by Ivy Pochoda
“How did it work?” Toby asked, keeping his head on my shoulder.
“I’m not entirely able to explain it. I can tell you that I built secret doors and hidden hallways that Theo could shift with a flick of his imagination.”
Now Toby sat up and took several of the scrapbooks onto his lap. He leaned in close as he flipped through the pages.
Piet shook his head. “You will not be able to find what you are looking for that way.” He stood up. “I want to show you something. It’s the last illusion I ever built. It’s my best work,” he added, “but also the most disappointing. Come.” We followed Piet into his workroom.
The room was packed with all sorts of contraptions—ornate birdcages, trompe l’oeil paintings, blades and saws, marble statues and fountains. Piet went to the window and pulled back the curtain, filling the room with the glow from the street lamp. A tall box, roughly the size of a sarcophagus, stood next to the window. It was shaped like a pagoda, with a peaked roof, and was painted with Japanese ornaments and characters.
“The Dissolving World,” Piet said, laying a hand on the box.
“The Dissolving—,” I began. And then I remembered the trick Theo had mentioned to us at the Castaway. The trick he’d wanted Toby to do. I looked at Toby. He was approaching the box, no trace of recognition in his eyes.
“Maybe this can wait until morning,” I suggested, hoping to prevent Theo from having his way, at least for one more night.
But Piet and Toby were already standing in front of the illusion.
Unlike the rest of the illusions in the room, the Dissolving World looked new. The paint had not chipped. The wood had not splintered. I ran my hand over the decorations. “It’s beautiful.”
“She’s painted to resemble the many pagodas found in Japan.”
Toby nodded.
“Remember those tricks where a magician seemed to conjure any image of his choosing onto a blank canvas?” Piet looked from me to Toby.
He nodded.
“For most, it was a trick of the light or a hidden dimension in the canvas. For others, like Theo, this was accomplished through those talents that I know you possess.” He glanced at Toby. “I hope my old toy still obeys me, if only for a second.”
Piet slid his hand down the side of the box until he reached a small gilded handle in the shaped of curved bamboo. He closed his eyes, then opened the door. “Follow me.” Swirls of dust from inside the box were caught in the glow of the street lamp.
Toby and I exchanged looks. The box certainly wasn’t big enough for all three of us. “After you,” Toby said.
I stepped on the edge of the Dissolving World, nearly treading on Piet’s heel. I could feel Toby pressed behind me. I fought back a sneeze. Piet took several steps forward into a space that hadn’t been visible from the outside. Toby and I followed and stood at his side. Suddenly it felt as if all my pores had opened at once, then closed with a strange sucking sensation, as if I were being pulled into myself. My legs wobbled and my stomach lifted. I blinked, and in my mind’s eye I saw a blur—the passing scenery from a high-speed train, the manic rewinding of a movie. I opened my eyes. The dust had vanished. The interior of the box was beginning to lighten. I felt dizzy and unsure of my footing.
Piet urged Toby to reach forward. Toby did so, and the darkness at the end of his finger began to take shape. His finger worked like a tuner on a old-fashioned TV, dialing the image into focus. I could smell cigarette smoke and whiskey. My legs found equilibrium.
And now we are standing in the back of a cabaret theater. It’s La Gaite many years ago. The round tables with tasseled lamps are almost all occupied. The audience talks quietly as they sip their cocktails. Smoke is caught in the light of the lamps and swirls upward. I lace my fingers through Toby’s and squeeze tight. I do not dare look at him. I worry that if I turn away, the stage might vanish.
“I think this is as far as we can go,” Piet whispers.
He’s right. When Toby and I try to step forward, we are blocked. The stage, the audience, and the show that is about to start are just out of reach.
The house lights dim. The stage lights come up, revealing a set that looks like a Victorian drawing room. The furnishings are familiar—murky landscapes in gilt frames, brocade furniture, and animals in bell jars. A long wooden table faces the audience at the front of the stage. Dead birds lie in ornate cages. Bronze candlesticks peek from behind curtains of melted wax. The lighting is designed so that the shadows stretch to the ceiling. A man strides onto the stage. He is wearing an exotic robe, the color of air. There are two dragons on the front, and when he turns, a phoenix on the back. Gloomy stage lights illuminate the man’s face. It’s Theo, many years ago. He walks to the right of the stage and raises his arms above his head, casting a shadow over the theater. He lifts the top of a bell jar that contains a stuffed weasel. The weasel comes to life. It’s beady eyes glow red as it disappears into the wings.
Next Theo summons a hawk frozen on a withered branch. It flies toward the stage lights. A raven flutters out of a hanging cage. Animals thrash inside their domes and dioramas. They gather at the magician’s feet. He ushers them into a giant fireplace at the center of the stage. From the dark interior of the hearth, their eyes glow. The only sound is the whisking of tails and the tapping of claws. From the tips of his fingers, Theo blows a fireball into the hearth. The flames highlight the audience with yellow and orange shadows. Then, with an explosion, the fire goes out. The entire theater is dark. We can feel Theo’s presence as he steps into the center of the stage. A dark shadow on a dark stage, he opens the phoenix robe, revealing the yellow glow of his animals’ eyes. Slowly and soundlessly, they slip down the magician’s body and scurry into the wings. The lights come up. Theo is holding two rabbits.
There is a large glass canister sitting on a wooden table. Theo places the rabbits in the canister, then places the canister over a burner. He lights the burner. The flame grows until it obscures the rabbits entirely. Then smoke begins to rise from the canister. It takes the form of featureless smoke-silver rabbits. Soon the smoke-rabbits dissipate into the stage lights. The fire from the burner dies down. The glass canister is empty. Next to me, I feel Toby shiver.
The audience shifts in their seats, waiting for the return of the rabbits. There’s a small commotion at the front of the theater. Two young men sitting near the stage begin whispering. One is slight with sandy hair. He begins pointing at the stage, indicating the place where the smoke-rabbits vanished. His companion, a larger man with a mane of bushy black hair, tries to calm his friend. The two spectators fall silent. The larger of the two turns to look at the back of the theater, and I recognize Leo.
The rabbits don’t return. Theo moves on to his next illusion. He clears the wooden table of its bell jars and dioramas. Now an assistant steps from the wings. She’s dressed in a white chiffon dress that trails behind her and obscures her hands. She lies down on the table.
Theo stands behind the table and raises his hands above his head. The tabletop begins to separate from its legs. It floats over the magician’s head. He brings his hands together. The table spins. Then Theo claps, and I hear the thunder that shook the sanctum. A ball of fire shoots from his clasped hands and flies toward the floating table. It collides with the wood. The table ignites, flames spreading from the underside to the woman on top. Theo rubs his hands together, and the table spins. He continues to rub, and the flames orbit the spinning table like the rings of Saturn. The flames leaping from the table take the form of dragons that fly out over the audience. Then there is a crack, like the splitting of a log in a fire. And part of the wooden table crashes to the stage.
Theo whirls round. His back is to the audience. He extends his arms frantically toward the burning table. He’s trying to bring it toward him. But it won’t fall. Now a new scent fills the air: a smell, first of fabric, then hair, then flesh on fire. Before I can scream, Piet grabs my hand and steps forward. We do not step into the theater, but with the
same sucking sensation, we are through the other side of the Dissolving World and in the workroom. The last thing I see as we go is the burning table fall into Theo’s waiting hands.
The workroom was still cold, its air crisp and smoke-free. We heard the door of the Dissolving World shut behind us.
“How did you do that?” I asked, forgetting never to ask a magician about his tricks.
“How did I?” Piet smiled. “I didn’t.”
Toby and I waited.
“One of a magician’s greatest tools is suggestion.” He looked at Toby. “It was my memory mixed with your magic.” He waited a moment.
Toby took a step back and sat on a rough workbench. “I—” He couldn’t find the words.
“Yes.” Piet nodded slowly. “You made it work. But not perfectly.”
I opened the door of the box and looked inside. All I could see was the dusty space enclosed by four walls.
“My memory is also a dissolving world. I don’t remember the details perfectly. And you have seen La Gaite only in ruin and in pictures.” He joined Toby on the bench. “So, you cannot actually take us there.”
“But it was right there,” Toby said.
“I didn’t build this box so you could look at another world. I built it so you could go there.” Without further explanation, the oldest magician stood up and left us.
For a moment, Toby and I sat in silence.
“Now I understand why La Gaite felt so eerie when we were there,” Toby said. “It really is a ghost town.”
“I much prefer our version.”
Toby said nothing. He was staring at the Dissolving World.
“You know. A Wild West cabaret.”
The magician nodded absently. His eyes lost focus, and I knew he was no longer thinking about the future.
Twelve
In the three days since Piet had taken us into the Dissolving World, Toby’s skin had turned from its elegant alabaster to a pallid gray. From the moment he woke up and until dinner, he remained in the workroom, and often inside the box itself. Sometimes I sat at the worktable, listening to him rattling around in the finite space in the pagoda. Other times, a sudden silence told me he had slipped into a world of his imagining. At dinnertime, Toby would emerge, looking haggard. And when we went to bed, I knew that during the night I would lose him to the trick in Piet’s workshop.
One morning when Toby was still asleep, I sneaked into the workroom first, planning to intercept him when he arrived. After a few hours, he appeared in the door, a cold cup of coffee in one hand. His hair stood on end, and his shirt was buttoned erratically. He took one step toward the Dissolving World.
“No,” I said. “Not right now.”
“Mel, please.” Toby sat at the worktable. “You have no idea what it’s like.” He rubbed his hands together. “I see it over and over and can’t do anything.”
“What?” I knew the answer.
“I see you in the audience. I see myself looking at you. I see myself ignoring Greta until she’s jumped in front of me.” He paused. “I see her swift motion, the bullet flying, her collapsing at my feet. I can’t stop it. I can’t prevent it, but I can watch it.”
“Stop looking. It’s simple.”
“I can’t.”
“You’ll have to.”
The magician shook his head.
“At some point, you will.”
“Piet said that it could take us back. But I’m just watching the same reel rewind again and again. I can’t get there.”
“What happens if you get there?” I asked.
“I can save her.”
We sat in silence for a moment. “It’s only a trick, Toby. You’ll only save her inside an illusion.”
The magician stood up and approached the Dissolving World. “That will have to do.”
I shook my head. “Let’s get out of here. I’m going to visit Leo today, and you’re coming.”
Toby wrapped his hand around the gilded handle. “Just give me today.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. But give me one more day, and I’ll make it work.” He let go of the door and enveloped me in his arms. As he pressed his body to mine, I could feel a new angularity to his bones and an unnatural coolness to his skin. But when Toby kissed me, it was as if nothing had changed. His kiss sent me into the outside world, staying with me on my journey to Leo’s.
Piet told me that Leo lived in a small town not far from Amsterdam. He suggested that I ride his bike there, and if the weather changed, I could take the train back. The cold air stung my nose and burned my lungs as I took off down the cobbled street. I rode until I came to the Amstel River, then followed the bike path out of the city. Soon the last of the glass office buildings disappeared and I entered a small park shaken from its winter sleep by the sharp sunlight. Just beyond the park, the Amstel widened, breathing a sigh of relief at having escaped its city confines. The water glittered icy-clear and lay as flat as glass. Along this section of the river, enormous gated mansions and small thatched cottages lined the bank. Behind these, a dense woods obscured the freeway and the modern apartment buildings that ringed the city. Old-fashioned houseboats were anchored at the water’s edge. As I rode, I felt the river’s current urge me forward past a grand hotel, a riding school, and a charming pancake house that was serving late afternoon lunch to a group of women on a bicycle tour. I rode faster, willing to follow the river to the open mouth of the sea.
The farther I went down the Amstel, the further back in time I seemed to go, until I believed that I would arrive at the Dutch golden age—that is how this hidden section of the city appeared, like a painting by Nicolaes Maes or Jan Steen. Eventually, the path brought me into a large clearing, where a windmill watched over the river—its latticed blades dividing and organizing the unblemished sky.
Later, I came to the town Piet mentioned. I followed the magician’s directions until I came to an impressive wrought-iron gate onto which the words THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTH were welded in ornate script. Through a stand of fir trees, I could make out the roof of a large villa. I pressed the bell and waited. Olivia had said that Leo’s house was built by one of Holland’s great spice traders during the country’s golden age. It was foolish, but as I waited, I inhaled, hoping for a lingering note of cardamom or cinnamon. But all I smelled was the cold sting of damp November air and the pine-pitch of the trees.
In a few minutes, Olivia appeared. She was wearing overalls, clogs, and a long striped scarf that hung below her waist. “I’m so glad you made it,” she said, kissing me three times. “We’ve all been wondering when you’d come. How are the magicians?”
“Old.”
“Not your magician.” She laughed.
“Not yet,” I said. “I need a day off from their memories.”
Olivia looped her arm through mine. “Well, you should have come sooner.”
“You’re probably right. I get stuck in the past in Piet’s house, and it’s hard to leave. Then I look up and the day is over.”
Olivia turned and looked at the villa. “You’ve come to the perfect place. I’m cutting patterns now. For three-quarter-length shearling coats. Maybe later you can help me.” She pinched my arm. “You know, tell me what the fabrics say.”
“Of course,” I replied, wondering why I hadn’t indeed come sooner.
We followed a path through the pines and arrived in front of the villa. It was enormous—so wide, in fact, that standing in front of the main entrance, one found it impossible to take in the whole façade. The building was made of limestone, with bay windows stacked on top of one another and gabled windows protruding from the roof.
I started for the door.
“I’m going to take you around back,” Olivia said. “To the garden.”
I pulled my coat tighter against the chill.
“You’ll be warm, don’t worry.”
At the end of the path through the pines, Olivia opened a small wooden gate, admitting us to a lawn that led fro
m the back of the villa to the riverbank. In the middle of the lawn stood a bright yellow Bedouin tent. “The river runs along the property,” Olivia explained, pointing past the tent. “In the summer, there are swans, but now I don’t think you’ll see any.”
We had come to the tent.
“So, this is where I’m leaving you.” Olivia lifted the flaps and pinned them back.
“Someone will bring tea. Make yourself at home. Leo will be down soon or sometime, I forget which.”
I looked around, admiring the tent. It was made of hand-dyed and hand-painted canvas covered with exotic flowers. Although I couldn’t identify their species, the botanical detail was astounding. I leaned in close. The heavy fabric smelled like sunlight. But the music that rose from the canvas was like nothing I’d heard before. The songs of most fabrics tend to be generic, a Muzak version of swing or a medley of arias, but the tent sang a specific, highly individual composition of Eastern and Western music. The longer I listened, the more carefully arranged its music appeared to be—a series of movements that rose and fell with the twisting flowers.
After a while, I turned to examine the interior of the tent. The floor was covered with brightly colored rugs, hand-dyed in wild approximation of Berber style. These rugs were also draped over two wooden chairs that stood below the tent’s peak. Between the chairs was a low Moroccan table made of hammered metal. Two humming heat lamps emitted a pleasant orange glow and warmed the interior.
I sat in one of the chairs. It was surprisingly comfortable. Beneath it, I discovered a small footstool. With my feet on the stool and my head against the high back of the chair, my gaze slipped over the lawn and down to the river, where the water was perfectly framed by two tall pines. With half-closed eyes, I watched the winter-gray water for a while. Then I shut my eyes and let the warmth of the heaters, the colorful rugs, and the painted walls carry me off.