Arnon Grunberg



On Sunday my godson turned nine years old. Last year we celebrated his birthday with a magician in my hotel in Amsterdam, a wistful magician who stole my heart.
This year my godson celebrated his birthday in Bolivia. I talked to him briefly on the phone.
“Like last year the magician came to the hotel,” I said, “he was looking for you.” “Really?” my godson answered.
Then I realized that I was longing for the magician, for genial deception.

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