The Manual of Darkness by Enrique de Hériz Read Free Book Online

was a great mystery, a secret no one would ever know, but so the poor ant would not be lonely, he would send another ant. And then another. Always using the same method. Staggered, Víctorwatched the ants disappear. Sometimes he was tempted to put a finger into the hole but he never dared do it or even to suggest it, fearful that this black hole in his father’s fist might swallow his whole hand.
    They spent the mornings doing chores and tricks. Towards noon, Víctor’s mother came to fetch him, put on his coat, gave Martín instructions about how to heat up the meal she had left for him and said her goodbyes, always with the same words:
    ‘We’ll be back by half-past seven. And whatever you do, be careful with those little jars. One of these days you’re going to kill yourself.’
    Every Saturday, as they left, Víctor bowed his head, his body stooped, not because he was sad, but so he could look under his father’s chair for some sign of the ants that had disappeared.
    Martín, on the other hand, kept his head high so he could watch them until they reached the door; he always smiled, but he associated their leaving with a certain sadness. He felt somehow as though, in spite of all his tricks, he had failed yet again in his attempt to get Víctor interested in ants. It was only a matter of time until the boy started to complain, to beg to be allowed to spend Saturday mornings playing football, riding his bicycle or playing with his friends. And why not. All boys are fascinated with ants at some point, but not all of them translate this passion into the central thread of their lives. This was what Martín had done, he had gone so far as to pursue a career in entomology, specialising in myrmecology. And he made his living killing them. As a young man he had devoted himself to research. He had travelled half the world to study exotic species: to forests, deserts, mangrove swamps, caves. Of that time, he had only good memories. Then, when Víctor was born, he had taken the only stable job he could find: technical director for a laboratory that made insecticides. This was why, on Saturdays, as he watched the door close on his wife and son, Martín went on staring for a moment into the distance and then, with a sigh, he would put the four or five ‘disappearing’ ants into a test tube, eat the meal his wife had left – almost always cold, in spite of her instructions – then lock himself in the room he had set up as a home laboratory. Perfecting ways of killing. With his little jars.

Aces and Kings
     
    G alván had been in the profession almost forty years and it had to be acknowledged that he knew a great deal. He had managed to survive the periods in which, for a short time, magic would suddenly become fashionable, only to be consigned once more to the catacombs and strict devotees. People quickly tired of watching a woman in a box being run through with swords as if she were a kebab, only to emerge in one piece and, most importantly, still smiling. To say nothing of money miraculously discovered in a bag wrapped in paper inside a box … what a surprise! He loathed modern magic. For decades now he had not seen anything that had not already been performed by the greats of the late nineteenth century.
    In the early 1970s, when everyone assumed that television would revive interest in magic for the nth time, he had predicted a growing infantilisation of the profession: magicians would come to depend on technology, constantly devising ever more spectacular routines, adopting the style of the circus, abandoning their training, their attention to detail and every last vestige of taste along the way. Anyone without the ambition or the talent to make it in the profession had only to flatter the public, tell jokes or persuade his assistant to wear a skirt that came up to her armpits.
    Business was another matter. Since the 1940s, Galván had been running The King of Magic, the only professional shop for magicians in Barcelona