by Ragen, Naomi
“Look!” someone finally screamed, pointing into the sea. “Dolphins!”
There were dozens of them.
“Dolphins? Who cares about bloody fish? It’s my Anatoly!” Viktor Shammanov boomed. And sure enough, seated on a little rubber throne, holding reins around the heads of the mammals and flanked by water-skiers who looked like former KGB agents, was the Bar Mitzva boy.
“Ve try to train vhale.” Viktor shrugged. “But vhales not interested!”
The child looked terrified.
“Khere khe comes. King Neptune!” Victor roared, as the child shakily climbed up to the deck. He lifted the boy onto his shoulders and began to hula.
So, was that the theme? Pagan gods? Or was that just a little side remark, a joke, Rabbi Chaim wondered, looking at Viktor dancing wildly and Delilah undulating in her grass skirt. His eyes widened in alarm.
He was trapped, he thought. There wasn’t a single thing he could do, cornered as he was with the entire synagogue board on a boat in shark-infested waters and a current that ended in Japan. He couldn’t exactly walk out in protest, now could he? Whatever was going to be, was going to be. He looked longingly at the sailboats now casting off back to shore as the band struck up again and the hula lesson continued.
Finally, they were all given keys to their staterooms to prepare for the evening ahead. He took two aspirin and lay down, trying to compose himself for the Friday-night services still to come. His head felt like a drum on which a healthy native was pounding out an emphatic tribal message.
Services were held in the main ballroom, which had been transformed into a synagogue. It seated a thousand comfortably. Delilah looked around, realizing that they had been joined by numerous Russian-speaking families who were certainly not from Swallow Lake.
“It’s all Viktor’s friends and relatives.” Joie rolled her eyes. “Russian families are very close.”
The service went along well enough, Chaim thought. And afterward, they went to the second ballroom for dinner. Food and booze flowed incessantly like the sea down the gullets of the celebrants. And just when they were about ready to doze off, the cheerleaders came out. There were about twenty of them, healthy, voluptuous, young, in tiny skirts and sleeveless tops. They bounded onto the dance floor with their pom-poms, singing a cheer that incorporated the name Anatoly.
“Isn’t great?” Viktor laughed. “Lakers’ Girls.”
“As in Los Angeles Lakers cheerleaders?” Arthur choked, stunned.
“Ve vant only best.” Viktor smiled. “For Anatoly. Go, Anatoly, go! Girls teach you cheer.”
The chubby teenager ran out into the center of the floor.
All the men got up and jockeyed for the best eyeful. Joseph, Arthur, Ari, and Stuart nudged one another. Delilah was there too, right in front, not wanting to miss anything, her arm around Joie’s waist.
And then the girls disappeared and a live band began to play balalaikas and other traditional Russian instruments.
“But Viktor, I told you, Jews don’t play music on the Sabbath. It’s not allowed!” Chaim pleaded.
“Rabbi don’t vorry! Musicians are not Jews—don’t even like Jews! Are Russians. For Russians, it’s not Sabbath!” Viktor laughed, linking arms with the dancers as they stamped out “Kalinka-Malinka,” carrying him off.
Chaim looked over at this scene. Friday night, the beginning of the Sabbath, the holy day of rest.
“Rabbi! This is a desecration of Shabbes! You have to get that band to stop playing!” Arthur Malin demanded. “This is a disgrace! You have to talk to the Shammanovs!”
“Arthur, I tried—”
“Try again!” Arthur shouted, scandalized. “Get Delilah to talk to them!”
Chaim looked around for her. She was in the center of the dance floor, clapping. “Delilah,” he hissed, taking her arm.
She turned around and looked at him. “Isn’t this great?”
“What’s the matter with you? It’s a desecration of the Sabbath!”
“Why?”
“Because they are playing music!”
“But they’re not Jewish! They can play!”
“No, they can’t! Jews aren’t allowed to pay people to work for them on the Sabbath. Everyone has to have a day of rest. Arthur Malin is furious.”
“Arthur Malin has five maids who work for him on the Sabbath on a regular basis! All of these people have maids who work for them on the Sabbath. And besides, aren’t the waiters working? Aren’t the sailors who are running the boat working?”
“That’s different!”
“Why?”
“It’s—” He suddenly felt his head swim. He had to talk to Viktor again. To explain. He looked around for him, but his host was now in the center of an impenetrable knot of dancers, sitting on his haunches and kicking out his feet as he balanced bottles of beer on his head. Right next to him was Delilah.
He turned around, dizzy, groping his way toward the bar. “Double scotch,” he said. He held the glass in his unsteady hand as he weaved his way through the long halls back to his cabin. He unlocked the door and looked in on his sleeping son.
“You can go now, thanks,” he told the au pair. “I’ll watch him.” Then he stumbled to the veranda. The night air was mild and cool. He sat down in a deck chair, gulping down the liquor, watching the dark waves as they carried him farther into the night.
The next day, the guests, hung over and exhausted, dressed in their good suits, their pastel hats, their custom wigs, their spike-heeled Jimmy Choos, their diamond earrings and brooches, made their way to the ballroom-turned-synagogue to witness the Bar Mitzva of Anatoly Shammanov.
All eyes were on Delilah, who was dressed in a pink brocade suit. She sat next to Joie, who wore a little black dress and a diamond-and-onyx necklace that looked like the Crown Jewels and cascaded down her generous cleavage like a waterfall inside a cave. A pashmina, brought along because Delilah had advised her friend that cleavage in the synagogue freaked out the rabbi, lay forgotten in her lap. Delilah didn’t notice. She was totally preoccupied with examining the truly amazing creation on Joie’s head: a hat with a large stylized horsehair flower and striped coque feathers.
“Love the hat!” Delilah whispered.
“Thanks! Love yours,” Joie giggled.
Anatoly mounted the steps that led to the bimah, stepping up to the plate, as it were, to read the scripture of the week from the Haftarah. Unlike the whiz kids who read the entire Torah portion from the unvoweled and unpunctuated scrolls of the Torah, all he had to do was remember to read the transliterated Hebrew words of a short selection from the Prophets to the tune he’d been taught.
Chaim stood next to the child, wondering which of them was more nervous.
Anatoly cleared his throat. Then he began:
Omigod. She saw Chaim wipe beads of sweat off his brow as he whispered to the boy, probably feeding him every incoherent word. At this rate, it was going to take hours. She slid down in her seat, casting nervous glances at Joie. But Joie was just looking at the boy with a fixed smile on her face, and was that—could it be—a yawn? Delilah exhaled. As long as no one broke down in tears, or ran away, or admitted defeat, it would be fine.
Joie leaned in and whispered. “It’s a shame his mother didn’t come.”
Delilah looked around the packed room, surprised there could be anybody left behind in the Ukraine. “Why isn’t she here?”
“Because she’s a bitch. Besides, she’s not Jewish, so all this upsets her. I mean, she had him baptized in the Greek Orthodox Church when Viktor wasn’t looking.” Joie grimaced. “Can you imagine? Viktor hit the ceiling, of course. He put the kid’s head under a faucet and washed it off. ‘He’s my son, and he’s a Jew, like me!’ he told her.”
Delilah swallowed hard, looking up at her husband, who stood sweating next to the boy at the bimah. According to Jewish law, a person was the same religion as his mother, not his father. “So he was converted, right? Anatoly, I mean?”
“Co
nverted? Why? His father is a Jew. Anyhow, the rabbi who converted me said it wasn’t necessary.”
Delilah stared at her husband, standing with his arm around the Bar Mitzva boy, a Greek Orthodox Christian.
Forty-five excruciatingly long minutes later, the torture finally ground to a halt. The child was pelted by candies, and finally, finally, the fun could begin in earnest, as soon as the pesky restrictions of the Sabbath day were over. But first, they had to sit through Chaim’s sermon. Delilah leaned back, sighing.
Chaim walked up to the podium. He coughed, then wiped his glistening forehead with a tissue. “When the Jews were in the desert, God asked them to build a tabernacle. Not because God needed a sanctuary. After all, God is everywhere. No, He asked it of us, because He knows the limitations of human beings. He gives us the sun, and what does He ask of us? To light a candle. A measly little candle. That’s all.”
Delilah looked up, suddenly guilt-stricken, the words playing in her head like a familiar tune. She had heard this before.
“But for many, even that is too much. Remember that when you feel the sun on your face every morning, when a healthy, beautiful new child or grandchild is placed in your arms. Remember all God does for you and the little He asks.
“Place yourself at His service, Anatoly, on this your Bar Mitzva day, the day a Jew becomes responsible for his own sins before God. Your parents are absolved. They are not responsible for your sins, and you aren’t responsible for theirs. Now you control your life and your relationship to God. Give Him your devotion. Accept His demands on you.” He hugged the child and motioned for him to sit down. Then he turned to the congregation. “Under His guidance, let us eliminate from our public and private lives every aspect that is not worthy of our relationship with Him. Those who resist God will be shattered.”
Delilah looked around at the startled faces of the audience, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats. What was Chaim doing? she thought, alarmed.
“In the words of the great Samson Raphael Hirsch, joy is only to be found in the advancement of good and right. May your sons step into your place and may you, the parents, be worthy of emulation,” he said pointedly. “Don’t depend on material prosperity to save you, or the approval of other people. The future depends on ethical and dutiful conduct.”
Delilah darted nervous glances at Joie, who stared straight ahead, attempting to suppress yet another yawn. Delilah tried to motion to Chaim to speed it up, but he never even glanced in her direction.
Chaim closed his book and kissed it with reverence. “Anatoly, I congratulate you. May your parents be blessed through you and may you be blessed through them.”
Delilah let herself exhale in relief.
While the prayer service continued, most of the women filed out. They strolled slowly around the deck, waiting for the men to finish so they could go into the dining room and partake of a magnificent kiddush, to be followed by a still more elaborate lunch, whose combined caloric intake would be enough to wipe out famine in a small African village. In the afternoon, they would groaningly fall into bed, sleeping through the numerous, annoying constraints of the Sabbath day until the sun sank into the sea, and the party they had flown halfway around the world to attend could begin.
Delilah found she was too excited to nap.
“Where are you going?” Chaim called after her sleepily.
“I’ll be back soon. I just need to walk some of this food off.”
She closed the door behind her.
“Well, hello,” she heard over her shoulder. She turned. It was Joseph Rolland.
“Oh, Shabbat Shalom,” she said primly. “Where’s Mariette?”
“Now, now, we don’t want to talk about Mariette, do we, Delilah?” He smiled at her, a smile he used confidently, whipping it out and dusting it off like a faithful surgical tool that had performed miracles numerous times, even on the comatose and half dead. Delilah, who had been hoping to run into Mick Jagger or Keith Richards, gave him a respectful nod-to-older-man, which—had it been taped and shown to the morality police—would have proclaimed her innocence.
This surprised and wounded Dr. Rolland, who was used to the magic of his white coat immediately transforming women into eager contestants on the win-a-night-with-Joseph-Rolland game show. It made him feel that he was losing it, that he was getting . . . old. He looked her over, her image suddenly transformed from an amusing dalliance into a seriously important project upon which much depended.
“Mind if I walk with you?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. What could she say?
“You know, I’ve been wanting a few moments alone with you for some time.”
She looked down at her shoes. “Really? Why?”
“Well.” He thought fast. “I don’t think enough people really appreciate how difficult your job is.”
“Oh, that’s certainly true. It’s really nice of you to say so.”
Encouraged, he kept going. “I mean, the constant visitors, the politics, the catering to everyone’s needs. And you are so young! It doesn’t seem fair that those soft fine shoulders should have to bear so much.”
Delilah straightened her back, feeling almost as if he’d caressed her. Where was this leading? she wondered. “No one forced me into it.”
He inhaled, surprised by her resistance. He wasn’t used to working very hard where women were concerned. But he liked a challenge, and his ego was involved, so he was willing to put up with it. “No, no, that’s true. But sometimes our lives take turns that we don’t expect. We drift along until one day, we wake up and find ourselves so far from where we thought we’d be, with so many needs that have gone unmet for so long. . . .” He stopped, his hands gripping the guardrails, as his eyes looked with what he hoped was* mysterious longing off into the sea.
Delilah stood still. Was he for real? Rich, attractive Dr. Joseph Rolland, with the international jet-setting career and the wondrous mansion with its own gazebo, outdoor pool, and tennis courts overlooking the lake, had “unmet needs” that Mrs. Perfect didn’t have a clue about? And he was standing here, opening his heart to . . . her?
She was, above all, flattered. “I know what it’s like not to be understood.”
He turned his full attention to her. “I sensed that in you from the moment I met you. That . . . yearning. That desire for something . . . better, deeper.”
She began to protest mildly. He raised both hands, finding hers. “Sssh. Don’t say anything, Delilah. I’m not asking anything of you. Just to be near you, when I can. To speak to you, when you’ll let me. I’ve never met anyone like you. Don’t try to talk me out of it. We’re like two rivers, you and I, flowing along, and some force of nature has brought us together. There’s something in our souls that are propelling us, making it happen.”
She bit her lip, trying to hide a smile, considering the idea. It was all very well and good and might even be fun, she thought, like some afternoon soap. But quite aside from the whole morality of the thing, the Ten Commandments “adulteresses shall be stoned” issue, she did not want Mariette Rolland as an enemy.
“I am Mariette’s friend,” she murmured.
“And I am her husband and lover and the father of her children. This is much more difficult for me than it is for you.”
Couldn’t argue with that, although something was askew with the reasoning, she understood. “It’s immoral.”
“Morality! God tells the Jews to murder every last person in Amalek, men, women, children, even the cows and sheep. What’s moral about that? A person has to listen to his God-given brains, his heart, not follow rules blindly! I mean, Abraham was willing to slit the throat of his only son. That’s where blind faith leads you. . . . Some things are above morality.”
Now she was thoroughly confused. The willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his only, beloved son when God asked it of him was considered the ultimate test, and Abraham had passed it with flying colors. His willingness was the foundation stone of the Jewish faith. “Abov
e morality? Like what, for instance?”
“Like love, Delilah. Like once-in-a-lifetime, true, take-it-or-leave-it-because-it-won’t-return-again love.” This was his big finale. The title of his hit song. After discreetly surveying the area, he reached out and took her hand in his in wild abandon, pressing it to his heart.
She grabbed it back, massaging it as if it had been injured. “Are you crazy?” she whispered, giggling.
He smiled at her. “I haven’t offended you, Rebbitzin Levi, have I?” He arched his brow.
She glanced at him sideways, in silence.
Going for broke, he reached out and put his hands around her waist. “Please, Delilah. Have mercy!”
Just then, a couple from the shul came jogging around the corner. Delilah turned her back on Joseph Rolland, whose hands fell limply to his sides. “Good Shabbes!” She smiled at them.
“Good Shabbes, Rebbitzin, Dr. Rolland.” They smiled back, not slowing their pace but looking curiously over their shoulders.
Delilah and Joseph stood still, waiting for them to disappear.
“Come with me for a minute!” Joseph whispered to her urgently, taking her by the hand.
“You are insane! What if Mariette sees us?”
“She’s snoring for the next two hours at least. Believe me, I know Mariette.”
She followed him down the stairs into a small private alcove hidden behind a giant potted palm. He sat down, his hands on his knees, then leaned forward, pulling her onto his lap. She smelled his good cologne—she was a sucker for musk—and the dab of something lemony in his hair. A small feeling began in the pit of her stomach, as she remembered her days with Yitzi Polinsky and Benjamin, those sweet, powerful feelings that kept her in a state of drama and excitement, making her feel young, beautiful, and endlessly desirable.
She thought of her husband, also snoring away in bed, and the little boy who was all needs and wants who didn’t see her at all. She thought of Mariette, always so superior, so perfect, and so full of advice, who’d stabbed her in the back with her criticism. She heaved herself up and walked away, back out to the deck, her nostrils flaring as she took deep, heady breaths of the sea air. She felt dizzy, grabbing onto the railing to steady herself. She looked out at the endless sea to where it met the endless sky. She was a tiny mote in the fleeting turnover of creation, insignificant and worthless as dust. Life was so incredibly short, and death so incredibly long. It was startling to her that only a little while ago, she thought Joseph Rolland a lecherous old jerk. And now? She looked up at his face that was close beside her. Here was a man who saved lives. A man who could hold a living human heart in his hands, putting it inside a heartless human being and allowing him to live.
