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

building nearly obscured by vines. A small flight of steps led to the entrance. As he approached the door, Theo kicked aside a carpet of leaves and crumpled paper and withdrew an impressive iron key for the large rusted lock. The door opened with a groan, admitting us to dust and shadow.

“When my company was in its prime, we had our own theater.” We heard the click of a switch, and a weak yellow bulb flickered to life. “This is it.”

We were standing at the edge of what once must have been an elaborate cabaret. A sign that read LA GAITE in art nouveau letters hung over the stage. A small flight of stairs led down to a seating area lined with banquettes upholstered in cracked crimson fabric. Dozens of round tables, blanketed in dust, each with a silk tasseled lamp, were scattered through the room. Theo fussed with switches until yellow bulbs hidden inside unevenly spaced glass sconces shone weakly.

“When I was on tour, I always made sure that one of the other magicians was performing here.” He brushed dust from his fingertips. “I have never considered selling the place. Please look around.”

Toby and I climbed the steps to the stage. Lights with cracked gels pointed at the dark ceiling. Toby walked in a circle, his long shoes leaving a trail in the thick dust. I slipped into the wings and was caught in a tangle of backdrops and props.

The theater smelled of mothballs and mold. Indistinct secrets whispered from the walls. There was an uncertain majesty to the place, a tense combination of mystery and elegance—as if it were holding its breath, waiting for what might come next.

I wandered until I came to a small dressing room. A decaying tailcoat was draped over a chair, and pots of dried grease paint lay along a table in front of a cracked mirror framed with bulbs. A disintegrating set list, written in an elegant old-fashioned hand, was tucked between the glass and the frame. Several top hats lay on their sides on a shelf above a mirror.

The magicians’ voices carried from the stage into the wings.

“It might not look like much to you now,” Theo said. “Once this was our sanctuary. A home for our magic. It was packed every night. Not with children and tourists, but with people who understood what it meant to be amazed.”

I imagined Toby’s shoes tracing circles through the dust as Theo spoke.

“Magicians from all over the world came to watch us. In a few years, we would have become as famous as Kellar or Carter. We were on the verge of greatness unparalleled in the world of magic, because there was no artifice to our shows. It’s a difficult task, winning people over to illusions that cannot be explained.”

“I know.” I thought I heard Toby tucking his hands into his coat.

“The average magician possesses a finite number of tricks that he combines and recombines to baffle the audience. And the audience knows they are being tricked. They simply cannot decide which of these tricks is in play at a given moment.” Theo lowered his voice. I could imagine his face growing stern and his irises beginning to swirl as they had in the kitchen that morning. “It is our job to trick the audience into believing they are being tricked, when they aren’t.” The elder magician paused. “It is our job to convince the audience that the danger they are witnessing isn’t real.”

At the back of the dressing room, a door led to another dressing room, where a white silk robe with gold trim lay on a slipper chair. I took off my coat and slipped the robe over my sweater.

“It is easy to win an audience on tour,” I heard Theo say. “Convincing audiences night after night to come back to the same cabaret is more difficult. My greatest feat was accomplishing just that.” Theo stopped speaking. I could hear Toby sanding circles in the dust with the soles of his shoes. “My accident ended everything. I know that if my hands hadn’t been burned, I would have brought people back. Audiences would have forgiven me for letting my assistant die. But the fire claimed her and my skill. Without magic, I was helpless.” The elder magician cleared his throat. “I want to go back to that moment when my magic was at its prime. When it mattered.”

“Then you and I want the same thing.”

“No,” Theo said slowly. “I want to go back to a moment when all magic mattered. The magic you perform hasn’t begun to have meaning. It’s merely trifles for tourists. You live in the wrong time for magic.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“We can change that.”

In the patchy light, I could see a couple of framed pictures on the dressing table. I held them toward the mirror. A couple in wedding clothes stood on the deck of a boat. The woman’s face was shaded by a large white hat. The man, with his polished, austere features, was clearly Theo van Eyck. The second photo was a publicity still from a magic show. Here, Theo, dressed as a Sikh, held a sword above his head, with his assistant seemingly impaled on the blade.

“Your skills, remarkable as they are, are limited to the world of magic,” I heard Theo say. “You cannot use them to pull an airplane out of the sky. You cannot use them for mundane things like cleaning your house or cooking dinner. You cannot save a life.”

I heard Toby mutter something.

“You can only do magic. And if you choose, I will make this your home.”

Still wearing the white gown, I stood up and left the dressing room. I found myself in a small hallway lined with flats and withered scrims.

Toby cleared his throat. “All I’ve ever wanted,” he began, his words full of their usual static, “is to be the best magician. If magic was going to separate me from everyone I knew, at least I wanted to be