It’s a pleasure to meet you. I came to this place under extraordinary circumstances myself. I’d like to tell you the story.
You know, to live as a ghost is a hard thing. I was once a magician. I had a monkey, there was also a snake and a small parrot. I had a red nose and very big shoes. Come to think of it, I wasn’t a magician. I was a clown, or maybe a magician’s assistant. Or maybe I was neither and I know these things from the memories of a ghost I met here.
No, no, I’ve decided I was a magician, after all.
I remember once when I performed at the theatre in Cape Town… I’ve forgotten its name. Anyway, there were many people. I had my assistant and all my magical equipment on the stage. That was the day I made the monkey chase the parrot, while the parrot screamed, “Chase the humans, chase the humans!” The audience roared with laughter.
Does that sound like a magician’s routine to you?
Anyway, there was laughter when I performed. People used to say to me: “This is the best show I’ve been to.”
There was also the time I was in Johannesburg, or maybe it was Durban; anyway, that was when I met the two children and they told me they also wanted to become magicians. They said, with big smiles, “You’re the best magician in the world!”
I think that was the last show I did. That’s the last one I remember, anyway. I mean, there was blood everywhere and Ruthie… Ruthie was my wife. Or maybe she was my assistant. Do you know her? No, of course you don’t. She wasn’t nice. She’s the one who told the police I killed those children.
That was it, the last show I did. Did the police bring me here? – honestly, I don’t know. The next thing I remember is the night I met the man with keys. I don’t think he was a magician. I was walking in one of those theatres. The place was dark; I think it was night. I walked through the corridor – so long, unending, and on every side, the haggard faces peering through their cages, so caught up in their futility.
That’s when I saw the man with keys, right at the end, counting those haggard faces leering at him. “Hello there!” I said to the key-man. But he didn’t greet me back. Then, one after another, the lights went out as the haggard faces retreated farther into their cages. Without a cage, myself, I greeted the key-man again. “Hello there!” And still, the silence – unechoed – went unanswered too.
I ran after him. I was going to greet the man and he was going to greet me back. I was, after all, the greatest magician in the world. I touched his hand when I reached him, and he shivered. With a gasp, the man turned and looked in the general direction of where I stood. “Is anyone there?” he asked. And to this call, the caged, now safe in their darkness, howled and jeered and echoed their malice into the corridor.
“I’m here!” I said, waving my hands about.
The man shivered. He withdrew his hand from mine and screamed, “Quiet!” Then he looked about, everywhere except at me. Dart-dart-dart, his eyes went. But I knew he didn’t see me. It was the caged he surveyed. But it was night, and he couldn’t see them either.
“I’m here!” I said, in an echo of my own. But the walls and bars ignored me too, and the echo died in a quick silence.
Then, as I began again to say my query, the man’s eyes grew wider and his face pale. With no warning, he ran from the theatre. I remained where I was – confused and offended, and still without a cage of my own. I was the best magician in the world, after all; or was it a clown? Now that I think of it, I was the assistant. No, no, I know I was a magician. I must have been a magician, right?
I mean, I saw the two children again. That was the day I met Hilton Van Wyk. He was a joker in his life; or maybe he was an actor. Now that I think of it, he was a poet. He’s the one who told me of this place. He explained about the spirits, you know – that sometimes people we’ve killed slip into this realm, to curse us and tether us here, see, and to guard the key-man as he himself guards the still-living magicians and jokers and politicians. That way we can’t be born as new souls. Like I said, the guy was a poet.
“You’re a ghost,” said Hilton, that day I met him. “I’m a ghost too. My name is Hilton Van Wyk; or maybe it’s Donald Minaar. Do you have a grave?”
“I don’t know,” I told him.
“Well, I had one, I think,” he said. “But I don’t know where it is now. Come to think of it, I don’t think I have a grave, or maybe I was cremated.”
“I don’t think I was cremated,” I said.
“Okay. Why are you here? Is this where you died?”
“I don’t know. This might have been my home.”
“I don’t think anyone lives here. Or maybe too many people live here. I don’t know. Sometimes I forget.”
“I don’t know, either.”
“Anyway, let me show you around,” he said. “The man with keys can’t give you a cage. I don’t think he knows that we’re here. We’re not his to guard anymore.”
I think Hilton is my friend now. There are days when I forget him. And days when I forget I’m dead. But today I remembered. I know that I died and now I’m a ghost. I think that’s how I lost my cage. Is that how we become ghosts? And if the key-man can’t guard us, who can? This wandering we endure, is it like the cages? And who has the keys? Do you know?
But you probably don’t; you must be the new ghost David spoke of. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I came to this place under extraordinary circumstances myself. I’d like to tell you the story.
You see, I was once a magician. I used knives, mostly. But one time I had to use a screwdriver, the first time, you know – I was still learning. There was a room in my house I didn’t allow even Ruthie in. Come to think of it, I wasn’t a magician. I was a clown, or maybe a magician’s assistant.
I don’t think it matters; I always had to clean the blood myself…
I’ve already told you this story, haven’t I? Is that what you meant when you said to live as a ghost is haunting?
THE END
