Madrigal

by John Gardner

  This Madrigal was young, slim, and immaculate in a smoke-grey DJ with black silk lapels. His face was so English that tradition, the outmoded order of British squirearchy, Olnui pancake race, and the Changing of the Guard seemed to be almost foreign by comparison. The man who stood in the centre of the Kowloon Room’s floor, modestly accepting the scattered applause, could have barely reached his late twenties or early thirties. His face, slim and in direct proportion with his body, was, at first sight, too good-looking: a high forehead, eyes steady and certain, a light hazel, swiftly moving around the room, summing up his audience, mentally weighing individuals and parties, sorting the sheep from the goats, separating the difficult and sceptical from those who would go along with him for the sake of pure entertainment. His hair, showing the preliminary signs of thinning from the forehead, was groomed straight back, the natural waves brushed and cut down to avoid any hint of showiness; flat ears, long Romanesque nose, friendly mouth, and strong jaw line.

  Madrigal’s hands held no stage props, no pseudo-mind-reader equipment in evidence. The impression was of an entertainer approaching his audience with direct confidence. He emanated friendliness and a relaxed approach. A casual glance by any intelligent observer would mark him as a professional—in the street he could be taken for a doctor, lawyer, even a young tycoon. Certainly he had the static of power almost visibly around him.

  Boysie sighed out his worry. Madrigal? Coincidence. But as soon as the man opened his mouth, the centipedes were rapidly on the move again, joined immediately by any army of red ants progressing in columns of four through Boysie’s stomach, while a small plague of locusts ate their way along his spinal chord. In front of his public, Madrigal’s distinctive stammer was reduced to an attractive, hinted impediment, but the voice remained unmistakable. The tall, pleasant young man with the easy relaxed smile demanding audience attention in the Kowloon Room was without doubt the Madrigal who had, out of hand, ordered the summary death of Rabbit Warren and Boysie Oakes. The man whom General Kuan Hsi Shi (Warbler, as Boysie knew him), Shi T’ung K’u (the Tormentor, Gazpacho), and all the parchment-yellow boys at the camp on Bloody Island or Peking or Wales or wherever it was held in ridiculous deference as a mastermind.

  Boysie, while keeping his attention on Madrigal, tried to pretend that he was invisible, sinking lower into the chair, mind split between the horror of finding this man, by accident, and the racing thoughts of how he could rid himself of Honey Mambo without hurting a conscience which wrestled within him. The confusion dissolved as Madrigal started his performance. Hatred bubbled like a witch’s cauldron. For the first time, Boysie wanted to kill in cold blood. Thoughts of the inhuman, senseless, and calculated torture, the arrogance, and the evident fact that Madrigal overlorded some dreadful operation, Chinese-backed and aimed at the Western world, brought death into total perspective. Boysie wanted Madrigal’s blood. Paradoxically, he signalled to a waiter, indicating that Honey should have another drink—unconsciously getting her out of the way for a grand kill. The destruction of Madrigal.

  Madrigal himself, oozing charm as a fatal bullet wound seeps out blood, was in the midst of his preliminary spiel.

  ‘M-my name is Madrigal—an English name going back to the time when witchcraft was ri-ife in this country and anyone with the kinds of talents I have acquired would be highly suspect. As I-I’ve said. My name is Madrigal. Madrigal the mind-reader. I want to demonstrate to you some of the amazing things that are possible with just a little practice—twenty years’ practice, concentration, and self-denial in my case—and your cooperation.’

  The chinless drunk made a loud comment. ‘You wanna learn to shtand up shtraight for a shtart.’

  Madrigal glanced at him in contempt and carried on. ‘Now, I see a lady sitting at this table on my right.’ He walked to the table—two men and two girls; a dark nervous girl giggled as the charm was aimed straight at her. ‘I wonder if you’ll help me by coming on a journey in the mind?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I-I w-w-want you to imagine you are going to visit the house of a friend. You w-walk along the road and come to this p-person’s h-house. Will you do that? Imagine you are actually doing it.’

  The girl nodded shyly.

  ‘You open the gate and walk up the path. Are you d-doing that?’

  The girl nodded again.

  ‘You are just about to ring the d-doorbell when you notice the n-number of the house. It’s in large n-numbers. Large figures. The n-number of your friend’s house. You’ve followed me so far, yes?’

  Once more she nodded.

  ‘Now.’ Madrigal completely oblivious to everyone but the girl. ‘I want you just to think of this n-number. The n-number you see on your-your friend’s h-house.’ He had taken a card from his pocket, a pen from the inside of his jacket. ‘All right, fix it in your m-mind. See it big. The n-number of this friend’s h-house. Go on, k-keep thinking of it.’

  The girl gave a minute nod.

  Madrigal’s eyes locked with hers. His pen moved down to the card, boldly writing something. The tension eased.

  ‘Now. Please, I ask you not to change your mind, otherwise b-both of us will be in t-trouble. I have committed. myself. I have wr-written a n-number on this card. The n-number I believe is identical with that of your friend’s h-house. The n-number you have been thinking of. Would you tell the 1-ladies and gentlemen what that n-number is?’

  Hesitation. Then the girl said clearly, ‘Seventy-nine.’ Madrigal tossed the card on to the table. ‘Read what I have wr-written, please.’

  The girl looked stunned for a moment and then laughed nervously: ‘You are right. Number seventy-nine.’

  It was a smash opening. Madrigal smiled knowingly, about to turn away. The drunk, only two tables to the left, started to act up again. ‘Noshing in that. Shimple. Noshing clever about that.’

  ‘I’ll come to you in a minute. I promise you.’ Madrigal turned back to the girl’s table. ‘While I’m over here., I wonder if you’d try something else. I’d like to show you an experiment in hypnotism. Is there a package of cigarettes on the table?’ A pack of Players was at her boy friend’s elbow. ‘I wonder, for the sake of entertaining everybody, if you would remove the silver paper from that pack of cigarettes and strip off the backing?’

  The girl followed instructions.

  ‘Now just roll the silver paper into a tight ball, as tight as possible, now place it on your palm. Okay? Concentrate on me. Concentrate. The silver paper is getting hot. Warm. Hot. Hotter. Hotter. It will become so hot that you cannot bear to hold it.’

  The girl yelped with pain and threw the silver paper to one side. Laughter, even from the girl. Applause, which finally dwindled. The drunk started turning very nasty. Loudly he shouted out, ‘You’re a bloody fraud. Wouldn’t dare to do anything with me.’

  Boysie could see the fury building in Madrigal’s face.

  The mind-reader crossed to the centre and stood directly in front of the stupid sloshed one.

  ‘You look fine to me.’ The imbiber undoubtedly an ex-officer in some smart regiment—the battalion know-all, hated by many and disliked by most. ‘Frightened,’ he goaded Madrigal. ‘That’s what you look like. Frightened.’

  Madrigal’s guard dropped for a second. ‘Madrigal fears no man.’ He spat out. ‘Have you got some cigarettes?’ A slight pause before adding, ‘sir.’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Then I’ll try the same experiment I tried with the young lady just now. Take out the silver paper, strip off the lining of thin paper, and roll the silver paper into a small ball. Now; don’t just place it in your palm like the young lady did, grip it tightly in your fist.’

  The drunk fumbled a little before getting it right.

  ‘It’s going to be hot,’ said Madrigal quietly. ‘Hot. Hot. Hotter.’

  The drunk was uncooperative. ‘Feelsh perfectly normal to me,’ he said. ‘Fact if anything’sh getting colder.’

  ‘Right.’ Madrigal with a terrific s
nap. ‘That silver paper is going to burn through your hand. You’re going to feel a lot of pain.’

  It took a matter of seconds. The drunk emitted a shriek of anguish and dropped the paper, nursing his hand. Madrigal smiled and turned his back, walked quietly away.

  Even from where he sat, Boysie could see the large blister, raw red, on the man’s palm. There was no more trouble with the drunk. Madrigal carried on with his act, giving an amazing display of completely unpredictable items. He named addresses and telephone numbers known only to individuals in the audience, spelt out the serials of five-pound notes in a man’s wallet, did the impossible. It was a performance of extraordinary ability. Fascinating and fantastic. The mind-reader ended up by selecting a young woman at random and asking her to think of any great, well-known public figure and to concentrate on this man or woman. He sat, now in the centre of the floor, holding a sketching board and charcoal in front of him. The woman concentrated, Madrigal sketched, occasionally looking up at her, and finally asked the name of the person of whom she had been thinking. It was the Prime Minister. Madrigal turned the board to face the audience. There was a perfect charcoal sketch of the PM.

  The mind-reader left the floor to tremendous applause. The clapping continued, and he slowly, almost sheepishly, returned. When silence came, Madrigal spoke—again the soft persuasive, even gentle voice.

  ‘You seem to have liked my w-work. S-so to end I will do one very small item. An-an illustration of how the mind can control the m-mind. A short demonstration in. hypnosis. As th-this is only going to be a brief demonstration I wonder if you will allow me to choose my vi-victim—I mean, of course, my subject. I assure you that nobody is going to be made to look st-stupid.’ He was edging towards a table where one or two of the heavier, rough-hewn men sat. Madrigal fixed his eyes on one of the party, singling him out. ‘You, sir,’ he said. ‘I promise there will be no embarrassment. Would you help me?’

  The man, broad-shouldered, with a face that would not have been out of place in a boxing ring, was uncertain. His friends began to heckle him, but eventually he nodded acceptance.

  ‘Good. If you’ll step this way.’ Madrigal led his subject on to the floor and seated him facing to the left. ‘Can I ask you, sir, have you ever been hypnotised before?’

  ‘Nay, lad.’ A broad Manchester accent matching the man’s build.

  Madrigal smiled. ‘I get the impression that you don’t altogether believe in hypnosis.’

  ‘Never really thought abou’ it. Don’t ’old mooch with this sort o’ thing.’ Uneasy.

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sir.’ Madrigal genuinely apologetic. ‘Perhaps we had better choose another subject.’

  ‘Nay. You ’ave a go. See what thee can do.’

  ‘All right.’

  Madrigal seemed to change. Or was it Boysie’s imagination? This was still part of a demonstration, but Madrigal gave the impression of projecting his whole being towards the hard man facing him in the chair. It was as though the performance did not really matter. The man in the chair mattered.

  ‘I shall need a little cooperation from you,’ Madrigal said, authority mingled with the calm quality of his voice, an authority which cut through any pleasantries. ‘Just relax with your hands on your knees. That’s it. Now pick some point in front of you and look at it. Don’t take your eyes off it. Keep looking at that point. Relax. Relax. I want you to relax your whole body. Everything. Keep looking at the point. Now relax as you have never relaxed before. Imagine you are so completely unwinding that your body is almost melting in relaxation. Start at the toes. Relax the toes. Keep your eyes fixed on that one point. Now let all the muscles go as you relax. Relax the whole of your feet. Now the ankles and calves. The knees and thighs. They’re disappearing. Keep your eyes fixed on that one point.’ The room was silent but for Madrigal’s voice, cool and directed solely at his subject.

  Boysie glanced across at Honey. She had almost finished the last Appendicitis and was definitely wavering, nearly reacting to Madrigal’s soft, continuous flow of talk, which went on without a pause.

  ‘You are feeling tired. Very tired. Eyes still open but keep looking at the same spot. Now go on relaxing. Relax your stomach muscles. You have no stomach. Now the chest. You’re feeling very tired. You can hardly keep your eyes open. Your eyelids feel like lead weights. Relax the shoulders. Arms. Hands. Fingers. Feel the cloth of your trousers under your fingertips. Your fingertips are going into nothing. So tired. Important. Relax your neck. Like jelly. Your neck’s like jelly. Now the face. Chin. Cheeks. Even your hair. Keep your eyes on that one spot. Relax. Your eyelids are drooping. There are lead weights hanging from them. Pulling them down. You are falling asleep. You just cannot keep your eyes open. In a moment I am going to count to five. When I reach the figure five, next time I say five, your eyes will close and you will be in a deep hypnotic sleep. You will be able to hear everything I say and do everything I tell you to do. You will be under my control and nobody else will have this power over you.’

  Boysie’s hair bristled. It may have enthralled everybody else in the room, but for Boysie it was an act of power which meant something more than just ordinary entertainment or a showy demonstration of hypnosis.

  ‘In one minute you will sleep as you’ve never slept before. You will be able to answer me but do nothing without me.’ Madrigal paused, his face like rock, eyes fixed on the bulky man in the chair. Boysie’s mind was clear. For the time being his alcohol intake made no difference. He was enmeshed in something of extreme importance. Intuitively he knew.

  Madrigal was still speaking. ‘...one...two...three...four...five.’ The subject’s eyes snapped shut like a Venus flytrap. The whole body rigid, still. The face a mask. No movement but for the regular breathing. Everyone in the room still concentrated. Madrigal turned to the audience. ‘You see, ladies and gentlemen, the subject, a normal man like any of yourselves, is in a deep hypnotic trance. If anyone has doubts about this, I ask you here and now to come forward. Anybody.’ He underlined the word. ‘Just come forward, and I’ll do exactly the same for you.’ Nobody moved.

  Madrigal’s eyes darted around the room. ‘All right. Very quickly I will demonstrate how our friend here is under complete hypnotic control. I have nothing in my hand, as you can see.’ He showed his right hand to be empty on both sides. Placing his thumb and forefinger together, he addressed the tranced man. ‘If you can hear me, raise your right hand.’

  The subject’s right hand moved upwards and then dropped back on to his knee.

  ‘Just a simple test of reaction. I am going to prick you very lightly, on your right hand with a pin. Just a tiny pricking sensation. I am holding the pin now.’ He again showed the audience that his hand held nothing, then brought down the thumb and forefinger in a swift jab, as though stabbing the man’s hand.

  The subject winced and jumped with pain.

  ‘That’—Madrigal to the audience again—‘shows how far auto-suggestion can go under hypnosis. Now, something else.’ To the subject, ‘Do you ever go fishing?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grunted, as though through layers of cotton wool.

  ‘All right. You are sitting by the river bank and you are going to fish. You have all the equipment with you. Bait your hook and then cast the line.’

  In perfect mime the subject went through the routine of baiting and casting. Tension eased a little, and the audience began to laugh.

  ‘You see, it’s easy to make somebody think he is elsewhere. We’ll try just one more.’ Then, to the subject, ‘Okay, that’s enough fishing for today. You’ve earned a drink. There’s a pint of beer, your favourite beer, in front of you now. Go ahead.’

  The big fellow went ahead. You could almost taste the stuff and see the mug as the beer went down, the man’s throat making perfect swallowing motions. The audience was in hysterics. Boysie noticed that the band was quietly easing itself back on to the dais. The subject put down his imaginary pint and drew the back of his right hand over his mouth.


  More laughter from the audience, then Madrigal was addressing them again. ‘These are just small simple things. I am now going to wake the patient—if we can call him that. But before we do, will show you one of the most amazing things about hypnosis. The phenomena of post-hypnotic suggestion. Watch and listen very carefully.’

  He addressed the subject again. ‘In a few moments I am going to wake you. I will count from five to one. When I next reach the number one you will be wide awake. You will remember nothing except that you have had a short sleep. You will feel happy and contented. You’ll wake up smiling. We will speak briefly, after which I’ll take out my handkerchief and blow my nose. As I do this the band will start to play a waltz. You will immediately imagine that you have a partner and waltz back to your table. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Again the muffled affirmative.

  Then once again Madrigal addressed the audience. ‘You will see how post-hypnotic suggestion works. I must remind you that we do not want to embarrass the gentleman, and in order to plant the idea firmly in his mind I am again going to repeat my instructions by whispering them in his ear. Excuse me one moment.’

  Madrigal bent over the man, speaking softly, lips close to the ear. Was Boysie imagining it, or was there more concentration this time? More stress? Madrigal straightened up. ‘Right’—he snapped at the subject—‘you will now waken. Five...four...three...two...one.’

  The subject’s eyes snapped open. A grin slowly spread across his large face as he got to his feet and stretched. ‘By Gow, that were joost like goin’ ta sleep. Is that wha’ thee calls ’ipnosis?’