Holy Lands
Page 4
Are you at Dad’s yet? I can’t believe he’s a pig farmer. It’s bizarre to me. He doesn’t talk to me anymore and doesn’t answer my letters. I feel like a kid somebody made up an incredible story for so they didn’t have to tell me my father is dead. Send me proof of life!
It’s pretty quiet here. The telephone doesn’t ring as much. The reviews were horrible. It was bound to happen … They destroy what they create. I was a big ball of yarn and now they’re pulling the string in the other direction … When I’m no more than a piece of string full of knots, they’ll wind me back into a nice ball again. Or not …
Who cares! I’m enclosing one of the reviews—lethal, but so well written. I want to seduce the journalist. Yes, a strange turn-on, I admit. Go outside, live! I want to meet you in Tel Aviv, in Paris, or somewhere else, with rosy cheeks.
Your brother,
David
Kosher Pork
by Zach Frederick
Last night, I attended the New York premiere of the latest play by the young but nevertheless dramatic writer David Rosenmerck. The feigned conviviality of happy friends spoiled by fate surrounded the few journalists who were hand-picked to assess the work.
Far from relaxing me, the conviviality stained me. One of those greasy, thick stains that you can never get out. One would have thought that the members of the audience had made a preshow pact to laugh and cry over the fate of the play’s hero, played by Robert Etrica encased in jeans so tight he couldn’t walk. Perhaps he was given electric shocks at the appropriate moments, because for me, there was no joy, no pain—except for the future of American theater—and having not received advance notice, I didn’t know when to laugh.
As for Etrica, perhaps he is right for this role after all. Rosenmerck, whose directorial debut will be his death sentence, thought it best to have him perform with his back turned almost entirely to the audience.
From: moniqueduchene@yahoo.com
To: Annabelle.rosenmerck@mac.com
Date: May 14, 2009
Subject: The Jewish mother is coming out
Annabelle,
This brief email is to tell you that your father is worried and also because we didn’t really get a chance to talk while you were in New York. We’ve never really gotten a chance to talk. I don’t know where to start with you. You intimidated me even when you were little. You seemed to know everything better than I did. And I truly believe that to be the case.
Perhaps we won’t get a chance to talk, but I would like to tell you things: that I love you, that I’m proud of you, and that I hope to see you in love. Enjoy your father.
I love you very much,
Mom
From: Annabelle.rosenmerck@mac.com
To: moniqueduchene@yahoo.com
Date: May 16, 2009
Subject: Re: The Jewish mother is coming out
Mom,
Are you sick and hiding it from me or is this just menopause?
We don’t have to talk for me to know that you love me. That you love me too much. That your love smothered us—me and David—to the point of not needing to love anybody else.
I’m not going to Dad’s until tomorrow.
I don’t check my emails every day. I’ve been captured by Tel Aviv and the country I’ve been running from for years. What wealth! What creativity! And the people are so beautiful. All of the different combinations. That’s what is astonishing here—the interbreeding. The opposite of what you would expect. There is nothing monotheistic about this place, and the look of the soldiers doesn’t make you want to be monogamous either.
Still, I dream of making you happy and falling in love. How does that happen, Mom? And what if it never happens to me? I’m talking about those reciprocal, healthy loves. The ones you see in well-lit advertisements. That exists, doesn’t it? All the men I ever loved were either unavailable or didn’t love me back. The only thing I’ve gotten from love is burned.
I love you, too,
Annabelle, who knows everything
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, May 17, 2009
My dear Harry,
Most people agree that the prohibition of pork in religions, and in ours in particular, has to do with the question of hygiene. But I have another theory. Pigs are a lot like us. When that plane crashed in the Andes and the survivors had to feed on the cadavers of their fellow passengers to survive, they said that they tasted exactly like pork. I imagine you’ve seen quite a few piglets on your farm. Have you noticed how closely they resemble our own babies? There’s something troubling about that. I don’t think we should eat an animal that eats its own feces, trash, anything—including its own kind—so that we don’t end up like it. So that we can preserve what we call our “humanity.”
Western societies have done the same thing with dogs and cats, but no one seems to be conscious of the fact that it’s the same kind of prohibition! In the collective subconscious, not eating pork often symbolizes being Jewish. We don’t eat shrimp, horse, or snails, either, and we don’t turn on lights on Saturday. But what most often defines us is the exclusion of pork from our diets. Incidentally, I say the word “pork” rather a lot for a rabbi—most of us don’t even put it in writing. To avoid naming it in the Talmud, we say “davar acher,” which means something else, “another thing.”
Despite the long list of things forbidden to Jews in Deuteronomy, Christians had forgotten about everything but davar acher by the Middle Ages. They wrote stories in which Jews ate pork and were executed for it. Even worse, the medieval anti-Semites used pork, little by little, to symbolize Jews. Sometimes it was an illustration of Jewish children suckling a sow, or eating its shit. And that continued right up to the Nazi propaganda. It was a heinous charge: “You don’t eat pigs because that is what you are …”
This is something—at last!—that we can agree on with our Muslim cousins. Stop this pig farming and open another cardiology practice!
Your friend,
Moshe
From: moniqueduchene@yahoo.com
To: david.rosenmerck@gmail.com
Date: May 17, 2009
Subject: Tomorrow
David,
I can’t manage to get a hold of you.
I’m sorry, but I have to cancel our lunch tomorrow. I fainted this afternoon and the doctor asked me to come in. Nothing serious, don’t worry. I’ve been on a diet and must have taken it a little too far …
The result: Elisabeth has invited me to stuff myself at Le Bernardin next week. Hmm … roasted chicken at the price of gold. That should do me some good.
Love,
Mom
p.s. I pressed your clothes. Everything is ready for you.
From: Annabelle.rosenmerck@mac.com
To: david.rosenmerck@gmail.com
Date: May 17, 2009
Subject: Daddy’s girl
Dear gay brother,
I left Tel Aviv yesterday to go see Dad, but I made a detour to Bethlehem. You know, where we once celebrated Christmas in a life-sized Nativity scene with thousands of people. I’m looking at that Nativity scene right now—cut in two by a never-ending block of cement. I wanted to see this wall—to see if it really existed. I’ve never felt so bad, David. I’m ashamed that we’ve done this because it’s us, in front of the entire world. Us, the Jews.
The Israelis call the wall gader ha’harfrada, which in Hebrew means “a fence of separation.” The Palestinians call it jidar al-fash al-unsuri, which can be translated to say “a wall of racial segregation.”
Over eighty percent of Israeli society supported the construction of the wall. The same people who can never agree with each other! This is the most fractured country in the world! But they came to an agreement. On what? A wall! Imagine the kind of desperation it takes for a population that has only ever experienced rejection and xenophobia to agree on exclusion.
I rented a car and sat in it for three hours, immobile, at a border crossing while the line next to mine moved forward at a regular
pace. For no reason. Just to show that they were all-powerful, a few pimply faced Israeli soldiers were humiliating women, old people, and strong men, all with indifference. The atmosphere is oppressive. I’m so sad. When I finally got to the barrier, the guy didn’t let me pass. He asked me what I planned to do “in the others’ place.” I said, “Just see.” He said that I might not be able to get back into Israel after, so I got scared. I stayed in front of that wall and cried. A female soldier addressed me with an aggressive tone. I explained to her that I’d come there as a child and that we’d look far off into the distance. Now it’s as if the future were dead. She told me that the idea for the wall came after the attack in June of 2001—a Palestinian kamikaze blew himself up in front of a nightclub in Tel Aviv, killing more than twenty people, most of whom were high school students who were just going there to make out. Do you remember? When someone suggested the idea of a wall, everyone jumped on it. We use whatever piece of tissue we can find to wipe away tears, but this one blinded them. “Yes, it’s true, there are a lot fewer terrorist attacks,” the guard said. “It works, but we’re suffocating, too.” She told me that sincerely. “We never dream about tomorrow in Israel. We know that we’re mortal. But we try.”
I don’t care about her pain or her toughness. I don’t want the country that represents us to be a sealed tomb. I want to break down this wall, blow it up into pieces. I’d like a child’s magic marker to draw a door in the wall and open it—and have the entire wall collapse like Legos. Boom. But it’s impassable. Where are the hippies? Isn’t there a young generation that wants peace? It’s easy to say, I know. Jews came here to stop being victims, but we can’t seem to manage it.
The Berlin wall was built to prevent people from leaving. The Israeli wall prevents people from getting in.
We’re like children snickering, hidden in a cupboard while the big game of hide-and-seek is going on. We’ve blown it before the start.
I took the road back to Nazareth. What a land of contrasts—from the back of that boy to the faces of the soldiers, and those lines of desperate people paying for the actions of terrorists. They call them “resistants.” It’s like with the wall—everything is a question of terminology.
Do you remember our picnic at Tiberias, near the lake? And us, with our horrible plastic shoes so we could walk on the rocks? Jellies—isn’t that what we called them? The heat of that day—it’s one of the first sensations I can remember.
Love,
Annabelle
From Harry Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne
Nazareth, May 17, 2009
Monique,
Our daughter has arrived. She’s fine, thanks.
I suppose I can explain some things to you now. Before, it would have been complicated—not because I was afraid to, but probably because I didn’t understand it myself. Like the storyline of a film that you don’t get until the end.
I remember those few days perfectly. And yet, they’re like a dark stain in my life. You’re not far from the truth when you mention adultery. I was supposed to go away with a woman. She was married, too. We’d been circling each other for a while—I wasn’t especially attracted to her, but she excited me. She made me feel desirable. And I’d never felt that way. You loved me, so I made love to you. It wasn’t unpleasant, but I didn’t feel like you really wanted me, like you wanted to lose yourself in me. Anyway.
We had a rock-solid excuse to go away for a night and a day so we could stay in a little hotel upstate—without the need for any equipment other than a mattress neither of us had used for our respective conjugal slumber.
Her son got an ear infection, so she canceled. I’d already hit the road and was calling to say I’d be waiting for her. I stood there for a long time, staring at the handset in the telephone booth where I’d stopped. It was a gas station in the Catskills. The plan was for me to call you and announce a medical emergency or some heart attack that required emergency surgery. But the whole thing went under, and, by the way, it started to rain.
I stayed in that phone booth for a long time. Maybe a minute—maybe an hour? In any case, it felt like a long time. All the exhaustion of my life came crashing down on me.
I got back in the car and drove all the way to the hotel, robotically, without thinking about the consequences, without considering the possibility of you or the children being worried. I was happy she didn’t come. What would I have done with her? Suddenly, even sex disgusted me.
I went to bed and slept. I must have turned on the TV, called for room service. I remember being totally lethargic. After a few days under anesthesia, I finally opened the curtains. Outside, on the gravel of the hotel parking lot, there was an elderly couple. The woman was holding her husband’s hand tightly since he was having trouble walking. There was a lot of love in their gestures. The sun burned my eyes. I’d been in the dark for days.
And without formulating anything in my head, I suddenly pictured the end of my life—our old age. I never would have imagined that we would not grow old together, that other lives awaited me.
How could I have explained this interlude to you? In the movies, it would have been a simple fade-to-black. Thank you for not saying anything to me when I came back home.
Judging from our daughter’s face, her fade-to-black must have had a nice smile.
Love,
Harry
From Harry Rosenmerck to Rabbi Moshe Cattan
Nazareth, May 19, 2009
Dear Moshe,
Thank you for the course in porkology. (Do we say that?)
I had a good laugh. Man, you’re a smart one!
There is one thing that you certainly don’t know and that is that our cousins the pigs have hearts that are compatible with our own. And a few years ago, I witnessed the grafting of a pig’s alveolus onto the lungs of a child.
Anti-Semitism will always find roots, you know, with or without seeds!
But the Three Little Pigs continue to whistle in the forest. I’m like them. I’m not afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.
I told my friend Hassan what you said. I asked him what he thought about it. Why is pork forbidden to Muslims? “Why? Because God wanted it that way!” he answered, before adding, “Only you, the Jews, ask yourselves all of these questions.”
And he’s right. Even you, sir, my good friend, dearest rabbi, aren’t satisfied with simply believing. You’re looking for a reason. And so, despite everything, deep down inside, you—like me—know it’s all a load of crap.
Harry
New York State Office of Children and Family Services
Capital View Office Park
52 Washington St.
Rensselaer, New York 12144
Mr. David Rosenmerck
143 West 46th St., Apt 5D
New York, NY 10036
Re: Your application to adopt
File 89008865336
May 19, 2009
Dear Sir,
Upon review of your file, I regret to inform you of the rejection of your application to adopt.
Despite your numerous positive qualities, we do not feel that you are able to provide a child with a stable home.
Yours sincerely,
Jennifer Raven
From Rabbi Moshe Cattan to Harry Rosenmerck
Nazareth, May 21, 2009
Dear Harry,
I just want to tell you that I met the piece of work (who, despite looking like one, isn’t a rabbi!) selling those trips to the land of suffering.
Would you believe he drives an Audi convertible?
The exploitation of our memorials seems to be a profitable business. And after the success of Mecca-Cola, our friends on the other side of the wall are selling Muslim Up Lemonade! The laughs aren’t over, believe me.
Moshe
(The real rabbi)
From Annabelle Rosenmerck to Monique Duchêne
Nazareth, May 22, 2009
Mom,
I cannot wait for you to receive this letter. I’m stuck here, without a te
lephone and no network.
You’ll never guess! I was walking around Dad’s big house earlier. We can say taking a walk because he bought a kibbutz where twenty people were living! It’s like a Texan estate. I was curious about a room that always stays closed. The other night, I saw him hiding the key—he looked like a child. I pretended not to notice and, of course, waited for him to leave so I could take it …
This morning he went to see his friend the rabbi. Yes! He has a rabbi friend he plays chess with and discusses pigs and false rabbis and I don’t know what else. See how I draw out the suspense? No, Dad isn’t Blue Beard, but the room is a kind of museum dedicated to David. You wouldn’t believe it. Sixty square meters with newspaper articles all over the walls. His works in every language. Tickets for his plays from all over the world … Dad’s like a deranged fan.
Mom, I’m begging you, don’t tell David. I’m only telling you because I don’t know who else to tell. If I tell Lawrence, David will no doubt feel betrayed. I’m worried he’d take it as admiration for his celebrity and not for who he really is. David has always had a problem with that. I fear he’d reject Dad if he found out about this kooky adulation. And then they’d never find each other again …
I’m enclosing some printouts of photos I took of the room before Dad came back. Despite the lack of internet, he has a computer and a printer. This place is old-school. At night, you can hear the pigs walking around high up on the platforms. It’s like the ghost of Miss Piggy is making the whole house creak. And now he’s fighting religious folks who want to destroy his “profane” property. My father is nuts. I truly love him, but I understand why you left him.
See you soon,
Annabelle
From Monique Duchêne to Harry Rosenmerck
New York, May 27, 2009