Lawrence Looks for Treasure

Part 2 - Chapter 10

10

No one was home when I got back. I wasn't the only one who stayed out—my mom and dad did too. It had been that way for a while. It's what happens before a divorce, that's all.

Frankly, I was relieved. I just wanted to pack my stuff and go. First I got my sleeping bag, which I found buried in the basement. It was thin and red and smelled like a fire pit. I had used that sleeping bag at Camp since I was seven. It seemed perfect. An old comfort for a new adventure. I rolled it up, and then tied it down with yellow rope.

Next, I grabbed a knapsack. Two, actually. A small one to put on my back and a big one to put on my bike. The small one would hold stuff I'd need while biking, like water and snacks and maps and stuff like that. The big one would hold stuff I wouldn't need while biking, like my sleeping bag and my toothbrush and extra clothes and stuff like that.

Once I packed the knapsacks, I scanned my shelf for the most important item of all—a book. I chose between two. The first was The Last Girl in the World by Simon Rick. Rick was this young guy, barely twenty, who wrote a lot for sitcoms. I found his book by accident, just browsing Chapters, and ended up reading the whole thing, right then and there. I know, it sounds like something you'd say to seem interesting. But it's true. I did.

The book is about all the problems Rick's had with girls. It's hilarious. And bang on. I mean, I know exactly what he's talking about. Books like that—books about peoples' problems—are my favourite. They're courageous, if you think about it. The author is really just waving his embarrassments for the world to see.

I don't know. It seems everyone's always hiding their problems, like they don't have any, like they're so special. It kinda makes me feel, well, not so special. I've got tons of problems. Of course, I hide them too. I just don't want to seem depressing or rude or whatever. It gets lonely though. Everyone hides their problems so good that I worry no one feels like I do. So when someone like Rick writes a book about his problems, and they're the same as mine, often even worse, it's comforting. It keeps me going, in many ways.

It has to be a book too. I mean, if someone just approached me, and said, 'I've got problems,' that'd be weird. When it's in a book, though, and it's said so nice, and it looks so pretty, arranged just right on the page, then it's not weird at all. It's beautiful. So beautiful that when I read it, I think, maybe I don't have any problems after all. I think, maybe I'll be alright. Because, if the writer had the same problems, but made it look so pretty on the other side, maybe I will too. That's art. In my opinion, anyway.

The second book I wanted to bring was The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz by Stefan Schultz. It's my favourite. I've read the whole thing seven times, and the best parts about a hundred. It's about this kid from a village in Eastern Europe. His parents die, so he runs away and joins the circus. He tries to be a magician for a while, and travels the world. But he winds up in New York as this big . . . well, I don't want to ruin it, in case you read it, which I highly recommend.

It's my favourite book because I like the story. As a kid, Dimitri doesn't seem all that impressive. Mostly everyone is mean to him. But he turns out to be very impressive, more impressive than he ever thought, and much more impressive than those people who were mean to him thought, too.

After I first read The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz, I got curious about the author, Stefan Schultz. His life was actually similar to Dmitri's, in broad strokes, anyway. Schultz grew up poor in an Austrian village too, and ended up in the West, rich and happy. I like it best when they end up rich and happy.

By the time I had picked which book to bring, it was dark, and I was too tired to brush my teeth. Instead, I flicked on my bedside lamp, arranged my pillows just right, slipped under my blanket, and started reading, for the eighth time, The Grand Adventure of Dmitri Waltz. It began:

Chapter I

A First Glimpse at Magic

My lifelong involvement with magic began at 1:03 p.m. on 4 January 1913, at which time I was eight years and two months old.

I am able to date the occasion with complete certainty because that afternoon my mother had taken me to that great and scary patisserie, Café Mendel's, which was in Vienna, a half day's journey from home, long enough to seem a world away, yet short enough to return for supper. I suppose Mother thought it wise to expose her son to the lights, bustle, filth, dress, and—most of all—pastry of a grand metropolis.

Snow was heavy in our part of the world, but this winter it had been scarce enough to leave uncovered even the shortest spears of yellow grass; in such a condition, we could reach Vienna by foot, and that is what we did. Far off, the city seemed no more than a candle, but as we approached, and finally entered, the dimensions of the flame grew. At last Vienna emerged as a blaze of speed and sophistication in whose glow I marvelled.

Café Mendel's was a particularly enchanting affair. How my spirit expanded in those few minutes! The store was ornate and frivolous: glass chandeliers, made to look like overstuffed bowls of fruit, hung from the ceiling; gold vines climbed across pink wallpaper; gilded mirrors stood in each corner and reflected the occupants, smart men reading magazines under electric light, delicate women simpering behind tiny cups, and stiff waiters floating from table to table. While our village contained more humanity than most, it did not contain everything, and one of the things it conspicuously lacked was beauty; we were all too much the descendants of muddy-handed labourers to encourage any such thing, and we gave mean names to qualities that, in sophisticated cities like Vienna, were prized. I knew then that fate intended for me something outside the village. Mendel's was life as it ought to be lived . . .

I read until I couldn't keep my eyes open. Dozing, book in hand, I pictured myself as Dmitri Waltz, walking into Mendel's, and seeing, for the first time, such lavish decor and fancy people. I imagined myself excited, scared and self-assured, thinking that for me fate had big plans.

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