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

of gables to where lighted bridges were reflected in the Amstel River. Far above the neon advertisements, the clattering trams, and the tacky department stores, Amsterdam still looked like a fairy-tale city.

Then the wheel pitched forward and began to accelerate. Toby stopped talking and grabbed my hand, allowing me to consider the scenery. The sky fell away as we plummeted downward. The windows of the department store and the wax museum directly in front of the wheel went out of focus. The palace on the west side of the square dissolved into an abstraction of brown and gray. The erratic lights and wind-up music of the carnival below swam past in quick flashes that reminded me of the fluorescent flares of deep-sea fish that Max had once shown me.

As the wheel spun, I could feel Toby relax and let his body slump against mine for the first time in days. I lost sight of the river. I leaned over the safety bar, trying to glimpse the water, but all I saw was a whirl of lights. And then we were back at the top of the ride. I looked down along Amsterdam’s main street and let my gaze turn east, searching for the river. But the primary north-south street had changed. The tram tracks had vanished, and so had the shop windows. Instead of reaching the river, the street—now more like a road—disappeared into a horizon that was no longer bounded by the city. I thought I saw a brothel at one end and a saloon in the middle.

“Tonopah,” I whispered. I looked at Toby. Then I squinted, trying to bring the horizon closer and see what lay at the road’s end. And for a moment, I thought I glimpsed the blue ranch house. The wheel rose over the crest, the road seemed to lengthen, its horizon pulled back into the distance, and the house vanished. Then Amsterdam appeared as it should. “But I thought you weren’t going to do magic.”

“It only lasts for a moment.”

Nine

For some people, the best way to get to know a city is through its restaurants. Others prefer nightclubs, parks, or a day of shopping and sitting in cafés. For me, it has always been through exploring used-clothing stores. In the same way that Toby was able to learn so much about Jacqui Masterson and Evelyn Langhorn by watching them from his stage, I can learn about people and places by rifling through racks of old clothes. Their wearers’ stories—but not their names—rub off on my fingers. Sometimes I’m able to discover something about a neighborhood’s history and its residents. I find clothes that have been separated by death and divorce. I listen to stories of first loves and forgotten cocktail parties.

Amsterdam was full of secondhand clothing vendors, from high-end consignment shops and hipster hangouts to local stores crammed with housecoats and junky jewelry. Old clothes speak to me. I could not wait to hear Amsterdam’s stories.

Toby and I wandered through the cobbled streets of Amsterdam’s Jordaan neighborhood, a district of family homes, art studios, and stores selling everything from antiques to junk. We paused in front of a shop window that contained a wild array of games. Hand-carved pieces, trapped in irresolvable challenges, faced off on strange boards. Toby squinted and leaned in close to the window. I saw two pieces from one of the games change position. The magician blinked, and a fresh card flipped over on a mysterious deck.

“I thought you didn’t do card tricks,” I said.

The magician smiled and squeezed my hand. Behind the window, two cruciform pieces danced in place.

I was about to urge Toby on, when a store across the street caught my eye. It was filled with clothes from the 1950s and early 1960s. The window display featured cat-eye glasses arranged on top of elegant hatboxes and suitcases. Airplane and train tickets were strung into streamers and hung like beaded curtains from the top of the window.

I left Toby staring at the games and stepped across the street. The store was split into two levels. The main floor was filled with garments in perfect condition—immaculate bouclé suits, fur-collared coats, and pink-sequined sheath dresses. I wandered around the top floor, trailing my hand across the racks. I paused, letting suits tell me of cruises on the Holland America Line, or whisper about the city’s post-war climate. There were photo-print dresses that mumbled something about jazz clubs and artist squats.

The downstairs was crammed with jumbled racks of funkier items. Here a poufy coral party dress gushed about a New Year’s party at the Hotel Europa, and a black velvet number worried that it had been mistaken for something that belonged in Amsterdam’s red-light district. I started browsing at the far end of the racks, fingering fraying crocheted dresses and pink swing coats with missing buttons. Soon my fingers latched on to a black velvet trapeze dress with a wide lace collar and long floppy lace cuffs. I pulled it out of the rack. I put my ear to the fabric and heard a familiar sixties pop tune. I closed my eyes and began to whistle along.

When I opened my eyes, a woman was standing in front of me. She was short, and her cropped hair was tipped with purple. Her features were small, almost elfin, and she wore a long deconstructed wool cardigan sweater and an enormous knit scarf. Beneath the scarf, a tattoo snaked up her neck. She stood with crossed arms, listening to me. I stopped whistling and felt myself blush. She laughed and extended a hand. She wore fingerless gloves, and her nails were painted green.

“Olivia,” she said.

I shook her hand. “Mel.”

Olivia took the dress from me. “I get it. It kind of makes you want to dance.” She spoke clear English, hardened with stiff Dutch consonants.

“I guess it does,” I said. “But not to my kind of music.”

“It’s got its own music?” Olivia held the dress away from