Madam Zira & the Henderson Affair

I could not speak; I could but lie there barely breathing. But I could feel Rolf's body move down onto the bed next to me and cover our nude bodies with the old duvet I kept at the end of the bed.

He took my limp, dew-coated body against his own sweat-soaked body and held me tightly for a few minutes.

"You are a beautiful, sensual lady, Madam Zira," he whispered into my ear. "It has been a pleasure and honor making love to you," he murmured as he kissed my cheek and I fell into a deep, exhausted slumber.

When I awoke the next morning, feeling tired and sore but also invigorated with that strange but lovely rejuvenation only sex can give a body and spirit, Rolf Henderson was gone.

I dug into a small storage bin to find the tattered short kimono robe to cover my chilled body and I slowly made my way to the front of the RV to heat some water for a desperately needed cup of hot tea. As the water heated on the small stove burner, I peered out with squinted eyes into the bright sunny morning to search the deserted parking lot where I'd parked my Winnebego for some sight of Rolf. All that occupied the large spanse of pavement were a few mall security cars, a Brinks truck parked near the south entrance of the mall, and a large trash sweeper truck.

The tea kettle began to whistle and I turned my hazy attention back to the tea. I glanced down to reach for my old chipped tea mug, and saw sitting next to it a small cassette box.

I thought to myself it must be the tape I had bought from Rolf the afternoon before. I couldn't now remember the name of it, nor had I much cared when I'd bought it from him. Something about jewels in Jerusalem. Probably one of his 'overseas adventures' I thought to myself with a slight smile as I poured the hot water over the tea bag hanging in my mug.

As the tea steeped, I reached for the cassette tape and went to sit in the large driver's seat of the RV. I opened the box and pulled out the tape. Without my glasses I had to squint my eyes to read the label upon the tape.

The cassette tape was entitled "Madam Zira and the Henderson Affair."

Odd, I thought, and quite surprising. When he'd had time to make a quick tape before disappearing this morning I had no idea. Unless he carried a tape recorder with him. I smiled to myself thinking I'd certainly explored his body – dressed and undressed – well enough to not detect any type of recording device.

As I sat in the Captain's chair of the large Winnebago, the morning sun pouring in and wrapped up in my old kimono sipping hot sugary tea, I put the tape into the cassette player.

"Edie, this is no random event. I have known that I would find Madam Zira for many years now. I will see you in Indianapolis…"

**************

I did not even wait to see if Rolf would stay for the final day of Cincinnati's fair. I somehow knew he was gone and off to Indiana.

"I ain't givin' you no refund for not staying the entire event, Madam Zorba…or whatever the hell you call yourself!" the mall's Events Director assured me with defensive hostility, as if he expected some argument from me. I barely paid attention to him as I folded up my table and began to drag my lawn chairs down the abandoned mallway.

"Keep it," I called back to him with a smile belying the anger in my voice. "Donate it to the local literacy group. Might want to attend some of their classes while you're at it."

It was bad enough to hear English spoken incorrectly, but to have it spoken to your face by the product of a Midwestern trailer park was even worse. I couldn't help but chuckle as I heard his yell of "Bitch" echo through the mall as I pushed through the exit and dragged my gear toward the Winnebago. I had to at least give him credit for understanding the insult.

Indiana was not one of my favorite places. I'd been there once before. Flatlands…green but somehow not lush…sparse city life and a population that seemed to me like Vegas might have been in the 20's – ripe but unplucked.

I had already long ago signed up and paid for my spot at Indy's yearly craft fair, so it was fairly easy to set up my table and wares upon arrival in town just after dark.

The fairgrounds at which the event was being held was already in full set-up mode; and once I found a suitable place for my Winnebago it merely was a simple matter of locating the Events Director. He was an elderly local with a mind of steel who directed me exactly to my rented lot without so much as an upward glance. I did ask him about Rolf Henderson, but on this one issue it seemed he was mentally absent.

I slept long and deep that night before the fair began. The lights of the midway and the rides flickered through the windows of my Winnie as I thought of Rolf and wondered of his mysterious, almost insistent invasion of my life. I was too old and too experienced to let myself become foolish about this, yet as I drifted off to sleep, still could not figure out why this man had so abruptly and forcibly entered my life.

In the warm morning sun of an Indiana July, I set up my table and chairs under an old, peeling white painted booth. I was just grateful for the shade, even if the warped wood of the lean-to was rotted and seemingly infected with termites.

Outdoor fairs were always far more successful than mall fairs. They drew more people – families to entertain their children with the carnival rides, livestock 'enthusiasts' and, in this case, motocross fans whose sons risked their lives on four-wheel ATVs over a man-made track even an off-road jeep would hesitate navigating. All in all it was a noisy and exciting atmosphere.

Nevertheless, I was finally there – and now it seemed I was there to find Rolf Henderson. I wanted an explanation for the tape he'd mysteriously left in my trailer, and I perhaps wanted more of an 'explanation' of his forceful sexual 'assault' upon me. God knew I'd loved and enjoyed it. However, like most women, I wanted to further understand why a man of perhaps 40 would have so wanted a woman of my age.

Business was extraordinarily good that day. Patron after patron – mainly women with their husbands standing patiently yet tolerantly behind – took a seat in front of me and after easily passing over their money allowed me to 'look into their future' and tell them of their lives past and their lives to be. As was the intent, many then would purchase a piece of my ware – a pair of quartz crystal earrings or a gold-plated amulet on a faux gold chain to serve as a remembrance of the fair. I'd gotten a good deal on it all in gross at wholesale from one of Harry's old contacts in the New York jewelry trade

Despite the dilapidated facilities, I was pleased with my booth. Having walls, I was able to drape them with black velvet cuts of cloth covered with sewn-on stars and half-moons; the electrical hookup allowing me to set up fluorescent black-lights and also use my 'boom-box' to play mystical new-age music. Compared to the paltry Cincinnati mall gig, this Indy set-up seemed almost palatial.

I'd only had two quick breaks through the day, primarily to use the 'Port a John', as I did not want to leave my booth and its belongings empty for too long. Yet my mind was still on locating Rolf. He'd said on his tape he'd 'see me in Indianapolis', and I hoped that meant at this fair.

Night fell, and the carnival lit up like a Christmas tree. I loved the lights, sounds and scents of a summer carnival. The delighted screams of children on the portable rides…the sound of local music under the tent of a makeshift pavilion…the scent of popcorn, cotton candy and hotdogs.

It was nearing closing time at this small-town fair. I had done well and was greatly pleased. I did not feel at all guilty about what I told people in the guise of 'seer and prophet' Madam Zira. There was a truth to the Tarot I believed, and it was in essence simple deduction through simple questions and answers I elicited from them while acting the mystic, perhaps awing Madam Zira. A dramatic wave and wide-eyed gaze into the crystal ball didn't hurt either. The blacklights, music and gothic attire also helped. Not to mention sitting there on a hot summer night amid carnival lights and the atmosphere of adventure and fun.

But I remembered the hot dogs and cotton candy. Their scent wafted through my ancient booth all day and into the night. It seemed my attention from the fairgoers had virtually disappeared, and I decided to shut down a half-hour early and get a bite to eat before collapsing in my bed in the Winnie. Yet still, there was Rolf. I had not seen any sight of him throughout the day, and was beginning to think it was all a con. That he'd just used me for a quick one night stand and had lied to me and disappeared to who knew where. I'd known from talking to other ladies contracted with the summer fair circuit that it was not an unknown event to have such happen; it was only that it was the first time it had happened to me. I'd let my guard down, and was now pondering feelings of anger, guilt and embarrassment. Even if it had been one of the best sexual experiences of my life.

I'd shut down my booth, pulling down the dusty, moth-eaten tarp around the sides and front of the shed – taking with me my rather expensive crystal ball, cards and handmade wares – and let my sense of smell lead me to the nearest hot dog stand.

Granted, I was not all that comfortable with carnival food. But I was too hungry to care how long it had been sitting out, whose unwashed hands had touched it or when it had expired. I was not kosher so I felt no guilt in eating a hot dog. In fact, I loved them. Besides, a carnival hot dog probably had no real meat in it at all. But I was willing to risk it due to hunger. Even after seeing the hot dog vendor. In his little overly lit cart, 285 pounds of pure career carny, wearing a tank top three sizes too small for him and a long grizzled greyish beard that looked like it hadn't been combed – or washed – in weeks. Still, I was willing to buy a dog from him – with ketchup, onions, chili and cheese, I added. He just grunted and thoughtlessly prepared the hotdog.

"Make that two," I suddenly heard a voice close behind me say to the vendor, and turned around to look up into the face of Rolf Henderson.

It was almost surreal…standing there with the multi-colored flickering of the midway lights backlighting his tall and svelte frame. He was dressed not unlike a magician, even with a touch of makeup on his face. It was indeed Rolf Henderson…buying hot dogs. For two.

He smiled down at me.

"Well, Madam Zira, we meet again."

He handed the vendor $10, took the dogs from him and handed one to me as he continued speaking.

"How are your accommodations here? Hopefully much better, and far more successful, than Cincinnati."

My first desire was to interrogate him about his disappearance 'the morning after', the mysterious tape he'd left and what his real intentions were. But to be honest, I was just so happy to see him again I quickly decided to play along and be cool. In essence, leave Edie Rosenberg and her female inquisitiveness in the background, and let Madam Zira handle the situation.

"Yes, much better than Cincinnati," I responded before a delicate but full bite of the hot dog. Not bad actually; too much chili and not enough onions, but at the moment it was the best food I'd ever eaten.

"By the way," I added as I held it up for a moment in a gesture of acknowledgement, "thanks for the hot dog. Haven't had anything to eat all day. Been too busy."

Rolf smiled – "Seems like every meal I've ever bought you has been fast food." I just silently returned his smile and took a bite of the dog, looking away casually. I was thinking.

As we slowly began to make our way down the small midway, now dwindling down to a few drunken teenage lovers walking leisurely hand in hand in no hurry to leave the magic of the carnival, and the usual clean-up roadies picking up discarded popcorn cartons and emptying barrel-sized trash cans, Rolf spoke in between mannered bites of his hotdog.

"So, business been that good for you, has it?"

"Can't complain," I responded coyly. "I saw you left Cincinnati in quite a hurry." Edie had suddenly reared her head – couldn't help myself.

"Well, Madam," he was quick on the uptake, "you saw how successful my tapes were in Cincinnati. I think aside from your purchase I only had one other sale. Why waste another day of my time when I could be here. Indy has always been good to me."

"Oh really?" I asked; "Indiana folks more into stories on audio tape than Ohioans?"

"Not really," he replied, finishing his dog and throwing the little white cardboard holder into a nearby bin; "Just an easier sell. Cincy crowd far more sophisticated bunch."

I laughed aloud. "You've got to be kidding!"

"No, really," he chuckled, then flashed me a dazzling smile. "These people will buy just about anything at a fair, just to show they'd been to it I suppose. To them, handmade spice racks, books on audio, crystal necklaces and amulets on gold chains – it is all very exotic. Has nothing to do with the product; they could get that anywhere. It's that they got it at the fair that is the true draw, the true allure. You know, the lights, the smells, the sounds, the 'event'.

His face turned up to the sky then with a mischievous smile and laughed.

"So," I had to ask, "what's with the monkey suit and makeup?" I then grinned almost derisively, but the words were tinged with a gentle tease.

Rolf seemed to take no offense. In fact, he did a little strut in front of me as we walked and swirled his cape around with a melodramatic flare that would have made Count Dracula ashamed.

"You don't like it?" he asked in jest with feigned disappointment. He then returned to my side as we slowly walked to nowhere in particular.

"Oh no, I do," I responded, after finishing my hotdog and disposing of the paper holder in a nearby trash barrel. The roadie standing by it had just finished emptying it. He grunted something unintelligible but undoubtedly unpleasant. I ignored him and smiled at Rolf - "It's very elegant."

He sidled up to me – the first time he'd touched me since our strange 'reunion.' The touch of his arm against mine was stirring to say the least.

"Just helping out an old buddy," Rolf explained. "He's a longtime carny magician and his lovely assistant Gail came down with the flu. Probably had one of these hot dogs," he smiled. "So I told him I'd help him out."

"Well, sorry I missed the show," I told him somewhat distantly, wanting more to get a fix on where this conversation was going; and more, where we were going. We'd circled the small midway twice talking. I wanted to ask him about what had transpired between us the day before, but for some reason being with him again, remembering his touch, the feel of him, somehow I didn't want myself to become Edie and become demanding and inquisitive. And such passiveness was simply not Edie Rosenberg and never had been. However, I'd never met anyone like Rolf Henderson. I was truly – for perhaps the first time in my life – at a genuine loss for direction. In every sense. I did not like the feeling.

"Yes, Madam Zira," he looked down gazing deeply into my eyes as he stood almost touching me, "You should have seen it. Magic is your gift and your trade. And you are quite magical."

Edie Rosenberg knew this was pure seduction. Madam Zira also knew this was pure seduction. But neither really cared. Knowing it was enough. Whether to act upon it was another matter completely.

I took a few steps back from Rolf and smiled knowingly.

"Yes, and you possess a few powerful tricks of your own. The other night was indeed magical, but now the trick for you is explaining your motives. Are you that good a magician?"

Rolf Henderson shook his head with an almost sad smile, as if his previous seemingly inflated bravado had been burst. Even his body seemed to shrink and his shoulders sink.

"I'm no magician, Edie. I'm perhaps just a simple second-rate writer trying to sell my stories on audiotape. And not doing very well at that."

"Perhaps you are," I cautiously responded amid the shutdown of carnival lights like a metaphor for the sudden seriousness of our conversation.

"I did listen to "Jerusalem Jewels" as I drove here. And yes, it was second rate." I continued with a serious tone in my voice.

Rolf did not seem to take offense. He stood there listening intently.

"I may not be a true psychic, but I do know enough to realize there is far more to you than meets the eye. Granted, you are a great lover. And you may be a writer…but as even you admit not a great one." Now I smiled with a bit of shame at my previous harshness.

"But your tape…the other one. I want an explanation."

Rolf did not smile outwardly, but it radiated from his entire body as he moved toward me and took hold of my hands.

"Edie, let's go somewhere and talk. And I'll try to explain everything to you," he said in a voice like velvet.

I now knew better than to trust him. But I could not help remembering his incredible sexual prowess, his charming demeanor…and right now, that swarthy thin face, masculine full moustache and that large yet sharply pointed nose that was so incredibly sensual to me. For a gentile he had a nose even a Jew would find admirable.

Yet, I truly wanted to hear what he had to say. I'd driven like a demon to Indianapolis to find him for just that reason. And against my better judgement I heard myself saying –

"My Winnebago is parked not far from here."

Rolf fought the smile touching his lips. "That would be fine,"' he said.

********************

I offered coffee, but Rolf politely asked if I had anything 'a bit stronger' around. Shoved back behind the small collection of old teacups and boxes of Lipton's caffeinated teabags was an ancient bottle of Scotch I'd kept when my father died. Over the many years since he'd died I'd slowly let go of the 'memorabilia' I'd kept by which to remember him. A pair of white leather casual shoes…the picture ID tag he had to wear to enter the facility in which he worked…his wallet and its contents…the little marble dog I'd made as a child at some Synagogue retreat I'd given him and found after he'd died kept on his desk at work…and this old bottle of Scotch. It was almost empty. Papa was not a drinker, but he enjoyed a small touch of Scotch and water on the rocks when he came home from work. Even after all these years I still had it. Aside from his military medals and bars I kept tucked away and would never part with, this old bottle of scotch was the only thing of Papa's I still had. The label had almost peeled off and the bottle was dusty, but I had no doubt the liquor inside was good. Afterall, though I knew little about Scotch, it had been almost 20 years since Papa had died. I assumed 20 year old Scotch was quite impressive to serve to Rolf.

I poured a touch of it into my best jelly jar drinking glass, added some tap water and put a few ice cubes in.

Rolf sat at my very small kitchen bar and silently watched this process. I had no idea what he was thinking, but I could almost feel his eyes exploring me; not in a sexual way, but more with a thoughtful, contemplative demeanor.

As an afterthought, I quickly decided to indulge in a splash of the old Scotch myself. "Why not?" I thought. Perhaps Rolf's story warranted a bit of 'celebratory' libation. That, or it would require slight inebriation to endure. Either way, I pulled out another jelly jar and fixed another like I had for Rolf.

I sat down across from him at the little linoleum bar, and slid the 'glass' over to him.

"Thanks," he said and picked it up for a slow but minimal sip. I emulated him, waiting for him to begin talking.

But he did not. He merely put the glass down and faced me with an unreadable stare.