Abraca-dont, bro
Getting tricky down the pub
Hey, it’s been a minute - some upheaval as I moved back to the UK, but I’m hoping to be done with the final draft this month, external events pending. So, one more excerpt. Hope you had a great summer. Thanks for your patience, this should all be over soon. P
Feb, 2005. London.
A novel I’ve been reading has an amateur magician as its protagonist, and in one of the early chapters, he successfully performs a trick at a party to impress a woman. The trick isn’t very elaborate, but it also isn’t explicitly explained.
After giving it quite a lot of thought, I manage to work out how it’s done. It involves a volunteer and an ashtray, and with a couple of sneaky hand gestures and a dash of misdirection, you can mark the palm of someone’s hand with cigarette ash without them noticing. Listen, I didn’t say it was glamorous, this isn’t Siegfried and Roy in glittering unitards on the Las Vegas Strip, this is just me in a basement flat that I’m pretty sure I’m overpaying for.
The distraction is a story about stigmata, and the reveal - what’s known by actual magicians as ‘the prestige’ - is a kind of pub version of the holy miracle wherein Christ’s crucifixion wounds appear on the hands and feet of the saintly. My version isn’t god’s spirit or divine revelation, though, it’s just some herbert smearing ash on your hand, and though it might not be very sophisticated in terms of conjuring, I bet myself that I can perform it.
I don’t know any magic at all, not even simple card tricks, and I’ve always wanted to learn a sort of parlour illusion as a shortcut to superficially impressing people. I don’t want to commit to the endless learning and practising that it would take to be an actual magician, of course. I’ve met a few at various parties and they always seem quite sad and lonely once the performance is over. Anyway, I want to know just enough to make people think that I have hidden depths, as opposed to my very exposed shallows.
After a few days learning the story that goes along with the trick, and the subtle hand gestures, I feel confident that I can pull it off. I try it out successfully on a housemate, and they at least act as though they’re genuinely impressed, even though they do guess the technique after quite a lot of unnecessary questioning and discussion. Surely not everyone will want to joylessly analyse every aspect of the performance, I think. Why can’t people just enjoy the whimsy and move on with their lives?
Nevertheless, I feel that it’s now ripe for a public debut, and after rehearsing diligently for a couple of more weeks, I decide that I’ll delight and bamboozle some lucky acquaintance at the next appropriate occasion.
A week or so later, I’m in my local pub. I’ve been having a drink with some friends, and as they leave to catch their bus, I spot a couple I sort of know in the corner. I’ve had four pints, and my newfound ability to perform a magic trick just popped into my head, so naturally, I now really want to try it out. The couple, Graham and Jane, are friends of friends, but I’ve met them at barbecues and endured incredibly tedious smalltalk about their kids, so they definitely owe me some attention. I can’t see how this could be a bad idea.
I order a last drink, and amble over to the table to say hello. Graham and Jane seem a little surprised to see me, but I’m brimming with friendliness and anticipation, and after some very forced enquiries about their eldest child’s schooling options, I awkwardly segue into the set up for the trick. Jane begins to say something about catchment areas, but I’ve started the preamble now, and I’m already tipsily forging ahead, asking them if they’ve heard of the mysterious appearance of Christ’s wounds on the hands of the devout. Graham claims that he has never heard of stigmata. I think he’s being deliberately obtuse because he’s an architect and he never misses a chance to drop his time at Durham University into the conversation. Anyway, it takes a while to get him up to speed.
The religious lesson done with, they have little choice but to go along with things. That’s one of the beautiful things about middle class British people, they’ll endure almost anything rather than make a scene. I do sense a slight lack of enthusiasm, but I press on, reassuring them that it won’t take but a minute, and I do actually use those words. I hear myself asking them if they could conceive that stigmata (I sarcastically check that Graham remembers what this is) could appear on someone at this very table this very evening. I notice that I’m saying the word “very” too much in an attempt to build drama and generally sounding like a lunatic, but it’s too late to change course now.
Graham gingerly gives me his hands as I ask for them, and holds them out, palms down as per my instructions. I realise at this point that I’ve completely forgotten about the ashtray part, and I have to negotiate borrowing one from another table. It takes a little more than but a minute, and it does interrupt the flow somewhat, but I’m vocally adamant that it’s going to be well worth the wait.
I’m so excited and pleased with myself as we enter the home stretch. Now that the ashtray is in place, I’m in full flow, going off on fanciful tangents about god’s powers and angelic appearances throughout history, and generally hamming it up as much as I can for the big moment. “Aaaaaaand what if I was to tell youuuuuu that YOU, yes YOU, are experiencing stigmata RIGHHHHHT (quick mental check that I’ve done everything required) NOWWWWWWWW?” I say this with a real flourish, turning over Graham’s hands to reveal a barely-visible smudge of grey ash on his right palm.
I look each of them in turn, awaiting their astonished reaction and, I don’t know, is a smattering of applause really too much to ask?
“Paul, please stop,” says Graham.
“It’s OK…that’s it! That’s the trick!” I say, cheerily.
“It’s not the trick that’s the pr…”
“PAUL WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF BREAKING UP, ” Jane says sternly.
We all sit there for a second in silence, Jane understandably looking like thunder. Graham and I are looking down at the table, both of us with someone else’s cigarette ash all over our hands.
“OK, well I’ll leave you to it,” I say, slapping my hands on the table for emphasis. “Graham, do you need a napkin, or…”
Turns out he didn’t need a napkin. Sometimes a look conveys much more than words ever could. It wasn’t quite how I’d pictured my magical debut going, but that’s showbiz, I guess.