The Prestige (20 page)

Amid a roll of drums I was hoisted by the pulley into the air space above the glass tank,
and I dangled and rotated on the end of the chain as if a helpless victim of torture. In
truth tonight I was, but during a normal performance I would by this stage have freed my
wrists, and moved my hands to a position from which I could release them instantly. (My
rotating on the chain is an effective cover for the necessarily quick arm movements as I
release myself.) Tonight, with my arms tied immovably to the chair, I could only stare
down in horror at the cold, waiting water.

Moments later, according to plan, I was plunged into it in a gouting spray of overflow. As
the water closed over my head I tried by facial expressions to signal my predicament to
Cutter, but he was already engaged in lowering the concealing curtain around the tank.

In semi-darkness, half inverted in the chair, tied hand and foot, and entirely submerged
in cold water, I began to drown—

My only hope was that the water would cause the rope to loosen a little (part of my secret
preparations, in case the volunteers have tied the secondary knots too tightly for a
timely escape), even though I knew that the little extra movement this would allow would
not be enough to save me tonight.

I tugged urgently at the ropes, already feeling the pressure of air in my lungs, desperate
to burst out of me and allow the deadly water to flood in and take me—

Yet here I am writing this. Obviously I escaped.

I would not be alive to write were it not, by an irony, for Borden's own intervention. He
overplayed his hand, could not resist gloating at me.

Here is a reconstruction of what must have happened on the remainder of the stage, hidden
from me by the curtain.

In a normal performance, all that can be seen on the stage is the committee of six
standing self-consciously around the curtain that encloses the tank. They no more than the
audience can see what I am doing. The orchestra plays a lively medley, partly to fill the
time partly to mask any noises I cannot suppress while making my escape. But time goes by,
and soon both the committee and the audience start to feel disquiet at how much time has
elapsed.

The orchestra too becomes distracted, and the music peters out. An anti-climactic silence
falls. Harry Cutter and Ellen Tremayne run anxiously on to the stage, as if in response to
the emergency, and the audience makes a hubbub of concern. With the help of the committee
Cutter and Ellen snatch away the concealing curtain, to reveal—

—The chair is still in the water! The ropes are still tied around it! But I am not there!

While the audience gasps in amazement I dramatically appear. It is usually from the wings,
but if I have time I prefer to announce myself in the middle of the auditorium. I run to
centre-stage, take my bow, and make sure that everyone notices that my clothes and hair
are perfectly dry—

Tonight Borden was there to ruin it all, and, inadvertently perhaps, to save me from a
watery end. Long before the illusion was due to finish, thankfully long before, and while
the orchestra yet played, he left the position on the stage where Cutter had placed him,
strode across to the curtains and snatched them aside!

My first awareness of this was that a shaft of bright light burst upon me. I looked up in
vast and sudden hope, as the last air from my lungs bubbled up around my eyes! I felt then
my prayers had been answered, that Cutter had interrupted the performance to save my life.
Nothing else mattered in that second of bursting hope. What I saw, through the horrid
distortions of swirling water and strengthened glass, was the jeering visage of my
deadliest enemy! He leaned forward, pressing his face triumphantly against the tank.

I felt unconsciousness rising in me, believed myself to be on the point of death.

Then there is a gap. My next awareness was that I was lying on a hard wooden floor, in
semi-darkness, freezing cold, with faces staring down at me. Music was playing close at
hand, deafening me as the water drained in gulps from my ear passages. I could feel the
floor moving up and down rhythmically. I was in the wings, on the floor of one of the rope
alcoves next to the stage. When I raised my head I saw, unfocused and wandering in my
sight, the brightly lit stage just a few feet away from me, where the chorus was treading
the boards, while the
coryphée
strutted to the bawdy tune from the orchestra pit. I groaned with relief, closed my eyes,
and allowed my head to fall back to the floor. Cutter had dragged me to safety, somehow
restored my breathing, brought the humiliating spectacle to an end.

Not long after I was carried to the green room, where my recovery properly began. For half
an hour I felt as wretched as ever I have felt in my life, but I am in general strong and
as soon as I was able to breathe without choking on the water in my lungs I began to
recover quickly. It was still reasonably early in the evening, and I believed fervently
(and still believe, as I write) that I had plenty of time to return to the stage and
attempt my illusion again, before the show ended. I was not allowed to do this.

Instead, in a sad postmortem of the ruined performances I convened with Ellen, Cutter and
Nugent in my dressing room. We arranged to meet in two days’ time at my workshop in London
to improve the method of the escape, so that never again would my life be put in peril. At
last my three stalwarts conducted me to the station, satisfied themselves of my mental and
physical wellbeing, then returned to the hotel where we had all been planning to stay.

For myself, I seek only a swift return to London to see Julia and the children, as the
incident, the brush with what felt like certain death, has made me hungry to be with them.
This train will not arrive in Euston Station until just before dawn, but it makes it
possible to see them sooner than would otherwise be possible.

By an irony, my failure to keep this diary has been caused by the domestic contentment to
which I now hurry to return, and of which I could have written volumes or (as happened)
nothing. For most of the past decade I have been not only successful in my career but
unprecedentedly happy at home.

At the beginning of 1884, Julia at long last found herself with child again, and in due
course safely delivered our son Edward. Two years later came the first of my daughters,
Lydia, and last year, belatedly but to our delight, our baby Florence was born.

Against this background, the feud with Borden has taken on trivial proportions. True, we
have played pranks on each other over the years. True, the spirit behind them has often
been malicious. True, I have shown as much malice as he, and of this I am not in the least
proud. It is no coincidence that none of these exploits made reopening the diary seem
worthwhile.

Until tonight, though, Borden and I have not directly threatened each other's lives.

Once, years ago, Borden was directly responsible for the miscarriage of my first child.
Although my instinct then was one of revenge, as the months went by my anger slowly died,
and I satisfied myself instead with a number of retaliations on him designed only to
embarrass him or to confound his illusion-making at just the moment he least enjoyed it.

In his turn, he has exacted a few moments of unexpected revenge on me, though none, I
declare, as cleverly designed as my own have been on him.

What happened tonight has forced our feud to a new level. He tried to kill me; it is as
plain as that. He is a magician; he knows how ropes must be tied to ensure a rapid and
safe release.

Now I want revenge again. I hope and pray that time will quickly pass, soothe my feelings,
bring sense and sanity and calmness to me, that I do not act as tonight I feel!

4th February 1892

Last night I saw an extraordinary thing. There is a scientist called Nikola Tesla visiting
London, and the extravagant claims he makes were last week the talk of the town. Veritable
miracles were being spoken of and several informed newspapers reported that in Tesla's
hands lay the future of our world. The interviews he gave, and the articles that were
written about his work, did not manage to explain why it should be so. It was widely said
that his work must be seen demonstrated before its importance might be grasped.

So, swept along by curiosity, yesterday I and several hundred others clamoured at the
doors of the Institution of Electrical Engineers to see the great man in action.

What I witnessed was a thrilling, alarming and mostly incomprehensible display of the
powers of electricity. Mr Tesla (who spoke excellent American English, almost without hint
of his European roots) is an associate of the inventor Thomas Edison. To modern-minded
Londoners the use of electrical power for lighting is becoming a commonplace, but Tesla
was able to show that it has many other uses.

I watched his sensational experiments uncritically, dazzled and impressed. Many of his
effects are astonishing, and many more are deeply mysterious to a layman such as myself.
When Tesla spoke, it was in the tones of an evangelist. More than his sparking, fizzing
outbursts of lightning, his visionary words thrilled me beyond anything I had hitherto
known. He is indeed a prophet of what the next century will hold for us. A worldwide net
of electrical generating stations, power given over to the humble as well as the mighty,
instantaneous transmission of energies and matter from one part of the world to the other,
the air itself vibrating with the essence of the aether!

I grasped an important truth from Mr Tesla's presentation. His show (for it was nothing
less than this) bore an odd resemblance to any good illusionist’s; the audience did not
need to understand the means to enjoy the effects. In short, Mr Tesla described many
scientific theories. While few in that audience understood more than the most basic
concepts, every one of us was afforded a compelling glimpse into the future.

I have written off to the address Tesla supplied, and requested copies of his explanatory
notes.

14th April 1892

I have been busy preparing for my European Tour, which starts in the latter half of this
summer, and have had little time for anything else. To complete the above entry from
February, though, I eventually received Mr Tesla's explanatory notes, but could not make
head nor tail of them.

15th September 1892

In Paris

They have hailed me in Vienna, Rome, Paris, Istanbul, Marseilles, Madrid, Monte Carlo… yet
now that all this is behind me I crave only to see my beloved Julia once more, and Edward
and Lydia, and of course my little Florence. Since we spent our weekend together here in
Paris two months ago, I have had only letters to buoy me up with news of my precious
family. Two days from now, should the sailing be on time, and the trains reliable, I shall
be at home and able to rest at last.

We are all exhausted, though mainly through the endless round of travelling and staying in
hotels, than because of the exigencies of life on the European stage. But it has overall
been a famous success. We planned to be home by the middle of July, but such was our
popular reception that a dozen theatres clamoured for us to make an additional visit, and
to bless them with our magic. This we were only too glad to do when we realized the scale
of the interest, and concomitantly the fees we could command for these extra performances.
It would be unwise to record the extent of my earnings until all expenses have been
calculated, and the agreed bonuses paid to my assistants, but I may safely say that for
the first time in my life I feel I am a wealthy man.

21st September 1892

In London

I had expected to be basking in the afterglow of the tour, but instead I find that while I
have been away Borden has been gaining lavish attention. It seems that one of the
illusions he has been performing for years has finally caught the public's fancy, and he
is in terrific demand.

Although I have watched his act several times, I have never seen him attempt anything
unusual. This could of course be that for various reasons I have rarely stayed to the end
of his act!

Cutter knows as little about this applauded trick as I do, for the obvious reason that he
has been in Europe with me. I was about to shrug it off as an irrelevance until I read
through some of the correspondence that was waiting for me here. Dominic Brawton, one of
my magic scouts, had sent a terse note.

Performer
: Alfred Borden (Le Professeur de la Magie).
Illusion
: The New Transported Man.
Effect
: brilliant, not to be missed.
Adaptability
: difficult, but as Borden manages it somehow, so I imagine could you.

I showed this to Julia.

Later I showed her another letter. I have been invited to take my magic show to the New
World! If I agree we would begin touring in February with a week-long residency in
Chicago! And then a tour to the dozen or so largest American cities!

The thought of it simultaneously thrills and exhausts me.

Julia said to me, “Forget Borden. You must take your show to the USA.”

And I too think I must.

14th October 1892

I have seen Borden's new illusion, and it is good. It is devilishly good. It is the better
for being simple. It galls me to say it, but I must be fair.

He begins by wheeling on to the stage a wooden cabinet, of the sort familiar to all
magicians. This is tall enough to contain a man or a woman, has three solid walls (back
and two sides), and a door at the front that opens wide enough to reveal the whole of the
interior. It is mounted on castors, and these raise the entire thing high enough to show
that no escape or entry would be possible through the base, without being noticed by the
audience.

With the usual demonstrations of present vacancy completed, Borden closes the cabinet
door, then moves the apparatus up to stage left.

Standing at the footlights he then delivers, in his wonderfully unconvincing French
accent, a short lecture on the great dangers involved in what he is about to do.