The Conjurer and Other Azorean Tales

The Conjurer

“Nothing is impossible,” Valdemar Coutinho explained to his grandson. “With hope, an open mind, and imagination, we can find a way to recapture some of the life that has passed by, forgotten shards of memory, lost dreams.” Jorge listened to his grandfather’s words, intrigued by the fierce determination that led the old man in his ceaseless attempts to unlock the mysteries the universe held in its secret heart. “But how will we make it happen?” Jorge asked. “By leaping into the unknown, by risking everything.” His voice rose in pitch and volume. Jorge shuddered. “And will we see beyond the stars?” he said. Valdemar smiled. “Perhaps. Unknown and undreamt things await only the illumination of discovery, which together, you and I must find.” Jorge nodded, anxious to see the miracles of which Valdemar spoke. People made fun of Valdemar’s wild talk: “His mind is gone, poor man,” Jorge heard their neighbor, Maria Fagundes, say, shaking her head with its garish plume of hair that had been dyed far too many times. “He talks of stars and light, and dreams, as if they are more important than the food one has to put on one’s plate.” Maria’s friend, Celia Nunes agreed. “Too many years of sitting alone on a rock in the middle of the ocean has affected him.” But Valdemar brushed off what others said about him. “Let them talk. What do I care if they laugh at me?” Jorge’s parents had brought Valdemar from the Azores, three years earlier, to live with them in their home in Gloucester, Massachusetts. “We can’t leave him on the islands,” Jorge’s mother had said. “He’s not in The Conjurer Darrell Kastin 2 any condition to take care of himself. An old man all alone—who knows what might happen to him?” Valdemar had come reluctantly, for although he missed his family, he had one wish, and that was to be buried on the islands, which, after all, were the only home he had ever known. He had worked as a schoolteacher for many years but had retired and pursued his interest in science. “They’ve uprooted me,” Valdemar frequently said. “Pulled me from the soil of my past, where all my dreams and hopes were sown.” Jorge’s parents both worked long hours at the small grocery store they owned, while Valdemar was left at home. They tried their best to ignore his fanciful talk, although when he spoke of such strange, unexpected things—“the melancholy song of beauty, the precipitous flights of love, the transformations of a visionary heart”—they too shook their heads and worried about Valdemar’s state of mind. “What should we do?” Jorge’s mother would say. “He can’t go on like this. He’s an old man, why is he suddenly talking about love, about beauty?” “Leave him be,” Jorge’s father would say. “When he was young he wrote poetry. Now that he’s old sometimes his mind wanders and returns to those times. He’s just confused.” “But what if he does something?” she said. “What if something happens?” “What could possibly happen?” Jorge’s father said. “If the old man wants to look through telescopes and pieces of glass, well then, what’s the harm? It’s enough that his hobby keeps him happy and out of the way.” “What about Jorge?” she said. “Jorge can help keep an eye on him,” he said. “Don’t worry, they’ll be fine.” In the upstairs room a variety of lenses hung from the ceiling in front of each window, and mirrors were placed at various angles to reflect each image. Valdemar’s carefully arranged crystals and prisms sent out brilliant streams of light in all directions, which were captured by more lenses, and more mirrors, creating an effect of numerous rainbows and reflections, blended or superimposed one atop the other. Nothing was fixed but was always being calibrated, adjusted, fine-tuned, as Valdemar worked ever closer toward perfection. He devised fantastic manifestations that Jorge, in his naïveté, thought were mere tricks Valdemar assembled for no other purpose than his own amusement. Jorge didn’t know—until it was too late—that these so-called The Conjurer 3 tricks were all part of his grandfather’s serious work, which he allowed Jorge the privilege of observing—something he did for no one else. Valdemar...