by Dan Sofer
Three hundred kilometers away, Dave thought, in an Eilat hotel, three bachelors planned their assault on the buffet, blissfully unaware of the Ohel Nechama women’s section.
The service concluded with the singing of Yigdal and Dave joined the outpouring of men and women onto the wide, outer stairway. The night air buzzed with greetings and chitchat under the canary yellow of street lamps.
“Good Shabbos, Dave,” Chezi said.
The American economist had shared an apartment with Dave on Palmach four years earlier. His eyes worked the crowd.
“Good Shabbos,” Dave replied. “How are you?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Dave,” Chezi said, “have you seen Jessie?”
Jessica Marcus, Chezi’s mythological ex, had featured in a snatch of recent gossip.
Dave bunched his eyebrows, unsure whether or not to smile. “Didn’t she get married?”
Chezi’s eyes kept roving.
“She’s just playing hard to get.”
“In fact, I heard she’s expecting.”
“Real hard to get,” Chezi mumbled. He patted Dave on the shoulder and sidled away, leaving Dave to run the gauntlet alone.
The mass of singles broke into pockets along the tiered stairway. Dave clutched his bag of challah loaves and marched down the central banister. Chemical clouds of perfume and hairspray burned his nostrils. Strangers pelted him with invasive glances. Snatches of mindless small talk snagged his ears. He kept moving until eventually he ran out of stairs.
Natalie stood at the street curb, guests in orbit, each with a plastic bag in hand. Dave said hello. He pretended not to notice Nat’s flowing dress—a dramatic departure from her signature stiff skirts—or the neckline and the hint of cleavage or the fact that she was, he realized, beautiful.
“Dave,” she said and clasped her hands. “This is Saul.”
The lanky man at her side shot out his hand and shook Dave’s. Vigorous. Overeager. Dave’s limbs ossified. He forced a smile.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” said the gawky, bespectacled American.
Dave, who had heard nothing of Saul, lost his faculty of speech. He avoided Nat’s eyes. Was he sparing her or himself?
He extricated his hand and turned to the other guests.
“Hi, Miriam,” he said. The girl in the floral dress and oversized glasses nodded. Her haphazard hair dropped to her shoulders. Nat’s longtime American friend collected academic degrees at the Hebrew University like butterflies, but little in the way of social graces.
A younger girl stood beside her and showed more promise. Her dark curls caught the streetlight and hinted at hairspray and hours at a mirror. Glitter sparkled on her eyelids.
“This is Ahuva,” Nat said, the hostess, “Miriam’s sister.”
Dave introduced himself, his spirits rising, his earlier befuddlement forgotten. For the only unattached male at the meal, the night was young.
“Shall we?” Nat said, waving a hand to indicate the street.
“What about the others?” Miriam asked.
“What others?” Dave had counted five. Five was bearable.
“We’ll meet them at the flat,” Nat said.
They crossed the quiet intersection and set out, down Palmach, past the Islamic Art Museum.
Nat stepped within whispering distance. “Sorry, Dave, it started out as a small meal. Honest it did.”
“It’s fine,” he lied. “How many others are we talking about?”
“Leah is home for Shabbat and didn’t have plans. And she invited a friend. Then Saul’s roommate got stuck for a meal. I hope that’s OK.”
Dave put five and three together and swallowed hard.
“Of course.”
He knew Leah, Nat’s rough-cut Australian roommate, well enough. Her mystery friend was unlikely to be the waterfall blond, but she might be the girl with the auburn curls from Rabbi Levi’s shiur.
Nat and Saul picked up the pace along the fissured, car-lined pavement, leaving Dave to the sisters.
“How’s Hebrew U?” he asked Miriam.
“Good,” she replied, the mistress of conversation.
He cleared his throat and turned to the younger sister.
“Ahuva. What do you do?”
“I’m at Pardes for the year.”
“Oh,” he said.
Pardes offered coed study programs to Americans tourists. Although technically committed to Jewish Law and practice, the institute had an aura of pluralism.
Strike one.
A man in a hoodie and sweatpants punched the buttons of a DVD vending machine outside a darkly Mr. Zol minimarket on Palmach; a small reminder that not all denizens of Katamon observed the Sabbath.
“What do you do?” Ahuva asked.
“Hi-tech,” Dave said.
“Ah.”
He savored the awe in her voice. Hi-tech implied magical technology and million-dollar exits. The hi-tech elite created worlds and ruled them. At a minimum, they could pay the bills. Dave felt no urge to expose the reality of failed startups and mass layoffs. His own job provided zero advancement and, when explained in detail, sounded drop-dead boring.
He relaxed. He and Ahuva had hit it off, even if she didn’t fit the checklist item-for-item. For starters, her age. Twenty-one, maximum, judging by the year abroad and the glitter. Was a nine-year age gap pushing the limit?
They turned right on Nili Street. Too late to pick up the thread of the earlier conversation. He needed a new starter for the hundred meters between them and Nat’s apartment. Their footsteps echoed against the silent, modest apartment blocks. Dave could almost hear snatches of Nat’s conversation with Saul.
Fifty meters.
The silence grew into a large, pink elephant with a mean streak, ready to charge at ice-breakers and brand them as desperation.
They entered Nat’s building and climbed the stairs to the cozy first-floor apartment. Nat stowed their coats, scarves, and shawls in her bedroom.
She had set the oval dinner table with a white tablecloth, disposable plates, and paper napkins. No two pieces of silverware matched, neither did the chairs.
The girls disappeared into the kitchen to assist Nat with the salads. In the lamp light of the salon, Dave and Saul settled on the overstuffed couch. A Jerusalem Post lay folded on the coffee table.
“So, um,” Saul began. “What do you do?”
“Hi-tech.”
“Ah.”
“You?”
“Accountant. Ernst & Young.”
This sounded like a question. Dave nodded grimly. Stable. Dependable. Seemed nice enough. But Nat deserved better. Someone like… well, like Dave.
A chill of panic shot down his spine. Had he been blind? Was Nat the girl of his dreams all along? Had the one obvious choice slipped away right under his nose, lost to the man twiddling his thumbs on the couch beside him? Or was Saul a ploy, a wakeup call designed to spur him into action?
Calm down, Dave. Get a grip.
He took a deep breath and listened to the kitchen sounds. Four tea lights flickered on the mantelpiece and filled the room with their waxy scent. The Shabbat water urn hissed quietly.
Dave had considered Nat. Many times. And each time, an indefinable intuition had slammed on the brakes.
Dave slid the Jerusalem Post off the ring-marked coffee table and turned pages in the soft light: A new round of peace talks. A thwarted bomb attack. Another Gazan missile had landed near a kindergarten in Sederot. Politicians under investigation. Another day in the Middle East. Again, Dave looked in vain for news of the City of David.
The front door opened to the trailing edge of laughter and Leah exploded into the room, all tangles of carrot hair and energy. Her guest was slender and feminine, and had tied her hair up above a proud, aristocratic brow. Although neither the Waterfall Blond nor the New Girl, the guest was uncannily familiar.
“Good Shabbos, Saul,” Leah said. “Dave,” she added with mild disappo
intment. “Everyone, this is Sarit.”
Sarit smiled at Saul, then at Dave and immediately she glanced away, flushed.
Dave sat up in his seat. Hello!
A man stepped through the open doorway. His baby face and freckles reminded Dave of Alfred E. Neuman. Alfred E. Neuman with a crew cut. His eyes darted to the two girls.
“Am I the last one?” he said. A New Yorker. Loud voice. Dave shifted in his seat.
Leah gave the newcomer the once-over and seemed to like what she saw. “Last but not least,” she said. “You must be Saul’s roommate.”
He held out a bottle of wine in a plastic bag. “The one and only. I’m Josh.”
Dave should have guessed. Half the Americans he knew were called Josh.
“Leah,” she replied. “This is Sarit. And over there is Dave. Old friend of Nat’s.”
Dave winced at the “old.” He rose, shook hands with Josh, and smiled briefly. Sarit kept her eyes on her feet.
Nat emerged from the kitchen. “Hi, Josh,” she said. “Shall we start?”
The eight singles converged on the dinner table.
Nat herded Saul to the seat at the head of the table. Dave vied for the seat next to Sarit but was blocked by Saul on one side and Leah on the other. He landed up between Nat and Miriam on the other side. Josh stood at the foot of the table, placed strategically between Leah and Ahuva. At least Dave had a clear view of Sarit.
Nat filled a silver wine cup with King David Concord, the ubiquitous sugary kiddush wine, and the glancing game began.
Leah grinned knowingly at Josh, who eyed Ahuva, who stood out of Dave’s line of sight. Miriam stared ahead vacantly. Dave focused on Sarit. She must have sensed Dave’s attentions but didn’t return the eye contact. Instead, she studied her plastic dinner plate. Bashful? Or a demure invitation?
Saul cleared his throat.
“Vaheyi erev, veyehi boker. Yom hashishi.”
Saul concluded the prayer, poured wine from the cup into plastic shot glasses, and passed them down the table.
An awkward silence.
Nat directed her guests to the kitchen and bathroom where they washed their hands before breaking bread.
At the table, Nat removed a colorful, tie-dyed challah cover, lifted the plaited loaves in her hands, and recited the blessing. She cut the bread, dipped the slices in a pinch of salt, and distributed them in a little wicker breadbasket. Nat had commandeered the bread-breaking ritual, a task traditionally designated to men. Saul did not seem too scandalized. By now, he must be aware of Nat’s Torah readings at the egalitarian minyan too.
The guests munched in silence. Dave spread hummus on a slice, still warm from the Shabbat hot tray, and bit into the sweet, soft bread. He felt the red wine enter his bloodstream.
Ben’s voice rang in his ears.
Put yourself out there. Make a move.
Dave swallowed his mouthful.
Numero Uno. Mr. Top Dog.
“Sarit,” he said. The vacuum of silence sucked at his words. “You look familiar.”
Sarit raised her eyes. Her mouth contorted into a wan, piercing grin.
“That’s because we’ve dated.”
Dave felt his face drain. “Oh,” he said, parrying with humor. “How embarrassing.”
“Ha!” Josh slapped the table top. “Welcome to the swamp.”
Saul gave a loud, whooping laugh, which elicited chuckles all round. Nat’s cheeks reddened but then she laughed as well.
“The swamp?” Ahuva asked.
“Yeah,” Josh said. “That’s what the Israelis call Katamon. The bee’tsah.”
“Too many frogs, not enough princes?” offered Leah.
“Or,” Miriam said, the irrepressible academic, “a place you get stuck.”
Dave’s faux pas had burst the dam walls, granting free speech to all. None of them could possibly shove their feet down their throats further than he already had.
Sarit sat opposite. Silent. Seething. Dave remembered her. One date. No, two. He had ended it and not well.
“I’m terrible with names and faces,” he apologized, but no one was listening.
“Stuck,” Josh said. “Exactly. People get stuck in Katamon.”
Nat got up to serve the soup.
“Although,” Miriam said, “technically we’re in Kiryat Shmuel, not Katamon.”
“Katamon isn’t just a neighborhood.” Josh had probably rehearsed this. “It’s a state of mind. Kiryat Shmuel. Talbieh. The German Colony. Even San Simon. Wherever you have singles getting older and older and not settling down.”
“Why aren’t they getting married?” Ahuva asked, touched by the plight of older singles. No doubt, she already considered herself to be sitting on a dusty shelf.
“Fear of commitment,” Sarit said. She focused her firebrand glance on Dave. It must have ended very badly. Had he even called?
“Fear of intimacy?” Miriam suggested.
Leah said, “It’s not our fault. There’s a shortage of single guys. Normal ones, anyway.”
“You can say that again,” said Sarit. Her eyes were still on Dave.
“Actually,” Miriam said, “statistically speaking, each year slightly more males are born than females. But males have a lower life expectancy, so over time females overtake them.”
Josh slapped the table again. “I’ve got the solution.” His Alfred E. Neuman grin made prurient promises. “Thanks,” he said to Nat, who had placed a bowl of mashed pumpkin soup before him.
“Nu?” Leah prodded, employing the Yiddish all-purpose prompt.
“The answer is simple.” Josh drew out the suspense. “Concubines.”
Leah squawked with outrage…or ecstasy, Dave couldn’t tell. He just shook his head.
Ahuva said, “What’s a concubine?”
“Like in the Bible,” Josh said. “Wives, but without marriage.”
“Let me get this straight,” Nat said, delivering more bowls of soup. “You plan to rescue single women by throwing them in your harem?”
Saul, the hoopoe, let rip another fit of nervous laughter.
“Why not?”
Giggles circulated the table. Half-digested pumpkin soup churned in Dave’s stomach.
Nat took her seat. “The real cause of the problem,” she said, “is that no one is willing to compromise.”
Dave looked at Nat, surprised by her turn of conversation.
“Define compromise,” Miriam said.
Nat swallowed a spoonful. “We’ve all got our lists even if we don’t write them down. The guy or girl of our dreams. We search and search until one day we reach a certain age and we compromise. We pare the list down until finally someone fits.”
Dave returned his spoon to his half-empty bowl. Nat had struck him with her candidness, her obvious confession and, he realized, her maturity. Neither Nat nor Saul seemed perturbed.
Nat: intelligent, talented, idealistic. And single. She had moved to the Upper West Side for a year and returned, still single. Crease lines marked the base of her neck. Dave could always date younger girls but the options for a thirty-year-old spinster diminished fast. Dave felt partially responsible. He had passed on asking Nat out on a hundred occasions. And, for the first time, he understood why. There was no spark. No flash. No primal quickening of excitement.
“I’m not going to compromise,” Ahuva said. “My beshert is out there.”
Leah laughed. “Let’s talk when you’re thirty.”
Nat returned to the kitchen.
“Everybody compromises,” Josh said. “Think of the Katamon couples you know. Jeff and Tamara? They got married a month ago.”
Pumpkin soup threatened to erupt through Dave’s nostrils. Thankfully, he didn’t know Jeff and Tamara.
Leah said, “Jeff is a nice guy.”
“But is Tamara the girl of his dreams? What about Julie and What’s-His-Name? Iddo.”
“Compromise,” Leah said, warming to the game. “And then there’s Shmuel and Rachel.”
Dave glared at Leah. Shmuel was a good friend. They had shared a flat for a year before Shmuel disappeared into Married Land.
“I happen to know Shmuel and Rachel,” he said. “They seem very happy to me.”
“Seem,” Josh said. “All couples seem happy. You never know what goes on behind closed doors.”
“Bonnie and Lior?” Sarit had joined the melee. Dave was right to have dumped her.
“Definite compromise,” Leah said.
Dave mumbled an excuse and fled to the kitchen.
Nat shoveled rice from a tinfoil tub into a serving bowl.
“How can I help?” he asked.
She gave him a sympathetic grin. “Sorry, Dave, not quite the meal I had planned.”
He leaned against the fridge. “Thing’s don’t always work out the way we plan.”
She pulled a tray of steaming vegetables off the hot tray and tilted the contents into a white platter.
Saul’s hoopoe laugh echoed out again. Josh had enlisted Leah’s stash of flavored vodka for a drinking game.
Dave decided to camp out in the kitchen for the rest of the meal. His dating prospects had burned to the ground anyway.
Nat finished fussing over the serving dishes and straightened. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “I had an ulterior motive for inviting you.”
“I’m a guinea pig for new recipes?” He had heard enough confessions for one night.
“More insidious, I’m afraid. I wanted to introduce you to someone. Mandy Rosenberg. A good friend. We shared a flat in New York. Great girl. You may have noticed her at Rabbi Levi’s shiur.”
“Really?” New Girl now had a name. Mandy Rosenberg. Dave had never dated a Mandy. Nat’s consideration touched him. She was a true friend. And she had moved on.
Time to move on too, Dave.
“This whole meal was just a pretext,” she continued. “But after you canceled she took up an earlier invitation and couldn’t back out again.”
“She didn’t, by any chance, go to Eilat?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
***
“You still owe me a telephone number,” Ben said, between mouthfuls of baked chicken.
After Saturday morning prayers at the Ramban synagogue, Dave had strolled down Emek Refaim to join the Greens for an early Shabbat lunch. Their home off Graetz Street consisted of large cylindrical rooms and thick, stone walls and had once served as a wine cellar and water cistern of the Templars who had settled the German Colony in the nineteenth century.
