Writing for Fun
Теперь вы видите, что - теперь вам не [Now You See It – Now You Don't] Pete Norman
November 2014
The poster said it all really. It was without doubt the largest poster she had ever seen. To call it flashy, garish, ostentatious and gaudy would be an understatement of epic proportions. It stood easily twenty feet tall and almost completely obliterated one whole section of the front wall of the Tate Modern.
As Mandy walked slowly up the steps to the entrance door it towered high above her; a stunningly beautiful face, framed by long silky black hair, smiled down at all who approached. Mandy smiled back; she was certain that it was not only large enough to be seen from the moon, but that, even over that immense distance, the giant figure of Valentina Vacilov must surely be recognisable.
However, huge though it was, it told her nothing more than the flyer she had been handed by the Editor a few days earlier.
The Great Valentina, as the poster screamed out to the world, was the greatest illusionist to emerge from the Soviet Union in modern times and London had been chosen as the first stage of her inaugural tour of Europe. The BBC had been granted not only an exclusive interview, but also the rights to film and broadcast the show itself.
Mandy presented her ID to the desk and was directed through to the Turbine Hall. She had visited the gallery many times in the past and usually had quite mixed feelings about the work it displayed, but today, in addition to the show, they were also featuring a 'Glasnost' exhibition, which currently filled the immense space, and that she was certainly looking forward to seeing. It was truly spectacular: the walls were hung with a vast array of iconic photographs depicting more than a century of the struggles of the Russian people from the revolution, through two world wars and on to the space age. At the far end, the centrepiece was an immense statue of Lenin, his hand apparently pointing the way to a better future.
'He is magnificent, yes?'
The voice was soft and heavily accented, quite the most sensual sound she had ever heard. Mandy spun around and there before her was a miniature version of the figure from the giant poster.
'I am Valentina Vacilov and you are Mandy?' The Russian extended a manicured hand – slender fingers tipped with bright purple nails – but the fragile image belied the firmness of the grip. Mandy looked up in surprise at a face not only familiar, but now only inches from her own. On the posters Valentina was stunning, but Mandy instantly realised that with this illusionist even her image itself was an illusion. Her features might be delicate, but she was not classically beautiful; it was obvious that the skilful hands of the make-up artist had worked their magic to perfection.
Mandy had been trained to always search the star she was interviewing to expose the real person behind the mask and in a glance she saw the Russian illusionist for what she really was: a shy, sad, lonely individual to whom her carefully practised art was her whole life; that she had nothing outside the world of illusion, nothing real, tangible or personal.
Valentina smiled, a touch of warmth brightening her face. 'But before we interview, we have coffee and get to know a little, yes?' she slipped her hand through the reporter's arm and guided her towards the door. Mandy was captivated and totally absorbed by the overwhelming persona of this enigmatic character. However, as they made their way across the corridor to the lift she could not fail but notice two figures moving on a parallel course; one male, one female; two figures severely dressed and somewhat incongruous in the casual atmosphere of the Gallery.
The lift ascended to the rooftop restaurant where Valentina and Mandy took a table by the picture windows with a stunning view across the river.
Mandy glanced across at the two minders, who were taking their coffee to a table far enough away to be discreet, but close enough to observe. 'Do you ever have any time to yourself?'
'I am alone when I visit the toilet or when I am in my bed but . . .' Valentina smiled ruefully. 'The only other time is when I am rehearsing . . . our secret arts and hidden mysteries are not to be exposed to vulgar eyes!'
The barrier was broken and, with Valentina's remarkably good command of English, they chatted away like two long lost friends for an hour. Eventually, over a second cappuccino, Valentina leaned forward and said in a whisper, 'Would you like to help me rehearse?'
Mandy gasped. 'But surely . . .'
Valentina shook her head. 'I know how I said, but you are not vulgar and I might trust you, yes? I need to have an assistant to help with this illusion and you are exactly, just the person. Will you help me? Please say yes.'
'Of course. I would be honoured. Anything you need.' Mandy could hardly believe her luck. Not only was this shaping up for a brilliant and extremely personal interview, but to be privy to the secret of the illusion itself would be a thick layer of delicious icing on the whole cake.
A room had been set aside in the research section and the interview flowed so easily that it was recorded in a little over half an hour in a single take. Mandy left with the cameramen to return to the studio and edit the tape, but promised to return at six after the gallery had closed, when Valentina would be able to begin her rehearsals.
Mandy was surprised how the huge Turbine Hall seemed even larger once the public had gone and she and Valentina were alone. A metal frame had been erected over the towering figure of Lenin and when Valentina pulled on the cord, two huge black satin curtains slid silently across to hide the statue from the public gaze while the illusion was performed.
Mandy listened open mouthed as the secret of the illusion was revealed to her in minute detail. She marvelled at how such a simple device could deceive an intelligent and sophisticated audience, but when she took her seat alone in front of the curtains, even though she knew how it was done, her brain found it almost impossible to believe what her eyes were seeing.
Over and over Valentina performed the routine, honing the action to sleek perfection, but only after the very last rehearsal did she reveal to Mandy the single greatest illusion of the whole show.
On Saturday evening the Turbine Hall was filled to capacity and Mandy with her camera crew were securely ensconced on a small raised platform in the rear corner with a clear view over the heads of the audience to the infamous statue.
When Valentina made her dramatic entrance, looking absolutely stunning in a purple velvet evening gown, applause rippled through the hall, echoing off the walls. The artiste graciously applauded her appreciation and for the next hour she performed illusion after illusion to the delight of the audience, but everyone present knew that this was just the overture – the build up to the grand finale, the pièce de résistance . . .
Valentina related the story of the build up to the Russian Revolution and of the pivotal role played by that legendary statesman, Vladimir Lenin. She paused at the end of his tale for dramatic effect and then said in a soft voice, 'But after a few years, ladies and gentlemen, there were some amongst us who wished that Lenin would disappear. Tonight, my dear friends, for your delectation, this is what I will attempt to achieve. And for that I will require the help of an assistant.'
A forest of hands shot up in anticipation, but the Russian dismissed them all with a wave. 'How about that nice young BBC lady standing behind the cameras . . . you will please come forward and assist me with this illusion, this magic, this fantasy . . .'
Mandy sleepwalked through the incredulous audience to stand beside the Russian.
'Ladies and gentlemen, my glamorous assistant, at my command, will close the curtains and conceal the great man from view. Then, the Great Valentina Vacilov will fulfil the dreams of those who dared to dream them – I will make Vladimir Lenin disappear . . . before your very eyes.'
The audience fell silent as Valentina walked Mandy around the statue to allow her to examine the structure from every angle and then she placed in her hands the cords which operated the black silk curtains.
'BBC lady, you will close the curtains.'
Mandy pulled on one cord and the curtains glided smoothly across, closing off the giant figure from view.
Valentina stood in the centre of the curtains, hands clasped, eyes closed, her head dropped as if in silent meditation. Suddenly her arms flew apart, her head snapped up and she shouted, 'Cейчас!' [pronounced SEE CHAZ]
Mandy pulled on the second cord and the curtains swung open.
The audience gasped.
Valentina spun around but the giant Russian revolutionary was still there, defiantly pointing his hand at the artiste. Her face contorted in a mask of horror.
Mandy remembered her brief and waited patiently for her prompt.
To the audience Valentina appeared to be in a state of complete panic, struggling to maintain the professional bravado. She rushed through to the base of the statue.
'Close the curtains! Close the curtains!'
Mandy tugged on the cord and then stepped quickly back.
With a crash the whole frame collapsed in upon itself.
The curtains lay in a crumpled heap.
The statue of Lenin was still there, exactly where it had been before, his imposing figure towering over the room . . .
. . . but Valentina had disappeared.
There was spontaneous applause from the audience – it might not have been what they had been expecting, but it was good nonetheless. The only people not applauding were two other Russians, to whom it was certainly not what they had been expecting. They raced across the hall and tore up the curtains, searching in vain for their ward.
Mandy, looking completely bemused, wandered back to her camera crew and checked that they had successfully captured the performance and its dramatic conclusion. The audience drifted away leaving just the BBC packing up its equipment . . . and two distraught Russians.
Mandy accepted a lift home with the crew in the BBC van, but asked if they could drop her off at Borough Market instead. There she walked across to the Market Porter Public House and through the swing doors. She looked all around the almost empty bar . . . but there was no sign of the Russian.
She went cold.
She had been duped.
It was the oldest confidence trick in the book – gain the sympathy of the mark, use them and then disappear.
Disappear-with-her-car! It might only be an old Focus, but it was her old Focus and she could not afford to replace it.
A small sound jingled behind her. She spun around and there, waving a set of Ford keys in front of her eyes was a somewhat handsome young man with a somewhat familiar face.
'My dear Mandy, might I introduce myself. I am Valantine and I humbly thank you for your invaluable assistance.'
Mandy was stunned. 'But you're a . . .'
'A man? But yes. In a country like Russia they queue for hours to see a pretty girl perform . . . but what Muscovite will pay money to see a pretty boy, eh?'
Mandy was still recovering from the shock. 'I thought you had run out on me.'
Vacilov grinned, 'Why would I do that? I still need your help. How else am I finding the Home Office.'
