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

“Well, sort of,” I said. “Or maybe not.”

“No,” she said, taking one of my hands in hers, “tell me.”

“It’s silly.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.” Olivia fixed me with her blue eyes. They were the color of the cornflowers that grew behind my parents’ house. Her gaze was earnest.

“Well,” I began, “sometimes fabrics sing to me, sometimes they speak. Not for long. Just for a couple of moments.”

“You’re kidding.” Olivia dropped my hand and turned around, taking in the jumbled racks and, I thought, trying to imagine their hundreds of songs and stories. “I work for a designer. He makes wild clothes, but none of them sing.” She grabbed a party dress with a velvet bodice and a long plaid skirt. “What’s this say?”

I leaned in close. “Instrumental Christmas music. Live.” Olivia held out a psychedelic bubble dress. “Sounds like surf guitar.”

“How do you do it?” She gathered a pile of dresses into her arms.

“I’m not sure. I design textiles, so it comes in handy sometimes. Sometimes, it’s distracting.”

Olivia held up each of the dresses to my ear. Jazz, bluegrass, Dutch folk music, some kind of Bavarian beer hall chant, I told her. Then she pressed her ear into the fabric, straining to hear what I heard.

“I can’t,” she said, hanging up the dresses one by one. “They all sound like the seashore.” Olivia began sifting through the racks until she found the black velvet dress I’d been whistling along with. “You need this.”

“I do?”

“I’m having a party. Well, not me. My boss, Leo, is. His parties are the best. This one has a burlesque carnival theme.” Olivia led me to a clearing between two racks and spread the dress on the floor. “I’m thinking you could cut out the bodice and lace it with red ribbon,” she explained. “Then you could fashion the bottom into pantaloons.” She pinched the bottom of the dress together. “Very cool.”

“What about the collar?” I asked.

“You’ve got to leave it. It will look Victorian. A good contrast.”

I nodded.

“And shoes. We need to find you some shoes.” She jumped up and handed me the dress. “Try it on. I’ll be right back.”

I ducked behind a curtain at the back of the store and slipped into the dress.

While I was changing, Olivia thrust a pair of red boots with silk laces under the curtain. “I’m sure they’re your size.”

I stepped out into the room. Olivia knelt down and began to pin the dress into pantaloons. “It’s not perfect, but you’ll get the idea.”

Suddenly, I heard a low whistle coming from the stairs.

Toby had stopped mid-descent and was staring down at me. He wore a top hat he must have taken from one of the shelves on the upper floor. “Two days in Amsterdam, and you’re turning into…Well, I don’t know what you’re turning into. I like it.” The magician continued down the stairs.

“Olivia, this is my husband, Toby.”

Olivia sprang from the floor to shake Toby’s hand. “It looks like he’s already started on his costume.”

“Costume?”

“We’re going to a party.”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Toby and I asked in unison.

“So, you better get started on your alterations,” Olivia said. Then she dug into a pocket, pulled out a small laminated invitation, and handed it to Toby.

“‘A Burlesque Carnival,’” he read.

“The top hat is perfect. You see?”

“Not much of a costume, in my case.”

Olivia looked at me.

“He’s a magician.”

Olivia grabbed Toby’s wrists. “You have to come. A magician at a carnival. It’s perfect.”

It had been dark for hours when Toby and I headed out, wearing overcoats over our costumes. I’d taken the top hat Toby had found in the clothing store, and he wore the phoenix robe and a faded turban from Piet’s collection.

“You’re definitely on the carnival side rather than the burlesque,” I told Toby as I pinned the turban into place. He didn’t mind.

The invitation directed us to the side door of a church in the north of the city. A flight of stone stairs led down to the catacombs. As we approached, I could feel the steamy pulse of the party. We slipped into a crowd of revelers in floating velvet garments, fishnet stockings worn as sleeves, oversized tailcoats draped over peasant skirts.

This was the kind of slow-burn party where no one shouted introductions or stopped to wonder what you did or where you came from. The crowd swayed to low-key trance music. A series of stone corridors lit with torches were filled with twirling dancers without partners who raised their arms to the arched ceiling. I’d driven past parties like this before in the Nevada desert—tribes of millennial hippies circling a bonfire as they worshipped the desert or the sky. But I’d always kept on going.

Toby and I were swept into a throng of dancers who led us deeper into the catacombs until we found a square room ringed with a colonnade of arches. This was the official dance floor. Olivia appeared in front of me. She was wearing cropped tuxedo pants held up by suspenders over a white tank top. I looked down and admired her red fishnet stockings and impressive black patent leather heels laced with straps that came halfway up her calves. She’d powdered her face white, applied electric-blue eye shadow, and painted her lips ruby red. Without a word, she took my hand and pulled me deeper into the dance floor.

At the center of the crowd were two acrobats wearing tailcoats over Lycra leggings. They had slicked-back hair, and their makeup matched Olivia’s.

“Those are the Christophs,” she said over the music. “One is Dutch, the other Belgian. They also work for Leo.”

The dancers made room for the Christophs as they launched into a series of impressive acrobatic moves. They did handstands on one another’s shoulders. They linked their arms and feet and formed a human wheel that rolled across the floor. They flipped and twirled and landed in each other’s arms. And when they were done, they slipped into the crowd, and the dancers closed over the open space