The Ghost of Hannah Mendes
Page 41
“Abigail?”
She turned her head. It was Sandra something, a woman she knew vaguely from synagogue functions; someone who wore strange, baggy designer clothes and had her hair cut brutally short. She and her husband were the kind of people who always wanted something: free tax advice, investment tips, donations for obscure causes, or to enlist you in time-consuming volunteer schemes that would make themselves look good. She smiled.
The woman put her arms around her, kissing her cheek: “Mazal tov! I just heard. Wonderful about your daughter’s engagement!”
“Oh, how did you…?”
“Your friend Doris told me. So exciting!”
Doris? “Yes, thanks so much,” Abigail said with an inward sigh, mentally adding her name and the vaguely remembered Doris’s to a guest list already bloated with people she had to invite or risk insulting. Suddenly, when a party was in the offing, people seemed to sniff it out, ratcheting up their friendliness quotient to be included.
“Well, see you in shul!” Abigail waved, hurriedly leaving the store.
As she walked toward the caterer, Abigail felt herself tense. She hoped there wouldn’t be a fight with Kayla, but there was no way she was going to insult Arthur Cohen (who was, after all, a fellow synagogue member and an old friend) by going elsewhere.
She remembered Adam’s fiftieth birthday bash. Even though Abigail had done all the work, Kayla felt she had a right to decide the guest list. “You don’t want them. They are so boring,” she’d said, putting a line through Henrietta and Stephen.
They were old, old friends, people she and Adam had known from the first week they’d moved to Boston. They had been to all each other’s milestone celebrations, shared Sabbath evening dinners, planned joint vacations. They were like family.
“But we were invited to Stephen’s fiftieth!” Abigail protested.
“Oh, he’s such a bag of wind. And she’s even worse…” Kayla scrunched up her pretty nose in distaste. “I thought we would just have—you know—the family,” she continued, crossing off another two of their oldest friends.
Abigail said nothing but invited whom she pleased.
It was a surprise party. She’d expected all the kids to arrange something special for Adam. Joshua, of course, did, preparing a heartfelt video in which he interviewed all their friends and relatives, putting together a lovely tribute. And Shoshana, even though she was eight months pregnant and had a toddler of two to look after, made all the flower arrangements, handwrote all the place cards, and baked hundreds of those sugar cookies she was famous for. Kayla, in contrast, breezed in the night of the party, an hour later than Abigail had asked her to come, wanting to know how she could help.
“Nothing, darling. It’s all been arranged. I’m just so happy you’re here.” Abigail smiled at her sweetly, swallowing hard. “Daddy will be here soon. Would you be an angel and answer the door?”
It was Stephen and Henrietta, followed by Arthur and Helen, and a few more of Kayla’s cross-offs. Kayla gave them a bare smile, then sulked the entire evening, until finally she left early without saying good-bye.
“Her Majesty is not happy with her subjects,” Adam murmured dryly, when Abigail filled him in on the details.
The next day, of course, Kayla was contrite and apologetic. “I just had something really private and special planned for Daddy. I had this whole speech….”
Abigail felt a pang of guilt. Perhaps she had ruined some lovely, special moment between father and daughter? Perhaps there had been an excellent reason for her bratty behavior? Perhaps Kayla was on a higher level—a place Abigail couldn’t see even in her imagination?
Or perhaps not.
As always, they both apologized, hugged, and let it pass. What was the name of that organization founded by a billionaire to help Bill Clinton out of the Monica Lewinsky morass? Getoverit.org? Or something like that. Exactly.
For a moment, she thought about discussing this openly with her daughter. She rummaged through her purse for her cell phone, then suddenly remembered it was on her desk recharging.
Just as well. She just wouldn’t bring the subject up. Kayla wouldn’t remember anyhow, she thought, recalling her sweet sixteen party. For months, every time the subject had come up, she’d feigned disinterest, saying it was silly and childish, like kids’ “theme” parties. And so Abigail had ordered a cake and invited the family and a handful of Kayla’s friends. But then after attending a friend’s sweet sixteen in a theme park, with a party held afterward in the Hilton ballroom in Back Bay, with a live performance by a popular local band, Kayla had changed her mind.
Of course, things were arranged: the band, the hall, the works, all at the very last minute. Kayla had been adorably grateful and happy. She had enjoyed every minute. And Abigail, exhausted, had spent the next week in bed. Now, except for the caterer and the guest list, Abigail was perfectly happy to do anything her daughter wanted—if only Kayla would say what that was. On time.
Oh my goodness, she scolded herself. The bride is too pretty. Was this stuff worth worrying about? You have a beautiful daughter. A Harvard Law School student. A girl who is engaged to a Jewish mother’s dream. A nachas bonanza. Give it a rest!
Maybe she’d just buy a few cranberry candles and show them to Kayla.
But first—she wanted to settle with the caterer.
“Hi, Gayle,” she said, walking into the catering and takeout shop. “Is your dad in?”
“Oh, Mrs. Samuels!” The girl looked up from her computer, hastily slamming it shut. Her face turned the color of the tomato salsa featured in the refrigerator case, Abigail thought, wondering if it had been that color when she walked in, and she just hadn’t noticed. She stood staring in wonder, watching the color deepen to scarlet. “Oh, I’ll…just get Dad,” the girl said, fleeing.
A tiny stab of unease suddenly pierced Abigail Samuels. A prescient moment, absolutely baseless, began to send a wave of nausea and nervous tension through her body. She was the kind of person who always unconsciously identified with the person she was with—a remnant of her childhood inferiority complex, which insisted she be a chameleon to court favor. Everyone had to love her. And if you were just like the person you were with at the moment, it helped.
“Oh, Albert.”
His face was pleasant but not welcoming, with a strange crease of discomfort between the brows. “Abigail.”
There was an awkward silence as she tried to figure out where she was and what had happened. Did she owe him money? Adam always paid the bills and paid them promptly. Perhaps Kayla had slipped and told one of her friends about the outside catering, and word had gotten back to him? But she was here now, ready to order…
“I’m—so sorry,” he finally said.
Like a character in a bad play, she looked behind her to see who he could be talking to. There was no one there.
“What’s wrong, Al?”
His face took on a sense of shock. “It was on the Internet. Gayle showed it to me…” He paused, horrified as the realization struck that he would be the one breaking this kind of news to a person he knew and liked, the kind of news that should be heard among your own people, in your own home, surrounded by people you loved.
POWERFUL AND MOVING FICTION from Naomi Ragen
Acknowledgments
I am deeply indebted to the late, great historian Sir Cecil Roth, whose wonderful book, Doña Gracia of the House of Nasi, first brought the story of Gracia Mendes to my attention. I would like to thank the Jewish Publication Society for granting their permission to use material from this work, both verbatim and as background material, for the historical sections in this book.
The full text of the Edict of Expulsion, along with de Gois’s description and other accounts of the misfortunes of the Jews in Portugal, can be found in the excellent anthology The Expulsion 1492 Chronicles, edited by David Raphael and published by Carmi House Press, P.O. Box 28104, Seattle, Washington 98118.
Information about the medieval pepp
er trade, used in Chapter Twenty-four, was found in Anthony Disney’s Twilight of the Pepper Empire. A Medieval Home Companion by Tania Bayard—an authentic list of instructions written by an elderly medieval husband to his inexperienced young bride—was the source of the medieval recipes and housekeeping hints in Chapter Fourteen. The converso prayer in Chapter Twenty-one was taken from Professor Haim Beinart’s wonderful article, “The Conversos in Spain and Portugal in the 16th to 18th Centuries,” included in his anthology The Sephardic Legacy.
In addition, I would like to thank:
Rabbi Mitchell Silverstein of Hebrew University; Dr. Steven Harvey, professor of medieval Jewish and Islamic philosophy at Bar Ilan University; and Dr. Abraham David, senior researcher of the Jewish National and University Library in Jerusalem, for sharing with me many scholarly insights into how rare manuscripts have been hidden and discovered.
M.B.E.R., the mysterious manuscript hunter (who, true to character, has asked to remain anonymous), for allowing me the unforgettable glimpse into the real world of rare-book hunting I could never have seen without him.
Dr. M. Orfali, professor of Spanish Jewry and the Sephardic Diaspora at Bar Ilan University, for his invaluable help in sorting out the Spanish, Ladino, and Portuguese words in this book.
Mrs. Betty Weil, a descendant of Gracia Mendes, for sharing with me her inspiring family history.
Mr. Kyle Shulman, for many insightful comments.
Ms. Laurie Bernstein, my talented editor at Simon and Schuster, for advice and guidance each step of the way.
Ms. Annie O’Connor for her invaluable editorial direction.
Lisa Bankoff, my agent at ICM, for her enthusiasm and support.
My thanks and my love to my husband, Alex, who was never less than immeasurably helpful at every turn; and to my children, Bracha, Asher, Rachel, and Akiva, who cheerfully listened to this story as many times as I told it, and were always enthusiastically receptive.
I welcome the comments of my readers, and can be contacted at P.O. Box 23004, Jerusalem, Israel; or E-mail address: nragen@netmedia.net.il
Naomi Ragen
Jerusalem
1998
THE GHOST OF HANNAH MENDES. Copyright © 1998 by Naomi Ragen. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
ISBN: 978-1-4299-5781-6
From Twilight of the Pepper Empire by Anthony Disney. Copyright © 1978 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College.
Excerpts as submitted from A Medieval Home Companion by Tania Bayard, Copyright © 1991 Tania Bayard. Reprinted with permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. (pp. 136, 137).
First published by Simon & Schuster
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Also by Naomi Ragen
Preview
Acknowledgments
Copyright