The Mentalist

“Look, Jessica, I’m just a normal guy.”

“Sure, a normal guy who parties with the Kardashians, frequently dines with Jeff Bezos, and has millions of adoring fans, not to mention being the brand ambassador for Maserati.”

I smirk. All in all, the interview has been going well, though, at this point, they all feel a bit cookie-cutter. We’d covered all the usual topics: being a nerdy adolescent in Israel, joining the Israeli Society of Magicians, doing close-up magic and random gigs until my early twenties, and, of course, becoming a world-renowned mentalist and international celebrity. She had also asked questions about my current visit to Australia, which would have been refreshing – had I not been asked about that at least three times a day for the past week.

The Australian tour has gone well. Eh, who am I kidding? It was incredible. My seven shows at the Sydney Opera House had been sold-out, and hearing the audience's applause at the end of each show was exhilarating. Nothing beats that feeling, and like a true junkie - you never want it to stop. Even if I couldn’t read their minds at that moment, there would be no doubt. They loved it, and I wowed them like no other. I wasn’t vain or overly confident; it was the truth. I am the world’s greatest mentalist, she knows it, and every other reporter has learned it in the past few years. Sitting on a couch adjacent to her in the Sydney suite of the Park Hyatt Sydney – we both knew I was at the top of my game.

I could tell that she was losing interest in the interview despite all that. The twinkle she had in her brown eyes at the beginning of the interview is slowly fading away. It’s not that I’m boring; most people find me quite charming and charismatic (again, not being cocky, I can hear their thoughts). I made her genuinely laugh a couple of times, and we even exchanged some flirtatious banter. I probably shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself – Jessica Williams is a beautiful and intelligent woman who finds me equally desirable. It was only natural that we’d flirt. And still, her journalistic instincts were telling her that this interview wasn’t ground-breaking in any way. My answers struck her as too rehearsed and overly polished. There was only so much I could do about that, only so much I could give away. She fixed her brown hair behind her right ear and smiled; she felt brazen.

“Can we talk about Ella?”

“Sure,” I reply with the most neutral tone I can muster. It doesn’t convince her, she can tell she’s struck a nerve, and a wave of curiosity emanates. She feels like she’s finally getting somewhere. It’s not like she’s the first to ask about her. I consider dissuading her from asking about Ella (as I’ve considered with every other reporter before her) but decide against it. I don’t use my powers like that unless I have to.

“You guys were together for over five years, since before you were famous. Six months ago, she even moved to the states to live with you, and two months ago, you guys announced your engagement; it seemed like things were going well. Then two weeks ago, you broke off the engagement. What happened?”

I can sense her excitement; she’s clinging to the hope that I’ll break down in front of her and reveal something noteworthy, a centerpiece for this interview. She’s driven, she’s sharp, she’s hot – and I’m single, so I don’t mind. Either way, she’s in for a disappointment.

“I know it sounds cliché, but we wanted different things in life. We’d gone through a lot together; in a way, we concluded that we didn’t love each other anymore. I still wish her nothing but the best, and she will always be my friend.”

I recite the response composed by my publicist, trying to make it sound as honest as I can. I’ve grown rather good at lying through my teeth. She doesn’t buy it.

“You came to that understanding now, despite proposing just two months ago?” she pushes on, her eyebrows arched. I sigh and put my hands together on my lap.

“Yeah, I guess it sounds strange, but we both realized things over the past two months that helped us see the best course of action for our relationship.”

“I see,” she replies. Even a deaf man could hear the disbelief in her voice. ‘So, you either cheated, or you’re gay,’ she thinks. I take a sip from my glass of water in an attempt to disguise how much it upsets me. She’s not the first to have that thought cross her mind; most reporters have their version of the truth: whether I cheated, got cheated on, or one of us was gay. Coming from her – it stung more. Maybe it’s because I like her. Hard to tell at the moment.

“In that case, are you looking for the next future, Mrs. Johnathan Weiss? Because I’m sure that there are plenty of women around the world who love to take that spot,” she says with a bashful smile.

“I might technically be single, but it’s still too soon to consider another relationship. As you’ve said yourself, it’s only been two weeks.” I reply and do my best not to think of Ella and how things ended between us. I feel sadness and remorse; perhaps it shows on my face.

“Of course, that makes perfect sense,” she carries on. “Let’s talk about your appearance on Oprah last week, wow!” she compliments me, half believing it – half hoping it would keep me talking. “Did you go on the show to make her cry, or does that just randomly happen around you?” she asks. Her thoughts tell me that this is her hail marry; she can tell this interview is just about done, and she needs something more out of it, out of me.

“I honestly didn’t know that would be her reaction,” I confess. “This was my first time on her show, so she asked me to guess what she was thinking about. I guess she was shocked that I got it right. So - tears ensued. I hope she’ll have me on the show again sometime!” I chuckle, but it’s the truth. Had I known she would burst into tears – I might have deflected with an excuse.

“Well, you repeated the final words her aunt told her moments before she died, which she claims she had never repeated to anyone else. I can’t imagine what she was feeling at that moment.” Jessica says and leans a bit towards me on her sofa with a big smile on her face. I can tell where this is heading.

“Was it all an act? Or did someone who knows her - tell you about it? How did you know?” She teases me once more. This time, I find it repulsive. My answer is the same one I give out whenever that specific question arises –

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

I give her a wide, non-threatening smile and wink. She lets out a fake laugh and says, “Of course,” while thinking, ‘Oprah was in on it.’ I shouldn’t care about that, but for some reason, it infuriates me.

I look away from her at the view from the floor to ceiling windows behind her, the beautiful Sydney harbor and Opera House bathed in the golden rays of Australian summer. I need to spend some time outside today and enjoy this place; I need some me time. I’m drawn back to the room when Jessica clears her throat, her gaze catching mine.

“Look,” she says as she grabs her phone and hits the red button on the recording app. “Let’s go off the record here.” Her tone changes, as if going off record brings out a side of her that is less delightful and slightly dangerous. “The phone recorder is off, and I promise you I don’t have any other recording devices here. So, can’t you tell me how you did it?” she asks with a flirtatious smile. Her thoughts are far from flirty; she’s focused and intense. She needs more from this; it's her final attempt to get it. I look deep into her eyes and consider my options. I should throw the usual mumbo-jumbo about intuition, body language, and a dash of luck. All mentalists use that to avoid talking about the technological means they use to pass as mind-readers.

But for some reason, there’s a part of me that wants to let it all out. There’s a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and thoughts going through my head, but in the end – only one prevails: fuck it.

“You want to know?” I ask bitterly.

“Oh yes.” She replies greedily. So why not? Fuck it.

“I can read minds.”

My answer is calm and direct, and so is her reaction to it. “Ah-ha, sure you can,” she retorts and begins gathering her things.

“I mean it.”

“Fine, then prove it. What’s my darkest secret that nobody knows?” she asks.

It’s so easy, really; I don’t even go digging. You see if you tell someone not to think of a pink elephant – what’s the first thing that jumps in their mind? And her pink elephant was blowing its trunk wildly at me.

“You lost your virginity to the boy who your best friend was in love with. Lily was her name. And you fucked Oscar the day before her birthday, and then she killed herself, and to this day, you have no idea if it’s because she found out – and it’s your fault.”

Her head shoots up in my direction, and she grows still. She stays this way for several seconds, her mind in turmoil. Eventually, she lets out a nearly silent “Fuck”.

I shouldn’t feel as content as I do, but I can’t help it. I can hear her thoughts racing.

“So, you could always read minds?” she asks as she tries to compose herself and regain control of the situation.

“No, I couldn’t. It happened one day when I was nineteen; I got sick and had several days of intense headaches. Imagine the worst migraine you can think of – then triple it,” I have no idea why I keep talking. I guess an inner dam broke, and now it’s all coming out. I feel alive.

“I had a show I couldn’t cancel, and I was starting to feel a bit better, so I decided to suck it up and go do the gig. I was one of four mentalists who did table-side magic at some company’s new year’s event. I approached the first table to do some card tricks – when I realized I could hear what the guy at the table was thinking, I could tell his cards. By the end of the evening, I had done all of my acts without ever using gimmicks or sleight-of-hand – I had read all of their minds. I kept it up for a few months, but it wasn’t getting me anywhere; I was still only doing small gigs or group acts. I realized what I needed was someone to push me out there – an agent. So, I waited outside the office of the biggest agent in Israel, the guy who was repping the most famous singers and actors – and when he came out, I struck a conversation with him. I gave him a mental nudge, a little boost of confidence in my capabilities- “

“A mental nudge? What, like mind control?” she asks, appalled.

“Of course not,” I spit back. “All I did was make him believe that it was in his interest to give me a shot. After all, I knew I could back it up. If it didn’t work out – I had everything to lose, while if it did – he had everything to gain. And he did; I made him a lot of money before I went global and left Israel – Trust me!” I add, my voice rising – I can feel myself getting worked up. I did nothing wrong, I’m sure of it.

“So why don’t you tell everyone? Why don’t you go out there and let it be known that you’re one of a kind? Why keep it a secret?”

I look down and sigh; she doesn’t get it. But I’ll make her get it. I look up at her sitting there, still visibly distraught, and shake my head.

“You realize I can hear your thoughts right now? I can tell just how terrified you are of me, of the ramifications of being next to someone like me. Even if you were the best actress in the world – I could still feel just how scared you are, how you can’t wait to get out of here and away from me. That’s why I can’t tell anyone.”

She doesn’t respond.

“I have to go around this world pretending to be just another magician, all the while hearing what everybody thinks. Do you know how tiring that is? Now think about those celebrities and the world leaders I’ve performed to - I know so many things about them I wish I didn’t! State secrets, illegal deals, betrayals – you name it. If those people knew or even suspected the truth, not only would it end my career – I’d probably be lying at the bottom of a lake somewhere.”

I’m unable to hold my tongue. I have no idea what’s gotten over me, but I feel something akin to catharsis for the first time in a long while.

“Sure, I’m filthy rich, I’m super famous, and it looks like I’ve got it all – but this gift made me lose the one thing I wanted in life.”

“Ella…?” she asks softly.

“Yes, Ella. I vow to myself to push back her thoughts. It was tough; I managed most of the time. But it came with a cost. I had to push her away. The more famous I got, the harder I threw myself into my career. I made sure to be occupied around her, never let my mind go idle so I could keep her thoughts out of my head. It worked. Then I moved to the states, it made everything easier for a while, but I knew she would follow,” I rub my eyes in frustration. “Then she did, and I had to become distant again. I knew she was confused by it, but I was hoping she’d think nothing of it; I was just passionate about what I do. I proposed to her because she was the love of my life, but apparently, pushing her thoughts out of my head meant I also created a blind spot around her. I couldn’t see how unhappy she had been. Two weeks ago, we got into a huge argument. She accused me of not loving her, of marrying her as a convenience. I tried to defend myself, but it turned into a screaming match, my guard went down – and her thoughts and feelings rushed at me.”

I look down; it hurts.

“She was having an affair. I had pushed her away, and now she was in love with someone else,” I let out a bitter chuckle. I look up at Jessica, and she stares back, her lips pursed.

“I lost it and told her everything. Just like I’m telling you, she looked at me with the same mix of fear and repulsion as you do now. It was the most painful moment of my life. She was freaking out, and there was only one thing I could do to help. I made her forget. To her, we had broken up because I was a raging workaholic that had no room for her in his life. she can move on and be happy– and I get to keep this pain in my chest until the day I die.”

The demons are out, and Pandora’s box stands empty.

“I’m sorry, Johnathan.” she means it, but it changes nothing. I do what I must.

“Look at your phone,” I nod my head in the direction of her cellphone. She does as I say, and at that moment – I act. It’s tough - erasing someone’s memories. It’s almost as if the memories have a will of their own, a desire to remain. It’s like trying to pry away powerful magnets from one another – they fight to stay attached.

Jessica looks at her phone quizzically, unsure why she stopped recording. Then she looks up at me, confused.

“You were saying something about going off the record?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

“Yes, right. Off the record, can you tell me how you do it? Just give me one little thing.” The semi flirtatious tone is back, her last-ditch effort.

 “What can I say? It’s a matter of reading body language, some intuition, and a dash of luck.” I reply and raise my shoulders, a big fake smile. She smiles back in defeat.

When we say our goodbyes at my door, she pauses - then reaches into her purse and hands me her business card.

“This has my number on it. If you’ve got time to kill before you head back, maybe we could catch a drink. Could be fun,” she says; this time, the flirtation is genuine. I respond, saying that I probably won’t have time for that, but thanks. She isn’t pleased with that response, and once the door is shut, I catch her thinking, ‘He’s gay.’

I head out to the balcony and enjoy the view of the harbor. The sun feels nice. I can see the people walking around the Opera House, going about their lives - blissfully unaware of other people’s thoughts, wishes, fears, secrets; just going places, doing things, enjoying life the way humans should – trapped inside their minds. I go back inside the suite need to stay inside and far away from people today; I need time.