I went to a hypnotist's show once, here in New York. It was years and years ago, around 1870 or so. My wife was always very superstitious, and she was the one who wanted to see the show. But I was the one who ended up on stage. The hypnotist told me and the other volunteers to close our eyes, and I felt myself swaying back and forth as he lulled us into a trance. Then he told us all that we were musicians in a concert hall, about to play the opening notes of a symphony. I later found out that I was the only volunteer to take up the violin. When I had finished the first movement, the hypnotist dismissed the others and continued with me. By the end of the evening, I had played a dozen other instruments, traded neckties with a man in the front row, barked like a dog and kissed a woman who wasn't my wife. In the final act, I climbed up to one of the box seats just beside the stage, where I fired an imaginary pistol and assassinated an imaginary president. The audience adored it.

It is an odd thing, hypnotism: a pure replacement of human will. It sounds horrible, debased, that anyone would demean himself enough to voluntarily succumb to the desires of others. But the truth is that it is a relief. To play whatever they tell you to play, and hear everyone applaud. From the moment I undertook my first mission, when I was seventeen years old, I sustained myself on such applause. And it wasn't until decades later that I understood my mistake. I thought they were applauding me, but they were actually applauding the hypnotist. And I was merely the hypnotist's slave.

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'Passover in New Orleans' will be printed in full in Granta 97: Best of Young American Novelists 2. To subscribe to Granta and receive the entire issue free, or to buy a copy of Granta 97, click here.