The Prestige (10 page)

I write, unwillingly, in the year 1903. I had planned to leave my notebook closed forever,
but events have conspired against me.

Rupert Angier has died suddenly. He was forty-six, only a year younger than myself. His
death, according to a notice in
The Times
, was caused by complications following injuries incurred while performing a stage
illusion at a theatre in Suffolk.

I scoured this notice, and a shorter one that appeared in the
Morning Post
, for what information I might at last discover about him, but there was little that was
new to me.

I had already suspected he was ill. The last time I saw him in the flesh he had a frail
look about him, and I guessed he was the victim of some debilitating chronic ailment.

I can summarize the published obituaries, which I have before me as I write. He was born
in Derbyshire in 1857, but had moved to London at a young age, where he had subsequently
worked for many years as an illusionist and prestidigitator, achieving a considerable
measure of success. He had performed his act throughout the British Isles and Europe, and
had toured the New World three times, the last occasion being earlier this year. He was
credited with inventing several notable stage illusions, in particular one called Bright
Morning (it involved releasing an assistant from what appeared to be a sealed flask held
in full view of the audience), and this had been widely imitated. More recently, he had
successfully devised an illusion called In a Flash, which he was performing at the time of
the fatal accident. A master of legerdemain, Angier had been a popular performer at small
or private gatherings. He was married, had fathered a son and two daughters, and until the
end had lived with his family in the Highgate area of London. He had been performing
regularly until the accident which led to his death.

It gives me no pleasure to write of Angier's death. It has come as a tragic climax to a
sequence of events which had been building up for more than two years. I disdained to
record any of them because, I regret to say, they had threatened to renew the
unpleasantness that existed between us.

As I noted in the earlier part of this journal, I had reached a state of pleasant
equilibrium and stability in my life and career, and had no wish for anything more than
what I had at that time. I felt and sincerely believed that should Angier make any kind of
attack or reprisal against me I could merely shrug it off. Indeed, I had every reason to
believe that the trail of false clues offered in Olive's note to him was a concluding
action between us. It was intended to put him off course, to send him searching for a
secret that did not exist. The fact that he vanished from my awareness for more than two
years suggested my ruse had worked.

However, soon after I had completed the first part of this narrative I happened to notice
a magazine review of a show taking place at the Finsbury Park Empire. Rupert Angier was
one of the acts, and by all accounts was low on the bill. The notice mentioned him only in
passing, observing “it is good to acknowledge that his talent remains undimmed”. This in
itself suggested that his career had been going through a hiatus.

Two or three months later, all had changed. One of the magic journals featured an
interview with him, even publishing a photographic picture of him alongside. One of the
daily newspapers referred in an editorial to the “revival of the prestidigitator's art”,
pointing out that numerous magical acts were once again topping the bill in our music
halls. Rupert Angier was mentioned by name, although so were several others.

Later still, because of the necessary delays in producing such things, one of the
subscription magic journals published a detailed article about Angier. It described his
present act as a triumphant departure in the art of open magic. His new illusion, called
In a Flash, was singled out for special mention, and for expert critical acclaim. It was
said to set new standards of technical brilliance, being such that unless Mr Angier
himself chose to reveal the secrets of its workings, it was unlikely that any other
illusionist would be able to reproduce its effect, at least in the foreseeable future. The
same article mentioned that In a Flash was a significant development from "previous
efforts’ in the field of transference illusions, and there was a slighting reference not
only to The New Transported Man but also to myself.

I tried, I honestly tried, to disregard such aggravation, but these mentions in the press
were only the first of many to come. Unquestionably, Rupert Angier was at the top of our
profession.

Naturally, I felt I should do something about it. Much of my work in recent months had
involved touring, concentrating on smaller clubs and theatres in the provinces. I decided
that to re-establish myself I needed a season at a prominent London theatre as a showcase
for my skills. Such was the interest in stage illusions at this time that my booking agent
had little difficulty arranging what promised to be a major show. The venue was the Lyric
Theatre in the Strand, and I was placed top of the bill at a variety show scheduled to run
for a week in September 1902.

We opened to a house that was half empty, and the next day our press notices were few and
far between. Only three newspapers even mentioned me by name, and the least unfavourable
comment referred to me as “a proponent of a style of magic remarkable more for its
nostalgic value than its innovative flair”. The houses for the next two nights were almost
empty, and the show closed halfway through the week.

I decided I had to see Angier's new illusion for myself, and when I heard at the end of
October that he was starting a two-week residence at the Hackney Empire I quietly bought
myself a ticket for the stalls. The Empire is a deep, narrow theatre, with long
constricted aisles and an auditorium kept fairly well in the dark throughout the
performance, so it exactly suited my purposes. My seat had a good view of the stage, but I
was not so close that Angier was likely to spot me there.

I took no exception to the main part of his performance, in which he competently performed
illusions from the standard magical repertoire. His style was good, his patter amusing,
his assistant beautiful, and his showmanship above average. He was dressed in a well-made
evening suit, and his hair was smartly brilliantined to a high gloss. It was during this
part of his act, though, that I first observed the wasting that was affecting his face,
and saw other clues that suggested an unwell state. He moved stiffly, and several times
favoured his left arm as if it were weaker than the other.

Finally, after an admittedly amusing routine that involved a message written by a member
of the audience appearing inside a sealed envelope, Angier came to the closing illusion.
He began with a serious speech, which I scribbled down quickly into a notebook. Here is
what he said:

Ladies and Gentlemen! As the new century moves apace we see around us on every side the
miracles of science. These wonders multiply almost every day. By the end of the new
century, which few here tonight shall live to see, what marvels will prevail? Men might
fly, men might speak across oceans, men might travel across the firmament. Yet no miracle
which science may produce can compare with the greatest wonders of all… the human mind and
the human body.

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I will attempt a magical feat that brings together the
wonders of science and the wonders of the human mind. No other stage performer in the
world can reproduce what you are about to witness for yourself!

With this he raised his good arm theatrically, and the curtains were swept apart. There,
waiting in the limelight, was the apparatus I had come to see.

It was substantially larger than I had expected. Magicians normally prefer to work with
compactly built apparatus so as to heighten the mystery of the uses to which they are put.
Angier's equipment practically filled the stage area.

In the centre of the stage was an arrangement of three long metal legs, joined tripodally
at the apex and supporting a shining metal globe about a foot and a half in diameter.
There was just room beneath the apex of the tripod for a man to stand. Immediately above
the apex, and below the globe, was a cylindrical wooden and metal contraption firmly
attached to the joint. This cylinder was made of wooden slats with distinct gaps between
them, and wound around hundreds of times with thin filaments of wires. From where I was
sitting, I judged the cylinder to be at least four feet in height, and perhaps as many in
diameter. It was slowly rotating, and catching and reflecting the stage lights into our
eyes. Shards of light prowled the walls of the auditorium.

Surrounding the contraption, at a radial distance of about ten feet was a second circle of
eight metal slats, again much wound around with wires. These were standing on the surface
of the stage and concentric to the tripod. The slats were widely and evenly spaced, with a
large gap between each one. The audience could see clearly into the main part of the
apparatus.

I was totally unprepared for this, as I had been expecting some kind of magical cabinet of
the same general size as the ones I used. Angier's apparatus was so immense that there was
no room anywhere on the stage for a second concealing cabinet.

My magician's brain started racing, trying to anticipate what the illusion was to be, how
it might differ from my own, and where the secret might lie. First impression — surprise
at the sheer size of it. Second impression — the remarkable workaday quality of the
apparatus. With the exception of the rotating cylinder just above the apex, there was no
use of bright colours, distracting lights or areas of deliberate black. Most of the
contraption appeared to be made of unvarnished wood or unbrightened metal. There were
cords and wires running off in several directions. Third impression — no hint of what was
to come. I have no idea what the apparatus was
intended
to look like. Magical apparatus often assumes commonplace shapes, to misdirect the
audience. It will look like an ordinary table, for example, or a flight of steps, or a
cabin trunk, but Angier's equipment made no concessions to familiarity.

Angier began his performance of the trick.

There appeared to be no mirrors on stage. Every part of the apparatus could be seen
directly, and as Angier went through his preparations he roamed about the stage, walking
through each of the gaps, passing momentarily behind the slats, always visible, always
moving. I watched his legs, often a part of an illusionist's anatomy to observe closely
when he moves around and particularly behind his apparatus (an inexplicable movement can
indicate the presence of a mirror or some other device) but Angier's walk was relaxed and
normal. There appeared to be no trapdoors that he could use. The stage was covered in a
single large rubber sheet, making access to the mezzanine floor beneath the stage
difficult.

Most curious of all, there was no apparent rationale to the illusion. Magical apparatus
normally serves to set up or misdirect audience expectations. It consists of the box that
is obviously too small to contain a human being (yet will turn out to do so), or the sheet
of steel that apparently cannot be penetrated, or the locked trunk from which it would be
impossible to escape. In every case, the illusionist confounds the exact assumptions that
his audience has made from their own assessment of what they see before them. Angier's
equipment looked like nothing ever seen before, and it was impossible to guess what it
might be intended to do from simply looking at it.

Meanwhile, Angier strode around his stage set, still invoking the mysteries of science and
life.

He resumed centre stage, and faced his audience.

“Good sirs, mesdames, I request of one of you, a volunteer. You need not fear for what
might happen. I require you for a simple act of verification only.”

He stood in the glare of the footlights, leaning invitingly towards the members of the
audience in the first rows of the
fauteuils
. I suppressed a sudden mad urge to rush forward and volunteer myself, so that I might
have a closer look at his machinery, but I knew that if I should do so Angier would
instantly recognize me, and probably bring his performance to a premature close.

After the usual nervous hesitation a man stepped forward and mounted the stage by the side
ramp. As he did so, one of Angier's assistants walked on to the stage, carrying a tray
laden with several articles, the purpose of which soon became apparent, as each one
offered a means of marking or identifying. There were two or three wells filled with
different coloured inks; there was a bowl of flour; there were some chalks; there were
sticks of charcoal. Angier invited the volunteer to choose one, and when the man selected
the bowl of flour, Angier turned his back on him and invited him to tip it across the back
of his jacket. This the man did, with a cloud of white that drifted spectacularly in the
stage lights.

Angier turned again to face the audience, and asked the volunteer to select one of the
inks. The man chose the red. Angier held out his floury hands so that red ink might be
poured across them.

Now distinctively marked, Angier requested the man to return to his seat. The stage lights
dimmed, but for one brilliant shaft of light from a spot.

There was an unearthly crackling noise, as if the air itself were being split asunder, and
to my amazement a bolt of blue-white electrical discharge abruptly curled out and away
from the shining globe. The arc moved with a horrid suddenness and arbitrariness, dashing
about inside the arena enclosed by the outer slats, into which Angier himself now walked.
The crackling and snapping of the bolt seemed blessed with a vicious life of its own.

The electrical discharge abruptly doubled, then tripled, with the extra bolts snaking
around, as if searching the enclosed space. One inevitably found Angier, and instantly
wrapped itself around him, seeming to illumine him with cyanic light that glowed not only
around his body but also from within. He welcomed the shot of electricity, raising his
good arm, turning about, allowing the snaking, hissing fire to encircle him and surround
him.

More bolts of electricity appeared, fizzing malignantly around him. He disregarded these
as he had disregarded the others. Each seemed to attack him in turn; one would snap back
away from him like a raised whip, allowing another, or two others, to blaze across him and
lash his body with ever-contorting fire.

The smell of this discharge was soon assaulting the audience. I breathed it with the
others, mentally reeling from thoughts of what it might contain. It had an unearthly,
atomic quality, as if it represented the liberation of a force hitherto forbidden to man,
and now, released, exhaled the stench of sheer energy rampant.

As more streaming arcs of electricity swooped about him, Angier moved to the tripod at the
heart of the inferno, directly beneath the source. Once here he seemed safe. Apparently
unable or unwilling to double back on themselves, the brilliant arcs of light snapped away
from him, and with ferocious bangs impacted on the larger, outer slats. In moments, each
of these had one arc reaching across to it, fizzing and spitting with restless animation,
but contained in its place.

So these eight dazzling streamers formed a kind of canopy above the arena in which Angier
stood, alone. The spotlight was suddenly extinguished, and all other stage lights had been
dimmed. He was illuminated only by the light that fell on him from the incandescent
discharge. He stood immobile, his good arm raised, his head barely an inch or so below the
metal cylinder whence all the electricity emanated. He was saying something, a declaration
to the audience, but one that was lost to me in the noisy commotion that scorched the air
above him.