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

“Where were we?” he asked Piet.

“Let me get you both some tea.”

When the magician left, I led Toby to the couch, where he put his head on the arm and allowed me to curl up next to him.

“I miss you,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry.”

I stroked his arm and closed my eyes, listening to a creaky bicycle pass outside. As we waited for Piet to bring the tea, I felt Toby’s body relax.

Scrapbooks filled with black-and-white photos of magic shows, many of them at La Gaite, were open on the coffee table. “Maybe Theo is right, and I do live in the wrong time for magic.” Toby put his head on my shoulder.

Piet shuffled into the room, carrying a tray of rattling cups and saucers and the pot of hot tea. “Let it sit for a moment. At this hour, I think it is best if the tea is strong.” He switched on a lamp at the edge of the couch, bathing our faces in soft light. “We can sit here until nearly eight without it becoming much lighter,” Piet said.

When the tea was ready, Piet filled our cups. “This house keeps me up at night as well,” he said. “I have every illusion I built for Theo stored here. I was a traditional craftsman until I met Theo. Something about our work together brought my illusions to life in ways I couldn’t imagine.” He picked up one of the scrapbooks and flipped the page. “I built La Gaite for him. In a way, the entire theater is one illusion. No two visits there are the same.”

“How did it work?” Toby asked, keeping his head on my shoulder.

“I’m not entirely able to explain it. I can tell you that I built secret doors and hidden hallways that Theo could shift with a flick of his imagination.”

Now Toby sat up and took several of the scrapbooks onto his lap. He leaned in close as he flipped through the pages.

Piet shook his head. “You will not be able to find what you are looking for that way.” He stood up. “I want to show you something. It’s the last illusion I ever built. It’s my best work,” he added, “but also the most disappointing. Come.” We followed Piet into his workroom.

The room was packed with all sorts of contraptions—ornate birdcages, trompe l’oeil paintings, blades and saws, marble statues and fountains. Piet went to the window and pulled back the curtain, filling the room with the glow from the street lamp. A tall box, roughly the size of a sarcophagus, stood next to the window. It was shaped like a pagoda, with a peaked roof, and was painted with Japanese ornaments and characters.

“The Dissolving World,” Piet said, laying a hand on the box.

“The Dissolving—,” I began. And then I remembered the trick Theo had mentioned to us at the Castaway. The trick he’d wanted Toby to do. I looked at Toby. He was approaching the box, no trace of recognition in his eyes.

“Maybe this can wait until morning,” I suggested, hoping to prevent Theo from having his way, at least for one more night.

But Piet and Toby were already standing in front of the illusion.

Unlike the rest of the illusions in the room, the Dissolving World looked new. The paint had not chipped. The wood had not splintered. I ran my hand over the decorations. “It’s beautiful.”

“She’s painted to resemble the many pagodas found in Japan.”

Toby nodded.

“Remember those tricks where a magician seemed to conjure any image of his choosing onto a blank canvas?” Piet looked from me to Toby.

He nodded.

“For most, it was a trick of the light or a hidden dimension in the canvas. For others, like Theo, this was accomplished through those talents that I know you possess.” He glanced at Toby. “I hope my old toy still obeys me, if only for a second.”

Piet slid his hand down the side of the box until he reached a small gilded handle in the shaped of curved bamboo. He closed his eyes, then opened the door. “Follow me.” Swirls of dust from inside the box were caught in the glow of the street lamp.

Toby and I exchanged looks. The box certainly wasn’t big enough for all three of us. “After you,” Toby said.

I stepped on the edge of the Dissolving World, nearly treading on Piet’s heel. I could feel Toby pressed behind me. I fought back a sneeze. Piet took several steps forward into a space that hadn’t been visible from the outside. Toby and I followed and stood at his side. Suddenly it felt as if all my pores had opened at once, then closed with a strange sucking sensation, as if I were being pulled into myself. My legs wobbled and my stomach lifted. I blinked, and in my mind’s eye I saw a blur—the passing scenery from a high-speed train, the manic rewinding of a movie. I opened my eyes. The dust had vanished. The interior of the box was beginning to lighten. I felt dizzy and unsure of my footing.

Piet urged Toby to reach forward. Toby did so, and the darkness at the end of his finger began to take shape. His finger worked like a tuner on a old-fashioned TV, dialing the image into focus. I could smell cigarette smoke and whiskey. My legs found equilibrium.

And now we are standing in the back of a cabaret theater. It’s La Gaite many years ago. The round tables with tasseled lamps are almost all occupied. The audience talks quietly as they sip their cocktails. Smoke is caught in the light of the lamps and swirls upward. I lace my fingers through Toby’s and squeeze tight. I do not dare look at him. I worry that if I turn away, the stage might vanish.

“I think this is as far as we can go,” Piet whispers.

He’s right. When Toby and I try to step forward, we are blocked. The stage, the audience, and the show