He walks the streets with his arms waving about, yet does not care for the looks of passersby. The streets about him are a blur. They could be the thoroughfares of Warsaw or London, Paris or Prague, Durban, New York, Havana or Rio, or any one of the many cities he has walked, across the six continents, the seven oceans and a scattering of islets in between. There are times when it seems he has walked them all, reciting his lines, grimacing, posing, breaking into a laugh, doing whatever a role calls for as he moves to and from his temporary lodgings, the house of an ardent admirer, or a sumptuous suite in a grand hotel, perhaps a single room in a godforsaken town, or a rundown inn on the borders between here and there, en route to the next performance, before moving on by horse-drawn cart or train, automobile or rust-bucket freighter creaking its way over stormy seas towards the next welcome. Who knows, perhaps this time he will be greeted with a red carpet, a klezmer band, and the town’s dignitaries spouting grand speeches, and hordes of children pursuing the droshke bearing him through the streets in triumph, the townsfolk proclaiming: ‘A Yiddish actor is in town!
