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

“Now I understand why La Gaite felt so eerie when we were there,” Toby said. “It really is a ghost town.”

“I much prefer our version.”

Toby said nothing. He was staring at the Dissolving World.

“You know. A Wild West cabaret.”

The magician nodded absently. His eyes lost focus, and I knew he was no longer thinking about the future.

Twelve

In the three days since Piet had taken us into the Dissolving World, Toby’s skin had turned from its elegant alabaster to a pallid gray. From the moment he woke up and until dinner, he remained in the workroom, and often inside the box itself. Sometimes I sat at the worktable, listening to him rattling around in the finite space in the pagoda. Other times, a sudden silence told me he had slipped into a world of his imagining. At dinnertime, Toby would emerge, looking haggard. And when we went to bed, I knew that during the night I would lose him to the trick in Piet’s workshop.

One morning when Toby was still asleep, I sneaked into the workroom first, planning to intercept him when he arrived. After a few hours, he appeared in the door, a cold cup of coffee in one hand. His hair stood on end, and his shirt was buttoned erratically. He took one step toward the Dissolving World.

“No,” I said. “Not right now.”

“Mel, please.” Toby sat at the worktable. “You have no idea what it’s like.” He rubbed his hands together. “I see it over and over and can’t do anything.”

“What?” I knew the answer.

“I see you in the audience. I see myself looking at you. I see myself ignoring Greta until she’s jumped in front of me.” He paused. “I see her swift motion, the bullet flying, her collapsing at my feet. I can’t stop it. I can’t prevent it, but I can watch it.”

“Stop looking. It’s simple.”

“I can’t.”

“You’ll have to.”

The magician shook his head.

“At some point, you will.”

“Piet said that it could take us back. But I’m just watching the same reel rewind again and again. I can’t get there.”

“What happens if you get there?” I asked.

“I can save her.”

We sat in silence for a moment. “It’s only a trick, Toby. You’ll only save her inside an illusion.”

The magician stood up and approached the Dissolving World. “That will have to do.”

I shook my head. “Let’s get out of here. I’m going to visit Leo today, and you’re coming.”

Toby wrapped his hand around the gilded handle. “Just give me today.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know. But give me one more day, and I’ll make it work.” He let go of the door and enveloped me in his arms. As he pressed his body to mine, I could feel a new angularity to his bones and an unnatural coolness to his skin. But when Toby kissed me, it was as if nothing had changed. His kiss sent me into the outside world, staying with me on my journey to Leo’s.

Piet told me that Leo lived in a small town not far from Amsterdam. He suggested that I ride his bike there, and if the weather changed, I could take the train back. The cold air stung my nose and burned my lungs as I took off down the cobbled street. I rode until I came to the Amstel River, then followed the bike path out of the city. Soon the last of the glass office buildings disappeared and I entered a small park shaken from its winter sleep by the sharp sunlight. Just beyond the park, the Amstel widened, breathing a sigh of relief at having escaped its city confines. The water glittered icy-clear and lay as flat as glass. Along this section of the river, enormous gated mansions and small thatched cottages lined the bank. Behind these, a dense woods obscured the freeway and the modern apartment buildings that ringed the city. Old-fashioned houseboats were anchored at the water’s edge. As I rode, I felt the river’s current urge me forward past a grand hotel, a riding school, and a charming pancake house that was serving late afternoon lunch to a group of women on a bicycle tour. I rode faster, willing to follow the river to the open mouth of the sea.

The farther I went down the Amstel, the further back in time I seemed to go, until I believed that I would arrive at the Dutch golden age—that is how this hidden section of the city appeared, like a painting by Nicolaes Maes or Jan Steen. Eventually, the path brought me into a large clearing, where a windmill watched over the river—its latticed blades dividing and organizing the unblemished sky.

Later, I came to the town Piet mentioned. I followed the magician’s directions until I came to an impressive wrought-iron gate onto which the words THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTH were welded in ornate script. Through a stand of fir trees, I could make out the roof of a large villa. I pressed the bell and waited. Olivia had said that Leo’s house was built by one of Holland’s great spice traders during the country’s golden age. It was foolish, but as I waited, I inhaled, hoping for a lingering note of cardamom or cinnamon. But all I smelled was the cold sting of damp November air and the pine-pitch of the trees.

In a few minutes, Olivia appeared. She was wearing overalls, clogs, and a long striped scarf that hung below her waist. “I’m so glad you made it,” she said, kissing me three times. “We’ve all been wondering when you’d come. How are the magicians?”

“Old.”

“Not your magician.” She laughed.

“Not yet,” I said. “I need a day off from their memories.”

Olivia looped her arm through mine. “Well, you should have come sooner.”

“You’re probably right. I get stuck in the past in Piet’s house, and it’s hard to leave. Then I look up and the day is over.”

Olivia turned and looked at the villa. “You’ve come to the perfect place. I’m