Weird, he thought. Why is nothing happening? What’s going on?
“The spell of eternaaaaal loooooove!”
Max stared at the record player. Almost imperceptibly, the needle jumped back every time it reached a certain spot. Max turned the record player off, then on again. And again, the needle jumped. Max tried putting placing it right after the jumping-off spot.
“Istgahe Ghatar Kojast!” said the voice suddenly. “Thaaaank you, my ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said the Great Zabbatini. “And now, good night!”
He’d missed it. He must have skipped the entire spell. Max tried a few other places to put the needle down, but it was like a squirrelly little animal. It jumped too early, it jumped too late, it shivered and shook, but the one thing it didn’t do was play the spell. Hard to believe that people back then would willingly deal with such a dumb device.
He took the record off the turntable and examined it carefully in the light of his desk lamp.
The record had a scratch. The spell of eternal love was ruined.
That night at dinner, Max was pouty and withdrawn. His mom tried to cheer him up, but Max just sat there, moping, sticking his fork in the brussels sprouts and mashed potatoes, and wallowing in misery. It was as if all color had drained from his life. Max used to imagine that before he was born, the world existed only in black and white. He knew this because old movies on TV were usually in black and white. Until about the age of six, Max had been convinced that it was his birth that had brought color into the world. And once there was color, everything became much more joyful. But now, as he sat in the glare of the overhead lights in the dining room, it was all back to the old black-and-white-days. Everything around him seemed joyless.
“Everything okay?” Mom asked.
No, he wanted to snap. How could things be okay? Where’s Dad?
Instead he sullenly said, “Yeah.” Resting his head on his hand, he made a mashed-potato castle with his fork.
“That’s not true,” Deborah said, gazing at her son. She knew he was hiding something from her. Over the last few days, Max had slipped into a deepening funk and was becoming unbearable. He had difficulties sleeping and was always late for school. Deborah had grown worried. At first she’d thought that Max had handled everything surprisingly well. Even when Harry moved out, it hadn’t seemed to bother Max too much. There were even times when Deborah had felt proud she was protecting her son from the influence of his wayward father.
“Have you been talking to your dad?” she asked.
Max nodded.
“What did he say about me?”
“Nothing,” Max replied moodily.
Deborah knew that wasn’t true, and suspected that Harry was trying to turn her own son against her. She lit a cigarette. Before the breakup, she had tried to keep her smoking habit a secret from Max, and had only smoked outside, not wanting to be a bad example. But she was no longer able to resist the lure of tobacco, nor could she pretend to be something she wasn’t, a whole person. She was wounded, and she didn’t care who saw it. This, she felt, was a time of truth. No more lies.
She blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Maybe his behavior is just a delayed reaction, she thought. Max didn’t understand how good his life with her was. For days now, he had been dismissive of her. Either that, or full of sarcasm. As if all this were her fault!
She felt like a failure as a mother.
The next day at school, Max had difficulties concentrating. His best friend, Joey Shapiro, seemed worried.
“What’s wrong with you, dude?”
Joey and Max were sitting with Myriam Hyung at a table in the school cafeteria.
Max simply shrugged and said, “No idea.”
He didn’t want to talk about his problems, and he especially didn’t want to talk about that stupid record. He didn’t want to talk about anything. What’s the point? he thought to himself.
But at Joey’s insistence, he finally confessed. He told him that he’d played the record to cast the spell of eternal love, but that the record was scratched.
“What, you think you’re going to play a record and your dad will come back?” Joey asked. He started sniggering. Joey was half a year older than Max, which meant that Joey knew everything and Max knew nothing.
“That’s so stupid,” Joey said. “Grow up. This’ll never work.”
“Shut up,” said Myriam.
“But it’s stupid,” Joey insisted.
“You’re stupid,” Myriam said.
Max thought it was nice of Myriam to come to his aid. But he was afraid that Joey was right. Maybe he was just stupid.
Recently, Deborah had become cautious and quiet around her son, especially when he was in a mood like this. Sometimes, she thought, it was just like living with his father.
She remembered, quite vividly, the day she realized she was going to have a child. She had missed her period and was frantic. They were both much too young to start a family. They went to a Rite-Aid to buy a pregnancy test. If the little plastic thing was blue, you were all right.
But it was red. She was deeply shocked, and Harry took her out for beer. Lots of beer.
“How could this happen?” she said.
“Sex,” he replied.
“I know that. Maybe the condom broke?”
“I thought you were on the pill,” Harry replied.
And so it went. After some back-and-forth, they had decided on an abortion, a difficult choice that they both weren’t exactly thrilled about. They had driven to Planned Parenthood in downtown LA, but they didn’t get any farther than the parking lot. The car engine was still idling: Deborah threw Harry a mischievous glance, and Harry put the car in reverse. They took off like two getaway drivers after a robbery.
And now, all these years later, the end product of an ill-advised drunken romp that had led Deborah into Harry’s bed sat across from her, looking sullen and refusing to eat his dinner.
The phone rang. Deborah went to pick it up. Max heard her talking in a low voice. When she came back, he asked her who it was.
“Eat your food,” she said.
“Who was on the phone?”
She sighed and said, “Mr. Gutierrez.”
Max knew who that was. Her divorce lawyer. “What did he want?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Yes, it is,” he replied.
“Nothing will change for you,” she said with a forced smile.
It was a phrase he’d heard before.
And then, more gently, Deborah added, “Just some paperwork I have to sign. I have to stop by his office next week.”
Just some paperwork! Max thought contemptuously. He felt panic rising within him and was having trouble breathing. “I hate you!” he shouted.
Within seconds, Deborah and Max were engaged in battle. She screamed at him, and he screamed at her. He told her that he wished she were dead.
“Oh yeah?” she shot back. “Me too! I should have had that abortion—then I wouldn’t have to deal with any of this!”
Bravely swallowing the tears rising up inside him, Max got up and stormed out of the room, slamming his bedroom door shut.
For a long time, he lay on his bed staring at the Spider-Man poster tacked to the ceiling.
Then he opened his closet. He took out the record and gazed pensively at the cover. In a moment of sudden clarity, he realized what he needed to do.
He had to find this magician.
Only the Great Zabbatini could save his family.
SECRETS
When Moshe Goldenhirsch was fifteen years old, he came home from shul and was surprised to find the Locksmith standing in the staircase, perfectly still.
“What do you want?” Moshe asked suspiciously. His father had warned him repeatedly that the man was not to be trusted.
“I wanted to see you,” said the Locksmith.
“Why?”
“There’s something I want to show you. Come with me.”
Moshe was dubious at first, but curiosity won out. He went inside and put his leather bag down, then went back into the hallway where the Locksmith was waiting for him, standing in front of the door. He smelled of beer, and was swaying a little.
To Moshe’s surprise, the Locksmith held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Moshe took it. He was surprised how well their two hands fit. As soon as Moshe touched him, the Locksmith seemed to stand a little straighter. They went outside. It was a bright day in June.
“Where are we going?” Moshe asked.
“Everywhere,” the Locksmith said with an air of mystery. And then, seeing that Moshe looked concerned, he added, “Don’t worry.”
For reasons he couldn’t explain, Moshe believed him. From Josefov, they walked south toward Vyšehrad, where the Locksmith had his shop. It was a dusty old room, near a bypass road, where carriages and the occasional automobile would rattle past, spitting exhaust. The windows were gray with soot and smoke. Moshe was fascinated by the different locks and mechanisms, gleaming in the dull afternoon light. The Locksmith packed a few of them in his bag and said, “Let’s go.”
For hours, they walked through Prague. The lumbering man showed Moshe the various types of locks he had installed in doors throughout the city. Big locks, small locks, simple locks, ornate locks. Moshe was fascinated.
“Every lock,” the man said to Moshe, “is a riddle cast in iron.”
They were going at a brisk pace, uphill and downhill, but neither seemed to be out of breath. Every few blocks, they would stop by a beer hall, where the Locksmith would drink a black lager or two, and Moshe would sit there quietly, watching him get more and more drunk. Just like his father. He found it odd that grown-ups were so dependent on alcohol.
Finally, they went back to their tenement building in Josefov. The Locksmith opened the front door and they both went up the stairs. He ruffled Moshe’s hair with surprising tenderness: “You’re a good kid,” he said.
Moshe was unsure what to say. The Locksmith’s eyes darted to the floor. He held his coarse workman’s cap in his thick fingers, kneading it.
He looks, Moshe thought, like a knight from an old story, about to proclaim his love to a maiden.
“Would you,” said the Locksmith tentatively, “like to go to the circus?”
Moshe nodded hesitantly. He’d never been to a circus before. It wasn’t the kind of place his father would take him to, but at the same time, he was curious, and he could feel his heart pounding. Still, he was somewhat suspicious, as he always was when grown-ups were too friendly.
“Yes,” said the Locksmith. “Let’s go to the circus, you and I.” He attempted a smile. “Soon.”
Since Rifka’s death, Laibl was searching for redemption, not only at the bottom of a glass, but also in the pages of the Torah. Neither supplied him the answers he sought. He was stumbling, both externally and internally. But he was determined to make his son a better version of himself. If he had his way, Moshe would be a scholar, like himself. But Moshe didn’t dream of it, and he showed no discernible talent for scholarly wisdom.
Whenever he made a mistake in Hebrew school, if he wrote the wrong letter on the blackboard, Laibl, always the stern teacher, would reach for his ruler.
“Which hand?” he would ask.
Moshe usually held out his left, since he used it less often than the other one. Then Laibl would bring the ruler down on his outstretched tender palm. The pain would shoot through Moshe’s hand and arm, spreading through his body like liquid fire, invading body and soul and bringing tears to his eyes.
One afternoon, Moshe came home from school with an aching hand to find the Locksmith sitting on the stairs in front of their apartment, grinning. Moshe put his leather schoolbag down and looked at him expectantly. The Locksmith held up two large, colorful rectangular pieces of paper. “Do you know what these are?” he asked.
Moshe shook his head.
“Come here,” the Locksmith said. Moshe approached him and the Locksmith handed him a piece of paper.
It said: The ZAUBER-ZIRKUS. Come and be amazed! Tonight: The Amazing Half-Moon Man! An evening of magic and mystery!
It wasn’t an ordinary circus, the Locksmith explained, where one had to fear stepping in camel droppings and the like. No, the Zauber-Zirkus was a “magical revue,” with only a few acrobats, animals, and clowns to support the main act, the “Half-Moon Man.” This type of show, Moshe learned, was all the rage in Europe these days.
“Have you ever heard of Harry Houdini?” asked the Locksmith.
Moshe silently shook his head.
“Houdini was the greatest magician who ever lived. He was an escape artist. He could escape from anything. Even,” the Locksmith added with a smirk, “the law.” He grinned. “He could free himself from any lock,” said the Locksmith with professional admiration. “He understood that each seal is meant to be broken. That’s the kind of guy he was.”
“Was?” Moshe asked.
“Yes,” the Locksmith replied. “There was one thing he couldn’t escape from.”
Moshe nodded. He understood. “Like Mama,” he said.
A wistful look appeared on the Locksmith’s face. He averted his eyes. Then he explained that the director of this particular circus—the ringmaster and main attraction—was a famous magician. A baron and veteran of the Great War!
The streets were wet. Gray clouds loomed over their heads, waiting to unload their wrath.
The air was crisp and smelled of the coming rain. The sky was the color of a dull blade. To Moshe, everything appeared in shades of gray and dark brown.
Everything, that is, except the tent where the show was to take place. A ragged army tent that had been sewn up and adorned with yellow stars, it glowed with bright colors, and the shine of its lanterns was reflected in the puddles along the street.
What if there’s a fire? Moshe suddenly thought. For a moment, he was gripped by an inexplicable feeling of anxiety. Not unusual for Moshe Goldenhirsch, particularly considering that he was doing something forbidden, or at least something that his father had no idea about. Bad enough. He forced himself to calm his breathing. But there was so much to gawk at! The gypsy wagons parked in a circle behind the tent, the red carpet leading up a few improvised wooden steps to the main entrance, the smell of wet sawdust. A swarm of people were shuffling inside: most of them appeared to be working-class, in ragged clothes and stained shirts, but there were also a few bourgeois, with fine hats, scarves, canes, and the occasional pince-nez.
Moshe and the Locksmith entered the tent, appearing out of place among the throng of gentiles who were giving them hostile looks. The two took their seats, high up in the back of the bleachers, far away from the arena. The Locksmith was not a rich man, and he could only afford the least expensive seats. Enchantment had its price.
Moshe was enraptured by what he saw. Above the artists’ entrance was a balcony, and on that balcony sat a four-man orchestra, playing popular waltzes. When the audience was more or less seated, and whispering excitedly to each other, the orchestra played a fanfare. A red curtain was pushed aside, and then he stepped out.
The tall man walked up to the footlights with calm, measured steps.
“Good evening, mesdames et messieurs,” he said in a sonorous voice. “I bid you all welcome.” He made a grandiose, inviting gesture with his arms, took off his top hat, and bowed. Despite his ample stomach, he seemed youthful and elegant. He was dressed in a black frock coat with a red sash, and his blond hair was slicked back with brilliantine. He wore white cotton gloves, and was leaning on an impressive black cane with a silver handle. But more than anything, Moshe was fascinated by the man’s face. The left half appeared completely normal. But the right s
ide was covered by a brass mask, in the shape of a half-moon. Moshe was transfixed by his every gesture. There was something about this man, about the entire spectacle, that touched him on a level that no one, least of all the Locksmith, was able to understand.
This, here before him right now, was Moshe’s future.
“Meine Damen und Herren,” purred the man, “welcome to the show of shows. Trust nothing you see. Believe nothing you hear. Your eyes and ears will lie to you. Everything here is real. But nothing is true.” And then he said, with a bow, “They call me the Half-Moon Man.”
The crowd started to murmur.
The magician stretched out his arms, and two yellow canaries suddenly appeared. The birds chirped and fluttered, then shot up to the top of the tent, their wings flapping. The audience was stunned into silence. A few of the girls gasped, then giggled. Then, a smattering of applause. The Half-Moon Man was still bowing, a mysterious half smile on his half face. The applause swelled like a wave. The Half-Moon Man rose from his bow. This, Moshe realized, was the crucial moment. When the Half-Moon Man had first bowed, the audience and he had been strangers. But then he released the birds, and from that moment on, they were his accomplices. They were his friends, his lovers, his adoring public. Suddenly, Moshe wanted to have an adoring public of his own.
He leaned over to the Locksmith. “Why is he wearing the mask?” he asked.
The Locksmith shrugged. “I heard that he was wounded in the Great War.”
Moshe looked at him quizzically.
“The enemy,” the Locksmith went on, “used chemicals against us. Terrible new weapons. If you were caught in a cloud of chemical gas, your flesh would melt.”
“But a gas is nothing but a smell,” whispered Moshe.
“It’s much more than that.” The Locksmith leaned in closer and hissed, “I saw some of the victims. Their skin and muscle were . . .” He fell silent and shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of an unpleasant dream. Then he put a smile on his face. “Let’s just watch the show, shall we?”
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