The Trick

by Emanuel Bergmann

  “That’s true,” Zabbatini said with a sudden rush of vigor. “I was! I am!”

  “So, what, you want him to fold balloons or something?” Deborah asked Max.

  “The audience clamors,” Zabbatini said.

  Deborah’s skeptical gaze wandered from the old man to her son, then back again. “Where on earth did you find him?” she asked Max.

  “I went to the magic shop on Hollywood Boulevard, and the guy there told me where I could find him.”

  “And would you mind telling me why?”

  Max lowered his gaze and stared at his cereal.

  “Max?” Deborah said.

  He crossed his arms. Then he said, “I want the Great Zabbatini to perform at my birthday!”

  The wheels were turning in Deborah’s head. First the drama with the record, then he’d run away . . . and now he’d dug up this old fossil. She had no idea what Max’s reasoning was, but he seemed adamant. She could be adamant, too, but she didn’t want to risk open warfare between her and her son. And if she relented?

  She crouched down in front of Max and took his hands into hers. “Are you sure, honey?”

  Max nodded. “Please let him stay. It’s only two weeks.”

  He really is as stubborn as his dad, Deborah thought. At least the police had run a background check on the old man, and had found no prior convictions. Yay. Still, the idea of having a complete stranger in her house put her on high alert. But she had to admit: having the old geezer here seemed to make Max happy. She had no idea why.

  She forced a smile, sighed, and announced her verdict. “All right. He can sleep in Dad’s old office. But only until your birthday. That’s it.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” Max said effusively. He put his arms around her neck and gave her a kiss.

  “Hurry up,” Deborah said. “Or you’ll be late.”

  Max grabbed his backpack and ran outside. He slammed the door and the walls shook. Deborah and Zabbatini looked at him through the window as he hurried into the yellow bus at the corner. The doors closed; the bus jolted, then rolled out of sight.

  As soon as they were alone, Deborah turned to Zabbatini. She grabbed a kitchen knife and pointed it at his chest.

  “Careful, dear lady,” Zabbatini said with a nervous laugh.

  Deborah impressed upon him that he could stay until the birthday party was over, and not a minute longer. Not one minute more! She explained to him the house rules, which, to his distress, included no more sniffing her clothes. She made it clear that the violation of any of these rules or even the slightest hint of improper behavior would result in this knife here being shoved up his ass. And one more thing: She didn’t trust him.

  “What is all this about? Why are you here?”

  Zabbatini sighed. “What about the coffee?”

  “Forget the coffee,” said Deborah. “Why are you here? What did you tell my son?”

  “I told nothing to your son,” he said. “He came and troubled me.”

  The knife was making him exceedingly nervous, and his command of the English language was becoming shaky once again. He told her that one day, as he was enjoying his usual “active senior lifestyle,” the kid showed up at the King David, which was, he assured her, a veritable palace, a Garden of Eden from which he had now been expelled because of the stupid slob in the front office. It would appear, Zabbatini surmised, that Max had become somewhat fixated on a certain record, which he, Zabbatini, had created so many years ago. The record in question was a promotional item from the early eighties, which his agent at the time, Benny Szimansky, may God rest his tiny soul, had asked him to produce in hopes of raising “audience awareness” and perhaps scoring a few children’s birthday parties and bar mitzvahs. In those years, Zabbatini’s star had begun to decline. His television stints had become increasingly rare, and even the bookers at Disneyland had not called him back, probably due to the fact that he had—after one particularly lackluster performance—been found with his pants around his ankles in a storage room, shtupping a female employee in a Minnie Mouse costume. Very awkward.

  Following this debacle, he had gone back to the East Coast for a few months, performing in an Atlantic City casino, an unrewarding but well-paid gig. Eventually, that dried up as well, and he settled in California for good. The weather was much more tolerable here. If he was going to be poor, at least he wanted some sunshine in his life. He liked the West Coast, especially the scent of jacaranda trees and lemons in the summer, and the ripe avocados he would steal from his neighbor’s yard. Los Angeles seemed like an open, unending wasteland to him, but that was part of the appeal. At least there weren’t any ruins. No burned-down synagogues or defaced graveyards. Nothing here reminded him of the past, those dark days before 1945.

  And there was the Magic Castle, one of the oldest and finest magic clubs on the West Coast, renowned for its awesome acts and awful food. Zabbatini was friends with Milt Larsen, founder of the Castle and the “Academy of Magical Arts.” It was a Boy Scout clubhouse for magicians—men-children who were stuck in adolescence. Amateurs, Zabbatini thought. Nonetheless, he had been delighted when they asked him to join. Milt’s brother Bill had been an executive at CBS on Fairfax and Third, and had occasionally booked Zabbatini on programs such as The Judy Garland Show.

  One night, a few months after his return to Los Angeles, Zabbatini, Milt, and Bill had gone out for dinner at Chasen’s in Beverly Hills—the steaks were heavenly—and Milt had asked him if he would like to have tenure at the Magic Castle. Zabbatini, who had not been able to afford the aforementioned steak and who had been secretly hoping that the Larsens would pick up the tab, had, of course, been delighted.

  The Magic Castle had been built in 1908, in the hills above Hollywood, an utterly absurd piece of pseudo-Victorian architecture that looked like a haunted house from a bad horror movie. In the early sixties, magician and businessman Milt Larsen had bought the run-down mansion and renovated it. The Castle was—and still is—a private club: only members and their guests were admitted. The food was a crime against humanity, but for magicians, the place was paradise. Zabbatini was among his peers—he knew everyone, he had friends here. The entrance was guarded by a fake owl, and if you uttered the words “Open, sesame!” a wooden bookshelf swung open, revealing a swank bar, abuzz with cocktail waitresses, drunk patrons, and the magicians who preyed on them. It was always dark inside the Magic Castle. The ambience was in itself an illusion, the illusion of stately, Victorian grandeur in Southern California, replete with plush red carpets and brass chandeliers. There was an intimate room for close-up magic, Zabbatini’s favorite, as well as a larger parlor and a grand stage. But the true heart of the castle was its vast basement library filled with magical tomes from all over the globe. It was one of the world’s most impressive collections of literature of the Unseen Art.

  The Magic Castle was a place for kinship, rivalries, and petty drama. The corridors behind the kitchen, behind the parlor and the “Palace of Mystery,” were hardly Victorian-looking at all. They had all the charm of a mental institution, with bright, greenish walls and neon bulbs. This was where the magicians sat around and ate the free food, got dressed for their shows, and tried to hit on the waitresses.

  For many years, this was Zabbatini’s true home. His own golden age of magic had long since faded, and he didn’t make enough money to live. Other work was hard to come by. His agent, a squat man with a cigar who was always holding court in a wood-paneled, smoke-filled office on Sunset and La Cienega, had difficulties getting him gigs. Zabbatini was a relic. No one wanted to see guys like him anymore. And so, he had gone into a studio in North Hollywood to record His Greatest Tricks.

  Sales were lackluster.

  “It’s your fucking Kraut accent,” Szimansky had said. “You sound like a goddamn Nazi.”

  Indeed, Zabbatini’s linguistic skills were rather limited. He had only shrugged and smiled.
Apparently, there was nothing he could do to halt his decline, not even with His Greatest Tricks.

  Zabbatini explained all this to Deborah Cohn. And now, more than twenty years later, Max had stumbled into his life and asked him to perform one of the spells on his record.

  “What spell?” Deborah asked. In the course of Zabbatini’s maudlin narrative, her anger had subsided. She began to see the larger picture. She felt pity for the old man. She even condescended to make coffee, not because she wanted to do the guy a favor, but because she, too, like every sensible human being, wanted coffee in the morning.

  “The spell,” Zabbatini said, “of eternal love.”

  Deborah was taken aback. “Isn’t Max a little young for that?”

  Zabbatini laughed. “The spell is not for him,” he said. “The spell is for you.”

  “For me?” Deborah was thoroughly confounded. “Why me?”

  “For you and your man,” Zabbatini explained. “I understand you are parting, yes?”

  Deborah nodded cautiously.

  Zabbatini looked into his coffee mug. He could see the outline of his head reflecting in the cup. “Your son,” he said, “is very unhappy. He wants you to be together again once more.”

  Deborah said nothing.

  Zabbatini continued: “He believes that if I make my love spell, you and your man will fall back into the love again, and he will not be lonely no more.”

  Deborah stared at the kitchen floor. I should sweep, she realized. I haven’t swept in a while.

  “What about you?” she asked, without looking at him. “Why are you really here? It’s not Max’s fault, is it?”

  Zabbatini sighed. “No. They threw me out. From the old age home. They want me not there. I met Max, so I come here. I have nowhere to go.”

  “You’ve got to admit,” she said. “It’s a little creepy. My boy shows up with an old man in tow.”

  Zabbatini nodded. “This thought had come to me also.” He took a sip of his coffee. Then he said: “But I am not creepy. I am alone. Like Max.”

  When Deborah looked into his tired, washed-out eyes, she saw a little boy. Not the Great Zabbatini, but little Moshe Goldenhirsch.

  “I have no family,” he said. “No one.”

  He didn’t want to choke up, so he looked away and stared into the kitchen. The clock was ticking, and a wedge of sunlight was on the floor. He could see the dust in the air.

  “When I die,” he quietly said, “there will be no one to say Kaddish for me.”

  THE END OF THE ZAUBER-ZIRKUS

  The search for the child-killer—the so-called Butcher of Hannover—was soon over, but not in the way Moshe had imagined. One day, after a particularity exhausting afternoon of interrogations and fake prophecies, he returned to the Zauber-Zirkus to slip back into his clown costume. He saw Horst the Artist waiting for him outside the tent. Night was falling and the performers were getting ready for the evening’s show. Audience members were already filing in.

  “The boss wants to see you,” Horst said.

  “Why?”

  He received no answer. Horst silently led Moshe through the artists’ entrance at the back of the tent. “Go in,” he said. Then, with a curt nod, he vanished.

  Not knowing what to expect, Moshe entered nervously and saw the Half-Moon Man sitting in front of a makeup mirror.

  He wasn’t wearing his mask.

  His face was completely normal. There was nothing, no disfiguration, not even the tiniest scar.

  “Well?” said the Half-Moon Man, who had become aware that Moshe was watching him.

  “Your face . . .” Moshe said uncertainly.

  “What about it?”

  Moshe felt foolish and stared at the floor. “I thought it was disfigured. In the war.”

  “Did I ever claim such a thing?” the Half-Moon Man asked.

  Moshe thought about it, then shook his head.

  The Half-Moon Man turned back to the mirror and continued applying his makeup. “The best way to lie,” he said, “is not to lie.”

  Moshe nodded.

  “And speaking of lies,” said the Half-Moon Man, “there is a matter that must be discussed.”

  He stood up and faced Moshe, swaying slightly. Moshe suspected that he was drunk. It was disconcerting to see him without his mask.

  “What?” Moshe said timidly, but he already surmised what this was about. The Baron must have discovered their affair.

  Quite unexpectedly, von Kröger struck Moshe across the face with his sword cane. Moshe felt a sharp and lingering pain. He went down on his knees, hot tears welling up in his eyes.

  “Swine!” called the Half-Moon Man. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

  He raised his cane again.

  “Baron,” said a voice.

  Both Moshe and his tormentor turned around.

  Horst was standing in the entrance. “Baron,” he said. “The show . . .”

  The Half-Moon Man was breathing heavily. Then he lowered his arm and gathered himself. Horst helped him into his cape. The Half-Moon Man put his mask on, then his top hat.

  “We will talk later,” he said to Moshe, and went out into the circus arena.

  Alone in the dressing room, Moshe rubbed his aching face.He could hear the Half-Moon Man giving his usual introduction. The audience was applauding.

  It took Moshe quite some time to get back on his feet, and even longer to force himself into his clown costume. The others were in the middle of their performance. Löwitsch the Lion Tamer was taming Ludwig the Lion. Just as Moshe was about to leave the dressing room, he saw the second sword cane leaning against the makeup table. The sword that the Half-Moon Man was supposed to plunge into the crate. Startled, he picked it up and unsheathed it. With the palm of his hand, he pushed the blade in. No doubt: this was the retractable version. Which meant that the Half-Moon Man had failed to hide it in its proper place before the performance. He had gone out there with his real sword. Suddenly, Moshe felt nauseous. If the Baron didn’t realize in time, he would risk injuring Julia.

  Moshe walked up to the curtain and peeked out. The Half-Moon Man and Princess Aryana were performing their usual trick. Everything seemed normal.

  Then, the time arrived and Julia, giving a slight bow, stepped inside the trunk. Moshe saw the audience, looking on in anticipation. When he saw the Baron’s hand self-assuredly resting on the knob of the cane, he suddenly knew: the Half-Moon Man meant to plunge the real sword into the trunk.

  The Baron closed the trunk and the orchestra gave a drum roll. As the Baron unsheathed his sword, Zabbatini the Clown suddenly pushed aside the curtain, emitted a feeble war cry, and came staggering out into the circus arena. The audience was puzzled. The Half-Moon Man turned around, his sword gleaming in the footlights.

  “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  Moshe didn’t respond. In a moment of rare, if ill-advised, bravery, he suddenly flung himself onto the Baron.

  Von Kröger squealed with surprise and both men fell into the sawdust.

  The audience seemed uncertain. Some people applauded. Others laughed at the odd fight between the clown and the magician.

  “You fucking shit!” yelled the Half-Moon Man. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

  He was quickly gaining the upper hand. He threw Moshe off, grabbed his sword, and swung it at Moshe, who barely managed to crawl away in time. When the Half-Moon Man began chasing Moshe around the circus ring, Moshe finally managed to regain his footing. Both men were impaired: the Half-Moon Man was drunk, and Moshe was wearing floppy clown shoes. When Moshe passed the trunk, he heard Julia banging on the inside. “What is going on?” she yelled.

  The Baron was right behind him. Moshe climbed up a tent pole. The audience was laughing. A man in a clown suit being chased by a man with a sword was inherently funny. Mos
he clumsily worked his way up the pole. The Half-Moon Man began hitting the pole with his sword, like a lumberjack. He accidentally severed one of the ropes.

  “Crap,” he muttered. At that moment, a sizable section of the circus tent slowly sank to the ground. Some of the smarter audience members began to realize that this wasn’t part of the show. Several of their ranks were now covered by the canvas tent. Indignant voices rose from underneath and the laughter died out.

  Moshe saw that one of the oil lamps illuminating the arena had been knocked over. The burning oil spilled over the sawdust with breathtaking speed. Within seconds, the sawdust caught fire, and the flames began to spread. Thick black smoke rose to the top of the tent. People began screaming. Benches were overturned as the audience members rose to their feet, their voices fraught with primal fear. It sounded like the deafening roar during a soccer match. The flames ate their way up the poles and ropes, and very soon, the canvas above began to burn.

  Moshe fell from the pole and landed hard on his back. He rolled over. Flames were all around him, but he was unharmed, at least so far.

  He got to his feet and looked around.

  “Put it out, you idiot,” the Half-Moon Man screamed. He began tearing down the curtains, which he threw over the flames in an attempt to stamp them out with his feet, with limited success. Moshe kicked off his floppy shoes, ran toward the trunk, and tore it open. Julia was cowering inside, covered in sweat, breathing heavily, her eyes bulging with fear.

  “We have to go!” Moshe yelled. “Now!”

  He pointed upward. She screamed as she saw the fire. The smoke was still rising, filling the tent, and it was getting increasingly difficult to breathe. Moshe’s eyes were burning. In a mad panic, masses of people stormed toward the few exits like a blind trampling herd. Moshe could hear children crying, their voices shrill with fear. Women and men were shouting and the animals outside were howling in their cages. Siggy and Löwitsch came running in with buckets of water.

  “We have to help,” Julia said.

  Moshe looked at her aghast. Help? All he wanted was to get out. Instead, he nodded weakly, realizing she was right. Even if he didn’t like it. He looked around, but he couldn’t see the Half-Moon Man anywhere. He saw the sword cane lying on the ground. He picked it up and dashed toward the canvas wall.