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

“What do you care?”

I consider my glass. “Because magic is overrated.”

Greta shakes her head. Teenagers always know better. “Nah. It’s ’cause you want to volunteer yourself.”

I finish the drink. “Not at all.”

Greta smirks. “Right. We’ll see if you get the chance.”

Before I can respond, a fanfare bursts from the speakers, followed by an announcement proclaiming the arrival of the magician. I’m back at the gambling pits just in time to see Toby jump onto the blackjack table. He’s not wearing the coat I’d sewn for him, but his black Western shirt. He reaches down and gives a hand up to his assistant, who alights next to him. It’s hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure it’s the girl Sandra recommended from the Rio.

It’s the same show Toby put on months ago. This time around, he seems more self-confident, adding a little swagger and wink to his tricks. As usual, the women are thrilled. They find his silence alluring. They lean forward, hoping he will say something as he brings the frozen fountain to life. They look jealously at the assistant as she’s levitated above their heads. A few catcalls disrupt the cocktail chatter.

I’m trying to keep an eye on Greta. She’s standing a few feet in front of me, chewing gum and looking bored. Not doing her job with the tray of cocktails. Now Toby begins to introduce his final trick. The assistant holds up the card reading CATCH ME IF I FALL. She displays the gun for the audience. Then she asks for a volunteer. A dozen manicured hands shoot up. Mine joins them. And then something catches the corner of my eye: Eva. She gives me a look, her eyes telling me that we’ve been here before. And in this instant, Toby makes his choice.

Her. Greta. And again, that settles it. She allows Toby to help her onto the blackjack table. This time, he holds up her arm, and she pirouettes for the crowd. Then with a small curtsy, she takes her place behind Toby.

Toby ties the blindfold over his eyes. Greta looks out over the audience, proud and aloof. Then she holds her head up. She’s the star. The showgirl aims the gun, and Toby braces himself. I know this part. I’ve seen it in my head, in my dreams, projected onto car windows, and in the place of television shows. The showgirl pulls the trigger. The magician recoils. The bullet is transformed into flower petals.

I step closer. The showgirl raises the gun for the second time. The crowd holds its breath. The shot rings through the gambling pits. The magician staggers slightly, but remains standing. Coins rain down onto the blackjack table. The spectators exhale and shift their feet.

Then I hear the woman next to me praise the showgirl for her daring. Her voice is liquor-loud and floats above the audience. She points and shakes her head in admiration. Greta scowls at her, then at the showgirl. This is her show. The showgirl lifts the gun. I see Greta stand up straighter, thrusting her shoulders back. The assistant is about to pull the trigger.

“No.” My voice pierces the heavy silence. “Don’t.”

Without dropping the gun, the showgirl looks at me. Toby’s nose and lips are motionless. I imagine that he is pleased. His illusion is complete. The danger seems even more real.

Behind me, I hear someone whisper, “There’s always one who falls for it.”

Greta shuffles her feet. Toby cocks his head to one side, noticing this adjustment. The showgirl’s finger tenses around the trigger once more. And then, as I knew she would, Greta leaps. She’s in front of the magician. She recoils, just as Toby reaches in front of her chest. The crowd gasps, then holds a collective breath. With one arm supporting Greta, Toby raises his free hand. Between his thumb and forefinger is a bullet. He holds it out to the crowd. A single drop of blood falls to the stage. I look at the bodice of Greta’s peasant outfit, where a tiny bloodstain, no bigger than a penny, is quickly disappearing from view.

The magician lifts Greta to her feet and whips off his blindfold. His face is a mixture of shock and elation. Greta wants to take a bow, but Toby cuts her short, ushering her off the table as quickly as he can. She walks into the crowd as Toby fingers the bullet she’d wanted for herself.

The tide of relief that hits me as I watch Greta walk away from this show nearly wipes me off my feet. Maybe Toby was right—by saving Greta, we will save ourselves. I want to rush to him and congratulate him, but he is hidden behind a wall of women. They are circling him, holding their cocktails like weapons to fend off one another. I know the look on Toby’s face. He’s barely registering these women. His mind is wandering far above the Winter Palace, reliving the tragedy he’s just prevented and the show he’s just pulled off. I know he’s thinking about what comes next, what pathway his magic will open for him. And for the first time in ages, I want to follow.

I push through the crowd.

“Toby,” I say quietly. “You saved her.”

His eyes narrow.

Sandra rolls her eyes and shares a knowing glance with everyone but me. “Oh, Mel, here, thinks that stunt wasn’t planned.”

Everyone laughs except Toby, who’s still giving me an odd look, one that seems to say I’ve let on more that I should. “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away.

“Poor Mel,” Sandra continues. “She was the one who tried to stop the trick in the middle. Thought she was saving a life!” She shakes her head. “Mel, honey, magic isn’t real.”

It’s clear that Sandra wants to get rid of me. “Toby,” she says, “I don’t think you’ve met Mel, our fabric consultant. I’m sorry,” she adds with a knowing look at her friends, “textile consultant.”

Toby takes my hand. He blinks and shakes his head,