The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (top non fiction books of all time TXT) 📗

of these men conjured as they played. Their magic was rusty, and I could see how they used their bodies in their art. A stocky magician, no more that five foot five, practiced a coarse, physical magic. He pressed the objects he wished to conceal—cards and chips—against his torso and inflated his bulky chest to mask his deception. When the time came, he produced what he had hidden with a swift, resounding thump, like a woodchopper splitting a log. His magic was strong, simple, and rough. The paper-thin magician who sat to the stocky man’s right used the hollows between his jutting bones as hiding places, easily concealing the end of a rope or the head of a cane in his skeletal frame. Lucio, who had somehow arrived in the sanctum before we had, rubbed his enormous hands together forcefully, conjuring more blood to his cheeks, as he squinted at the faces of the other players, trying unsuccessfully to read their minds.

Theo considered this group, then turned to Toby. “They may not look like much now, but they were once the best in the business.” He took Toby’s elbow and drew him closer. “Like you, we were capable of the tricks others can only pretend to do. Unlike you, our art has escaped us.” A thin smile broke across Theo’s lips. “You would never guess that the company you see here made their living performing for royalty in exile. From the Middle East to Russia, we were sought by hidden kings and queens and their descendants. And we amazed them.”

Theo cleared his throat, and the men around shifted in their seats. Their expressions mixed frustration with anger at a physical world that no longer seemed at their command.

“Gentlemen,” Theo said.

The magicians looked up.

“May I present Toby Warring.”

The checker game stopped. The cards disappeared along with the inhospitable looks. The room glowed with expectation.

“Good evening,” Toby replied, almost as if he were about to begin a show.

“And his wife, Mel Snow.”

But all eyes were on Toby. I moved to the back of the room and found a comfortable chair.

“You have come from Nevada?” the skinny magician asked.

“Yes,” Toby said as they made room for him, Theo, and Piet at the table.

Wine bottles appeared. Glasses were filled. The stocky man brought one to me. After a toast, a strange silence filled the room as the magicians stared at Toby, waiting, I imagined, to see his magic.

“You are a natural magician, like Theo,” Lucio said. “That is what we have heard.”

Toby said nothing. He tapped the stem of his wineglass uneasily.

“We have not seen real magic in years,” the skinny magician said. “Perhaps I can show you something?”

“Gideon was a formidable quick-change artist,” Theo said.

Toby nodded, and as he did, Gideon switched from his tattered suit to an old gypsy costume. Toby and I clapped.

Then the plump magician produced another bottle of wine. The bottle shook as it appeared, and I worried that when it hit the table, it would break. The men continued to introduce themselves, each one displaying some element of his magic. When it was Piet’s turn, he shook his head. The purple shadows played across his white hair. “I never did magic. I only built illusions.”

Next came Lucio. The spiritualist took a deep breath and squinted at Toby. His cheeks burned with the force of his concentration. No one spoke. The smoke began to settle over the table, as if it, too, were waiting. Finally, Lucio took a deep breath. “The desert,” he said. “I see you in the desert. Again.”

“Not likely,” Toby said. “The desert and I no longer get along.”

Theo looked at Lucio and laughed. “These days, Lucio’s prophecies mostly pertain to things that have already happened.”

The spiritualist glowered and polished off his glass of wine.

Theo glanced around, half-disappointed, half-amused by what he saw. “I’m sorry that our magic no longer lives up to our reputations. Although, our reputations are faded as well. There was a time when we could baffle even one another with our talent. Now, we leave that up to you, Toby.”

“No.”

“No?” Theo asked, his voice still cool.

“No,” Toby repeated. “So, I believe it is your turn.”

The magicians shifted uncomfortably.

Theo gave Toby his showman’s smile and leaned toward him as if he were about to share a secret. He wrapped his waxen fingers around Toby’s. “I told you when we first met that my hands were not so different from yours.” He laughed. “Maybe now you find this hard to believe.”

Toby withdrew his hand.

“I would almost say our hands were identical,” Theo continued. Then he looked at Piet. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The oldest magician nodded.

Toby clasped his hands together and placed them in his lap.

Theo pressed his palms onto the table. “But there is nothing left in them.” He clapped, and a sound like thunder shook the sanctum. I stared at the skylight, worried its glass would crack. “When I was still a real magician, there was nothing I couldn’t do.” The room stopped shaking. “But now—” Theo pressed his fingertips together. “—this is it.” A weak flame flickered from his hand, trembled, then died. “Such a shame when the hands cannot keep up with the mind.”

“What happened?” Toby asked.

“An accident.”

The magicians looked away from Theo.

“What kind of accident?” Toby asked.

Theo exhaled and looked at Piet. “I let someone die on my stage.”

“You let someone die?” Toby’s voice was calm.

Theo trapped Toby in a hypnotic stare. “I killed my assistant, if you prefer. This is the mistake that brought an end to our golden age. No more bookings, and I could no longer conjure.”

Toby pressed his hands together and looked away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded tired.

Theo laughed. “You wouldn’t have come.”

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

“But you’re here now,” Theo said.

“I’m sorry. I will disappoint you. At the moment, I’m not up for magic.”

“Then magic will abandon you. As it has us.” Theo rubbed his hands together, trying to massage his twisted knuckles. “We had our own theater. We traveled through Asia, India, and