“Now that that’s settled”—Raphael rubs his palms against his jeans—“I’d like to tell you exactly what’s been on my mind.”
Doctor Menner nods and picks up his pad and pen, discreetly letting out a long and steady breath, a gesture not lost on Raphael. He inclines his head in Raphael’s direction, his pen poised once again above the page.
“So, Seth, I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how much we trust each other.”
“We who?”
“All of us!” Raphael waves his hands around the room. “People in society.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning… that to navigate society, we have to trust the people around us, people we know, strangers, everyone. I mean, we have no choice, do we?”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at. Perhaps you could elaborate.”
Raphael pushes up his hat with one finger and scratches his head. “You want me to elaborate?”
“Yes, please, so we can get to the bottom of things.”
Raphael lets out a short laugh. “That is one of your favourite phrases, isn’t it, Seth? ‘The bottom of things’. It’s a funny one, considering…”
Doctor Menner narrows his eyes at Raphael.
“Anywho, getting back to me. I was saying we can’t very well navigate society without trusting people—whether we like it or not. For example, we rely that the guy behind us on the escalator won’t just give us a good shove, right? We trust that some numbnuts standing behind us at the crosswalk won’t accidentally-on-purpose push us into the path of oncoming traffic. It’s crazy, don’t you think? No, don’t say anything yet. The other day, I was getting blown by this dude in a suit behind one of those big green garbage bins in a back alley behind the Beverly Hills Police Station on Rexford. Can you imagine? In broad daylight! I think the dude was a lawyer. Anyway, I thought to myself, how do you know this dude won’t just bite down on your cock or yank off your yarbles! Crazy, right?”
Raphael catches Doctor Menner glancing ever so quickly at the wall clock, and he leans forward on his knees, like a cat poised to pounce on a mouse. “You too, Seth.”
“What about me?” Doctor Menner flips closed his empty notepad and sets it aside.
“You’re not exempt from having to trust people. People like me.”
“I never said I was.”
“I mean, all this time, I’ve never once told my parents you’ve been feeling me up each time you put me under hypnosis.”
Doctor Menner blinks at Raphael and leans forward in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, young man. But I’m not going to tolerate your false accusations.”
Raphael smothers a yawn with the back of his hand, stands up, and stretches deliciously. “I have proof, Seth.” He snatches the small camera from the side table. “You see, when I realised what you were doing, it’s a few weeks now, I pinched this backpack-camera thing at the spy store on Melrose, switched it with one I had that looked a lot like it, except without the camera and the hidden compartment, of course, and made sure it was always sitting right there whenever we had a hypno-session”—Raphael points at the table across from the sofa—“which turned out to be the perfect place to capture all our intimate moments.” He winks at the doctor, pulls some photos out of the hidden pocket inside his backpack, and shoves them into Doctor Menner’s trembling hands.
The doctor leafs through the photographs, which clearly depict him removing Raphael’s trousers, running his hands over his body, and masturbating above the young man. After a moment, the photographs slip out of his hands and fall to the floor.
“You can keep those.” Raphael lights a cigarette and flicks the match across the room. “I have more. Consider them a souvenir, from our last session, that is.”
The doctor’s trembling intensifies, and he starts to cry. “I’m sorry, young man. I’m so very sorry.” Streams of snot leak out his nose onto his upper lip. “Please… don’t—”
“Don’t what?” Raphael gathers up the photographs and places them on Doctor Menner’s desk, then he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke in Doctor Menner’s face.
“Please, don’t… my family, my reputation.”
“Should have thought of that before, I guess.” Raphael sniggers and slaps Doctor Menner on the back. “Don’t worry, Seth. I’m not likely to say anything. After all, I can’t say I didn’t enjoy the attention.”
Doctor Menner wipes his face with his handkerchief and looks up at Raphael, his brow furrowed, uncomprehending.
“I do have two conditions, though.” Raphael crushes the cigarette underfoot, then pushes Doctor Menner against the back of his chair, one powerful hand pressed against each of his shoulders. Doctor Menner’s eyes go wide, and he nods his head.
“First, this is our last session, ever. That means you’ll have to tell my parents and the court that I’m cured, or whatever you guys say. That I’m not likely to steal from anyone again, especially considering I’ve finally paid back the esnoga for all the silver I pawned.”
“Yes, I can do that. No worries!”
Raphael steps away from the doctor, removes his kippah, slips off his braces, and unbuttons his shirt, exposing his tallit katan.
“What are you doing?” Doctor Menner asks.
“I’m getting to my second condition.”
He carefully folds his shirt and the tallit katan (reverently kissing the fringes), places them on Doctor Menner’s desk, and unzips his fly.
“To bring my so-called therapy to an appropriate end, I think it’s only fair if I get to bone you, hard.” Raphael steps out of his trousers and stands completely naked in front of the doctor, save for a pair of black, steel-toed boots. “Don’t you?”
The blood drains from Doctor Menner’s face at the sight of Raphael, who grabs the Nikon and snaps his picture. The flash blinds Doctor Menner momentarily. As his vision clears, he sees Raphael pulling up his trousers and adjusting his braces.
“I couldn’t resist,” Raphael says with a bitter smirk. “You should have seen your face. I’ll send you the picture once I develop it.”
“You mean, you’re not going to…”
“Oh, you thought I was serious?” Raphael hangs the Nikon around his neck and shakes his head. “I’m not going to violate a major commandment for a ben-zona like you. Not that you don’t deserve it.”
Doctor Menner retreats behind his desk and takes in a series of deep, calming breaths, glancing every so often in Raphael’s direction.
Raphael checks his watch and picks up his backpack. “Don’t imagine you’re off the hook, doc. I may still report you to the police. Don’t forget I have the evidence. Right now, though, it’s almost time for Abba to pick me up. So, chop-chop, get your discharge notes ready.”
* * *
Raphael follows his father Isaac Dweck to the parking garage. As they approach his Range Rover, Isaac unlocks it with the remote. Raphael climbs into the passenger seat, automatically handing his backpack to his father. Isaac opens it and briefly rummages through the contents, then passes it back to Raphael, who tosses it onto the back seat together with his Nikon. Neither of them says a word until they are well on their way up the Wilshire Corridor, flanked on both sides by the glittering residential towers, driving toward their synagogue in Westwood.
“I’m not exactly sure what happened back there.” Isaac lowers the visor to block the glare of the afternoon sun.
Raphael removes his hat and sets it on the seat between them. He passes his hand through his hair and cranes his neck to peer at his reflection in the side-view mirror in an effort to buy time, thinking how he’s going to respond to his father, a brilliant trial lawyer with a reputation for knowing people better than they know themselves.
“Your delayed response is telling.” Isaac pointedly looks at Raphael for a moment before turning his attention back to the road.
“Sorry, Abba. I didn’t realise you’d asked a question.”
“Why did D
octor Menner abruptly end your therapy?”
“Like he said”—Raphael slouches in his seat—“he thinks I’m cured. So there’s no further need for therapy. That’s good news, isn’t it?”
Isaac glances at Raphael and back at the road. “He didn’t use the word cured. There is no cure for kleptomania.”
“He said three years of talk therapy had finally broken the cycle of the compulsion, in his opinion. Same thing.”
Isaac shakes his head and strokes his well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard. “Something’s not right.” He glances back at his son. “He seemed … disturbed, somehow.”
Raphael sits up and clears his throat. “Yes, I sensed that too, Abba. I could tell he wasn’t feeling too well. You know, he was perspiring a lot, and he kept wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. Maybe he’s having personal problems.”
“What makes you think that? Did he say he was having personal problems?”
“Well, no. Or maybe he was sick or something.”
“Maybe so.” Isaac pulls the car into the turning lane as they approach their synagogue, a building constructed of honey-coloured stone to resemble the Old City of Jerusalem, and waits for the oncoming traffic to flow past before turning left into the underground car park. “Still”—he pulls into a space at the back, well away from the other cars—“I have a mind to call him.”
“Abba, please.” Raphael reaches into the back seat, unzips his backpack, and extracts his prayer book. “Let’s talk about it after Mincha.”
Isaac’s expression softens as he sees the prayer book in his son’s hand. He squeezes his shoulder and nods. “After Mincha.”
Raphael and his father make their way down a narrow corridor to the study hall. The room is full of school-age boys and those of their fathers who are able to take time off from work. Almost everyone is in position, ready for the prayer leader to kick off.
Isaac hurries to the front of the room to pray next to Rabbi Mordechai Sadot, while Raphael stands in the back, taking his time to clear his mind and concentrate by reciting the opening Psalm to himself from memory and meaning every word.
By the time he steps into his usual place next to his nemesis, the hazzan’s son, Simon, who is the same age as Raphael, the group is already halfway through the silent version of the Amidah, the central prayer. Simon gives Raphael a discreet kick on the shin and winks at him. Raphael responds by stepping away and burying his face in his prayer book.
After prayers, the group quickly thins out, and those who are left step into the dining hall for coffee and biscuits. Isaac disappears with the rabbi into his office, and Raphael takes a seat in a corner of the dining hall, pulling out a library copy of A Clockwork Orange from his backpack and turning to the middle of the book.
Simon and the rabbi’s thirteen-year-old son, Marc, approach Raphael, each of them nursing tiny paper cups brimming with Turkish coffee.
“That doesn’t look like the Talmud to me,” Simon says. “What do you think?” he asks Marc.
Raphael holds up the book at them. “It’s Anthony Burgess. I get to read what I want as long as I study two pages of Talmud a day. Lucky me.”
Simon leans forward and runs his finger over the top of the book. “And this is what you choose to read?”
“He probably stole it.” Marc squints at the cover and shakes his head.
Raphael reaches up and takes hold of Simon’s finger. Marc’s face immediately darkens at the gesture, and Simon stoically raises an eyebrow at Raphael, extracting his finger from his grip.
Raphael grins salaciously at Simon.
“Look,” Marc says to Simon, “his fingernails are painted black.”
Simon shrugs. “I suppose it goes with the rest of his get-up.”
“Seriously”—Raphael turns his back on Marc and holds out the book to Simon—“you should read this. It’s great; much better than the film.”
“The film?” Simon takes the book from Raphael and absently leafs through it, then hands it back to him and shakes his head. “I’m not allowed to read stuff like that. I don’t know why you are.”
“I suppose it’s because I’m special.” Raphael stuffs the book back into his backpack and pumps his eyebrows at both Simon and Marc.
Isaac steps into the room and waves. Raphael scoots back his chair, gets up from the table, and stretches, then inserts his arms through the straps of his backpack and adjusts it on his back. “Well, comrades”—he crumples his empty coffee cup and tosses it at the rubbish bin, missing it by six inches—“it’s been real.” Then he winks at Simon and Marc and jogs toward his father. “See you two at Shacharit.”
Isaac ushers Raphael into Rabbi Sadot’s office telling Raphael that he’ll see him at home, then withdraws, closing the door behind him and leaving Raphael alone in the room with the rabbi, who is standing behind his desk peering into a well-worn tome, absently stroking his black, chest-length beard. Raphael removes his backpack, places it on a chair, and waits.
After a moment, Rabbi Sadot closes the tome and places it on his shelf, then points at the chair in front of his desk. Raphael waits by the chair until the rabbi is seated before he finally sits down. The rabbi leans forward and locks eyes with him.
“Your father tells me you’re… cured.” He lingers on the word, then releases it quickly.
“That’s what the doctor told him, Rabbi. He said the compulsion was broken.”
“And is it?”
Raphael shifts in his seat, feeling unnerved by the fire in the rabbi’s large, black eyes, evincing the incisor-like mind behind them. He looks down for a moment, then returns the rabbi’s gaze.
“I’m still me, Rabbi.”
Rabbi Sadot sits back.
“That’s a clever response. But it doesn’t answer my question, does it?”
Raphael draws a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “If you’re asking whether I’ll ever steal again, I don’t know. Right now I’m OK, I guess.”
“I see.” The rabbi narrows his eyes at Raphael. “Your father is concerned about the suddenness of this supposed cure.”
“I know, Rabbi. He told me. But it’s not all that sudden, is it? It’s been three years.”
The rabbi waves his hand. “He fears you may have had something to do with the doctor’s sudden termination of your therapy, not that I’m much of a believer in such things.”
“He wasn’t a good man, Rabbi.”
Rabbi Sadot holds his position, but there’s a subtle dilation of his pupils that speaks volumes. After a moment, he says in a lowered voice, “Would you care to explain?”
Raphael slowly shakes his head.
The rabbi narrows his eyes at Raphael for a beat and nods. “As you wish.” He picks up a pencil and scribbles something into a notepad. “We’ll leave that for the time being.”
“Thank you, Rabbi.”
Rabbi Sadot pushes aside the notepad and clasps his hands.
“Shortly after you came to us, Raphael, your parents were concerned you were straying from tradition, that you were overeager to assimilate. They feared you’d lose your way.”
“That was their fault!” Raphael blurts out. “They’re the ones who—”
The rabbi holds up his hand. “But,” he says, “I counselled them to allow you the freedom to develop, as long as you continued to study and observe the mitzvot, which you have done in large part. Baruch Hashem.”
Raphael takes in a long breath and nods. “But…?”
“But, indeed…” Rabbi Sadot strokes his beard and contemplates the young man sitting before him for what seems to Raphael an eternity, softly humming a familiar tune from the liturgy and passing his gaze over him from head to foot. “I’m not so sure what I proposed to your father is sustainable in the long term.”
Raphael gets to his feet. “I don’t agree, Rabbi. With respect, it’s perfectly sustainable.”
“How so?”
“I’ve held up my end of the bargain. You know that! I observe the mitzvot perfectly,
better than anyone, morning to night. And I love it. I’m also a straight A student, I speak five languages, I’m a champion swimmer, national magazines have published my photos, and nobody in the whole school paints better than I do. Just ask any of my teachers.”
“And you’re modest and compassionate as well, yes?”
“What does modesty have to do with anything? I’m the best at everything I do. And I’m getting better.”
“Yes, I suppose you are. But there’s more to life than being the best.” He picks up a thick, well-worn file from atop his desk and holds it aloft.
Raphael squints at the file. “What’s that?”
Rabbi Sadot lowers it onto his desk, flips through the first few pages, and pulls out a photograph, which he slides to Raphael.
Raphael takes the photograph and finds himself staring at the image of a rugged-looking middle-aged woman with strong Levantine features burnished a deep brown by the desert sun. Raphael’s brow spasms and he looks up at the rabbi. “Aunt Penina?”
Rabbi Sadot nods and strokes his beard as if he were stroking a cat.
Raphael looks again at the photograph of his estranged aunt, whom he hasn’t seen in over five years. Her expression is hard, almost wild, and her deep-set, dark eyes stare out with an intensity Raphael finds difficult to bear. He places the photograph face down on the rabbi’s desk and shudders.
The rabbi picks up the photograph and holds it up again. “This is not just your Aunt Penina.” A tender expression transforms his face. He hands the photograph back to Raphael and whispers, “This, I believe, is your salvation.”
Chapter 2
Raphael bursts through the front door of his family’s Holmby Hills mansion and brushes past his older sister, Gabriella, who is just coming down the grand staircase to the foyer, a sky blue satchel slung over her shoulder.
“Rafi!” she says to his back as he rushes through the foyer.
He rounds the corner into the palatial drawing room and strides up to his father, who is sitting comfortably in a black leather recliner studying a tractate from the Talmud. “Abba, how could you?”
Isaac looks up at Raphael and closes the book. “Sit down, son.”
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