“Is that what happened to the Half-Moon Man?”
The Locksmith patted Moshe’s arm. “Just watch,” he said, and leaned back.
The show was dazzling, in part because the Half-Moon Man was accompanied by a beautiful young assistant with long black hair. He introduced her as Princess Aryana from Persia. After some lion taming and acrobatics, the Princess slipped into a trunk, a large overseas suitcase, which had been previously standing off to one side of the arena. The Half-Moon Man closed the lid, grasped the silver knob of his cane, and with a quick flourish pulled a sword out of the wooden staff. Holding it up so that the audience could see it gleaming in the footlights, he took out a silk ribbon and cut it in half, proving that the blade was sharp. Then he adjusted his cape and assumed a fencer’s stance. An instant later, he lunged forward and plunged the thin, sharp saber right into the suitcase. The audience gasped. Several of the ladies nearly fainted. But the Half-Moon Man calmed the audience with a condescending smile and a dismissive wave of his hands. He went around and opened the trunk.
There was nothing inside.
No blood. No princess. Nothing. All Moshe could see was the lining. He was stunned. Then the Half-Moon Man closed the trunk once more, shut his eyes, and mumbled something. Maybe a prayer, Moshe thought. When he opened the lid again, the young woman stepped out, unharmed. Moshe was dizzy with excitement and applauded more loudly than anyone else in the audience. He must have drawn the young woman’s attention, for suddenly he felt as if her eyes were touching him in the dark. He turned a bright red and stopped applauding.
What a world we live in, he thought. Where beautiful women emerge from luggage.
Princess Aryana was not only proficient at appearing and disappearing, she also seemed to be an expert at quick costume changes. Every time she showed up, she was wearing something new, and each gown was, to Moshe’s eyes, more ornate and beautiful than the last one, embellished with brocade, then feathers, then sequins.
The Half-Moon Man made rabbits appear and pigeons disappear; he made cards and coins move about magically. Moshe had never seen anything like this before, and became suddenly aware that his father had been right all along: The miracles of the Torah, the mysteries of the Kabala—it was all true.
After an exhausting two hours of mind-boggling magic and miracles came the coup de grâce.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said the Half-Moon Man, “we come to our final entertainment of the evening. For this, I will need a member of the audience.”
Moshe jumped up and raised his hand: “Me!” he shouted. “Take me!” Other spectators turned to look at him and sniggered. A Jew, they murmured. Do they have to let this filth in here?
Other hands shot up, but the Half-Moon Man had made his decision.
“You!” he said, pointing to Moshe. “Yes, you,” the Half-Moon Man confirmed. “Come here, Jew boy.”
Moshe ran down the aisle so quickly, he nearly lost his yarmulke, and he had to hold onto it with his left hand. The audience laughed. He reached the arena and, at a gesture from the Half-Moon Man, sat down on a stool. The magician turned and addressed the audience: “Ladies and gentlemen, the world is an enchanted place. A thin veil separates us from our dreams. What you are about to witness, ladies and gentlemen, will transform your life! Pay close attention!”
He turned to the wings and, with an impatient gesture of his hand, invited his assistant onstage. She was dressed in a flowing white dress. Her long black hair framed her pale skin and haunting green eyes. Princess Aryana of Persia lay down on a red recliner, placing her hand on her forehead, as if she were about to faint. Her dress shifted slightly, revealing a shapely leg. Moshe took a deep breath. The spectators whispered to one another.
The Half-Moon Man raised his cane and traveled the distance of her body with it, from her toes to her head. The cane never touched her. The orchestra was playing dark, mysterious music as the audience waited anxiously.
And then, to Moshe’s amazement, the Princess began to levitate. She was lifted up and floated in midair. Her white dress and her luscious black hair flowed around her. It was the most beautiful thing Moshe had ever seen. He felt as if he was lifted up as well, by an unseen wave. He was in love. In love with the scent of the theater, the sawdust, the wood, and the stale sweat. With the glare of the footlights, the applause of the audience, but most important of all: he fell in love with Aryana, the Persian Princess.
He stood there, with his mouth hanging open, his mind not able to understand what his eyes were telling him.
The Half-Moon Man walked up to him, knelt down beside him, pointed at the Princess, and said, “What do you see?”
Moshe opened and closed his mouth. Finally, he said, “She is floating, sir.”
“Do you believe it’s a trick?”
Moshe shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “She’s really floating.”
Some in the audience laughed. The Half-Moon Man gave him a half smile.
His uncovered eye was fixated on Moshe; the other eye was hidden in the gleam of the brass mask. Then, turning to the audience, he roared: “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen! The princess is floating!”
Applause thundered through the tent, and the bleachers were shaking with vibrations. Moshe felt his heart thumping in his chest.
The Half-Moon Man turned to the boy and said: “Before you go . . . would you like to kiss her cheek?”
Moshe looked at him uncomprehendingly.
The Half-Moon Man made an inviting gesture. Moshe hesitated, then stepped onto the stool, bent over the Princess, and nervously took her hand. He was afraid she might drop at any moment. He was trembling slightly. Her eyes were closed.
Her hand seemed to him the most precious thing in the world. It was pale and her fingers were long and elegant. It was a treasure, and he would have been happy to stand there for the rest of his life holding her hand and gazing upon her face.
“Well?” said the Half-Moon Man encouragingly. “What are you waiting for? Give her a kiss.”
Moshe misunderstood that last remark. He bent over her and instead of kissing the side of her face, his lips very gently touched her mouth, for just a moment. A wave of bemused laughter ran through the crowd. The Half-Moon Man did not look pleased. But Moshe was certain that he could see the Princess smile, if only for a brief moment. He stepped off the stool and, in a sudden rush of inspiration, took a bow. The audience cheered and clapped. The Half-Moon Man, his smile now forced, took Moshe by the hand and led him to the edge of the arena. They bowed together, holding hands. Then the Half-Moon Man released his hand and bid him farewell.
Moshe, as soon as he stepped out of the arena, began to miss the footlights and the applause. It was as if he was awakening from a dream and finding himself in his cold, drafty room. The warmth of the adulation was over. The real world was beckoning. And he didn’t like it.
When Moshe arrived home late that night, he found that his father was still up. Laibl was sitting at the kitchen table, looking worried.
“Where have you been?” Laibl said.
Moshe stared at the floor. He felt caught in the act. “I . . . I was out,” he stuttered helplessly.
“Out?” Laibl asked. “Out where? I was worried sick about you!”
Gradually, the truth came out. That the Locksmith had taken him to see the circus. Moshe couldn’t remember seeing his father this upset before. They got into an argument, and the evening ended with Laibl beating Moshe, harder and more severely than he ever had before.
That night, as he was lying on his bedstead by the stove, his behind aching mightily, Moshe began to devise a plan.
Over the course of the next couple of weeks, the animosity between him and his father escalated. Only now did Moshe realize that it had always been there, lying dormant under the seemingly placid surface.
One day, while Laibl was
at temple, Moshe packed his few meager belongings—some provisions, his pocket knife, and his papers—and left his father’s apartment. He went to the cemetery and stood by his mother’s grave, asking her forgiveness for what he was about to do. He touched her headstone with his fingers, and then, with a heart both heavy and free, he turned around and walked toward the riverbank.
The tent was gone. The circus had already departed. All that was left behind was trampled grass, broken bottles, and trash. A sharp wind blew through the nearby alleys. Moshe walked around as if in a dream, and the small square seemed to him as barren and lifeless as a desert.
Then he noticed an advertising column nearby, covered with posters, circulars, and public notices. Approaching it, he saw an announcement for the Zauber-Zirkus, dirty and torn, flapping in the wind. The Half-Moon Man’s smile was half-gone, and his face definitely had a diabolical quality to it.
Moshe tore off the announcement and rushed over to a newspaper kiosk at the far side of the square. A bulky old woman, her hair hidden underneath a cotton scarf, was sitting inside the dimly lit wooden booth, reading the paper. Max approached her and showed her the bill.
“Do you have any idea where the circus might have gone?” he asked.
The old lady looked up, glanced at the announcement, and slowly nodded.
THE MAGIC SHOP
Shortly before eight, Max arrived at the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and Cherokee Avenue. It was already dark. A light rain had descended on Los Angeles. After the argument with his mother, he had climbed out the window and walked to the bus stop. His plan was as simple as it was daring.
He was now officially a runaway child. How exciting! The police were probably already after him, maybe even the FBI. His mom would be worried, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to find Zabbatini, no matter what. If the man was even alive. And if not . . . dear God, Max hardly dared to think about it.
He had taken the 181 East bus, all the way to the final stop in front of that large, kitschy theater where they seemed to be showing Cats all the time. Two years before, Max had gotten the idea that he absolutely had to see that musical, and finally his parents had grudgingly taken him. But Max had been bitterly disappointed. Instead of cute little kittens frolicking about on a stage, he only saw big-breasted dancers in spandex outfits and glittery makeup. Who wanted to see that? Was it too much to expect cats from a show called Cats?
Max desperately hoped that his little adventure would turn out to be a success. When the doors of the orange-colored bus finally opened with a hiss at the last stop, he got off and began walking farther east. He knew exactly what he was looking for.
The Hollywood Magic Shop was a slightly run-down storefront on the south side of Hollywood Boulevard, with a broken neon sign above the door and a life-size Darth Vader costume in the window. An electronic doorbell sounded as he opened the glass door. It seemed oddly whiny, like a cat in heat.
Max timidly entered the store, feeling something bordering on awe. The shop was brightly lit with rows of neon tubes, and was lined on both sides with glass counters. Inside the glass cases behind the counters and stacked on long racks beneath the ceiling were magic boxes for kids, straitjackets, ventriloquist’s puppets—monkeys in frock coats seemed to be all the rage—top hats with and without bunnies, flying broomsticks for witches, and endless books and DVDs. The walls were covered with faded posters advertising magic acts of yesteryear: Howard Thurston, Harry Blackstone Sr., Dai Vernon, Shadow Master. . . .
A young couple, dressed in Dolce & Gabbana, was looking at pairs of plastic glasses that distorted the eyes. Each time the man put on a new pair, the woman laughed and clapped.
Max walked through the room as if in a trance. He had never seen anything like this. A bald pudgy man in his fifties who was dressed in black and had a pencil-thin moustache was standing behind the counter, performing card tricks for an elderly couple in brightly colored tracksuits. The husband took a sip of soda while his wife looked on with rapt fascination as the cards flashed this way and that. Max stood behind them and tried to peek.
“This,” explained the bald man as he held up a card, “is the ace of diamonds.” The couple nodded agreeably. Then he placed the card facedown on a square pad of green velvet and tapped it with his fingers. “But what if it weren’t?” he asked with a theatrical flourish. The couple shook their heads and the man grinned from ear to ear. Then he lifted the card: the queen of diamonds. The couple oohed and aahed. After a few more tricks, they decided to buy a deck of cards, and then left the store.
The bald man turned his attention to Max. “Can I help you?” he said. His voice was pleasantly sonorous.
Max nodded nervously. “I’m looking for someone,” he said.
“Who?”
Max opened his backpack and pulled out the record. He showed it to the man, who let out an appreciative whistle. He took the record from Max and examined it carefully, as if he were studying a religious artifact. “Zabbatini,” he said. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages.”
“Do you know him?”
“Sure, we crossed paths. A long time ago.” He held out his hand. “My name is Luis. You can call me Wacky.”
“Wacky?”
“I used to be a clown,” Luis said. “Wacky the Clown. Then I became a magician. I spent most of my life trying to tell people, ‘I am not Wacky.’ But I could never shake it.” He sighed. “I am Wacky,” he said with an air of resignation.
“Are you the owner here?”
Wacky nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve had this shop for over forty years now.” He gestured toward the other side of Hollywood Boulevard. “Zabbatini, he used to work at the Castle.”
“The Castle?” Max asked.
Luis nodded. “Up there, in the Hollywood Hills. You can’t see it from here. But it’s there. The greatest magic club in town. Maybe even in all of California.”
“This man, Zabbatini . . .” Max began cautiously.
“What about him?”
“Was he good?”
Luis seemed to ponder this for a moment, then he said, “No. Not especially.”
“He wasn’t?” Max was shocked.
“Not really. He had a brief moment of fame, back in the sixties or seventies. He was one of the first guys to be on TV. But no one could understand him. His accent, you see.”
Max nodded. Yeah, that was certainly an issue.
“Where was he from?” Max asked.
Luis shrugged. “I don’t know. Eastern Europe, maybe Germany. Somewhere like that. He came here after the war. It was hard for him, because he had a bad arm. There were a lot of tricks he couldn’t do, like coin magic.”
“Because of the bad arm?”
“Yeah, his left arm. He couldn’t move it properly.”
“And he wasn’t a great magician?” Max asked in disbelief.
Luis shrugged. “He was okay, I guess.”
“On the record, he said he was very powerful.”
“They all say that.”
“He said he could predict the future.”
“Of course. He was a mentalist.”
“What’s that?”
Luis pointed to the displays near the entrance of the store. “What do you see there?”
Max looked. Then he turned back to Luis. “I don’t know. Bunch of toys.”
“Exactly,” Luis said. “Toys.” Then he pointed at the glass counter that he was standing behind. “And what do you see here?”
Max bent down and peeked into the glass case. He saw an assortment of coins and nondescript wooden boxes. He looked back up. “I’m not sure. Some stuff.”
“Some stuff,” Luis said with a sneer. As he continued talking, his voice took on the same enigmatic tone it had with the elderly couple. “This,” he went on, “is far more than stuff. These are the tools of a mentalist.”
>
Max blinked at him, astonished. Luis seemed a little blurry to him. Max realized that his glasses had fogged up in the rain. He took them off and wiped them on his shirt.
“When you enter the store, the first things you see are silly games,” said Luis. “Toys for children.” He made an airy gesture with his hand. “But the deeper you go inside, the more powerful the magical items are. Each step brings you closer to the threshold of mystery. Which is where we are now.”
Max put his glasses back on. “All right . . .” he said uncertainly.
“It may not look like much, but mentalism—it’s the highest order of magic there is.”
“And what does a mentalist do, exactly?” asked Max.
Luis looked at him closely. “I want you to think of a vegetable.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“A vegetable, it doesn’t matter which one. Just don’t tell me.”
Max concentrated. The first thing that popped into his mind was a carrot. He nodded at Luis.
Luis seemed to stare right into Max’s head.
Then he took out a yellow Post-it and wrote a word on it. “Is that what you were thinking of?”
He showed him the Post-it. It said, Carrots.
Max gasped. “How did you know that?” he asked, genuinely astonished.
“This,” said Luis and tapped against his temple with two fingers, “is what a mentalist does. He’s a magician of the mind. Someone who unlocks the mysteries of the soul. Mentalists are fortune-tellers, mind readers, hypnotists. The greatest among them are rightly feared, for they can manipulate your thoughts and look into your heart.”
That’s exactly what I need, Max thought. “And Zabbatini, he’s a mentalist?”
“Yes,” said Luis. “He is a mentalist. He’s the . . .” He paused. “Well, not the greatest,” he murmured pensively. Then he collected himself and loudly exclaimed, “The Great Zabbatini is the most mediocre magician who ever lived!”
That sounded impressive enough, Max thought. “Do you know where I can find him?”
The Trick Page 7