The Lightness of Hands by Jeff Garvin

Author:Jeff Garvin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2020-03-11T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

HIGGINS’S LIVING ROOM LOOKED LIKE something from an Arthur Conan Doyle story: leather furniture with brass buttons, stone fireplace, old books lining the walls—and for once, there were no boxes or bags in sight. He stepped up to one of the bookshelves, grasped a particularly hefty clothbound volume, and tipped it backward. With a soft whoosh, the bookshelf slid to one side, revealing a dark opening. It reminded me of the secret door that let guests into the Magic Castle, and I figured that was where Higgins had gotten the idea.

“After you,” he said, that self-satisfied grin pulling back his pudgy cheeks.

We descended a spiral staircase into a lushly furnished home theater. Velvet-covered reclining seats. A wall that was all screen. We sat in the front row as Higgins moved to a media cabinet crammed with every conceivable type of player: a Blu-ray, an old LaserDisc machine, and several antiquated tape decks. He pulled a video cassette from a drawer and held it up.

“You want to see some real magic?”

He inserted the cassette into one of the players. Jagged horizontal lines popped onto the screen, and then a pixelated time stamp appeared in the bottom corner: JUN 8 1992.

A spotlight came up on a tall man dressed all in black. He crossed downstage and sat on the apron, looking out at the audience as if he were about to read them a bedtime story. The image cut to a closer angle, and I recognized the man. It was the most famous illusionist alive: Daniel Devereaux.

But this wasn’t current, sixty-something Daniel Devereaux; this was Devereaux in his prime. Midthirties, trim, athletic, with those sparkling brown eyes that seemed both wise and full of wonder. The spotlight dimmed, the house lights came up, and Devereaux began to speak.

“When I was young,” he began, “I didn’t fit in. The kids in my neighborhood didn’t want to play with me, so I retreated into an inner world of fantasy and daydreams.” Devereaux stood, and the spotlight followed him upstage. “As I grew up, those daydreams faded. All except one.” He glanced back at the audience. “The dream that I could fly.” He lifted his arm, and the curtain rose.

Like every magician, I had watched Devereaux’s flying illusion—but only online. He had stopped performing it before I was born, so I’d never had a chance to see it live.

The trick worked liked this:

Devereaux selects a woman from the audience and invites her to explore the stage. Once she’s satisfied that there are no ropes or trap doors, stagehands appear and present her with a square metallic vertical frame six feet across. The volunteer inspects it. It’s solid.

Next, the stagehands roll out a huge Plexiglas box. The woman knocks on each side, demonstrating that the box is solid. Devereaux dismisses the volunteer amid underwhelming applause. The audience is getting antsy.

The music swells, and Devereaux is swallowed by a billow of fog. When it clears, he’s sitting upstage with a single white dove perched on his hand.

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