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 Smoke and Mirrors  (5 ratings)by Martin Hazelbower Page 1 of 2 The magician has not yet reached his fortieth year, and yet he is an old man. His face is lined deeply with the long grooves that come with inner age, and his soul scored with the scars that come with battles against it. He wears, as he wears five evenings a week at eight o'clock, a long silvery hooded cloak with a simple, understated black tuxedo underneath. The costume is faded, and careful observers can see that the edges of the cloak are beginning to fray. On these five evenings a week, he performs at a small club within an unsuccessful casino in Las Vegas, the city of illusions. He appears three hours before a marginally talented rock band; its members have never spoken to him. The magician has long since stopped trying to vary his act. He walks onstage to the half-hearted applause of bored gamblers and twentysomethings with a few hours to kill, the deep cowl of his cloak removing any necessity to smile. Nowadays, it is the only way he will perform. "Greetings," he tells the crowd, his theatrics sounding hollow to him. "What is magic, you ask. I ask you, what is life?" The magician's feet rise an inch off the ground. "Magic is all around us... if you concentrate, you can feel it in the air." He rises six feet more, as if to prove his point. The lights of the club dim slightly, and a pale mist seeps into the air. "Hologram," mutters a secretary from California. She has seen better. "It is everywhere," says the magician, performing a backflip in the air. "If only you know how to look." He slowly sinks back to the ground, and produces a small red velvet pouch from some hidden pocket. "Magic is everywhere, and contains everything." He pokes two fingers inside the pouch, which is small enough that it can only acommodate them up to the second knuckle. With a small flourish, he pulls the tip of a blue and silver scarf out. He continues to tug on the scarf; soon thirty feet of silk have emerged from an empty pouch. He tosses the scarf into the audience, where it is quickly wadded up and pocketed by a nameless man with fast hands. The applause is slight. The magician still sighs at this time, although only he can hear it. He turns the pouch upside down, whereupon hundreds of rainbow-hued marbles gush forth and cascade across the stage. Again, the crowd claps politely, but there are few cheers. He expects none. A nineteen-year-old from Colorado does not applaud. He has just read a book explaining the innermost secrets of the greatest illusions the world has ever known; he knows it was done by concealing the items produced in the magician's sleeve. The rest of the audience suspects the same. The magician stoops to pick up a large gold marble. He balances it on the end of his finger for a few seconds, then touches a finger on his other hand to the marble. As he presses his fingers against eachother, the marble disappears. There is no applause at all. "Palmed it," a trucker on vacation whispers to his wife. She nods in agreement. The magician puts his hands together, then takes them apart to reveal a small white square of folded cloth resting in one palm. He unfolds it, and waves it through the air; it begins to burn with pale fire that does not consume it. He runs it through his fingers, and the flames abruptly die. "Magic is not just frivolity," the magician promises his audience. "It can affect life and death." He waves his hand across the table, and a black kitten with tawny eyes appears there. There is more applause this time, but he knows that it is simply the cuteness of the kitten that makes the audience take notice. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Martin Hazelbower, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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