For The Love Of }

Tuesday, 26 February 2008, 7:31 pm

Rushed this long essay in the middle of the night yesterday. Pardon for any mistakes. You might have noticed that, if you're a movie fan, I copied a bit from "The Prestige".

Self and Selfishness

Every magic trick consists of three parts, or acts. The first part is called, “The Pledge”; the magician shows you something ordinary, a deck of cards, a bird or a man. After showing the object, perhaps he would ask you to inspect it, to see that if it is indeed, real, normal, not tampered with. But of course, it probably is not. The second act is called “The Turn”. The magician takes the ordinary something, and makes it do something extraordinary, maybe making it disappear. You would be looking for the secret, but you would not find it; because you are not really looking. You do not really want to know; you want to be fooled. But you would not clap yet, because making something disappear is not enough, you have to bring it back. That is why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest and most sought after part, the part that is called, “The Prestige”.

That night was the Great Eric Fletcher’s debut performance of his new act, “The Teleportation”. The Raphael Theatre was fully packed, every seat was occupied the old and silly moneyed. The ladies were fashionably donned in pure white straight, Empire silhouette, blooming into exaggerating skirts and sleeves. The gentlemen donned black knee-length frock coats, with lapels at the collar and a crimson red flower. Only they could present white and black in such great class.

The lights dimmed, smothering the entire theatre in darkness. An intense beam of white light directed our eyes to centre stage. The tall, well endowed with broad shoulders and looks that would turn heads Fletcher stood with sangfroid, and as still as a pole on the well-polished, wood-planked stage. With the rise of his arms, the curtains drew upwards. The audience applauded enthusiastically.

There was a thick, overwhelming cloud of suspense in the stale air. Everyone was anticipating to be stupefied; including me, but for all the wrong reasons.

Eric, James and I grew up as close friends, constantly exposed to the occult. We bought tickets to every major magic performance in town, hoping to discover their secrets. Eventually, we became apprentices under the Great Alfred Alegrea and gradually carried the title of the Great ourselves. We used to perform every show together, and each time without fail, we would render the audience in awe. We loved the utter bewilderment depicted on their faces; but we loved Magic even more. We knew that we could not grow exponentially with the presence of the others. So we split, holding our own solo performances; to further develop our skills independently; and also, to see who was better. Of what started off as a friendly competition slowly mutated into a bitter rivalry for we soon developed a new love. The love for the limelight. We knew the stage was not big enough for the three of us. We wanted to be the best. We wanted to be the most prestigious. Out of jealousy, we would show up at each other’s performances in disguises, to steal secrets, to sabotage tricks and ultimately cause public embarrassment.

I was there, at the front row, fifth seat from the left. I was dressed also in a black frock coat and top hat, so as to blend in with the rest. I pasted a dark brown moustache above my lips and a beard, extending from my side burns, along my jaws. There was no way Fletcher could recognize me. I glared into Fletcher’s eyes intensely. I abominated him. I wanted to rid him. Vengeance engulfed me.

The audience applauded vehemently to Fletcher’s esoteric escape trick from a colossal tank of water sealed with a pad-lock, while having his limbs binded tightly with ropes. Next up was the long awaited highlight of the night, “The Teleportation.”
On the left side of the stage was a monumental capsule made of pure iron. On the top of it were tons of thick cables, linking to a generator at the centre of the stage, and another capsule at the right.

Fletcher requested for volunteers to inspect the machine. I raised my hand with aplomb. His gorgeous assistant invited me and a few others up on stage. While everyone was captivated in inspecting the machine, I stealthily crept back stage. I knew that for every disappearing act, there had to be a trap door, which leads to under the surface of the stage. All I had to do was to ambush him when he falls and render him unconscious with a hankerchief, dabbed with drugs and prevent him from executing “The Prestige”.

While lowering my top hat and trudging towards backstage, a guard, at the side of the stage, thrusted my right shoulder abruptly and stopped me. “Where do you think you’re going?” I retorted, “I’m part of the act, idiot.” I slammed my shoulder against his and stomped towards the stairs leading downstairs. While surging down the stairs, a shabbily dressed bearded man, about my height, was coming up. He came to an abrupt halt before me, before sprinting off. Our eyes intertwined for a moment. I thought he looked familiar for a second.

After reaching the bottom of the basement, I was absolutely flabbergasted. The huge tank of water from the previous act was there, right below the opening of the trap door. “Was this part of his act?” Before I could figure out anything, the opening of the trapdoor startled me. Fletcher plopped into the water tank and it snapped shut. Fletcher struggled vigorously, he tried to scream and a tremendous amount of air bubbles gushed up to the top. His eyes then widen and glared menacingly at me. My heart was palpitating wildly. I was astounded, unclear of what had happened. Then, it hit me hard in the back of my head, like a solid brick wall. “James…” I placed my right palm on the transparent glass of the tank and looked at Fletcher with the softest of eyes and mouthed, “It…wasn’t…me…”

“Quick! Get down there!” The uproarious holler panicked me. I immediately sprinted towards the stairs. However, it was all too late, I was punched in the nose and I tumbled down the stairs, landing on the ground. Two people pinned my down while two others attempted to release Fletcher. I was in excruciating pain.

“You murderer! You killed Eric Fletcher!” As I lied down, chin flat on the ground, I witnessed Fletcher slowly losing the spirit to struggle and floating to the top. Wonderful memories of time spent together as best of friends slowly flashed in my head like a film roll. I was guilt-ridden and forlorn. Never would I expect our hunger for fame to end with a death. If only I was not so obsessed with my personal interests and mutate it into selfishness, this would not have happened.

Tears meandered along the outline and formed a teardrop at the corner of my eye and trickled down my cheek. Self, the root of all evil.