Tanya said, “But the story isn’t about the attraction to the beauty; it is about the change, the turn to Torah. Western art is irrelevant.”
Yehuda, smiling, said, “When you’re old enough to fall in love, young woman, you see if you jump to a person or an ideal.”
She crossed her arms, “I’m going to love a person who embodies an ideal, the Torah way, as I’m trying to live.”
Charles continued the telling section of the seder: “We are all here together, struggling as a group to see what the way will be for us. We have both our ways we go separately, our own areas of expertise, and those we tread together, in this group journey. To read is to comment, and in order to present this tale properly, we must all be co-authors and comment. This is a communal event.” Each participant read in turn, and all were asked for their opinions on various matters, throughout.
The maid served each course of the meal and produced a booklet for all when they were ready to recite the Grace after Meals, after the grandchildren finished tracking their quarry and captured the afikomen. The booklet was a souvenir Haggadah that Judy created every year for all the guests. The cover had a reproduction of Oren Laniado’s (In)Query on the front with the words “(In)Query: The 1997 (5757) Spicehandler Seder.” It had a guest list in calligraphy on the first page and a menu:
Montage of spring baby vegetables, en vinaigrette
Chicken consommé with matzah balls in three color palettes
Chilean sea bass with sauce of mango, ginger, tamarind, and pomegranate juice reduction
Beef roulade with shallots and creamy parsnips
Vegetable medallions, individually wrapped
Flourless chocolate torte
Sponge cake with strawberries and parve crème fraîche
Coffee and tea
Afikomen
The rest of the pages were readings and commentaries on aspects of the Haggadah text that Judy and Charles had found particularly meaningful this year, along with the text of the prayer after eating a meal. It was a keepsake that could be used to recite the Birkat Hamazon, the Grace after Meals, throughout the Passover holiday, and it had the additional value of not being hametzdik, encrusted all over with bits of food that might get leaven into the Passover things. Judy had made designs for some of the pages and sections; the book was an artistic outlet for her. Some years, if she was particularly proud of her work and it was done far enough ahead of time, she would send additional copies to friends and family in the States and England, to help them enhance their own seders.
After the seder’s conclusion, Uri told his hosts that he would walk Wendy home, a fifteen-minute walk, and return to the Spicehandlers where he was sleeping because travel was forbidden on yom tov, the holiday. It was a spring evening, but there was a chill in the air as it was long past midnight. Uri had a key to the Spicehandler house, so he could return after the walk.
As they walked through the slightly cool night, Uri put his arm around Wendy to keep her warm. She felt warmed already by Uri, having been sitting near him and listening to his melodious voice make intelligent comments throughout the night. She tried to anticipate what would happen—would they sleep together? The excuse of all the refined wine drunk at the plutocratic table would convince them both that whatever happened could be boiled down to loosened inhibitions if there were regrets on either end. The wine would be a good out, either way, for performing or lack of ability to perform. Was it too early in the relationship? Probably, though she would willingly surrender anything, she thought, as she leaned into him, and his alluring smell started to overcome her, a combination of aftershave and his own natural aroma.
Uri asked as they walked, steps matching and attuned, “Did you like the seder? I hope it wasn’t too overwhelming, all the people, all the Hebrew?”
“Way more intense, and thought-provoking, than my family seders. For us, seder is just family time, being together, making jokes, not this profound experience. I did find it kind of ironic that a lavish feast was spread to goad us to remember what it feels like to be slaves.”
Uri laughed appreciatively and Wendy continued, “Seriously, I do love the idea of the Jewish collective unconscious being examined at a seder.”
“Ritual can touch all parts of the human condition.”
“That’s what was best about it”—she hesitated, struggling to articulate her thoughts—“it was . . . almost . . . therapeutic for me, knowing of the essential need for a question. Does that make sense?”
“The Haggadah with the silhouettes interrogating each other?”
“Exactly. To move forward, you must question, even if you are alone.”
“Even if it is difficult for people to hear those questions.”
“But it isn’t only for the ones being asked, it is for the one doing the asking,” Wendy added, surprising herself.
Uri looked over at her face in profile and was glad they were walking side by side so he didn’t have to look at her directly face to face. He could tell by the quaver in her voice that this was getting at an emotional truth for her that was intensely personal. He knew that sometimes it was better to experience empathy and listen, but not look on and witness the transaction so nakedly. He tightened his hold on her shoulder, to let her know he was supporting her, and kept silent.
Wendy continued, “Questions affect the questioner. I didn’t want Shaul to die. I feel, after this seder, questions are . . . necessary. The idea of a truth embodier . . . I hope that’s the ideal of most academics. To get to a new understanding through asking questions. When I hear baalei teshuvah talking about their faith, it raises the issue for me of what I believe in. That’s the power of the question. I wish the process weren’t so painful. But I feel now . . . what I am doing isn’t wrong.”
“And Shaul?”
“It is not only my fault. His issues and difficulties didn’t come from me; he had them before we ever met. Had I not been there to ask those questions, something else might have upset him and caused his death. I still feel awful. But if I don’t finish, it won’t help him or anyone else either.”
“If he hadn’t died we wouldn’t have met,” Uri said wistfully.
“That’s creepy. Change the subject?”
“Ladies’ choice,” he said with a disarming smile.
“I want to remain in this happy hopeful modality; the seder was great, the food incredible—who would have thought matzah balls could be three colors? That fish was just . . . succulent. And, oh . . . the flourless torte was the best chocolate dessert I’ve ever had.” She sighed. “I feel good about what I am doing, asking questions of religious returnees. I will finish.”
“I’m glad you’re in such a good mood,” he said, again a bit wistfully.
“And,” Wendy added, trying to express herself without being overly ambitious in her affirmations, “I didn’t say the other part of why I am so happy now.” She stopped and turned to face him. “Being together.”
“I’m happy with you too. You know what I liked about the seder?”
“What?”
“The discussion of the story about Rabbi Yohanan and Reish Lakish, the thief who became his student and married his sister.”
“Hmm, “Wendy said and moved away from him slightly as they were coming down a curb and she wanted to avoid a pile of something appearing unpleasant to step into.
“I was thinking tonight, who is the hero of the story, really?”
“The thief, for jumping the rabbi, wanting him. Pretty gutsy to put himself out there like that, in my opinion.” Wendy rubbed Uri’s stubbled cheek. “I’ve never seen stubble on you; the five o’clock shadow is such a turn-on.”
Uri laughed and gently moved her hand away, but kept holding it. “You have so much to learn, Wendy. I don’t shave on yom tov.”
Wendy hoped she hadn’t offended him in her tipsy state. She was walking a bit crooked, and Uri had to steer her onto the next curb while steadying his own body against hers.
“You don’t like
my answer, that the thief’s desire makes him heroic. How’s this? Baal teshuvah thief as hero for the leap of changing himself for another person.” Would Uri take the bait and realize she was talking about perhaps changing herself, even a tiny bit, for him?
“Does he? After all he has the same status: he is a master in both the house of study and the criminal world.”
“Okay. The rabbi?”
“Why?” Uri asked.
“Wanting him to change?”
“No,” Uri said excitedly. “That’s the point. What Rabbi Yohanan says to Reish Lakish is “chailach l’oraita,” use your strength for the Torah. Not change who you are, but transform it. Take your unique strengths and abilities and put them in service of the Torah. The rabbi admires the thief’s strength, and the thief admires the rabbi’s beauty. But the rabbi takes his beauty and makes it a means to encourage others to learn Torah. It is the opposite of what many of these baal teshuvah yeshivot tell people: ‘Here you are; we don’t want what you have, your strength or your beauty, since you are empty of Yiddishkeit. We have to take you and fill you with it.’ Rabbi Yohanan says, ‘Remain who you are but use your strength for Torah, instead of for crime.’”
“Uri, don’t scream. Why are you so upset?”
“I feel so frustrated with the whole religious world, especially in Israel where there is this sense that it is all or nothing, you know, either/or, religious or secular. There have to be more spaces in between, like at this seder, where different kinds of people can come together to discuss things. This idea of ‘your strength for Torah’—let me tell you something. When I was in ninth grade I won a poetry contest. I told my rav, and he said poetry was bitul Torah. Not worth spending time on. I stopped writing for a while. I had this need to express myself, and finally started writing again, but I never let myself get as serious about it as I once wanted to. I’m sad about that.”
“Not being a poet isn’t just a question of your desire to earn a living, but your being thwarted by the religious establishment.”
“You could see it that way,” he said.
“But you’ve found a way for yourself,” she said. “You are using your talents. It may not be in literally writing poetry. Poetry is an attempt to . . . re-inscribe, to legislate even, an order on reality, with a sense of heightened language. What you do, seeing patients and helping them create a healthier way to see themselves and their world, is a poetic project,” Wendy said stroking Uri’s hand.
“I’m still angry my rav put down my poetry.”
“It made me feel angry when people told me I should stop writing my dissertation because it killed someone.”
“You didn’t kill anyone. You spoke with someone who was ill before and after you spoke with him.”
“You have poetic talents; you can use them in a variety of ways.”
“I’m probably a better psychiatrist than I would have been a poet.”
They continued to walk in tipsy silence, breathing in the spring air, hearing snatches of song from those concluding their seders, floating and hanging in the air from the apartment buildings they were passing. Wendy broke the stillness and said, “I like your metaphor: be who you are, but transform it. You’re a poet, helping others puzzle out and distill their lives. And I’m a questioner, using my questions to help others.”
“Wendy, I want this to continue,” he said, striking a balance between the desire to throw all his cards on the table and tell her he loved her, and the fear of making too extravagant a declaration without a reassurance of reciprocity.
She slurred, “Uri, I want you,” and kissed him. He opened his mouth in ardent response and she reached her tongue into the crevices of his mouth, with avarice, wanting to make contact with every part, getting as much of him to be part of her as she could. Uri did not respond at first, let himself be lapped and probed, and then, after a few moments, returned Wendy’s ardor with his own, exploring her mouth with his own tongue, there at the junction of Sigmund Freud Square and Emek Refaim Street.
“Uri, am I in love or drunk? Don’t let this end badly; let’s not betray each other.”
Uri leaned in to Wendy, letting her feel his desire, his hard member against her hip, holding her at the small of her back and pressing her to him. “No, no, it won’t end badly. I’ll never ask you how you make your weapons. Don’t change; just let mine in.”
Wendy’s brain stopped working and all she knew was her body against his as they made their way to Mishael Street.
SEVENTEEN
Self-Counting
Seven weeks you should count for yourself . . .”
—DEUTERONOMY 16:9
“I made these plans weeks ago, before I met you,” a frustrated Wendy was saying to Uri on the phone. “Orly’s expecting me to come. You want me to just drop her for you?” She hoped appealing to his best instincts would do the trick.
“It’s only three days,” she added. “I’ll see you the day we get back, okay?”
Uri countered, “It’s a plan”—the last word pronounced ‘pla-an’ in his British inflected English. “The Spicehandlers invited us for dinner next Shabbat.”
“Orly bought the bus tickets and I don’t know when we return. Let me get back to you?”
“Call me when you know,” he said before hanging up.
When Wendy and Orly started making plans to go to the beach during Passover, it was still winter, long before she’d met Uri. They realized that winter was going to be over, they hadn’t been to Eilat, and both wanted to go. Orly said she’d arrange it for Passover and Wendy agreed, glad to have a break to look forward to. She couldn’t have known this was Uri’s only extended vacation from his residency for the next few months. Now that Orly’s boyfriend, Nir, had broken up with her, Wendy felt she too could not abandon Orly.
Orly’s plan for the trip was to lie on the beach and meet gorgeous Scandinavian tourists for a mad fling to rid her mind of Nir. Wendy had been hoping for a guy on the beach too, but now there was Uri. Still, she would be on the sand with her towel and a magazine, glad to have a chance to relax.
When they got off the bus from Jerusalem to Eilat, they put their bags in the room at the hotel Orly had booked and went straight for the waves. Lying on the beach in her one-piece suit, Wendy said to Orly, “Why didn’t I do this earlier in the year?” Orly, on her stomach, the straps of her black bikini untied to give her a completely even tan, shrugged. They munched matzah, cheese, and dried fruit, and luxuriated in the tranquil beach. After they had been there a few hours, two Dutch guys, strolling, walked over to them and began to chat. Sven and Niels were filmmakers, in Israel scouting locations for new work and taking a break on the beach that day. Wendy and Orly made plans to meet them at the Maui Lounge later that night.
After quite a bit of time deliberating about what to wear, they arrived at the dance club at 10:15, fashionably later than the 10:00 p.m. they’d agreed on. They went inside the crowded and noisy room, decorated with fake thatched leaves and strings of lights in tropical colors—pink, yellow, green, orange—all designed to cater to the fantasies of what someone who has never been to Hawaii might imagine it to be. They looked around the crowded room without success. Finally, they caught a view of Sven and Niels chatting up another woman, who bore a startling resemblance to Orly—the same dark skin, thick long black hair, white teeth, and brown eyes, though a smaller nose. Wendy saw them first and nudged Orly. “They’re chatting up a girl who looks a lot like you. Do you find that strange?”
“The blond boys want someone darker. Vacation conquest rule—get a native. I’ll take Sven any day,” she gave a bit of a tiger roar. Wendy swatted at her playfully with the back of her hand and said, “Should we go over to them or let them see us?” as Niels, with his darting bird-like eyes, made eye contact with her and gave her a big smile. He looked nice in his loose Hawaiian shirt with pictures of tropical scenes and trees, tailored tan linen shorts, and brown leather fisherman sandals, like clogs, the kind of shoe an American man would n
ever wear for fear of being seen as too feminine. Wendy saw him gesture to Sven. Sven handed his card to the Orly look-a-like, who kissed him on both cheeks and said good-bye.
The men walked over to them and, as both Wendy and Orly had hoped, Sven greeted Orly. He was still wearing the black leather dog collar and diamond earring he had on at the beach, but now with a black short-sleeve turtleneck and black leather pants, along with black clogs, his hair more spiky than it had been at the beach. He gave Orly a meaningful glance and a kiss on the lips. Orly was surprised at this liberty, though pleased. Niels gave Wendy a more sedate peck on the cheek.
Sven and Niels looked a bit odd together, Wendy decided—Sven in black and leather not quite fitting in with the other patrons of the Hawaiian-themed bar. The more average looking tourist-guy outfit of Niels seemed the more appropriate model of dress.
Wendy herself was wearing a sleeveless gauzy dress of very thin, tissue-like material with pinks and purples shot through it, along with some silver threads. It had spaghetti straps, but was loose fitting and not low cut, which helped hide the sunburn she had gotten all along her cleavage area and her upper thighs, places that her own bathing suits always covered and which she consequently had not thought to apply sunblock to. The bathing suit she borrowed from Orly, since she forgot to pack her own bathing suit, was cut differently from anything she would buy herself. She had on flat sandals with thin silver leather straps tied around the ankle. She thought, despite her hair’s uncontrollable frizziness from the desert humidity, she looked nice. Orly was wearing a black halter top with a long-sleeved white cotton crocheted bolero that snapped in the front, both pieces ending well above her midriff, and a black miniskirt with black high-heeled sandals. It was not an outfit Wendy would wear, but it didn’t look out of place next to Sven. Wendy had to suppress a laugh to see the two couples, dressed to suit each other without advance planning: Orly and Sven fashionable and provocative, she and Niels more ordinary and bland.
Questioning Return Page 34