by Judith Gould
'Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Inge. Happy birthday to youuuu . . .'
The lights in the kitchen were off, and the cake, proudly carried in by Otha, glowed and flickered with a sea of tiny candles. Again Inge had that peculiar sensation of time merging. Chandeliers used to look like that cake, she thought, weighed down with a prince's ransom in candles. Reverse-tiered crystal birthday cakes, whole hallways of them glowing richly . . .
Tamara's voice intruded on her thoughts. 'Well? Aren't you going to blow out the candles?'
Inge slid her a severe look. 'Tamara, let me watch them burn, will you? How many more times do you think I will get to see a birthday cake?' But she smiled with pleasure and finally, to loud applause and cheers, leaned toward the candles and blew them out, with the help of everyone else except Daliah.
As soon as the candles were snuffed, their flames popped right back up again, brighter than ever. Daliah clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter.
Confused, everyone leaned toward the cake and blew even harder.
The candles went dark. And then continued blazing merrily.
Daliah howled so hard with laughter that tears streamed down her cheeks.
The others blew a third time, and by then they all roared and howled and screeched. It was a full five minutes before they recovered from the trick candles.
When the laughter had subsided, the ritual of Dom Perignon was begun. Crystal flutes were filled and handed round— though the elderly al-Ameers, being strict Muslims, had a mixture of apple juice and mineral water instead.
Najib scraped back his chair, stood up, and raised his glass. 'I would like to propose a toast,' he announced, and looked down at Inge, who, despite her pleasure, flashed him one of her stern looks. 'To a very special lady, this family's adopted grandmother and matriarch, without whom we would not be gathered here today . . .'He raised his glass even higher. 'I give you Inge Meier, a damn fine lady if ever there was one.'
'Hear! Hear!' Tamara shouted.
Arms reached across the table, glasses chimed, and everyone sipped slowly and appreciatively. The champagne was a good year, dry, and icy cold.
'Thank you, Najib,' Inge said, her face pink and her ears warm from the accolade. As he sat back down, she added sharply, her eyebrows arched in mock exasperation, 'You didn't have to overdo it, you know. You make me sound so old.' But she leaned over to pat his arm.
'To Inge.' Now it was Schmarya's turn. He paused, the glass raised, his left hand tucked in the small of his back as he looked down at her. 'You've kept the family together through war and revolution, through good times and a lot of bad. Without you, we would be scattered to the four winds, and when I say we have everything to thank you for, we all know that that is an understatement.' He smiled at her, and knew by her faraway look that they were both seeing the past. Both seeing Senda. Memories ached softly and tugged at them like gentle breezes, the pictures in their minds crystal clear, as though only days had passed, not more than six decades. Senda seemed to waltz and drift just beyond eyesight, like an elusive ghost.
One by one, the others got up to make their toasts. Then the cake was sliced and heaped on gold-edged plates and handed around. After a few bites, Inge's guests trouped out and returned with beautifully wrapped gifts, which Inge, naturally, had to unwrap in front of them all. It was like Christmas. Inge looked overcome. 'You shouldn't have, any of you!' she scolded severely. Tears of happiness rolled unchecked down her cheeks and she wept with happiness. 'But I am so glad you did!'
As flashbulbs clicked and videotapes rolled to record the celebration, Jasmine suddenly took centre stage, her little face mugging and running the gamut from laughter to pouts. She positively basked in the attention of the lenses, and was like a clown in constant motion.
As Tamara watched her plump granddaughter, something slowly began to stir in her.
That natural gift for performing in front of a camera, heedless of the people all around.
The image seared her mind like a strobe, and she shook her head to clear it.
Jasmine's performance was building, and she started to do imitations of the Smurfs, her favourite cartoon characters. Tamara could only watch her in wonder.
That effortless ease at imitation.
That natural affinity between lens and performer.
Those sly eyes, looking around to see if she had everyone's attention.
Ripples of whispery gooseflesh danced up and down Tamara's arms. In startled amazement she looked to Daliah to see if she had seen. Daliah caught her glance, indicating she had, and they raised their eyebrows and turned slowly to Inge, who had seen too. Once more, all three women looked back toward Jasmine, and then at each other. Could it be? they wondered silently.
When Jasmine finished her performance, Inge caught the child and hugged her to her scrawny bosom, 'I would say you definitely have the Boralevi talent,' she whispered with a smile. She gently stroked the girl's lustrous dark hair with both shrivelled, age-spotted hands. 'Mind you, it's still too early to tell, but I do believe I can detect a little of Senda, Tamara, and Daliah in you, young lady. What do you say? Do you want to grow up to become a star?'
The magic moment was like a munificent wave of warmth. As though drawn by a magnet, the four of them—Inge, Tamara, Daliah, and Jasmine—drew together and linked their arms around each other.
We are links of the same chain, Inge thought happily, her eyes misty. You see, Senda? You are here after all. Part of you lives on in each of us, just like part of us will live on in the memories of Jasmine, and her children, and her children's children. So it was, and so it will forever be.
'Now, come with Aunt Inge,' Inge finally whispered to Jasmine. 'It's late and time for beddy-bye. I'll tuck you in myself, and we'll both get a good night's sleep, eh?' She took the little girl by the hand. 'That way, we'll be rested when we go shopping in town tomorrow. Aunt Inge is going to buy you a glassy new dress.'
Tamara and Daliah smiled after them. Much had changed over the years, but when Inge became very, very emotional, she still tended to bungle her English.
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JUDITH GOULD is the author of 18 sensational novels, the most recent being GREEK WINDS OF FURY. SINS, her first novel, was the basis of the famed CBS television series starring Joan Collins and shown during "Sweeps Week," upon which TV advertisement rates for networks depend. In 1993, Ms. Gould was the recipient of Romantic Times Magazine's REVIEWERS CHOICE AWARD for "Best Contemporary Novel" for FOREVER. Her novels have been translated into 24 languages. After living in Manhattan for over 25 years, Ms. Gould currently makes her home in the historic Hudson River Valley, and is at work on a new novel. She can be reached at www.judithgould.com, and her backlist is being mounted in e-book format.
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