The Zigzag Kid

by David Grossman

  “At one time she did, but now she only wishes she had Lola Ciperola’s courage to follow her desires, no matter what people think.” And to be independent like Lola, and strong like Lola, and to drive men crazy the way Lola does, instead of being hurt by them, and to get Dad to take her seriously for a change and beg her on his knees to marry him. That’s what Gabi really wanted, though of course I didn’t tell Felix that.

  “And what does Mr. Feuerberg, Sr., have to say about this?” asked Felix, who read me like an open book.

  “I hope he never finds out. That’s our secret, Gabi’s and mine.”

  “That Lola is Gabi’s idol?” Felix inquired.

  “Yes. And that we met her in Tel Aviv and went to see her plays.” Gabi had made me swear not to say a word to Dad about this, and never to mention Lola Ciperola’s name in the house. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it to Felix, either.

  “You won’t tell, will you?”

  Felix pledged secrecy with a hand to his heart and a fluttering of his long lashes. “I promise you.”

  “No—swear to me.”

  The flames of the guttering candles danced in his glasses. “Know this,” he said, “when Felix swears, he cheats you. But if he promises, he keeps his word. That is how it is. So, now I give you my criminal’s word of honor.”

  I hesitated, and agreed to this.

  Maybe because what he said about cheating reminded me vaguely of something else. “What were you just telling me?”

  “When? I tell you many things.”

  “Before, about not having money to pay for the restaurant.”

  “Ach, she is great lady!” cheered Felix. “She is superb!”

  “Who? Lola Ciperola?”

  “No, our Mistress Gabi-Dulcinea. I am very pleased with her.” I was so glad he said that, I forgot what I wanted to ask him. Then he mumbled something to himself and asked, “Does she wish to have Lola’s scarf?”

  “Yes.”

  And also your golden ear of wheat. But I didn’t dare say so aloud.

  “And what else does Miss Gabi want? Do not be ashamed. Tell me everything!” He went on speaking with an air of amusement, though I noticed how fast his fingers fluttered.

  “How did you know that she wanted something else?”

  “I am waiting, Mr. Feuerberg.”

  Then I realized that he knew already. I looked down at the table. It was life or death.

  “A golden ear of wheat; one of yours.”

  “I knew you will say this,” said Felix, unsmiling.

  My heart was beating fast. It’s all over, I thought, my wonderful dream-come-true with him. He toyed with a matchstick and casually asked, “So you know who I am all along?”

  “No, only since this afternoon,” I confessed, “when the policeman read out the name on your driver’s license.”

  “I did not know you were paying attention,” he mumbled, slumping a little in his chair. “I thought that police fellow was too young to remember my name, and I thought you were not listening …” He bent the match back till it snapped, and I began to tremble. “All this time you keep it in your heart, when you know that I am Felix Glick. I think one day you will be best detective in world.”

  But his voice had a harsh ring to it suddenly, as though he were speaking across a barricade, and again I sensed the danger in him.

  “What do you know about me? What else did Miss Gabi tell you?”

  “Uh, more or less what you told me yourself while we were eating. That you were once very rich but you wasted your money. That you were the king of Tel Aviv, and that you traveled all over the world and that you—did things: you robbed banks and outsmarted all of Interpol.” In order to spare his feelings, I refrained from mentioning that I knew how he and Dad had met the first time.

  “And she has never spoken of this in front of your father?”

  “Never. It’s our secret.”

  “She is very special person,” said Felix wistfully, running his finger over the black ring on his right hand. “She is more clever than Felix, more than your Mr. Father, too, I think. Real smart apple!”

  “Do you mean it? You really think she’s special?” Living with Gabi for so long, and seeing the way Dad treated her, sometimes made me forget how smart and special she truly was.

  Felix thought awhile and selected his words with care: “I think, if I understand her plan right—I say, Bravo, Miss Gabi! You are real smart apple!”

  I felt as if I’d been redeemed. As if the whole trip had been salvaged, and now Felix and I could carry on. But I didn’t dare believe it.

  “So we are agreed? We will try to … to take scarf?”

  “Right, and the golden ear of wheat, too.”

  Praised be the Lord and glory hallelujah!

  “And by any chance did our Miss Gabi mention why she wants my ear of wheat?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  But I was lying. I was afraid he’d be insulted.

  Because Gabi used to joke that if she’d been blessed with a criminal nature, Dad would surely have fallen in love with her, seeing that his one true passion in life was crime. Maybe I should have told Felix that. He might have taken it as a compliment. Gabi used to say, “Felix Glick and Lola Ciperola! There’s the winning combination! Bring me the purple scarf and the golden ear of wheat, Nonny, and with my one fairytale wish I will overcome the ill fate of my patty-cake face and win the prince’s reluctant heart! Canst thou find them, O my knight?”

  And she would flutter her eyelashes.

  Felix said, “Maybe Lola will ask favor in return for giving us something so important to her!”

  “Let her ask! It will be our task!”

  “But maybe she will ask something very difficult!”

  “You must to dare!” I reminded him, nearly bursting with joy.

  Felix smoothed down his pasted mustache. “So perhaps I, too, ask something in return for ear of wheat, eh? And it will not be easy.”

  A warning bell sounded inside me. “What … what do you want?”

  I had spoken too sharply, as though he were a stranger.

  “Don’t be afraid, Mr. Feuerberg!” he replied. I sensed he was insulted. “Have you no faith in Felix?”

  “I was only asking …”

  “No! Don’t speak. Don’t lie!” And all at once he blew his top. “Felix never lied to you! Why you must to always make sure about him? That is unkind. It is great pity, too.”

  He fell silent. His lips were pale with anger, his brow was furrowed, and the little pouches at the corners of his mouth began to twitch. He was a fairly old man, but humiliation turned him into a little boy again.

  I was ashamed of myself. Repentantly I explained, “I just wanted to know what you want me to do for you.”

  “Not yet. First I must to know that you are truly ready.” He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me.

  “I’m ready, okay? I’m ready now!”

  Felix shook his head. “No, no. You are still suspicious, always making sure about me!” He had totally forgotten the Grandpa Noah disguise and spoke to me in his usual voice. “Don’t you see that Felix is making you special offer? This is your big chance to think like Felix, to live tales of adventure! But only if you believe me, even my lies, then you will be worthy of my law!”

  What could I say? I wanted desperately to please him, but at the same time I was kind of scared. Maybe I didn’t believe him all the way. Maybe I didn’t have it in me to be an out-and-out criminal, not even a pretend one, because I always scare myself.

  “Finish your coffee and we go,” he said, and added, “It is not necessary to drink the grounds, you know. Come, we have much work to do.”

  I put down the cup and we looked into each other’s eyes. He seemed a little calmer now. I hoped one day he would forgive me for insulting him.

  “Do you know where we are going?”

  “To take Lola Ciperola’s scarf?” I answered in suspense. I could scarcely believe I had
uttered those words. I wanted him to be aware that I was changing before his eyes.

  “Bravo,” he said wearily. “You are quick learner.”

  “Come on.” I jumped up eagerly. I wanted to infect him with my joy, my exuberance, so he would forget what had just occurred. “Let’s go!”

  “One moment!” He frowned as he sat before me, but a sly new gleam entered his eye with a look both pious and reproachful. “Is that any way to behave, Mr. Tammy Feuerberg? We are in restaurant here! First we must to dodge our bill!”

  15

  The Bullfight

  “But what if she isn’t home?” I asked a few minutes later as we drove away.

  “She will be, she will be,” muttered Felix, and began to hum again, clicking his tongue in syncopation and tapping the wheel. “She is maybe at theater still, acting in play, but later she will go directly home.”

  “What if she decides to go somewhere else instead?”

  “No, she must to come straight home.”

  It annoyed me that he was suddenly such an expert on Lola Ciperola. I had devoted a lot more of my time to her than he had.

  “Why must she come straight home?”

  “Because that is law of things, what will be will be. And Lola Ciperola must to come home and give you her scarf. That is that!”

  “Whose law?”

  “Law of … of our adventure. It is special law! You will understand it by-and-by.”

  I didn’t understand, though. I felt comfortable in the seat of the old Beetle. I leaned back, snug as a bug in a rug (Gabi), too tired by now to be afraid of either the heavyset waiter we had left behind in the parking lot, shouting and waving his arms, or the two police barricades we passed through easily, without arousing suspicion. I had a hunch this was my lucky day.

  But who was I?

  A fake, an impostor. A boy disguised as a girl. Walking out of restaurants without paying the bill. Which is stealing, you know. And still—there was a subtle yet painfully intense sensation between my eyes that fluttered sweetly through my head and down my spine … the thrill of Felix’s perfect caper—the way he persuaded the waiter to give our car a push, and how he left him behind holding the heavy wallet, heavy but empty, or rather, full of sand … I’m skipping some of the details, but they’re not important. Or maybe I’m ashamed to tell what I did, the part I played in the cruel little hoax.

  Dad will probably get here tomorrow and pay the bill, I suddenly realized, and felt relieved. Too relieved. I didn’t want to think about it. I tore the wig off and scratched my head with all ten fingernails. Enough is enough. I’m me, Nonny, and I don’t want any more of this tammyrot. Dad will show up at the restaurant tomorrow morning with a fat wallet—not that I’ve ever seen him with a fat wallet—and with a smile and a pat on the shoulder he’ll apologize and explain and work things out and pay the bill, and leave a fat tip, hey, suddenly everything is fat, and by the time he leaves they’ll all be smiling and happy again, even the fat waiter we cheated, and everyone will say, Yes, that was a great caper, he’s a real pro, who wouldn’t forgive such a brilliant performance, and then Dad will hurry on to the scene of Felix’s next prank, where once again he’ll put things right.

  Nitwit, Nonny numskull.

  “But you still owe me something, Mr. Feuerberg,” said Felix. “You promised to tell me why you are vegetarian and don’t eat meat.”

  “Do you really want to hear?” I asked, because what was that compared to his escapades?

  “Do I want to hear?” He laughed. “I want to hear all your stories! I want to know everything about your life.”

  Again I wasn’t paying enough attention. I assumed he’d said what he did to flatter me, to open me up. Only later did I realize he’d meant every word. He really did want to know everything about me, every detail of my boring life. I was just too dumb to believe him, and I had no idea what he meant.

  We joggled up the coastal road. The air was sultry, summery. Cars whizzed by us on their way to Tel Aviv. Jerusalem was fast asleep at this hour, but here, life was just beginning. Felix stopped humming and listened to me, but I was so quiet, he turned on the radio. Soft, breathy jazz poured into the Beetle, the kind of music Gabi loves. I closed my eyes and thought about home and her and Dad, and about not having called all day to tell them how I was and to thank them for coming up with this crazy idea. And I wondered how Dad had found it in himself to let me go through such an experience, in the midst of his life-and-death war against crime?

  And then, half-dreaming, I started to talk.

  Not right away, though. My tongue was too thick and my brain too slow. I wasn’t quite ready to tell him the whole Chaim Stauber story. I began with my Israeli bullfighter idea, described then how me and Chaim and the other guys rigged up banderillas out of broken rakes decorated with crepe paper from the sukkah, and used broomsticks for the horses with heads made of old army socks stuffed with rags, and how we roamed the neighborhood, stealing anything red we could find on the clotheslines—skirts, shirts, dresses, towels—I mean, how else are you supposed to rouse a bull?

  And these are the children of Israel who did the work:

  Banderilleros: Simon Margolies and Avi Cabeza.

  Picadors: Chaim Stauber and Micah Dubovsky.

  Matador: me, Nonny.

  “How nice that you were matador,” Felix remarked.

  “Why nice?”

  “I like for you to play leading role. I like for you to be like me.”

  Then, at five o’clock sharp, Lorca time, we all sneaked through the hole in the fence into Mautner’s yard, where Pessia was quietly grazing. She looked up at us with unsuspecting black eyes and went on chewing. She was a big old cow, covered with black and white patches. Mautner took good care of her. He had her artificially inseminated every year and sold her cute little calves without compunction. Having no wife or children of his own, he was probably closer to Pessia than any other living creature. I would say she was his soulmate, if I believed he had a soul.

  Mautner was a big man with bristly, ginger-colored hair. His face was always red, as though he were about to explode or something, and he had a little mustache, from under which he emitted short phrases in an angry staccato. Every Thursday at four-thirty on the dot he would get into his Ford Cortina, wearing a khaki shirt covered with army decorations and khaki shorts, and drive away to the weekly meeting of the veterans of the Haganah. And every time Dad and I polished the Pearl, Mautner would march up, slap himself stiffly on the thigh, and ask Dad why he didn’t have the nerve to take the Pearl out on the road like a real car. It was their weekly ritual: Dad, still crouching, would only say, “This is no ordinary automobile, Mautner, and if I take her out, she might get a whiff of freedom and go haywire. A car like this needs a lot of space. She’s not made for the kind of roads we have in Israel!” And Mautner would sneer and say that if Dad would sell her to him, he was sure he could train her to wheel like a real sweetheart. At which point, with the same gesture every time, Dad would point to the grease-stained palm of his hand and say, “Sure, I’ll let you drive her—when hair grows here.”

  And it did.

  At five in the afternoon I stood before Mautner’s cow. I was wearing a red poncho made from a towel with four red socks hanging from the corners like the rays of a big red sun. This was my muleta to wave at the bull. Simon Margolies and Avi Cabeza wore their best clothes for the occasion, Terylene trousers and white shirts. Avi, who was past his bar mitzvah already, put on a black bow tie as well.

  But Chaim Stauber was really spiffed up: he wore a black suit (he was the only kid I’d ever met who owned one) with shiny trousers, a white shirt, and a jacket with pointy tails.

  “It’s for concerts,” he explained. “Dad bought it for me when we were abroad. I’m not allowed to get it dirty.”

  We all shook hands, looking earnestly into each other’s eyes, mounted our wooden horses, and began a slow, solemn lope around Pessia.

  “A murmur of excitement runs t
hrough the crowd,” I broadcast, and added with a shout, “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the toro has a murderous glint in his eyes, and now he stamps into the bullring!” Pessia Mautner, that gentle soul, nodded her head as she chomped on a blade of grass.

  “And now, the banderilleros,” I announced with a flourish of my hand, stepping back ceremoniously.

  Simon Margolies and Avi Cabeza rode quickly into the ring. According to the rules of the corrida, they should have been afoot, but as they both considered this an affront to their dignity, and threatened to form an Israeli guild of banderilleros to protect their rights, or worse, to quit the fight, I was forced to submit.

  With shouts of “Olé!” they urged each other on, wildly waving their truncated lances. Avi, the more daring of the two, galloped all the way up to Pessia, whereupon, with a will of iron, he reined in his steed right in front of her nose. The noble steed reared up and whinnied, and Avi struck Pessia lightly on the back with the lance made out of the handle of a hoe.

  A nervous giggle was heard. Chaim Stauber stood beside me, pressing his legs together.

  “You touched her,” said Micah in a slow bass voice. “Mautner’s going to slaughter us.”

  But Avi Cabeza, who was drunk with pride by now, galloped around the ring, loudly cheering the Jerusalem soccer team, and once again struck Pessia, this time on the rump.

  The big cow stumbled back a step. She raised her head and gazed at us in astonishment. Sunlight refracted against the tips of her horns in sudden anticipation of her terrible fury.

  But her fury had not been roused yet. It was still dormant, inside her horns.

  And to this task, the picadors, Micah and Chaim, charged swiftly with their yellow screwdriver lances, and did their bee dance around the cow. Micah was no great picador. He lacked (to put it mildly) a certain deftness and eccentricity. It was only out of friendship that I let him have the job. Chaim Stauber, on the other hand, was truly magnificent. He rode in full tilt on his stallion Death and circled the cow like a fearsome falcon, lurching at her unexpectedly and screaming in her ear, with his coattails flying out behind him. One time he even ran his screwdriver down her back.