Image credit: Kranich17 from Pixabay
French pigs. That’s what Harry Legerdemain’s mother called them. Those little cultural extra-curricular activities she and Harry’s father introduced to their children, hoping to polish, by childhood’s end, three little lumps of coal into a trio of sparkling diamonds.
The Legerdemain children participated in some French pigs as a family, like sitting slouched at a Salieri recital with bored yawns and drooping eyelids until one of them nodded off and crashed to the auditorium floor with a kettle-drummed boom, only for a flushed-faced, apologetic Mr Legerdemain to have to carry that child, pale-faced and howling, past the disapproving glowers of the other patrons. Or dining every Friday night at Tong Wong’s—a culinary genius who had ‘mastered’ the national dishes of more than 80 countries and whose exotic cuisine tortured the youthful taste buds and delicate stomachs of Harry and his siblings.
The Legerdemain children were encouraged to engage in other French pigs as individuals, based on a thorough parental assessment of their temperament and aptitude. On Monday nights, Harry’s elder sister attended Madame Touché’s School of Etiquette and Deportment, hoping such refinement would captivate the heart of a handsome suitor. On Tuesday evenings, Harry’s elder brother spent three lab-coated hours at Professor Maddley’s Science Lab, brewing concoctions in bubbling test tubes held above flickering Bunsen burners and dissecting frogs and peering down a microscope, prepping him for a distinguished career in medicine. When Mr and Mrs Legerdemain looked down upon their youngest child, Harry, they saw little hope of refinement or intellectual achievement, so they, in their wisdom, sent him to Magic School.
‘It’ll be fun, Harry,’ his mum said.
‘You’ll make new friends, Harold,’ his dad said.
‘How cute,’ his sister said.
‘You’re going to die, sucker,’ his brother said.
***
On a wet winter Wednesday evening at the mid-point of his eleventh year, a reluctant Harry Legerdemain sat nervously in the back seat of the family car as his parents drove him to the local community hall so he could attend The Marvin and Mavis Le Marvellous School of Magic and Illusion.
Harry’s parents dropped him at the door, tooted their horn, and with a last wave, they set off for two hours of child-free wining and dining at Tino’s All-You-Can-Eat Bistro.
As Harry watched his parents’ car disappear, a croaky voice behind him said, ‘Ah, a true believer, I hope.’
Harry turned and came face to face with a stooped man wearing a black top hat and a black cape covering a black suit. Crusty, pale makeup covered his craggy face. Above his top lip streaked a thin, grey pencil moustache twirled at either end, and sparkling, mascaraed eyes sat below bushy, grey eyebrows.
‘Good evening, my boy, and welcome to The Marvin and Mavis Le Marvellous School of Magic and Illusion. I’m Mr Le Marvellous.’
‘H … H … Hi. I’m Harry. Harry Legerdemain.’ To Harry the old man seemed familiar.
‘Pleased to meet you, my boy.’
An old, frail woman with a bushy nest of wiry, grey hair appeared by Mr Le Marvellous’s side. She wore an outfit and make-up identical to Mr Le Marvellous, except for a ruby, glossy lipstick that had been applied to her lips and most of her surrounding cheeks. In her hands she held a fly sprayer.
‘Another pest arrived, Irving?’ she said to the little man, and she directed two pumped sprays towards Harry.
‘No, no, my dear,’ Mr Le Marvellous said. ‘It’s a new student. A Harry Legerdemain.’ Harry received another squirt. ‘My boy, may I introduce my beautiful assistant, Mrs Mavis Le Marvellous?’
‘Hello, Mrs Le Marvellous.’ Then Harry remembered where he’d seen the couple before. ‘Hey, I know you. You’re Mr Speldling. My barber.’
On the first Saturday of every month, Harry sat under a cape at Mr Speldling barber shop, wincing as the old man, wielding scissors and a comb in his gnarly, liver-spotted hands and standing tippy-toed on a milk crate, cut Harry’s hair, all while Mrs Speldling circled the barber’s chair with a broom and absent-minded mutterings. Harry never knew if he’d exit on those Saturdays fringeless or earlobeless.
‘Shhh, my boy,’ Mr Le Marvellous whispered as he looked about with a nervous glance. ‘Only during working hours, my boy, when the ordinary and mundane rule. But once we leave the barber shop, Mrs Speldling and I become our true selves: Marvin Le Marvellous and his beautiful assistant, Mavis Le Marvellous (née La Magnificent). Now come and join the other students. And I’d appreciate you keeping hush-hush about our alter egos. Let that be a secret between you and us.’ And Mr Le Marvellous tapped his nose with a gnarled index finger and lost his right eye to a wrinkled wink.
‘Sure, Mr Speld—sorry, I mean Mr Le Marvellous.’
With a sweep of his cape and a hobbling gait, the old man led Harry into the hall. Mrs Le Marvellous pumped her hand sprayer at Harry as he followed Mr Le Marvellous inside. Chairs lined the perimeter of the hall, and under the hall’s fluorescent lights, a dozen black-caped children practised their magic tricks with the glinting and clanging of silver rings, the flicking and swishing of white-tipped wands, the billowing and croaking of green frogs and the fluttering and cooing of white doves.
‘Right, my boy, let’s get you up and running. How about we start with card shuffling?’ Mr Le Marvellous pulled a deck of cards from his pocket. ‘With card tricks, it’s all about sleight of hand. Watch me.’ The old man pulled his suit sleeves up to his elbows, and as he kept his eyes upon Harry, he shuffled and riffled and weaved the cards, all with a dazzling speed that made Harry’s eyes spin. Mr Le Marvellous fanned the cards before Harry and said, ‘Pick a card, my boy. Any card. But don’t let me see it or tell me what it is.’
Harry pulled a card from the deck, hid it in his cupped hands and peeked at the card’s face. The stern demeanour of the Queen of Hearts frowned back at him.
‘Memorised it, my boy?’
Harry nodded.
‘Right, place it back into the deck.’
Harry placed the card facedown into the fan of cards.
‘Thank you, my boy.’ Mr Le Marvellous waved his hand over the deck and said, ‘Shimmy, shimmy, shazam.’ He handed the deck to Harry. ‘If you would do the honours, my boy, and show me the card you put back into the deck.’
Harry turned the deck face-up, fanned the cards and looked for the Queen of Hearts. Twice he worked his way through the deck, but to no avail. The Queen of Hearts had disappeared.
‘Errr … Mr Le Marvellous, the card’s not here. It’s … it’s … gone.’
‘And that, my boy, is what we call “magic”.’
Harry again fanned and searched the deck and, again unsuccessful, scratched his head. ‘Where’d the card go, Mr Le Marvellous?’
Mr Le Marvellous grinned and said, ‘Would I be correct in assuming your card was the Queen of Hearts?’
Harry nodded with his mouth agape.
‘And given these are my cards, can we agree your card was in fact my Queen of Hearts?’
Harry nodded again.
‘Well, my boy, you needn’t look any further than the queen of my heart to find your card.’ Mr Le Marvellous turned and pointed a gnarled finger towards the stage, and there stooped a grim-faced Mrs Le Marvellous, thumping at a rapid rate a rolled newspaper upon a hidden vermin. And in her bird’s nest of hair there sat a card displaying a frowning royal face displeased at being separated from her house of cards.
‘Wow,’ Harry said. ‘That’s amazing, Mr Le Marvellous.’
‘Thank you, my boy. Right, your turn, now. First, let’s work on your shuffling.’ Mr Le Marvellous handed the deck to Harry.
The cards seemed much heavier and bulkier to Harry than when they whizzed about in the old man’s flashing hands. Harry attempted a shuffle. The cards ended in a pile at his feet.
‘Not a bad effort on your first go, my boy.’
Harry tried to fan. Again the cards piled at his feet.
‘You’re getting there, my boy.’
Harry split the deck of cards and held half a deck in each hand with his thumbs pointing inwards. He looked up at Mr Le Marvellous, who returned a grin of encouragement.
‘Go on, my boy, you’re looking like a pro.’
Harry took a deep breath and released his thumbs. The deck exploded from his hands, and as cards flew about everywhere, the old man released a cry and raised his hands to his face.
‘Oh God! I’m so sorry, Mr Le Marvellous. Are you hurt?’
‘It’s nothing, my boy,’ the old man said from behind his hands. ‘Just a mere scratch. You keep practising while I have Mrs Le Marvellous attend my eye.’
Blood seeped from between Mr Le Marvellous’s fingers and trickled down the back of his hand and reddened the tip of his grey, twirled moustache.
‘Issy!’ Mr Le Marvellous called as he walked towards his wife on the stage. ‘The first aid kit, my dear. We’ve got a bleeder.’
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