by Ragen, Naomi
Those hands, those wondrous hands, had touched her own. He wanted her. Loved her. He saw something in her that was worthwhile, a prize to be attained. She felt desired in a way that she had not felt for a very long time.
Inside, the raw unruly pull of passion slugged it out with reason, while all the while in the corner of her mind she was aware of Joseph’s puzzled face close beside her, waiting.
She didn’t want this to be like the others. She wanted something real out of this. Something serious and life-changing. She had to be sure that’s what he wanted too.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything, my sweet.”
“If I say no, will you just go on to your next conquest?”
He was startled. He hadn’t given it any thought, although that was a pretty fair and accurate description. Still, if it was really fun, he might delay the inevitable.
“Is that what you think of me?” His eyes were tender, full of hurt.
“I’m sorry, Joseph.” She reached up and touched his face. He took her hand, kissing the palm. Instinctively, she curled it into a fist.
She looked over his shoulder into a mirrored column, studying her face. Never had her eyes seemed more lovely and tender. Never had her lips seemed more tempting and desirable. This, this, was what life was all about. The excitement of the new conquest. The ability to test one’s charms. The gift of mesmerizing and alluring.
Chaim treated her like he did one of his congregants: He paid attention to her in the hope that he could solve the problem and send her on her way. Most of the time, all he really wanted was to be left alone in his study to read. Of course, when he got the itch, she was suddenly remembered, or if she’d just come back from the mikva and it was his religious obligation. She didn’t want to be some man’s religious obligation. Not with those eyes. Not with those lips. She wanted someone who would fling the world over the abyss for her. All the novels she had read—Anna Karenina, The Thorn Birds—all the movies she had seen, were swirling through her head. They all made adultery seem funny and charming, exciting and interesting. And the husbands in these books and films were always so dull, so painfully clueless that one couldn’t help feeling sympathy for the free spirit that wandered.
A person can only pretend to be something they’re not for just so long.
Who had said that? Tzippy, she remembered, shuddering a little. Maybe she’d been right. Why should she not be the heroine of her own production? Why should she be stuck in the drab existence that had been forced upon her through no fault of her own when she had the ability, the talent, the looks, the daring, to hand herself another chance, another life?
He moved back. “Can you sneak away tonight? During the party? I know a place—”
“It’s much too dangerous!”
“Life is full of worthwhile dangers, Delilah,” he whispered, prying open her fingers one by one until her palm was once more naked and exposed. He pressed his lips full inside it.
“Not on the boat,” she whispered.
TWENTY-NINE
Saturday night on the calmest ocean in the world, Rabbi Chaim stood outside the magnificent ballroom of a cruise ship, holding a cup of wine in his shaking hands, while two men beside him held a burning candle of twisted wicks and a bag of fragrant spices. As hundreds watched, Chaim closed his eyes and concluded the recitation of Havdalah, the traditional prayer that denotes the end of the Sabbath day and the beginning of a new week: “Blessed be You, God our God, King of the Universe, Who has made a distinction between holy and profane.” He had a feeling the profane would be taking over in record time.
The ballroom doors flung open. Silver lanterns wreathed in white roses hung from birch branches. Trapeze artists flew through the air, turning somersaults and catching each other by the wrists. And who was that on stage? Three voluptuous Black girls wearing . . . well, one couldn’t be quite sure, but something with strands of material and feathers and Lord knows what else, that covered roughly eighteen percent or less of what needed to be covered. They began to sing a song specially written for the Bar Mitzva boy, who was invited onstage. And then, as the child looked on, they began to bump and grind and wiggle their behinds in their signature way, moves that had earned them millions, international fame, and even music awards.
“No, no, no!” Chaim moaned, closing his eyes.
He felt someone hug him. “What’s wrong, Rabbi? You don’t like girls?” Viktor Shammanov grinned cynically, putting his arm around him. His eyes were bugging out of his head, drinking in the girls’ bodies as if they were water and he was dying of thirst. It was then he realized Victor Shammanov was not the man he was pretending to be.
Chaim got up abruptly. “Excuse me.” He weaved his way unsteadily through the crowd, drunk with shame and disappointment and helplessness. The party swirled around him, the serving stations, the huge video screens, the thousands of flowers, the noise from the stage, as one famous act followed another. Was that a white horse? Was that a small elephant? Was that David Copperfield, the magician?
Maybe, just maybe, he could get him to make the whole shebang disappear.
A very skinny, extremely long-haired, vastly tattooed guitarist was jumping up and down in black leather pants. The drums were something out of deepest Africa. And the guests, his congregants? They were all out on the dance floor, gyrating and bumping and grinding. There was one in particular, some blond bimbo in a really tight gown, her hair whipping from side to side as she shook, and wriggled, and boogied, practically lap-dancing her partner right on the dance floor. Who was she with? Could it be Dr. Rolland? He was also going wild . . . and the woman was definitely not Mariette. Chaim moved closer, angling for a better view.
No. It just couldn’t be! He found a chair and collapsed into it, putting his hands over his face and feeling the blood rush into his head in shame and humiliation. Without another look, he got up and walked quietly back to his cabin.
“I can go now?” the babysitter asked, before he opened his mouth. He nodded, and she took off like a homing pigeon, thrilled, to find the source of the vibrating booms that filled the ship. Maybe she’d enjoy it, he thought, and he could claim that as a good deed when he stood before God and was grilled on how he could have let all this happen.
Like Aaron facing Moses just after the Golden Calf debacle, he thought desperately of some way to exculpate himself and transfer the blame, something along the lines of “What could I do, Moses? You know what these people are like. All I did was throw the gold into the fire, and oops, out came a calf!”
Not particularly convincing, was it? he thought, ashamed to face God.
And as Chaim Levi sat there in the dark, rocking his baby son in his arms, looking out at the dark sea for answers, many thoughts went through his head, many questions. Like chemical elements poured into a beaker, disparate ideas began to churn and fizzle and send up strange odors.
He thought about Benjamin. How strange a coincidence it had been that he lived in the same building with his grandfather’s chiropractor. And how, after his grandfather’s stroke, he never once telephoned or even paid a shiva call, simply vanishing. How Delilah had wanted him to go to the theater with her that night, and how she had come home so late and acted so strangely. He thought about the color in his grandfather’s cheeks when Delilah walked into his hospital room, and how he had tried to sit up and pull out his tubes. How old Mrs. Schreiberman had physically attacked his wife and had to be hospitalized. And how Delilah had met the woman on the subway while she was sitting next to Benjamin, and how nervous she had been about it.
The ideas sloshed around in his head, bubbling, congealing, and changing colors as they began to react.
“Delilah, have you seen the rabbi?” Joie asked.
For the first time that evening, Delilah looked around for her husband.
“I don’t see him.”
“Can you find him, please? Viktor has a spectacular surprise for everyone, but he wants the rabbi to be there! Hurry.
”
Delilah didn’t ask any questions. She wandered through the ballroom, then finally went back to their cabin.
As she opened the door, she saw the back of his head.
“Chaim?” She walked around. He had the baby in his arms. His eyes fluttered open. “Joie sent me to get you. Viktor has some important announcement to make and he wants to be sure you’re there. Put the baby down and come. Where’s the au pair?”
He didn’t move.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Do you love me, Delilah?”
She stared at him. “How much have you been drinking?”
“Just answer me. For once in your life, tell me the truth.”
She studied her nails. “I had your son, didn’t I? I became a rebbitzin, didn’t I?”
“Answer me!”
Oh, gee whiz, what now? “Chaim, I love you. Now, can we please just go back to the party? The entire ship is waiting for us.”
“You don’t, do you? I think I always really knew that, deep down. You think I’m ridiculous. I bore you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I saw you out there on the dance floor, with Dr. Rolland.”
Uh-oh. She tossed her head. “Dr. Rolland? So?”
“So? So a woman who loves her husband wouldn’t dance with another man that way.”
“Oh, grow up! I was just having a little fun!”
“I know all about it, Delilah.”
“It?” For some reason, she started to get nervous.
“Yitzie Polinsky.”
Her jaw dropped. Oh, boy. “There’s nothing to know.”
“Josh told me all about it before we were married.”
“What? That sanctimonious piece of—!”
Chaim smiled sadly. “I was also angry at him. I didn’t want to know.” He looked into her eyes. His face was somber. “I don’t care about that, Delilah. You didn’t know me then. You were single. I want to know about Benjamin.”
Her face went white. “Benjamin?”
“Why didn’t he come to pay a shiva call? You knew him so well. He took the train with you every morning—”
“Oh, I get it. It’s the old Schreiberman subway business! You’re mad so you are bringing up ancient history. Is that it?”
“I went to see her, Delilah.”
“Schreiberman? In the mentally challenged ward?”
“She told me some things that don’t sound so crazy. That make everything fit together.”
She inhaled, wondering what part to play. Outraged and Insulted? Hurt? Amused? (Harder to pull off but infinitely more fun as a part, she thought.) She decided on Innocent-Until-Proven-Guilty.
“You know, the Torah says if a person makes accusations, they have to back them up with facts.”
“Oh, it would be easy to back up. All I have to do is find out if you really worked late that night. All I have to do is call your boss when we get back.”
There went Innocent-Until-Proven-Guilty. “You wouldn’t embarrass me by doing that!”
He looked at her shocked face. “Are you sure?”
She took a deep breath. “Look, Chaim, I can see you’re upset. And you probably have every right to be. I agree with you that we need to have a long talk. But please, the Shammanovs are waiting. It’s going to be humiliating for them if we don’t show up soon. Please, please, can we just talk about all this later? After all, they haven’t done anything to deserve being embarrassed in public.”
“They’ve embarrassed themselves with this ridiculous, tasteless display of excess.”
“Chaim, promise me you won’t hurt their feelings? They’re my friends!”
He thought about it. He got up and handed her the baby. He straightened his tie and tapped the top of his head with his cupped palm, checking that his skullcap hadn’t slid off. He tucked in his shirt and buttoned his jacket and then, without turning around to look at her, walked out of the cabin.
Realizing the au pair had probably been let go for the night, Delilah groaningly put the baby down in his carriage, praying he wouldn’t wake up and ruin her evening. Then she wheeled him into the banquet hall.
“There khe is!” Viktor boomed when Chaim walked in. “Rabbi, please, please, come up khere!” Viktor waved enthusiastically. “I vant to tell you, every one of you, I luff this man. Khe is a true friend. Khe take my son, my Anatoly, teaches him. Khe brings me khonor, pride, brings me back my grandfather’s kheritage.” He pounded his chest. “I am Jew. I am proud! Thank you, Rabbi!” He gave Chaim a bear hug.
“You’re welcome,” Chaim gasped.
“And my Joie, where is my Joie? And Delilah? Where is Delilah?” He motioned urgently for them to join him onstage. “I have announcement. In honor of son’s Bar Mitzva, I build for Svallo Lake new synagogue. Not like tepee, like palace! I build new house for rabbi—beautiful house, with swimming pool. Until is ready, I give you extra house on Uspekhov for synagogue! Khere, I khave surprise.”
The lights dimmed, and a huge screen was lowered. “Khere it is!”
The crowd gasped as the screen projected the image of a magnificent synagogue about three times the size of their present one. There were landscaped grounds and a sculpture garden. The screen flashed pictures of the new social hall, which looked like the lobby of the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. He pounded his chest. “No donations! No fund-raising. I do this myself, for Grandfather!” Wild applause rang out. Confetti fell from the ceiling and the boom of a fireworks display lit up the windows with magenta and orange.
Delilah looked at the plans for her new house as they flashed on the huge screen, thrilled. Again and again, the drawings of the new synagogue, the banquet hall, the landscaped grounds flashed on, almost hypnotically. There was a moment of mass hysteria, as the drunk, exhausted crowd applauded and applauded and applauded until their fingers felt numb. Chaim looked around. Arthur Malin, his rage at Sabbath desecration forgotten, clapped along with the rest. Then Viktor took the microphone in hand once more.
“And vun more thing: I khave Superbowl tickets for all men. You come as guest of Viktor Shammanov. New England Patriots vill vin!”
A shout arose from the luxurious deck as it plowed into the calm waters of the night, a cry of surprise and awe the likes of which had not been heard on a cruise ship since the Titanic.
THIRTY
Back home in Swallow Lake, Chaim and Delilah settled the baby and unpacked their suitcases. They felt hung over, exhausted, and emotionally drained. Both were eager to avoid conflict. Ever since the Bar Mitzva banquet, they had been polite and distant, like bus passengers thrown together on a crowded Greyhound going from New York to California, wishing only to travel along pleasantly without additional stress.
Chaim had no time to deal with his personal life, because members of the synagogue had been calling him nonstop ever since Viktor’s dramatic announcement, wanting to hear him gush about what a saint Viktor Shammanov was.
“I mean, it’s just wonderful, don’t you think?” rich accountants and lawyers and businessmen would blather through the phone lines, the same way those who had been to the Bar Mitzva had done in person on the plane all the way home from Hawaii.
“Well, it certainly is a generous offer that we should consider” had been his usual cautious answer.
This infuriated his listeners.
“Consider? What’s to consider? A billionaire falls into our laps and wants to redo our shul, saving us millions; what’s there to think about?”
“Well, first of all, do we really need a new synagogue?”
This incensed them even more. “We’ve been saying for years that the social hall is tiny. And the kitchen—no decent caterer would set foot inside it! Why should we look a gift horse in the mouth?”
Ask the Trojans, Chaim thought. But all he said was, “Well, I’m sure that the board will make the right decision. It’s not up to me. I’m only the rabbi, after all.”
“But Rabbi, with a
ll due respect, I just don’t understand! You and the rebbitzin should be thrilled! After all, you are the ones who brought the Shammanovs into the community! You introduced them and made them feel at home! None of this would have happened if not for you! Besides, hasn’t he also promised to build you a new house?”
Something in those words, meant as praise, struck Chaim like a blow. He took a deep breath. “Perhaps we shouldn’t accept such a generous gift. There are so many worthy causes that need support: terror victims in Israel, handicapped children, the poor, the aged. Just because there are resources to buy something doesn’t mean one should buy it. Perhaps we should redirect Mr. Shammanov’s generosity elsewhere.”
At this point, the questioner usually gave up, exasperated, casting baleful and uncomprehending looks at the telephone or the rabbi, as the case might be, followed by an explanation of some unexpected and urgent reason to end the conversation.
Chaim locked himself in his study, writing furiously. He must write the sermon of his life, he exhorted himself. He must bring some sanity back to this community, before it drowned in its own Olympic-sized ego. Patiently, he sieved through the sources.
Was a man permitted to live excessively if he could afford it? Judaism, he found, was not in favor of asceticism. The Rambam had said, “No one should, by vows and oaths, forbid to himself the use of things otherwise permitted.” In the Talmud it was written, “In the future world, a man will have to give an accounting for every good thing his eyes saw, but of which he did not eat.”
