Chapter 8
Minds are like flowers; they open only when the time is right.
—Stephen Richards
After a dinner of rubber chicken, dried-out rice, and a limp, overdressed salad, Claire was even more determined to skip the Christian magician act tonight. She’d had enough magic nonsense to last her a lifetime. Instead, she thought about going for a run to get some exercise. But Sophie wouldn’t hear of it.
“Everyone says that Ivan the Illusionist is supposed to be fabulous,” Sophie said, which Claire highly doubted. “Please, please, please? I don’t want to go alone.”
Reluctantly, Claire buckled. They returned to the conference room where they’d spent the entire day, settled into the same uncomfortable metal folding chairs, and waited for the show to begin. The lecturer’s podium had been moved, and in its place was a large black box.
Did all magicians use a black box? She only knew one magician, and she tried not to think about him. But in the lull before the performance, Claire’s mind traveled to the last time she’d been onstage with Chris Reid, acting as his assistant—the senior class put on a talent show during the last week of high school. It had been a big deal for Chris to be allowed to participate. He had been in so much trouble over the year that the principal wanted to ban him from all public gatherings. His aunt Rose intervened, like she usually did.
Chris surprised everyone, including Claire, with a daring new trick using a ring of fire. She knew it was his way of tweaking the principal. Bravely, Claire walked right through it. It had gone so well that the audience rose to give them a standing ovation. Chris took Claire’s hand for a bow, but then he whirled her into his arms and bent her backward for a dramatic kiss. Best kiss ever. She floated on a cloud for days, weeks. It was the start of the best summer of her life.
With a sigh, she dropped her chin. And then Chris had to go and ruin everything.
Loud, dramatic music signaled the start of the show. A big puff of smoke appeared, and Ivan the Illusionist slowly emerged out of the large black box, wearing a black eye mask like the Lone Ranger and a big red flashy cape. Sophie gasped so loudly that Claire almost burst out in a laugh. So cheesy!
Ivan the Illusionist moved like an old man, climbing out of the box with great effort, nearly falling a few times before both feet made it onto the stage, then he shuffled slowly around the stage to peer at the audience. He spoke in a thick Eastern European accent, so overdone that it only added to the cheesiness. Why had she let Sophie talk her into coming?
Sophie jabbed her with her elbow. “Look! Look what he’s doing now!”
Ivan the Illusionist had levitated himself a few inches off the ground. Seriously? Such a kid’s birthday party trick. Positioned diagonally, he stood on the ball of one foot that was farthest from the audience. The Balducci levitation trick. Sophie loved it.
Then Ivan reached into the box to lift an empty vase and set it on a small table. He filled the vase with water, also found in the box. He faced the audience and pulled a flower bouquet out of his sleeve, first the right one, then the left. Claire knew that flower ring trick. He set the flowers in the vase. From where she was sitting, they actually looked real.
Next, Ivan asked for an audience member to come up, and a woman jumped at the chance. Ivan took one of the flowers out of the vase and held it out to her, but the bud fell off. “It broke off on me!” he said in his thick accent.
Claire’s head jerked up. He had just used flower shop jargon. Broke off was a common phrase.
“Does this ever happen to you?” he asked, and the audience murmured, nodding. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could just...” Ivan reached down to pick it up off the stage and plop it back on the stem. He waved the flower in the air. “If you could just magically put that bud right back where it belonged.”
The audience clapped. Claire’s opinion of the cheesy magician had lifted ever so slightly. He handed the woman the flower, but as she reached out to take it, she knocked the bud off again. “Not to worry,” Ivan said, which sounded more like “Not to vorry.” He reached down and replaced it again. The woman was astounded, the audience entertained. But Claire knew that trick too. There was a lever on the stem so the magician could make the flower disconnect and connect again with a silent click. Ivan turned to the vase and took a flower out to hand to her. “For you, madam.” She left the stage, sniffing the flower.
Clever. Old Ivan must have fresh flowers in the vase along with those fake ones. Claire knew enough about magic acts to know that Ivan had diverted everyone’s attention to watch one thing while he quietly did something else.
Hmm. Ivan the Illusionist’s mystique was growing on her.
Then Ivan took the entire bouquet out of the vase, gathered the flower stems in his hand, and let them go. They levitated. Right in the air! He waved his hand over the bouquet, under the bouquet, to show the audience there were no strings attached.
Claire leaned forward in her chair. There were all kinds of ways to create the illusion of levitation, but it was just that—an illusion. She knew most of the basic tricks. She knew how cards and phones could be levitated—all through thread, tape, and the infamous sleight of the hand. All these tricks took a little practice, but anyone could do them.
But how was Ivan the Illusionist able to levitate a heavy bouquet of flowers?
Out of the black box, Ivan lifted up a birdcage with a dove. He covered it with his cape, and then it disappeared. Sophie squealed with delight, but Claire knew the wire birdcage was designed to collapse. The dove might’ve seemed lifelike, even moving its wings, but it wasn’t real. The loud music masked sounds, and the magician never stood still—techniques to divert the audience’s attention to later confound them. The human brain was constantly filling in gaps, so in the time that the magician forced spectators to look at one thing, he had created an illusion.
Ivan’s next acts were just as predictable—engaging audience members with card tricks, bending pencils, pulling a rabbit out of his hat. Looking around, Claire could see that the audience was totally into Ivan the Illusionist. Attention was riveted to the stage, looking for his secrets. She yawned, determined not to be drawn in. Not anymore.
Instead, Claire took out her sketch pad and started to draw the fine petals of a dahlia blossom, half listening to the magician’s spiel. She noticed the hotel employee, the boy with acne who had asked for her autograph, push a cart full of coffee pitchers and platters of what she hoped was a dessert. She was hungry. She looked at her menu—beignets, according to the card. Call them what you will, she thought. Those are donut holes.
Now and then, she would look at Ivan to see what he was up to now. He had pulled a long rectangular Pyrex tray with sides out of his black box and set it on the ground.
“How in the world did he fit so much into that box?” Sophie said, awed.
Claire had to smile. There was an entire industry that created products for magicians to use. Most likely, the tray was collapsible. Ivan the Illusionist shuffled back to the black box, reached in, and pulled out another large glass pitcher of water. A frail old man, he had trouble lifting the heavy pitcher, but once he had a secure grip, he shuffled back to the Pyrex tray and poured the water into it. Twice more, he went back to his black box to get another pitcherful of water. He filled the tray to the top with the water. Satisfied, he said, “And now, I am going to walk on water.” Valk on vater. Everyone, even Claire, leaned forward in their seats. She hadn’t seen this trick before.
Slowly, because Ivan seemed to do everything slowly, he lifted a leg and placed one wobbly foot on the tray. He lifted his other leg and nearly fell. Hands waving, he recovered his balance and took another step on the water. Again, nearly falling, he caught himself just in time. Little by little, he made his way across the long tray. The audience cheered.
Not bad for an old guy, Claire thought.
Ivan the Illusionist went to the front of the stage. “But all of you know that was a trick. There is only one who truly defied gravity and walked on water. His name is Jesus.”
Out of his cape, he pulled a large light bulb. “Abracadabra is the most universally understood word in the world. It’s actually Aramaic, and it means, ‘As I speak, I now create.’ In the book of Genesis, God’s first words were, ‘Let there be light.’ And that is what God continues to do, when he sent his Son to be the Light of the World.” He released the light bulb, and like the flower bouquet, it levitated.
Watching him, an odd uneasiness filled Claire, a sense of familiarity. Of déjà vu.
And then Ivan dropped his phony accent. “You come to a magic show to be entertained by illusions. Each of these tricks is done by fooling your perception of reality. That’s all these magic tricks are. Tonight, I want you to leave knowing there is an alternate reality—but this one can be trusted. No trickery involved. The Light of the World is the only one you can trust.” The light bulb turned on, and the audience gasped. They started to clap and cheer for the magician, and he took off his hat to bow.
Suddenly, Claire felt a head-to-toe shaft of hot surprise sizzle through her body. As vivid as a shock of electricity, though it took her a moment to identify why. And then she got it.
She knew him! She knew Ivan the Illusionist! He might have worn a disguise, spoken in a fake accent, acted like a frail old man, but she had no doubt Ivan was Christopher Reid.
Boiling anger rose up inside Claire. Her heart started pounding, her hands started shaking. Chris was the one who had caused so much trouble for Rose and Jaime and Tessa, and for her. He was the reason the girls had all fled from Sunrise, never to return. He had ruined everything. Everything!
Claire lost it. She strode over to the long table of refreshments that had been set out for the attendees to enjoy after the show ended. That big platter of donut holes was just calling to her. She picked up a handful and hurled it at the magician. Then another, and another. They kept falling short.
Ivan stopped bowing to look out at the audience to try and find who was throwing things at the stage.
Claire grabbed a tray, moved closer to throw more handfuls, and finally nailed him in the stomach. “Don’t clap for him! He’s a cheat! A fake!”
The room grew silent as the crowd stopped clapping. Ivan ducked as donuts holes pelted him.
“You! You of all people! You are my worst nightmare! I never wanted to see you again. Not ever!” Claire had emptied the platter of donut holes, so she went back for another. She turned and threw a donut hole that nailed Ivan right in the forehead.
Jim Turner rose to his feet and shook his fist at Claire. “Stop that woman! Stop her! She’s here to make trouble!”
It was as if Jim Turner had yelled “Fire!” Suddenly, pandemonium broke loose. Chairs toppled over as attendees made a run for the exits. Claire kept throwing donut holes at Ivan the Illusionist until a security guard arrived and grabbed the platter and her arm to make her stop. He escorted her to the hotel manager’s office, where she was told to settle down, sit down, and wait for the police to arrive.