At last Danny’s father said, “Why don’t you buy some books with it? Take it down to Ha’chalutz Street, to that shop you always go to.”
Danny said, “Really?” and then, as caution took hold of him, said, “Anything I want?”
His dad laughed. “Any books you want, Danny. It’s your money.”
And so it was decided.
The bookshops of Haifa are clustered like a gaggle of elderly, generally good-natured but occasionally difficult uncles, in Lower Hadar, around Ha’chalutz Street and below in Sirkin. Danny’s favorite was called Mischar Ha’sefer —“the Book Trade”—at number 31 Ha’chalutz, where it had resided for many years, and where it continues to reside. Seeing as the book dealers of Haifa, as a body, follow the ancient tradition of that city and take a lengthy afternoon spell between one and four in the afternoon, Danny went there early in the morning.
The entrance to Mischar Ha’sefer is crowded with English paperback books, imported pornographic magazines hanging from the rafters by thread like condemned convicts, a tasteful spread of romantic novels, and a dusty bargain bin overflowing with cookbooks, modern fiction, and the occasional title in Russian. On the opposite side of the street is a shawarma stand, and the smell of roasting meat arising from its confines accompanied Danny as he stepped into the bookshop.
He browsed happily as blue-haired ladies came and went for their daily fix of Mills & Boon, a literature student haggled over a paperback
Behind the counter the formidable owner, a Romanian immigrant of indeterminable age, whose name Danny had never learned, was marking books, occasionally raising her voice in a shrill call for her son—“Itzik! Itz-ik!”— following which her son, himself of an age whose exactitude could not be determined, would pop his head out of the stockroom in the basement to assist with whatever query needed addressing. Danny made his way through shelf after shelf, accumulating half a dozen titles in the process for his collection, prominent amongst them three Patrick Kim—The Karate Man titles, comprising
But it is not Danny’s literary taste, as lamentable as it may be, that concerns us. The books were mysteries. In that, Danny felt, they reflected life. They asked important questions, such as, What is the meaning of Life? Is love Eternal? And what exactly was it that the Doctor’s devilish creatures do?
Behind the counter, Itzik had replaced his mother. He wiped sweat from his balding head, added up the prices, and said, “Nice selection. You get back half if you return them.”
“I think I’ll keep them,” Danny said.
Itzik shook his head. “Everyone’s a collector,” he said sadly. “D’you know,” he said, as if imparting a great truth to his young audience, “these are
When he had finished at the Book Trade, Danny progressed down the stairs beside the store, paid a perfunctory visit to the textbook shop underneath, and stepped into Sirkin and to his second favorite bookshop, Martef Ha’sefer—the Book Basement.
The Book Basement’s only concession to advertising was, and remains, an ancient hand-painted sign laconically saying BOOKS, with an arrow pointing farther down the hill. Follow the arrow, and you are confronted with more steps, a rubbish heap, the smell of urine, and, going past these delights, a door. Danny opened the door and went in.
The Book Basement resembles a crusaders-era monastery in its interior. Books are huddled together in dusty catacombs that spread out in all directions from the vaguely L-shaped main corridor. Shelves rise from the vault of the floor and disappear in the darkness overhead. The smell of the interior is of dust and old paper, a smell a little like bad breath and a little like well-preserved perfume. It was inside the shop, after he had wandered somewhat aimlessly between the aisles, that, in the darkest corner deepest into the maze of books, he came across his find.
It was not, at first or even second glance, much to look at. It was sitting on a bottom shelf sandwiched between two disintegrating books and seemed initially to be a book itself. It was bound in black leather, and Danny’s fingers left marks on the thick layer of dust that covered the binding. There was no title. The book felt warm, like body temperature. When he opened it, however, Danny discovered it was, rather than a book, a sort of thick notebook, with blank, off-white pages that had been filled by hand sometime in the past in an untidy cursive script scribbled with black ink. He leafed through it.
Saturday, February 5, 1942.
Birthday party for Dr. Katz—daughter.
Rabbit from hat.
Linking rings.
Handkerchief routine.
Streamers from mouth production.
Cigarette routine—vanish, materialization, multiplication.
Milk pitcher.
Silk in egg.
Doves routine.
Levitating vase.
Went well. Around 25 children. Used regular patter. Katz paid promptly, in cash.
Danny stared at the bound volume in his hands. It was a magician’s journal! Every page seemed to be the same: a list of magic tricks that varied little from one performance to another; sometimes a short record of some new patter used or deviated from the norm; a record of the locations (which included the British Army barracks, a function for the harbor officials, birthdays, weddings, and the obligatory bar mitzvahs); notes on the number of people in the crowd; the date; and notes—though no amounts—concerning the payments.
Dotted amongst the pages were a few (a very few) newspaper clippings, which inevitably described a performance particularly worthy of the public’s notice. The paper of these clippings was yellow like bad teeth. Danny would have pursued these items further, but he was already gripped by that most-unbeatable of compulsions, which is aroused by the collector’s discovery of what is called a
“How much?”
The owner of the Book Basement looked up at him in amusement. He was busy marking a pile of ancient- looking Tarzans. “What have you got there?”
Danny wordlessly pushed the diary across the desk. The owner leafed through it unhurriedly. “Where did you find this?” he asked at last. Danny pointed.
“What do you want this for?” the owner said. “I thought you liked detective novels.”
Danny cautiously mentioned having once practiced the art of magic (which was not entirely the truth. His one performance—one Saturday at the flat, for an audience comprising several family members—did not go as well as could have been hoped for: he failed twice to guess the card picked, was left with two pieces of rope that he couldn’t join back together, and finally—and he still didn’t know how—the wand broke as he waved it in the air. Danny was, in other words, a terrible magician, and that performance contributed in great measure to the conjuring set’s eventual exile up in the
“Oh? I had a magic kit once,” the owner said. “You know that thing with the egg?”
Danny denied any knowledge of a thing with eggs.
“Little plastic thing. Had like a blue egg in the middle. You could make it disappear. Just a toy, really…” He seemed to gaze into the air nostalgically, lost in thoughts of better days. Danny said, “So how much?” and then, because he was a polite kid, said, “Please?”
“Oh, have it for fifty,” the owner said. “Anything for a fellow magician, eh?”
