Where Tigers Are at Home by Jean-Marie Blas de Robles Read Free Book Online Page A

the positioning of his hands, trying his utmost to make their dexterity more automatic. This fad had started only a few months ago, the day when he had admired the astonishing dexterity of a juggler in an alleyway in São Luís: a grubby, skinny little
matuto
with a mouth devoid of teeth,but who was sticking an unlikely number of very long nails up his nose. More than the act itself, Eléazard had admired the man’s perfect control over his body and the almost mathematical elegance he gave his movements. Spurred on by a feeling of urgency, he had scoured all the bookshops in the town to buy an introductory manual on these skills. He had been disappointed at how poor the books on that subject were. Most of those devoted to conjuring went no further than to reveal the secrets of a few ploys that might fool children. What he wanted to learn was how to be able to produce pigeons out of hats or pull miles of scarves out of someone’s ear, tricks that bordered on the miraculous. Having exhausted all the possibilities, he wrote off to France for a book that would meet his demands.
    In reply to his letter, Malbois had sent him a fine copy of the only book ever written by Robert-Houdin plus a
Fundamental Techniques for Conjurers
, which had so many illustrations of hands and palming maneuvers that it looked like a manual for the language of the deaf and dumb. The two authors emphasized that the only way to achieve true mastery was by a long period of exercises to make the fingers supple and their movements automatic. Eléazard, therefore, was training himself according to these principles, repeating conscientiously every little exercise of a system that, for him, was quite close to martial arts.
    He was annoyed by Moéma’s letter. Not that the money she was asking for was a problem—he spent hardly anything on himself—but he objected to his daughter’s casual attitude. To write just when she wanted something from him was OK, even if it hurt him; after all, it was a father’s function to help a child he’d been selfish enough to bring into the world. But for a bar! She who wasn’t even able to manage a simple student’s budget! He would have preferred it if Moéma wheedled money out of him to go off on a trip or to buy new clothes. Why not? That was the way of things, especially at herage, but every time she had to invent some new project even more unreasonable than the previous one. The worst thing was that she seemed to believe in her idea of a bar as firmly as she had been enthusiastic, two months ago, about the career of a model that was “beckoning her” and of which he had heard nothing since. Three thousand dollars for a portfolio and incidental expenses … Just a kid, really! he thought with a smile, suddenly touched by her ingenuousness. Or perhaps it’s me crossing the threshold: once you start noticing the follies of youth, whether to be offended by them or simply to forgive them, it means you’re already old. So bear with her. He’d sent the check that morning and he would continue to give in to his daughter’s whims until she found her vocation. It was the only way of ensuring she never had the feeling she’d missed out on something because of others or lack of money, of allowing her at some point to develop her own sense of responsibility in the course of her life. Was that not the way one
became
?
    At this point in his disenchanted reflections he was overcome with hunger. He felt like seeing, talking to people, so he decided to go out for dinner. Soledade was annoyed when he told her. She’d already prepared his evening meal and immediately made a face. Eléazard tried to cheer her up, but to no effect; her only response was a scornful pout before flouncing out of the kitchen. Glancing at the stove, he saw an omelette swimming in oil; she had gone to the trouble of making a dish that Raffanel had taught her. Not a great teacher, he thought, as he surveyed the contents of the frying pan, unless