Clive Barker Books Of Blood Vol 6
THE LAST ILLUSION
The pleasure to be had from Swann's illusions was, it seemed, twofold. First: the spectacle of the trick itself - in the breathless moment when disbelief was, if not suspended, at least taken on tip-toe. And second, when the moment was over and logic restored, in the debate as to how the trick had been achieved.
'How do you do it, Mr Swann?' Barbara Bernstein was eager to know.
'It's magic,' Swann replied. He had invited her backstage to examine the tiger's cage for any sign of fakery in its construction; she had found none. She had examined the swords: they were lethal. And the petals, fragrant. Still she insisted:
'Yes, but really ...' she leaned close to him. 'You can tell me,' she said, 'I promise I won't breathe a word to a soul.'
He returned her a slow smile in place of a reply.
'Oh, I know...'she said,'you're going to tell me that you've signed some kind of oath.'
That's right,' Swann said.
'- And you're forbidden to give away any trade secrets.'
'The intention is to give you pleasure,' he told her. 'Have I failed in that?'
'Oh no,' she replied, without a moment's hesitation. 'Everybody's talking about the show. You're the toast of New York.'
'No,' he protested.
'Truly,' she said, 'I know people who would give their eye-teeth to get into this theatre. And to have a guided tour backstage ... well, I'll be the envy of everybody.'
'I'm pleased,' he said, and touched her face. She had clearly been anticipating such a move on his part. It would be something else for her to boast of: her seduction by the man critics had dubbed the Magus of Manhattan.
'I'd like to make love to you,' he whispered to her.
'Here?' she said.
'No,' he told her. 'Not within ear-shot of the tigers.'
She laughed. She preferred her lovers twenty years Swann's junior - he looked, someone had observed, like a man in mourning for his profile, but his touch promised wit no boy could offer. She liked the tang of dissolution she sensed beneath his gentlemanly fagade. Swann was a dangerous man. If she turned him down she might never find another.
'We could go to a hotel,' she suggested.
'A hotel,' he said, 'is a good idea.'
A look of doubt had crossed her face.
'What about your wife ...?' she said. 'We might be seen.'
He took her hand. 'Shall we be invisible, then?'
Tm serious.'
'So am I,' he insisted. 'Take it from me; seeing is not believing. I should know. It's the cornerstone of my profession.' She did not look much reassured. 'If anyone recognises us,' he told her, Til simply tell them their eyes are playing tricks.'
She smiled at this, and he kissed her. She returned the kiss with unquestionable fervour.
'Miraculous,' he said, when their mouths parted. 'Shall we go before the tigers gossip?'
He led her across the stage. The cleaners had not yet got about their business, and there, lying on the boards, was a litter of rose-buds. Some had been trampled, a few had not. Swann took his hand from hers, and walked across to where the flowers lay.
She watched him stoop to pluck a rose from the ground, enchanted by the gesture, but before he could stand upright again something in the air above him caught
her eye. She looked up and her gaze met a slice of silver that was even now plunging towards him. She made to warn him, but the sword was quicker than her tongue. At the last possible moment he seemed to sense the danger he was in and looked round, the bud in his hand, as the point met his back. The sword's momentum carried it through his body to the hilt. Blood fled from his chest, and splashed the floor. He made no sound, but fell forward, forcing two-thirds of the sword's length out of his body again as he hit the stage.
She would have screamed, but that her attention was claimed by a sound from the clutter of magical apparatus arrayed in the wings behind her, a muttered growl which was indisputably the voice of the tiger. She froze. There were probably instructions on how best to stare down rogue tigers, but as a Manhattanite born and bred they were techniques she wasn't acquainted with.
'Swann?' she said, hoping this yet might be some baroque illusion staged purely for her benefit. 'Swann. Please get up.'
But the magician only lay where he had fallen, the pool spreading from beneath him.
'If this is a joke -' she said testily,'- I'm not amused.' When he didn't rise to her remark she tried a sweeter tactic. 'Swann, my sweet, I'd like to go now, if you don't mind.'
The growl came again. She didn't want to turn and seek out its source, but equally she didn't want to be sprung upon from behind.
Cautiously she looked round. The wings were in dark- ness. The clutter of properties kept her from working out the precise location of the beast. She could hear it still, however: its tread, its growl. Step by step, she retreated towards the apron of the stage. The closed curtains sealed her off from the auditorium, but she hoped she might scramble under them before the tiger reached her.