Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [77]
“As much as I regret it, it seems that the best way to deal with this is to be relatively sincere with you. Needless to say, were you to abuse my trust, and inform a third party of what follows, you will place yourself in a rather unenviable predicament.”
“Your secret is as safe with me as my authorship of the book is with you.”
Arkansky pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Let us both believe it. Belief can work wonders. Are you a connoisseur of magic?”
“Not in the least,” admitted Brentford, still at a loss as to what Arkansky had in mind.
“That is a good thing. We magicians have a rather equivocal relationship with connoisseurs. It is the paradoxical nature of magic as an entertainment that it dreads the capacity of its public to understand the tricks, while, to be appreciated as an art, it requires exactly such understanding. However, and frustrating as it can be, I may be one of the rare magicians to be wary of connoisseurs on both accounts. Not because I am a bad magician, but precisely because I am, as you have noticed, and I say this with all objectivity, a little above average. The tricks I did tonight, I admit, are mostly standard, and the stage was as rigged as a three-masted ship, but some of these tricks, frankly, I could not have done in Paris, London, or New York, possibly in front of other magicians.”
Brentford felt it was time for his cue. He sighed and delivered, so as to get more quickly to the point.
“And why is that?”
“Because, Mr. Orsini, a fellow magician would certainly see that such tricks are not really possible.”
“This is, I presume, what every magician would like his audience to suppose.”
“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. There is nothing that is more despised among magicians than a fellow conjuror trying to pass himself off as some sort of sorcerer or magus with supernatural powers. As you know, some of us also make a living by trying to prove such people are frauds. On the other hand …”
“On the other hand?” Brentford forced himself to ask, remembering that he should watch that other hand closely.
“Magic as a trade would be the best cover for someone with such abilities, don’t you think? Pretending his supernatural feats were but vulgar magical tricks.”
“What would be the point?”
Brentford noticed that Handyside was now levitating about a foot or so above the ground while staring him right in the eyes.
“That could be one of your tricks,” said Brentford.
Arkansky rose another foot, just as if he were full of hydrogen, his quiff almost touching the frosted-glass globes of the ceiling light.
“Yes. But the point would be that … you would not know.”
The magician returned to the ground. Brentford noticed how flushed he was. But it meant nothing. Arkansky was, after all, in the grip of the famous paradox: who would believe a man who calls himself a liar? The magician had paid for his talent to deceive by losing any credibility, whatever he might say or do. That seemed to Brentford like some infernal punishment, the true meaning of selling your soul to the devil.
“You see, Mr. Orsini. There are two sides to what I do. Some of it I admit is trickery, and that’s where some of the beauty lies. Some other things cannot be explained so simply, even by myself. And tonight, something happened that not only can I not explain, but that I could not control at all, even though I pretended to. I swear I do not know who this Ghost Lady was.”
He leaned toward Brentford almost threateningly.
“But she knew you and … you … know … her.”
Brentford saw the light at the end of the tunnel.
“I’ll tell you when I see Sybil back at home and safe.”
Arkansky sat back.
“Which home? You forget I have only to tell the Council that you wrote the book for you to lose the Greenhouse.”
“You are bluffing. The Council already suspects I wrote the book. What they need is some tangible