I took the chair across from her. She moved like Meta—her gestures, her walk—and her voice sounded the same, but up close the resemblance ended. Lila’s eyes were narrower, her face more oval-shaped, her lips thinner. Clearly I had projected Meta’s features onto her. And yet, as with Maximus and Massimo, there was something about her that made me doubt my own eyes. “It isn’t you, then,” I murmured.
“Of course it’s me.”
“I’m Venetian, you know.”
She folded her hands on the table and averted her eyes.
“Have you ever been to Venice?” I asked.
“No. Why are you staring at me?” she said crossly.
“I’m a little confused.”
“Understandably so,” Maximus said, coming up behind me and patting me on the shoulder. “Perhaps by the end of this meal, Nicolò, things will be clearer.”
I was startled to see that he had a crow on his shoulder, which flew off to a perch across the room and remained planted there.
Maximus’s robe was velvet, with a fur collar. His turban was adorned with a pin in the shape of a lightning bolt. As he sat down at the head of the table, Ludwig entered with a Siamese servant girl named Soon-ji. She was wearing a silver sari and carrying a tray of steaming platters on her head. Her long hair was braided down her back. She had bells on her slippers identical to the bells the cats wore on their collars. In fact, she moved like a cat, lithe and self-possessed, with soft, precise steps. She had quick pale eyes, and small, alert ears that looked as if they could pick up sounds at a great distance.
The meal she served was unlike any I had encountered in Vienna, or anywhere else: red seaweed garnished with pickled radishes; black rice noodles and spotted mushrooms boiled in wine; grilled squid stuffed with flying fish roe; and yellow cherries sautéed in butter. The hot bread was laced with cinnamon and paprika. The goat cheese was coated with thyme honey. Instead of wine, Maximus drank vodka flavored with pomegranate, which I declined, opting for apple cider. I was already stimulated enough.
Maximus pointed at the crow. “His name is Téodor. He and his brethren outside are from the Carpathian Mountains, near the Laborec River. They are the most intelligent crows in Europe. They can understand human speech and do basic arithmetic. They can even fashion tools with which to build nests. Téodor is the cleverest of the lot. He was a part of my act for many years. On command, he would fly through an open skylight in the theater and bring back some object I had requested: a plum, a coin, a button, a blue or red stone—those are the colors he knows best. Now he is eleven years old, retired, dining on herring and grasshoppers, never confined in a cage. On occasion, two of his sons work with me. But neither is as good as Téodor.”
“He can do arithmetic?” I said.
“Téodor,” Maximus called out, “how many of us are dining here?”
The crow cocked his head and tapped the wall three times with his beak.
“How many candles does it hold?” Maximus asked, pointing at the candelabra.
Téodor tapped the wall eight times.
“Excellent, Téodor,” Maximus said. “Thank you.” Then he turned to me. “Convinced?”
“I am.”
“Good,” he said, putting a forkful of seaweed into his mouth. Noting that Lila, with downcast eyes, was neither speaking nor eating, he said, “Are you not hungry?”
She picked up her fork and toyed with a radish on her plate.
Maximus turned back to me. “Did you enjoy the performance tonight, Nicolò?”
“It was amazing.”
“Comparable to Massimo’s performances?”
“I have never seen him perform.”
“No? Did he not make it seem as if his beautiful villa were invisible? And perhaps you saw a statue that may, or may not, have come to life?”
I saw Lila was listening more carefully now. “How did you know that?” I said.
“Please. You might as well ask how I knew you were coming here tonight. My brother loves to show off—even more than me—so of course he did that business with his villa. It’s one of his favorite tricks.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. And I also have a half brother, Maximiano Grande, in Madrid, and another, Maxwell the Magnificent, in London. And there are my half brothers Maximiliaan in Amsterdam and Maksim in Saint Petersburg.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “All of them are magicians?”
He smiled. “What else would they be?”
“And their assistants?”
“What about them?” he replied, slicing himself a piece of cheese.
“Are they sisters as well?”
“No.”
“Why do you ask so many questions?” Lila blurted.
A cold glance from Maximus silenced her. “Nicolò is my guest,” he said. “Since you are neither hungry nor convivial, you may excuse yourself.”
“What?”
“With an apology …”
She was dumbfounded.
“That’s not necessary,” I said.
But she had already stood up and made an exaggerated bow in my direction. “I apologize,” she muttered, and left the room.
“She gets testy after a performance,” Maximus said.
“I’m sorry if I upset her.”
“It’s not you. She’s suspicious of strangers.”
“When I saw her onstage, she looked quite different.”
“Like someone you had met before,” Maximus said.
“Yes.”
“At Massimo’s house, perhaps.”
“Then you’ve been there,” I said.
“Not in the way you think.” He sat back and sipped his vodka. “Allow me to tell you a story. Contrary to what people think, magic is more about appearances than mystery: what you see, don’t see, think you’re seeing, and imagine you’ve seen. The best magicians are always balancing those four elements, trying to reorder and define reality by way of illusion. The only mystery they pursue is clarification, not obscurity. Mind you, I am not speaking of tricksters and sleight-of-hand artists, but the true magicians who descend in a direct line from the earliest Magi, the Persian astrologers and mathematicians who attempted to unlock the workings of the universe. They spoke a language called Median—passed down from an ancient tribe of that name—which survives to this day among the initiated.”
I wondered what he was getting at and why he was so at ease with me, as if I were a long-standing acquaintance and not a fifteen-year-old Venetian exile whom he had known for less than an hour.
“Imagine,” he continued, “that a magician had learned of a practice the Median Magi claimed was a commonplace: the ability to create a double. A doppelgänger. In ancient Egypt it was called a ka. In the Himalayan Mountains, a tulka. A separate entity, with the characteristics and abilities of the original person. Think of the possibilities for a magician: a double of himself, able to appear in two places at once. Emulating the Medians’ methods, this magician experimented for over a year, but in the end both succeeded and failed in spectacular fashion. He misread the ancient language, and miscalculated a key variable, and found that, rather than creating a flawless duplicate, he had ended up with two lesser versions of himself. Instead of a man with a double, he became someone who uneasily inhabited two different bodies. Everything about him had been cut in half: his appetites and perceptions, his strength and endurance. He had been diminished, not enlarged. He hadn’t even succeeded in imparting his own physical characteristics to the double: there were similarities, but the two could not be mistaken for one another. Putting modesty aside, this man had little doubt that, even so, he was still more powerful than most men at their peaks. And time would bear him out on that.”
I felt a chill run through me. “You’re talking about Massimo and yourself.”
“Am I?”
“Yet you make it sound as if it happened to other people.”
“I never said it did not.”
“So the double became a magician, t
oo.”
“Both halves of this man were already magicians. They each continued practicing their profession.”
“But in different countries.”
“That seemed the wisest course,” he said dryly.
“Do these magicians ever meet?”
“Never.”
“Exchange letters?”
“No.” He paused. “Occasionally they can share their thoughts. But that takes a great deal of effort.”
“And their memories?”
“Became separate when they separated. Their common memories blurred, and generally disappeared.”
“And your half brothers?”
“They really are my—our—half brothers. My father owned a traveling circus, quite celebrated in its time, and had a way with the ladies. During his long life he had a number of sons all across Europe.”
What he was telling me was incredible, but I believed him. I had already seen and heard enough, from him and Massimo, to convince me nearly anything was possible. The world of wealth and privilege to which I had been admitted—however provisionally—astounded me at times, but it was pedestrian compared to the world these magicians inhabited. I had so many questions for Maximus, but they all hinged on one paradox that I would first have to grasp, even if I could not explain it according to the laws of biology and physics: Massimo and Maximus were one and the same man, but they were also separate men.
“Nicolò,” Maximus said sharply, bringing me back to myself. “You needed to hear this, but we must move on to the real purpose of your visit here.”
“I’m sorry to contradict you, sir, but I came because I discovered this morning that a magician in this city possessed the same name as Massimo the Magnificent.”
“It’s true that is what brought you to my house,” Maximus replied, “but it’s not the reason you’re here. You’ve accomplished a great deal in a short time. They’re calling you the greatest clarinet soloist in Europe.”
“That’s my manager’s doing,” I said, trying to detect irony in Maximus’s voice, thinking he must know that I owed my success to Massimo.
“The newspapers seem to agree with Herr Hoyer,” Maximus said.
“Do you know him?”
“Yes, he is my business manager as well.”
Once again, he caught me by surprise. “So you knew about me before tonight?”
“Yes.”
No wonder Massimo had asked Hoyer to manage my career and help me settle in Vienna.
“Hoyer speaks glowingly of you,” Maximus went on. “But I didn’t know you would be attending my performance tonight.” He glanced at my plate. “You’re not hungry, Nicolò? Soon-ji will be disappointed to learn that I was the only one to partake of her meal.” He raised his glass. “To your health.”
The meal was indeed delicious, but I was so busy digesting Maximus’s conversation that it was difficult for me to enjoy the nuances of Soon-ji’s cooking.
After we ate the cherries, and drank white tea with honey, Maximus said, “You saw the flowers I am tending. They were grown from seeds I received as a gift from a Chinese magician named Yan when he visited Vienna. They can only be found in China, where they’re called mdn. Yan said they would bring me good fortune so long as I maintained one hundred of them at all times. They must be watered with four parts warm water, one part milk, and a teaspoon of cinnamon. Their nectar attracts hummingbirds and butterflies. But it is their petals that are unique. They have the power to enable you to see and hear someone important in your life who is in another place. It ought to be for a compelling reason. The information you obtain may be crucial to you. You must concentrate on this person, and it will be as if you are near them, as an observer, no matter how far away from here they are or what they are doing. So-called clairvoyants claim to be able to do such things in séances, but that is all a fake. After these flower petals are dried in sunlight, exposed to moonlight, and mixed with seawater, they are boiled down to a smooth liquid. You inhale its vapors and enter a kind of sleep in which you will find yourself transported. That is why you’re here,” he added quietly. “It doesn’t work for everyone: you must be able to concentrate, and also let yourself go. Would you like to try?”
“I would,” I said eagerly.
He rang his bell, and Ludwig and Soon-ji appeared, pushing a cart that held a large silver tureen. Engraved on the lid was a bolt of lightning. Ludwig placed the tureen before me, and he and Soon-ji left the room.
Maximus came around beside me. “Have you chosen the person?”
I nodded.
“Breathe,” he said, removing the lid from the tureen.
I looked down into a pool of black liquid. A thick, acrid vapor swirled upward. The more I inhaled it, the larger the pool grew and the farther from it I rose, until it appeared to be a lake, then an ocean. The vapor had turned into clouds, and I was drifting through them.
“How long will I be gone?” were my last words to Maximus. If he replied, I didn’t hear him, for I was already up in the sky, riding the wind, higher and higher, until the air thinned and my breath grew short, and I began to fall, slowly at first, then faster, through the layers of clouds, to the sea. At the last moment, I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I hadn’t plunged into the water, but to my astonishment was standing on the Riva degli Schiavoni, near the Ospedale della Pietà. I was at the very spot where I had been playing my clarinet for passersby when Luca stopped and invited me to audition for the Master.
I was in Venice, but it was unlike the Venice I knew. I heard the buzz of a crowd approaching on the promenade, but none appeared; heard oars plashing in the canal, where no boats were visible; heard scores of gulls screaming overhead, but saw only a single bird perched on a piling. I smelled fish from the stalls on the fishmongers’ pier, but the pier was empty. The statue of Fortune atop the Customs House had been replaced by a bronze skeleton wearing a crown. The copper roof was missing from the campanile on San Maggiore. In the colonnade at the Doge’s Palace, every other column was gone. I realized, in other words, that large swaths of the city were closed to my senses, their inhabitants as insubstantial as phantoms. The faces of the few people who came near me were blurred. The air was smoky, the light diffused. A ceiling of clouds hovered between the city and the sky. Distances were even more deceptive than usual: the Grand Canal appeared narrow where it ought to have been wide, and the Giudecca had receded, its buildings tiny on the horizon. A cold mist blew in from the Lagoon and burned my eyes. My head ached. I was in a kind of limbo, like the one in which I had made my way to Massimo’s villa in the cobbler’s blue shoes.
I had not seen anyone enter or leave the Ospedale. I wondered if it, too, was empty. The windows were shuttered. The doors were closed. Suddenly I heard a drumroll, a slow, dull beat from the canal. I saw a gondola approaching from the east. A drummer was standing in the stern with his back to shore. The gondolier had a scarf tied around his face, so only his eyes were visible. His fingers were long and gray, gripping the pole with which he guided the gondola. A black dog crouched at his feet. When the gondola docked, the drumming stopped. Three people emerged from the small cabin and disembarked: two men in blue coats and hats and a girl in a yellow cloak with long blond hair. They had on carnival masks, the men’s blue, the girl’s golden, embroidered with silver stars. The men wore scabbards. The handles of their swords were studded with gems. With the men trailing her, the girl walked directly toward me. Her feet barely seemed to touch the ground. The closer she came, the colder the wind grew against my cheek.
When she stopped before me, I saw her blue eyes peering through the mask. Then she pushed the mask up over her forehead. It was Adriana. A little older, slightly taller, and even more beautiful than I remembered her to be. She didn’t show surprise or smile. In fact, she showed no sign of recognizing me, unless I counted the momentary look of fear that flashed across her face when, without a word, she produced an envelope from inside her cloak and handed it to me. Then she walked away hurriedly wi
th the men at her heels, heading for the Ospedale. When she reached the doors, they opened without her knocking. A man and woman silhouetted in the darkness, who resembled Luca and Marta, ushered her in and closed the doors behind her. The two men peeled off and disappeared down an alley. The gondola was already gone.
I looked down at the envelope, which was pale blue with a red seal. I was about to open it when my hands and legs began shaking, then the ground beneath me, and everything before me—the Ospedale, La Chiesa, the promenade, and the canal—all of Venice seemed to be turning upside down and suddenly it just evaporated, and I found myself sitting at Maximus’s table, flushed, catching my breath, as if I had just traveled a great distance. Yet, though I felt as if I had been gone for hours, in that room only a few minutes had passed. The dinner plates had not been cleared. My teacup was still warm. Téodor the crow was staring at me. But the tureen was gone. And Maximus with it.
Behind me, someone cleared his throat. It was Ludwig, standing in the doorway. “Maximus has retired to his quarters, sir. He told me to bid you good night and to see you out.”
Ludwig led me down another corridor lined with the black flowers. Among the rooms we passed were a library and a workroom filled with tools and paints. When we passed the kitchen, I spotted a silver cat perched on a beam above the entrance. She was licking her paws, and the bell on her collar was tinkling softly. She paused to look down at me as I passed, and I was certain I saw a small smile form on her lips.
In the foyer, Ludwig helped me on with my coat, which had been thoroughly dried. When he opened the door for me, Lila surprised me, appearing out of nowhere and taking my arm. “I’ll walk you to the street,” she said with a wan smile.
The rain had stopped, but water was still dripping loudly from the trees.
Halfway down the path, she whispered, “When you return to Venice, give this to my sister, Meta.” She handed me a box, about seven inches long and three inches wide, wrapped in black paper and tied with a black string. Her voice was friendly now, but urgent.
“Then you are sisters.”
“Yes, of course. And I am Venetian. My sister and I used to work together. Identical twins can be very helpful to a magician onstage, as you can imagine. When he created his double, one of us had to come to Vienna with him.”