by Ivy Pochoda
After a few months in Amsterdam, the heat of Las Vegas at lunchtime takes me by surprise. On the Fremont side, there are no air-conditioned walkways and skyways to take you between buildings—no trams or shuttles to save you from the sun. Only five minutes after leaving the covered esplanade, my sundress is drenched. I’m struggling back toward the heart of the Strip. I take a glance at the insistent sun and realize that I need a break.
The Stratosphere, the casino on the Strip closest to Fremont Street, has nothing more going for it than its looming space age tower—a haven for thrill seekers, romantics, and the occasional suicide. I had passed this casino many times on my way to watch Toby’s show at the Castaway without ever being tempted to enter. Now, the promise of air-conditioning lures me into its lobby.
The interior of the Stratosphere resembles an airport terminal more than a glitzy venue to drop cash and press your luck. Maybe its allure increases as you ascend the tower, passing swimming pools and wedding chapels suspended high above the Strip. I buy a ticket for the observation deck and ride the elevator over a thousand feet in the air. The view does not thrill me. The tower is so much taller than the rest of Vegas that my eyes pass over the Strip, leading me to the suburban sprawl that runs toward the murky mountains in the distance. Looking down from the Stratosphere, Las Vegas is an array of drab concrete structures, skeletal buildings, and vast parking lots.
The crowd on the observation deck is divided into two groups—those intent on capturing this strange panorama on rolls of film, and nervous adventurers waiting in line to ride the world’s highest roller coaster. The roller coaster is often closed due to high winds, but today the desert air is stagnant. It seems to suck the chatter out of my fellow tourists on the observation deck, muting their exclamations into silence. The only sound is the intermittent rush and roar of the roller coaster shooting over its rails.
As I peer out over the city and the desert beyond, I’m struck by the dizzying uniformity to the outskirts of Vegas—indistinguishable communities clustered so tightly, I cannot imagine how, if I were set down in one of them, I could find my way out. I begin to walk the circumference of the tower until I’m looking in the direction of Tonopah. I squint, teasing out the northwesterly road Toby and I first traveled together. I concentrate as hard as I can, trying to impose the memory of our meeting onto the world in which I’m currently standing. I conjure the image of the magician’s beaten minivan, the desolate road where he found me, the splintered charm of the Old Stand Saloon. I run my fingers over the back of my hand where Toby first touched me.
As I’m looking over the desert, I feel the edge of my vision start to blur. The sharp diagonals of the highways ripple. The border of towns and mesas shake. I grip the handrail and prepare myself for the same heady swirl of plummeting through the Dissolving World. My knees buckle, and I’m ready to fall to the deck.
Then Toby catches me. “I’m guessing heights are not your thing.”
It’s a moment before I can speak. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s quite a coincidence bumping into you here.”
The magician leads me away from the railing. “Do you know better?”
“Because magicians don’t believe in coincidence.”
Toby gives me a strange look, then smiles. “You’re right.” He winds his fingers through mine. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“And you had an inkling that I’d be hanging around the Stratosphere tower?”
The magician shakes his head. “I’m afraid psychic ability is far outside my powers. I followed you.” He pauses, waiting for my displeasure. But all I do is smile. “Then I lost you somewhere in the depths of Fremont Street. I hung around the esplanade until you emerged.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Toby bites his lip. “Nerves. I want everything to be perfect. Like last night.”
I want to tell him that is impossible. But he has a look that suggests he’s poised for disappointment. “I wanted to ask you to be my guest at a private show tomorrow. But I couldn’t wait until then to see you.”
“Did you consider leaving a note or using the phone?”
Toby shakes his head. “Too simple.”
I am about to say yes, but manage to restrain myself. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
I glance over the panorama. “If you let me take you somewhere first.”
“Where?”
I’m not going to tell. We step into the elevator, and my stomach rises as we slide back down to earth.
I don’t let the magician know how relieved I am to see his beat-up brown minivan, that he has not left it to rust at the edge of the desert. As I climb into the passenger’s seat, Toby looks over at me. “Seems odd to see someone riding shotgun.”
“I don’t believe I can be the first.” I crack the window. It’s what I’m supposed to say.
“Magic doesn’t leave much room for relationships. Especially my kind.”
“Of magic or relationships?”
The magician laughs. “I was thinking magic. But that might change.”
“You’re going to change your magic?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe slightly.”
“Why now?” I ask, as if I’ve known Toby forever.
“I’m tired of banishing things.”
Toby puts the car into drive and slides from the parking lot onto the Strip. I direct him out of town, in the opposite direction from the suburban sprawl I’d seen from the Stratosphere.
“Magic is a lonely business. Can you imagine what it was like being a magician in high school?”
I fiddle with the door lock.
“Magic cut me off from my stepmother, my classmates. And then when I went to circus school, I discovered that my kind of magic cut me off from my peers.” We come to the end of the Strip and roll past the famous Las Vegas sign. I crane my neck to see the Laughing Jackalope Motel shrink into the distance. “Loneliness is part of what we do. It’s our job to make things disappear.”
“But you are supposed to find them, too.”
Toby nods. “I wish it were that simple.” He presses on the accelerator, and with a familiar shudder, the van picks up speed. “It is also a magician’s job to pretend a certain cruelty or danger on stage—to make people believe that we are cutting our assistants in half, shooting them, or impaling them on spikes.”
“Fake danger.”
“Usually.” Toby exhales a slow and steady breath. “Last night, something changed. It wasn’t supposed to happen that way, the volunteer jumping out in front of me.”
“Greta?”
“You know her.”
“Not really.”
“I’d seen her around. I guess you could say she was a fan of mine. Came to a bunch of my small shows.” The familiar static creeps into his voice. “She’s supposed to stay put, stay behind me. Her presence is just a gimmick to highlight the trick’s potential danger. Then she jumped.” He shifts his grip on the steering wheel. “My magic is all about potential, the potential of anything to be anywhere at any given time. Mastering possibilities is what excites me. But this girl, she interfered. And instead of ruining my show, everything slid into place. It was as if I had been waiting for this moment. Sometimes my hands act unbidden, but this was different.” He pauses. “Do you know what happened?”
I do. Sort of. But I want to hear it from Toby.
“Someone cried out in the audience.” He turns to me and smiles. “You. And then I reached out and caught the bullet. Not caught it. Withdrew it.” He draws out these last two words. “It was as if you were telling me to do so.” Toby’s voice changes, becoming confident. “I must sound ridiculous.”
“No.”
“Then I ran into you at that classy bar, and things sort of fell into place.”
I know now that if I tell Toby that I cannot stay with him, I will break his heart. If I tell him I’m going to leave, will he follow?
“I’ll never top last night’s performance. And I c
an’t shake the feeling that somehow you made it possible.”
“I can’t imagine how.”
“Neither can I. But if you hadn’t called out, maybe…” Toby’s voice trails off as he imagines the scene I’ve replayed in my head hundreds of times. “So,” the magician continues, his voice bright, “where are you taking us?”
Us. The word sounds fantastic, full of settled possibility. “I’m not telling.”
We stop at a trading post by the small highway and pick up some food. Kachina dolls by local artists are arrayed on shoddy display cases. While the shopkeeper hunts for a bag for our groceries, Toby makes two of the dolls circle each other in a ceremonial dance. The dolls rattle the shelves as they settle back into place.
The shopkeeper looks up, his eyes flashing with disapproval.
“Too much?” Toby asks.
“Maybe you shouldn’t mess with ceremonial objects.”
The magician accepts the groceries with a smile that is not returned.
We continue down the dusty highway.
“Still no hint?” Toby asks as his fingers reach for mine over the shift.
I shake my head. I’m starting to worry that the blue ranch house will no longer be there. Or that someone has moved their life into our place. I’m worried most of all that imposing my memory of the ranch house onto this reality will make me seasick, as I was on the Stratosphere tower.
The van rattles over the uneven dirt, shaking as it hits ruts and rocks. The little blue house comes into sight. Again, I’m struck by its improbable color—a flash of cornflower—framed by two rusty mesas. I can tell that Toby is captivated by the house’s improbable charm, just as he was the day we accidentally discovered it.
We try the front door. It’s unlocked.
“What is this place?” Toby asks as we step into the strangely cool interior.
“Somewhere I’d once planned to live.”
The house is empty, but not barren. Plates, cutlery, and glassware are stacked neatly in their cabinets. Dish towels hang from a rack along the wall. The immaculate silence reminds me of our visit to Toby’s childhood home inside the Dissolving World—a sensation of otherworldly abandonment. The only difference since my last visit here is that the fabrics no longer sing to me.
“You changed your mind?”
“Something like that.”
“Do you think you’ll change it again?” Toby drums his fingers along the table.
I shake my head. “I love this place.”
“So—”
“It’s hard to come back.”
Toby walks into the living room. The green floral couch and matching La-Z-Boy are still there. He sits on the couch and stares out the window at the two mesas. “It’s like another world here, as if Las Vegas doesn’t exist.” The magician looks around the room. “Living here would make sense. You should reconsider.” He nods and pats the space next to him on the couch—the same gesture he’d made on our first morning at the Laughing Jackalope Motel.
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I don’t stay in one place for long.”
“Because you’re a traveling textile consultant.”
I smile at this simple explanation. “Something like that.”
Toby loops one of his long arms around my shoulder and pulls my head onto his collarbone. “I feel so comfortable here. Like I’ve been here before.” Then he swallows hard. “You’re not seriously thinking of leaving town, are you?”
“I think I have to.”
“But we’ve only just met.”
“I’ve heard that love and magic don’t mix.”
Toby gives me a strange, thin smile. He shrugs. “I used to believe that. Until last night.” He releases my shoulder and pulls away from me so he can look into my eyes. He takes my hands in his. “Ever since I discovered I could do magic, I’ve been searching for the perfect trick. My stepfather, Ernest, was an anatomist. I would hang about his office, staring into the jigsaw of blood and flesh and bone and wonder what form of magic could reassemble what he had meticulously taken apart.” He squeezes my fingertips, causing small bubbles to rise into the air. “Unlike other magicians, my illusions are real. If a traditional conjurer pretends to cut a woman in half, he is pretending to put her back together. Of course, there is no pretending in my magic. This is why I don’t cut assistants in half or shoot them from cannons.” Toby presses my hands tighter. “Which is not to say I haven’t been tempted. But last night, simply by accident, I performed the perfect trick. I didn’t catch that bullet in time. I reversed it. I accidentally created and subverted actual danger onstage. I saved that girl’s life. In my Vegas debut.” Toby is beaming. “No magic trick will ever top that.” He leans forward and kisses my cheek. “I’m never going to try. That trick will live in everyone’s memory. A perfect moment never to be relived again.”
“You wouldn’t want to repeat or revisit it?”
Toby shakes his head. “It was the moment I’d been searching for since my childhood. A moment of purest magic. So, what I’m wondering is, now that this has happened, would you consider staying here in Vegas with me. I’m tired of banishing things. I’d like to do a less lonely form of conjuring.”
I stand up quickly so Toby cannot see my tears. How can our happiness hinge on the outcome of a single magic trick? But in this reality and in the other, this is what Toby believes. He sounds so earnest and sure of himself. But magic will win eventually, carry him off, just as the water summoned Max.
I cross to the opposite side of the room. When something goes wrong this time around, I wonder what moment Toby will wish to return to. Will he come back to the day we met, or will he revisit to the scene of his perfect trick? I might be fooling myself, but I try to imagine that Toby will return to me, if only in a world of his magic.
“I’ll think about it” is my answer.
If Toby is disappointed, he doesn’t let it show.
As the afternoon slides into evening, I decide to forget that I am a stranger in this place conjured by Toby. I want to enjoy the ranch house and the mystical mesas. I never got the chance before. Our future is now telescoped to this single afternoon. I draw Toby to his feet and lead him out into the desert behind the house. We walk through the sand, planning the future. We discuss the best place to install a picnic table and a cactus garden. We imagine our desert life, which seems to be unfolding quickly. Toby enchants me with details. He lures me into designing new curtains for the living room. We plan to rearrange the bedroom, so the view from the bed is of the sand, not the television. We decide to swap the smoked glass window in the bathroom for a clear pane.
Soon the sun is slipping between the mesas. Tentacles of black stretch out across the desert, creating pictographs in the sand. Toby sits at my side. We stare toward the mesas, at the place children believe is haunted by animal spirits. As I spread out the picnic, the pictographs begin to dance. They circle and weave; then they melt into the sand and emerge as new shapes. They steal toward our feet, curious explorers, then timidly vanish, only to reappear at a safe distance. As we eat, the pictographs rise from the sand, briefly forming into three-dimensional shapes. I recognize the spirits and creatures from the crafts sold at the side of the road. They last for only a moment, a beautiful two-step dance, before collapsing back into the desert.
When this dance is done, it is night. Toby stands up and draws a large circle in the sand with the toe of his shoe. I am at the center. He returns to my side and sits. As he does so, the circle bursts into low flames, protecting and illuminating us. We uncork another bottle of wine and drink in silence. The only sound is the low crackle of the flame and the scratch and snuffle of curious desert animals approaching the ring of fire.
Eventually the flames go out. I sense the magician readying for his next trick. I stop him. But I want something more. We return to the house and fluff the pillows on the bed. I pull back aside the drapes, so the desert stars shine into the window. We lie down side by side. I switch on the TV. The local news flicke
rs to life. Toby and I link hands as the newscaster takes us on a tour of Vegas’s minor happenings. We watch in silence, as if we had done this always.
The news fades away. Toby wraps his fingers over my shoulder and pulls me on top of him. The television is forgotten. He places his lips on mine, and I fully expect that his kiss will be magical, that I’ll be carried away, lifted up to the stars or laid down on the distant mesas. But we stay in this room, on top of the buttercup bedspread. For the first time, I feel the full weight of the magician’s body as we roll over the covers.
I am starting to fall asleep in the hollow of Toby’s collarbone. I can feel the magician slide into his dreamtime conjuring, the semiconscious twitch of his fingers summoning long-forgotten objects. I lift my head. “Toby? Have you ever heard of a magic trick call the Dissolving World?”
He shakes his head. He’s falling back asleep.
“I’ve heard that it’s a perfect trick.”
He’s awake now, his eyes clear, his lips tense.
I rummage through my bag for the playbill I carried from Piet’s.
Toby takes the paper from my hands. “Looks like any old box to me.”
I snuggle back into his shoulder. “It can take you into any world you imagine, if only for a moment.” I sit up in bed, wrap an arm around Toby, and pull his head onto my stomach. I comb my fingers through his tangled black hair, shaking out grains of sand. I tell him everything I know about Theo, Piet, and the Dissolving World. I finish my story. I feel Toby’s jaw tense. Then I add, “I’ve heard that certain magicians can make this trick happen without the box itself. Who knows.”
Toby exhales.
“That is magic I’d love to see.” I close my eyes, willing my dreams to come. Toby stretches out next to me. I can tell that it will be a long while before he falls asleep.
Toby only half listens to me as we drive back to Vegas. His mind is lighting on mesas, running alongside the riverbank of his youth, flying over the roads that carried him out West. Every once in a while, he reaches over and pats my hand, reassuring me of his presence, if not his attention. He lets me off in front of the Winter Palace, barely finding time to kiss me and make a comment about preparing for his private show this evening. Then his eyes find mine, and he’s with me once more.
