Max stared at the tiled floor. “He left.”
“He left? So are you going to pay or what?”
Max began to stutter and gasp for air. “I don’t have any money,” he finally said.
“Oh,” the waitress replied. Max thought he could hear a sarcastic tone in her voice. “Eating roast beef sandwiches and pancakes, but no money. Where are your parents?”
Max tried to explain that he’d run away from home to look for a retired magician to perform a love spell on his separated parents, but somehow his story didn’t really hold the waitress’s attention. She called the manager over, a middle-aged, bony man with bushy eyebrows, who wore a yellow Canter’s T-shirt. On the spot, the manager started interrogating Max, who immediately broke down and revealed his mom’s phone number. Max was taken into the manager’s office. It was filled with old photographs and piles of papers. Buried underneath a stack of files was an old-fashioned black phone. Apparently, Canter’s was the deli that time forgot. The manager dialed the number and handed the phone to Max. His mom picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded frantic.
“Mom, it’s Max.”
He could hear her exhale sharply. Was she angry? Or relieved?
“Where are you?” she asked in a shrill voice. “I’m worried sick about you!”
“I’m at Canter’s,” said Max.
“Canter’s?” she said in disbelief. “What in God’s name are you doing at Canter’s?”
“I ate a roast beef sandwich,” Max explained. “And pancakes.”
It took a few minutes for her to calm down. She was seething with rage. She told Max he’d be grounded for at least two weeks, including “no TV, no internet.” Then Max put the manager on the line to negotiate the details of the ransom payment. Mom said she was on her way, and the manager gave the phone back to Max, but Mom had already hung up. Max slowly put the receiver down, cursing the old fool of a magician.
THE BEAUTIFUL LIE
Moshe Goldenhirsch soon came to realize that life in the circus was much harder than he had anticipated. But he enjoyed it. He liked the traveling life, and he liked the people. Still, there were times, in the quiet hours of the night or shortly before dawn, when he saw his father’s face in his mind’s eye. He imagined the poor, lonely man stumbling through Prague, looking for his lost son. Moshe decided to write him a letter. He begged forgiveness for abandoning him, but he also explained that he had been looking for his own life, and now he had found it. He had left behind not only his father, but also his Judaism, once and for all. And now he was walking his own path, toward his own destiny.
Moshe didn’t realize what his words would do to his father. He had cast aside all that the rabbi believed to be true and right. Moshe had walked away from the core of decency, he had shut the light of God out of his heart. The rabbi had turned old and gray in recent days, and when he read the letter, his fingers trembled and tears ran down his cheeks. Then a scream came forth from his body, his deepest soul. He collapsed. A dark abyss opened in both his eyes and his heart. Nothing could have hurt him more, after these weeks of agony, than this apostasy. He tore apart the letter, his hands moving meticulously, and burned the shreds in his oven. From now on, Laibl knew, he had no son.
Moshe, meanwhile, was enjoying his new worldly life. The circus troupe consisted of the Baron and his assistant Julia, four orchestra musicians, and Mrs. Arndt, who did the cooking and washing and also tore the tickets. Then there was a morose, chain-smoking clown named Siggy; an alcoholic acrobat named Hilde; a lion tamer, who, ironically, was called Löwitsch; and Horst, the artist, who took care of most of the menial tasks that other members of the troop would refuse.
And now there was Moshe the little Jew boy, who grew less Jewish with each passing day. Julia, intent on reshaping him in her image, gave him baggy pants, an old frock coat, and a haircut. His tender fingers, which thus far had only been turning the pages of the Torah, grew blisters and a tough layer of hardened new skin, which Moshe was very proud of. His muscles developed with each shovel of horse manure. A few months into his new life, the little Bocher from Prague was unrecognizable. Taller, stronger, more confident. He was no longer a boy, but a man.
However, there was one thing about him that irked the Baron: his name.
“Moshe just sounds so . . . so different.”
Moshe shrugged. “But that is my name.”
“Names are sound and smoke. They are nothing. But they need to sound like everything. Moshe Goldenhirsch,” von Kröger grumbled. “What kind of name is that?”
“Mine,” said Moshe hesitantly.
They were sitting in the Baron’s circus wagon, a large mahogany cart with a tiled oven and even a private toilet, which had to be emptied once a day. The Baron was reclining in a red, plush armchair, smoking a pipe, while Julia tended the fire. The flames reflected eerily off the Baron’s brass mask as he stirred his tea. He placed a piece of candied sugar in his mouth and crunched down on it, then sipped his tea. Moshe had never met anyone who loved sugar as much as the Half-Moon Man.
“Your name is your true self,” explained Kröger. “It is the first thing people learn about you. Your name must convey who you want to be. Who you are.”
“I am Moshe Goldenhirsch.”
“No. You are not. You joined my circus so that you would not have to be Moshe Goldenhirsch any longer. You can be whatever you choose to be. The question is, What?”
Moshe hadn’t really thought about it. He looked at Julia, her graceful features illuminated by the soft glow of the fire. What do I want to be? Her lover, that much he was sure of. But he’d made no progress in that respect. And he had no idea how to proceed. So he only said, “I don’t know.”
“Well, think!” snapped Kröger. “You don’t want to be shoveling horseshit forever, do you?”
Moshe shook his head. “I want to be a magician.”
Julia smiled.
“A magician?” The Baron frowned. “You couldn’t be a clown?”
Moshe shook his head. “I want to be like you.”
The Half-Moon Man nodded, somewhat pleased. “I see,” he said. “You wish to be my apprentice.”
“Yes.”
The Baron tossed a coin toward Moshe. Moshe caught it.
Kröger nodded. “Again.”
He tossed the coin several more times, and each time Moshe was able to catch it.
“Not bad,” said the Baron. “Let me see your hands.”
Moshe held out his hands. The Baron took them, pulling Moshe closer, roughly examining his palms and fingers. “All right,” he finally grumbled and pushed Moshe away. “That will do. I will consider your proposal. But!” He held out his middle finger. “It means I will get to choose your name.”
Moshe was puzzled, and the Baron explained, “It has always been the custom that the noble lord chooses a new name for his loyal serf.”
Moshe hadn’t heard that before. “Really?”
“Do I detect the faint scent of rebellion permeating my chamber?”
“I don’t smell anything,” said Moshe.
“You’re not a Bolshevist, are you?”
Moshe shook his head.
The Baron nodded. “Massage my feet,” he said to Julia, who sat down next to his chair and started pulling on his left riding boot. She had to use considerable effort, but at last, the boot came off with a satisfying thud. A scent permeated the chamber, but it was not of rebellion.
“Something Persian,” said the Half-Moon Man pensively.
“Persian?” Moshe asked. “Why Persian?”
“I already have a Persian Princess,” explained the Half-Moon Man. “Maybe you could be her dim-witted half-brother, yes?”
Moshe said nothing. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be a dim-witted half-brother.
“These are strange days, my
friend. The Nazis won the election last year.”
Moshe had heard all about it. He knew that these were not ideal times to be Jewish. Everywhere he looked, there was propaganda and hate. But here, in the circus, he felt safe, as if the outside world could do him no harm.
“They believe themselves to be the descendants of Aryan tribes. From Persia.”
“Are they really?” asked Moshe.
“Of course not. They’re illiterate pig farmers, that’s all. But they’re also our audience, and if they want to hear that they are princes, then by God, they are!”
Moshe nodded. Give the audience what they want.
“But,” continued the Half-Moon Man, “the true princes of Persepolis are sitting right here, in this room.”
“Who?”
The Half-Moon Man made a grandiose gesture that included everyone here. “Us,” he said. “We are the Aryans.”
Moshe looked at him, puzzled.
“We are magicians, are we not?” said the Baron. “And the first magicians were the Magi, the high priests of Persepolis.”
Moshe was delighted. Within minutes, he had graduated from dim-witted half-brother to high priest.
“We are their children, at least in spirit. We are the speakers of the gods and the guardians of a timeless truth.”
“Yes?” Moshe asked excitedly. “What truth?”
“The truth of lies.”
“How can lies be true?”
“How can they not? People are desperate to be deceived. They want to believe in something greater. We give them something lesser, and that is why they come back. Magic is a beautiful lie.”
One morning a few days later, the Zauber-Zirkus stopped at Würzburg and Moshe began cleaning out the lion cage. Ludwig the Lion was an old, nearly toothless animal whose only interests after his many years of incarceration were his next meal and subsequent nap. Suddenly, Moshe noticed the Half-Moon Man walking up to the cage and looking at him through the bars.
“Boy,” said the Half-Moon Man. His shirt was open, revealing his ample, rosy belly. His mask shone in the pale morning light. He was smoking a pipe and staggering slightly.
“Yes?” said Moshe.
“Come here,” said the Half-Moon Man. Moshe got up and scurried outside. He clutched the shovel in his left hand. It was still early. The day was gray and overcast. He could hear the cries of the ravens in the nearby forest, and he could feel the cold wind tugging at his shirt.
“What day is this?” asked the Half-Moon Man.
“Saturday,” Moshe replied.
“Is it not against your religion to work on a Saturday? On the Sabbath?”
Moshe shrugged. “I have no religion.”
The Baron smiled. Obviously, it was the answer he’d wanted to hear. “Kneel,” he said.
Moshe looked at him and blinked.
“Kneel!” the Half-Moon Man suddenly roared. “I am your liege!”
Intimidated, Moshe knelt down in the hard, cold mud.
“Give me the shovel,” said von Kröger.
Moshe did as he was asked. The Baron took the shovel and held it near Moshe’s head. Moshe was getting nervous. What was all this? Did the Baron want to bang him on the head? If so, why?
“Repeat after me,” said the Half-Moon Man solemnly. “As a magician . . .”
“As a magician . . .” Moshe repeated.
“I swear never to reveal the secret of any illusion to a mortal . . .”
“Mortal?”
“Shut up and repeat,” said the Baron.
Moshe dutifully did as he was told.
When the long oath was finished, the Half-Moon Man solemnly lifted the shovel and tapped him lightly on each shoulder, then on the head. Moshe beamed. He had been knighted, right here, in the mud! He was a magician!
“Henceforth . . .” began the Baron. He paused to take a sip from his flask, then burped and went on. “Thou shalt be known as Zabbatini.”
“As what?” asked Moshe, incredulous.
“Zabbatini,” the Half-Moon Man repeated. “Like the Sabbath, only with an ini at the end. And maybe a Z at the beginning. It’s nice, no?”
“I don’t know . . .” Moshe murmured, scratching his head.
“Enough!” roared the Half-Moon Man. “It’s brilliant. Mellifluous. And it sounds Persian.”
“If you say so.”
“I damn well say so,” insisted the Half-Moon Man.
He threw the shovel away and stalked off, while Moshe Goldenhirsch, henceforth known to the world as Zabbatini, remained kneeling in the mud.
THE BELIEVER
After dinner, Zabbatini walked back to the King David in a gloomy mood, despite the free pancakes, courtesy of that idiot kid. He was eighty-eight years old and his mind was as active as ever. His body, however, was giving out. It was the greatest failure of his life, this betrayal of his own flesh. It felt as if there were weights attached to his bones, and his joints were like creaky hinges. He was tired of life. He didn’t want to go on this way, not really. After all, he hadn’t opened the gas valve by accident. He spent most of his days drunk, with little to look forward to. Only quiz shows and whiskey, cancer and incontinence.
An unpleasant surprise awaited him when he entered the lobby of the King David. Ronnie, the manager, was already expecting him. He held up a piece of paper.
“What’s this with the gas leak?” Ronnie asked accusingly.
“Leave me alone,” said Zabbatini, his usual opening gambit to almost any question.
“And you’re going to pay for the door,” Ronnie said.
“It’s a miracle I’m alive,” said the old man loudly. He threatened to sue the King David on account of the “gas leak,” but Ronnie seemed unimpressed, realizing that someone had tampered with the valve. And he had a strong suspicion of who that someone might be.
“I only twisted the knob,” said the old man by way of defending himself.
“You removed the knob!”
“The plastic thing came off, that’s my fault now?”
Ronnie slammed the paper he had been holding down on the desk. It was an eviction notice. Zabbatini had twenty-four hours to find a new home.
Zabbatini waved dismissively. Leave me alone, he thought as he shuffled to his room. He wanted to slam the door shut, but there was no more door to slam. Only pieces of wood on the floor. He grabbed the bottle of whiskey, turned the television on, and sank into his chair.
I want to die, Zabbatini thought, bringing the bottle to his lips.
Despite her misgivings during the early stages of her pregnancy, the day that her son Max was born was the happiest day of Deborah’s life. That was partly due to the amazing drugs they had given her at Cedars-Sinai. But only partly. The birth hadn’t been as bad as she had feared, and when it was all over, a nurse had come in and handed her a baby. Not just any baby, her baby. Max Cohn. Deborah was initially puzzled, but her bewilderment soon gave way to a deep, warm pride, unlike anything she had ever felt before. She was, in many ways, emotionally unprepared for Max’s arrival. He had suddenly arrived, turning her life upside down. But he was there, and Deborah and Harry loved him. In the beginning, it was all relatively easy. Of course it was exhausting to be awoken in the middle of the night by a screaming newborn, but at least Deborah knew what was expected of her. There were diapers to change, and the baby had to be fed. Later came the arduous task of spooning baby food from bottles with misleading pictures of rosy-cheeked children into little Max’s tightly shut mouth.
She and Harry got married a few weeks before his birth. It was a simple and surprisingly moving ceremony at an ashram in Malibu, with a view over the beach. They stood in the grass, in the soft breeze, under the traditional wedding chuppah, with the sun on their faces, and she wore the most glamorous retro-seventies dress ever over her round belly. She and Harry bot
h said, “I do,” and then the guru pronounced them man and wife and proclaimed, “Om mani padme hum.”
Even though Deborah called herself a Buddhist, there was no denying what she truly was: a Jewess of Beverly Hills. Her father was a prominent dentist, and young Deborah had been raised on the not very mean streets of 90210, subject to constant displays of ostentatious wealth and a great deal of peer pressure. Her family was conservative, and it was probably a response to her strict upbringing—in a walled house with separate refrigerators for meat and dairy products—that Deborah had developed a fascination with Dharmic religions.
Buddha or no Buddha, when Max was born, there was never any question that he would be raised in the Jewish faith, with a bit of Eastern mysticism thrown in for good measure. She and Harry moved to the east side, beyond the socially dividing line of La Cienega Boulevard, and the first thing they did was find a Jewish day care center for Max. Both felt they should provide a stable, somewhat traditional, and spiritual home for their child. Deborah’s mother was initially unsure of her choice of husband, but Harry was a child of Holocaust survivors. Survivors were seen as something akin to nobility in the Jewish community of West Los Angeles. Marrying the child of a Holocaust survivor was like marrying a Kennedy.
At first, things had worked out remarkably well. Harry was a loving husband and father, and most of all, he was fun to be around. He’d once had aspirations of becoming a musician, but his dreams soon faded and he was simply forced to support his family. He was a grown-up now. He studied law and found work as a music licensing attorney, at a firm that sold jingles to commercial houses and movie studios. With the generous support of Deborah’s parents, the young couple bought a house in Atwater Village. Deborah opened her shop, Om Sweet Om. It did all right. As did Harry’s career.
They’d had a few good years, she now realized, not without regret. Where did we go wrong? she wondered.
Whatever the secret to a happy marriage might have been, they were unable to hold onto it. She remembered her wedding, standing there, looking out at the ocean, thousands of sparks of sunlight glittering on the Pacific, watching the beautiful high waves coming in. And then seeing where they broke and rolled back and dissolved, just like their happiness, just like their life together.
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