The fellow smoked his pipe, stroked his messy mane of a beard, and Johnson who it must be said lacked insight was unsure of what to make of him.
The man was intelligent yes, or at least, confident, and all around the walls of his innermost chamber, (a converted garage in truth) showed a life well lived. Framed photos proudly depicted the gentleman, shaking hands with Andy Warhol or standing in front of the pyramids of Giza.
Johnson whose last holiday was to a rainy Portsmouth two years ago and had never met anyone noteworthy, could only gulp in shame.
Still duty called and this duty was to get to the heart of Culverton Morriston, gentleman, painter and wizard.
“Well,” Johnson stammered “you’re a magician.”
Professor Morriston, examining him closely, removed his pipe from his lips and slowly breathed out a long thin ribbon of smoke.
“That is what it says on my business card, yes,” he replied in his deep bass voice.
“What kind?” Johnson said in what he hoped was friendly and curious but even to his ears, reeked of stage fright, “I mean are you Harry Houdini or Aleister Crowley?”
Mentioning the trade which consisted of pulling a rabbit out of a hat may have been the wrong move, for the professor’s brow creased.
Come to think of it, before being allowed to meet him, the professor’s wife had warned Johnson in her soothing and practical voice that: “my husband takes it all very seriously.”
“Takes what seriously?”
“Being a magician of course.”
And now Johnson’s dumb question, guaranteed that a lack of respect resonated from the man.
“Do you want to know what magic is?” he asked.
Johnson nodded.
“Think of art as magic and magic as art. A comedy makes you laugh, a tragedy makes you cry, music can move your awareness to a different plane. That’s magic.”
Johnson politely smiled but to him magic had always been transforming a prince into a toad or walking on water.
“So, it’s art?” he gulped. “Philosophy? Science?”
“You may call it all three, or you may understand it’s between the states. The transformative power that such arts can wield over the human mind. The shaman beating his drum in a rhythmic fashion, he was summing up music to lull his audience into a trance. Of course, that role has declined into a script writer or a pop musician…”
Here he spoke with a distasteful sniff.
“The magician now provides comfort food to kill twenty minutes of our time. Where is the magic in watching an episode of Eastenders?”
Johnson pictured a fish emerging from the sea, abandoning scales and gills before growing fur and claws. The druid was replaced by the novelist, the philosopher or the doctor. And Johnson held the opinion that people eagerly threw out witchcraft for modern medicine because modern medicine worked.
“Where is the respect,” the old man muttered “Where’s the respect.”
Johnson understood him just a little bit more.
