The Art of Disappearing Ivy Pochoda (electronic book reader .TXT) 📖

“I’m not here to do magic,” Toby said. “And I can’t help you.”

Piet leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Then why have you come?”

“To hide.” Toby looked at his hands, still cupped in his lap.

Theo curled his hands into fists. “No, you’ve come to be the best magician you can be. That is why you’ve come.”

“That used to be my ambition,” Toby replied. “It’s no longer possible. No one will hire the magician who killed a volunteer.”

“No one in Las Vegas,” Theo said coldly.

“Despite appearances, I am a Vegas magician. Or I almost was. I’m through wasting my magic in dusty and forgettable places.”

“A different world is within your reach,” Piet said quietly. “When you see what you can do, you will love magic more than ever. You will allow us to show you what is left of our world?”

“Of course.” Toby flexed his fingers and placed them on the table. “We can take you to a place where your magic can thrive,” Theo said, wrapping one of his scarred hands around Toby’s.

“The one place I’d set my heart on is out of reach.”

“If you come with us, none of that will matter,” Piet said.

“You’ll forget about Las Vegas soon enough,” Theo added.

For a moment, silence filled the sanctum. I imagined it pouring down from the skylight and flooding the old Spiegel tent.

Toby waited as Lucio refilled his glass. “When I was younger, my greatest fear was of not being able to put back together the things I was discovering I could take apart. Now it’s happened. Twice.” He paused. “The craft I love has betrayed me.”

Theo’s face sharpened. “It is the other way around.” Then he looked up at the skylight. “Our sanctum is crumbling. But our memories will teach you how glorious our magic was and how much greater it could have been.” He snapped his fingers, and the plump magician produced more wine. The candles seemed to burn brighter, and the talk turned to shows and illusions.

I closed my eyes, carried off by a combination of wine and jetlag and the low light of the sanctum. I listened as the magicians began to recount their adventures. They told Toby about performing in a Mongolian court and about traveling on the trans-Siberian railroad. They told him about being persecuted in a Catholic village in Sicily when the spectators suspected they were in league with the devil. I opened my eyes from time to time, trying to imagine the withered speakers in the fantastic tales they told.

Finally, Toby stood up and tapped me on the shoulder. Except for the two of us and Theo, the sanctum was empty.

“Did you hear anything you like?” Theo asked as we headed down the stairs.

“Of course,” Toby said.

“This is only the beginning of our stories. We will bring this world to life for you as much as we can. Then, perhaps, you will like magic once more.”

“I like the stories,” Toby said, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

It was a relief to escape from Theo’s musty house and immerse ourselves in the humming red-light district. Night had fallen, and the ladies in the windows picked up their pace. Their music was louder and their gyrations quicker.

“What did you make of them?” I asked after we’d left Theo’s.

Toby shook his head. “I’ve always known that magic is an old-fashioned art, but I didn’t know it was petrified.”

“Some of them seem nice enough.”

“Sure. It’s no secret that I’m not the most up-to-date person.” Toby pinched me on the shoulder. “And neither are you. Who quilts these days?”

I laughed.

“Is this what my magic will come to? Tops and tails?”

“They don’t seem too keen on women.”

Toby glanced at the windows as we passed. “They could use a dose of this.”

I laughed.

“Theo’s magic is appealing. So are his stories. But does the setting have to be so dour? You’d think they were a secret society rather than showmen. The best tricks magicians perform are for each other. But those guys are extreme, hiding away in that mausoleum.” He stopped and looked at the canal and the black-lit windows running alongside it. Dance music poured out of the windows of a nearby bar. “I like it out here.” Toby looked up and down the canal.

I nodded. “It’s like Las Vegas.”

“Without the fairy-tale architecture.”

“Which is better.”

“Maybe,” I said, pointing toward a large fountain in the shape of a phallus lit up with pink and purple lights. “I think they’re into a different kind of illusion around here. But it could be a good place for magic. Maybe we could find you a small theater. Though I don’t think you’d be as successful as the ladies’ magician.”

“Probably not. But you never know. Fremont Street was a real men’s club.”

“Until you.”

“Until me.”

We left the red-light district and walked toward the Royal Palace and the Dam Square, where the carnival was running. “Magic is like growing up,” he said. “As you get older, you start playing with more significant objects, but you miss what you conjured with as a child. It’s silly to think of doing magic with blocks for the rest of my life. But sometimes I think it might have been better.”

“Except you wouldn’t have grown up.”

Toby was silent for a moment as we listened to the various amusements competing for our attention. “I was naïve when I first discovered that I could do magic. I thought my talent could win me friends.” He smiled. “I tried to use my skill to impress my classmates. I knew better than to head for the popular kids. Instead I latched on to those just on the outskirts of popularity.”

“Like me.”

“Probably like you. There was one girl, Madeline. I had a thing for her. She was pretty but awkward. The kind of girl who’s going to be popular eventually but doesn’t know it. Just looking at her, I knew that all