I had to do quite a tap dance to find this magician, even though I’m not the Tin Man and he wasn’t hiding. It was like a trick: I always see him in the Plaza Vieja wearing his black hat, which makes me think of a gunman; suddenly, when I need him, he’s not there. There he goes, crossing the plaza, his gray beard hiding its owner’s 63 years. He can’t even talk without doing magic.
When I was 20, I visited the home of Miguel Alfonso Pozo, better known as Clavelito, the famous musician of healing verses: Focus your mind on me/ and right away you’ll see/ the power of my thinking/ will make your life a blessing. I asked him to teach me the trade and he refused. So I turned my back on him and before I left, I told him, “Whether or not you teach me, I’m going to be a magician. Good, bad, or average, but I’m going to be one, and I’m sure I’ll be a very good one.” I was very serious and upset. Before I went out the door, he called to me and showed me some sleights of hand that he asked me to repeat back to him. That’s how I started in this business.
He asks me to open up my hands and he places a ball in each one. He gave his first performance at a neighborhood block party in the 1970s, together with the clowns known as Los Chorizos. Magic is like medicine: you never stop studying, learning. I open up my hands; one of the little balls has moved. Now one of my hands is empty. A magician who doesn’t stand in front of a mirror for many, many hours will never be a professional; he will remain mediocre. Bzzz, bzzz, another sleight of hand. I’m not sure how many balls I have… in my hand. I open them up. Now I have three blue balls in the palm of my hand. Behind his thick moustache, a mischievous grin reveals his squirrel-like teeth.
His name is Armando Jiménez Martínez—the name of a mogul. Now he is shuffling his cards, and he is very fast, just like he is with words. Magic is universal. I don’t know a single human being who dislikes magic. It’s the only way people like to be tricked. They know that what they’re seeing is not true, but they still enjoy the moment. He looks like he’s swallowing some cards. He winks. Curious onlookers have crowded around us. What they say about magicians hiding things in their sleeves is a myth. They do their tricks with their hands, not their forearms. Suddenly, a row of cards sprouts out of his mouth.
He knew Juan Tamarid Martell, one of the best conjurers in the world in close-up magic. They shared some tricks and Martell told him that he was good. And if someone who has won five international magic championships tells him that he’s good, he believes it. I pick a card. You’ve let it out of your sight, he tells me. The next generation is guaranteed by his 22-year-old grandson, a circus school graduate who is a magician, acrobat, juggler and clown. Everyone’s laughing at me. I raise my eyes and my card is in his mouth. He grasps the wrist of one of the onlookers and shakes it a bit. Scarcity makes Cuban magicians successful, because it forces them to improvise, to be more creative. He shows the guy who got shaken his watch. Laughter all around. A real magician does not become a criminal, because his heart beats magic, magic, magic… I’m about to leave and two beers appear, real ones. There’s no trick, but it is magical to feel the heat of the afternoon melt away. We shake hands. I’m as happy as the Tin Man when I leave, even though Willard isn’t the Wizard of Oz.
Author
Alain L. Gutiérrez Almeida
