The Zigzag Kid (6 page)

Just then I caught sight of someone gazing at me through the glass partition with a strange look in his eye, as though he didn't really see me. I stopped; that is, I was stopped in my tracks by the expression on his face. I knew, I just knew I reminded him of someone, because he kept looking at me with a dreamy, faraway smile. I stood directly in front of him, keeping perfectly still. He seemed to want me to stand there and pose so he could concentrate on his memory.

Then his eyes focused sharply. They penetrated the bewildering reflections in the train windows and stared directly at me, yes, me, with quizzical affection, as his long leg jiggled over his knee, and he fished something out of his pocket, a round piece of glass hanging from a fine gold chain. He put the glass to his eye, wedged between his cheek and his eyebrow. I had seen something like this in a movie once: a monocle, that's what it's called. The kind English gentlemen wear.

Hey, I'm being watched through a monocle! I realized happily, raising my head high and thinking noble thoughts to improve my reflection,
because it isn't every day an Israeli kid makes an appearance in a monocle.

But even as he watched me, I did not neglect my professional duties: I guessed he must be seventy or so, with a deep tan and the handsome face of a stranger from a distant land. His eyes were blue and clear and smiling, the eyes of a baby in a manly face, with sun-baked wrinkles radiating from the corners and a distinctive pair of bushy eyebrows overarching them; in between there loomed the nose, and what a nose! A stately nose, a monumental nose, a nose of such grandeur one was prompted to bow down before it. And fine white hair that curled down behind his ears, making him look like a distinguished old painter.

He was alone in the compartment—of course he was, because there was no one else like him on the train. He wore an elegant white suit and a tie as bright as a tropical bird. And that's not all: there was a fresh red rose in his lapel and a handkerchief folded in his pocket. To this day I remember every detail. There weren't many people in Israel in those days who dressed that way. Who could afford to buy a suit back then? And anybody who happened to own one certainly wouldn't wear it on a train, least of all the Haifa train.

Yet I knew at a glance that the suit belonged to him, that he wasn't an actor wearing a costume. It was as much his own as the rose he had picked for his lapel. There was an ease about the man, as if his clothes felt good on him.

And another thing: for a minute he resembled Dad. Though not physically. I don't really know why he reminded me of Dad just then. Maybe because of his solitude in the compartment. In every other way he was completely different. Most of the time Dad looked—I have to admit it—like an SOS, as Gabi used to say (a sweaty ornery slob). And this man seemed happy, like someone who enjoys life, who knows how to relax and has time to take a lively interest in everything and everyone around him. But there was also an invisible line setting him apart from his surroundings. Maybe that's a sign of true nobility, because he definitely had that. And the feeling inside me was so strong by now that without a second thought, I opened the door to his compartment; I did so in direct defiance of the letter from Dad and Gabi setting forth the
rules of the game, because I didn't care, I could always catch up later; I walked straight over to him and asked in a loud clear voice, Who am I?

And he beamed an even bigger smile, and crossed his other leg, and took a long look at me, and the scent of his aftershave filled the compartment, and his cheek muscle twitched and the monocle dropped into his waiting palm and disappeared into his pocket; it was unbelievable, like in a movie. But he hadn't answered my question yet. I tingled with anticipation, that pleasant excitement you feel sometimes when you're about to solve a riddle. He, too, I could see, was savoring the moment. I truly hoped he would know the answer. Here was the partner I wanted for the game.

“You are Amnon Feuerberg,” he said at last. His voice sounded surprisingly high-pitched, and he had a Romanian accent. “But at home you are called by your father—Nonny.”

I was speechless. I held out my hand and he shook it. Then he said, “Begging your pardon, I forget to mention: Felix is my name!” And I thought, Gee, I hope I have hands like his someday, long and strong and finely shaped. And I began to bubble inside like boiling milk. I don't know what got into me, maybe it was the way he looked. I held my hand out again, and again he shook it, probably realizing that I needed to touch him one more time in order to imprint his strong, slender fingers, so that when I grew up, I would be able to duplicate them together with his regal nose and lion's mane and crinkly blue eyes, and his nobility and everything else about him.

Had I been less shy, I would have shown him I could climb into the luggage rack and hang by my ankles, or do a handstand in a moving train. But it took all my strength just to put on a civilized front and assume an upright stance.

“Please to sit, Mr. Feuerberg,” he said gently, as though he sensed my inner turmoil and wished to help me relax. I sat down. I wanted him to give me more things to do so I could show him how obedient I was. Whereupon he pulled a black-and-white photograph out of his suit pocket, studied it carefully, looked back at me, and said, smiling, “Just like in picture, only better.”

He handed the picture to me. It was one I'd never seen before, showing me on my way home from school in a billowing gray coat. Dad must have taken it from the car when I wasn't looking.

“Shot with a telephoto lens, right?” I said to this Felix character, to
show him I know what's what. “He gave it to you so you'd recognize me, right?”

A manly blue smile flashed from his crinkly eyes. I thought I would faint. He looked like a movie star. I returned the smile and touched the corners of my eyes, but couldn't make anything crinkle. How many years would it take for me to get those three deep wrinkles there? His looked as if they'd been there all his life. He was still poring over the photograph. I suddenly realized that there might be others on this train carrying pictures of me for identification purposes! I couldn't believe the lengths Dad had gone to over me!

I leaned forward to get a better look, and a better whiff of Felix's aftershave, too. My best friend, Micah Dubovsky, was in the picture, standing two steps behind me, openmouthed.

“And this is your friend,” said Felix amiably, though he didn't sound too pleased with Micah. Micah looked kind of goofy there, catching flies.

“He's not such a close friend,” I quickly explained. “I mean, we play together and all. Actually, he's my deputy.” At home we called him “my man Friday,” and Gabi used to make fun of him sometimes, but he was okay, I guess, as a deputy.

“You wish to tell me more about him?” asked Felix, crossing his arms over his chest as if he had all the time in the world to hear stories about Micah. “What's there to tell?” I answered. “He's just this kid I know who's been with me for years. He thinks I'm his friend, but I only hang around with him out of pity,” I added with a giggle, wondering why we were wasting so much time on Micah, though Micah was an okay guy, I guess.

“So, your best friend is who?” Felix wanted to know. “From what you tell me, I think it is Micah!”

Oops, now I was in trouble. Maybe Dad had provided Felix with detailed information about me, and because I was afraid he wouldn't like Micah, that Micah wasn't worthy of someone as noble as Felix, I put him down when actually he was okay.

“Micah is uhm …” But I didn't want to talk about Micah. What
was there to say about him? Just that he was the type of kid who was always around.

“Actually, he's my bodyguard,” I started to explain, and then, before I knew it, I heard the buzz in the middle of my forehead, the sound of the motor heating up in there. “But the truth is”—I went on earnestly, listening to my tongue roll in my mouth so I would know what to say next—“my number-one best friend is Chaim Stauber. He's a real friend. He's special. I mean, he's a genius. We've been friends for years. Boy, the things we've done together!”

And there was Micah staring out of the picture, looking like such a dope, with his mouth hanging open. He always stared that way, as though he were in a trance or something, whenever I started talking big and telling terrible whoppers. But he never corrected me in front of the other kids, never said a word. Sometimes it drove me crazy; I could do anything I wanted, tell lies about him, things he had to know were lies, and he would just listen to me with his tongue hanging out, like a lazy dog.

And now this handsome, well-dressed man was listening to me, too, but not at all stupidly. He nodded, deep in thought, till I felt he was looking into my heart and that he knew all there was to know about me and Micah, and about my recent betrayal.

But I couldn't stop myself. The buzzing between my eyes felt good. It was like being tickled there with a feather to stimulate the invention center of the brain. “Wow, Chaim Stauber, too bad you've never met him! What a kid! He knows the whole Bible by heart! And he plays the piano! And he's been everywhere, even Japan! And he skipped two grades!” Most of this was true, but I wanted to make sure Felix knew that I, too, had friends who were men of the world, that they weren't all jerks like Micah. Only, Chaim Stauber wasn't really my friend anymore. After the episode with Mautner's cow, we had to sign a note for the principal and Chaim's mother promising not to exchange another word until after we graduated.

My mood turned glum. Why did I start off this new friendship with lies and betrayal? He seemed so sweetly innocent, smiling like a big
baby. Well, too bad. I felt as if I were getting nowhere fast. As if I were missing something, not to mention the game, because soon we would be pulling into Haifa station. So what should I do, I asked the mysterious Felix. Should I start over and play it again, move by move, until I found him? I didn't really feel like doing that, to tell the truth, but Dad and Gabi had gone to so much trouble, and there were people waiting for me, people who'd rehearsed their parts.

Fortunately for me, this person named Felix was no stickler for rules. He smiled a little smile of what seemed like contempt for them, and I smiled, too, though I had no idea what I was smiling about, maybe I just wanted to try his smile on for size, and then he pulled a fine chain out of his trouser pocket, and I could barely refrain from reaching out to touch it: this time it was a silver chain with a big pocket watch. The only one like it I'd ever seen was in a movie called
Pimpernel Smith
. Felix's watch had large square numerals on a white face with a golden ring around it. If I had a watch like that, I thought, I would put it in a safe and only take it out at night, when I was alone. He shouldn't keep something so valuable in his trouser pocket. This Felix character was much too trusting. Hadn't he heard of pickpockets? Or thieves? I could certainly teach him a thing or two, if he'd let me.

Felix closed his eyes and moved his lips as though thinking aloud. “Is like this, perhaps,” he said at last in his heavy Romanian accent. “You come earlier than expected, or, another way of saying, your time is coming soon.”

I didn't understand a word of this.

“Time now is ten minutes after three o'clock, young Mr. Feuerberg, and we must to arrive at our car by three and thirty-three o'clock. That's right.”

“What car?” I asked.

“Oh, did I say car?” He threw up his hands. “Beg pardon! Poor Felix, he grows old! Saying aloud what must to be kept secret! Young Mr. Feuerberg will please to forget everything he has heard and wait patiently for big surprise. Surprises are important, but even more important is to wait for them, not so?”

In those days, the word “secret” was enough to set my right foot
trembling, and the. word “surprise” would make my left foot positively twitch. Felix didn't know what he was doing when he used those two words in a single sentence.

“Why this hop-hopping, Mr. Feuerberg?” he asked, bending down to pull a brown leather traveling bag from under his seat.

I didn't explain the cause of my strange frenzy.

“My valise is made of leather, made-in-Romania!” He gave the bag a friendly pat. Each time he spoke, his voice surprised me: it sounded old and shrill, and reedy, not the right sort of voice for someone so distinguished. “Ha, my whole life I go everywhere with this valise,” he said as he carefully buckled the strap, and then chuckled. “My only friend is this.”

As he was speaking, I tried to guess where Dad knew him from and why he'd never mentioned Felix to me. Maybe he was somebody from Special Operations, or one of those legendary detectives sent overseas under a false identity to work with Interpol and the FBI. Sometimes one of them would whisk through the corridors at District Headquarters while home on leave, spreading a trail of mystery behind him. Everyone whispered, A
Shushu
is in town—a secret agent—and then all the secretaries would scurry out on one pretext or another to take a peek. Even Dad used to tense up when a
Shushu
walked past his office. “Remember you saw him,” he would say to me, indicating the agent with his eyes, and quickly add, “Now forget you ever saw him,” in case I was kidnapped by blackmailers who wanted to squeeze secret information out of me. But the one
Shushu
I happened to catch a glimpse of looked pretty normal in his civilian clothes—he was a short, bald guy with pale arms.

And this Felix character, who was he? What was he? One minute he seemed perfectly innocent, and the next he was peeking out into the corridor, left and right, with the expertise of an absolute
Shushu
. And then an astonishing thought occurred to me: Suppose Felix had once been a bad guy who changed sides and joined the good guys. Why not? Dad had all sorts of connections. It was truly amazing how many people greeted him whenever we walked down the street.