by Gaby Koppel
“We ate so many plums we got belly ache. But it had been months, you see.”
“What had been months?”
“Since we had seen plums. You made your preserves and then lived off them, until they ran out. We had a larder with rows and rows of huge jars filled with different fruits and vegetables. But they never lasted the whole winter, so by the time spring came you were desperate for something fresh.
“I loved the plums most of all. They were the type that turns bright red when cooked. They brought life back to us after a long winter.”
“You never talk about your childhood. This is the first time I’ve heard any of this stuff about cooking plums.”
She examines some camembert cheese, taking off the lid of the thin wooden box and prodding it.
“Ach, you know. Nobody is interested.”
“Really?” We turn a corner. “What about the albums?”
“They came from Omi’s house when she died.”
“You were angry that I’d found them.” We walk along an aisle of cleaning materials.
“No,” she says. I look at her, doubtful, but she doesn’t seem to need to explain her reaction.
“You know, if you are serious about pursuing this compensation thing, you are going to have to get used to the idea of talking about Hungary, the past. And not just about how fantastic the plums were.”
She nods, and we continue shopping in silence.
After dinner, when we have emptied the cafetiere and eaten as much plum kuchen with schlagsahne as we can manage, she tells me a story. About a girl who grew up in another country, at another time. In a lavish apartment, furnished with velvets and brocades. It was a strict life, but full of music and parties. She didn’t realise how happy she was. Until her father ended face down in the Danube river, with a bullet in his head, while his family hid and starved.
Mutti draws strongly on the cigarette in her holder, fortifying herself against the memories. With her eyes fixed on the tablecloth, she says,
“They got away with it. You know, they got away with it.”
Chapter 10
The bar is done up like an ersatz front room, with stripped floorboards, battered brown leather sofas, and piles of logs near the open fire. It looks like a place where couples come to read the Sunday papers over a pint. Established couples, not a first date. I wander through a series of linked rooms with similar furnishings and strategically placed cosy corners, looking round for single men. Nope. Maybe he’s in the loo. If he’s as nervous as I am.
I can’t quite believe I’ve let things escalate to this level, but I wasn’t prepared for the force field that is Valentina. Red lipstick and shark-like teeth. Before I knew what was happening, she’d bitten off some part of me. The part that knows how to say “No”.
So where is he? I get myself a glass of wine, pick up a magazine and plonk myself down on one of the sofas. I’d love a packet of crisps, but I don’t want to be licking the salt off my fingers just as Mr Right turns up. Do we shake hands? Too formal. Kiss cheeks? Too intimate. There’s a whole quagmire of etiquette to negotiate, so let’s just hope he’s not some kind of Jewish Mr Bean or I’ll end up with a broken arm. The sofa stuffing creaks as I settle down. What kind of man would choose this location for a first meeting? I know. One who has been here before with a steady girlfriend. They split up and he’s too busy to do anything about it, because he’s obsessed by his shmattes company/Harley Street practice/accounting firm – delete as appropriate. So he signs up for Valentina’s dating service. And she matches him with me, poor schnook.
“Elizabeth?”
I get to my feet and grin like an idiot. “Yes, hi, er, Jonathan.” He puts out a hand to shake mine, and then puts his left hand on top so that he’s squeezing my hand between both of his, Bill Clinton style. He’s taken my hand prisoner, and I don’t know the procedure for getting early release. So I giggle. He smiles, letting go of me. Phew. I was wrong about one thing, there’s no sign of nerves. On the contrary, he is calm to a preternatural degree.
“Jon,” he says. “Only my mother is allowed to call me Jonathan.” Fine. We are less than one minute into the date and the Jewish stereotype has put in its first appearance.
Jon, known only and exclusively to his yiddishemamma as Jonathan, heads to the bar to get himself a drink, having checked out whether I need one too. And I worry that it may seem a bit forward of me to already be drinking. I should have waited, or at the very least ordered mineral water.
At least that gives me a chance for a good look at him. Chinos and loafers with those tassel things. Close cropped dark hair, revealing a receding hairline. The chinos are ironed into a knife-edge crease that suggests a man who is a bit OCD about his clothes. The warning lights go on. There should be something a bit careless about the way men dress, or at least they should cultivate the appearance of carelessness.
Like Dave in jeans and distressed leather. Style by James Dean by way of Paul Smith. Quirky touches like mauve suede brogues. Unselfconscious chic. This guy’s a pedestrian in the sartorial stakes. Conventional preppie stuff, straight off the shelf. His conversation’s going to have to be pretty smart to overcome the first impression.
It’s only when he gets back to the table that I realise I was staring at him, and now he’s followed my gaze. There’s an embarrassed hiatus.
“Tell you what,” I say. “Let’s not say what we do for a living. That way we’ll be thinking about ourselves, and not whether our mothers would approve.” Jon looks aghast, which is not surprising because I am trying to block his only conversational avenue and judgemental yardstick. He laughs.
“Great joke.”
“It’s not a joke. It’s a way for us to be honest with each other, without having to lean on the usual boring platitudes. We can talk about who we really are and what we like, not how we support ourselves financially. And it will stop us jumping to judgement. For example, if you said you were a lawyer, I would make certain assumptions about what kind of person you are and how much you earn. And those things may be irrelevant to whether you are a nice person or not.”
“O…K”, he says, separating out the two vowels, as if he’s playing for time while the cogs of his brain process what I’ve lobbed at him. But then he catches up pretty fast and lobs one back. “Any other no-go areas? If you like, we could put a cordon round anything like, which schul we do or don’t go to, whether we eat bacon, do we drive on a Saturday.”
“Cool,” I say. “Great idea.”
“And one last thing,” he says. “Parents. Let’s not talk about them, or even mention them again.”
“Genius. Let’s not even think about them.”
“So, we know the ground rules,” he says sounding very much like a lawyer. “As I’m a bit new to the concept of the conversational no-go area, you start. I wouldn’t like to make a faux pas straight away and land a penalty point.” Smart Alec.
“OK, but it might be easier if you asked me a question.”
“Let me think – where did you go on your last holiday?”
“Ibiza.”
“Alone?”
“With, er, with a friend. A female friend.”
“Great, so where did you stay?”
“My p— Er, an apartment.”
“And did you hit the bars and clubs?”
“Yes, though to be honest we spent most of the time by the pool and in the restaurants.”
“OK, we won’t discuss whether or not you indulge in forbidden varieties of seafood. Bit of shopping?”
“Yeah, though I wouldn’t like to make out that I’m a total JAP.”
“One nil to me – you mentioned the ‘J’ word.”
“That’s a bit pedantic. I said ‘JAP’.”
“Which stands for?”
“OK, I concede.” Definitely a lawyer. “So, your turn. Where did you go on your last holiday?”
“Safari in the KwaZulu National Park, in South Africa. I went out with a group of mates and we stayed in a gam
e lodge.”
“How brilliant,” I say, thinking high end holiday and friends to match so maybe he’s an accountant. Which doesn’t have to mean boring. Well, actually it does. “The wildlife must be amazing out there.”
“Yeah, and the shooting is superb.”
“Shooting?” I’m not seriously considering a night out with a man who shoots fluffy creatures for fun?
“You should try it some time.”
“Is it legal?”
“As long as you don’t take a pot shot at any of the protected species. It’s fine.”
“So, tell me about a day’s hunting in the KwaZulu, Jon.” I wonder whether the apparent indifference to the sight of blood is the tell-tale sign of a doctor at play. Or merely a psychopath.
Jon tells me quite a lot about hanging out with his buddies, driving across Table Mountain, and eating what sounds like a whole herd of non-kosher animals. And about skiing at Lech, swimming in Lake Maggiore and snorkelling in Eilat.
By now it’s apparent that whatever I’ve done he has done better. His record collection is second to none, and he’s been at more astonishing, ear-drum breaking and historic gigs than I have. He’s been to everything from Live Aid to the Isle of Wight, which by my calculations must have been when he was still at primary school. I’m not altogether sure where the conversation goes after that, and I think we may have broken the rules we set ourselves at the outset. We decide go for a bite. At his suggestion we go in his car, and I agree, not because I’ve downed two large glasses of wine, but because I want to see what he drives. A red Mercedes 500 SEL. Convertible. Shit. It’s massive. We eat mezze at a Greek restaurant somewhere in Camden.
“So,” he says, peeling the shell of an enormous, butter and garlic soaked prawn, “what brought you to Valentina’s? Or is that on the list of forbidden subjects?”
“Umm, you tell first.”
“Married for ten years. Childhood sweetheart, no kids. We were both concentrating on our profession. Not mentioning what it is, of course, but we were in the same one. Very competitive. Her not me. Long hours, then she had an affair and we split up. Now you.”
So I pour myself another glass of retsina and tell him about Dave, and without mentioning my mother so much as once, outline the kind of dilemma I am facing.
“Are you over this Dave? Sounds as though you’ve had a bit of a lover’s tiff to me, then you rush out to play the field.”
I shrug.
After coffee Jon says he’s taking me back to my place. Not in that way. I’ve drunk more than him. And though I know I’m fine to drive, I agree.
So then there’s that moment when I think it’s a first date and I don’t even like the guy that much. I think he’s formal and conventional and not my type. I’m careful not to suggest a coffee, but somehow he still ends up seeing me in. At which point I begin to realise I’m not feeling too well. Maybe it was the kebabs or the retsina, but I’m throwing up in a way which is definitely inappropriate for a first date. And Oh God Jon’s still there. What must he think? He’s astonishingly cool about it, which may indicate medical training. Whatever. He even holds my forehead as I am chucking my guts into the loo.
I wash my face and throw myself onto the bed. Later I hear the front door click shut, and think he’s gone, thank goodness I never have to see him again. But when I wake in the morning with a throbbing head, the guy’s still there fully clothed and asleep on my sofa. What’s going on? What if Dave turns up right now? My aching brain is creaky as I join the dots. Not good. But for some reason I don’t feel guilty. Worried about being found out, yes. But not guilty.
On the other hand, I don’t think I’ve had sex with him. Maybe there’s nothing to feel guilty for. I creep out to brush my teeth, and bring a couple of cups of tea and some paracetamol tablets back to bed. He stirs.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “Maybe I ate something that wasn’t quite right.”
“Mmm”, he says. “I ate the same as you.” He sits up and takes a sip of tea.
“Yeah. Maybe a stomach bug.” I shoot a nervous glance towards the door.
“Yuh, lot of it around.” He looks lost in thought for a moment, then we both become aware that he is holding my hand. And just as I think he’s about to let go, embarrassed at the evidence of intimacy, he strokes it. He kisses it. I feel his warm, soft lips moving up my arm, then on my mouth. His kiss has an urgency that pulls me in. I can feel his stubble grazing my chin, I push my face against it enjoying the rough texture, like a cat nuzzling up against the leg of a chair. Now his arms are around me, my head on his shoulder. The fuzz in my brain is beginning to clear. We lie there for a moment. His arms feel strong, around me, his hands rubbing the small of my back.
I’m still wearing my tee shirt from last night, lacy knickers and worst of all, socks.
“I must look ridiculous,” I say, trying to push my hair away from my face.
“Absolutely,” he says.
“You aren’t supposed to agree with me,” I protest.
“I don’t care. What is it with you and rules? Ever since we met you’ve been busy constructing this mesh of regulations about what we are allowed to say and do. Are you so scared of letting go? Well, hello, I’m breaking the rules. Yes, you do look ridiculous. And cute.”
“I suppose you are a psychiatrist, then?” He ignores my last comment, instead pushing up my tee shirt and running his hand over my stomach. “Oh I get it, psychologist.” There’s a flutter of pleasure further down. I guide his hand up under my tee shirt, to my breast, and feel the nipple harden as he caresses it. I undo his shirt, one button at a time
And then I undo his zip. OK, yes, it’s all a bit Mills & Boon. And when I wake up again at lunchtime, he’s gone.
The feeling of pleasantness soon evaporates. This time I know for sure. I’ve had sex with a conventional, rather arrogant Jewish man. Who wears loafers with tassels. Dave’s bound to find out. He’ll smell it on me. That’s if I don’t just blurt it out. And I know nothing about him except the fact that he shoots cuddly animals for fun. I have only myself to blame. Whatever possessed me? And what will he be thinking about me this morning?Why didn’t he just leave me to wallow in my own misery?
I groan at the thought of anybody seeing me like that, remembering that he held my forehead as I threw up. What a bastard. What right did he have to take advantage of me when I was in that state? I wish there was someone I could talk to about the whole ghastly thing, but the only person I can talk to like that is Dave. What a mess. I blame my mother.
I go for a cleansing run round the park, and settle down to read the Sunday papers when the phone rings. It’s Dave.
“Do you fancy brunch in Hampstead and a walk on the Heath? And you can tell me all about the latest developments in the story of the Mueller missing millions.” He sounds so breezy. I don’t reply. I’ve gone through a whole chapter of my life since we last saw each other.
“I’d love to,” I say. “I miss you so much.”
“But you saw me on Friday.”
“Y–yes, I mean, it seems so long.” What I really mean is that I can’t believe that he’s believed the feeble excuses I made about last night. We always go out on Saturday nights. All couples do, unless they’ve got kids, don’t they? Why isn’t he more curious? I suppose I should be grateful. I just want to get back to normal and forget the whole sordid business, just airbrush Valentina and everything connected with her out of my life.
As I’m getting ready, the phone rings again. I think it’s Dave changing the arrangements, so I rush to the phone. But it’s not Dave.
“Hi.”
“Hello Jonathan, er Jon. Thanks for the other night. Sorry I was a bit – er, indisposed.”
“You seemed to make a good recovery. Pulse and blood pressure seemed normal by the time I left.” So he is a doctor. “Will you meet me for coffee this afternoon?”
“Um, that’s a nice idea.” OK, maybe he’s not that arrogant. And he looked after me when thousands of othe
rs would have walked away. He’s confident and clear about what he wants and though this really shouldn’t matter, he does seem to be earning a decent living. Life would be so much simpler.
“To be honest, Jon, I’m not feeling that… Actually, I’m going to be straight with you about this. Dave called me. I don’t think it’s over between us yet.” There is a taut pause.
“The semi-unemployed photographer?”
“Yes.”
“I think you are making a mistake.”
“But it’s not really your business to make that judgement.”
“Well I can make this one – you are supposed to fuck the Goy and marry the Jew, not the other way round. Think about it.” There’s a click and the line goes dead.
Chapter 11
Monday morning I’m back in the office and still serving my penance for crimes against journalism. Sarah is doing her utmost to make sure I remember to play by her rules in the future.
And it’s not just work, either. Walking round Hampstead Heath with Dave was supposed to be cleansing, but it felt as though I was dragging round a ball and chain labelled guilt each step of the way. He was full of the joys of nature while I was terrified that we’d turn a corner to find Jon bounding towards us.