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

cutting patterns now. For three-quarter-length shearling coats. Maybe later you can help me.” She pinched my arm. “You know, tell me what the fabrics say.”

“Of course,” I replied, wondering why I hadn’t indeed come sooner.

We followed a path through the pines and arrived in front of the villa. It was enormous—so wide, in fact, that standing in front of the main entrance, one found it impossible to take in the whole façade. The building was made of limestone, with bay windows stacked on top of one another and gabled windows protruding from the roof.

I started for the door.

“I’m going to take you around back,” Olivia said. “To the garden.”

I pulled my coat tighter against the chill.

“You’ll be warm, don’t worry.”

At the end of the path through the pines, Olivia opened a small wooden gate, admitting us to a lawn that led from the back of the villa to the riverbank. In the middle of the lawn stood a bright yellow Bedouin tent. “The river runs along the property,” Olivia explained, pointing past the tent. “In the summer, there are swans, but now I don’t think you’ll see any.”

We had come to the tent.

“So, this is where I’m leaving you.” Olivia lifted the flaps and pinned them back.

“Someone will bring tea. Make yourself at home. Leo will be down soon or sometime, I forget which.”

I looked around, admiring the tent. It was made of hand-dyed and hand-painted canvas covered with exotic flowers. Although I couldn’t identify their species, the botanical detail was astounding. I leaned in close. The heavy fabric smelled like sunlight. But the music that rose from the canvas was like nothing I’d heard before. The songs of most fabrics tend to be generic, a Muzak version of swing or a medley of arias, but the tent sang a specific, highly individual composition of Eastern and Western music. The longer I listened, the more carefully arranged its music appeared to be—a series of movements that rose and fell with the twisting flowers.

After a while, I turned to examine the interior of the tent. The floor was covered with brightly colored rugs, hand-dyed in wild approximation of Berber style. These rugs were also draped over two wooden chairs that stood below the tent’s peak. Between the chairs was a low Moroccan table made of hammered metal. Two humming heat lamps emitted a pleasant orange glow and warmed the interior.

I sat in one of the chairs. It was surprisingly comfortable. Beneath it, I discovered a small footstool. With my feet on the stool and my head against the high back of the chair, my gaze slipped over the lawn and down to the river, where the water was perfectly framed by two tall pines. With half-closed eyes, I watched the winter-gray water for a while. Then I shut my eyes and let the warmth of the heaters, the colorful rugs, and the painted walls carry me off.

When I woke, Leo was sitting in the other chair. He was dressed in a long suede coat lined with fur. Beaded tassels dangled from the cuffs and collar. He wore a large onyx ring on one finger and a sweeping scarf with crystal beads.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“What have you done?” Now he laughed a full-bodied laugh that shook the tent. He spoke with a deep baritone voice that reminded me of storybooks and radio plays.

“I fell asleep.”

Leo shrugged.

“This tent is so relaxing,” I said, sitting up and taking my feet off the stool.

Leo waved a hand in my direction. “So, relax. I see you’ve escaped from those dingy magicians.”

I nodded.

“They’ve sealed themselves in a world of magic.”

“Which is sad, because they can hardly do magic anymore,” I replied.

“But Toby can,” Leo said with a wink.

“Toby is more like them than he realizes. His life is dominated by the past.”

Leo shook his head. “For two years after Erik’s disappearance, I tried to recapture our life together. It doesn’t work.”

“I saw you,” I said. “I saw you and Erik.”

Leo raised one of his bushy eyebrows and waited for me to continue.

“You were there the night Theo’s assistant died.”

“His wife.”

I nodded. “In the front of the theater.”

“Piet has photographs?”

I shook my head and stared over the lawn at the winter-dried grass running down to the blue-brown river. “It’s an illusion,” I said. “An illusion that lets you look into the past. That’s where I saw you.”

Leo clasped his large hands together and placed them on his stomach. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “As long as you are only looking at the past.”

“For Toby, looking won’t be enough.”

Leo lowered his voice and bent toward me. He locked his eyes with mine. “You must pull Toby away from this trick.”

I lifted the edge of one of the Berber rugs draped over my chair and examined the pattern. “Toby has had two accidents. He thinks this illusion of Theo’s can reverse what he’s done.”

“What do you think?”

I shook my head. “Sometimes I think I’m as much to blame as he is.”

“How is that possible?” Leo asked.

“Someone close to Toby once told me that there is something unstable in Toby’s magic. She told me to warn him not to use people in his tricks until he understood this. I didn’t bother passing her warning along. And then the night of his biggest show, he used both an assistant and a volunteer.”

“And everything went wrong?”

I nodded.

“But that’s not your fault.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“What makes you think he would have listened?” Leo stood up. “Don’t dwell on the past. It is human to want to change things, but also foolish.” The designer extended a hand to me. He wore several large rings with dark stones. “And remember, there are consequences to this kind of magic.” I let Leo pull me to my feet. “There is something I want to show you before I lose you to Erik’s studio.”

We left the tent and headed into the gardens. “We’ve arranged these both by season and by smell,” Leo said, pointing