Page 11 of The Book of Magic

By this time, Vincent’s dear friend Agnes Durant was well over one hundred. Women in her family had lives that often spanned a century. Her great-great-grandmother, Catherine, who had left Paris for New York, was said to have lived to be a hundred and twenty, although people swore she didn’t look a day over eighty. As for Agnes, she had been a great friend to Vincent and William, the one to hatch the plan for Vincent to escape the curse by dying, officially at least, and becoming someone brand-new. Now, when he arrived, she greeted him at the door, gracious as she’d ever been. “Stay for as long as you’d like,” she declared.

On his very first night in Paris, Vincent left the house as soon as darkness fell, walking at night as always, finding his way past pink-tinged streetlights, through deserted parks where goats ate grass in the dark hollows. He was drawn to the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, built by Napoleon in 1804, and went there to visit William’s grave, which was beside his own falsified monument, for although his own grave was empty, it was marked by a headstone upon which his name and the date when he had disappeared had been engraved. He made his way there easily, for he had always been a finder, able to locate what was missing or lost.

Once at his grave, Vincent realized he had more fans now then he’d had when he was “alive.” He’d become a cult figure, a personality, even though no one knew him. All they knew was that he’d come out about his sexuality at a time when few musicians had, and fans celebrated his integrity, as well as his one and only hit song, although no one recognized him now. Vincent wore his black cap pulled down and kept his eyes lowered when anyone passed by. His admirers hadn’t vandalized his headstone, as Jim Morrison fanatics had, with graffitied messages and spilled bottles of alcohol. Instead, Vincent’s fans left candles that glowed in the gloaming, and white roses tied in bouquets with red ribbon; he beheld scores of love notes, more than he could count, some left out in the wind and the rain for weeks or months. People still fell in love with him, stirred by his words and his story, even though he’d been presumed dead for sixty years. His grave was a pilgrimage site for those who believed they’d been cursed in love and saw their own plight reflected in Vincent’s famed song. He collected the letters left on his empty tomb, which he read while sitting on a bench. Vincent wore reading glasses now, which galled him. He was old, but he remembered how young men’s blood burned when he read the notes from his grave. I am ruined by love, someone had scrawled in blood. I’m still trying even though I’m burned to ash, wrote another, quoting from the song Vincent produced when he was lovestruck and confused about his fate.

William’s name had been added beside his own on the gravestone, and Vincent’s fans had noticed the addition and had begun to bring flowers for William as well. Somehow it had gotten out that irises had been William’s favorite, and people often left stems of purple or yellow or ice-white blooms, named for the messenger of the gods who could travel freely back and forth to the underworld. When Iris wished to deliver a message, she could become a shape-shifter and take on the form of someone known to the mortal. Know me, accept me, hear what I have to tell you.

On this evening, Vincent wore the black overcoat given to him by William on the last Valentine’s Day they had spent together. They were romantics who believed in love. The coat was meant to replace one Vincent had worn as a younger man and he adored this new, cashmere version. He kept his hands in his pockets, for the truth was he had a tremor in his hands that gave away his age. By the end of the evening, he seemed to have acquired a dog, or rather, the dog had acquired him, following at a distance at first, then side by side when Vincent shortened his usual long strides so the dog could catch up. They were an unlikely duo. This dog was the opposite of Harry, the German shepherd dog of Vincent’s youth, a dignified creature who had lived out his last years on the porch of the Owens house on Magnolia Street after Vincent disappeared, leaving his post only to follow Franny’s husband as he attended to his rounds, the last physician in town to make house calls.

The stray dog was a comic mix involving a corgi and half a dozen other breeds, a clown who jumped up on gravestones during their walk in the cemetery. Vincent decided to call the stray Dodger, in praise of his ability to have clearly lived for so long on the streets of Paris without being run over. Soon enough, Dodger wouldn’t leave his side, and Vincent wondered if William had sent his new companion to him to make certain he wasn’t alone.

When Vincent returned to the house, he went to bed in the chilly, elegant guest room with Dodger beside him on the crisp linen sheets, snuffling and stretched out as if he’d always lived a privileged existence. It was in those early morning hours that Jet came to Vincent in a dream, so real and present she took his breath away. She was young and beautiful, with her choppy black hair and her black eyebrows shaped like wings, wearing jeans and a black sweater. Vincent and his sisters had been able to communicate without speech when they were young.

Dear boy, she said in his dream. It’s time. In her hands she held a map, one it was impossible for Vincent to read. It’s a treasure map, Jet told him just before he woke. When they find the lock, you have the key.

At breakfast the next morning, Agnes Durant had forsaken wearing one of her sleek black dresses, and simply appeared in a bathrobe. She’d come down early to tell Vincent about his sister’s death, having received a phone call from one of her cousins in New York. As it turned out, there was no need for her to inform Vincent of his loss. He already knew. He’d woken in tears from his dream, aware that his sister was gone. The world already seemed darker without her. Vincent wept black tears that morning, overwhelmed by Jet’s passing. Agnes merely bowed her head in sympathy, then poured them two cups of Courage Tea, which they both needed. When Vincent steadied himself, he told Agnes about his dream, how beautiful Jet had been, just as she’d been that first summer when they’d gone to visit their aunt Isabelle in Massachusetts and discovered who they were. What was the treasure he was meant to find? What was the key? Agnes poured more tea and considered.

“A map is not for those who stay in one place,” she told him. “You have the sight. Use it.”

Dodger hopped onto Vincent’s lap at the breakfast table—the dog could be a clown, but he was empathetic and could chart his new owner’s moods—and Vincent stroked his head as he thought about his dream. A treasure map signified he was meant to find something, although he had no idea what that might be. Later that afternoon, when the post arrived, there was the letter with Jet’s familiar sloping handwriting, written the day before she died. Vincent stood by the window and read his sister’s last message to him. I could not love you more. Come home if you wish. You have always been able to find the way. Inside the envelope was the key to the front door of the house on Magnolia Street. He threaded the key through a silver chain he wore, looped around his neck. The key grazed his heart and he could feel its pressure and its warmth. He had not used the sight in more than fifty years, but he understood that this was the key in his dream.

The harsh sunlight of the day hurt his eyes and his battered soul; he winced in the glare of the day and waited for dusk before making his way to the stationery store where he bought a creamy white card and envelope edged in black. Paris was so beautiful at this violet hour that his heart ached. Dodger waited for him outside the shop while he made his purchase, then together they walked to the Tuileries, where they sat in the garden near the playground. The view was lovely here, with shafts of orange light streaming through the plane trees as the day fell away. The voices of children rose and fell in their last hour of play. The clouds moved slowly above them, turning gold and then red and finally ink blue. Time had not moved as slowly. It had been a whirlwind, and Vincent had been caught up in it. Had he really thought they’d be young forever? What was over, was over. What was to come was just beginning. He had written to his sisters after William’s passing. But he’d remained in hiding, not disclosing his whereabouts, used to being guarded. Now he wrote again, this time to one sister alone.

My darling Franny. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Jet. I was gone for all of it, and I have missed you.

On his way back to Agnes Durant’s house, Vincent stopped at the post office and tapped on the window. The postman, who ignored most people, and could be downright rude, came to open the door for Vincent as if enchanted. Vincent still affected people that way, without even trying. At the last moment, before mailing the note to Franny, Vincent jotted down Madame Durant’s address on the back of the envelope. Just in case he was meant to be found. There was no point in being vigilant anymore now that William was gone. He could peel away all of his deceit.

He decided to walk to a shop he’d discovered years ago, Amulette, set on a small winding street on the Left Bank beyond the Île de la Cité. It was a plain-looking shop, with a few books messily stacked in the window. If a passerby didn’t bother to read the titles on the spines, he might think it to be an ordinary junk store that featured old volumes and antiques. But The Magus was there, in plain sight for anyone who stopped long enough to peer through the glass. This was the book that had first introduced Vincent to magic when he was young. He’d been a boy when a vender sold it to him, warning him that once he opened The Magus his life would never be the same.

Dodger accompanied him inside. Bells rang and there was the scent of mint, the green-black fresh aroma that signaled the start of spring in Paris, though the weather could still be blustery. A young handsome man was at the counter. He knew who Vincent was, everyone who practiced magic did, but in this shop it was a courtesy to give people their privacy.

“What can we do for you, monsieur?” the clerk asked.

You can set back time, Vincent thought. You can make me twenty again. You can bring William and my sister back from the dead.

Life all happened so quickly; people tell you it will, but you won’t believe it until it happens to you. Cry all you want, being young will slip through your hands and you will be left standing there, you who were once so young, not recognizing yourself or your life.

“I’d like a mirror,” Vincent said, already reaching for his wallet.

The clerk smiled. Vincent was still exceedingly handsome, of course he would want to gaze at himself. But Vincent shook his head when the clerk brought out a hand mirror. “A black one.”

A black mirror was much more expensive and not for the fainthearted. It was used for scrying, to glimpse what was to come. Only those who could see into the future would be able to use such an item. In Amulette, these things were kept in a locked drawer in the back of the shop.

“Perfect,” Vincent said when the black mirror was at last presented to him.

The clerk wrapped Vincent’s purchase in three sheets of brown paper, for safety’s sake. Vincent carried it under his arm as he walked back to Agnes’s house. The night was dark and for the first time in months, Vincent felt alive. Something was about to happen. It was beginning all over again, he could sense it in his bones. He’d felt this way on the bus to their aunt Isabelle’s house when they were young, and when he’d first walked through the streets of Greenwich Village, and when he fell in love.

When Vincent arrived back at the apartment, Agnes was in the parlor having a glass of Pineau des Charentes, as she did each evening. She took one look at the parcel he carried and instantly knew what was inside.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

Black mirrors were dangerous. Look into one and you could never forget what you’d seen.

Vincent shrugged. “Who can be sure about anything?”

“That’s the spirit,” his old friend agreed wholeheartedly. Why not take a chance as long as you were still alive? At this age there wasn’t much more to lose, only the beautiful world, only every morning and night.

They had a quick dinner, and then Vincent excused himself and went up to the guest room. He sat at the dressing table, seized a pair of scissors, and cut the string to unwrap the mirror, which he placed on the walnut table. He thought about the first time he’d looked into a black mirror, in the greenhouse of the Owens home in Massachusetts with his aunt Isabelle beside him. It was the first time he had truly seen who he was.