The Art of Disappearing

by Ivy Pochoda

  Then I hear a familiar voice. “You getting up, or what?”

  I look from the frozen clouds to the girl standing in front of me. It’s Greta in her shredded peasant outfit. We’re in the Winter Palace.

  “Too much to drink?” the teenage waitress scoffs. “And it’s so early.”

  “What happened?”

  “She wants to know what happened? One minute you’re, like, holding your drink. The next, you’re taking my tray down with you.” She narrows her eyes and peers at me. “Hope the carpet’s all right.”

  “It’s stain-resistant.”

  My forehead is tender from my fall. I can feel a small bump. What was it that Eva said on top of that mesa? You can’t bang your head against a dream, and if you scream, you wake up. Of course, this is no dream, and I wonder how to find Toby inside his trick.

  “So, you gonna sit there all day?” Greta asks, not helping me to my feet. “You better not cause a scene over here. I need this job. I won’t be fired because you can’t handle a drink.” She looks over her shoulder at someone approaching through the parting crowd. Sandra.

  The Winter Palace manager appears in front of me, her face a mixture of pity and condescension. She’s a cloud of perfume, champagne, and voile.

  “Mel, get up.” Sandra offers me her perfectly manicured hand. She’s not wearing the dress I helped her pick out, but something brassier. “You can’t be lying around. And in that outfit. This is VIP.”

  I’m on my feet. Despite the artificial cold of the Winter Palace, I’m having trouble breathing. “Quick,” Sandra says in her stage whisper, “get into my office. Change into something suitable.” She hands me her key card. In an instant, she’s gone, leaving me with Greta.

  Greta is about to walk away. “Greta.”

  She stops and give me a confused look. “Yeah?”

  “There’s going to be a magician, right?”

  She shrugs. “You just passed out in public, and you’re worried about a magician.”

  I make my way to Sandra’s office, searching for Toby as I go. People are giving me strange looks. I guess, being dressed for a Dutch winter day, I don’t exactly blend into a swanky Vegas crowd. Sandra’s office is a tornado of discarded heels, dresses, and costume jewelry. I see the dress I helped her select from the mall at Caesar’s discarded on the back of her chair. I rummage through the clothes. Most of the dresses are sateen, and their colors are strictly SoCal or Key West. If I had the time to listen, I’m sure they’d all be singing the chorus of a Jimmy Buffet song. I’m looking for fit rather than style, which leads me to a orange-coral knee-length number. It has spaghetti straps and tiny crystals along the bodice. I put it on and feel like I’ve wandered off from an Under the Sea prom night.

  The opening party is flowing from the lobby into the Hermitage Salon. The shoulder-height vases bursting with hyacinths smell extraordinary. The motorized sledges whirl through the shopping promenade, carrying tipsy revelers bundled underneath the faux fur throws. Fireworks explode from the onion domes. A folk music trio in Cossack dress moves through the crowd. I look everywhere for Toby. Waitresses give me canapés. Another champagne flute winds up in my hand.

  Sandra is at my side once more. She plucks the strap of my dress. “That’s better. You look like one of us.” She’s riding high on a tide of champagne and adrenaline.

  “Sandra, is Toby performing?”

  “Toby?”

  “The magician?”

  “Oh, honey. Of course he’s performing.” She holds up her champagne glass and gestures around the room. “Why do you think all the ladies are here?”

  I step back to avoid being doused with Sandra’s drink.

  “But believe me, you’re gonna have to wait in line for his time, hon.”

  “I need to talk to him before the show.”

  Sandra gives me a look that lets me know I’m about to embarrass myself and her again. “Grab a drink and relax. I can’t imagine a magician needs to be disturbed before his big Vegas debut.” Now Sandra’s voice becomes all business. “The carpets,” she says, pressing the toe of her cream-colored shoe into the pile, “are they holding?”

  “So far,” I reply, my voice small and distant in my own ears.

  The party continues. Everything is a little brighter and merrier than I remember. The champagne seems to pop with iridescent sparkles. Music pours from the speakers, inspiring the guests to tap their toes. Suddenly, a Russian juggling troupe bursts onto the floor and begins to toss their batons. The crowd parts, delighted by the flying sticks and balls, some of which are now on fire. Almost before the juggling is complete, guests shuffle toward the Hermitage Salon. I follow. Peering over the bare shoulder of a woman in a sultry cocktail dress, I see members of the St. Petersburg Orchestra playing as they arrive on the artificial ice in sledges.

  The crowd’s exuberance swells as an impromptu snowstorm gusts through the salon. I need to find Toby or Greta. I’m stuck, wedged in a sea of dresses, tuxedos, and cocktails as the tiny artificial flakes pour from the ceiling. The crowd looks up as snow covers everyone with a sparkly sheen.

  I push my way through the crowd and begin to search for Toby. Instead, I find Greta sneaking a cigarette near the Red Square pub.

  “Looks like you pulled yourself together,” she says as I approach.

  “I wouldn’t smoke in that outfit,” I reply.

  “Yeah? And I wouldn’t pass out at six P.M. Guess some people shouldn’t drink.”

  I try to stay calm. “I didn’t pass out.”

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Listen, Greta…”

  “I barely know you, so stop calling me that. Anyway, it’s not Greta. It’s Paula.”

  “Sure, Paula. The magician—,” I begin.

  She extinguishes her cigarette. “Yeah, sure, the magician. What do you care? You wanna get cut in half or something?”

  “Me?”

  Greta shrugs. “Lots of people volunteer for stuff like that.”

  I look down at her bodice, where I expect a bloodstain to blossom. “What about you?” I ask.

  Greta laughs. “Yeah, right. His show bores me. I came to town ’cause I thought he’d do something cool. If I see another card trick, I’ll puke.”

  “Good,” I say, helping myself to a drink from the tray Greta abandoned.

  “What do you care?”

  I consider my glass. “Because magic is overrated.”

  Greta shakes her head. Teenagers always know better. “Nah. It’s ’cause you want to volunteer yourself.”

  I finish the drink. “Not at all.”

  Greta smirks. “Right. We’ll see if you get the chance.”

  Before I can respond, a fanfare bursts from the speakers, followed by an announcement proclaiming the arrival of the magician. I’m back at the gambling pits just in time to see Toby jump onto the blackjack table. He’s not wearing the coat I’d sewn for him, but his black Western shirt. He reaches down and gives a hand up to his assistant, who alights next to him. It’s hard to tell, but I’m pretty sure it’s the girl Sandra recommended from the Rio.

  It’s the same show Toby put on months ago. This time around, he seems more self-confident, adding a little swagger and wink to his tricks. As usual, the women are thrilled. They find his silence alluring. They lean forward, hoping he will say something as he brings the frozen fountain to life. They look jealously at the assistant as she’s levitated above their heads. A few catcalls disrupt the cocktail chatter.

  I’m trying to keep an eye on Greta. She’s standing a few feet in front of me, chewing gum and looking bored. Not doing her job with the tray of cocktails. Now Toby begins to introduce his final trick. The assistant holds up the card reading CATCH ME IF I FALL. She displays the gun for the audience. Then she asks for a volunteer. A dozen manicured hands shoot up. Mine joins them. And then something catches the corner of my eye: Eva. She gives me a look, her eyes telling me that we’ve been here before. And in this instant, Toby makes his
choice.

  Her. Greta. And again, that settles it. She allows Toby to help her onto the blackjack table. This time, he holds up her arm, and she pirouettes for the crowd. Then with a small curtsy, she takes her place behind Toby.

  Toby ties the blindfold over his eyes. Greta looks out over the audience, proud and aloof. Then she holds her head up. She’s the star. The showgirl aims the gun, and Toby braces himself. I know this part. I’ve seen it in my head, in my dreams, projected onto car windows, and in the place of television shows. The showgirl pulls the trigger. The magician recoils. The bullet is transformed into flower petals.

  I step closer. The showgirl raises the gun for the second time. The crowd holds its breath. The shot rings through the gambling pits. The magician staggers slightly, but remains standing. Coins rain down onto the blackjack table. The spectators exhale and shift their feet.

  Then I hear the woman next to me praise the showgirl for her daring. Her voice is liquor-loud and floats above the audience. She points and shakes her head in admiration. Greta scowls at her, then at the showgirl. This is her show. The showgirl lifts the gun. I see Greta stand up straighter, thrusting her shoulders back. The assistant is about to pull the trigger.

  “No.” My voice pierces the heavy silence. “Don’t.”

  Without dropping the gun, the showgirl looks at me. Toby’s nose and lips are motionless. I imagine that he is pleased. His illusion is complete. The danger seems even more real.

  Behind me, I hear someone whisper, “There’s always one who falls for it.”

  Greta shuffles her feet. Toby cocks his head to one side, noticing this adjustment. The showgirl’s finger tenses around the trigger once more. And then, as I knew she would, Greta leaps. She’s in front of the magician. She recoils, just as Toby reaches in front of her chest. The crowd gasps, then holds a collective breath. With one arm supporting Greta, Toby raises his free hand. Between his thumb and forefinger is a bullet. He holds it out to the crowd. A single drop of blood falls to the stage. I look at the bodice of Greta’s peasant outfit, where a tiny bloodstain, no bigger than a penny, is quickly disappearing from view.

  The magician lifts Greta to her feet and whips off his blindfold. His face is a mixture of shock and elation. Greta wants to take a bow, but Toby cuts her short, ushering her off the table as quickly as he can. She walks into the crowd as Toby fingers the bullet she’d wanted for herself.

  The tide of relief that hits me as I watch Greta walk away from this show nearly wipes me off my feet. Maybe Toby was right—by saving Greta, we will save ourselves. I want to rush to him and congratulate him, but he is hidden behind a wall of women. They are circling him, holding their cocktails like weapons to fend off one another. I know the look on Toby’s face. He’s barely registering these women. His mind is wandering far above the Winter Palace, reliving the tragedy he’s just prevented and the show he’s just pulled off. I know he’s thinking about what comes next, what pathway his magic will open for him. And for the first time in ages, I want to follow.

  I push through the crowd.

  “Toby,” I say quietly. “You saved her.”

  His eyes narrow.

  Sandra rolls her eyes and shares a knowing glance with everyone but me. “Oh, Mel, here, thinks that stunt wasn’t planned.”

  Everyone laughs except Toby, who’s still giving me an odd look, one that seems to say I’ve let on more that I should. “I’m sorry,” I say, stepping away.

  “Poor Mel,” Sandra continues. “She was the one who tried to stop the trick in the middle. Thought she was saving a life!” She shakes her head. “Mel, honey, magic isn’t real.”

  It’s clear that Sandra wants to get rid of me. “Toby,” she says, “I don’t think you’ve met Mel, our fabric consultant. I’m sorry,” she adds with a knowing look at her friends, “textile consultant.”

  Toby takes my hand. He blinks and shakes his head, trying to dislodge a memory. As if, somehow, I might have got stuck in a forgotten corner of his imagination. Then he gives me his showman’s smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mel.” Toby lets go of my hand and accepts another glass of champagne. As our hands fall away, the scenery we passed from Tonopah to Amsterdam rewinds and vanishes. Sandra’s saying something to Toby. As they talk, the magician looks at me, but only for an instant. Then his attention is elsewhere. This is his reality. I am only a visitor.

  I go back to the pits, watching the women fawn over Toby. He’s enjoying the disaster he’s turned into triumph. Now I know the answer to the question Eva asked me on top of the mesa. This is the loneliest I’ve ever been. I’d rather just be alone. But alone doesn’t exists in Vegas. I’m lost inside Toby’s trick with no idea of where I belong. And no idea of how to escape. I don’t trust my surroundings, not even the fabrics I chose and refurbished. I look around at the once-familiar setting of this casino. Now I notice small adjustments. A fountain sits in a different corner. The garden has been planted with different flowers. The motorized sledges are frosted with fake snow. What else had changed in Toby’s world? How many infinitesimal alterations and huge divergences has the magician created in order to save one teenager? Why can’t I be by his side in the world where he succeeds?

  I stand in the grand entrance of the Winter Palace, watching the sledges circle on their tracks, carrying tipsy partygoers who trail champagne in their wakes. Toby’s name is everywhere. The partygoers are intoxicated by his performance—the heady thrill of the inexplicable adding to their substantial buzz.

  I realize that I’ve been standing in one place for too long, neither drinking nor mingling. My immobility is drawing looks from the passersby. I’m ready to move, when I feel a sweaty palm wrap around my wrist.

  “Mel Snow.”

  Swenson smells like a week’s worth of nights out. “Jim Swenson.”

  He steps back and smiles, then sucks more whiskey from his glass. “I thought you’d know me.” Swenson shakes his head. “You see, I don’t know you. According to me, we’ve never met before. But I think you’d tell a different story.”

  I yank my wrist free from his meaty grip.

  “Eva told me to keep an eye out for you. She had an idea you might be here. Whoever you are.”

  “Well, here I am.”

  “But you ain’t supposed to be.” Swenson cracks an ice cube. “Eva tells me you’re another victim of Toby’s magic.”

  I shake my head.

  “Eva’s not in the business of lying.”

  “If you’ve never met me, you won’t understand who am I and what I’m doing here.”

  Swenson shrugs, making his leather blazer creak. He rattles the remaining ice in his glass. “Maybe so. All I know is that your magician’s up to no good again. Probably gonna hurt you or someone else like he did Eva.”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, there’s an offer for you on the table here.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Me and Eva are heading up a new show. She’s got a knack for fortune-telling. I’m always on the lookout for more color.” He pats my shoulder. “You know.”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply, stepping away.

  Swenson sucks air through his teeth. “Once Toby crashes and burns—and don’t worry, it’ll happen. Over and over from what I’ve heard. Once he crashes, I’ll be the next big thing.”

  “I doubt it,” I say, and leave.

  I exit the casino, walking against the tide of late arrivals. Fireworks are erupting from the onion domes over my head, and camera flashes are popping as more Vegas royalty makes its way down the red carpet. I hit the Strip, push past the tourists gawking at the spectacle of the Winter Palace’s opening. In my time in Amsterdam, I’d forgotten the artificial vitality of Las Vegas, the nonstop flow of people, traffic, noise, and light. I’m easily and happily lost in this melee. The press of people in either direction erases the panicked loneliness summoned by Toby’s imagination. I want to cocoon myself in the sound and energy of the Strip.

  I walk until I co
me to one of the hard-partying casinos, where gambling takes second place to all-night drinking and dancing. I take the escalator through the music-themed lobby and find a bar called the Double Down Saloon, where patrons pay a premium for the Western dive-bar honky-tonk experience. It’s the customers who provide the evening’s entertainment, jumping on barrels and shaking it for the crowd in exchange for a free shot of whiskey or riding the mechanical bull with a cropped T-shirt as their reward.

  In Sandra’s dress, I look as if I’ve been left behind by a bridal party. But inside the Double Down, no one notices. Clearly, this is the sort of place a bridesmaid might come to drown her sorrows or seek comfort in the arms of someone other than the best man. Countrypolitan music is blasting from dozens of speakers, and tribes of women are hooting and hollering along, throwing imaginary lassos into the air. The crowd is a mix of Midwesterners out on hen night and hardcore cowgirls in up-to-there cutoffs, leather halters, and cowboy boots that look as if they might kill. College boys, taking in this controlled experiment in wilding women, lurk in the background, calculating their moment of approach.

  A bullhorn goes off. Someone has just fallen off the mechanical bull. I’m about to order my drink when the bartender throws a shot of whiskey in front of me. Then she points overhead to a sign—HOOTENANNY HAPPY HALF HOUR 9–9:30 P.M. NO WHINING JUST WHISKEY. I throw back the shot in one gulp. Another appears. I’m about to pay, when a man in a business suit places a twenty on the bar. “Looks like you needed those. My treat.” As I’m going to thank him, a new song comes on, and the crowd begins a line dance.

  I don’t know the moves, and my dress is a little tight in the thighs for this sort of dancing, so I work my way to an empty corner of the bar, where I find a table made from a reproduction wagon wheel surrounded by barrels turned into stools. I sit and lean my head against the wall, letting the rush from the whiskey subside. The stomping of the line dancers and the rhythmic music become my heartbeat. I watch the crowd step, slide, and spin. Will this world become my reality? Will I become carefree enough to join in? Or, like Eva, will I be buffeted from one place to the next, too removed or insecure to stay for long?