The Zigzag Kid

by David Grossman

  “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.”

  “Did you really shoot two guards?” My plan to adopt Felix as a grandfather was taking an unfortunate turn. Why wasn’t he just a nice old guy?

  “What must I to do?” Felix shrugged. “It is their job to catch Felix, and Felix’s to get away. No Felix, no job.”

  “Were they killed?”

  “Who?”

  “The guards!” I barely refrain from shouting.

  “Killed? Heaven forbid. Felix was great marksman in his day. He could shoot cigarette from housefly’s hand. But Felix never killed, heaven forbid! He only took money and left his golden ear of wheat, and then whish! No more Felix!”

  I swallowed hard. The moment had come to ask him. “Could I … could I maybe … have a look at one?”

  “At ear of wheat?” He gave me a long, penetrating look, reached into his collar, and pulled out a fine chain with a heart-shaped locket, the kind for keeping a picture in. What interested me, though, were the two golden charms dangling from the chain, glittering in the lamplight. I touched them gently. I didn’t dare press them. Thousands of policemen the world over had striven in vain for this: to apprehend Felix with an ear of wheat.

  “Once, fifty years ago, when I start out in this profession, I go to goldsmith in Paris and order from him exactly one hundred ears of wheat. Yes! Even before I was famous, I plan Felix’s style of life.” He jiggled the golden ears around in his hand, blew over them, and polished them with his sleeve.

  “One hundred there were. And then I order another hundred. And another … three hundred ears of wheat found all around world: in banks and vaults and palaces, ocean liners and pocketbooks … Wherever Felix went, whenever he pulled off special job that called for great courage or great love, he left his ear of wheat behind. Souvenir from Felix.”

  And then it hit me: “Like today, when we got off the train!” That flicker of gold in the air, the faint clink, like the sound of a coin falling … I had witnessed Felix in action!

  “Like today. Stopping train, that was special, that was style. It is first time for me, so I leave ear of wheat behind, my signature, like Picasso’s on painting, yes? And how many are left? Only two. You see? This is sure sign that Felix’s days are numbered.”

  I wanted to touch them again but didn’t dare. I began to see them through his eyes now: like the last grains of sand running out of his hourglass.

  “Aiii,” groaned Felix. “You’re through, old man. Kaput.”

  “But what about all your friends?” I tried to comfort him again. “The ones who used to come to your parties …”

  “I have no friends!” He stuck the chain back under his collar and wagged a finger at me. “Sure they come, they come to have good time and dance. That’s okay by me. And I send fine gifts on their birthday every year! But true friends? Friends from my heart? There is only one woman in all this world who is my friend, though no one knows it.”

  “Did you marry her?”

  “Marry her? Heaven forbid!! That would not be good for me, or good for her. But she loves Felix, yes … he is her knight, like Robin Hood, who steals from rich to give to poor … And she loves that I am like him, romantic, charming, brave, and also that I am not like her cultured friends. Because I do more than make pretty speeches and recite Shakespeare, I fight and punch and carry gun. And I can keep secrets. And my lady friend knows that others may hang around her like flies, but only Felix …”

  I was listening. Gabi had never told me about his true love.

  “As for others—they were only interested in good times, in dancing and laughing. That is okay by me, but listen to this old man who has seen everything and knows truth: it is not good to get too close to another person’s soul. Once you do, you cannot simply enjoy being together anymore, and dance and laugh and forget your troubles. You see within too many of each other’s wounds, too much darkness, so is it worth it?”

  He gulped his wine, spilling a few drops on his trousers.

  “But Felix doesn’t need friends. He likes to be alone,” he pronounced in a heavy, loud voice. “So he was not disappointed when police caught up with him finally and took him to trial; it was written up in every newspaper; they called Felix Glick world’s greatest swindler, arch-criminal, and other fine names …” Felix made an effort to smile as though he had just recounted a pleasant anecdote, but the corners of his mouth were trembling. “Think of it,” he said, “so many came to my parties, shared Abdullah’s challah with me, took my presents—and all forgot me. Very nice, eh? And they tell reporters they never met me, they only go to Felix’s party by chance! And others say they laughed at Felix and said that Felix is big fool, trying to impress everyone, thinking he can buy friends with money … But that’s okay by me! Yes sir!�
�� His broad smile looked like a mask about to tear.

  “And that woman,” I asked, “the one you said was a real friend?”

  “That woman …” He sighed again. “She alone was true to me … but is difficult for me to talk about these things, you see, even after so many years … And for her, too, is difficult to be with me … too much pain, she said, too many wounds …” He held the cool glass to his forehead.

  “That is price Felix must to pay. To be old and alone. And sometimes I think maybe it is people who spend their lifetime breathing stale air who are really strong! Because they have endurance; they can spend fifty years doing one job, married to one woman. Maybe that is greatest strength people can have, who knows? Maybe Felix is weak, like spoiled child who wants what he wants when he wants it: travel, adventure, money, stories. What do you think?”

  I didn’t know what to say, but managed to come up with a good answer: “So why are storybooks always about people having adventures?”

  Felix smiled gratefully. “Yes … you’re good,” he mumbled to himself. His Grandpa Noah wig had slipped, revealing his hair. The mustache was hanging askew. He looked miserable and rather comical, but touching, most of all.

  “You see, you, too, went into your corrida wanting something like my dream, not so? That’s why you did it! I know! And I created my own world, so people will remember that once there lived this man—Felix … and wherever Felix went, he left some light, for people who are still intoxicated … dreaming of more beautiful worlds …”

  I looked up at the clock. It was almost midnight, time to get him out of there, I thought, while he was totally absorbed in himself. Gently I said, “We’d better leave now. She isn’t going to come.” I only wished it were true.

  He was so distraught he didn’t even hear me. “Do you ever look at people’s faces on morning bus? You must to take good look one day—and you will see how sad they are, how without joy, without hope, living like dead! I say, we have one life to live! Sixty, seventy years—and all is over! We must to be happy! We deserve to be happy!” Here his voice climbed up and broke into a shrill shout. It was as though he were defending his entire way of life, and I felt like a witness to a most peculiar trial, where Felix would be presenting his own past deeds, his sins, and his character, only why was he doing it in front of me, I was just a kid he hardly knew, and as he drew closer, he cried out from the depths of his heart, “Because before we are born we all lie in darkness for millions of years, and when we die it will be same! Here is darkness, there is darkness! All our life is brief interlude—whish—between this first darkness and last darkness!” He gripped my shoulder and shook it. “And this is why Felix says, if we are really like actors walking across stage for one moment, then Felix will put on magnificent performance and write every part! He will write play with lighting and color and orchestra and applause. It will be great performance; like circus with one star under spotlight, Felix Glick. Is that so wrong?”

  Then he let go of my shoulder and tried to catch his breath. He stared fixedly at my lips as though waiting to hear what I had to say. In the silence I realized: Felix had decided to make me his judge.

  I could barely concentrate on what he was saying. What, me? His judge? Who was I, anyway? I just wanted this to be over so I could go home, yet I also wanted to stick around and hear more. No one had ever spoken to me like this before, and I’d never been allowed so close to the fear and darkness in a grownup’s life, so that even Gabi’s stories about herself seemed tame all of a sudden compared to Felix’s life and the torment he had endured … And as he went on, I tried to remember everything that had happened that day, everything he had told me and shown me … Yes, as in a carousel slowly coming to a stop, the blurred images gradually separated, coming sharply into focus, and I understood that since the moment we met, Felix had been trying to make me like him, to make me understand him. And forgive him.

  But why me? Why had he chosen me of all people to be his judge?

  I felt a sudden chill from my toes to the top of my head: because what was I supposed to forgive? What had he done? And did it have something to do with me, something I didn’t know about yet?

  He read my face. There was nothing I could hide from him. My fears, my pleas to stop mystifying me with his electric transformations and tell me the truth for once.

  “And there is something else you must to hear,” he said, looking aside, “this is very serious business: before, when I had attack of … when I had stomachache, you did not run away.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. I thought, seeing an old man this way, maybe this boy is afraid, or disgusted, and he will run away. That is possible! So I say this: Mr. Feuerberg decides he will not eat meat for ten years to make up for cow in corrida. Correct so far?”

  Correct, I answered. I didn’t understand what he was driving at.

  “And Mr. Feuerberg is plenty fond of meat. I saw this at restaurant, how you look at steaks when they go by, but you must to control yourself another eight years, yes?”

  “Eight and a half.”

  “So, I make you business proposition: Felix will take on five of those eight years. What you think? We have deal? Nu?” He held out his hand for me to shake.

  “I don’t understand,” I muttered, though I did by now.

  “Listen: for five years—if I live another five years—I will not eat meat, I will not even touch it! Nu, this way I will help you make up eight and half years still left.”

  “Well … that’s a nice idea, but … it won’t work.” I didn’t have the strength. Because once again, a few words from him and I was completely confused, and ashamed of having suspected him, and—against my will—I felt my heart swell with admiration.

  “Won’t work?” shouted Felix. “Why? What is wrong? Felix can spare more than one cow in five years! He can spare whole herd!”

  I didn’t know what to say. I sat there, hunched over, realizing I’d never received such a generous offer before.

  “Think about it,” he said. “I merely return your favor. Felix does not like to be in anybody’s debt.”

  But we both knew it was a little more than that.

  And just then I heard footsteps climbing the stairs, approaching the door. Felix sat up straight and smoothed his hair. He also tried to smooth his rumpled jacket. “Here she comes,” he whispered hoarsely.

  The key turned, hesitated, and stopped. Maybe the person at the door noticed that someone had used a screwdriver on the lock. The door was shoved open. There in the doorway, tall and slender, stood Lola Ciperola. The hall light behind her illuminated her long silhouette. A purple scarf was draped around her shoulders. When she moved, Felix rose slowly, as though coming alive.

  17

  The Infinite Distance Between Her Body and His

  “Who’s there?” she asked in a deep, loud, almost manlike voice.

  “Uh … friends,” said Felix from the depths of his armchair, not bothering to turn around and face her.

  She stood transfixed, uncertain whether to stay or flee. But even I could tell she was incapable of running away from danger.

  “I don’t recall inviting anyone tonight,” she added with misgiving. Her gloved hand still rested on the doorknob.

  “Just this old man and this boy.” Felix spoke into his wineglass.

  “A boy?”

  I nodded feebly.

  “I don’t know any boys, and I don’t want any here. Send him away.”

  I jumped to my feet, prepared to clear out immediately.

  “He is not just any boy,” said Felix, motioning me to sit down again. “This boy you want.”

  It was strange, there was an air of playfulness between them. They were like two actors reciting their lines. Lola Ciperola hadn’t moved from the doorway and Felix was still sitting with his back to her.

  “And why is this boy dressed up like a girl?” asked Lola Ciperola.

  Holy cow! I’d forgotten I was wearing a skirt!
r />   “Because he, too, is playing his part,” said Felix.

  Now she hesitated, carefully choosing her words.

  “And … does the boy know which part he’s playing?”

  Silence.

  “An actor only knows he is acting,” said Felix reflectively. “He does not know what others see in him.” I couldn’t work through so many riddles.

  “That skirt …” Lola Ciperola groaned, and as she approached, I saw a look of shock in her eyes. What could be so alarming about a skirt? I tried to pull it down over my skinny legs. Lola Ciperola veered toward Felix. “You … you … you’d do anything, wouldn’t you.”

  “There is no law to stop me,” agreed Felix, unperturbed. “As it happens, this boy is great fan of yours …” He stood tall, facing Lola Ciperola, very close to her. They gazed into each other’s eyes. She tilted her head back slightly, as though submitting to him, then straightened herself up again and looked at him sharply. She began to say something, but Felix took her hand, held it fearlessly in his, and led her to the armchair. “Please to sit down!” he ordered, and Lola Ciperola sat obediently down as though about to swoon.

  “Pour me a drink,” she said weakly, taking off her shoes. Felix went to the corner table. He looked over the labels and poured her a glass of thick purple wine. Lola Ciperola nodded to him.

  “So one night an old man comes to my door with a boy,” she muttered to herself. Her trembling fingers groped for cigarettes in her pocketbook. Felix whipped out a gold lighter. A tiny flame flickered between them. Lola Ciperola took a long puff, her eyes still fixed on Felix. Already he’s mesmerizing her, I thought, just as he did the engineer, the policeman, and me. I was disappointed to see her give in so easily.

  “Perform for her, son,” whispered Felix, still gazing at her.

  Perform what? Did he expect me to recite something, me, in front of Lola Ciperola?

  “I’m … I’m not…”

  “Amnon.”

  Maybe it was hearing him call my name at long last, or maybe I just didn’t care about anything anymore.