All that was left now was arranging drop-offs and pickups with Harry, shuffling through the vast concrete wasteland of Los Angeles to Gutierrez & Partners in her old Jeep Cherokee, the very same car in which Max had been conceived. Mr. Gutierrez was a patient man: in his office, she was allowed to cry to her heart’s content. It was like therapy. And he always had a box of Kleenex ready for her. One of the tools of his trade.
When Deborah had knocked on Max’s door after their fight to apologize for her nasty remarks, she’d gotten no response. He’s probably sulking, she thought. She lit some scented candles and meditated for twenty minutes. Then she called him, and when he didn’t respond to further knocking, she got fed up. She opened the door and went around outside to his window.
“Who do you think—” she said and then stopped. Max was gone. The window was open and his curtain was flapping in the evening wind. She became immediately alarmed. She searched the house and garage for him, then the neighborhood, calling his name with increasing desperation.
As a young girl, she had witnessed a neighbor get two of his fingers cut off by a lawn mower. He had stuck his hand in, because the machine hadn’t been working properly, and he didn’t realize that it was still turned on. Deborah had watched with morbid fascination as the neighbor’s fingers flew through the air like little pink hot dogs and landed in the grass. The wife had gathered them up. Paramedics had taken the bleeding man to the hospital, and the fingers were sewn back on. Ever since then, he had scars on his fingers and could hardly move them. She would never forget the feeling of nausea she had back then, deep in her stomach.
Now she felt the same way. Worse. Now she was the one who had stuck her hand in the lawn mower. Her son was gone, and it was as if someone had torn a limb from her.
She called his father, who was puzzled and useless, as always. She heard people in the background. Where was he? A bar? A restaurant?
“Where are you?” she snapped at him.
“None of your business.”
“I can’t find Max. Is he with you?”
“Why would he be with me? It’s your day today.”
“He’s gone. He’s not at home. Where the hell is he?”
“I don’t know,” said Harry, worried now. “Why didn’t you pay attention?”
Before the argument could escalate, Deborah said she had to hang up now. She had to call the police. Harry promised to come by as soon as he could.
The cop on the phone told her not to panic. She had to wait twenty-four hours before filing a missing persons report. It was far too soon to assume the worst. For Deborah, however, it was never too soon to assume the worst. She decided to comb the neighborhood one more time. Maybe she had overlooked something. This time, she knocked on the neighbors’ doors, but no one had any idea where Max could be.
Then Harry showed up.
“What took you so long?” she said accusingly.
“Well, excuse me!” he said indignantly.
“Your son is gone,” she snapped. “Where were you?”
Harry Cohn had been out for dinner with his mistress, the infamous yoga instructor. Of course, he didn’t tell Deborah that. The evening with Eleanor—that was her name—had not gone particularly well. He had asked her how she would feel if he moved in with her. And she had said nothing. Not a good sign. When he reached for her hand to tell her that they could start a new life together now, she had pulled back. Icy silence. Seconds later, when Deborah called, Harry was relieved to end the awful dinner with Eleanor. He paid the bill and rushed over to his former house.
He and Deborah went in her car to check out all the places where Max liked to spend time: playgrounds, cinemas, comic book stores. Nothing.
In despair, they had driven back to the house. And then the phone rang.
It was Max! He was at Canter’s, unable to pay his bill. After Deborah berated her son for a few minutes, the manager of Canter’s came on the line and demanded money, asking what kind of brat was she raising there?
Feeling more relieved than ever before in her life, Deborah swore she’d kill the brat!
Deborah and Harry didn’t utter a single word during the whole drive home. Max’s parents sat in stony silence, like the Frost Giants from the Thor comics. Max wished he could teleport himself somewhere else—Grandma’s, for example. Teleportation was a wish he harbored often. It seemed like an awesome superpower to have, and Max couldn’t understand why science was taking so long to catch up to the promise of comic books. Also, he thought, fireballs would be good. You could throw them at teachers. And parents.
Deborah made a left on Edenhurst Avenue and pulled up in their driveway. When the car came to a halt, she suddenly yelled at him:
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“Answer your mother,” said Harry in a rare moment of parental harmony.
Max lowered his head and mumbled an apology. Now was the perfect time for a fireball.
“I thought you were dead,” Deborah said.
I wish I was, Max thought.
His parents wanted to know why he had run away. Max stuttered, unable to come up with a convincing defense. They besieged him with questions. What was he doing at Canter’s? Did he intend to eat the place clean?
Finally, Max came out with the truth. “I was looking for a magician,” he said.
His parents exchanged a puzzled look.
“A magician?” Mom said. “What on earth for? Who needs magicians?”
She unlocked the door and they went inside. Just like the old days, Max thought bitterly.
He told them about Dad’s record and that he had wanted to meet the Great Zabbatini. He didn’t mention the love spell. Mom looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Dad sat miserably on the sofa. Mom went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and took out a plate.
“Eat your dinner,” she said with an air of resignation.
Max poked sullenly at his cold mashed potatoes.
Deborah sent him to bed and sat down next to her soon-to-be ex-husband. They couldn’t explain their son’s behavior. But they both felt guilty. They knew that Max’s escape attempt had to do with their divorce. But why a magician, of all things?
They didn’t realize that Max was listening to their conversation through his bedroom door. After Dad left, he went to bed and fell into a restless sleep.
The next day in school, Max sat brooding on a schoolyard bench. His plan had failed. The Great Zabbatini had turned out to be anything but great. Max had to face the fact that there would never be a love spell.
He was at that age when dreams slowly give way to the harsh realities of the world. Only last year, Max had discovered a major scandal that had rocked his world: there was no Santa Claus. It was all a lie—the man he had mistaken for Santa Claus had turned out to be his dad in a ridiculous costume. Max had suspected as much for a while now; he had been baffled that Santa Claus bore such a strong resemblance to his father. His voice, his movements, his scent. And why was his dad never around when Santa showed up? Last year, during the holiday season—the terror of Christmas was so all-pervasive, even a Jewish family such as the Cohns found themselves succumbing to Santa—Max had opened the door to his parent’s walk-in closet. He had been looking for Bruno the Bunny, who had hopped off as Max was cleaning his cage. Inside the closet, Max found his dad, fumbling with the familiar red costume and white beard.
Despite this spiritual setback, Max retained a deep desire to believe in something better than the known world. He just couldn’t keep his fingers out of the cookie jar of irrational beliefs. And the more his parents’ relationship deteriorated, the more irrational Max became. The real world around him was collapsing like a house of cards, and he was looking for salvation in other places. There was a schism of faith within him. Max the Believer vs. Max the Pragmatist. It was the Believer who had pinned his hopes for happiness on a scratched
record, who had run away from home and endured the company of a smelly and cantankerous old man. He wasn’t the first person to succumb to the lure of silly beliefs: some people never outgrew this awkward phase. Max was afraid of waking up, of facing the end of childhood. He wanted to keep on dreaming for a while longer, covered by a comfortable blanket of lies. He didn’t want to get out of bed and feel the cold floor under his naked feet. Not now. Not yet.
Somehow, and in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Max had managed to cling to his belief in the impossible.
Myriam Hyung walked up to Max and sat down next to him. She fed crumbs of toast to the squirrels.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
Max shrugged. He didn’t want to talk to her. Something about her made him nervous. She could be irritable. Like that time when Joey had asked if they had refrigerators in North Korea and she had yelled at him and called him a moron. Her family, she said, was from Seoul, one of the coolest cities in the world. And amply equipped with refrigeration.
But now, she was as peaceable as a lamb. “How are your parents?” she asked.
What could he say? “I dunno,” he said evasively.
They both stared silently at a squirrel as it happily chewed on a piece of bread, its tail bobbing. Grandma hated squirrels, calling them “rats with bushy tails.” Weird, Max thought. They’re so cute.
“My mom said I should try and cheer you up,” said Myriam Hyung.
Max replied with a noncommittal grunting noise. Suddenly, Max said, “I miss him.” His voice was weak and thin. It was difficult for him to admit it. And he was surprised that he would admit it to Myriam Hyung, of all people.
Myriam took his hand. He put up no resistance. That surprised him, too.
Then she said, “Do you have any more bread for the squirrel?”
SOMETHING FROM NOTHING
The Zauber-Zirkus continued its tour through Europe, traveling through Bavaria, Austria, Hungary, and finally, after a detour over to Zagreb, back to Germany. These were hard years for Moshe Goldenhirsch, for the Half-Moon Man was a stern teacher. But, to his own surprise, Moshe turned out to be an able student. It was the first time in his life that he was good at something.
In the beginning of his apprenticeship, the Half-Moon Man had led Moshe into the empty circus tent. Standing in the middle of the arena, the Baron took out a red handkerchief and pulled it through his fist, twice. On the third pass, it suddenly became blue. This was called “transformation.” Moshe nodded, and the Half-Moon Man gave a slight bow, his mask catching the afternoon sunlight. Then, there was “teleportation,” where an item would suddenly vanish, only to mysteriously reappear somewhere else. And, of course, “levitation,” which involved objects floating in midair. To Moshe, this was one of the most beautiful and mystifying tricks. He would always remember his first sight of the Floating Princess as the moment he fell in love.
Then there was “production.” The Half-Moon Man illustrated this by simply producing a bouquet of paper flowers from seemingly thin air. “In magic,” explained the Half-Moon Man, “we create something from nothing.” The opposite of this was a “vanish,” when an object is made to disappear or to become invisible. Von Kröger opened the large overseas trunk, out of which Julia emerged every night. Moshe peeked inside.
He saw only the lining. “There’s nothing here.”
“Exactly,” said the Baron. He placed the paper flowers inside the trunk. Then he closed it and opened it again.
The flowers were gone.
Moshe blinked. “How is it done?” he asked.
The Half-Moon Man reached inside the trunk. Suddenly, Moshe saw the reflection of his fingers.
“It’s a mirror!” said Moshe.
The Baron nodded. He pushed the mirror in. “A hidden flap inside the lid. One side has a mirror attached. When the trunk is closed, it moves down automatically. The mirror reflects the lining. It looks as if the trunk is empty.”
“I see,” said Moshe, nodding. This seemed very mundane. Once he understood how a trick worked, it lost all its magic.
“But this is no true magic,” said von Kröger dismissively. “It is a device. Anyone can buy a device. True magic,” he continued, “is spectacle, illusion, entertainment.”
“What about the sword?” Moshe asked.
Every evening, the Half-Moon Man would plunge his sword into the trunk, leaving neither wounds nor blood. Von Kröger showed Moshe two identical sword canes. One of them, his real one, had an actual saber inside it. The other one contained a dull blade. The Baron touched its tip with the palm of his hand and effortlessly slipped it into the cane. “The blade is retractable,” he said. “I cut the ribbon to prove that it’s the real thing. Then I switch canes right before the trick. I do it while I adjust my cape. I hide the real sword cane behind the trunk.”
In addition to various tricks and methods, Moshe learned what his mentor called “the history of the art.” He discovered that the traditions of stage magic originated in Babylon. Many of the high priests came from a tribe of the Medes called the Magi, and this is where the word magician was derived from. It was the beginning of an unfortunate tradition—mixing stage magic with religion.
The Half-Moon Man told Moshe about an ancient Egyptian soothsayer who claimed to have the power to raise the dead. “An old canard. Priests and prophets have always claimed to have the secret to eternal life. It’s part of our repertoire. Everyone is afraid of dying. Our audience will happily surrender their hard-earned coins for the promise of a second life, preferably one that’s less inconvenient than the present one. Otherwise, we’d all be unemployed.”
The Egyptian soothsayer, however, nearly lost his head. He was summoned to the court of the Pharaoh, who wanted to see these feats of magic with his own eyes and offered a few slaves to be executed, in hopes of a quick resurrection. The soothsayer managed to convince the Pharaoh otherwise. Instead of slaves, he used ducks to perform his trick. And a cow, according to legend.
“He probably just switched the birds at the right moment.”
“But a whole cow?” Moshe wondered.
“Size is irrelevant. Houdini even managed to vanish an elephant.”
“A whole elephant?”
“On a stage in New York,” said the Baron. “Her name was Betsy.”
The Half-Moon Man then talked about “the golden age of magic.” During the nineteenth century, as a new era of reason dawned in Europe, the face of magic changed. Thanks to men like the Italian magician Bartholomeo Bosco, magic moved away from cheap superstition. Bosco believed in “honest magic.” This new breed of magicians never pretended to be anything more than entertainers. The Baron explained that many of the famous magicians came from mechanical trades. The best-known magician of the golden age, Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin, was the son of a watchmaker. His exploits, and his name, were a source of inspiration for Ehrich Weiss, the Unseen Art’s shining star, the great Houdini. “Here is a man,” the Baron remarked, “who needs no explanation. He could crack any lock.”
Moshe suddenly thought of the Locksmith, back in Prague. He wondered what had become of him. And of his father? The faces of all those he had left behind kept appearing in his dreams.
Moshe Goldenhirsch remained with the Half-Moon Man for two years. He learned that magic was nothing more than a form of storytelling. Each trick was a drama. In the first act, the magician set up an expectation, which he simultaneously fulfilled and subverted in act three. Moshe realized that the real trick happened inside the audience’s mind. The art did not, in fact, consist of a simple transformation through mundane mechanics or props. No, the art itself was the transformation of feelings. It meant saying the right things. Or, more to the point, not saying much of anything.
“Magicians,” the Half-Moon Man told him one night after a performance, “are scared of only one thing.”
M
oshe regarded his mentor, who was reclining in his red armchair.
“Magic,” he said. “Magicians are afraid of magic. Instead, they fill their acts with vaudeville and mindless blather.”
The Half-Moon Man taught Moshe that the best way to lie was not to lie. “Stick to the truth, but don’t say more than you have to. Just show them the object, wave it around, and keep your damn mouth shut. Works every time.”
Moshe nodded.
Moshe felt at home. He felt like he had arrived. While he was still responsible for the animal manure, he was, toward the end of his apprenticeship, given his own slot in which to perform, before a live audience. Only one thing was forbidden to him: he could not perform “true stage magic.” That was the Baron’s prerogative, and his alone. So Moshe had to work the tent as a “magical clown.” He wore a ridiculous costume, identifying him as a buffoon. A top hat, floppy shoes, and white bathing trunks with red polka dots. He would scurry around the audience and do card tricks and pratfalls. People would laugh at him and, on occasion, even throw things at him. But he didn’t mind. Their scorn hardened his soul.
One night, however, turned out to be different from all the other nights. They were performing in Hesse, in a small town named Gießen, north of Frankfurt. Earlier that afternoon, they had pitched their tent on the fairgrounds near the River Wieseck. The townsfolk, a notoriously rude bunch even by the low standards of Hesse, prided themselves on their inquisitiveness and were highly suspicious of anything that smelled of deceit. They were mostly farmers, proud, stubborn, and set in their ways, but those who were not farmers were something far worse: intellectuals.
That night, the local chapter of the Nazi Brownshirts had come to enjoy an evening of magic and diversion. Over the last few years, the mood in the country had changed. The NSDAP, the Nazi Party, kept growing in numbers. Its message, for one, was very popular: Blame the Jews. In addition, the party was not particularly choosy. Thugs, thieves, and sadists were not only tolerated, but welcomed with open arms. The party offered them a home, a place among like-minded people. But others joined, too, respectable folks, average Germans. The party promised a better future, a well-earned place in the sun. As a party member, you weren’t a failure, you were a member of the master race. Ugly ducklings turned into ugly swans. Nationalists, students, scholars, farmers, factory workers, lawyers, businessmen—the party offered something for everyone. The party was the answer they had been looking for.
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