Kamchatka by Marcelo Figueras

Pedro. I assumed he was devastated at losing his book on Houdini; I was particularly sensitive to losing things. But mamá demolished my theory, suggesting that maybe Pedro had done it on purpose, maybe he had left the book and the letter as a welcome present for me, hypothesizing a chain of gifts that stretched back to the kid who had lived in the
quinta
before Pedro (what had Pedro’s present been?) and forward to me, because at some point we would leave and I should think about the boy who might come here after me. Alluding to our Spartan circumstances, I pointed out that for me to leave something, I had to have something in the first place. Mamá shot me a look, the look that means she’s thinking this kid is going to grow up to be a lawyer, took the book from my hands and looked at it, trying to find some way to change the subject.
    Houdini was staring her in the face. ‘Houdini the magician?’ she asked, proffering the carrot of an easy response.
    But I volleyed the ball firmly back into her court. ‘Houdini wasn’t a magician, he was an escape artist. It’s not the same at all. That’s what I’m going to be when I grow up, an escape artist!’
    Since the uncertainties of the present weighed heavily on me, I had been spending a lot of time thinking about my future. The idea of becoming an escape artist struck me as clearly as a vision: once the notion was firmly planted in my brain, all my worries disappeared. Now I had a plan, something that would, in the near future, make it possible to tie up the loose ends of my circumstances. I imagined that Houdini himself had done much the same thing. Making hischoice made it possible for him to rearrange the jigsaw pieces of his life, giving meaning to each individual piece (leaving his native Hungary, the longing for transcendence of his father, the rabbi, the poverty, his physical prowess) and, by fitting the pieces together differently, turn it into something new.
    Mamá looked at the illustration of the Chinese Water Torture Cell, then stared at me as if trying to gauge how serious I was. I had gone through phases of wanting to be a fireman and an astronaut, which mamá had ignored, knowing they were just passing whims. Later I had wanted to be a doctor, an architect, a marine biologist, choices she approved of since they meant I would go to university. Mamá had a tendency to think that any career choice was valid if you could get a doctorate in it. Given there was no such thing as a Ph.D. in escape artistry, I knew there was trouble ahead.
    â€˜It looks dangerous,’ she said, looking at the illustration again.
    â€˜That’s the whole point.’
    â€˜There’s nothing wrong with danger, as long as you take all possible precautions.’
    â€˜Public transport is dangerous,’ I said.
    â€˜And being a TV repair man,’ she said.
    â€˜And living in Argentina,’ I said.
    â€˜So you called yourself Harry after Houdini?’ she said, sidestepping the subject.
    â€˜Where did you come up with the name Flavia?’
    â€˜I don’t think I can tell you.’
    â€˜That’s not fair.’
    â€˜Life isn’t fair. It may be beautiful, but it’s not fair. So what’s with this sarcophagus?’
    â€˜Houdini used to get inside all chained up, then they’d throw the trunk in the water. He’d be in there for ages, but he never drowned.’
    â€˜Because he carefully calculated the air.’
    â€˜You don’t calculate air, you breathe it.’

    â€˜What I mean is that he knew how much air he had when he was in the trunk, so he knew how long he could stay underwater. If you really want to be an escape artist, you’ll need to be able to calculate too.’
    â€˜OK then, I’ve changed my mind. Do bus drivers have to calculate