The Zigzag Kid (21 page)

As a result of the corrida, my friendship with Chaim Stauber was over, and our little gang split up for good. Dad was obliged to compensate Mautner with the Humber Pullman. There was no more Pearl, and worse yet, no more Tuesday-evening ritual, with Dad and me talking man talk. And incidentally—it was then that they sent me to Haifa for the first time, to hear a sermon from my uncle.

But there was more. One day Mautner drove home with a truck, heaved Pessia onto it, and took her back to the kibbutz. He told the neighbors that he hadn't been able to go near her since the stabbing. That she'd let him down and he didn't want anything more to do with her. The kids at school started avoiding me, and quietly leaving me out of things, though it was nothing official. They all seemed frightened of me. Or disgusted. They were careful not to touch me, as though I might infect them with my evil. Only Micah stayed faithful; well, not exactly faithful: actually he seemed to derive a strange pleasure out of constantly
hanging around to remind me with a little sneer of that ghastly experience.

I changed. First of all, I became a strict vegetarian. I calculated that if I gave up hot dogs and steaks for ten years, I would spare the life of one cow and atone for hurting Pessia and driving her crazy, and causing her banishment from home. And I began to be scared of myself. Because I knew that what had happened to me was completely out of my control. That I was in the grip of a sort of madness, that an alien self might pop out of me any second, a stranger who had chosen to possess my soul for some inexplicable reason.

These were things I'd never said out loud before the night Felix Glick and I drove up the coastal road. I told him so he would know I was completely in his hands now, for better or worse. Or maybe this was my way of saying, Take care of me, please, you are leading me on this wild escapade, and I'm all confused. I don't understand what's going on or who you really are, I'm completely in your hands now, so remember Pessia and what I might do, and how fast I might do it. And please, keep me safe, don't let anything bad happen to me, now that you know who and what I am.

Felix said nothing. I knew he had heard my unspoken plea, because he was listening to me as no grownup ever had.

The car cruised along silently. The lights blinked orange, and all the traffic seemed to have passed us while I was telling him the story. The soft jazz on the radio whispered comfortingly. The streetlamps cast yellow halos around us. I told Felix that Gabi had stayed loyal even after the Pessia incident. She was the second grownup, after Chaim Stauber's mother, who arrived on the scene of the crime. Even when I was muddy and covered with blood and paralyzed with fear, Gabi hugged me and said, “Don't worry, Nonny, I'll protect you from your father.”

Because Mautner eventually calmed down, but my father almost killed me, and in a fit of rage, for the first and only time, he said something about Zohara, and about the curse which had, it seemed, passed down to me.

A subtle perfume filled the air. Light from a small Chinese lampshade rose like mist, spreading through the room. I sank into an easy chair and tightly clutched the armrests.

Felix was calmer, but then, Felix is always calm in times of danger. He sat in an armchair facing me, with his legs crossed and a glass of wine in his hand. In the course of the evening he had polished off a bottle of champagne, three glasses of whiskey, and now wine.

My trembling soul cried: Let me out!!!

I raised my feet off the carpet to avoid dirtying it and kept my eyes discreetly lidded, so as not to desecrate the room with my naked stare.

Out. Let me out of here. This is too much already.

One wall was covered with framed photographs hanging side by side, like in a camera shop display. Only, here it was the same woman in every picture—Lola Ciperola—now with a famous actor, now with a government minister, now alone, holding a huge bouquet of flowers in her hand; and there were pictures of her at crowded parties, or posing dramatically on the stage; or alone again in an empty room, her face turned wistfully toward the light, resting her chin on the palm of her hand, reminiscing no doubt about a long-lost love, the one fortunate man she might have married because he wouldn't have tried to control her body and soul.

Every picture had a few words scrawled on it. On one I made out the autograph of Elizabeth Taylor herself and there was one from David Ben-Gurion, and another from Danny Kaye, and even one from
Moshe Dayan. With all those famous people in the room I felt intimidated. Gabi would have given anything to be here with me, I knew, after all the hours we'd spent waiting outside this house together, trying to imagine what it looked like inside. And here I was, without her. I supposed I ought to memorize every piece of furniture, every picture and every plant in the room, so I could describe them to her later, but I didn't dare: as though anything I might imprint in my mind here would be an invasion of Lola Ciperola's privacy. A breach.

“Lady of the house is late tonight,” observed Felix, glancing at the big clock on the wall.

“There's a lot of applause when the curtain goes down,” I explained in a whisper. “And after the play, people come backstage to ask for her autograph …”

“And you, did you ask?”

“No, I was too shy. Come on, let's get out of here.”

“What? You mean, without her scarf?”

I was so terrified, my stomach did a flip-flop. I almost threw up all over the big, beautiful carpet.

“Let's go already. It isn't right to walk into a person's house like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like this, the way you …” I was trying to come up with a tactful explanation, “just walked in without … you know, by picking the lock.”

“Only because our noble lady locked her door and left no key.”

“Right, to keep strangers out!”

“What, are you and Felix strangers?” His eyebrows arched sharply. “How can she think we are strangers if she does not even know us?”

I turned this question over in my mind, but couldn't quite grasp what he meant.

“We make our lady's acquaintance”—Felix continued to reveal his cold-blooded intentions—“and then ask if she wants us to visit her home. If not—we get up and go, Good day, thank you, and shalom. Felix never forced himself on anyone!”

“But what if she calls the police?”

“That would be sure sign she does not want us here,” Felix conceded. “But why decide in her place what she does or does not want? I hear she is liberated lady who will allow no one to make decisions for her.”

He got up and poured himself a drink from the bottle standing on a round table in the corner. The clock ticked loudly. Felix went to the window. A minute passed and then another. I was petrified each time I heard footsteps in the street. Felix heaved a sigh.

“Once I, too, live in beautiful house like this.”

As though he were talking to his reflection in the glass.

“Let's go outside,” I tried again. “And you can tell me about it there.”

“Why outside? Outside is too dangerous! Better here inside. Ach, if only Felix knew enough then to build warm home for the time of his old age, instead of just place for parties.” And he added with a wave of his hand around the room that was now suffused in a pleasant glow and at the cozy armchairs and the embroidered tablecloths, and the leafy green plants, “You see, this is what Felix lost. This house he could have had, and he lost it. Why was he hungry to travel everywhere? To run so fast! And lots of money, ach, for what?!”

Felix leaned against the windowsill, looking bowed and withered.

“La dracu!”
he suddenly spat, and though I didn't understand the words, I knew he was cursing in Romanian. But it wasn't like him to curse. I felt a little nervous.

“That is Felix for you!” He shook himself and raised the glass to his reflection in the windowpane. “Sometimes down, sometimes up!” He tried to smile. “Today all I have is wallet filled with sand for running away from fat waiter, but tomorrow I will be Felix of great wide world! Beloved Felix! Felix who dances …”

With a sudden groan he collapsed in his armchair. I jumped to my feet. He signaled me not to approach, not to touch him. I felt as if an invisible circle had been drawn around him, the way I do when Dad gets sick and starts to shrink into himself. He fights the pain and suffers inwardly. So no one will see, so no one will try to help him.

He groped in his pocket with a shaking hand and took out a little
round box. He swallowed first one pill and then another, and closed his eyes. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His face turned sallow and he started muttering over and over, “So old … and sick … Who will cry when Felix is no more?”

I moved closer. Then away. I didn't dare. He looked so helpless and alone there, so utterly withdrawn. His face was no longer that of a pro, and you could see he was afraid to be alone beyond the invisible circle, but I crossed over to him, come what may. I knelt beside his armchair and cautiously touched his hand. Felix was stunned. He opened his eyes and made an effort to smile at me, and far from pulling his hand away from mine, he clasped it with the other. I could see him struggling to catch his breath. He wanted to say something, but he couldn't. I breathed along with him, to remind him how, in case he'd forgotten, while he kept trying to smooth his wrinkled shirt. Maybe he was ashamed to be looking so disheveled, so unlike Felix, and all I could do was sit there in dismay, shaking my head to let him know how wrong he was, that even though I'd known him for only a short while, less than twenty-four hours, in fact, I would never ever forget him. Today had been a day like no other, and we had forged a special bond between us.

We sat this way for several minutes till he caught his breath again. Sitting up in his armchair, he loosened his tie and looked at me with a wan smile.

“Beg pardon … it was just stomach cramp probably … Now everything is fine! Back to normal again, yes sir!” He tried to speak in a loud, clear voice.

I went to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. How could a famous star like Lola Ciperola live so modestly? Her kitchen was cramped and antiquated. The refrigerator was shorter than I was. There was a half loaf of rye bread on the counter. She had left the light on. Dad would have given her a demerit for that. I poured a glass of water and took it to Felix. He was somewhat recovered. Or at least, pretended to be.

“Okay, now tell me,” I said, “tell me about the olden days.”

So he would forget his weakness, and I, my fear.

“Sit here, don't go away.” He clasped my hand and peered into my eyes. “You are good boy, Mr. Feuerberg. I feel you are boy with heart. Like Felix used to be. Only, Felix learned to conquer his heart. Beware. You will have difficulties in life if you are too good. Beware of people, people are bad. Like wolves.”

“Tell me,” I asked again.

But still he couldn't speak. He tried once, he tried again, and then he stopped. He took a sip of water. His false mustache had come off on one side, but he didn't notice. A few moments went by. Again and again he pressed my hand. It occurred to me that if Felix died, there would be no one left to tell me about Dad and Zohara.

“In olden days,” he said feebly, “I get everything I desire. Mercedes car? Sure! Small ship, sailing yacht? You bet! Most beautiful woman in world—she, too, is mine! And in my salon would gather celebrities of Tel Aviv, actors and singers and beauty queens, and
giornalistas
, and people who are rich and powerful. Everyone knew—Felix's parties are the best!”

Slowly the color came back to his face. Let him keep talking, I thought, let him find comfort in happy memories and forget what happened here. He sipped his wine and flashed me another blue smile, just to show he could still crinkle his eyes with the three creases, and I smiled back politely, because he could no longer put me under a spell, the way his lips were trembling—

“Ach, such feasts I would serve my guests on Friday night!” Felix bragged hoarsely. “So elegant, flowers everywhere, everywhere burning candles. No electric lights—not in your life! Only red candles—that's style!—and white tablecloths. And in center of table was challah, maybe one meter long, baked especially for me by Abdullah in old Jaffa. And dishes with gold rim and my monogram, also gold: F.G. for Felix Glick.”

My cheeks were aching by now, but I was afraid that if I stopped smiling for even a minute he might break down and cry. I don't know, I just had this feeling that he desperately needed my reassurance,
and to reassure myself I thought, All right, so maybe he is a little weird, but aren't I kind of a weird kid myself? I could easily have had someone like Felix for a grandfather and be sitting at his feet like this, listening to him reminisce, say, about the heroic days of the War of Independence, with minor exaggerations and a bit of boasting …

“And behind where guests sat was special counter, called buffet, with platters of lovely fruit and delicious sausages—not kosher, God forgive me—and shrimps, tiny ones flown in fresh from Greece, and this, remember, was in Days of Austerity after War of Independence, when even if you have money to go to restaurant, all you can get there is dry old chicken. But at Felix's table, oho!”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Did everyone know that you were a … uhm …”

“Criminal?” Felix smiled. “Go on, say this word. It will not bite you. Of course they know. Maybe it was for this they came to me. You see, sometimes rich and cultured people like to get close to crime, to rub shoulders with it, if it's dressed in smoking jacket and kisses ladies' hands that is … not that they know all information about me. Why tell people everything? It isn't polite. Imagine them eating bouillabaisse, when suddenly I tell them how once I rob big bank in Barcelona and have to shoot two guards who get in my way? Not so pleasant, eh? Spoils appetite.”