Fantastic Mr Norris

In the autumn of 1859, every man in London knew the name Emmanuel Norris. A magician of unrivalled calibre, the handsome Mr Norris commanded hearts and applause as easily as he sent silk into motion and cards rocketing skyward.

He was well-known by busking performers and patrons of the arts alike. Even those who would not or did not dare to see his shows knew where they could find him downtown. Everyone followed the rumours that circled him in a predatory waltz, all the more foolish for partaking in such a deadly dance.

As the moon has an aura on a frosty night, so too was Mr Norris gilt in mystery. To begin with, nobody knew where he had come from. It was as if he had simply sprung into life, fully formed, with knotted handkerchiefs, knotted lips and secrets, and knotted eyebrows.

Nobody claimed to have known him before he came to London, which he must have done, for he could not have been a natural-born citizen. He was far too angular, possessed of a look that was more otherworldly than English. Like Merlin, he might have been half human and half faerie.

He was an enigma, pale-faced and black-coated, with eyes like dark craters filled with the light of dying stars. On stage, he made the best of this dichotomy, becoming moon and eclipse. Sometimes, his cloak was lined with scarlet or bruised purple, so that he whirled about the stage –always a rough, wooden construction set up in the marketplace– like a streaking comet.

Today, he was dressed in sumptuous velvet, as black as grief or contemplation. Floral embellishments played about his hems. Milk white and crimson peeked from his sleeves. It was his hat, however, which was his crowning glory. A head of height again, it was banded in ribbon as fine and shining as oil, ignited in the afternoon sun.

Gathering his presence about him on the stage, the magician collected another layer of dress. Dazzling glances and smiles he strung up like decorations, decking his face in merriment.

It was all an act.

The lilies had already spouted from the tip of his wand, to be waved at his admirers. His onlookers gasped. It could not have been a trick. Next, the birds come out, appearing from underneath fruit carts and vegetable crates, and from the insides of gentlemen’s hats. They stayed and milled about the plaza. Some roosted about the rooftops, on jutting shingles like the spines of pine cones. Women and children eyed them cautiously.

The birds were never doves with Mr Norris. They were ravens.

‘Hot-blooded. Cold-hearted. That’s how it all started! Don’t let them tell you otherwise, now that you’ve seen it for yourself.’

The magician paused, savouring the timbre of the crowd’s whispering, particularly the excitement of the youngest audience members. Of course, they all knew what was coming. This was his most famous act. He read them flawlessly, bringing his raised arms down in a sweeping motion, to deliver the finishing blow.

‘Hot-blooded and cold-hearted. The perfect sword, forged in the furnace of its father, and born to its mother’s ice-cold, watery breast. The heir to both extremes, and the rightful wielder of either on a whim. That is what I give you today!’

He swept the hat off his head and brandished it like a saucepan. The band shone like liquid midnight. It was plain that some mischief simmered in there.

He wriggled his long fingers and dipped his arm into the hat. It vanished up to the elbow. A grin that was all pearly teeth glittered where it froze, while the rest of his mirthful expression soured around it. A voice cried out from the throng.

‘Pompous bastard!’

The caller cupped his hands around his lips. He wore a shabby hat in the likeness of Mr Norris’ own. This was one of his imitators, no doubt. They had been appearing ever since he rode into town six months ago, although appearing was the only trick most of them were capable of.

‘We all know how you do your magic! It’s money. Just look at his clothes!’ The antagonist appealed to the people around him, jostling some and motivating others, who nodded.

‘He’s right! Anyone could do it, if they had your money. Go back to your hotels and palaces! Perhaps the prince will find you amusing. The street is no place for you!’

Mr Norris raised his elbow and one thick, dark eyebrow, in pronounced isolation from the other. He then withdrew both arms from the hat, which hovered in mid-air as he crossed them. The crowd gasped.

Extra heads turned on the periphery, where the jeers had brought more passersby into the fold. There was something about his leer that put them in mind of faces by firelight– primal, wild and monstrously inverted.

Mr Norris was not safe anymore. That much was obvious. He was not a mere fraud, and his show was not for the benefit of its audience. Women hugged children, who buried their heads or closed their eyes.

‘You ask why I dare set foot in a pauper’s place?’ None answered. ‘I see no place for paupers. This is a market, where all men may bargain for what they want.’

He hesitated, but the significance of this statement was already clear. It hung tangibly in the air. Everybody wondered the same thing.

What did Mr Norris bargain for?

There was a remorseful hush. Then, suddenly, the atmosphere changed, juggled easily by its conductor. The magician smiled and ducked his head in a small, deferential bow.

‘Do you want to know why I come here, ladies and gentlemen?’ His eyes slid over the crowd. ‘Anyone? No? Well, I’ll tell you. I am a brilliant man, good people of London.’ No-one objected.

‘Why ought I to shut myself in palaces, where none of you can see me? I daresay I do not belong there. Here, with the English people, in their streets and amongst the wares of their livelihoods, is where I would earn my own.’

At this, a few coins tinkled into the box at the foot of the stage. Some, at least, were persuaded. From near the back of the crowd, the bravest offered a gentle applause. Acknowledging them with brief nods, Mr Norris raised his chin so that it was proud and level once more. He was a performer again, and his act was in progress.

‘Without further ado,’ he said, displaying his wrist with a flourish.

Once more, it plunged into the hat. When it drew out the glimmering hilt, the crowd was winded. Their collective inhalation was the sound of three hundred stabbed men and women, an effect which was not lost on them as they regarded the six feet of steel gleaming diamond-bright and victorious on stage.

In that moment, Emmanuel Norris was no longer a magician. He was a swordsman, bold and magnificent. His blade cleaved breath like butter, but in truth, it could have sliced through anything. There was no way it could have been fake.

With fresh courage, children clambered up around the platform and were quickly hauled back by the adults in the audience. Nobody dared rush Mr Norris. He could have pulled solid gold from his hat and none would have robbed him.

He knew this, of course, and smiled. He made the sword rotate slowly, removing his hands so that it spun of its own volition, standing upright in thin air.

Its edge glinted sharply as it turned, and that was the last they saw of it, though this was no vanishing act. The blade was so narrow that it might have been immaterial. It caught the sun and aimed it painfully at the crowd, cutting their eyes with light alone. Most were forced to blink.

Not one person saw where it went. Only a few caught a density in the magician’s eye that had not been there previously.

‘For my final act tomorrow,’ he announced to his stunned observers, ‘I will be disappearing.’

It took a while for the message to catch on, but, once it had, it spread like wildfire. Protest blazed through the crowd. There were shouts of denial and outrage. Near the back, the Mr Norris glimpsed the man who had interrupted him dragged under amid the chaos. With cold eyes and a cold heart, he looked away.

Pleas received him as he stepped down from the podium.

‘You can’t mean it! Your last act? I don’t believe my ears!’

Everywhere, struggling and grasping limbs reached out like flailing shipwrecked clawing for flotsam. Mr Norris did not ignore them, but he was wordless, stiff and unsmiling. A fan of cards flicked up to guard his face, which would have been formidable on any ordinary player of the game.

Bowing his head to avoid their eyes, the magician pressed his hat firmly to his head with one of his strangely elongated, spidery hands.

Then, with a gait that parted the way for him, he strode out of the square.

Hoisted high on the shoulders of his older brother, a small child watched his idol leaving, fish tails always trailing an inch from the dust and grime, as though perpetually riding on a gust. They swished uncannily, missing every splash of mud and hurled tomato.

As if he sensed this other, more determined watching –a watching that truly saw– Mr Norris turned. For a brief split-second, his ice grey eyes the child’s, which widened to receive the impact of his stare.

‘Whoa, careful there!’

Calloused hands gripped the child’s legs as he slid back, preventing him from toppling off his brother’s shoulders. A fringe of mousey hair fell into his eyes. By the time he brushed it away, it was too late.

The bond was broken, and the magician had his back to them again. Like a fish in a stream, he wove further and further away. As he finally swam into the open ocean, the boy caught a glimpse of his hand, raised once in farewell.

The fingers were too slim, emaciated like bones. The flesh might have rotted clean away, but then, it was late in the afternoon, and the sun was flashing in the smog like a lamp refracting through a glass bottle.

The child sighed, knowing nothing for certain.

It might have been a trick of the light.