The poster hanging in the theatre window was torn and the colors had faded. "Fabulous, unbelievable, chilling!" shouted the thick black words over the Mephistophelian face of the Great Merlini, smiling under his moustache with raised pointed ends, like Dali's, looking straight at the public. By an optical illusion, his eyes appeared to follow the passers by. The Great Merlini!

            Coming out of his dressing room, Merlini – or Jacoppo Salvatore, to use his real name – was feeling anything but great. Age had twisted every articulation and shrunk every muscle in his thin body. He stopped, uncertain, looking at the drops with dimmed eyes, then turned back to his small room. He took the bottle hidden beneath the doves' cage and took a long swig. For a brief moment he felt better, but not well, as he went to the door, the same weight oppressing his chest returned. Bitter, he came out of the dressing room, reeking with the smell of all failures, and waited in the shadows for his turn to come.

           He looked around for Cherie, not finding her. A spasm of panic seized his stomach. Lastly he had come to fear that Cherie could go away without notice. That any night she would not appear and that, he well knew, would be the end of his professional existence.

            Once he had his own show, his own small troupe of actors, jugglers and magicians. In his golden age they were eleven people strong, and he, Merlini, was the keystone of the show. But years passed, drink had its effect, fate did its worst, and now he was reduced to this miserable act in a provincial theater, between the trained dogs and the three troglodytes who made believe they were acrobats.

            Cherie had given some hints, nothing definite, but the change in her attitude was enough, even for his dulled senses. In some illusions she was a bit late, so he became anxious, nothing that the public could notice, but Merlini did. In magic, every detail must function perfectly, or the illusion fails and all the show goes to pieces.

           He tried to reason with her, appeal to her loyalty, her professional pride. It was like speaking to the wall. What he did achieve was to lose his temper and shout at her at the top of his voice, to which she, with cool disdain, did not answer; just walked away.

           He had no weapon with which to threaten her. Years ago they had stopped being lovers and now, in her brown eyes he could see the reflection of a contemptuous smile, a wounding sarcasm that increased as his strength diminished and his mistakes multiplied. His arthritic hands did not respond and his affection for gin had become an uncontrollable passion.

           He squinted, making an effort to see in the dim backstage light, then he saw her. She was together with Trepper, the dog trainer, talking in low voices, almost touching one another. Merlini's heart beat faster as he observed them. Trepper had joined the company not long ago. The company which under the name of "Varieté de Paris" traveled from village to town, avoiding the big cities, offered a mediocre show, but which for the poor and ignorant farmhands appeared to be the pinnacle of show business.

            Cherie was absorbed; she laid a hand on Trepper's arm, their heads almost touched. Merlini looked at her critically. A good body, she still had much to show. He remembered that the first thing that had attracted him was her long, slim legs and her small waist. That was the time when she admired him, dazzled by his experience, his gentleman's behavior, his mastery on the stage, facing the public. Cherie joined the cast of Merlini as assistant in some illusions, and as his lover. They had some good years, then, why did it have to end in such a way?

           The past was dead. Cherie had forgotten all the good and honest that was once his. Now she despised him. She looked down at him with critical eye, taking stock of his trembling hands, his red eyes. She didn't hide her contempt.

           The band, struggling to keep time together, struck the first chords of his introduction. With a drawn smile on his pale face, Merlini advanced in short steps to center stage and started his act. He went from one illusion to the next mechanically. Fortunately, all he had to do was almost automatic. The spring flowers, the "dove of peace" inside the top hat, the jug of milk poured into a cone of newspaper which vanished into thin air, all mechanical, almost impossible to do it wrong.

           The applause of the public was cold. With a change in the music, he started taking our multicolored silk handkerchiefs. This part he had to do together with Cherie. She was late in coming on stage, a few seconds, just enough to make him edgy. The last kerchief, the rainbow one, got stuck in the device and didn't want to come out. He had to leave it, doing what he could so that the public didn't notice what happened. Cherie had folded the silk square incorrectly.

           He continued the act, and the small mistake happened again. The folded cage was a bit twisted and did not open with a flick of the wrist. Someone in the audience realized what had happened and gave out a loud laugh.

           Now was the turn for Cherie's solo act, the levitating silver ball. Merlini went out and the spotlight illuminated only her in the darkened stage, while she handled the silver orb defying the law of gravity. Meanwhile, Merlini ran to his dressing room and gulped down two further long swigs of liquor, almost chocking in his haste. He stood, leaning on the door, not knowing what to do next. Then, recovering, returned to the stage, between the drops.

           Trepper was standing on the opposite side, looking at Cherie as she performed. When the public applauded, he too joined in with enthusiasm. Merlini felt a wave of loathing and jealousy. He detested the dog trainer, and her too. Ungrateful bitch! Traitors!

           He made a decision. After the show he would have a confrontation with Trepper. Make everything clear. No tiptoeing around. On an impulse, he went back to the dressing room, although in a few seconds he had to return to the stage – and took out the gun he kept in a trunk, hiding it in a pocket. He didn't know how Tepper would react, and he felt a healthy respect for the other's muscular arms that could easily break him in two.  

           Strong applause marked the end of Cherie's act. Merlini walked back on the stage, tripping on a cable, but recovering in time. He reviewed the equipment on the scene for his last illusion, his "piece de resistance".

           It was a Grand Guignol act he had learned many years back from a Polish magician. It was called "Sawing a woman in two". 

           Cherie laid down inside a wooden box, similar to a coffin but shorter, so that her head came out one end, and her feet out of the other. Merlini closed the lids and walked around with uncertain steps, verifying the electric connection to the circular saw. He could vaguely smell the rotten meat held in the upper compartment where the saw would enter first, throwing out a thick spray of bloody fragments which the horror-stricken audience would believe came from the body of Cherie. She, in the meantime, would give out pitiful cries, as if the saw was really biting into her body. Then, Cherie would close her eyes and play dead until the end of the act, when Merlini would raise the bloody saw, open the crate and Cherie would jump out and stand at his side, harmless, holding hands, accepting the clamorous applause of the audience.

            Merlini stumbled to the front of the stage, close to the apron lights, and started his speech, explaining the trick and asking those with weak hearts or who were afraid of blood to close their eyes or leave the hall while he performed this number. His hoarse and confused voice could hardly be heard. Some shouted they didn't understand a word. The band came to his help and struck a quick-step while Merlini turned around and gave a last look-over to the equipment. The truth was, he was leaning on the box not to fall down, waiting for the dizziness to pass. In a low voice he cursed his failing body. This was his last illusion, and he had to finish it.

           He raised his head and performed the last part of the act before turning on the motor. He took a piece of paper and demonstrated how it was cut by the teeth of the saw, then gave a blow with a small hammer to show the disk was really made of steel.

He had not performed this act for a long time. It was not appropriate for civilized places, but in this rat-infested village, for this public of shepherds and dirt farmers, this was perhaps the only thing that could make an impression on them. Merlini had decided to present the illusion for the last time.

           The white and yellow lamps were turned off and then the red ones, leaving the stage immersed in a dim and mysterious blue light.

            A sharp blow of the kettledrum marked the start of a long drum roll. Merlini connected the motor and the saw started to turn with a nerve-racking screech.

The public was quiet, tense, observing the action. A nervous laugh in the back rows was suppressed by a shower of hisses.

           Merlini separated the two halves of the box to enable the saw to enter. He had difficulty lifting the catch on one side and he saw that Cherie was giving him a questioning look. He couldn't see clearly, his ears were buzzing, he felt his entire body had become an incoherent collection of organs fighting to get apart one from another. The drum roll was louder by moments, or perhaps what he was hearing was the wild beat of his heart, hypnotizing, pulling him who knows where. He had drunk too much. In the future he had to take hold of himself!

           If there was a future. If Cherie abandoned him, that was the end. He looked at Cherie, who appeared trying to tell him something, but he couldn't hear her over the drum, the noise of the saw, the buzzing in his ears.

             He let the saw drop too quickly. Instead of letting it slide slowly into the slit of the box, until touching the meat, he inserted it all at once. The motor roared in protest, fighting to continue its rotation despite the enormous resistance. Cherie too was shouting. Good. He moved the saw, releasing it, and particles of meat started to fly and dropped like a blood-soaked carpet on the floor. The cries of Cherie were weaker now, mixed with pitiful wails. Some persons in the public started to go out, while others remained seated frozen like statutes, eyes fixed, unable to comprehend what they were watching. Others looked down or closed their eyes.

           Merlini pushed the saw down to the bottom; he was careless and drops of blood spilled on his trousers. No matter. He was above such minutiae. He turned to face the audience when he caught a glimpse of Cherie's face.

            His heart stopped for an instant. Cherie was dead. Her eyes were opened wide, the mouth open in an endless final cry.

           "Cherie, what happened?" – He cried, stumbling towards her. He looked again at her head, unable to understand. In a jump he reached to the switch and turned off the motor. Complete silence reigned in the room.

           With shaking hands, Merlini lifted the saw. Then, only then, he realized that he had failed to inspect the bar that prevented the saw from dropping too far, He had been too drunk. He had forgotten that elementary precaution.

           A low murmur started to be heard. Merlini dropped his head, tears flowing down his cheeks, oily with makeup. He gave a few uncertain steps on the stage and them, on an impulse, he took the gun from his pocket and put the muzzle into his mouth. Some people gave a cry of panic and somebody tried to jump on the stage but it was too late. He pulled the trigger.

           The cry of Cherie was lost in the mayhem.

Spouting a curse, Trepper ran on the stage and helped Cherie to come out of the box. She was weeping and shouting hysterically, while the fire curtain dropped. The band started playing a march.

             "What happened? Why did he kill himself?" she cried, again and again. Pushing Trepper aside, she approached Merlini, but could not stand the sight of his blown up head. Sobbing desperately she buried her head in Trepper's chest.

           "He drank too much, he was ill," she complained between sobs. "I asked him what was the matter… but he didn't answer… as if he didn't hear me."

            "It's all right, it's all right" – consoled her Trepper, repeating the words as a mantra. "He was too drunk, must have believed you were really dead."

            "But this is the whole act!" she wailed, suddenly angry. "You know what he did? He spoke to me, when the entire theatre could hear, before the act ended! … He asked me what happened! … during the act… this is never done, never!"

            She sobbed, shaking her head.

            "How could I answer him, and spoil his last illusion?"