters has broken off and has been replaced by a single book. I believe it’s a 1913 edition of The Land of the Peaks and the Pampas, by Jesse Page, bound in geranium-red cloth.”