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A Note on the Author
From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan
Nazareth, April 1, 2009
Dear Rabbi Cattan,
I’ve followed all of your instructions ever since moving to Israel to breed pigs. I put them in a stilt pen over the sea just like the Hawaiians do. Not a single hoof will touch Holy Ground. Except, of course, if you agree that we should use them to hunt down terrorists. (Incidentally, I saw a photo in the New York Times last month of a soldier from the IDF with a pig on a leash and, frankly, I think it discredits our reputation for being hard-core!).
I have a deep respect for religion, even if I don’t really practice it, and I never meant to upset you.
Also, I found your letter a little harsh, and calling me a “son of a bitch” won’t change the fact that Israeli Jews can’t seem to get enough of bacon or that I sell it to them in a restaurant in Tel Aviv, by the way.
Personally, I don’t eat any since it’s too high in fat for my already high cholesterol. I’m just trying to make a living. If I don’t sell them pig, they’ll just go and buy it from a goy. Eggs and bacon are on the menu and there’s nothing you can do about it. They think it’s elegant, like chicken potpie or frogs’ legs.
What’s the story with pig blood, Rabbi? You remember the brilliant idea to hang blood bags inside city buses so any terrorists who wanted to blow themselves up would be covered in it and made impure? So they wouldn’t get into Paradise with the seventy-two virgins?
If you can manage to get me a contract with the public transport authority, I won’t have to sell any more bacon.
I thought that given your political ideas, which are different from those of other rabbis, and your open mind, you’d understand.
Anyway, I have a million things to tell you that have nothing to do with pig farming, but I know you’re busy, so I won’t take up any more of your time and send you my deepest respect.
Harry Rosenmerck
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, April 3, 2009
Mr. Rosenmerck,
Either you take me for an idiot or you are one. It could be both and you aren’t aware of it. Do you see where I’m going with this?
Mr. Rosenmerck!
Come to my house. We can discuss the Talmud and I will restore the faith you seem to have replaced with commercial, ultracapitalist beliefs. For now, I’m responding to your letter point by point, but briefly, because Passover is coming soon and I have a lot to do.
If everyone reasoned the way you do, there would be no more morality. No more good or bad. The fact that someone else might sell bacon to that restaurant for degenerates, US Aviv, doesn’t absolve you of the sin. If you were in a room with nine other men and a child who was starving to death, the fact that you ate the last piece of bread on the pretext that one of the nine others would have done it anyway does not excuse you: it would be you, YOU, who killed the child.
It’s been a long time since the poor Palestinians who blow themselves up on buses full of schoolchildren believed in anything at all, and even less so in the notion of virgins waiting for them. They’re just trading their lives for a salary that will put a roof over their families’ heads and guarantee they don’t go hungry.
You can keep your pig’s blood. It would be better to take bricks out of the wall that separates us, and not so we can throw them in each other’s faces, but rather to use them to build decent housing for the Palestinians.
Israel doesn’t give a damn about what the New York Times or anyone else thinks. We’re the most hated country on Earth, sometimes justifiably, sometimes because that’s just the way it is. We’re not trying to please anyone or appear to be anyone other than who we are. Your pigs have an unparalleled stench and they are useless to the army.
I’ll be expecting you at yeshiva. We’ll talk.
Wash yourself in grace.
Yours sincerely,
Rabbi Moshe Cattan
From David Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
Los Angeles, April 1, 2009
Dear Dad,
I keep writing despite your silence. To maintain a bond. So I won’t one day find myself standing face-to-face with a stranger who’ll turn out to be my father. So that I don’t forget you.
Are you still mad? Because of that simple announcement? That simple phrase that changes my entire existence but not yours? Yes, I love men. Or “one man,” I should say. I am in love, Dad. Don’t you want to meet the person that makes your own son happy? Don’t you want to talk to me and hear my laugh?
It’s strange, the less I see you, the more I take after you. I look for you in my mirrors. I have your hair. The warmth of your hands in mine, even in winter. I surprise myself by wearing the turtlenecks I hated as a child and that you never went without when we lived in London. I have the same bald patch on my face that you can see now that I’ve grown a beard. I’m enclosing a photo.
I hope you’re enjoying this strange adventure. To think that you refused to let me have a pet! Not even a goldfish! And now you’re a breeder. Do you have anyone working for you? How many pigs do you have? Don’t tell me it’s you who takes care of them. Do you have boots and overalls? Mother tells me you don’t have a phone, but I don’t believe it. I wouldn’t dare call you anyway. Silence hurts less on paper. We’re all separated—Mother, Annabelle, you, and me. You’re a piece of a puzzle on the wrong continent.
David
From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, April 2, 2009
Dear ex-husband who nevertheless remains the father of my children,
I’ll be brief and to the point. You’re a hopeless old schmuck. Your son has written you hundreds of letters and you haven’t answered a single one.
If you could only see the success of his plays on their opening nights—applause that brings down the house. “A genius playwright,” that was the headline in La Repubblica after the performance in Rome last week. But do you think he was smiling? No. Like every evening, he spent the whole performance watching the door instead of the stage, hoping he’d see you walk in.
Yell at him! Have an argument! Anything would be better than your cruel silence!
On the other hand, I want to thank you. I’m invited to all the New York dinners ever since you started breeding pigs. Every time I tell the story, it’s a hit, although I’m not sure it’s doing anything to reduce anti-Semitism!
Sniffer pigs for terrorists. Hahaha! And to think you got me to convert only for it to come to this.
Do you remember our first dinner over barbeque? How to pick up a goy?
Anyway, business is good. I’ve got new, interesting, and lucrative projects. Thank God for that, because with the alimony you give me …
Did I tell you that old goat Marina Duncan got remarried? To a Russian. Not a Jew. Just a Russian. And she had a face-lift. If she smiles, she’s going to crack.
Any news from Annabelle? That’s pretty. “News from Annabelle”—it could be the title of one of David’s plays. She doesn’t tell me anything. I think she’s sad. She’s in Paris, but she’ll be coming back to New York as soon as she gets her damned degree. More than ten years of studying! She goes from an MBA to a doctorate—and for what? Just give us some grandchildren already!
Well, write to your son. His fiancé is charming, by the way. And get a telephone!
Monique
From Harry Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne
Nazareth, April 6, 2009
Dear Monique,
You call that brief? Your letter is two pages long and you drive me nuts.
Harry
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Harry Rosenmerck
Paris, April 10, 2009
I know, long time, no hear—sorry. I was crying, crying my broken little heart out … It’s hard to believe that tears evaporate and go to the same place as the water from the ocean, the rain, and the toilet bowl. I wish there were doctors for heartache. Not psychoanalysts or acupuncturists, no soft-science gurus. Real doctors who would localize the pain and disinfect it. It would sting painfully, but then it would be over. Then they’d cover it with a sort of paste—pink, like candy or marshmallows for toothless children—and the sadness would suffocate instead of me. And the wall would crack and his face would disappear, and mirrors would no longer reflect mine. And I’d pay the heartache doctor; I’d give him anything he asked. Then my lead shoes would stay there in front of the heartache doctor’s office like an abandoned Dutch bicycle. The pink paste wouldn’t erase the heartache—it isn’t about getting rid of it—just turn it into nicer things like memories that make us laugh.
You’re the only one I can talk to about my heartaches. Mom wants to be my friend and David is just too gay. Do you remember the first boy that hurt me? I was four. He liked Esmeralda better. I told him, “I love you, Didier. I want to be your girlfriend.” He answered, “I like Esmeralda better.” That seems to be the story of my life. And there’s an Esmeralda hiding behind every door, just waiting to jump out like some kind of devil.
I went outside the school, without crying, and waited until none of the other kids could see me. Then I blew my nose on your shirt while I told you about my broken heart. You comforted me without saying much. I inhaled a sugared waffle and we sang in the car.
It’s cold here. You’d think spring was never coming back. Maybe it’s waiting for my smile, and I’m waiting for it.
I’m back to my old habits. I’ve been taking pictures all over the place, all the time. I’m enclosing a shot that’s blurry, but I think there’s a kind of magic to it. To me, this photo represents childhood.
How are the pigs? If you had a telephone, it’d be a lot easier, don’t you think? If you die of swine flu (I know, totally random), who’ll let me know?
Sending you kisses,
Your daughter,
Annabelle
From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan
Nazareth, April 12, 2009
Dear Rabbi,
I can’t come to your yeshiva. It’s nothing personal, believe me. It’s just that it took me a long time to get myself a color TV and now it’s hard for me to see life in black-and-white.
They called me a dirty Jew back at school. I was five. I don’t think my mother had mentioned that we were Jewish. I was a little boy—hers—but Jewish? I didn’t know what that was. I wasn’t circumcised so I wouldn’t be identifiable without clothes. I was taught German so I could get by in the enemy’s language and, secondarily, so I could read the philosophers in their original texts. Me, Jewish? Certainly. But obliged to subject myself to your ancestral fears and get caught up with your women in their wigs or your black cassocks and beards that sweat in the heat of the first days of spring? No thanks.
Nevertheless, thank you for the suggestion to wash. Breeding pigs doesn’t make me one; on the other hand, your lack of sensitivity might make you one.
If you’d like to talk pigs or get me in a tefillin, you’ll have to come to me. Or maybe we could meet for coffee in town?
When you make your life about religion, what do you know about life? Do you ever talk about feelings—anger, rage, love, or leaving God out of it?
I doubt it. How boring!
With all my respect, of course,
Harry Rosenmerck
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: April 12, 2009
Subject: From LAX heading to New York
Dear Sis,
You didn’t get your blue-eyed lit professor to divorce? Who was right? How many tears did you cry? Enough to fill a glass or a bathtub? Did you put Band-Aids on your artichoke heart? My play is opening in New York next week and you will be there. That is final. It’s a play about Dad, you know. Yes, I know, I’ve tried everything. Now I’m on to provocation. But I think it’s my best writing yet. We’re putting it on at The Flea, that little theatre where everything started for me. Do you remember when we bought all of the tickets for that opening night because we were terrified the actress would be playing to an empty room? And as a result, we filled it with Granny and her friends from bridge club (or bingo … I can’t remember anymore—some kids’ game)! Now people are fighting to get a seat. It’s good to have events for the happy few. You see? I talk like a real fag now. But only in the emails I send to my sister, so don’t worry. I would have sung you some Barbra Streisand over the phone but, as you may have noticed, you never answer.
Last week I was on a train (I live on planes and trains, where I write new plays that put me on more planes and trains). Two kids were sharing a sandwich and laughing hysterically. The smaller one was trying to eat the bigger one’s portion and the latter was keeping guard with a fork, pretending that he wouldn’t think twice about stabbing his sibling with it. You can’t imagine how hard they were giggling.
Behind me, there was a little boy with his mother and he was devouring a sandwich all for him. Silently. His mother was reading.
I thought to myself: I was lucky to have had you, to pull on your pigtails and, later on, steal your dresses.
Things are happening in my life. I feel like you’ve missed twenty episodes from season five, and I thought I was your favorite series …
I need you, Annabelle.
Kisses,
David
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, April 14, 2009
Dear Mr. Rosenmerck,
I see that I’ve offended you by asking you to wash yourself and, for that, I ask your forgiveness. I won’t insist on having you come to the yeshiva so I can put you in your tefillin. As you know, our religion doesn’t proselytize, and even less so to those who are already Jewish. (Are you really if you aren’t circumcised? I’ll have to ponder that question.)
Come and see me, Mr. Rosenmerck. I cannot come to you. It is forbidden for me to go anywhere near pigs.
Sincerely,
The Rabbi of Nazareth
Moshe Cattan
From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan
Nazareth, April 16, 2009
Dear Sir Rabbi,
I’m sorry to hear that a tiny piece of skin hidden in my underwear might prevent me from being one of the chosen people. You know, I’m a nice guy even if I do like ham. Sacrilege!
Did you know that you’re going to be a celebrity to the young, trendy generation of Tel Aviv? That letter full of insults you sent to the US Aviv restaurant has been laminated and is being used for place mats. And on the menu next to the eggs and bacon, it says, “This dish has been recommended by Rabbi Moshe Cattan.”
Because stories transform over time, maybe someday they’ll call the dish “Cattan Eggs”?
One last thing: why in the hell should I have to come to you?
With all my respect,
Harry Rosenmerck
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to David Rosenmerck
Paris, April 18, 2009
My dearest David,
There’s something I’ve never been able to tell you about and it’s haunting me.
What were you doing on September 11th? You remember, of course. Everyone remembers. Everyone experienced it in their own way. One thought it was an action movie, another had a cousin in the tower, this one was at home, frozen and speechless.
And me. What about me, David?
Remember how all three of you tried calling me to no avail until Mom was crying and screaming to the point of making herself sick?
I was probably climaxing when the towers fell. Getting my jollies under the body of a married man forty years my senior. The world was discovering that it was mortal as a whole, and me, how bizarre aging cocks look
ed encircled by white pubic hair. That was the first time. He spent months convincing me. Not to sleep with him, but to betray his wife. I’d run into her several times. She was a professor, too. A pretty, dry woman with piercing blue eyes. It was like she could read everything in us. She looked so straight, terribly moral. She gave me the chills. He was the one cheating on her, but it was my morality I was cutting a notch in.
September 11th. We spent the whole day in the sack. We’d used a long conference in New York as an excuse. Our loved ones kept trying to reach us in vain. He admitted to me later that he’d used Viagra. He was like a teenager craving my body, or a vampire sucking all of my youth while I thought he was giving me strength.
We were careless and we came out guilty. It was the room service waiter who told us. It must have been about 7 p.m. He came to the door trembling and dropped the plate of spaghetti Bolognese that Andrew had ordered. “Sorry, it’s the news.” “What news?” And the little waiter turned on the television. I was coming out of the bathroom wearing a bathrobe, and the towers came crashing down on my convictions.
I didn’t have a cell phone back then. While Andrew listened to the dozens of messages from his wife and children, I was frantically dialing your number. You were all together—Dad, Mom, and you—when I told you I was fine, and you started crying.
It’s strange how human beings confuse the world’s stories with their own. How megalomaniacal we are, even in moments of horror. I felt responsible for the towers. As if my decadence, my cries of pleasure drowned out those of the people who were falling to the pavement. My breasts on the chest of a married man—as if all of that were part of the disaster.
So I thought to myself, “I’m in love with Andrew.” Without that, I’d have thought of myself as dirty and disgusting. I needed to transform my day of discovery and selfishness into a day of love. And I’ve dragged this guilt around for all these years.
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