Here Is Real Magic Read online

  To the Magicians

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  PART ONE

  Alchemy

  Heroes

  How to Be a Starving Artist

  Tour

  Fake

  How to Light Yourself on Fire

  The Break

  PART TWO

  How to Disappear

  Kolkata

  The Train to Varanasi

  The Snake Charmer

  Godmen

  Choomantar

  Go North

  Now We Put the River to Sleep

  The Poet

  The Street Magicians of Shadipur Depot

  The Train to Jodhpur

  Here Is Real Magic

  Acknowledgments

  A Note on the Author

  Above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.

  —Roald Dahl

  INTRODUCTION

  I’m two weeks into a three-month tour and tonight I’m at a college in Chicago, performing a show at an on-campus bar in the basement of the student union. Three hundred people are packed into a space that should hold only half that many. The room is dark and noisy. The audience is on its way to being drunk—even very drunk—and while this may not be the worst performance environment I have ever faced, it’s close.

  In a gamble to take charge of the situation I’ve abandoned the small pipe-and-drape platform in the corner and now I’m standing on a table in the middle of the room. Every audience is different. Sometimes you have to charm them or cajole them, sometimes you have to entice or fascinate, and sometimes you have to roll up your sleeves and fight, winning the room with a careful blend of intensity and goodwill, convincing the audience that you’re either a genius or a madman and that, either way, they should probably stop for a second and listen. Tonight my arrival onstage was met with a mixture of applause and disdain, the audience being equal parts people who came to see a magic show and people who came to drink. One six-foot, two-hundred-fifty-pound bruiser with a crew cut started booing even before they finished reading my introduction. Now I am standing on his table.

  Except it’s not really me up there. The version of me who’s capable of climbing up in front of a few hundred people and commanding the room is tougher and smarter than I am. He is wild and unpredictable. He’s faster on his feet and capable of making bold, intuitive leaps that I could never make in the real world, and he can stick the landing, too. He’s also kind of an asshole. He cares far more about the show than he does the sensibilities of the audience, and his priorities can get me into trouble.

  “Listen,” I say, scanning the room, deliberately meeting the eyes of everyone who booed just a minute ago, “in a minute, you are going to see something impossible. Some of you are going to scream. Some of you are going to yell. This gentleman here is going to shit himself.” Crew Cut is looking at me like he wants to fight, but I have him pinned in his seat with the gaze of three hundred people who are finally paying attention. For the moment he can only glower.

  “I’m not doing this for the money. I’m not doing this for the glory. If I were, I sure as hell wouldn’t be here. I’m here because I’ve spent my entire life learning to do something incredible, and tonight I’m going to share it with you. When I’m done, you can clap, you can boo, you can stay, you can leave—I don’t give a shit.”

  This succeeds in shocking them. I’ve pushed the audience about as far as they will go and I can feel their attention wavering between fascination and offense. Now the entire room has turned to watch. Whether this is because they’re interested in seeing what I’m about to do or because they think I’m about to get the shit kicked out of me doesn’t matter. For the moment, I have them.

  “I’m going to give this gentleman my wallet. He probably hates me right now, so I understand this might seem dangerous, but I’m choosing him because he’s the biggest one in the bar, and I need someone to keep the wallet safe.” I’m edging back the hostility now. At some point I need these people to like me, so now that I have their attention I’m dialing down the aggression.

  I look down at Crew Cut. “What’s your name?”

  He looks at me like he wishes he’d gone somewhere else for the evening.

  “Marcus.”

  I hand him my wallet. “Marcus, I want you to put this on the table and put both hands on top of it. Don’t open it yet. But make sure that no one else opens it either. Got it?”

  Marcus nods. I’ve put him on the spot but I’m about to make it up to him. I know that if this works he will remember this experience for the rest of his life. He will tell his children about this moment. I’ve spent six years developing this illusion and it’s been worth the effort. If I had five minutes to justify my entire existence as a magician, this is what I would perform. Given my strained relationship with tonight’s audience, five minutes might be all I have left.

  I turn to the rest of the room.

  “I’m going to need six random people to help. If I just asked for volunteers you might think that I had confederates in the audience, so I’m going to take this gentleman’s hat”—and here I reach down and snatch a baseball cap from someone’s head—“and throw it out into the room. If you catch it, stand up. We’ll do that six times.”

  Thirty seconds later six people are standing and the man has his hat back.

  “I need each of you to think of a number between one and fifty. When I point to you, call your number out loud so everyone can hear.”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Nine.”

  “Forty-three.”

  “Eleven.”

  I pause before the last person. A girl is standing in the back of the room, holding a beer in one hand. I don’t think she came here intending to watch a magic show, but she started paying attention as soon as I climbed onto the table, and when the hat flew toward her a minute ago she jumped up to catch it.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jessica.”

  “Jessica, before you tell me your number I just want to say this: When you go home tonight, you are going to be unable to sleep. You’re going to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, driving yourself crazy wondering what would have happened if you had named a number other than the number you are about to name.”

  The audience laughs. Jessica just listens.

  “Before you give me your number, I want you to know in your heart of hearts that it was a free choice, that there is no way I could have gotten inside your head to make you give me the number I wanted. Right?”

  She nods slowly.

  “What number are you thinking of?”

  “Fourteen.”

  Silence here. Every great illusion has a moment of calm before the build to the end, and right now the room is completely quiet. At some point in the last minute the bartender started watching and turned off the music. Everyone is still.

  “Some of you are going to think of this as a trick, and that’s fine. I’m a magician, and magicians do tricks. But we can all agree that up to this point there is no way I could have controlled which of you were going to catch the baseball hat or what numbers you would say.”

  The six people nod.

  “Some of you are going to think of this as a coincidence, but I want to point out that the odds of this working by chance alone are in the trillions. What are the numbers again? Sixteen, thirty-two, nine, forty-three, eleven, and fourteen, right? Look at this.”

  Marcus has been sitting at the table the entire time, holding the wallet and watching the performance. I point to the wallet.

  “Marcus, could you
stand up for a second?”

  He stands. I ask him to hold the wallet up above his head so everyone can see, and he does.

  “You have been holding my wallet the entire time. Open it and look inside. You should find a lottery ticket. Take it out.”

  Marcus opens the wallet and removes the lottery ticket.

  “This isn’t a winning lottery ticket. I’m not a millionaire. But I want you to look at the numbers on the lottery ticket. I’m going to hand you the microphone. Read them out loud.”

  I am watching his face now, waiting for him to see it.

  There.

  “Oh,” he says quietly. “Oh shit. Oh no.” He looks at me. His eyes are very wide. He looks back at the lottery ticket. “Oh shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

  He has been holding the microphone. Everyone else is straining for a view of whatever it is that he’s seeing, but they can hear him clearly.

  “Oh holy shit. No fucking way. Get the fuck out of here, man. What the fuck?” The audience is watching Marcus ascend to a sort of crazed delirium.

  “Read them the numbers printed on the ticket, Marcus.”

  Marcus raises the microphone. “Sixteen, thirty-two, nine, forty-three, eleven, and fourteen.”

  The room explodes. I don’t know how else to say it. One moment three hundred people are leaning forward in a dead quiet, straining to understand what’s happened. Then Marcus reads the numbers and panic surges through the room as if a fire is breaking out. People are on their feet, screaming and jumping and turning to one another. Some are laughing. Someone runs for the exit, knocking over a table. Jessica has her hands on her face, her mouth open. Marcus has dropped the microphone. He is reading the ticket over and over again, shaking his head and laughing.

  I want you to see his face. I want you to see the joy, the open, unaffected joy. It’s the kind of joy that reminds you that what you mistook for dull, uninspired brutishness a moment before was actually just weight—the weight of worry, of pain, of anxiety, of the world—and for a moment it has gone, and the face that shines without it is extraordinary. Magicians get to see people at their very best, and in this transformation you can see actual magic through the illusion.

  As if on cue, the bartender restarts the music. I have been onstage for five minutes. I don’t remember what happens for the rest of the show and it doesn’t matter. For the moment I’m filled with adrenaline and warm from victory. I am wide awake. Tomorrow I’ll leave early and travel all day so I can do it all over again in another town for another audience, but right now my thoughts are here in this room, and the room before that, and the hundreds and hundreds of theaters, auditoriums, and ballrooms before that, all the way back to my first performance. I was nine years old. I made a coin vanish on the playground, the entire world went crazy, and I learned that you can say something with a magic trick that is hard to say any other way.

  PART ONE

  ALCHEMY

  Somewhere in my parents’ house there’s a picture of me at age seven. I’m crouched in the grass in the backyard on a summer evening, surrounded by fireflies, lifting my cupped hands as if I’m holding a secret and want to share it. At that age it’s easy to be amazed. The world is new and you are new in it and free from the ridiculous certainty that comes so easily with age that the inner workings of the universe are not only knowable but already known.

  My first interest in magic came long before I became a magician, and though I have gone on to perform my show thousands of times for hundreds of thousands of people, to this day when I think about magic I think about two memories from a time before I knew anything about tricks.

  The first was when I lay on the floor under the piano when my dad played before bedtime. During the day he worked as a dentist, but we rarely saw him at the office. We saw him when he came home and painted in the basement or paced the backyard with a yellow legal pad writing terse, fiery letters to the editor of the local paper about public policy and the environment. He’d read them to us at dinner and my mom would invariably protest—“Art! You can’t say that in public!”—and my younger brother and I would laugh in delight at her exasperation. But in the evenings he would turn out the lights and sit at the piano and I would lie underneath, listening. The only light in the room came from the lamp for the sheet music—Beethoven, Bach, Rachmaninoff. The music filled the house but from underneath I could hear the mechanics of the piano, too—the faint creak of the pedals, the click of the keys, the felted hammers striking the strings, the deep resonance of the sounding board. You could get lost in those sounds.

  From the most expensive concert grand to the cheapest church basement clunker, a piano is essentially a wooden box stretched with wire. It’s a cumbersome piece of furniture. And as I listened all those nights before bed, I realized that the majesty and the mystery of the piano is that this heavy, ungainly apparatus can give birth to the Moonlight Sonata. That you can coax from this box of wood and wire a sound so light and pure and beautiful, that anything so firmly rooted in the physical could call into being something that borders so closely on the transcendent: this—lying on the floor underneath my dad’s piano—was the first time I really noticed the experience of magic.

  The second came maybe a year or so later. One night my mom came upstairs to wake me and my younger brother. It felt like midnight but it was probably only nine or ten. She held my sleeping baby sister and asked us to come downstairs. Dad had already started the car and put blankets on the back bench seat and we set out into the night, on an adventure, they said.

  We lived in Ames, Iowa—a small liberal college town surrounded by endless stretches of corn and soybean fields—and fifteen minutes out of town on the two-lane highway we were beyond the reach of the city’s light and enveloped in total darkness. The entire world was reduced to the faint illumination of the dashboard and a short smudge of yellow from the headlights on the road ahead. We pulled off the highway onto a gravel road. Dad turned off the engine and we all got out.

  On either side of the road the corn rose above my head and the warm summer wind breathed quietly through the stalks. I stood there, expectant, I imagine, and uncertain why we had come. And then I looked up.

  This was not the sky. I had seen the sky—I knew how the sky looked at night, and this was some different thing entirely. The comforting veil of faint stars that mildly wrapped every other night had been replaced by a void of terrible space and time and distance, stretching infinitely up and infinitely away, forever. There was Mars. There was the Milky Way. There was the universe in all of its awful, overpowering majesty towering above us, inexplicably high and distant, hostile and beckoning, dangerous and wild, a haunted place where we were the only ghosts for miles.

  Then the meteor shower began. My dad led us up a low hill and laid the blankets on the wet grass. I don’t remember how long we all lay there, watching the sky, but I became aware for the first time that the entire planet—the oceans, London, Mount Everest, everything—lay directly and totally behind me. Somehow the night sky had unveiled the true nature of this road, mistaken during the day as a gravel route through a cornfield but revealed now as the final patch of earth at the very edge of the world. That night the mystery of our situation felt like one grand miracle, hidden just out of sight unless you really try to see it. That there is something rather than nothing, and that we are here to be part of it—surely this is amazing. How is this so easy to forget? How is this so easy to ignore, silence, or overlook in the pursuit of other things? Even at a young age we learn the universe is filled with loneliness and fear, but lying there, clinging to the blanket as the earth spun and the meteors fell and the whole of existence stood out on display, I recognized that whatever else it was and whatever I became in it, the universe was also filled—to the very cusp—with wonder.

  Now, decades later, I worry that the experience of wonder becomes harder and harder for me to find as I get older. This has nothing to do with education—wonder is not the product of ignorance—but it does have s
omething to do with certainty. As an adult, I am tempted to establish and reaffirm at all times the boundaries of my existence—to say “This is my life and I have a good grip on it,” like an ostrich in his own personal kingdom under the sand. But my favorite moments are the ones that shoot this certainty full of holes, that barge in unannounced and track mud all over the carpets, grab me by the shirt, drag me out into the street and say, in effect, “Wake up, you fool, and open your eyes. There is more to it than that.”

  So if I were to tell you about my experience as a human being I wouldn’t tell you about my triumphs or my defeats. Everyone has them, and they’re more the result of life than the actual stuff of its creation. I wouldn’t tell you about my fears or my suffering. Again, everyone has them, and mine are not particularly unique or acute. All things considered, so far I have been pretty lucky.

  Instead, I would tell you about the moments I have stood rapt in awe, or quiet with wonder, and in so doing, seen beyond the surface of things. I have spent most of my life and all of my career trying to understand this experience, yet it has never become commonplace or ordinary. On the contrary, it stands out as one of the only experiences in this world that is wholly good. Wonder, astonishment, magic—that sense of waking up and seeing things the way you saw them before they became ordinary. This is the root of it for me, the curious joy and the primal dread of the unknown. There’s something there—in the dark sky at night or in the bare branches of the trees against the gray November clouds, or in the summer wind as it comes in from the sea with the smell of another land just over the horizon—reminding us that the universe, the world, and the human heart are larger and more mysterious than we can possibly imagine. This is magic.

  So this—all of this—came first. The magic tricks came later, and the less we dwell on them, the better. This is not a book about tricks. This is a book about magic—the experience of magic—and you can find it anywhere. People find it in music and movies, in mountaintops or conversation, in the night sky or in the Moonlight Sonata. Magic tricks are just a way to remember something you already know, or maybe knew and then forgot somewhere along the way. Take them for what they are and they’re nothing. You can’t look at them. You have to look through them, like a telescope.