The Trick

by Emanuel Bergmann

  “What is the matter, dear?” Zabbatini innocently asked. One young man, a pale-skinned redhead with a fake Afro, threw up into the hot tub. The chunky vomit was sucked into the side nozzles of the Jacuzzi, where it was turned into a fine mist and sprayed back into the water. Panic erupted. It was like the sinking of the Titanic. Everyone fought to get out of the hot tub. When Zabbatini had made it out, he said to the red-haired fellow that he wouldn’t have survived a single day in the camps.

  “Fuck you!” a total stranger said to him.

  Zabbatini felt as if someone had slapped him. The beautiful people all stared at him with disgust and contempt. He suddenly felt ashamed. He wasn’t like other people. His experiences, in the war and the preceding years, made him an outcast. He had no place among mankind.

  Zabbatini slipped into a bathrobe he found lying by the Jacuzzi and staggered off. He fought his way through the bushes by the side of the house and went to pee. Below him, he could see the skyline of Los Angeles, shimmering in the night, like strings of pearls stretched out on black satin. He felt better already. He swore to himself not to do any more LSD, not ever. All kinds of things could happen.

  Engulfed now by the blinking lights and shrill music of Mickey’s Pizza Palace, Zabbatini felt reminded of that night, of the view over the lights of the city, his feeling of euphoria. He didn’t realize that the Cohns had gone ahead and left him behind. Deborah came stomping back and guided him gently but firmly to the tables that had been reserved for Max’s birthday party. It was a row of long plastic tables, covered with a colorful paper tablecloth. Cardboard plates in the shape of cartoon characters were everywhere. A large, rectangular brown birthday cake—it looked like a giant brick—stood at one end of the tables. On it were the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY, the only indication of its actual nature.

  Max’s many relatives were already there, Uncle Bernie and Heidi the shiksa, accompanied by Max’s cousins Esther, Mike, and Lucas. Some of his classmates were also present, including Joey Shapiro and Myriam Hyung.

  “Is this him?” Joey asked.

  Max nodded proudly.

  The old man gave a slight bow. “It is I, the Great Zabbatini,” he said. He smiled and reached out to touch Myriam Hyung’s ear with his left hand. “You must wash your ears, little girl,” he said and pretended to pull a coin from her ear.

  Myriam giggled enthusiastically.

  Zabbatini felt young again. He was performing. And he could tell that this was an easy audience.

  “Where is Dad?” Max asked his mom.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He went to pick up Grandma.”

  “When shall I begin the magic?” Zabbatini asked.

  “Wait until Dad gets here,” Max said.

  Zabbatini nodded. Time to prepare. He walked through the room toward the stage, hoping to inspect it. It was fairly small. To the right and the left, animatronic mice were waving mechanically in rhythm to the awful music. This, Zabbatini thought, is the first time I’m upstaged by rodents. He was pleased to see, however, that a small side table had already been arranged. Good. He was going to need it. He pulled it toward the middle. Then he unpacked his paper bag, carefully arranging his various props and tools. A candle, a pad of paper, a deck of cards, several small wooden boxes, and many other things.

  When everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he climbed down from the stage and sat down at one of the plastic tables. “I will now eat the pizza,” he announced. No one seemed interested. He helped himself to several slices of pizza, piling them onto a mouse-shaped paper plate. Joey Shapiro was watching him with a melancholic look in his eyes. Then he took a plate of pasta for himself.

  Myriam Hyung noticed Zabbatini’s withered arm and asked: “What happened to your arm?”

  “I was tortured by the Gestapo,” Zabbatini said, chewing. “Hand me the Parmesan.”

  “Why?” Myriam asked.

  “Because,” Zabbatini said, “the pizza is better with the cheese.”

  “No, why were you tortured?”

  Zabbatini looked at her and shrugged. “The Nazis wanted to.”

  Myriam handed him the glass shaker with the Parmesan. “For no reason?” she asked incredulously. “They just tortured you?”

  “Yes,” Zabbatini said. “Just like so. Do you want to see it?”

  Myriam nodded. Zabbatini glanced around furtively to make sure no one else was looking. Then he pulled up the white sleeve of his robe.

  Myriam gasped with disgust and fascination. The Gestapo had broken his arm in several places, at the forearm and the elbow. It had healed over time, but since his arm had never been properly splinted, it now looked like a gnarled and twisted tree branch. Myriam stared at it. Then she pointed at a white, scarred spot on the forearm and said, “What is that?”

  “There they poured on me some gasoline and held to it a lighter,” Zabbatini said in between bites of his pizza.

  “Like when you’re grilling!” Myriam said, happy to contribute to the conversation.

  “Yes, like when you’re grilling,” Zabbatini said.

  “Gross,” Myriam said.

  Zabbatini nodded proudly. Then his arm suddenly lurched forward, as if trying to grab her. Myriam emitted a shrill scream and flinched back.

  Zabbatini laughed. “Worry not,” he said. “I will not hurt you.”

  Myriam looked at his arm with growing curiosity.

  “Can I touch it?”

  “If you want,” Zabbatini said.

  Carefully, Myriam ran her fingers over the scarred flesh, the knobs and gristles, as if she was trying to read a map.

  “Did it hurt?” she asked.

  “Of course it hurt,” Zabbatini said with a sigh. He was getting tired of this discussion. He just wanted to eat his pizza in peace. “That is why they call it torture.”

  Myriam, however, was still fascinated. “But, really, why did they do it?” she asked. “Be honest!”

  “They wanted from me that I betray someone who I loved very much.”

  Myriam looked very indignant when she heard this. She looked at him with big eyes. “And? Did you?”

  Zabbatini became very still. He was holding the Parmesan shaker. For a moment, he seemed frozen in time. Then he set the shaker down. He stared at the table.

  Then, very slowly, he lifted his gaze toward Myriam and looked at her with infinite sadness. “I did,” he said, and there was something in his voice, a hollowness that scared Myriam more than his twisted flesh.

  Meanwhile, Max’s mom was trying to reach Harry. There was no reception inside the restaurant, so she went outside into the parking lot and tried again. It was cold, and she pulled her coat tighter. She lit a Marlboro Light, and finally, Harry answered.

  “Hello?” he said. His voice was hurried.

  “Your son,” Deborah said icily, “is waiting for you. Everyone is waiting for you.”

  “I know, I know,” said Harry, exasperated. “I’ll be there shortly. Traffic on the freeway.”

  “Just get here,” Deborah hissed. With that, she hung up. She paced back and forth for a few minutes, taking angry drags of her cigarette; then she threw it to the ground, stepped on it, and went inside.

  The audience was clamoring to see the Great Zabbatini. Several of the kids were clapping and shouting rhythmically: “Magic, magic, magic.”

  Max looked at Deborah with a hint of sadness. “Where is Dad?” he asked in a small voice.

  She gave him a hug. “He’ll be here shortly,” she said. “He’s stuck in traffic.” She attempted a smile and said, “Maybe we should get started.”

  “But I want Dad to be here,” he said with a trace of panic in his voice.

  “I know,” Deborah said. “He’s on his way.”

  Max sighed and walked up to Zabbatini. “Will the love spell work without Dad being here?” he whispered.<
br />
  Zabbatini was slurping on the straw of his soda. “This,” he said indignantly, “is Seven-Up. I wanted cola. Why is nothing in life ever as it should be?” Then he turned to Max and said, “The love spell will work only when both are there.”

  “But he’s not here!” Max said, sounding shrill.

  “Worry not,” Zabbatini declared. “I do my show, I play for time, and then, when your dad comes, I do the love spell then.”

  That seemed like a good plan. “Okay,” Max said.

  Zabbatini took one last slurp of his soda, adjusted his turban, and stood up. Raising his hands, he looked around imperiously.

  “Dear children,” he said. Something happened when he spoke: a change came over him. He was no longer a frail old man—he became the Great Zabbatini, seasoned performer. The noise slowly stopped and all eyes turned to him.

  He stood between the tables and chairs, in his flowing white robe. Under any other circumstances he might have been taken for a madman. But right here, right now, he seemed like an Old Testament prophet.

  Zabbatini walked with heavy steps through the room toward the small stage, which was now illuminated by colorful spotlights. His arms and palms were raised upward as he parted the sea of children before him. Everyone reverently moved aside to let him through.

  With a groan, he lifted himself onto the stage and turned toward the audience. “What you are about to see,” he said, “is not magic.”

  The kids looked surprised at this announcement. They looked at each other. What? No magic?

  Zabbatini gave them a reassuring smile. “There is no magic,” he went on, “except the magic that is in your hearts. What I am about to show you is the art of mentalism. It is the power of thinking.”

  The children were listening attentively. So far, his speech was going over well.

  “The powers of your mind,” Zabbatini went on, “are not some hocus-pocus. They are for you to use. And you should do this! You should always think!”

  The kids applauded. The overachievers in Max’s class clapped especially hard. Zabbatini remembered how he had felt, as a child, at the circus in Prague. As he stood here, looking at the expectant faces of his young audience, he remembered why he was here in the first place: to see on their faces the wonder he had felt so many years ago.

  He waved his arms about in what he knew was an appropriately mysterious manner. He had learned early on in his career that a substantial part of a magic show consisted of waving one’s arms around convincingly.

  Then he started. At first, he was a little rusty, but he slowly warmed up. He asked a little girl to think of a vegetable, “any vegetable”; he did various card tricks and interspersed his performance with philosophical ramblings. It was, so far, a mediocre performance, but the audience seemed quite forgiving. Twenty minutes passed.

  Then the front door opened and more guests filed into Mickey’s Pizza Palace. Max turned around anxiously. It was Dad and Grandma. He was immensely relieved. Max turned to Zabbatini and wondered how he was going to signal him that the second victim had arrived.

  “He’s here!” Max mouthed with great exaggeration, and pointed toward his dad.

  Zabbatini nodded and winked at him, ever so slightly.

  Dad and Grandma hurried toward Max and hugged him.

  “Bubala,” Grandma said, much too loudly. “Happy birthday.”

  “Not so loud!” Max shushed her.

  They took their seats, making even more noise. Zabbatini glared impatiently at the latecomers. When they were finally settled, he continued. Grandma glanced at his arm. Something about it struck her as odd.

  “For the following trick,” Zabbatini said, “I will need two volunteers from the audience. You!” He pointed at Harry.

  Harry groaned, but Max looked at him imploringly, so he got up and went onstage. He stood to the left of the giant animatronic mouse.

  “What is your name, young man?” Zabbatini asked.

  “Harry Cohn,” said Harry Cohn.

  Zabbatini asked him for a personal item.

  “I’m sorry?” said Harry.

  “Any item you might have on you, please,” said Zabbatini and extended his hand. “No matter what. But it has to come from the heart.”

  Harry patted his pockets. “Is my cell phone okay?”

  Zabbatini nodded patronizingly, even though he would have preferred something more romantic. When he had first premiered the trick in Berlin, the personal items people had given him had been much more, well, special. In those days, people had pocket watches with engraved declarations of love that he would later read out loud. The gentlemen had cuff links and tie clips with their initials; the ladies often carried intricately embroidered handkerchiefs. The world was much more personal. But today? Today, everyone had the same phone with the same corporate logo, and yet everyone thought themself an individualist.

  Harry reluctantly handed over his phone.

  Zabbatini held it up for all to see. “Look carefully at this thing,” he said to the audience. “We will see it again soon.” Then he put the phone into a small wooden box.

  Zabbatini began looking around for another volunteer. Most of Max’s friends had their hands up in the air. Myriam Hyung even bopped up and down on her chair, biting her lip, like she did in class when she knew the right answer, which happened way too often, in Max’s opinion.

  Zabbatini took his time, steadfastly ignoring the imploring looks of the eager children. Then he pointed at Deborah, who was standing in the back of the audience, typing a text message.

  “You!” Zabbatini said sharply.

  Deborah flinched. Oh no! she thought. The damn love spell! It’s all over now! She was terrified of disappointing Max again. But she had no choice but to play along.

  “Yes, you!” Zabbatini repeated. “Come here! The fate has chosen you.”

  Mom sighed heavily, put her phone in her purse, put it down onto a chair, and clumped onto the stage. She stood as far away from her soon-to-be ex-husband as possible.

  “And what is your name, young lady?” intoned Zabbatini.

  “You know my name,” she replied curtly.

  “Yes,” Zabbatini replied. “But can you tell the audience?”

  “Everyone here knows me,” she said. “I’m Max’s Mom. Deborah Cohn. Is this really necessary?”

  “Oh yes,” Zabbatini said gravely. “It is important that a thing is named like the thing it is.”

  “I’m not a thing,” Deborah snapped.

  “No,” Zabbatini cooed. “You are the divine Deborah.”

  “How long is this going to take?” Grandma interrupted loudly and impatiently.

  “It will take how long it takes,” Zabbatini said. He was beginning to sound somewhat agitated. He had never appreciated interference from the audience.

  “Hurry up,” Grandma insisted. “I don’t have all day.”

  “Worry not, dear lady,” Zabbatini murmured grudgingly.

  “What’s your name?” Grandma asked.

  “This is not important,” Zabbatini said with a dismissive gesture.

  “Oh? It was pretty important when you asked me,” Deborah replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Yes,” Zabbatini said, as if explaining the facts of life to an idiot child. “Your name is important, since you are about to be the magic.”

  He waved his hand once more and suddenly held a lit match. The audience whispered excitedly. There was applause. Zabbatini held the match up to a large candle, which he had gotten at the 99-cent store on Sunset and Lucile.

  “Dear children, in all our lives, there are moments that we never forget. Moments that change us, that are burned into our memory. This, boy and girls, is such a moment.”

  Breathless anticipation spread amongst the audience.

  “Now comes the spell of eternal love.” He
held his arms up high. “Eternaaal loooove!”

  Max sat up straight in his chair. He had gotten no farther on the record. Oh boy, he thought. This is it!

  “What is this . . . the love?” Zabbatini asked and stared at his audience. No one said anything. No one moved. Idiots, Zabbatini thought. This was the problem with magic. It made you lose all respect for people. They were so easy to manipulate. No one had a more acute sense of disillusionment than an illusionist. Zabbatini waited another moment; then he said, “We all know the answer. Love—that is when you can feel the thoughts of the man you love, or the woman you desire. When you know the secrets of their heart.” Zabbatini waved. “Love is when you know their soul better than your own. But the love is no illusion. It is the most true thing in the world. It is the reason to live.” He spread his hands. “We cannot make it so, the love. It is or it is not. We can only show it. If,” he said, gesturing first at Deborah and then at Harry, “if there is still a little bit of love with you, then we are about to know it.”

  He walked toward Deborah. “Allow me,” he said and pulled a silver necklace from his sleeve. With a sweeping gesture, he put it on Deborah. A small padlock was attached to the chain. Deborah looked at it, confused.

  Max was chewing his fingernails. The suspense was unbearable.

  Zabbatini picked up a wooden box from his table at the back of the stage and opened it in front of the audience. In it were dozens of identical-looking keys. They sparkled in the spotlights.

  “Will the man find the key to the heart of the woman?” Zabbatini asked. “It must be the right one!”

  He randomly reached into the box, took out three keys, and tried them on the padlock, one after the other. None of them fit.

  “I fear I have it not, the key to your lovely heart,” Zabbatini said with a wink at Deborah.

  “No,” she said dryly. “You don’t.”

  Then he approached Harry and held the box in front of him. “Pick one! The right one!” he suddenly shouted.