by Dan Sofer
Ben removed his hands from his face and glared at Dave, the large, repulsive cockroach. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Don’t tell me I’m picky.”
“You are picky but that’s beside the point. Imagine you’re a good-looking, single girl. Would you be interested in a nebekh who doesn’t have the guts to ask you out in person?”
Dave had no sisters. He had attended Hasmonean Boys. His insights into the psyche of the fairer sex derived from acquaintances at the Hampstead Garden Suburb Hebrew Congregation, Bnei Akiva summer camps, and more blind dates than he cared to remember. Hollywood filled in the blanks. But Dave could see where this was going and he would not go down quietly.
“They want to get married, don’t they?”
“True,” Ben conceded. “Marriage. Kids. The whole package. But what else do they want?”
Dave shrugged. “Security?”
“Fireworks, Dave. Romance. A man to sweep them off their feet. They want to fall in love but not with Mr. Nobody. They want the leader of the pack. Mr. Numero Uno. Mr. Top Dog.”
“Mr. Top Dog? You hit your head harder than I thought. What ever happened to ‘just be yourself’?”
“Be yourself. But differently. You can’t sit on the sidelines. You’ve got to put yourself out there.”
“I am out there,” Dave said, louder than he had intended. The plastic curtain rippled behind him and the ventilator quickened its pace.
Why do people always blame the victim? Dave looked at his watch. “Which reminds me. I’ve got Rabbi Levi tonight.”
“Excellent,” said Ben. “Here’s your chance. One telephone number. That’s all I ask.”
“You’re not dying, Ben. You don’t get a last wish.”
“Don’t you dare leave that shul without one new telephone number.”
“What if I don’t fancy anyone?”
“Who cares? Think of it as practice. A game. I wish you’d just read the damned book.”
Dave felt his shoulders tense. The Pickup Artist’s Bible was the only paperback in Ben’s library with more mileage than Josephus. In a moment of despair, Dave had agreed to read it. He had stopped on page two of the introduction.
“Ben. I’m not prowling bars for a one-night stand. I’m looking for a wife, for Heaven’s sake. My soul mate. The woman who will share my life and sit at my Shabbos table.”
“It’s just a foot in the door,” said Ben. “And girls are girls. Give her a reason to get to know you.”
Dave drew a long, frustrated breath. Why did he confide in Ben in matters of the heart? Dave looked at the bouquet of flowers and remembered.
“Hypothetically speaking,” he said, “if I get the number, I don’t have to call it, right?”
“That’s the spirit.” Ben smiled, no doubt anticipating future field reports of humiliation.
Humiliation: the constant in Dave’s life. How had it happened? All his childhood friends were married plus two or three kids. Somewhere along the tracks of life, Dave had derailed.
“Ben, is something wrong with me?”
Ben looked him squarely in the eyes. “You left a civilized Western country to live in the Middle East. You tell me.”
***
Dave’s Ford hatchback gunned down Herzog Boulevard. The light drizzle had faded into the night. In the opposite lane, a steady stream of cars flowed toward Teddy Kollek Stadium. Black and yellow scarves trailed from the windows and horns honked the Morse code of football heathens.
The football gene had skipped over Dave and he hid this aberration like a sixth finger. Only Ben shared the condition; a fact that had solidified their early friendship.
Ben would be back on his feet before long but the break-in cast an ominous shadow. Dave had visited Ben’s office at the COD countless times and, over the years, he had explored every stone ruin, stairway, and tunnel. The archaeological site with its signposts and safety banisters had been, in Dave’s mind, a beacon of normalcy in the sea of short fuses and itchy trigger fingers that was East Jerusalem.
Why would anyone break into the City of David? Dave could not recall any displays of gold or silver. The center’s main attractions included the geological chasm known as Warren’s Shaft, King Hezekiah’s water tunnel, and a rooftop observatory. Although perfect for tour groups and dating activities, the COD offered little of interest to criminal elements.
Dave pressed his foot to the brake when traffic slowed at the intersection of Gaza Street and Ben Zvi.
Vandalism, the papers had written. But bodily assault was not typical of vandalism, however mean-spirited. Had Ben surprised them? Had they panicked? Botched robberies often turned violent.
Dave veered right at the light. Tchernichovsky climbed and meandered into the heart of Katamon.
Palmach. Fighter Pilots. Nili. The Jewish Brigade. Conquerors of Katamon. The street names echoed the struggles of a People returning to its Promised Land. Over the years, the four-story apartment blocks in chunky, white Jerusalem stone—a mix of Jewish slums and Christian-Arab mansions—had accumulated a patina of carbon pollution and a tenancy of students and yuppies, completing the transformation into a hive of Jewish singles.
“One phone number,” Dave said, aloud.
The mantra made his task no less daunting. Dave was fairly sure that weekly Torah lectures with separate seating did not feature prominently in the Pickup Artist’s Bible.
He made a left onto Emek Refaim with its trendy restaurants and boutique stores and then turned right onto Derekh Harakevet, a forgotten back road beside the grassy tracks of a defunct railway. He eased the Ford Focus into the unpaved parking lot outside his apartment building.
Dave’s flat on the first floor comprised a small, square living room, tiny kitchenette, bathroom, and single bedroom.
He threw his shoulder bag onto the foldout couch that had come with the rental along with the ancient fridge, stove, and closet and went straight for the shower, maneuvering past the miniature TV, its low stand, and the rickety coffee table he’d purchased on Janglo, an email list for Jerusalem Anglos. He’d invest in real furniture after he married.
Freshly shaved, he chose an ironed shirt out of the closet when the house phone rang.
“David, darling!” The breathless voice oozed enthusiasm like crude oil. “It’s your mother.”
Dave cringed. His mother, the only person on the planet who called him David, packed her words with subliminal messages. The current subtext read: the prodigal son hasn’t bothered to call his poor mother since the last Ice Age.
Dave lodged the portable receiver between ear and shoulder and buttoned his shirt.
“I know who you are, Mother.”
“How are you?”
“Good. How are you?”
Dave’s mental countdown started. His mother took an average of ten seconds to start poking around his love life.
The toaster oven pinged. Dave had five minutes to gobble his vegetable pâté if he was to get to Rabbi Levi’s on time.
“Going out tonight?” Dave’s mother asked.
Nine seconds.
“Yes,” Dave said, injecting the monosyllable with enough venom to collapse a charging rhinoceros.
“A young lady?”
“No. Just a shiur.”
“Aw, David. When are you going to get married?”
“I’ll be sure to notify the media when I do.”
“I don’t understand why you have to be so picky.” Subtext: crowds of irresistible, eligible girls surround Dave and vie for his attention.
“This isn’t a pair of socks, Mum. It’s marriage. ‘Til death do us part. You want me to be happy, don’t you?”
“Happy?” His mother tittered. Subtext: what a quaint idea. “I didn’t say happy, David, darling. I said married.”
“Mother,” Dave interrupted. Cracks appeared along the dam walls of his patience. “I really have to run.”
“Your father wants to speak to you.”
A short commotion on th
e other end produced a familiar gruff voice.
“Hello, boy. Everything all right?”
“All good. You?”
“Fine. Fine. Need anything?”
“Nope. All under control.”
A muffled conversation. “Your mother says you should try to settle down soon.”
“Will do.”
The telephone changed hands again.
“David,” his mom said, “what ever happened to that lovely girl from London you dated years ago? What was her name?”
Blood fled Dave’s cheeks. Once, he had made the mistake of sharing his dating life with his mother. That’s how certain he had been. He would not repeat the mistake. He could only hope and pray his mother would not remember her name. Dave himself tried never to think of it, never mind utter it out loud.
“Have to go, Mum. Sorry.”
“You should take this seriously, David. You’re not getting any younger.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Dave replaced the receiver in the charger pad.
Little wonder he was still single, given the marital model of his parents. How had his parents ever gotten together? How had they endured thirty-five years?
The phone rang again. Deep inside Dave’s brain stem, something snapped.
“What now?”
“That’s a strange way to answer the phone,” said a much younger female voice.
Dave slumped on the couch. “Sorry, Nat. I thought you were my mother.”
“Ouch,” said Nat, who had met Dave’s mother. Dave had known Nat since Hasmonean Primary and she was his last remaining single friend from London.
“I’ll keep it short, then,” she said. “I’m hosting Friday night and you’re invited.”
“Great,” Dave said. “Thanks.”
One meal down; one to go.
“Wait a minute. Is it going to be one of those Katamon meals?”
“Well, we do live in Katamon.”
“You know what I mean.”
Dave heard Nat inhale. She knew exactly what he meant. Friday night was the time for family, Shabbos songs, and insights into the weekly Bible reading. It did not involve ten random singles drooling at each other and peacocking over infantile conversation.
“You know I only keep the most mature and intellectual of company. They can’t help it if they’re single. What do you have against single people anyway?”
“Nothing,” Dave said: the single person.
“It’s a small meal. Promise. One flatmate. Two select friends.”
Dave hesitated. Two days before Friday night, alternatives to a miserable candlelit dinner for one were fading fast. And Nat knew her way around a kitchen.
“What can I bring to the meal?”
No stranger to bachelor culinary ineptitude, Natalie suggested he buy two large challah loaves.
“Oh, and we’re meeting at Ohel Nechama.”
Dave opened his mouth to protest. Ohel Nechama, also known as The Meat Market, topped Dave’s synagogue avoidance list but he struggled to phrase his disapproval without sounding petty.
“Coming to Rav Levi’s tonight?” Nat asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“No reason.”
***
The Ramban Synagogue on King Amaziah Street reminded Dave of a small, rectangular theater. Rows of pine wood pews formed a large U around the central platform, offering congregants clear views of the Torah altar, the Holy Ark, the congregants in the facing pews, and the women’s gallery upstairs. Dave often wondered what Rabbi Moses Nachmanides, the thirteenth-century commentator and cabbalist, would think of the house of prayer that bore his name.
He pushed through the large pine door at the foot of the synagogue and onto center stage.
During public lectures, the women sat on one arm of the U, and Dave, as he dashed toward the other arm, felt the press of their eyeballs until he found an aisle seat.
Rabbi Levi’s podium stood empty on the platform. The women fell into three categories: retirees in prim hats like inverted baskets, teenagers in long skirts and sleeves, and, the largest group by far, bareheaded single women primped and primed for display.
Dave tried to imagine the view from across the gender divide. What betrayed the single men? The well-scrubbed desperation? The furtive glances?
He scanned the murmuring crowd for the waterfall blond.
The three dark girls in the front row showed promise. Not marriage material—if Dave brought home an Israeli, his parents would disown him—but fair game for Dave’s phone number mission.
The lectures, at least, maintained a semblance of normalcy. For forty-five minutes a week, Dave could pretend his life didn’t revolve entirely around dating. And, if he failed to discover a fresh face, he would still have gained insights into the weekly Torah reading. This was Dave’s hishtadlut, the token human effort required for God’s unfathomable Intervention to kick in.
Natalie entered and shuffled along a central pew. A year ago, she had cropped her hair short, opting for low maintenance and practicality over pandering to male sensibilities. She sat down. Her eyes met Dave’s and she waved her hand discreetly. He returned an equivocal nod. He already had Nat’s number and Ben knew that. But he now had a contact beyond enemy lines. If all else failed, Dave could ask her about the blond.
A cloud of cologne settled onto the seat beside him.
“Hey, Dave,” Mike said.
Although tall, confident, and handsome, the amiable Midwesterner posed no threat. He was five years older than Dave and had a thing for thin Yemenite twenty-year-olds.
Mike placed a Pentateuch on the bookrack along the back of the next pew and scanned the talent.
He ran a hand through his blow-dried blond hair. “Who’s the new girl?” he said. “She’s quite cute.”
Dave followed his line of sight. “Natalie?”
“The English girl? No. Behind her. Eleven o’clock.”
The new girl had a mane of auburn curls, soft facial features, and, Dave had to admit, a certain charm. The leather jacket implied ba’alat teshuva, the starry-eyed newly religious types Dave avoided. Frum-From-Recent or Frum-From-Birth, either way she probably owned a phone.
“Not my type,” Mike said, “but cute.”
The girl touched Nat on the shoulder and they exchanged a few words.
Bingo.
“Made any plans for Shabbat?” Mike asked.
“Nothing special.”
“Great. Jeff found a deal at the Queen of Sheba. He’s driving.”
“Eilat?”
“The one and only. Yitz is in too. We could do with a fourth.”
Dave’s idea of a weekend getaway involved exotic locations and his future wife. In no way did it involve a bungalow shared with three single men. But Eilat offered a refreshing break from Katamon unreality and Dave was still one meal short.
“I’d like to, but I already accepted a dinner invitation.”
Mike jiggled an eyebrow. “What happens in Eilat stays in Eilat. Katamon will still be here when you get back.”
Dave juggled guilt and cowardice. Katamon, on the one hand, with its contrived Shabbat meals and continual reminders of his bachelorhood failure; Eilat, on the other, promised sumptuous buffet meals, single malt whiskey, poker, Perudo, Settlers, water volleyball, girls at the pool, and the spectacle of Mike hitting on the pretty hotel staff.
Dave glanced at Nat in the women’s section and bit his lip.
“OK,” he said. “I’m in.”
“Great, I’ll call you tomorrow with details.”
Dave didn’t have to cancel Natalie straight after the shiur, he decided. He’d call her tomorrow morning.
Rabbi Levi strode into the synagogue and the chatter subsided. The young, clean-shaven rabbi placed his notes on the lectern and faced his audience.
“Vayeh’tzeh Yaakov mi Be’er Sheva,” he read. And Jacob left Beer Sheba.
Every head in the women’s section trained on the rabbi, including Nat, who
now partially blocked Dave’s view of New Girl.
The rabbi spoke a clear and precise Hebrew. Dave understood most of it; Jacob had fled the murderous wrath of his brother Esau to his uncle Laban in Haran, on the pretext of finding a wife.
If he was going to call Nat to cancel anyway, he could ask for New Girl’s number at the same time and avoid the awkward face-to-face. He would need a pretext.
Jacob camped on a hilltop. In his dream, a ladder rose from the earth to the heavens. Angels shot up and down the spiritual highway. When Jacob awoke, he erected a pillar and called it Bet El, the House of God.
He remembered the story from the previous year. He had attended the shiur for over a year now. Each week he hoped to find The One. Each week he returned home empty-handed. Was this hard luck? Or had Dave misplayed his cards, folding out early, waiting for that miraculous perfect hand? Once upon a time, dating had meant excitement and anticipation. The thrill of the hunt. Where had that old Dave gone?
Jacob stopped at a well outside the city. Shepherds waited with their flocks. Then Rachel appeared on the horizon. In a single-handed show of gallantry, Jacob pushed the boulder from the mouth of the well. He ran to Rachel and introduced himself. Then he kissed her and broke down in tears. He worked seven years for her hand in marriage and they flitted by like days, so deep was his love.
Had Dave already met his soul mate? Had he failed to recognize her? In his gap year, he’d studied in an Israeli yeshiva. He’d met Ayelet at the till of her father’s mini-market. The quirky American-Israeli loved all things British. She knew Monty Python’s Dead Parrot Sketch by heart. She printed her number on Dave’s receipt and they spoke every night for weeks. Without warning, he stopped calling her. What was the point? They were nineteen and Dave had registered at London City University.
Then there was Sarah, one of three frum souls in Psychology 101. Slender and graceful as a gazelle in her long dark skirts, Sarah would have made a gentle if not terribly intelligent wife. But Dave dreamed of aliya—of rising up, relocating to the Holy Land, the land of his forefathers, as the Bible commanded—while Sarah clung to her family in Golders Green.
Had karma punished Dave for dropping Ayelet? Should he have been more flexible with Sarah? He didn’t think so. A third flame loomed in Dave’s mind. Dave divided his life into the years before and the years after their meeting like a cataclysmic geological event. By her burning light, Dave’s myriad blind dates, even the Ayelets and Sarahs, fell into shadow. His mother may have forgotten the girl’s name but memories of her had been branded into Dave’s heart and soul. Two years since their brief encounter, he still refused to utter her name.
