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

highlighting their holly and ivy crowns. I worked my way into the circle, letting the dancers lead me around and around until my head spun. Eventually the ring of hands broke apart, scattering the dancers across the lawn. I found a seat underneath one of the great braziers. I leaned against it, turning my back to the party.

Cradling a cup of mulled wine, I listened to the escalating merrymaking. Soon a voice clamored to be heard above the crowd. “The magician,” it called. “It’s time for the magician.”

Others joined in, clapping and calling for Toby.

The lawn was a tumult of cries for magic. People began darting to and fro, peering into the dark for my vanished husband.

I pulled in closer to the brazier’s pole, wanting its heat to melt me. The cries for Toby grew louder, some now tinged with disappointment.

Then a shadow stretched across the brazier’s orange glow. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” Leo asked, leaning down and kissing me on the head.

I nodded.

I sat on Leo’s lawn until the last of the lights died out. As I felt the dark rise, I remembered the swell of the ocean after it had taken Max. And although the loss and the sadness were beyond expression, I knew that this time I would not wait for Toby. I would not look or listen for his footsteps. Unlike Toby, I would not attempt to undo what the magician chose for himself.

It has been three days since Toby left, and I’ve been wandering around Leo’s villa between the winter-blooming plants and a soft feather bed made up for me in the room next to Olivia’s. Often I go into the studio. My fingers guide me through Erik’s fabrics, choosing the ones that will tell of the rest of my adventures in Holland and elsewhere. Their voices had returned the minute I broke through the other side of Toby’s trick, comforting me in the magician’s absence. I can make out Piet’s and Olivia’s voices. Eventually, I’ll come across Leo and maybe even Theo. Maybe one day, I’ll hear Toby again.

Despite the cold, I often walk along the river. I wear one of Leo’s coats and a wool scarf Olivia made for me. The water is marbled brown and gray. I look at its surface, searching for the first crystals of ice, and I remember that I promised myself I’d be home by the time the Delaware froze. I always imagined that I’d bring Toby with me, but now I’ll make the trip alone.

One day, I take a thermos of coffee and sit on the dock where I last saw Toby. I comb my fingers through the air, searching for the portal of his escape. It’s late afternoon, and an early darkness is settling along the riverbank. Here the river is narrower, and despite the fading light, I can still make out the small road on the far side. In all my time at Leo’s, I have never seen a car or a bicycle on this road. So I am surprised when the silence of the falling dark is disturbed by the faint purr of an engine.

I look upstream and watch a car come into view. The engine sounds tired and lugs slightly. When the car is directly opposite the dock, it stops. Even in the failing light, I know it’s a brown minivan. No one gets out. The engine continues to idle. I lower my feet over the river and trace the toe of one boot through the cold water. There is no sound except for the rhythmic swish of my shoe in the water and the irregular drone of the engine on the other bank.

I wonder how cold the water will be if I decide to cross. And if I cross, I wonder if the water will remain water at all, and on what bank I will arrive. I close my eyes and remember how happy I was when I turned around on a deserted Nevada highway and saw the van for the first time. I remember the tingling in my fingers when I tried to brush them over Toby’s as he put the van in gear. Even without magic, the desert landscape appeared to me to be enchanted.

I have to stop myself from calling his name. The Toby I want cannot be pulled into the world on my side of the river. Soon, the silhouette of the minivan fades into the night. The only way I’m assured of its presence is the rattle of the engine.

It’s dark now. The river is indistinguishable from the bank. I can barely make out my boots above the water. As I sit there, trying to feel Toby’s gaze cutting through the night, I realize that he cannot draw me to his side. And now I smile, confident that he never did so in the first place. I relax, as I let our first meeting replay in my head—a chance encounter in an improbable place. Then I hear the windfall of coins in the remote gas station, and I know that this, too, was not his doing.

I will sit there in the near-presence of my magician until the last moment, but I’m not going to cross over. I will remain in a world governed by chance and coincidence. I want to call out to Toby to tell him that I was right—he has learned to love me more in my absence. And this tells me how truly empty his conjured world is.

It takes me a few minutes to realize that the engine is no longer humming. The van has not driven away. It is simply gone. I stand up and walk back to Leo’s.

The Delaware froze late this year. My mother tells me it was waiting for my return. Together we walk down to the riverbank and slide across the ice. We skid past the spot where Max allowed himself to be stolen by the water for the first time. The bright sun makes the thick ice sparkle.