The Art of Disappearing

by Ivy Pochoda

  “No one new has come in fifteen years?” Toby asked.

  “Some have left,” Piet replied. “Theo’s name shone brighter than any of ours. He brought us together to rekindle magic’s golden age. It almost happened. And then, it didn’t. Now, we are falling apart.”

  Red lightbulbs framed the canal bridges, dyeing the water with suggestiveness. The women in the windows gyrated impassively, beckoned halfheartedly. Their bodies did the work—moving to music that was out of sync with the rhythm of the street. They perched on the edges of red leather stools, bursting the seams of their lingerie. Some yawned, some filed their nails, others chatted listlessly. The red lights appealed to me. I liked the uneven chain of the glowing windows that ran up and down the canals. I liked the red-bulbed arches under the canal bridges that disappeared into the distance like a row of open mouths. A modern-day Roman feast stretched along the district’s canals—slot machines, fast food counters, and bars filled the gaps between the famous windows. There was a guttural symphony of indulgence that accompanied the area—a bass clef composition of moaning, chewing, slurping, and the clink-clink of coins.

  Toby’s face registered nothing as barkers called to us. He didn’t flinch as the scantily clad women tapped on their windows, inviting him in.

  At the end of a covered, cobbled alley stood a white farmhouse unlike the narrow step-gabled buildings along Amsterdam’s canals. As we stood before the door, the noise of the district faded into an improbable silence. The house was set in a small courtyard filled with unruly vines. Opposite it stood a pair of matching carriage houses with splintering wood doors.

  Piet reached up and pulled a cord. A bell responded from deep inside the house. As we waited, Toby shuffled his feet on the cobblestones, flattening the raindrops, while I tried to trace the path of a single vine as it climbed up one of the courtyard’s walls.

  After several minutes, the top of the door opened with a creak and Theo van Eyck’s ivory face emerged. In the faded light, I recognized the Chinese conjurer from Piet’s poster. He looked past me and Piet to Toby. “Ah,” he said, “Finally.”

  He unlatched the bottom part of the door, then released the iron gate, slowly coiling his scarred fingers around the latch.

  Toby opened his mouth, but said nothing.

  “No, no,” Theo said. “There’s no need to explain.”

  Toby nodded. “Mel brought me here.”

  “I know,” Theo replied, placing a hand on my back and leading us into his home. “Welcome.” He closed the doors behind us and sealed us in his world.

  We were standing in an enormous room that filled the entire ground floor of the house. At its center was a wide staircase. The room’s narrow windows were located near the ceiling so the light shone in dusty shafts, creating a pattern of squares on the floor. A helix of blue smoke curled down the staircase along with the sounds of men’s voices. Somewhere someone was running through scales on an accordion.

  In the checkerboard light, I could make out the stately decay of the room’s furniture—Queen Anne chairs with split velvet cushions, splintering steamer trunks, fraying tapestries, candelabras hidden beneath stalactites of wax. A collection of scales, crucibles, and test tubes was scattered across a long table with cabriole legs. A large map with curling, yellowed corners hung over the fireplace. An air of lax suspicion filled the room, and I felt as if we were being watched. I don’t want to say that it seemed as if time had stopped inside Theo’s house. Time had been ignored.

  At the far end of the living room a roaring fire with flames more blue than orange was burning in a vast fireplace.

  “Upstairs, there is drink. Down here, only the fire,” Theo said, heading for the staircase. As we started up after Theo, a chair near the fireplace scraped along the stone floor. Theo stopped and peered at a seated figure. We followed his gaze and saw a short man with salt-and-pepper hair dressed in a worn smoking jacket. He was sitting with legs crossed, holding a birdcage on his lap. Inside, a dead dove lay on its side.

  “Lucio,” Theo said quietly. “Once a great spiritualist. He’ll never bring that bird back or hear it singing in the afterworld.”

  Lucio removed the cage from his lap, placed it on the floor next to him, and stood up. “This is?”

  “Toby Warring,” Piet said.

  Theo placed a long, crooked finger to his thin lips, “Ssh.” Then he continued up the stairs.

  On the second floor, a labyrinthine library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases created corridors and alleyways so that there was no clear sight line from one end of the large room to the other. Here and there in the stacks were massive armchairs, some occupied by men reading by candlelight or oil lamp. One read with no light at all, simply turning the pages in the dark. As we passed, Theo let out a small laugh. “I am not as old-fashioned as it seems. My house has electricity. It is their choice to be this way.”

  In a corner of the library, we came to a set of steep stairs that ended in a heavy velvet curtain. The older magician slid in front of me and lifted the drape. I heard a few bars of a cabaret song and the whine from the accordion. I turned and smiled at Toby. His fingers were wrapped around the railing. His breath emerged unevenly as he craned his neck to see the magicians in the room beyond. “A new home for your magic,” Theo said, pulling back the curtain. And before Toby could object, Theo brought us inside.

  It took me a moment to adjust to the strange light. The room was lit with a combination of kerosene lamps and stage lights, some covered with cracked, colored gels. This apartment resembled at once a gypsy caravan and a Victorian fun house. Like the city, it seemed to duplicate and double back on itself—fading away in places and presenting many odd corners in others. This illusion was the result of beveled mirrors hung haphazardly along the walls. Broken wooden pillars with peeling gold paint, remnants from some superannuated stage set, were stacked in one corner, and a pile of worn velvet curtains covered in a plush layer of dust lay in a heap opposite.

  “Our sanctum,” Theo said. “You are standing in the remains of one of the last Spiegel tents. These tents have as many secrets as we do. Their name comes from the Dutch word for mirror. I journeyed with this one across Eastern Europe on my last grand tour. She was wrecked during a storm in Poland. This is all I saved.” He waved an arm around the room. “She might be a little worn, but more elegant than any Las Vegas theater.”

  A circular table surrounded by chairs upholstered in old brocade occupied most of the room. An enormous electrified art nouveau chandelier hung overhead. Several of its bulbs were missing, and the others flickered weakly. A mixture of cigar, cigarette, and pipe smoke curled upward and swayed slowly in the dim lights.

  A dozen magicians were seated around the table. They, too, looked as if they’d been left behind at the close of magic’s golden age. Their suits smelled of theaters and sideshows. The smoke that hung in the room seemed to have worn itself into their faces, tanning them like stage makeup. Two of the magicians were playing checkers. One used coins for his pieces, the other animal teeth. It was a game neither seemed to be winning.

  Another group was immersed in a card game. Some of these men conjured as they played. Their magic was rusty, and I could see how they used their bodies in their art. A stocky magician, no more that five foot five, practiced a coarse, physical magic. He pressed the objects he wished to conceal—cards and chips—against his torso and inflated his bulky chest to mask his deception. When the time came, he produced what he had hidden with a swift, resounding thump, like a woodchopper splitting a log. His magic was strong, simple, and rough. The paper-thin magician who sat to the stocky man’s right used the hollows between his jutting bones as hiding places, easily concealing the end of a rope or the head of a cane in his skeletal frame. Lucio, who had somehow arrived in the sanctum before we had, rubbed his enormous hands together forcefully, conjuring more blood to his cheeks, as he squinted at the faces of the other players, trying unsuccessfully to read their minds.

  Theo considere
d this group, then turned to Toby. “They may not look like much now, but they were once the best in the business.” He took Toby’s elbow and drew him closer. “Like you, we were capable of the tricks others can only pretend to do. Unlike you, our art has escaped us.” A thin smile broke across Theo’s lips. “You would never guess that the company you see here made their living performing for royalty in exile. From the Middle East to Russia, we were sought by hidden kings and queens and their descendants. And we amazed them.”

  Theo cleared his throat, and the men around shifted in their seats. Their expressions mixed frustration with anger at a physical world that no longer seemed at their command.

  “Gentlemen,” Theo said.

  The magicians looked up.

  “May I present Toby Warring.”

  The checker game stopped. The cards disappeared along with the inhospitable looks. The room glowed with expectation.

  “Good evening,” Toby replied, almost as if he were about to begin a show.

  “And his wife, Mel Snow.”

  But all eyes were on Toby. I moved to the back of the room and found a comfortable chair.

  “You have come from Nevada?” the skinny magician asked.

  “Yes,” Toby said as they made room for him, Theo, and Piet at the table.

  Wine bottles appeared. Glasses were filled. The stocky man brought one to me. After a toast, a strange silence filled the room as the magicians stared at Toby, waiting, I imagined, to see his magic.

  “You are a natural magician, like Theo,” Lucio said. “That is what we have heard.”

  Toby said nothing. He tapped the stem of his wineglass uneasily.

  “We have not seen real magic in years,” the skinny magician said. “Perhaps I can show you something?”

  “Gideon was a formidable quick-change artist,” Theo said.

  Toby nodded, and as he did, Gideon switched from his tattered suit to an old gypsy costume. Toby and I clapped.

  Then the plump magician produced another bottle of wine. The bottle shook as it appeared, and I worried that when it hit the table, it would break. The men continued to introduce themselves, each one displaying some element of his magic. When it was Piet’s turn, he shook his head. The purple shadows played across his white hair. “I never did magic. I only built illusions.”

  Next came Lucio. The spiritualist took a deep breath and squinted at Toby. His cheeks burned with the force of his concentration. No one spoke. The smoke began to settle over the table, as if it, too, were waiting. Finally, Lucio took a deep breath. “The desert,” he said. “I see you in the desert. Again.”

  “Not likely,” Toby said. “The desert and I no longer get along.”

  Theo looked at Lucio and laughed. “These days, Lucio’s prophecies mostly pertain to things that have already happened.”

  The spiritualist glowered and polished off his glass of wine.

  Theo glanced around, half-disappointed, half-amused by what he saw. “I’m sorry that our magic no longer lives up to our reputations. Although, our reputations are faded as well. There was a time when we could baffle even one another with our talent. Now, we leave that up to you, Toby.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Theo asked, his voice still cool.

  “No,” Toby repeated. “So, I believe it is your turn.”

  The magicians shifted uncomfortably.

  Theo gave Toby his showman’s smile and leaned toward him as if he were about to share a secret. He wrapped his waxen fingers around Toby’s. “I told you when we first met that my hands were not so different from yours.” He laughed. “Maybe now you find this hard to believe.”

  Toby withdrew his hand.

  “I would almost say our hands were identical,” Theo continued. Then he looked at Piet. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  The oldest magician nodded.

  Toby clasped his hands together and placed them in his lap.

  Theo pressed his palms onto the table. “But there is nothing left in them.” He clapped, and a sound like thunder shook the sanctum. I stared at the skylight, worried its glass would crack. “When I was still a real magician, there was nothing I couldn’t do.” The room stopped shaking. “But now—” Theo pressed his fingertips together. “—this is it.” A weak flame flickered from his hand, trembled, then died. “Such a shame when the hands cannot keep up with the mind.”

  “What happened?” Toby asked.

  “An accident.”

  The magicians looked away from Theo.

  “What kind of accident?” Toby asked.

  Theo exhaled and looked at Piet. “I let someone die on my stage.”

  “You let someone die?” Toby’s voice was calm.

  Theo trapped Toby in a hypnotic stare. “I killed my assistant, if you prefer. This is the mistake that brought an end to our golden age. No more bookings, and I could no longer conjure.”

  Toby pressed his hands together and looked away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded tired.

  Theo laughed. “You wouldn’t have come.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have.”

  “But you’re here now,” Theo said.

  “I’m sorry. I will disappoint you. At the moment, I’m not up for magic.”

  “Then magic will abandon you. As it has us.” Theo rubbed his hands together, trying to massage his twisted knuckles. “We had our own theater. We traveled through Asia, India, and Russia. Then we lost everything. We want our world back, and we think you can help us.”

  “I’m not here to do magic,” Toby said. “And I can’t help you.”

  Piet leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Then why have you come?”

  “To hide.” Toby looked at his hands, still cupped in his lap.

  Theo curled his hands into fists. “No, you’ve come to be the best magician you can be. That is why you’ve come.”

  “That used to be my ambition,” Toby replied. “It’s no longer possible. No one will hire the magician who killed a volunteer.”

  “No one in Las Vegas,” Theo said coldly.

  “Despite appearances, I am a Vegas magician. Or I almost was. I’m through wasting my magic in dusty and forgettable places.”

  “A different world is within your reach,” Piet said quietly. “When you see what you can do, you will love magic more than ever. You will allow us to show you what is left of our world?”

  “Of course.” Toby flexed his fingers and placed them on the table. “We can take you to a place where your magic can thrive,” Theo said, wrapping one of his scarred hands around Toby’s.

  “The one place I’d set my heart on is out of reach.”

  “If you come with us, none of that will matter,” Piet said.

  “You’ll forget about Las Vegas soon enough,” Theo added.

  For a moment, silence filled the sanctum. I imagined it pouring down from the skylight and flooding the old Spiegel tent.

  Toby waited as Lucio refilled his glass. “When I was younger, my greatest fear was of not being able to put back together the things I was discovering I could take apart. Now it’s happened. Twice.” He paused. “The craft I love has betrayed me.”

  Theo’s face sharpened. “It is the other way around.” Then he looked up at the skylight. “Our sanctum is crumbling. But our memories will teach you how glorious our magic was and how much greater it could have been.” He snapped his fingers, and the plump magician produced more wine. The candles seemed to burn brighter, and the talk turned to shows and illusions.

  I closed my eyes, carried off by a combination of wine and jetlag and the low light of the sanctum. I listened as the magicians began to recount their adventures. They told Toby about performing in a Mongolian court and about traveling on the trans-Siberian railroad. They told him about being persecuted in a Catholic village in Sicily when the spectators suspected they were in league with the devil. I opened my eyes from time to time, trying to imagine the withered speakers in the fantastic tales they told.

  Finall
y, Toby stood up and tapped me on the shoulder. Except for the two of us and Theo, the sanctum was empty.

  “Did you hear anything you like?” Theo asked as we headed down the stairs.

  “Of course,” Toby said.

  “This is only the beginning of our stories. We will bring this world to life for you as much as we can. Then, perhaps, you will like magic once more.”

  “I like the stories,” Toby said, and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his coat.

  It was a relief to escape from Theo’s musty house and immerse ourselves in the humming red-light district. Night had fallen, and the ladies in the windows picked up their pace. Their music was louder and their gyrations quicker.

  “What did you make of them?” I asked after we’d left Theo’s.

  Toby shook his head. “I’ve always known that magic is an old-fashioned art, but I didn’t know it was petrified.”

  “Some of them seem nice enough.”

  “Sure. It’s no secret that I’m not the most up-to-date person.” Toby pinched me on the shoulder. “And neither are you. Who quilts these days?”

  I laughed.

  “Is this what my magic will come to? Tops and tails?”

  “They don’t seem too keen on women.”

  Toby glanced at the windows as we passed. “They could use a dose of this.”

  I laughed.

  “Theo’s magic is appealing. So are his stories. But does the setting have to be so dour? You’d think they were a secret society rather than showmen. The best tricks magicians perform are for each other. But those guys are extreme, hiding away in that mausoleum.” He stopped and looked at the canal and the black-lit windows running alongside it. Dance music poured out of the windows of a nearby bar. “I like it out here.” Toby looked up and down the canal.

  I nodded. “It’s like Las Vegas.”

  “Without the fairy-tale architecture.”

  “Which is better.”

  “Maybe,” I said, pointing toward a large fountain in the shape of a phallus lit up with pink and purple lights. “I think they’re into a different kind of illusion around here. But it could be a good place for magic. Maybe we could find you a small theater. Though I don’t think you’d be as successful as the ladies’ magician.”