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 be present when the illusion was performed. 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 still 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. The 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 emphasise, 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 rematerialised 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.
33
I travelled down to discuss 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?’ he said, referring to my secret method.
‘Yes, but I am different! How would we design it for another illusionist? Think of it that way.’
‘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.’
34
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 magicia
n, 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 brushed off. I left a second 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.
35
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 expected 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. 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.)
36
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 not recognised 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 realised how nervous he was. 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 backstage.’
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 realise 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 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 glad, 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 realising 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 a similar device for powering the electrical bench, but it was a small affair of no great complication. This one of Angier’s bespoke raw power. It was radiating heat as I approached it, and a low, powerf
ul 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 from a grille in its upper panel. The humming noise intensified. At first I moved 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 the mezzanine area. 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.
The Prestige Page 11