by Ragen, Naomi
He looked at her blankly. “Not be a rabbi? What would I be then?”
“Well, you could be many things. A businessman, for example.”
“I don’t know anything about business.”
“What’s there to know? Do these people look like such geniuses to you? Listen to this business: You go to some clothing line, you know, some jeans manufacturer, Diesel.”
“Diesel?”
“Or another one, whatever,” she said irritably. Was it Joie or her mother who had told her all about this? Never mind, she told herself. Even Marilyn knew something some of the time. “It doesn’t matter. And you buy the rights to the name. And then you get some cheap belts or watches from some factory in China, and get them to put Diesel on it, or any other name, and you sell it in all the big department stores. You just have to tell them how to make the watch or the belt look. And that’s easy. I could do that myself.”
“You want me to be a watchmaker?” He shrugged helplessly.
“You are totally missing the point! What I’m saying is that these business ideas are a dime a dozen. They are easy. You just have to understand how to do it. You need a friend in the business world to help you get started. I’m sure Mr. Shammanov—” She had never actually met the elusive husband of her friend, but Chaim didn’t have to know that.
“But I don’t want to be a businessman, Delilah, I want to be a rabbi. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I wouldn’t be good at anything else.” He cradled his head in his hands, his shoulders round with defeat. “Delilah, what do you want me to do?”
This simple question, asked in all innocence, which should have touched her heart and filled her with remorse and pity, alas, did just the opposite.
“To do? What do I want you to do? Well, I’ll tell you. For starters, I want you to put up office hours and unlist our home phone. I want you to get a day off every two weeks so we can go somewhere together. I want you to arrange for more than a measly one-week vacation during the summer. I want you to demand they get a junior rabbi to take over the youth minyan and the Bar Mitzva program!”
He lifted his head and stared at her. “Are you deliberately trying to get me fired? Is that it? Because if you are, you’d better think about it. I took this job because you wanted me to. And when I did, I became a pariah. If I need another job, I’ve got the mark of Cain on my forehead. We’ll wind up in some tiny community with no Jewish school and a twenty-member congregation that meets in our basement. You’ll be baking all the cakes and making cholent for the entire congregation every Saturday. And everyone will have to stay with us until the Sabbath is over because it will be too cold and too far for them to walk home. Heck, they might sleep over Friday nights too, with their entire families.”
She listened to him in horror, her heart skipping a beat. “No one is going to fire you. I mean”—she hesitated—”what makes you think that? You are doing well, aren’t you? I mean, I haven’t heard anything—”
“Delilah, you aren’t listening. There is a whole group that wants to get rid of me. They never wanted me in the first place. Some say I’m not serious enough. Not enough of a scholar. Not bright enough. And the others are complaining I’m too serious. They are furious I closed down the kiddush Club, that custom they had of going out before the Torah reading and finishing off a few bottles of Scotch and then staggering back in.”
“Why did you close it down?”
“Well, remember that Shabbes when I said ‘How are you?’ to Selwyn Goldbart and he said, ‘F—you?’ Whereupon I reminded him that the traditional greeting was Good Shabbes?”
She nodded.
“That’s when I decided the drinking had to stop.”
“I don’t see why that means I have to do things differently.”
“Because”—he paused ominously—”I’m not the only one they’re complaining about.”
There was silence, the information sinking in with a large thud.
“You mean to say—after all I’ve been doing—that they’ve still been . . . someone has been complaining . . . about me?”
“I kept defending you, but I can’t anymore. You haven’t offered to teach any classes for the women, your dresses are too short, and your wigs are too long. And you aren’t setting a good example to the other wives and mothers because of all the time you are spending having fun. Be realistic. All they need is a good excuse, and you are giving it to them.”
“So, after all I’ve put up with! And this is what they say about me?” A little plume of red smoke wafted in front of her eyes that wasn’t coming from her cigarette. “Who, exactly, did you hear this from?”
He shook his head and shrugged.
She grabbed him by the shirtfront. “Tell me!”
“Well, the Grodins.”
“Amber and Stuart? What’s their problem?”
“You aren’t taking an active enough role socially, to bring people together.”
“So he can pick their brains and empty their pockets. Who else?”
“Mariette.”
She was wounded. “Mariette?”
“Well, you never did follow through with the designer handbag thing—”
“I’ve been busy!”
“And Felice Borenberg mentioned something to her husband about your wardrobe being inappropriate for the rabbi’s wife. And Solange said the same thing to Arthur.”
“They’re just jealous because I look so good,” she said, with no small measure of truth. Nevertheless, she felt a stab of panic. The entire board was complaining about her! What would she do if they fired Chaim? If she had to leave Swallow Lake, just now, when everything was going so well? Where would they go?
She studied her perfect manicure.
Why, those little shits, she thought. Who did they think they were dealing with, mikva-pure Shira Metzenbaum? Maybe one day she and Chaim would walk off into the sunset into something far more lucrative and less intrusive. But no one was going to send them packing, not if she could help it.
She thought of the dinner party she would arrange and the phone call to Solange Malin she would have to make. She considered how she would introduce the board to Viktor and Joie, and how on a visit to their home she would give the women of Swallow Lake something to drool over that would fill their hearts with discontent and their minds with greedy visions of what was possible, if only their husbands could approach the wealth of the Shammanovs. They would never again be happy with their 3,000 square feet once they saw the Shammanov’s 45,000 square feet, their acres of lakefront property, their Japanese gardens. If she never accomplished another thing, that was an experience she felt sure would do their souls good (she knew it would do her soul good). And if Joie and Viktor really did become active members of the synagogue, they would no doubt be invited to join the board, replacing some of the others. And then no one would dare to criticize her or even suggest firing Chaim.
And in the end, they would all agree that she, Delilah, was a wonderful rabbi’s wife and that the congregation was lucky to have her and her special skills.
TWENTY-THREE
Solange was chilly but correct. And Joie Shammanov was unaccountably delighted and grateful to get the invitation. In fact, she seemed thrilled.
“Viktor has been after me to make some friends, to get us more involved socially. Who will be coming?”
Delilah described the board members, and Joie seemed extremely interested. “But I have to warn you, Joie, they are all twice our age.”
“I don’t think that matters, do you? Have you seen their homes? How do they dress? What cars do they drive?”
Delilah was only too happy to tell her everything she wanted to know. And in the end, Joie even offered to send over her own chef to help Delilah plan the menu and do the cooking.
“That would be fantastic!”
The chef was a fairly new French import. He had fabulous ideas. “What about ze Peking duck and ze green papaya salad in a rich ginger and cardamom sauce, and zen ze pan-roasted squab stuffe
d wiz truffle and soft polenta, wiz per’aps an Armagnac-scented jus. Charlotte aux fruits de saison profiteroles au chocolat?”
She discussed it with Chaim.
“I don’t know, Delilah. Is this guy Jewish? Does he know anything about preparing a kosher dinner?”
“What difference does that make? We’ll buy all the ingredients. He’ll use our utensils. I’ll be in the kitchen to supervise him. What in this menu sounds problematic?”
“No, nothing—well, truffles.”
“I thought they were like mushrooms?”
“They are not like mushrooms. They are mushrooms. But it’s an interesting halachic problem. What blessing do you say over them? The Talmud in Berachos 40b states that even though mushrooms grow on the ground, they don’t get their nourishment from the soil. But the Aruch Hashulchan, among others, hold that if one made a mistake and recited the blessing over vegetables on mushrooms, it’s nevertheless acceptable—”
She rolled her eyes. “Chaim?”
“Oh, yes, what were we talking about?”
“So they are kosher, right? You can eat them?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And Joie’s chef can do the cooking?”
“Delilah, I’m really not comfortable about a non-Jew doing the cooking. I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything deliberately, but there is always something he might not understand.”
She stood still and lowered her head. “Well, if you really think so.”
Chaim, who had expected a huge argument, was taken aback. She was, after all, doing this for him, and it was going to be an enormous amount of work. Why shouldn’t he try to make things easier for her? “Look, I don’t want to take a stringent view for no reason. As the great Reb Yechiel Halevi Epstein used to say, ‘To say forbidden, forbidden, forbidden doesn’t take a great scholar. But it takes talent, wisdom, and understanding to take a lenient view and say permitted.’ I suppose it would be all right. Do you promise to supervise him carefully and not let him bring in any food or utensils?”
“I promise! Thanks so much!” She hugged him.
“And please, Delilah. Don’t make yourself crazy. The people who don’t like us now, won’t like us even after they’ve eaten a wonderful dinner,” he said with a shrug.
She bought all the ingredients, which cost a fortune. She hired a serving girl to help her for the evening, and even rented a uniform for her. She bought a lovely toile tablecloth and matching napkins and had a professional service draw up place cards using hand calligraphy. Joie’s florist sent over the flower arrangements, and the whole house smelled of lavender and roses and lilacs and peonies. Joie’s dressmaker made Delilah a fantastic wraparound dress the color of her eyes, copied from the latest styles seen on the runways in Milan and Paris, from which Joie had recently returned with the real thing.
“Are they here already?” Stuart Grodin asked, his eyes staking out the territory, while Delilah and Amber kissed the air outside each other’s ears.
“Who?” Delilah asked innocently.
“Why, the Shammanovs,” Stuart said, rubbing his hands together, like a baseball player getting ready to hold the bat and hit the ball out of the park. “I understand you know them well, Delilah?”
She smiled mysteriously. “Yes, we’ve become dear friends.”
“What are they like? What’s the house like?” Amber pressed her.
Delilah smiled, ignoring the question. “Would you excuse me, Amber? I need to be in the kitchen.”
The chef was working his magic. Everything smelled wonderful, and he seemed to be managing just fine. “Go, go.” He shooed her out the door.
She heard the door opening and closing, Chaim greeting more guests.
It was the Malins, the Rollands, and the Borenbergs. Mariette came around and kissed her. She had a tall handsome stranger with her, who turned out to be the elusive Dr. Rolland.
He had thick, salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly and recently cut, an aquiline nose, a strong jaw, and firm, young skin, except for a few distinguished creases on his forehead. He was really tall and broad-shouldered and athletic, Delilah thought, as his heavy-lidded blue eyes peered at her beneath thick, dark lashes. In short, a ladies’ man with all the qualities needed to fulfill his potential. He gave Delilah a hug, his hand dipping just a bit too low.
“Good to finally meet you.” He smiled.
“Yes, finally. You certainly do wander,” she said, firmly moving his hand off its target.
Mariette’s eyes were suddenly cool.
“Wherever did you find that dress, Delilah?” Felice Borenberg demanded.
“Why, yes, dear. It looks as if it were made for you!” Solange said enviously, as Amber looked on, her lips pursed in disapproval.
“It was. Made for me,” she said nonchalantly.
“Well, I had no idea you were getting your clothes custom-made these days. It must cost a fortune,” Felice said, raising her eyebrows at Solange.
“Joie Shammanov has the best little dressmaker. She did it for me practically as a favor. Please, come in. Let me take your coats.”
“Everything all right in the kitchen, Delilah?” Chaim whispered.
“Everything is fine. I was just in there a minute ago!”
“Please, you promised!”
“I can’t be everywhere, Chaim!”
She rushed back into the kitchen. The first course was already being plated: a fantastic mixture of duck and papaya salad. The chef stood at the stove stirring the ginger sauce. The scent alone made Delilah’s mouth water. They smiled at each other.
“Fantastique, non?”
She nodded, smiling. “Fantastic.” The bell rang again. She heard Joie’s high-pitched laughter, and then a deep, unfamiliar bass. She rushed into the hall.
“Joie! So good to see you!” Delilah hugged her. “They are all dying to meet you! So, how does it look so far?” she whispered.
“Everything looks fab,” Joie whispered back. “Delilah, my husband, Viktor.”
Viktor Shammanov was a bear of a man, with the back and shoulders of a body builder, the kind that are so pumped up they seemed to be constantly leaning forward in a Mr. Universe see-my-muscles pose. He had to be at least six foot three. His hair—spread over the top and back of his head in thinning, unnaturally black waves—swept over his forehead from a strange side part. His face was part pit bull, part Khrushchev. And although he wore a suit of impeccable cut, a silk tie, and shiny black shoes, still he resembled one of those guys on The Sopranos. He took Chaim into his arms and hugged him, kissing him vigorously on both cheeks. “Viktor Shammanov. Good to meet you, Rabbi! My vife, she spends the day now with your vife. Is good!”
“Yes, it’s great. They’ve become great friends. Mr. Shammanov, let me introduce my wife, Delilah.”
Delilah waited in apprehension for the grizzly to pounce. He didn’t. He didn’t even hold out his hand to her.
“Am grandson of big rabbi, Ukrainian rabbi. I know not to touch rabbi’s vife.” He bellowed with laughter, his voice bouncing off the walls like a sonic boom.
“Very good, very good!” Chaim rubbed his hands together nervously. He suddenly noticed another couple standing by the door. He’d never seen them before.
“Please, come in, won’t you? I’m sorry. You are?”
“Khe doesn’t speak English.” Viktor unleashed a flood of Russian. “Khe is cousin, bodyguard. And khis vife. Also cousin.”
The man took off, prowling around the house, looking for assassins. Delilah quickly added two more settings to the table.
“Let me introduce you to our synagogue board, Viktor,” Chaim said, making the introductions. He went through the names, and each person then stepped up like a petitioner at the court of some Oriental potentate, almost curtsying as they shook his hand and nodded to his wife. Only Joseph Rolland took Joie’s hand and kissed it, causing Viktor Shammanov to stop what he was saying and stare. Dr. Rolland soon stepped back.
“In Russia, you take khand of ano
ther’s man’s vife to your lips, and you die,” he said casually. There was a sudden silence. Then he bellowed with laughter. “Kidding, just kidding,” he boomed.
Everyone exhaled.
“Please, everyone, why don’t we just wash and then sit down to dinner?” Delilah said, with perfect poise.
“Vash? Am I dirty I need to vash?” Viktor asked, looking around him with mock shock like a Catskills comedian.
“I know it sounds strange, but it’s a religious custom. We wash before saying grace over the bread, the way the priests in the Holy Temple washed before preparing sacrifices on the altar,” Chaim explained companionably, taking Viktor’s arm and leading him off to the special basin built into an alcove of the dining room for exactly this purpose. Everyone followed. Delilah then helped them find their place cards and be seated. Chaim said blessings over the bread, then tore off some pieces and dipped them in salt, handing a piece to each guest, as was the custom.
Delilah rushed back into the kitchen. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course, madame,” the chef said, taking a large swig from a very expensive bottle of wine bought especially for the evening. It was, she noted, already half gone.
“We’ve got two extra guests. Maria, you can start serving now,” she told the help.
The girl lifted the plates up to the chef, who ladled generous amounts of sauce on top of each. She carried them to the table and began to serve.
Viktor handed his plate to his bodyguard, who tasted it. Everyone stared, wondering how long Viktor would watch him not dying before agreeing to eat. He didn’t wait very long. “Food vonderful!” Viktor announced. “I loff good food.”
“Yes, I have quite a few business contacts in Russia, and they all know how to eat,” Stuart Grodin said obsequiously.
“You khav bizness, in Russia? What kind bizness?” Viktor asked.
Stuart was thrilled. He started discussing the subcontractors for his bears, who were going to manufacture them under license and distribute them all over Eastern Europe.
“Bears? You sell bears to Russians? Like snow to Eskimos!” Viktor roared. “You vant bizness in Russia, is only vun bizness. Only vun bizness in vorld.”
