Luis shook his head. “I have no idea. Is he even alive?” He sighed, then looked at his watch. “Sorry, I have to close up now.”
Max watched, with an air of sadness, as Luis put on an ill-fitting trench coat and proceeded to lock the glass cases.
When he was finished, they went outside and Luis pulled down the metal grating over the shopwindows. It was raining more heavily now. Max had no idea where to go. He said good-bye to Luis and started walking away, his head hanging low. His quest was over before it had even begun. Moments later, he heard heavy footsteps behind him.
“Wait!” called Luis. “Just a minute!”
Max turned around. “Yes?”
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d look in an old-age home.”
“Yeah, but where?” Max asked. “There’s got to be hundreds.”
“True,” said Luis, sounding perplexed. “It would have to be cheap. He never had any money.”
Suddenly, his face lit up.
“Hey! Try the King David!”
“The what?”
“On Fairfax,” Luis said. “The King David Home for the Elderly. A lot of old actors live there.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out the Post-it with the word carrots written on it. Turning it over, he scribbled on the other side: Zabbatini, King David, Fairfax Avenue.
“Good luck,” he said, handing it to Max.
“Thanks,” said Max, and went on his way.
He was soon swallowed by the hazy October night. And all the lights and broken promises of Hollywood Boulevard were gleaming in the distance.
THE PERSIAN PRINCESS
On a field outside of the city of Dresden, Moshe finally caught up with the circus. He had been traveling for what seemed like an eternity to him. He was weary and exhausted, his feet hurt, and his body felt worn out. He had never been so far from home.
Moshe had learned one thing: he didn’t like the countryside. He was a city boy, he realized, and felt most at home on cobblestone streets, among throngs of people. The countryside had little to offer him, except drastic temperature changes, too much rain—which turned the forest floor into a soggy mess—and a noticeable lack of toilets. He had diligently followed the Vltava River north for a few days, always stopping at inns and farms to ask if the circus had come through. Some of the people he encountered were very helpful, even offering him food and shelter. Others would spit over their right shoulder and drive him away. A baker’s wife in the town of Mělník had told him that, indeed, the Zauber-Zirkus had come through on its way to Dresden.
On his journey through Bohemia, he followed the Elbe River and soon came across a group of traveling Roma gypsies. Their friendliness and openness touched him deeply. They shared what little food they had with him, and allowed him to sleep in their camp that night, alongside the animals. In the evening, they made a fire, and ate goulash and drank grog. An old man with rotting, stinking teeth was playing violin, making awful screeching noises, which nonetheless seemed to delight the gypsies and bring tears to their eyes. Moshe felt desperately lonely. He missed his mother, who had abandoned him, and he missed his father, whom he had abandoned. He wanted nothing more than to be back in Prague.
A few days later, at Hřensko, he reached the border of the German state of Saxony. The Elbe Valley was breathtaking, with the trees already a vibrant green and the sunlight glistening serenely on the still river.
The border crossing itself was no more than a shack with a wooden barrier at the end of a dirt path. On the left side of the path, Moshe saw an inn; to the right, train tracks and a small station. The German border guards, who were lolling about in front of their shack, refused him entry. He had, they claimed, no valid travel visa. His identity papers from Prague labeled him an “Israelite,” meaning he could not enter the Reich without special permission. Had he been a “Sudeten German,” they said, it would have been a different matter. The guards seemed to find the whole thing embarrassing. Moshe thanked them politely and turned back, heading for the inn.
After entering the noisy smoke-filled hall, he found a seat on a bench, near the fireplace. He shared the table with two drunken bricklayers from Bratislava, who told him that they regularly went to Prague, Warsaw, and Dresden seeking work. They were wearing coarse overalls and had brick dust under their fingernails and in the creases of their ruddy faces. One of them, a heavyset, toad-like man with wild gray hair, threw an arm around Moshe and began singing “Nad Tatrou sa blýska.” Moshe had heard the melody before, at U Fleků and other beer halls of the goyim, but he didn’t speak much Slovakian, so as the bricklayers sang their national anthem he hummed the Hebrew “Hava Nagila” instead. When the innkeeper, carrying a tray with full beer glasses, came to ask him what he wanted to drink, Moshe smiled politely and shrugged. He had no money. The other bricklayer, a tall, gaunt fellow, would hear none of it. “He is my guest,” he informed the innkeeper in shaky German.
“And what,” said the innkeeper, “will your guest have?”
Moshe decided on a Radeberger Pilsner, brewed locally, the innkeeper informed him, just outside of Dresden.
“Nothing to eat?” the innkeeper asked, sounding as if it were an offense to decline his food. Moshe shook his head. He knew the Bohemians, and he assumed the German goyim were no different: they would eat absolutely anything, even pigs. One of their sausages was called “blood pudding.” Disgusting. But he was hungry, and the tall bricklayer managed to convince him to eat at least some black bread with cheese and mustard.
The drunken Slovaks continued singing and swaying. At one point, they were swaying so hard that Moshe’s yarmulke fell off his head.
The rotund bricklayer picked it up and gazed at it with astonishment.
“What is this?” he asked.
Moshe felt himself blush. “My hat,” he whispered, and averted his eyes.
“Only Jews have such hats,” said the second bricklayer. “You are not a Jew, are you?”
Moshe nodded. “Well,” he stammered, “I’m afraid I am. I’m sorry.”
The bricklayers were silent for a moment. This information seemed completely puzzling to them, even though the fact that Moshe was a Jew was readily apparent to anyone sober. Not only was he wearing a yarmulke, but he had payos dangling from his temples and was dressed in the black overcoat of the Orthodox. But, apparently, for the drunk, such mysteries were revealed only in good time.
After an awkward silence, the first bricklayer threw Moshe’s yarmulke into the fire. “Bah!” he exclaimed.
“Bah!” said the second one in agreement.
Moshe watched his yarmulke burn, feeling as if something in him was being devoured.
“You are not a Jew anymore,” proclaimed the first bricklayer. “Because Jews are shit. Now you are one of us.” He raised his tankard. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” proclaimed the second.
Timidly, Moshe raised his tankard as well. Perhaps it was better that he was not a Jew. After all, who wants to be shit?
“Cheers!” he shouted. He would become someone else today. Someone new. He was no longer a member of the Mosaic tribe, an Israelite, standing in line for special forms and the small mercies your government was willing to extend to you. He didn’t want to be a beggar anymore—he wanted to drink pigs’ blood! Today, he was a goy!
After a few hours of vigorous drinking, Moshe the Goy shambled into the woods behind the inn to relieve himself. Afterward, he sat down against a moss-covered tree trunk and gazed up at the stars. The world seemed infinitely vast and filled with possibilities. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The next morning, he awoke with a terrible hangover. The sun was shining awfully bright, piercing his eyes. He got up and stumbled in the direction of the inn. Its doors were locked and its windows shuttered. Everything was quiet.
Moshe went to the outhouse. When that was done, he stumbled to a trough full of wate
r, because his throat was parched. He saw his reflection in the water and then the events of last night came back to him. The drunken bricklayers who had burned his yarmulke. Then he thought he could see his father’s face on the surface of the water, and he felt a pang in his heart. Moshe missed him so much, tears came to his eyes and the reflection became blurry. Then he remembered: he had vowed not to be a Jew anymore. He took his pocketknife out of his backpack and cut off his payos. Then he took off his black overcoat and looked at himself again. Now he was only wearing trousers and a white shirt. He still looked Jewish, he thought. Apparently, it wasn’t something one could get rid of in a day.
He started walking toward Saxony. Since he knew that he couldn’t cross at the border checkpoint, he decided to stay in the woods.
By afternoon, he had left Czechoslovakia and was deep within the Saxon forest. Then he heard a man’s voice.
“God bless you, traveler!”
“Who? What?” Moshe blurted out. He turned around but didn’t see anyone.
“Up here,” said the voice. Moshe peeked up through the branches of the birch trees and saw a man wearing an outfit of green wool, as well as a hat with something like a shaving brush sticking out from the rim. The forester climbed down from his lookout post, shouldered his rifle, and held out his hand. Moshe timidly accepted it. This was new to him. Normally, the goyim didn’t like touching you.
“Where are you headed?” asked the forester.
“To Dresden,” said Moshe.
The man was kind enough to point Moshe in the right direction. Then he gave him some water and bade him farewell.
Moshe continued his journey. At nightfall, he finally caught up with the Zauber-Zirkus. The tent was pitched on an open field, and he recognized immediately the ragged cloth, the poorly sewn stars and symbols. He heard applause from inside. A warm glow was emanating from the tent and Moshe could hear the applause, but he knew that this time he would not be allowed inside, for he had no ticket. Cautiously he explored the surrounding area and saw a few circus wagons, some mules and horses, and a cart filled with hay. He snuck up to the back of the tent and heard shouts and applause. Taking a deep breath, he knelt down and lifted one of the tent flaps ever so slightly.
He was behind the circus arena, near the artists’ entrance, underneath the orchestra. He could see the Half-Moon Man from behind, a dark shape against the colorful and seductive flare of the footlights.
And then he saw the Persian Princess, afloat in midair. A boy from the audience was standing near her, in awe, trying to understand the impossible. How could this woman just hang in the air like that? The boy had the same look on his face as he himself must have had, just recently. Moshe felt the sting of jealousy in his chest as he watched the boy kiss the Princess and walk back into the audience, which erupted into thunderous applause.
The show was soon over. The curtain was lowered and the lights went out. For a moment, Moshe couldn’t see anything. Then he saw the Persian Princess walking toward him at a brisk pace. He gasped and let the tent flap drop. But it was too late to hide. A moment later, a hand tapped his shoulder from behind and Moshe found himself face-to-face with the Princess.
As she glared at him, he was dumbstruck by her magnificence. She had a passionate gleam in her eyes, and her black, flowing hair was moving slightly in the wind.
“Who the hell are you?” she snapped at him in German, bringing him suddenly back to reality.
“I’m . . . I am . . .” stuttered Moshe.
The Princess reached into her hair and, before Moshe could say or do anything, pulled it off her head. Moshe was shocked. It was a wig. Underneath, she had short, blond hair, which was covered in sweat and powder and sticking up at all angles.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said.
Moshe nodded. Her voice. There was something in her voice that moved him. He had never heard anybody speak German like that before. The Persian Princess came from the streets of Berlin, and she spoke the language of the local alleys and factories, perfectly suited to both tenderness and bitterness.
“You’re the little Jew boy,” she said suddenly. “From Prague. The one who kissed me. What are you doing here?”
Moshe shook his head. “I’m not a Jew boy.”
“You look like one.”
“I’m not anymore,” Moshe said. “Now I’m normal.”
“That so?” said the Princess. “Why don’t you lower your pants and show me how normal you are?”
Moshe blushed and took a step away. The Princess started laughing, the sound coarse and ringing, then turned around and tramped over to her wagon. Moshe watched in amazement as she climbed wooden steps to her door. All the grace and agility she had as a princess had left her body. It was as if, in taking off the wig, she had become an entirely different person.
Moshe was utterly confused, but intrigued. The woman turned around and looked at him.
Reaching inside her dress, she took out a pack of cigarettes and removed one. Striking a match against the doorframe, she lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply as she gave Moshe the once-over. Evidently amused, she exhaled smoke through her nostrils.
“Are you coming or not?” she asked.
“Can I keep my pants on?” Moshe asked.
“I’ll beat you if you don’t,” she said.
THE MENTALIST
The King David Home for the Elderly on Fairfax Avenue had been built in the sixties, and looked it. When Max opened the glass entrance door, he found himself in a lobby decorated with brass and chintz. A palace of kitsch, he thought, observing the giant bronze chandelier above him. The walls were adorned with faded, autographed black-and-white pictures of long-dead crooners and Western actors, their faces blanched. Probably former inmates here, Max thought. A purple velour sofa stood in the entrance hall, next to some folded-up wheelchairs with a handwritten sign that said, NEEDS REPAIR. The room smelled of cloyingly sweet air freshener. The King David was the end of the line, a depository for the old and the unwanted. Before coming in, Max had seen two withered old ladies through the window, shuffling about like zombies in flower-covered aprons. The doors still had last year’s Chanukah decorations attached. Depressing.
Who likes old people? Max wondered. In his experience, they were maudlin and they smelled funny, like his grandpa Herman before he died. Max remembered having to kiss his stubbly cheek. Gross.
The front desk was at the end of the lobby. A bored-looking nurse in her late twenties sat in an office chair, painting her nails. Probably the night nurse. Max clutched the straps of his backpack as he timidly approached her. In his right hand, he had the Post-it that Luis had given him.
The nurse blew at her nails and said, “Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” Max said. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”
The nurse shook her hand to better dry the nail polish. “Who?” she asked.
“A man named Zabbatini.”
“There’s no one here by that name,” she said.
Max looked at her, aghast. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Maybe it’s not his real name. He’s a magician.”
“Aha,” said the nurse with a tone of boredom in her voice. She pressed a button on the intercom, summoning her boss.
Then she went back to doing her nails, ignoring Max. He felt uncomfortable.
He saw a clipboard with a sheet of paper lying on the counter. The visitors’ log. Max realized he was supposed to write down his name and address. Folks here probably needed to know who came and went. Max obediently wrote down his information, then put the pen aside and began gently bouncing on the balls of his feet.
After a while, a portly man with a bushy moustache, a striped shirt, and a stained white coat walked around the corner. He had a sandwich in one hand.
“This better be important,” he said, chewing.
The nurse nodded toward Max.
“Kid’s looking for someone.”
The manager glared at Max with barely concealed hostility.
“A magician,” said Max.
“What?” said the man.
Max held out the Post-it. “Look,” he said. “It says it right here.”
The man picked up the paper and glanced at it. “It says, ‘Carrots’. ”
“The other side.”
He turned it over, then shrugged. “There’s no Zabbatini here.”
“Like I said, maybe it’s not his real name. He’s a mentalist. He can read people’s minds. His left arm is busted, somehow. And I thought . . .”
What? What did he think? Max was looking for a needle in a haystack. Why should Zabbatini be here, of all places? Maybe he had left LA. Maybe he had moved somewhere else. Maybe he was dead.
But, to Max’s surprise, the manager raised his eyebrows. “Left arm?” he said. Then he went to a door and held it open for Max. “Try Bungalow 112,” he said, pointing toward the courtyard beyond. “But that guy doesn’t read minds. He only reads girlie mags.”
Max thanked the manager and proceeded through a short walkway. The courtyard on the other end, overgrown with palms, had a fountain burbling in one of its far corners and a swimming pool at its center. The rooms and bungalows had been constructed around it.
Max approached a small bungalow marked 112. He knocked and waited. Then knocked again. No response. He looked around and realized he was alone in that tropical courtyard. The only sound came from the small fountain. Max snuck up to one of the windows of the bungalow and peeked inside. He saw an old man’s leg lying on the floor. That’s all he could see, just the leg. The skin was pale and wrinkled and covered with blue varicose veins. The leg protruded from a pair of white cotton shorts, and its limp foot was wearing a cheap, bright blue plastic sandal. The rest of the body was hidden behind a wall. Max was worried. He wondered if he should inform the nurse or her boss. Maybe that would take too long. What if there was a serious problem? Should he break down the door? On the other hand, if he did break down the door, the fat man and the nurse might get upset.
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