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

hand on my leg and grips hard. “But he did. Even if it was an accident. Every accident is the manifestation of a secret intention. Toby banished me because he wanted to test the limits of his magic. And he knew that when he discovered what he could do, he’d leave me behind.” She finishes her cigarette and tosses it onto the ground. I watch the ash burn down. “He’s chosen magic over you.”

I shake my head. “He loves me.”

“Maybe,” Eva says. “But he loves magic more.”

“Last night was like starting over.”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t buy it.

I look at her profile—her sharp coif and angular chin—and I remember a question I’ve been meaning to ask her. “Eva, where did you go that night on the mesa?”

“Somewhere else. Elsewhere.”

I shake my head at this unusually imprecise response. “Tell me.”

“I went to find Toby.” Without looking at me, Eva says, “I was worried you wouldn’t get through to him. And I was right. I told him, no matter what happens, he should never involve you in his magic.” She puts a new cigarette to her lips, lights it, and exhales. “If he loves you. You should thank me.”

“He listened to you.”

“Until now.”

“He didn’t mean for me to follow him,” I tell her again. “How do I make it stop?”

Eva shrugs. “Convince him. Convince him that things are better elsewhere.” Then she shakes her head. “I don’t think you have much chance.” She’s on her feet. I know better than to ask where she’s going.

After a few months in Amsterdam, the heat of Las Vegas at lunchtime takes me by surprise. On the Fremont side, there are no air-conditioned walkways and skyways to take you between buildings—no trams or shuttles to save you from the sun. Only five minutes after leaving the covered esplanade, my sundress is drenched. I’m struggling back toward the heart of the Strip. I take a glance at the insistent sun and realize that I need a break.

The Stratosphere, the casino on the Strip closest to Fremont Street, has nothing more going for it than its looming space age tower—a haven for thrill seekers, romantics, and the occasional suicide. I had passed this casino many times on my way to watch Toby’s show at the Castaway without ever being tempted to enter. Now, the promise of air-conditioning lures me into its lobby.

The interior of the Stratosphere resembles an airport terminal more than a glitzy venue to drop cash and press your luck. Maybe its allure increases as you ascend the tower, passing swimming pools and wedding chapels suspended high above the Strip. I buy a ticket for the observation deck and ride the elevator over a thousand feet in the air. The view does not thrill me. The tower is so much taller than the rest of Vegas that my eyes pass over the Strip, leading me to the suburban sprawl that runs toward the murky mountains in the distance. Looking down from the Stratosphere, Las Vegas is an array of drab concrete structures, skeletal buildings, and vast parking lots.

The crowd on the observation deck is divided into two groups—those intent on capturing this strange panorama on rolls of film, and nervous adventurers waiting in line to ride the world’s highest roller coaster. The roller coaster is often closed due to high winds, but today the desert air is stagnant. It seems to suck the chatter out of my fellow tourists on the observation deck, muting their exclamations into silence. The only sound is the intermittent rush and roar of the roller coaster shooting over its rails.

As I peer out over the city and the desert beyond, I’m struck by the dizzying uniformity to the outskirts of Vegas—indistinguishable communities clustered so tightly, I cannot imagine how, if I were set down in one of them, I could find my way out. I begin to walk the circumference of the tower until I’m looking in the direction of Tonopah. I squint, teasing out the northwesterly road Toby and I first traveled together. I concentrate as hard as I can, trying to impose the memory of our meeting onto the world in which I’m currently standing. I conjure the image of the magician’s beaten minivan, the desolate road where he found me, the splintered charm of the Old Stand Saloon. I run my fingers over the back of my hand where Toby first touched me.

As I’m looking over the desert, I feel the edge of my vision start to blur. The sharp diagonals of the highways ripple. The border of towns and mesas shake. I grip the handrail and prepare myself for the same heady swirl of plummeting through the Dissolving World. My knees buckle, and I’m ready to fall to the deck.

Then Toby catches me. “I’m guessing heights are not your thing.”

It’s a moment before I can speak. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s quite a coincidence bumping into you here.”

The magician leads me away from the railing. “Do you know better?”

“Because magicians don’t believe in coincidence.”

Toby gives me a strange look, then smiles. “You’re right.” He winds his fingers through mine. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“And you had an inkling that I’d be hanging around the Stratosphere tower?”

The magician shakes his head. “I’m afraid psychic ability is far outside my powers. I followed you.” He pauses, waiting for my displeasure. But all I do is smile. “Then I lost you somewhere in the depths of Fremont Street. I hung around the esplanade until you emerged.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Toby bites his lip. “Nerves. I want everything to be perfect. Like last night.”

I want to tell him that is impossible. But he has a look that suggests he’s poised for disappointment. “I wanted to ask you to be my guest at a private show tomorrow. But I couldn’t wait until then to see you.”

“Did you consider leaving a note or using the phone?”

Toby shakes his head. “Too simple.”

I am about to say yes, but manage to restrain myself. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

I