The Enemy of the Good

by Michael Arditti

  ‘Really? I don’t want to intrude. Especially not now.’

  ‘You know you could never intrude.’

  ‘Thank you, darling. Then I’ll come this afternoon. Meanwhile will you go to the hospital?’

  ‘Do you think they’ll want to see me?’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’

  It wasn’t until he put down the phone that he realised he had forgotten to ask which hospital it was but, on ringing back, he found that she was already engaged. After a forty-minute wait, which for once was bearable, he learnt that Shoana was just across the park, in the Wellington. Two hours later, furnished with the finest bunch of lilies that St John’s Wood had to offer, he made his way into the foyer and up to the obstetrics ward. He stopped outside Shoana’s room and gazed through the open door to where she lay, cradling her baby, with Zvi in a chair by her side, their whole beings focused on the child. Anxious not to disturb them, he was about to slip away when Shoana looked up. ‘Clem!’ she called in a voice midway between pleasure and shock. He blenched to see her instinctually pull the baby closer but was reassured when, after exchanging greetings and comparing notes on their respective deliveries, she asked if he wanted to hold him.

  He gathered him up with a sense of trepidation that was quickly replaced by awe. He gazed at the fluttering eyelids and the tiny hands with nails as small as a doll’s, choosing to concentrate on the peripherals rather than trying to fathom the mystery of the whole. He wondered if he should remark on some family resemblance, but for now he looked like nothing other than his sleepy, solemn self. So, instead, he asked whether they had picked a name for him.

  ‘Zaimen,’ Zvi said.

  ‘Zaimen,’ Clement experimented. ‘That’s great. Simple… strong.’

  ‘Wise,’ Zvi added.

  ‘Of course.’

  Eager not to outstay his welcome, he returned home to wait for his mother, whose hunger to see her new grandson left her barely a moment to draw breath before asking him to accompany her to the hospital. They arrived to find Carla strolling up and down with the mewling baby, while Shoana and Zvi looked on, their evident longing to be alone surrendered to a wish that everyone should share in their happiness. As Carla gazed dotingly on the bundle in her arms, Clement wondered if she were nursing her own maternal ambitions or if the journey East had taught her the wisdom of acceptance. Recalling his earlier glimpse of Shoana, Zvi and Zaimen, he found himself picturing another trio of Carla, himself and the baby she had asked him to father. Mike had been right to dissuade him, although his arguments had been too clinical. He would be true to Mark, not by living his life, but by living his own to the full.

  He watched as, with Shoana’s blessing, Carla handed Zaimen to his mother. Seeing her hold the grandchild for whom she had yearned so long, he prayed that nothing would threaten her relationship with Shoana. He wondered whether he too might play a role in his nephew’s upbringing, or whether the religious imperative would preclude it. While excited by the prospect of helping, in however small a way, to shape the boy’s future, he knew that what counted weren’t his feelings, or even Shoana’s and Zvi’s, but Zaimen’s. Indeed, were he to be given three wishes to pronounce over his cot, they would all amount to the same: that he should have a wealth of opportunities from which to choose; the wisdom to make the right choice; and the courage to stand by it.

  Two days later, he received further proof of Shoana’s and Zvi’s change of heart when they invited him to Zaimen’s B’rit. Moreover, the invitation extended to Mike who, mindful of how much it had cost them, accepted, despite his horror of what he saw as ‘symbolic castration’.

  The following week, they drove up to Hendon for the ceremony. Having relied on his parents’ descriptions of the engagement party and wedding, Clement was fascinated to see the Lubavitch world for himself. His mother was more circumspect, extracting a promise of good behaviour as if he were twelve years old on a visit to Aunt Helena. Urging her to relax, he left her in the hall and walked with Mike into the sitting room, where, if any of the two dozen guests harboured reservations about the notorious parricide and unashamed sodomites in their midst, they kept them to themselves, switching languages in order to welcome them.

  ‘I feel as if I’m at a Buckingham Palace garden party,’ Mike whispered, after replying to the third successive question about the best route from Regent’s Park to Hendon.

  ‘They’re making the effort,’ Clement replied, ‘which is all we can ask.’

  They were interrupted, first by Zvi’s announcement that the mohel had been held up, and then by an elderly man with sad eyes, who came over to introduce himself. ‘My name is Reuben Levine. It was at my house that Zvi and Shoana met. They’ve asked me to be one of Zaimen’s godfathers.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ Clement said quietly.

  ‘We have another connection. My daughter.’

  ‘Really? What’s her name?’

  ‘You don’t know her. This is very hard for me. But if you have a moment to spare, she’d like to meet you.’

  Intrigued by the mystery and eager to escape an oppressively masculine atmosphere reminiscent of Bullingdon, Clement suggested that they take advantage of the delay to seek her out. He followed Reuben to the dining room where, spying his mother and Carla among the women, he wondered whether they also felt out of place or were united by an act of baby worship. Reuben waited at the door, finally catching the eye of a young girl, who fetched his daughter, a tall, beaky woman in an ill-fitting wig.

  ‘This is Sorah.’

  ‘Clement Granville,’ he said, holding out his hand, which Reuben gently deflected.

  ‘I know,’ she replied. He was taken aback, until he recalled how conspicuous he and Mike must look with their light suits, smooth chins and bare heads. ‘I’m Shlomo’s wife,’ she said, causing her father to sigh.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘May we talk in the garden?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Clement replied, before realising that she had addressed the question to her father, who gave a brief nod, as though aching to shrug off the connection. Clement followed Sorah through the kitchen into the garden, which was as well kept and impersonal as a bowling green. She paced up and down the patio, finding it so difficult to speak that he wondered whether to prompt her.

  ‘I went to see him last weekend,’ she said eventually.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The hospital wing in Albany. His face is a mass of bandages. The hot sugar they… they poured over him has burnt through several layers of skin. He’ll have to have reconstructive surgery. Even so, the doctors warned me he’ll be permanently disfigured. What’s it to do with me? Why should I care?’

  ‘But you do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Albany on the Isle of Wight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a long way.’

  ‘The entire prison is for… for men like him. I think he feels happier there.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m not the one who was hurt; at least…’ Clement watched as her expression clouded. ‘But I’m glad I went. I felt we reached a kind of understanding. Not that it changes anything. Not remotely. It isn’t just that he’s no longer the man I married. I find it hard to think of him as a man at all.’

  ‘What is he then?’

  ‘I won’t use words that will make you laugh at me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Not to my face, no… He was so calm in court. So calm and cold and cruel. He put his lies before Daniel’s truth. Which made it doubly unforgivable. He betrayed him a second time. But seeing him in the hospital, I felt he’d finally got what he deserved. Now he’ll be scarred for life just like Daniel. Strange that it should have been sugar! He always had a sweet tooth.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I told him I’d be coming here today,’ she said, composing herself. ‘Your sister�
�s been a good friend to me. He made me promise to thank you.’

  ‘Me? Whatever for? If I hadn’t insisted he take that shower… if I’d been more sensitive to tensions on the Unit…’

  ‘He said that the things you’d talked about with him – the things you’d done for him – had changed his life.’

  ‘Really?’ Clement asked apprehensively.

  ‘He also wanted me to tell you how important it is that Zaiman’s B’rit is taking place on the eighth day.’

  ‘To fulfil the Torah?’

  ‘Of course. But, according to Shlomo, doctors have discovered it’s the day a baby’s blood-clotting abilities are at their highest. He said it proved once again how Torah anticipates science.’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt!’ Clement spun round to see Reuben. ‘But you must come back inside. The mohel has arrived.’

  As they walked through the kitchen, Clement gave him an encouraging smile, receiving in return a nod of thanks. Sorah joined the crowd of women assembled at the sitting room door while the men went in. A chubby, bespectacled boy moved towards Reuben. Clement recognised him even before they were introduced.

  ‘This is my grandson. My Daniel,’ Reuben said. ‘This is Mr Granville, who drew those pictures for you.’

  ‘Oh!’ Daniel said, shifting his feet.

  ‘It was your father’s idea,’ Clement said, wondering if he were allowed to mention him.

  ‘Did you meet him in Israel?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘No, in…’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Daniel said quickly. ‘Tateh’s on a top-secret mission for Mossad. That’s why he’s changed his identity. That’s why he can’t come home, in case he puts us all in danger. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ Clement said softly.

  ‘It’s for our own good!’

  Daniel broke away and, avoiding a trio of teenage boys, stood alone by a silver cabinet. Clement moved to Mike, who looked fraught.

  ‘Where were you?’ Mike hissed.

  ‘Somewhere quite unexpected but rather cheering,’ he replied, grateful that the start of the ceremony removed any need to elaborate. He watched the sea of men parting before a plump, middle-aged woman who entered with Zaimen, whom she handed to a red-haired man, who handed him to Zvi, who handed him in turn to a third man, whose luxuriant beard and richly embroidered prayer shawl exuded authority.

  ‘It’s like pass the parcel,’ Mike whispered, within earshot of Reuben who, far from taking offence, began to explain.

  ‘That’s the mohel, who’ll perform the cut.’

  Clement was both amused by Mike’s discomfiture and reassured by the rare sign of weakness. ‘Why is he putting Zaimen on that chair?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s Elijah’s chair. To show that he’s mystically present. A kind of guardian angel.’

  ‘Like pouring him a cup of wine at Passover?’

  ‘Not exactly. When Elijah was escaping from Ahab and Jezebel, he castigated his fellow Jews for breaking the Covenant. He himself was rebuked by God, who declared that, from then on, he had to be present every time the Covenant was sealed. In other words every B’rit.’

  ‘So it’s a sort of punishment?’ Mike asked, betraying his continuing unease.

  ‘If so, it’s a very pleasant one, since it’s a sign that the Jews are keeping faith with God… Oh, now it’s my turn.’ With the mohel’s blessing concluded, Reuben sat down in the second chair, arranging the folds of his prayer shawl, while the mohel picked up Zaimen and laid him in his lap.

  Clement found himself with an unimpeded view, as the mohel severed the baby’s foreskin before making a second incision, sucking up the blood through a small pipette. Zaimen let out a howl, more of outrage than of pain, which intensified as first the mohel and then Zvi spoke a prayer. The Rabbi blessed a cup of wine and passed it to the mohel, who put a teaspoonful on Zaimen’s lips, to no discernible effect. He bandaged the baby’s wound and handed him to Zvi, who cradled him proudly in the crook of his arm, while his friends clapped and cheered and chanted to welcome the latest member of their community. Suddenly, three young men linked arms and gyrated through the crowd. Clement watched in amazement as the sedate sitting room turned into a heaving dance floor. Seizing his chance, he grabbed Mike and pulled him into the throng.

  ‘This is to make up for the engagement dance they banned us from two years ago,’ he whispered. ‘This is to make up for every dance they’ve banned us from for thousands of years.’

  With his arm draped casually around Mike’s waist, he kept just the right side of discretion. As he gazed towards the women huddled in the doorway, he spotted his mother, Carla and Shoana at the front. He gave them a sweeping bow, to be rewarded by a wave from his mother, a thumbs up from Carla and a cryptic smile from Shoana, which he resolved to see as a sign of acceptance. Whatever differences they might have had in the past, whatever differences they might have in the future, this was a day of celebration. Zaimen Edwin Latsky, starting out on a glorious adventure, had entered into a covenant with his God.

  Acknowledgements

  The Arts Council England provided me with generous financial assistance towards the writing of the novel and the Hawthornden Trust with an idyllic setting in which to start work.

  I am deeply indebted to the following individuals and institutions for their help with my research: Anna Arthur, Rev Peter Baker, Mark Borkowski, the Governor and staff of Brixton prison, Beverley Bryon, Martin Carr and the Royal Society, Mark Cazalet, Phil Chapman, William Coley, Rev Tom Devonshire-Jones, Glen Donovan, Susie Dowdall, Julia Dunn, Katy Gardner, Patrick Gibb QC, Nicholas Granger-Taylor, Wesley Gryk, Naomi Gryn, Professor J F La Fontaine, Charles Leigh, The London Library Trust, Dr Tali Lowenthal, Reva Mann, Dr Edward Norman, Dr Tudor Parfitt, Professor John Peel, Ruth Posner, Gary Richards, Rabbi Mark Solomon, Dr Penny Thexton, Catherine Walston, Dr David Watt.

  Rupert Christiansen, Marika Cobbold, Emmanuel Cooper, Harriet Cobbold Hielte, Liz Jensen, Julia Pascal, Ann Pennington, Mark Simpson and Timberlake Wertenbaker offered judicious advice on early drafts of the novel and Hilary Sage saved me from my most egregious solecisms.

  About the Author

  MICHAEL ARDITTI was born in Cheshire and lives in London. He is the author of five highly acclaimed novels, The Celibate, Pagan and her Parents, Easter, Unity and A Sea Change, and a collection of short stories, Good Clean Fun.

  Copyright

  First published in 2009

  by Arcadia Books Books, 15-16 Nassau Street, London, W1W 7AB

  This ebook edition first published in 2011

  All rights reserved

  © Michael Arditti, 2009

  The right of Michael Arditti to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

  ISBN 978–1–90812–932–1