The Magician

THE MAGICIAN

Let me share a secret about magic with you. In truth, there’s no such thing as magic, and you already know this. The reality is that a magic show is never just a performance. Behind it lies mathematics, physics, chemistry, technology, while in front of it, there’s only the show. The team is never just what you see. Behind the scenes, sometimes dozens of people work, as in the case of the prediction board. I’ll tell you about the board later.

We worked with such a team. We were the backstage crew for a magician whose stage name was Mystic. I, Josef, Burak, and Mehmet.

Mehmet was mute, introverted, and an absolute computer genius. The systems he designed were unparalleled, even in the hands of the most renowned magicians. He did most of the work alone, coming up with new ideas and creating performances that could turn Mystic into a global star. In contrast, Josef was excessively talkative and irritable, a math expert who meticulously calculated every detail of the performances—when and how to move, how to prepare materials, everything. Burak and I, on the other hand, sometimes carried materials, set up the stage, arranged the decor, and helped the others with minor tasks. We were the most active members of the team. There were other workers, but the four of us carried most of the load, while Mystic reaped the rewards. He didn’t pay us much either. But we loved the job; seeing people amazed by a trick we had crafted with our own hands amused us.

Recently, Mystic had been putting a lot of pressure on Mehmet. He demanded two solid projects within a week. Mehmet tried to explain that it was impossible, but Mystic wouldn’t listen and threatened to fire him. Mehmet, who already communicated through writing, eventually gave up, stopped arguing, and began working day and night. He slept little, sometimes skipped meals. Josef, witnessing this, had terrifying fits of rage and constantly fought with Mystic. Josef was the bravest among us. He couldn’t bear the injustice done to Mehmet.

At the end of the week, Mehmet developed two brilliant projects. Josef was thrilled when he heard about them and even suggested starting work immediately. One was a system that could predict a city chosen on a large world map by tracking eye movements. A randomly selected audience member would be invited on stage, asked to examine the world map, and choose any city in any country. Meanwhile, a hidden laser system behind the map would track their eye movements. When people make decisions, especially in an exciting environment, their pupils dilate. The laser would detect this and send a signal to the world map simulation on Mehmet’s computer. This way, Mehmet could tell Mystic the city through a small earpiece. It would be an engineering marvel. The other project involved scattering a handful of seeds from the stage, which would roll around the audience. Then, hocus pocus... the seeds would start blooming. A truly magical moment.

Both were unique projects requiring serious engineering and technology. Mehmet and Josef had the skills to pull it off. But Mystic took the file from Mehmet’s hands, said he didn’t like it, and left the room. We were all shocked. Mehmet was hurt, and Josef was furious. We didn’t know whether to console Mehmet or calm Josef. Josef’s face was taut, veins bulging, eyes blazing as he shouted, “I don’t trust this guy at all.”

He slammed the door and left.

The next day, he returned a bit calmer but still seething with anger. The three of us were sitting and planning the new performance when he joined us and began speaking, trying to stay composed.

“Listen! I don’t trust this man one bit. He barely pays us, and that’s fine. But he makes us do everything and then criticizes us, the bastard. I’m going to follow him. There’s something fishy going on here. Don’t you think so too?”

Mehmet lowered his head. He was tired and didn’t want to react. It was clear from his demeanor. Burak and I agreed with Josef but didn’t want to get involved. After all, Josef was the brave one.

A few days passed. Josef hadn’t been around during this time. Mystic kept asking where he was. His phone was off, and he wasn’t at home. The performance was approaching, and we needed Josef. On the third night of his disappearance, he showed up. He looked emaciated, his clothes in disarray. He immediately began recounting what had happened.

“I’ve been following that bastard Mystic for three days. Tonight, I found out what he’s up to. The scumbag is selling Mehmet’s projects.”

We were all stunned, frozen in disbelief. But Mehmet seemed to age ten years in that moment. His face changed, his eyes sunk. He bit his lip to hold back tears. Josef continued.

“This evening, after dark, he went to the bar on Babylon Street where he always hangs out. I followed him inside without being noticed. After a while, two men arrived, and they left through the back door into a narrow alley where the trash is collected. Mystic took the file Mehmet gave him out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the men. One of them almost saw me, but I hid. I didn’t see where they went afterward. Then I came straight to you. I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”

We didn’t want Josef to get into trouble, but what had happened was unbearable. Mehmet was devastated. His state only fueled Josef’s rage, turning him into an unpredictable bomb.

The next day, Josef didn’t come to work again. The following day, we were shattered by the news of Josef’s death. He and Mystic had been in a car accident.

Mystic told us what had happened after he was discharged from the hospital. He had escaped with minor bruises and scratches.

“Last night, as I was about to get into my car, Josef suddenly jumped in front of it, foaming at the mouth, cursing, and punching the car, shouting, ‘I’ll kill you.’ I didn’t understand what was happening; I was scared. I started the car to escape, but he jumped into the passenger seat and told me to drive. I had no choice. Then he made me pull over on a mountain road. He said, ‘Explain.’ I had no idea what he was talking about. He punched me once and then told me what he had seen. You already know all this; he told you too.”

I struggled to restrain myself from attacking Mystic. I could have killed him at any moment. Josef was dead. Mystic had to be involved somehow. He continued.

“As he talked, I understood the reason for his anger. But magicians know very well, as you do too, that the real truth is often very different from what it seems. Yes, I gave the file to two men, Mehmet, but I didn’t sell it. Do you know who those two men were? Let me tell you. They were the ones who would handle the mechanical work for the projects. They were going to build the seeds and the laser system. And at a very reasonable price. I couldn’t hand over such valuable projects in the middle of a bar, so I gave them secretly in the back alley. I actually wanted to surprise you. The mechanics would be completed and delivered to you.”

His face softened, and he continued with an apologetic expression.

“Even though I don’t show it much, you all mean a lot to me. I would never betray you. When I explained all this to Josef, he was very upset. He regretted misunderstanding me. He was ashamed. I had a lot of alcohol in the trunk, but I didn’t drink. He drank a lot, though, and we talked for hours. He spoke about your problems. We were going to fix everything together. First, a raise, then your working hours and workload. I don’t know how long we stayed there. On the way back, he insisted on driving. Then he lost control of the wheel. I woke up in the hospital. My seatbelt was on; I didn’t even realize Josef hadn’t fastened his. We hit a tree, and Josef was thrown from the car. He died on the spot. Now, I’ll do everything I promised Josef in his memory.”

He patted our backs and left, his head bowed, tears in his eyes. He said he would bring the mechanical parts of the projects as soon as possible and left, trying to hide his tears.

I was overwhelmed with shame. Yes, Mystic was a scoundrel, perhaps even a thief, but he wasn’t a murderer. The crime scene reports also indicated Mystic’s innocence. And if Josef believed him, we had to believe him too. His grief was evident. We all agreed it had been a misunderstanding.

Four months had passed since Josef’s death. We hadn’t found anyone as reliable and talented as Josef to take his place. Mehmet was trying to manage on his own, but Josef’s absence was deeply felt. The workload on Mehmet had increased significantly. His sleep schedule and mental health were in terrible shape. He had become completely withdrawn, cutting off communication with everyone. He had only one goal: a project he was working on in secret, which he said he wouldn’t reveal until it was finished. He felt he owed it to Josef’s memory.

Mehmet’s focus on his own project and the lack of new ideas were affecting Mystic’s career. Rumors began to spread about him, which also affected us. It had been revealed that Josef was part of the team, even the brains behind it, and that Mystic was only the showman—which wasn’t entirely untrue. Mystic was furious.

One morning, Mehmet called us all to him. He wanted Mystic to come too. He took us into his workshop, a place he never allowed anyone else to enter. In the room was a huge board, the kind you write on with chalk. He told us this was the new project he had been working on for months. Honestly, we all thought Mehmet had gone mad. At the same time, we tried not to laugh. Mehmet sat at his computer, typed something, and pressed enter. On the board, in Mehmet’s handwriting, the words “DON’T LAUGH!” appeared. Then he stood up and blew on the words. Dust flew off the board as if it had been written with chalk.

Mystic was mesmerized, staring at the prediction board with his mouth open. We couldn’t believe our eyes. We knew such tricks existed, but a performance this large, with zero risk, had never been done before. Technology would handle everything. No sleight of hand, no tricks. And it wasn’t a small board. It was a massive green board.

Mystic immediately decided to celebrate his comeback with a grand performance. This show would be a preview, followed by a tour. He personally oversaw all the preparations. He booked the city’s largest performance hall, printed giant posters, and sent them all over the city. He rented billboards and sent invitations to all the journalists, celebrities, and industry veterans. The newspapers, impressed by his efforts, began writing about Mystic. “He’s Back” headlines were everywhere. He didn’t want a single empty seat in the hall. We rehearsed countless times until the night of the show. Mystic was in high spirits; everything was going smoothly.

We knew that such tricks were usually limited to playing cards or a few words. But a performance this grand had never been attempted before. Mehmet dedicated everything to Josef’s memory.

The night of the show arrived. Burak and I decided to watch the performance from the audience after finishing our tasks. We thought it would be a kind of tribute to Josef. Everyone had taken their seats. The press, the protocol, special guests—everyone was there. When there were no empty seats left, we moved to the back to watch the show.

Everything was going according to plan. Mystic performed a few of his usual tricks first and decided to save the prediction board for last. There had been no issues. Mehmet was managing the process excellently, providing strong support from backstage. Mystic looked perfect on stage.

It was time for the prediction game. Mystic politely turned to the press and asked them to choose someone at random. He then asked the chosen person to select another person to assist in the game and invited them on stage. When the selected person came on stage, the crew brought out a giant, wheeled bookshelf filled with hundreds of books. Mystic turned to the guest and began explaining the game.

“Now, I’d like you to pick any book you want and write down any sentence from it on a piece of paper. During this time, my eyes will be blindfolded. Let’s begin.”

The audience was holding their breath. All eyes were on the massive board covered with a curtain. Mystic’s eyes were blindfolded, and the guest did as instructed. They folded the paper. Mystic continued.

“Now, I’d like you to give that paper to someone of your choice to read aloud. Thank you very much for your help.”

The guest handed the paper to someone else, and it didn’t matter who. What mattered was that it would be read aloud. The rest was up to Mehmet.

The person who received the paper began reading it aloud into the microphone.

“Flame straightened up and stood motionless; it could no longer speak. After obtaining the charming poet’s permission, it began to move away, but then, upon hearing an indistinct sound from another flame behind it, our eyes turned to the top of the flame.”

Ah! The guest had chosen Dante. Inferno. How I loved it. Mystic walked to the board and grabbed the edge of the curtain. The drums were pounding wildly, heightening the excitement. As I savored the moment, my phone vibrated. A message had arrived. I hesitated to check it, but fearing there might be an issue on stage, I opened the phone. The message was from Mehmet. When I read it, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was in shock. Cold sweat and trembling overtook my body, and I froze in place, unsure of what to do. My eyes were fixed solely on Mystic. All sounds suddenly disappeared.

The message read:

“I know everything. I have the audio recording from the night Josef died. He never drank.”

Mystic, with a grand gesture, pulled the curtain. The moment the curtain was drawn, the hall fell silent. Not a single sound was heard.

On the prediction board, a single sentence was written. In Mystic’s handwriting...

I Killed Josef...!

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