But by now the two had already shaken hands anyway, Hephzibah wiping hers on her cook’s apron.
‘Sam.’
‘Hephzibah.’
‘My delight is in you,’ Finkler said.
Hephzibah inclined her head graciously.
Treslove’s face was a question mark.
‘That’s what Hephzibah means in Hebrew,’ Finkler told him. ‘My delight is in you.’
‘I know that,’ Treslove said, miffed.
The bastard had got him again. You never knew from which direction it would come. You prepared yourself for a Finkler joke and they bamboozled you with Finkler scholarship. You could never steal a march on them. They always had something you didn’t, some verbal or theological reserve they could draw on, that would leave you stumped for a response. The mamzers.
‘I must go on with what I’m doing,’ Hephzibah said, ‘or you won’t eat tonight.’
‘My delight is in your cooking,’ Treslove said, to no one’s interest.
In fact, in Treslove’s eyes Hephzibah didn’t so much cook as lash out at her ingredients, goading and infuriating them into taste. No matter what she was preparing she always had at least five pans on the go, each of them big enough to boil a cat in. Steam rose from four of them. Burning oil from the fifth. Every window was open. An extractor fan sucked noisily at whatever it could find. Treslove had suggested closing the windows when the fan was on, or turning the fan off when the windows were open. They countermanded each other’s function, he explained scientifically, the fan sucking in half the fumes of St John’s Wood. But Hephzibah ignored him, banging her cupboard doors open and closed, using every spoon and every casserole she owned, breathing in the flames and the smoke. The sweat poured down her brow and stained her clothes. Every couple of minutes she would pause to wipe her eyes. Then on she’d go, like Vulcan stoking the fires of Etna. And at the end of it, there was an omelette and chives for Treslove’s supper.
Though he complained of the illogic of her methods, Treslove loved to watch her. A Jewish woman in her Jewish kitchen! His own mother had prepared five-course meals in an egg pan. The three of them would sit and wait for the food to cool and then eat in silence. As for the washing up, there wasn’t any. Just the egg pan and the three plates.
Finkler breathed in the odours of Hephzibah’s devastated kitchen – had the Cossacks been through they’d have left it tidier – and said, ‘Ahhhh! My favourite.’
‘You don’t even know what I’m preparing,’ Hephzibah laughed.
‘Still my favourite,’ Finkler said.
‘Name an ingredient.’
‘Trayf.’
Treslove knew what trayf meant. Trayf was whatever wasn’t kosher.
‘Not in this kitchen,’ Hephzibah said with mock offence. ‘My Julian won’t eat trayf.’
My Julian. Music to Treslove’s ears. Schubert, played by Horowitz. Bruch played by Heifetz.
Hey, Sam – D’Jew know Jewno?
Finkler made a noise like a gargle from far back in his throat. ‘You’ve koshered the old boy now?’
‘He’s koshered himself.’
It disconcerted Treslove – her Julian or not – to watch the two Finklers go on eyeing each other up and verbally trying each other out. He felt like piggy in the middle. Hephzibah was his woman, his beloved, his Juno, but Finkler appeared to believe he had an older claim. It was as though they spoke a secret language. The secret language of the Jews.
I must learn it, Treslove thought. I must crack their code before I’m through.
But at the same time he felt pride in Hephzibah that she could do what he could not. In twenty seconds she had reached deeper into Finkler’s soul than he ever had. He even appeared relaxed in her company.
When Libor arrived, Treslove truly felt outnumbered. Hephzibah exerted an unexpected influence on his two guests – she dissolved their Jewish differences.
‘Nu?’ Libor asked of Finkler.
Treslove wasn’t sure if that was the way to report it. Do you ask ‘Nu’ of? Or do you just ask, transitively? ‘Nu?’ he asked. And is it even a question in the accepted sense? ‘Nu,’ he said. Would that have been better? Nu, meaning how are things with you, but also I know how things are with you.
So much to master.
But the surprise was that Finkler answered in kind. When there had been no Hephzibah he had castigated Libor for his Jewish barbarisms, but today he twinkled like a rabbi. ‘A halber emes izt a gantser lign,’ he said.
‘A half truth is a whole lie,’ Hephzibah whispered to Treslove.
‘I know,’ he lied.
‘So who’s been telling you half-truths?’ Libor asked.
‘Who hasn’t?’ Finkler replied. But that was as far as he was prepared to go.
Nu, then, wasn’t searching. You didn’t have to answer. It permitted prevarications in the name of our common imperfect humanity.
Got it, Treslove thought.
At dinner, though, Libor went for Finkler as in the old days. ‘Not your Jewish anti-Semite friends?’
‘Not my Jewish anti-Semite friends what?’
Normally, Treslove noted, Finkler denied his Jewish friends were anti-Semites.
‘Telling you lies?’
‘They’re fallible like the rest of us,’ he said.
‘You’re sick of them already? That’s good.’
‘What’s good,’ Finkler said, ‘is this . . .’ He reached for more of everything. Herrings in red wine, herrings in white wine, herrings in cream, sour cream, vinegar, herrings curled around an olive with toothpicks through them, herrings chopped in what was said to be a new way, and of course chopped still in the old – herrings brought in fresh from the North Sea on the trawler of which Hephzibah was the figurehead, one breast bared – and then the pickled meat, the pastrami, the smoked salmon, the egg and onion, the chopped liver, the cheese that had no taste; the blintzes, the tsimmes, the cholent. Only the cholent – the meat and bean and barley shtetl stew, or Czech stew as Hephzibah called it in honour of Libor who loved coming over to eat it – was hot. All those roaring flames, all those fuming pans, and yet everything that came to the table, barring the cholent, was cold.
Treslove marvelled. There was no getting to the bottom of the miracles his wife performed, allowing that she wasn’t yet his wife.
‘I knew it,’ Finkler said when he got to the cholent. ‘Helzel! I knew I could smell helzel.’
Treslove knew it, too, but only because Hephzibah had told him. Helzel was stuffed chicken neck. In her opinion, no cholent could call itself a cholent without helzel. Finkler clearly thought the same.
‘You’ve used oregano in the stuffing,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Brilliant touch. My mother never thought of oregano.’
Mine neither, Treslove mused.
‘Is it a Sephardic version?’ Finkler wondered.
‘It’s my version,’ Hephzibah laughed.
Finkler looked at Treslove. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ he said.
A lucky mamzer.
Treslove smiled in agreement, savouring the helzel. Stuffed chicken neck, for Christ’s sake! The entire history of a people in a single neck of chicken.
And Finkler the philosopher and ASHamed Jew, licking his chops over it as though he’d never left Kamenetz Podolsky.
After the cholent, the towelling down.
Hephzibah kept an elegant table, had Treslove polish the glasses and the silverware hours before anyone arrived, but in the matter of napery they might as well have been in a transport cafe. In front of every guest was a stainless-steel dispenser of paper napkins. The first time Treslove ever set the table for the two of them he folded napkins as his mother had taught him, in the shape of sailing ships, one per person. Hephzibah commended his dexterity, unfurling the little ship and laying it daintily on her lap, but when he next went to fold the napkins he found the serviette dispensers in their place. ‘I am not encouraging gluttony,’ Hephzibah explained, ‘but I don’t want whoever sits at my t
able to feel they must hold back.’
Hephzibah herself would get through a dozen napkins, more after cholent. Treslove’s mother had brought him up not to leave a mark on a napkin if possible, so that it could be folded back into a sailing ship and used again. Now, following Hephzibah’s example, he used a fresh one for every finger.
Everything was different. Before Hephzibah he had eaten only with his mouth. Now he ate with his whole person. And it took many paper napkins to keep his whole person clean.
‘So this museum . . .’ Finkler said, when the table was cleared.
Hephzibah inclined her head in his direction.
‘. . . don’t we have enough of them already?’
‘Museums in general, you mean?’
‘Jewish museums. Everywhere you go now, every town, every shtetl, you find a Holocaust museum. Do we need a Holocaust museum in Stevenage or Letchworth?’
‘I’d be surprised if you’d find a Holocaust museum in Letchworth. But this isn’t a Holocaust museum anyway. It’s a museum of Anglo-Jewish culture.’
Finkler laughed. ‘Is there any? Will it mention our being thrown out in 1290?’
‘Of course. And of our being welcomed back in in 1655.’
Finkler shrugged, as though to an audience who already believed what he believed. ‘Same old, same old,’ he said. ‘You’ll get to the Holocaust in the end, if only under the heading “British Attitudes To”. You’ll stick up photographs of the gas ovens, you mark my word. Jewish museums always do. What I want to know, if we must have suffering, is why we can’t at least change the track from time to time. What about a Museum of the Russian Pogrom? Or a Museum of the Babylonian Exile? Or, in your case, since you already have the site, a Museum of All the Nasty Things the English Have Ever Done to Us?’
‘The brief is not to bring up English nastiness,’ Hephzibah said.
‘I’m glad of it.’
‘Nor,’ Treslove chimed in, ‘is it to bring up anybody else’s. Our museum won’t so much as mention the Holocaust.’
Finkler stared at him. Our! Who asked you? his expression said.
Libor stirred in his chair. In an inconsequent but oracular voice, he said, ‘The grandson of a friend of mine has just been blinded.’
Finkler wasn’t sure what to do with his face. Was this some sort of a wind-up? So? was what he wanted to ask. So how does that bear upon our conversation?
‘Oh, Libor, who?’ Hephzibah asked.
‘You don’t know the grandson, you don’t know the grandmother.’
‘Well, what happened?’
So Libor told them, leaving out the information that in another age he and Emmy had been lovers.
‘And this,’ Finkler said, ‘you adduce as reason for there to be a Holocaust museum in every parish in the country.’
‘I notice you say parish,’ Treslove said. ‘Your satire acknowledges an incongruity that is only to be explained by Christianity’s inhospitability to Jews.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Julian. My satire, as you call it, acknowledges no such thing. I see Libor is upset. I mean no disrespect to his feelings. But the actions of one deranged person don’t justify us wringing our hands and claiming the Nazis are back.’
‘No, and nor do I claim any such thing,’ Libor said in return.
Hephzibah left the table and went over to him. She stood behind his chair and put her hands on his cheeks as though he were her little boy. Her rings were bigger than his ears. Libor leaned back into her. Hephzibah put her lips to his bald head. Treslove feared the old man was going to cry. But that might only have been because he feared he was going to cry.
‘I’m all right,’ Libor said. ‘I am as much upset by my own impotence as by what’s happened to my friend’s grandson whom I have never met and didn’t know existed two months ago.’
‘Well, there’s nothing you can do,’ Hephzibah said.
‘I know that. But it isn’t only the doing nothing that’s upsetting, it’s the feeling nothing.’
‘I wonder whether we feel nothing,’ Finkler said, ‘precisely because we rehearse our feelings on the subject too freely and too often.’
‘Crying Wolfowitz, you mean?’ Hephzibah said with a wild laugh.
God, I love her, Treslove thought.
‘You think we don’t?’ Finkler persisted.
‘I think we can’t.’
‘You don’t believe that too many false alarms result in no one taking any notice?’
‘When is an alarm a false alarm?’ Hephzibah persisted.
Treslove saw Finkler wondering whether to say When our friend Julian raises it. What he said instead was: ‘It seems to me we create a climate of unnecessary anxiety, a) by picturing ourselves forever as the victim of events, and b) by failing to understand why people might occasionally feel they have good reason to dislike us.’
‘And blind our children,’ Hephzibah said. Her hands were still on Libor’s face.
Libor put his hands up to hers, as though to deafen himself. ‘As in anti-Semitism is perfectly comprehensible to me,’ he said, in imitation of the empathetic film director.
‘And so around it comes,’ Hephzibah said.
Finkler shook his head as though there was nothing to be done with any of them. ‘So your Museum of Anglo-Jewish Culture is a museum of the Holocaust after all,’ he said.
The yutz, Treslove thought. The groisser putz. The shtick drek.
Finkler and Libor sat and drank whisky while Treslove and Hephzibah washed up. Hephzibah normally left the dishes until the next day. Piled up in the sink so that it was near impossible to fill a kettle. And what the sink couldn’t take would stay on the kitchen table. Pans and crockery sufficient for a hundred guests. Treslove liked that about her. She didn’t believe they had to clean up after every excess. There wasn’t a price to pay for pleasure.
She didn’t leave the dishes so that he should do them either. She just left them. It seemed fatalistic to him. A carelessness acquired courtesy of the Cossacks. Since you don’t know where you’re going to be tomorrow, or indeed whether you’re going to be alive or dead, why worry over dishes?
But tonight she led him by the elbow into the kitchen. And neither Finkler nor Libor offered to get up and help out. It was as if each couple was giving the other space.
‘Our friend appears very happy,’ Libor said.
Finkler agreed. ‘He does. There’s a shine on him.’
‘And my niece, too. I think she’s good for him. It would seem that what he needed was a mother.’
‘Always did,’ Finkler said. ‘Always did.’
EIGHT
1
Finkler was looking forward to a few hands of online poker before bed, so he was disappointed, when he arrived home, to find a message on his answerphone from his daughter Blaise. Immanuel, the younger of his two sons, had been involved in an anti-Semitic incident. Absolutely nothing to worry about. He was perfectly OK. But Blaise wanted her father to hear it from her first, rather than from some other, possibly mischievous, source.
Over a crackling line, Finkler could not make out all the details. As he pressed the replay button it occurred to him that the message could easily be a wind-up – Julian, Libor and Hephzibah, who were still drinking when he left, teaching him a little moral lesson. See how you feel when it happens to you, Mr ASHamed Jew Philosopher. But the voice was definitely Blaise’s. And though she said there was absolutely nothing to worry about, there obviously was, otherwise why would she have rung?
He rang back but Blaise wasn’t answering. She often didn’t. Immanuel’s line was permanently engaged. Maybe the bastards had stolen his phone. He tried his other son, Jerome, but he was at a redder, more robust university than Blaise and Immanuel and was inclined to be scathing about their doings. ‘Anti-Semites massing outside Balliol? I don’t think so, Dad.’
As it was too late to call his driver, and he was too drunk to drive himself, Finkler rang a limo firm he sometimes used. Oxford, he told the operator. Rig
ht away.
He had to ask for the radio to be turned down and then turned off altogether. This so incensed the driver, who claimed he needed it on for traffic alerts, that Finkler feared he was going to be involved in an anti-Semitic incident himself. Traffic alerts! At midnight! Once they were out of London, on quieter roads, it occurred to Finkler that the real reason the driver needed the radio on was to keep him awake. ‘Maybe we should have it on after all,’ he said.
He fell prey to all manner of irrational anxiety. He had unnecessarily annoyed the person taking him to see his son. He had, for all he knew, annoyed his son, too, in any one of the thousands of ways that a father annoys his children. Had his son got into a fight with anti-Semites on his father’s behalf? Shamed or not shamed, Finkler was an eminent English Jew. You couldn’t expect racist thugs to grasp the fine distinctions of Jewish anti-Zionism. Ha, so you’re Sam Finkler’s son are you, you little kike? Then here’s a bloody nose.
Unless it was worse than a bloody nose.
He curled up in the corner of the Mercedes and began to cry. What would Tyler say? He felt he had let her down. She had made him promise to make the children his first priority. ‘Not your fucking career, not your Jewish mistresses with fat tits, not those weirdos you hang around with at the Groucho – your sons and daughter. Your sons and daughter, Shmuelly – promise!’
He’d promised and he meant it. At the funeral he’d put his arms around the boys and they had stood together a long time looking into Tyler’s grave, three lost men. Blaise had held herself apart from them. She was with her mother. Against all men, lost or not. The three of them had stayed with him a week, and then gone back to their universities. He wrote to them, he rang them, he invited them to launches and screenings. Some weekends he drove to Oxford, on others to Nottingham, booking himself into the best hotel he could find and treating them to slap-up dinners. He believed he had done well, morally, on those occasions, not to take a woman with him. Especially when he stayed at Raymond Blanc’s Manoir Aux Quat’Saisons in Oxfordshire, a hugger-mugger hotel-restaurant which cried out for a mistress. But a promise is a promise. He was putting his children first.
The Finkler Question Page 21