The Art of Disappearing

by Ivy Pochoda

  His eyes lingered on my dress. Suddenly embarrassed, I said, “I should have worn it last night. It’s the closest thing I have to a wedding dress.”

  “I like it.”

  I opened my mouth, but Toby got there first, his words tripping over mine. His eyes were sparkling. “It’s finally happened.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  “I just got off the phone with the shark who calls himself my agent. With my strange reputation, he’s the best I can get. Anyway, he got me a gig. Here in Las Vegas.” He stopped speaking, as if startled by his own words. “I can’t believe it.” Then Toby’s eyes narrowed. His lips twitched. “You did this.”

  I shook my head.

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “When I was a kid, I thought I couldn’t have it both ways. I couldn’t have love and magic. And after what happened with my last assistant…” Toby broke off and stared out the window. “It’s strange. A magician can conjure anything but success. It took meeting you.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said.

  “It’s not the classiest casino, but it’s Las Vegas. And Las Vegas is what I’ve always dreamed of.”

  I looked at Toby, trying hard to imagine him entranced by all the neon outside.

  He caught my eye and smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s a strange dream. For anyone but a showgirl or a magician, that is.”

  I laughed.

  “The gig starts the day after tomorrow.”

  “That great,” I said, wondering where I fit into Toby’s tomorrows. “And I have the perfect way to celebrate.” I retrieved the plastic bag and handed it to the magician.

  Toby removed the champagne glasses and held them up to the window. “The MGM. I’ll get there one day,” he said. “Well, I—” Toby stuttered. “—I have something for you, too.”

  He opened his palm. In the center of his hand was a silver band set with a single turquoise stone. He placed it on my finger.

  “When did you have time—?” I began.

  Toby shook his head, silencing my question. “I was worried that you thought it was a mistake.” He stared out the grimy window. “That you weren’t coming back.”

  I shook my head. “It didn’t cross my mind,” I said, speaking more honestly than I’d meant to.

  Now Toby’s lips trembled, and his words were filled with static. “So, what do you think?” He stopped. “About this. The motel. Las Vegas.” He looked at my hand. “Your ring…The wedding.”

  “I’d always imagined something a little more formal.”

  Toby laughed. “But seriously.”

  “Seriously,” I said, “I wonder what comes next.”

  Toby pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re the magician. I expect you to know.”

  He shook his head. “I never got into fortune-telling or spirit cabinets. I can’t look forward or back.”

  We held up our empty glasses.

  “To us,” Toby said.

  “And to your name in lights,” I added.

  We stared at each other, and the distance between us shrank, just as it had in the Old Stand Saloon, until Toby’s lips were pressed against mine and we fell backwards onto the bed. That’s when the details of the magician’s face imprinted themselves in my mind—the swirling blue eyes surrounded by their premature creases, the purple tint in his waterfall of black hair, the small twist in his aquiline nose, his symmetrical lips, the vertical divot in his chin. “I’ve been thinking about this all morning,” he said as his kiss dissolved the heat and cooled the insistent desert sun.

  Despite the weak air-conditioning and the pressure of Toby’s body, I felt cool. I looked down and saw that the bright poppies on my dress had changed into snowflakes that sent delightful icy tingles across my legs and chest. Then with whatever magic he possessed, Toby lifted me out of the dingy motel room and high above the swirling sands. When we returned to the worn reality of the Laughing Jackalope, the magician said, “Now it’s time for a honeymoon, Las Vegas style. But first, let’s get some champagne to fill—and I guess, destroy—these glasses.”

  We spent the rest of our wedding day on an around-the-world tour. We rode the taxicab roller coaster in New York, New York, climbed the Eiffel Tower outside the Paris, examined the mock sarcophagi at the Luxor, and relaxed in a gondola in the Venetian. We wound up at the ALL YOU CAN EAT SEAFOOD buffet at the Rio, where—having told one of the servers that we were newlyweds—we received a complimentary bottle of sparkling wine and a miniature wedding cake draped with carnival beads.

  While fortune—good or bad—and intrigue follow a magician, paving the way for his next trick or move, the rest of us must stick to the laws of nature and necessity. So I spent the rest of the morning on the phone to hotels and textile companies, looking for work that might keep me busy in Vegas. I got lucky with an outfit called Fabrication, with contracts out to the larger hotels in the West. I held the receiver away from my ear as a loud grunt followed the sound of exhaled cigar smoke. “We’ve got a big job on the Strip. Not going to be an easy one,” the director of Fabrication bellowed. He ran his business with no appreciation for the textiles. Quality and pattern were a distant second to volume and cost. “For this job, I need you to demand they go for the expensive stuff, and lots of it. They invented gaudy and glitz out there, and you’re going to sell it back to them.”

  That’s how I found myself in the office of the assistant manager of the Winter Palace, a “golden age of Russia” casino scheduled to open the next month. The backers figured that the cold war had faded enough for people to celebrate caviar, vodka, and a Russian version of Riverdance. The casino had taken more than five years to build, and the drawn-out construction and reconstruction of the Winter Palace had ruined its textiles. The plush red, gold, and black fabrics were scuffed by construction boots and stained from the overflowing fountains. In addition, the Winter Palace’s managers had offered a three-day preview to Vegas bigwigs for whom every hotel room is a canvas for destruction.

  “We are a classy casino. The new classy,” Sandra, the assistant manager, explained, underlining her point by flicking one of the brass buttons on her white linen blazer. Sandra, who was about forty, had been born and raised under the Las Vegas sun. Her cleavage, tanned to a burnt umber and amply displayed even for a female interviewee, had the worn-in look of old suede. She piled her dark brown hair high on her head with a handful of gold hairpins and probably a substantial investment in mousse. Her makeup—coral lips and turquoise eyeshadow—was old school. “Our restaurants, shops, lounges, and suites provide a sanctuary from the ding-ding of the slots and the hustle-bustle of the tables. Remember, we are Russia. Not the now Russia, but the high-style Russia of Catherine the Great. Designer suits and hairstyles. Vodka and cigars. Russian Vogue. Think boudoir classy.” She tweaked another brass button and sifted through the promotional literature.

  The Winter Palace was shaping up as classy in a “new-money Mafia” way—quilted chintz, miles of brocade, plastic moldings, sconces, gold and glass furniture, and dozens of columns in the shape of matryoshka dolls. The exterior of the casino, with its onion domes and garish paint, looked more like Disney World than St. Petersburg. The ceiling had been painted with an artistic approximation of what a Russian sky might look like. The effect was dismal, thanks to the painter’s overly zealous inclusion of clouds.

  “I know what you mean,” I assured Sandra. I had tuned out most of her speech, entranced by the way the rich red-and-gold hyacinth motif on the carpet seemed to reduplicate within itself. I wasn’t sure that the hyacinth was native to Russia, but the richness of the flower did convey the old-fashioned luxury that the designers of the Winter Palace were after.

  “Mel Snow,” she said, reading from my résumé, “that’s an interesting name. Of course, we don’t get snow around here. Couldn’t imagine being named after something cold. But you all do things differently in the East.”<
br />
  I nodded.

  “Coldest I’ve ever been is when they accidentally turned off the heat in my condo’s pool in December.”

  I twisted in my chair, bouncing on the fresh springs and tight upholstery. “I’m still trying to get used to the ins and outs of the desert.”

  “The ins and outs,” Sandra repeated with a laugh. “Honey, the only way to get out is to get air-conditioning. Otherwise, it’s just you and the sun, which is, of course, how we like it. But be careful of the sand. I know it looks pretty tame, but sometimes the wind kicks it up so badly, you can’t go out. And then you can forget sitting by the pool.” Sandra cleared her throat and resumed looking through the papers on her desk. “Well, you’ll see about all of that soon enough. But as I was saying, classy. We’re not looking for a make over, a make-under, or anything like that. It took us five years to come up with the appropriate patterns for this place. And we’re not going to change them much, that’s for sure. But what we need right now is a consultant. This place is a fabric maze—”

  “Textile.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ll be working with textiles, not just fabrics. Vinyls and linoleums.”

  “I don’t know from linen,” she said, straightening her blazer. “That’s your business. All I know is that I can see construction boot marks leading through the Grande Salle and some sort of black residue that keeps appearing on the petals of the silk flowers. But if you say textiles, then I’ll say textiles. A textile maze. We need someone to manage that side of things until we open and also during our first weeks. Judge how the wear and tear are going to affect our fabr—I mean textiles. Let’s walk,” Sandra said, standing up and clicking her long fingernails together.

  I’ve done this sort of work before in restaurants and small hotels. The owners want to you be a fortune-teller, to predict when and where things will be spilled, how many people can sit on a velour couch before it starts to retain their imprint. They want to know when the shine will start to fade from their stain-resistant napkins. You’ve got to keep them happy, show them how to use the napkins in better rotation, soak them before throwing them in the wash, avoid the harsher industrial detergents. Tell them to brush the carpets every night, especially those in the entrance, rotating the fibers so that they won’t get worn and matted. But I’d never tackled an enterprise the size of the Winter Palace. Sandra was right: It was a textile maze, a textile labyrinth. Instead of the fresco style favored by many of the other casinos, the Winter Palace’s designers had covered the walls with a silk-screened mural of St. Petersburg. Plush ottomans and divans opened their arms to weary gamblers. Even the stools in front of the slots and the tables were upholstered with a polyamide nylon that would need consistent monitoring.

  “Fabrication knows the size of the project?” I asked Sandra, waving my arm at the textile jungle outside her office. We passed out of the restricted area and entered the casino’s main floor.

  “They said you were good. They said you have a special understanding of fabric,” she said. “I don’t know what that means exactly, but if you can tell us how to get these scuffs from the horses’ hooves off carpets, I’ll know we’re in business.”

  “Horses?”

  “We planned to have horse-drawn sledges bring people up and down the mall, but the horses—well, they just created a mess.” She bent down and showed me a depression in the carpet where horseshoes had ripped up the pile. “Now we’re going to use them only at the opening. And we’re going to cover their hooves with little velvet booties. Other than that, the sledges will be motorized.” Sandra pointed to a track laid on the floor. “Unfortunately, they’ll be more of a ride than a form of transportation, but they’ll still be way more exciting than those gondolas at the Venetian. We’ve had someone do an exact copy of Catherine the Great’s sledges, and we’ve piled them with all sorts of fake fur. I’m sure you’ll love them, since snow’s your thing and all.”

  “Sure,” I said, wondering how the fake-fur throws would look at the end of a week.

  “Speaking of snow, have you heard about the Hermitage Salon?” Sandra asked, grabbing my arm.

  “No.”

  “You will love this. We can’t go in now. They’re doing some last-minute tweaking on the temperature controls. But let me tell you, there’s an enormous frozen lake where professional skaters will perform and at mealtimes there’ll be a band. And here’s the kicker,” Sandra said, extending her arms for emphasis, “once every half hour, we’ve arranged for it to snow.”

  “So whenever I’m homesick…,” I started to say.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Sandra said as her eyes lit up. “And vodka, do you like vodka?”

  “Sure.” I looked at my watch. “But not before noon.”

  “Me neither. But sometimes—well, sometimes. We’ve got well over two hundred varieties.” She threaded me past the bustle of last-minute construction, through the completed shopping mall with stores waiting to unload gold jewelry and leather handbags, and into a vodka-themed bar called, oddly, Red Square. Except for a painter doing some touch-ups, the place was empty. Sandra dipped below the bar and retrieved a bottle of apricot vodka. “Occupational delight,” she tittered, filling our glasses. “When we’re up and running, this entire bar is going to be made of ice.” She ran her nails along the recessed metal countertop. “So.” She opened a folder that she’d brought with her and slipped back into her brusque business voice. “Let’s discuss the terms of your employment. We are in a bind. We got our gaming license quicker than expected. A miracle, a real gift from God in this town. We need to get this place in order fast. Spotless. Showcase perfect.” She resettled her blazer over her chest. “Fabrication has told us that you will do the job. I hope they’re right.”

  “Of course,” I replied, pleased to be employed by the only wintry oasis in the city. The overwhelming variety and opulence of the textiles were irresistible—a full-bodied orchestra waiting to unleash its music on my ears.

  “From what I can see on your résumé, you’re a traveling consultant. And what we need is for you to stay in one place.”

  “I’m planning on staying in Las Vegas for a while,” I assured her.

  Sandra frowned. “But what I’m thinking is that a traveling consultant doesn’t have a place to live. Am I right?”

  I told her that I was staying at a motel and that Fabrication would foot the bill during my contract.

  “Well, that doesn’t sound satisfactory at all. I imagine their air-conditioning isn’t up to standard. And that will do you no good. Especially you, Mel Snow.” She took a long sip of vodka. “A motel,” Sandra repeated under her breath as she flicked through the papers in her folder with a click of her tongue. Satisfied with her search, she shuffled the papers into order, tapped the folder on its short end to make sure everything slid into place, and took another drink. “Until we open, you are welcome to stay here. We have several rooms set aside for consultants and important visitors, and I’m sure that I can arrange the Cherry Orchard Suite for you. Since you know how to manage fabrics, I don’t have to worry about damages.”

  “Of course not,” I said, surveying the shopping mall that was going to be part of my new home.

  “You’re alone?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are you traveling alone?”

  It felt odd telling a stranger something that I hadn’t had the courage to tell my parents. “Just married.” For a moment, my words sounded so unbelievable that I worried I was lying.

  “A Vegas wedding,” Sandra said with a knowing nod. “I bet your husband’s either a bottle rocket of passion—the can’t-wait-let’s-do-it-now type—or one of those never-going-to-commit guys you need to nail down in any way possible.”

  I was on the verge of telling her that I had no idea. “He’s a magician.”

  Sandra took a last gulp of her drink and kept her opinion to herself.

  My brother spent his childhood trying to convince me that I’m a lapsed w
ater child—that if I were willing, I could have listened to the stories of oceans and rivers as their water slipped through my fingers. Well, it’s not water speaking to me, but fabrics. It’s been that way since I was a kid. Vinyls sound like an off-key oboe, chintzes like woodwinds in full flight, velvet like the comforting rhythm of a bass drum in an orchestra pit. Cotton, which many people find pedestrian, announces itself like a Main Street marching band—crisp and clean. Satin sounds like the blues, and organza like jazz. After Toby and I moved into our first home, the Cherry Orchard Suite, the textiles in the Winter Palace trumpeted their songs proudly and unceasingly in my ears. Even the stiff synthetics and polyvinyls, which usually sound like tuneless whistling, adopted the toe-tapping rhythms of Europe an pop music. I enjoyed being alone among the textiles of the casino more than I expected. At night, I was comforted by the soprano sax sound of our sateen sheets and the swaying anchor of Toby’s mid-dream conjurings.

  The constant movement of his hands traced the pathways of my sleep cycles, and each morning a new object was sitting on our bedside table. Sometimes I recognized the things Toby produced with his nocturnal magic—a coffee cup from the greasy spoon where we ate breakfast, the elevator-capacity sign from the lobby of the casino, a handful of poker chips. Sometimes there were objects only I had come into contact with, such as fabric from Sandra’s office or textile order forms. And finally he produced things that were a mystery to the magician himself—a wallet-sized snapshot of an unfamiliar family and an engraved money clip, unfortunately empty.

  I tried to watch Toby’s hands, looking for pathways along which I could follow his magic. But they flew from in front of my face to a pocket, tabletop, vase, or a stranger’s coat. They moved so quickly that I lost them, literally in the blink of an eye.

  “I used to be embarrassed by my hands,” Toby said. “I’d keep them in my pockets, pushed them right down.”