Chapter 10 Le Bateleur

London, May-June, 1884 When the boy was about to turn nineteen, the man in gray asked him without warning to move out of the city house and into a not-so-spacious apartment with a window facing the British Museum. At first he thought it was only temporary.Recently they have taken trips to France, Germany and Greece that lasted weeks or months, mostly for study rather than sightseeing.But this time is very different from those non-holiday trips that stay in luxury hotels. It was a modest apartment with simple furniture, so similar to his previous room that he was hardly homesick, except for books, though he still had a good number of them here.

There was a wardrobe full of well-cut but rigid suits, clean white shirts, and a whole row of black bowler hats made to his size. The boy asked when exactly it would start, referring to something related to his challenge.The man in gray refused to say, although this move obviously meant the end of the regular course. Yet he continued his practice alone.He accumulated many notes filled with symbols and pictographs, and he went back to old notes to find new elements to study.He carried the smaller notebook with him at all times and copied the contents into the larger notebook when it was full.

Each of his notebooks begins the same, with a tree detailed in ink on the front page.Black branches spread from there to the title page below, connecting many lines that make up letters and symbols, and every page is almost full of ink.All these mystical symbols, words, and hieroglyphs, all intertwined with each other and derived from the original tree. There are densely packed large areas of trees like this, which are carefully archived on his bookshelf. He kept practicing what he was taught, but it was difficult for him to assess how effective the illusions he created were.So he spent a lot of time studying his own reflection in the mirror.

With no schedule and no longer locked in his room, he often took long walks around town.The crowd was unnerving, but the joy of being able to leave the apartment at will overcame the fear of accidentally bumping into passers-by as he tried to cross the street. He would sit in parks and restaurants, mingling with young men also in suits and top hats, observing the crowd where no one gave him a second glance. One afternoon, when he returned to his old residence, he thought it would not be too much to bother his mentor for a cup of tea or something. Unexpectedly, no one lived in the house, and the windows were all nailed with wooden battens.

As he was walking back to the apartment, he reached into his pocket and realized his notebook was missing. He cursed loudly and stopped abruptly on the crowded sidewalk, drawing the sideways glance of a passing woman who scrambled away. He began to retrace his steps, growing more anxious with each turn. At this time, it began to rain lightly, not much more than fog, but several umbrellas burst out from the crowd immediately.He lowered the brim of his hat to shade his eyes as he searched for the notebook on the increasingly wet sidewalk. He came under the awning of a restaurant, looked at the lights that came up along the street, and thought maybe he should wait here for the crowd to disperse or the rain to lighten up.He noticed a girl standing a few steps away, also sheltering from the rain under the awning, she was concentrating on flipping through a notebook that he was sure belonged to him.

She appeared to be about eighteen, perhaps younger.Her eyes were very pale and her hair was an indefinable color somewhere between blond and brown.She was wearing a dress that might have been quite popular two years ago and was already soaked by the rain. He came closer, but she didn't notice, completely engrossed in the notebook.She even took off one glove so she could turn the delicate pages more easily.Now he saw clearly that it was indeed his notebook, and on the open title page was pasted a card showing many winged monsters crawling on spoked wheels.His handwriting covers the card and its surrounding pages, incorporating it into a continuous text.

He watched her look as she flipped through her notes, a mixture of confusion and curiosity. That notebook should be mine.he said after a while.The girl startled and nearly dropped the note, but caught it just in time, only to have one of her gloves float to the sidewalk in the middle of it.He bent over to pick it up, and when he straightened up and returned the gloves to her, she was surprised to see him smiling at her. Sorry, she took the glove, quickly put the note back to him and said: You dropped it in the park, I wanted to return it to you, but I couldn't find you, I'm sorry later.She stopped, flustered.

It doesn't matter.He said he was lucky to get it back.I was worried that it would just disappear, and that would be too bad.I owe you my deepest thanks, what is your name? Martin.She replied, sounding like a lie.Isobe.Martin.Then he showed a questioning look, waiting for his name to be reported. My name is Marco, and he said: Marco.Alistair.It's an awkward name to pronounce, because the chances of saying it aloud are so rare.He had written this new name countless times, combining his Christian name and his mentor's alias, but adding a sound to a symbol was a completely different experience.

Isobe accepted it so easily, which made it all the more real. Nice to meet you, Mr. Alistair.she says. Logically speaking, he should have thanked her and left with the note.But he didn't want to go back to the empty apartment right now. May I buy you a glass of thanks, Miss Martin?He pocketed the note and asked. Isobe hesitated, it seemed that he should understand that he should not accept a drinking invitation from a strange man on a street corner at night, but to his surprise, she nodded. Very happy, thank you.she says. Great, said Marco: But there are better restaurants around here than this one.He pointed to the window beside him.

It's not far from here, if you don't mind the rain, I'm sorry I didn't bring an umbrella. I do not mind.Isobe said.Marco stretched out his arm, she held it generously, and the two walked along the street in the lightly falling rain. They walked only a block or two, then turned into a rather narrow alley, and Marco could feel her nervousness in the dark.But she was relieved to see him stop in front of a bright shop with stained glass windows.He holds the door for her, and they enter the little restaurant, which has quickly become his first choice for a few months, one of the few places in London where he feels genuinely at home.

Glass candlesticks with flickering candles were placed on the tabletops of all the platforms, and all the walls were painted a bold, intense red.There are only a few customers sitting sporadically in the comfortable space, and there are many empty tables.They took a table by the window and sat down.Marco waved to the woman behind the bar, and she immediately brought them two glasses of Bordeaux, leaving the bottle on the table next to a small vase with a yellow rose in it. The rain tapped on the window glass, and the two politely chatted about some irrelevant topics.Marco rarely took the initiative to bring up his own affairs, and Isobe responded in the same way. When he asked her if she was hungry, she responded implicitly with silence, obviously she was indeed hungry.He called again to the woman behind the bar, and a few minutes later she brought a large tray of cheese, fruit, and sliced ​​baguettes. How did you find such a good restaurant?Isobe asked. Through trial and error, he says, plus countless glasses of bad wine.She laughed out loud. It's hard for you, she said: But at least you found it.The restaurant is very intimate, like an oasis. An oasis of fine wine.Marco agreed and touched her glass lightly. Reminds me of France.Isobe said. Are you from France?he asks. No, Isobe said: but I lived there for a while. Me too, he said: but it was years ago.You're right, it's very French, and I guess that's part of its magic.There are too many places here to be bothered to create their own magic. You are magical.Isobe said, blushing immediately, as if eager to swallow the words he said. Thanks.Marco replied, not knowing what else to say. Sorry, said Isobe, embarrassed: I didn't mean her hesitation, but maybe a glass and a half of wine gave her courage, and she went on: Your notes are full of magic.She said, watching him wait for a response, but he didn't say anything, so she didn't start.Magic, she said, trying to overcome her embarrassment: runes, spells, I don't know what those things mean, but they're all spells, aren't they? She took a nervous sip of her wine and worked up the courage to look up at him. Marco chooses his words carefully, alert to where the conversation is going. How much do you, a young lady who once lived in France, know about such things as spells and spells?he asks. Just something I've read in a book, she said: But I don't remember what all the symbols mean.I only know a few astrological and alchemical symbols, but don't remember them very well.She paused, seemingly unsure if she should elaborate, but then added: La Roue de Fortune (French), the wheel of fortune.That card in your notes, I recognize that one.I have a deck of cards myself. Before that, Marco only thought that she was quite interesting and pretty, but these words changed him a lot.He leaned forward, eyeing her with a keen interest he hadn't had before. You mean do you know tarot cards, Miss Martin?he asked, and Isobe nodded. Yes, know a little bit.she says.But it's just a personal interest, and I can't really understand it.Just a little hobby picked up a few years ago. Do you have cards with you?Marco asked.Isobe nodded again.If you don't mind, I really want to see it.Seeing that she didn't intend to reach out for her handbag, he added another sentence.Isobe looked around at the other guests in the restaurant.Marco waved his hand lightly.Don't worry about them, he said: these people aren't easily frightened by a deck of cards.But if you don't want to, I won't force you. No, I don't care.Isobe said, picked up the handbag, and carefully pulled out a pair of cards wrapped in a small piece of black silk.She took out the cards from the cloth bag and put them on the table. May I?Marco asked, reaching for a card. certainly.Isobe replied, a little surprised. Some tarot masters don't like others to touch their cards, Marco explained, gently picking up the deck of cards as he recalled his divination lessons.And I don't want to offend you.He turned over the top one, Le Bateleur (French), the magician.Marco couldn't help laughing, and put the card back. Do you also have research?Isobe asked him. No, he said: I'm familiar with these cards, but they won't communicate with me, so I can't always read them correctly.He looked up at Isobe from the deck of cards, still not sure what kind of person she was.But they are quite happy to communicate with you, right? I never thought of it that way, but I guess it should.she says.She sat there quietly, watching him flip through the deck of cards.He treated it with the same care she had with his notes, lovingly pinching the edges of the card with his fingertips.He flipped through the whole deck of cards one by one, and then put them back on the table. The card was very old, and he said: I would venture to guess that it should be much older than you.May I venture to ask, how did it come into your possession? I found it in the jewelry box of an antique shop in Paris a few years ago, Isobe said: The lady owner wouldn't even sell it to me as long as I took it away from her shop.The Devil's Solitaire, she said, Cartes du Diable (French). Most people are very ignorant of this kind of thing. Marco said that this is a sentence his mentor often said to him, which is both an admonition and a warning.They would rather rashly assume that it is something evil than try to understand it.An unfortunate fact, but a fact after all. What are your notes for?Isobe asked.I have no intention of probing people's privacy, I just thought it was interesting.I hope you will forgive me for flipping through a few pages. Since you also let me see your cards, we're even on that point.He said.As for my notes, I'm afraid it's a bit complicated, and I can't explain it clearly in threes and twos, and it's hard to believe. I would love to believe it.Isobe said.Marco didn't say anything, just looked at her intently as if studying her cards.Isobe met his gaze without avoiding it. It's so tempting to suddenly meet someone who is very likely to step into the closed world he has been in all along.He knew he should let go, but he couldn't. I can show you if you want.he said after a while. I am glad to.Isobe said. They finished their drinks and Marco settled the bill with the woman behind the bar.He put on his bowler hat, took Isobe's arm, and the two left the warm restaurant and walked into the rain again. Marco suddenly stopped in the middle of the next block, outside a large courtyard with iron gates.Set back a few feet from the sidewalk is a pebble alcove set in a gray stone wall. It should work here.He took Isobe off the sidewalk and into the space between the stone wall and the gate, laying her back against the wet wall, and stood in front of her, close enough that she could clearly see a drop falling from the brim of his hat. drops of rain. What can I do?she asked, her voice tinged with concern.It was still raining and there was nowhere to hide.Marco raised his gloved hand to calm her down, and he focused on the rain and the stone wall behind her. He had never tried this skill on people before, and he wasn't sure if it would work. Do you trust me, Miss Martin?he asked, looking at her with the same eager eyes he had in the restaurant, only this time his eyes were only inches away from hers. trust.She answered without hesitation. very good.As Marco spoke, he raised one hand neatly and tightly covered Isobe's eyes. In astonishment, Isobe froze.Her vision was completely blocked, and she couldn't see anything except the wet glove leather against her eyelids.She shivered, not knowing whether it was from the cold or the rain.A voice whispered a few words in her ear, she listened intently but could not understand.Then she couldn't hear the rain anymore, and the stone wall against her back was rough and not as slippery as before.The darkness in front of him seemed to be a little brighter, at this moment Marco let go of his hand. Blinking violently to adjust to the light, Isobe first saw Marco standing in front of her, but things changed.There was no rain dripping from the brim of his hat, in fact no rain at all, and the sun cast a soft halo around him.But this was not what surprised Isobe. She gasped in surprise that they were in a forest, with her back against the trunk of a tall old tree.The trees were all bare and dark, their branches stretching toward the great expanse of bright blue sky above them.The ground here is covered with a thin layer of snow, and the snowflakes flutter and twinkle in the sun.It was a clear winter day, with no buildings to be seen for miles, only endless snow and forest.A bird cries in a nearby treetop, another responds in the distance. Isobe was confused.It was real, she could feel the sun on her skin and the rough bark on her fingertips.The coldness of the snow was clear and palpable, but she also found that her clothes were no longer clammy from the rain.Even what she breathed into her lungs was undoubtedly the crisp country air, without a trace of London smog.Impossible, but true. There can be no such thing.she said, looking back at Marco.He smiled, his bright green eyes glistening in the winter sun. Nothing is impossible.He said.Isobe laughed, a child-like high-pitched and hearty laugh. Thousands of questions popped up in her mind, but she couldn't raise any of them clearly.Suddenly, a picture of a tarot card appeared in her mind, Le Bateleur.You are a magician.she says. No one has ever called me that.Marco said back.Isobe laughed again, and she kept laughing as he moved forward to kiss her. The pair of birds circled above them, and a light wind blew in the treetops all around them. To passers-by on the streets of London, they looked like nothing out of the ordinary, just a young couple kissing in the rain.