The Art of Disappearing by Ivy Pochoda (popular romance novels .txt) 📕

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.”

I took one of his hands in mine and massaged the deep crevices between his fingers. “They’re beautiful.”

“I didn’t want my classmates to see what I could do.” Toby laughed. “Then there was a year I barely used them at all. Right after I made my assistant disappear.”

I wrapped one of my hands over Toby’s to still its movement. I squeezed tight, bracing myself for his confession.

“It was an accident. A couple of years out of school, I shared a small circuit in the Four Corners area with a woeful magician, Jim Swenson. He called himself Swenson the Spectacular, but there was nothing remotely special about him. He could barely palm a dime.” Toby’s palm went cold inside my grip. “We had an assistant, Eva. Swenson wasn’t too happy when she and I got together. He was always jealous of my abilities, and his jealousy soon turned into mistrust.” Toby paused and exhaled. “I have never entirely understood how my magic works.” He looked at me, to see whether I was willing to follow him down a path paved with implausibility. He saw no resistance and continued. “When I was at school in California, I tried to mimic the style and methods of my classmates. But everything came too easily to me. I saw paths for conjuring where my peers saw blockades. When they needed to palm an object and substitute another, I could simply lose something into thin air and discover the necessary replacement in my hand.”

“How?” I asked.

“I’m not sure.” Toby closed his eyes. “The best explanation I can give is that, for me, the air contains hidden dimensions. It has pockets and caves. It’s like a maze waiting to be carved out of foam or sponge. I know this doesn’t make much sense. All I can say is that empty space is as big or as small as what you choose to fill it with. And many spaces prefer to exist out of plain sight.”

I nodded, although I didn’t quite understand.

“You see,” Toby said, returning to the middle of our suite, “there are endless patterns in the world that most people overlook. There are rhythms and pathways that are perfect for my magic. These unknown dimensions are what I find beautiful. They are untouched and unpolluted. They are mine. I consider them safe. By finding them, by paving and cultivating them, this is how I perform what you consider my tricks.” He took a deep breath. “Imagine the joy I felt the first time I carved my fingers through the air and discovered a place where I could transform one of my childhood blocks into a plant or an alcove where I could produce birds and rabbits to keep me company.” Now the magician smiled a smile that seemed to stretch back through time. Then he flopped back into the armchair. “Of course, I did my best to hide these methods from my classmates and later from Swenson. A year or so into our tour, Swenson started to suspect the extent of my abilities. He began whispering to Eva that I was dangerous. She ignored him.”

I let go of Toby’s hand and stood up and went to the minibar. I found a half bottle of white wine and poured two glasses. Toby took a sip and stared over the rim of the glass.

“It was supposed to be a simple trick: Here one minute, gone the next. I’d done it thousands of times before with statues, vases, flowers, even pets. I guess I never really thought about what would happen if I sent a person deep into the unseen labyrinth.” Toby spun his glass, transforming the wine from white to red. “Eva was a great assistant. She had this wild beauty that brought an element of danger and mystery even to Swenson’s magic.”

I sipped my wine, trying not to picture Toby’s beautiful girlfriend.

“I knew that Swenson and I were about to part ways. And I wanted to go out with a bang. That night was the first time that I didn’t hide my talent from him. The delight had been going out of my tricks. I hated masking the thrill I felt each time I uncovered a pathway or pocket of air along which I could move something. I was suffocating my art with artifice. You understand.”

“Yes,” I said. I sensed that hiding the true nature of his craft was like my plugging my ears to the textiles’ songs.

“I