by Ruby Namdar
Andrew felt a searing, childish resentment. But it couldn’t be Hanuman! Hanuman had always been so funny and likable. He now felt more menaced than before. The grotesque faces of the Indian gods aroused an ancient, primordial animus. Something buried deep in his unconscious had surfaced with no way for him to cope with it or even know what it was. His head was swimming with it all: the guru’s naked belly, Ganesha’s prominent belly button, the penetrating feminine eyes of the monkey man and the dumb brutish ones of the elephant man, the mouse hiding underneath Ganesha’s swollen belly like a tiny male organ, and the guru’s huge sex, barely concealed by the thin loincloth beneath the stomach that hung casually over the bench and almost reached the ground. How vile, how intolerably vile! A strange, startlingly inappropriate thought suddenly invaded Andrew’s tormented mind: Were Hindus circumcised, or not?
“Dad, are you okay?” Rachel’s voice seemed to come from afar. “You’re pale. And sweating! What’s the matter?”
Andrew looked at her wide-eyed, as if waking from a bad dream. The walls stopped twitching and came to rest, ordinary-looking in the weak light of the electric bulb. “Could you please open the window?” he asked. “I’m suddenly dizzy. I don’t feel well.”
Rachel hurried to the window, alarmed but also a bit excited by her father’s appeal for help. The window was jammed. She wrestled with it briefly, gave up, and switched on the air conditioner, which began to rattle like an old tractor, then returned to her father, guided him to a desk, and tried getting him to sit. Andrew resisted wordlessly and remained standing, leaning on the dusty Formica desktop. The irrational, indefinable feelings stirred up in him were not ones he recognized. “Other!” he thought. “Other!” The word, lacking all context, repeated itself stubbornly in his mind. “You don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to,” he said. He straightened up, brushing the dust from his hands. “I don’t think you’ll like it here.”
Rachel was startled by the almost panicky urgency in his voice. “Why not stay with me? My apartment has all you need. There’s a pull-out couch in the living room and plenty of space for us both. I’m hardly ever home. And it’s only for three days. Come on, let’s take a taxi, now!”
She looked at him in shock. Such a combination of nervous energy and overprotectiveness was something she was used to in Linda, but she had never expected to see it in her father. “But Dad! What’s the matter with you? I’d hate to impose on you. It’s perfectly nice here. It just needs to be cleaned and aired a bit. You yourself said it’s only for three days. And look at the wild pictures on the walls!”
She felt pulled in two directions, the need to assert herself balanced by an exuberantly warm rush of childish glee, as if she had been waiting for such an invitation all day—no, since telling her father she was coming to the city—no, longer than that, for long, long years, for as long as she could remember.
“Absolutely not!” Andrew was surprised by his own firmness. “I want you to come to my place. Come on, let’s go. How do you turn off this air conditioner? What a racket! Have you ever seen filth like this?” Busily, he circulated through the apartment, lowering the blinds, turning off the air conditioner, and lifting the suitcase while grabbing the keys from the desk. Rachel stood staring at him in astonishment. He was behaving like a different, unrecognizable person. Like Linda.
10
February 13, 2001
The 20th of Shevat, 5761
An endless hospital corridor. All sorts of oddly, indecipherably named wards. Wing after wing, an exitless maze of forking hallways that all look alike. A pervasive smell of urine, disinfectant, tears, and clotted blood. The green curtains only partially hide beds on which lie old, half-undressed women, their liver-spotted skin hanging like worn sacks. Why aren’t the curtains closed all the way? Anyone passing can see their pitiable nakedness. The metal parts of wheelchairs glitter in the cold, clinical light. More corridors. Where’s obstetrics? There must be someone to ask. But the corridors are empty. There’s no one. Elevators go up and down at a snail’s pace. There are no signs, no directories. Excuse me, miss. How do I get to the obstetrics ward? The name is Cohen, Linda Cohen. I’m looking for Linda Cohen. Yes, she’s my wife. We have a new baby. Yes, today, now, a few minutes ago. Where is she?
The door opens with difficulty and swings silently shut on its hinges as if in a strange dream. Be quiet or you’ll wake the sleepers. Rachel is lying in a bed. She’s totally exhausted, she’s lost a lot of blood. Her pale face is the color of the sheets but her eyes burn with a dark, flickering fire. Gently she presses the red, wrinkled face of the new baby to her white cheek, shuts her eyes, and inhales its fresh scent. The baby is wrapped in a red-and-green-striped flannel blanket. From the little cotton bonnet on its head protrude a few dark, damp curls. It’s a beautiful baby. What a perfectly formed face. Rachel’s black curls are damp, too, as if she, too, has just been born. It’s a boy! We have a boy! A wondrous little boy, glad tidings of redemption, reconciliation, eternal peace. How good everything is suddenly. What bliss.
11
February 13, 2001
The 20th of Shevat, 5761
Eight a.m. Rachel opened her eyes lazily. She felt more cozy and relaxed than most mornings, far more than she had expected to feel. To wake in Dad’s apartment, on his famous leather couch! Who would have guessed that it opened into a bed, let alone such a comfortable one?
Rachel stretched, luxuriating in the unanticipated pleasure of her slow awakening while sleepily surveying the large space of the living room, which was already bright, despite the early hour, with a festive gray light. The stylish expanse of the room was impressive, especially given the city’s housing shortage and the wild jump in real estate prices. None of the New York apartments she had recently been in were anything like Andrew’s. Although in its former existence it had had a second bedroom and a maid’s room, Andrew had done away with these inner divisions, leaving a minimum of structural elements and a large, loftlike space more reminiscent of Tribeca or SoHo than of the Upper West Side. Perhaps its lack of a guest bedroom was his way of protecting himself against unwanted visitors—not that anyone would dream of barging in on Andrew without an invitation . . .
Rachel smiled wryly. She was just pretending to be critical. She loved being in this place, so close to her father. He had made her feel wanted, totally at home. She rose, pulled the crocheted blanket from the bed, and wrapped it around her like a cape or a prayer shawl. Was he still here? The door to his bedroom was shut and no sounds came from its other side. Noiselessly, she tiptoed across the waxed parquet floor, once again a nine- or ten-year-old sneaking into her parents’ room, and put a slightly embarrassed ear to the door. Not a peep. He was out. Since when was he in the habit of leaving so early? How had he slipped away without waking her? She didn’t know if she was disappointed or not. But there was no point in indulging in pointless introspection, and she chose to enjoy the peace and clarity, so unusual for her, by which she was surrounded. Barefoot, she glided across the room, the blanket half trailing on the floor behind her like a lacy train. The view from the windows was sensational. A low winter sky grazed the bare branches of the leafless oaks and plane trees. Bluish-white ice floes, like polar bear cubs playing tag, chased each other on the river. Everything was so clear, and clean, and orderly, so therapeutically spotless.
She turned to the counter separating the open kitchen from the living room, slowly emerging from the dreamlike, enchanted fog she had been in since opening her eyes. A key! The sudden, discordant thought broke the blissful gray flow of the morning. I don’t have a key. If I go anywhere, I’ll be locked out. A moment later, discord yielded to childish joy as she spied a key on the counter, resting on a note whose handwriting she could have recognized a mile away.
Hi, sweetie,
I have a bar mitzvah party tonight for a second cousin—would you like to come with me? It’ll be fun. We’ll stop at Barney’s this afternoon and buy you a nice dress. There’s a great restaura
nt there on the eighth floor, the perfect place to celebrate.
Love,
Dad
Her joy mounted to an almost infantile exhilaration when, next to the small pot of hot coffee left for her in the espresso machine, she noticed a square of a yellow sticky note with the words from their favorite book, the one she had never tired of asking to be read from as a child: “Drink me!”
A long, hot shower and a leisurely lull in front of the mirror. A real morning off. Curious, Rachel investigated the bathroom shelves and sink. There was not a sign of Ann Lee, her father’s girlfriend. Although she had heard a lot about her, she had never met her, which could not have been an accident. There was no forgotten cosmetic case, no woman’s shampoo, not even a box of goddamn tampons hidden somewhere. Didn’t she ever sleep here? She must have hid it all—maybe in the cabinet beneath the sink, or in the handsome, French country-style pannier beneath a shelf whose white towels were stacked as neatly as in a hotel. While it didn’t demand a superhuman effort on Rachel’s part to avoid peeking—she was not by nature an eavesdropper or voyeur—it did call for some restraint.
She dressed, carefully put on her makeup, poured herself the rest of the coffee, and sat facing the view in the living-room armchair. Not until she felt totally ready did she take a slip of paper from her purse and dial a number on the cordless phone, her nervous fingers reluctant to acknowledge that she already knew it by heart. She unconsciously counted the number of rings, feeling like an adolescent. There were butterflies in her stomach. Her mouth was dry. She had rehearsed her opening line. “Hi, Abby. It’s me, Rachel. Yes, I’m in town.”
12
February 13, 2001
The 21st of Shevat, 5761
A large color photograph of the bar mitzvah boy stood on an easel at the entrance of the synagogue, welcoming the guests in their tuxedos and evening gowns. The lobby had an old-time splendor with its marble floor, gilt armchairs, and oversize fireplace, framed in ornamental marble, too, that quite evidently had never seen a fire. The guests strolled among the tables of hors d’oeuvres, one hand holding a cocktail and the other free for handshakes. The quantities of food were overwhelming. Servers in white chef’s hats stood by steaming-hot cuts of meat set on wooden trenchers, carving portions and carefully placing them on the outstretched plates. Entire salmons lay on their sides, garnished with thin slices of cucumber. Oily Chinese stir-fry glittered in large woks. A sushi chef, who, too, was Chinese, swiftly rolled and cut his fare, trying hard to keep up with the demand for the new and exotic delicacy, only recently discovered by American gourmand wannabes. There was even a kosher hot-dog stand for the children, the bar mitzvah boy’s cousins and schoolmates.
“This is some bar mitzvah,” Rachel whispered to Andrew. “You don’t see this much food at a wedding. Wow, look at that! There’s even a sushi bar, over there. And what a line!” She narrowed her eyes in disgust, leaning on his arm.
“Look who’s here! It’s Andrew!” Michael, the bar mitzvah boy’s father, appeared in their path, hearty and heavyset in his black tuxedo, his sweaty face aflame. Giving Andrew a long, back-thumping, familial hug, he left one hand resting on his back while extending the other to Rachel. “Isn’t it ridiculous to say ‘My, how you’ve grown!’ each time we meet?” Rachel smiled neutrally and shook his surprisingly firm hand, stunned to see someone, an almost stranger, touching her normally remote and untouchable father with such intimate nonchalance. “And this is David, our bar mitzvah boy, star of the evening.” Michael’s voice boomed in the jovially stentorian tone of a seasoned host. David held out a polite hand, clearly flustered. In his black formal attire, he seemed disguised, like a little boy trying on his father’s oversize tuxedo. He’s such a cutie, Rachel thought, a real cutie. The poor kid, does he have to wear that silly-looking yarmulke all the time?
Andrew gave David a warm smile. Someone handed him a white paper skullcap, unlike the ones brought from home by most of the guests, and he adjusted it carefully on his head, smiling at his awkwardness. “Get a load of Rabbi Cohen!” Michael joked. “We’ll make an Orthodox Jew of you yet.” He thanked Andrew and Rachel for having come, promised to bring Grandma Henya to them when he saw her, and encouraged them to eat and drink. “Don’t worry, everything’s kosher,” he quipped, disappearing, shiny tuxedo and all, in the crowd. Andrew and Rachel exchanged knowing looks, linked arms, and strode mock-ceremoniously into the noisy ballroom.
At nine o’clock the reception ended and the guests were invited to the dining area. “I thought that was dinner,” Rachel protested in a low voice. “There was enough meat at the reception to feed every child in Africa.” The dining area was hot, crowded, and animated. A wedding band played synthesized klezmer music full blast, the electric guitars twanging, the clarinet slithering like a black snake, and the jazz trumpets sounding their golden notes. A vocalist in a modish suit and black velvet yarmulke accompanied himself on a synthesizer. The old Hebrew words, amplified to electro-metallic heights by the sound system, made a surrealistic impression. Waiters in red uniforms ushered the guests to round tables festooned with flowers and balloons, took their orders for the main course, and poured kosher champagne into their glasses.
Andrew sat in his assigned seat and took a sip of the wine. To his surprise, it wasn’t so bad—for a kosher wine, that is. He reached for the bottle and inspected the label. Baron Herzog. Andrew smiled in pleasant surprise, as if he had bumped into an old friend. Saul Bellow’s cocky smile and dandyishly tilted fedora flickered before his eyes for a second. What would good old Herzog think of this bar mitzvah? He leaned back, took another sip of the wine, and regarded his surroundings, contemplating their angular, abstract modern architecture that was characteristic of American houses of worship—churches, synagogues, even mosques. There was something paradoxical about it, something that contradicted the idea behind it. It took him a while to connect what he saw to what he remembered: the space he was in was the prayer hall of a synagogue. Surely, he had realized that all along, hadn’t he? His eyes sought and found the Ark, a tall, rectangular structure—ultramodern, too, of course—of wood and glass. Although such contrasts of old and new, sacred and profane, were always jarring, he liked them for their challenge to time-worn assumptions. His critical mind, always on the lookout for subversive points of view, took note of its own conventional recoil from what it instinctively classified as “desecration,” and of the tacit power of the socializing process of religion over even a secular person like himself.
He studied with interest the Hebrew writing on the wall opposite him. Its square, stern-looking letters, both familiar and strange, were the same ones his Westchester Sunday school had striven to inculcate in him, only to be rebelliously rejected and forgotten after his own bar mitzvah. His memory was jogged by a word spelled with the characters Yod Heh Vav Heh. These were, he knew, the four letters of the tetragrammaton, God’s holy, unutterable, numinous name that was spoken aloud once a year, on the Day of Atonement, by the High Priest in the Holy of Holies. Andrew had to smile. How obsessively the biblical scholars and archaeologists insisted, whether it was relevant or not, on pronouncing this name unnaturally loudly in their conferences and lectures like children pleasantly shocking themselves by saying a forbidden word.
The guests circulated among the tables, taking each other’s seats, talking in loud voices, and engaging in the collective disorder so deeply woven into the fabric of Eastern European Jewish culture. How different it was from the exemplary decorum of Protestant weddings that had become—for most Jews, too—the American ideal. A generation or two of small, undramatic decisions, Andrew thought, sipping some overly fruity kosher white wine, was all it took: the move to the suburbs with their big house and garden, the enrollment in the Reform synagogue that was closer to home, the minimal Jewish education because the mortgage payments were high and ate up the family budget. Small, semiconscious, semi-voluntary deviations whose cumulative effect was that of an off-course missile, multiplied exponenti
ally from generation to generation until huge, unbridgeable chasms were created. It wasn’t a matter of conscious religious or ideological choice. The truly significant differences had to do with things like body language, aesthetic taste, and sense of space. And they’ll go on growing until the last thin strands connecting us to each other fray and snap like old violin strings. For a moment, Michael and I, two aging, sentimental Jewish men, can make one last attempt to join hands across the divide. But although our fingers may still touch, it’s an optical illusion. A genuine embrace, even a genuine handshake, is no longer possible. Rachel acts as though she were here at gunpoint, critical and estranged, as if it had nothing to do with her. Once Michael and I are gone, there’s not a chance that she and David will stay in touch, or have a common ground of any sort.
A blinding halo of artificial illumination, like a little island of sunlight, surrounded the photography crew as it went from table to table. The men and the women danced separately. Rachel had never seen anything like it. The women circled with precise, measured steps. The men, on the other hand, spun wildly in a compact, ecstatic mass, pressing and leaning their full body weight against each other. Some, swept away, shut their eyes and sang along with the loud vocalist at the tops of their voices. Andrew was fascinated, equally attracted and repelled by their openly celebrated, unapologetically flaunted male bond. He was reflecting on the oddity of adult men in expensive suits and ties dancing this way in twenty-first-century America when, out of nowhere, two powerful hands gripped him and playfully propelled him into the circle. Startled yet excited by what was a sign of acceptance no less than an invasion of his privacy, he let himself be carried along by the dithyramb of human bodies pulsing with humid body heat. Heavy hands gripped his shoulders while his own rested on an unfamiliar, perspiring back; its sweatiness could be felt even through the heavy fabric. The dancing wave tossed him this way and that, lifted him off the marble floor, and finally set him down in the circle’s center, face-to-face with his cousin Michael—who, sweat pouring out of him like water, was in a kind of trance, dancing with an abandon that bore no relation to his shrewdly practical, pragmatic everyday self. Eyes half-shut, he held his hands out in front of him. Andrew, not knowing what to expect, did the same, and soon his fine, delicate fingers were in the grip of his cousin’s large, fleshy ones. With a bearlike gentleness, Michael led him in a clumsy but not charmless jig. Their shoulders swayed back and forth; their bodies rocked from side to side, now on one foot, now on the other; their sweaty hands were stuck together.