The Prestige

"I know you have not."

"So you did investigate me," I said. "And what about Borden? Is he wondering how I work the effect?"

Mr Koenig gave me a broad wink.

"I'm sure he and his brother would not like you to know that they're in a lather of curiosity about you, sir." He extended his hand, and we shook. "Once again, my congratulations. If I may say so, it has been reassuring to see you in such good health."

He was gone before I could respond to that, but I think I know what he meant.

7th September 1902

In London

My short season at Daly's being complete, I am able to tidy up my affairs in London for a while, and spend my long-anticipated month with Julia and the children in Derbyshire. Tomorrow I shall be heading north; Wilson has gone ahead of me to make the usual arrangements for the prestige materials.

This morning I have safely secured Tesla's apparatus in my workshop, paid off my assistants for the next few weeks, settled all my outstanding bills, and spoken at some length with Unwin about bookings for the autumn and winter. It already seems that I shall be busily engaged from the middle of October until March or April next year. My estimated income from these performances, even after all my overheads have been deducted, will make me rich beyond the wildest dreams of my youth. By the end of next year I shall, in all probability, need never work again.

Which brings me to an explanation of Koenig's parting remark.

A few months ago, when I was in the first rush of perfecting the presentation of In a Flash, I thought of a novel final twist to the illusion. What brought it to mind were those early dark feelings that I was somehow surviving beyond death. I arranged, by a combination of carefully positioned lights and use of make-up, that at the end of my act, after I had passed through the aether, I would look more haggard than before. I would seem worn by the rigours of the undertaking. I would be a man who had flirted with death, and who now showed the unmistakable traces.

This effect has become a routine part of my act. Throughout my show I move carefully, as if favouring my limbs so they should not hurt, I turn with a slight stiffness of the waist and back, I walk with my shoulders hunched. I make the best of my condition, acting as if I do not care. After I have performed In a Flash, and once I have been seen to have arrived miraculously intact, then I allow the lighting to do its gruesome work. As the final curtain falls I appear to most of the audience as if I am not long for this world.

Apart from the effect itself, I do have a long-term strategy in mind. Put plainly, I am planning and preparing for my own death. I am, after all, no stranger to the concept. For many years I acted the role of the dead man while Julia played the widow. And after so many transits through Tesla's infernal device, the idea that I could stage my own death comes easily.

Next year I wish to retire from the stage for good. I want to be free of the endless touring, of the long journeys, the overnight stays in theatrical lodgings, the endless tussles with theatre managements. I am sick of the need for secrecy about what I do, and I always fear another round of attacks from Borden.

Most of all, my children are growing up and I wish to be with them as they do so. Edward is soon to depart to university, and the girls will no doubt be married soon.

By this time next year I shall be, as I say, financially independent, and with prudent investment the Caldlow estate should be able to provide for my family for the rest of my life and theirs. As far as the world in general is concerned the life of The Great Danton, of Rupert Angier, shall come to a cancerous end, brought on by the rigours of his career, at some point in the autumn of 1903.

Meanwhile, without publicity or announcement, the 14th Earl of Colderdale will at much the same time take up the reins of his inheritance.

Thus the explanation of Koenig's remark about my "surprising" good health. He is a sharp man, who knows more about me than I wish he did.

On this subject, I have been reflecting a great deal about his theory that there is not one Borden but two. I remain unsure.

This is not because the premise itself is implausible — after all, my man Cutter had worked it out for himself — but because of the endless ramifications of living with the deception. I had already thought about a few of those when Koenig was in my dressing room.

What about everyday life? No artiste is constantly in work, however successful his or her career. There are periods of rest, both voluntary and involuntary. There are necessary delays between bookings. Shows and tours can be cancelled just before they are due to start. There are holidays, illnesses, family crises.