by Dan Sofer
Of course!
Dave had not set foot on the Temple Mount and, he was sure, neither had Mandy. The Arabs in charge restricted the entry of non-Muslims, and Halacha prohibited Jews from treading on the holy site.
“Wait.” Dave ran and caught Ben at the edge of Independence Park.
“How do we know that’s the Foundation Stone?”
“It’s the only Foundation Stone we know of. Huge, rough lump of bedrock. Little cave underneath. No known magical properties.”
Dave read the Torah portion each week. He knew enough about the Ark of the Covenant to realize that something did not fit.
“You said the Ark rested on the stone. But the Ark wasn’t nearly that big, was it? Two-and-a-half by one-and-a-half cubits. Neither was the Holy of Holies. And if this stone is so uneven—”
Ben turned on his heels and gripped Dave by his shirt collar.
“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you just let it go? You’ve got the girl. You’ve even got your precious conscience back. Isn’t that enough?”
A pair of passing black hats ogled them. Ben released him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Dave felt the need to explain. “Mandy goes back to the States in two weeks.”
“Do you love her?”
“Yes. I think so. I don’t know. I want to know for sure.”
“You never will. You know why? Because the problem is in your head.”
“If we could just speak to Ornan—”
Ben raised his hand for Dave to stop.
“Tell you what. I’ll take you to a real expert this time. Professor Barkley.”
“The Dead Sea Scroll guy?”
Ben had studied under the professor at Hebrew U and he mentioned him at every opportunity.
“Yes. I’m meeting him Sunday night to discuss another matter. You can tag along. Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”
***
It is the happiest day of Dave’s life.
As he steps forward, the chorus line of friends and relatives in suits and smiles retreats. A trumpeter keeps pace and blares his song. The scene moves in slow motion, the sounds muffled, as though he’s underwater, but he can make out the tune. Keizad Merakdin Lifnei Ha’Kala—How We Dance Before the Bride.
Dave nods and smiles at his guests. A tear of sweat slips down his brow. He wears a long white kittel over a blue suit and white tie. His mother, in a salmon evening dress and wide-brimmed hat, locks his left arm in hers, and his father grips his right. Dave has never seen them both so happy at the same time.
A doubt pulls at his mind like a terrier at his sleeve. He’s forgotten an important detail. He shakes it off.
The wedding parade rounds a corner of the closed hall and there it is. White silken sheets form the canopy and colorful bouquets adorn the corner posts.
The dancers fall back. Dave and his parents walk the red carpet, passing between rows of chairs. Under the chuppah, the traditional wedding canopy, a red-haired rabbi in a furry shtreimel bares his teeth.
Mishi!
The silver goblet in the rabbi’s hand brims with thick, red liquid.
Ben stands by. He wears a white robe and turban like the Genie of the Lamp. He winks at Dave, then cracks open a velvet jewelry box. A gold wedding band glints in the spotlight. Three letters in an ancient script dance along the surface—Tsadi-Dalet-Qof—then fade away.
The doubt returns. It gnaws at the edge of his awareness.
Not now. This is my day. Leave me alone!
Friends and relatives peer expectantly from the rows of chairs. The red carpet stretches away for miles and at the end stands a tall slender figure all in white. She holds a round bouquet to her bosom; a wispy veil hides her face. She glides along the carpet. Dave squints and strains his eyes but cannot penetrate the screen of lace.
Rivulets of cold sweat trickle down his forehead and drench his cheeks. The doubt has grown into panic.
The bride mounts the steps of the chuppah. She circles Dave. The white satin train of her dress scratches his polished shoes, wraps his ankles, and winds around his legs.
He needs help. Ben winks and smiles. His parents smile. The rabbi smiles. Faces in the crowd smile. None of them hear his silent cry.
The bride halts beside him. She stares ahead. The rabbi raises his goblet and utters the sacred words.
He shivers. Too late he grasps the slippery question. This is his wedding day, but he still has no idea. He wants to ask, but terror clamps his throat. Please, his thoughts beg. Please, someone, tell me who she is!
***
Mandy gaped at the supermodel across the dinner table.
“How do you do it?” she asked and passed the salad to Dave.
First an archaeologist; now a Jewish Claudia Schiffer. How had Dave kept them secret so long?
She had a secret too and it itched to burst the gift wrapping.
Later.
“I only accept modest assignments,” Yvette explained in her sophisticated Belgian accent. “No lingerie. No swimsuits. And no Saturdays. Some cholent?”
“Sure.”
The girl knew her way around a kitchen. Mandy had devoured the sautéed chicken strips. “That must be pretty limiting,” she said.
“I’ve had to turn down a few jobs. But if they really want you, they get over it.”
“You’re amazing.” She turned to Dave. “Isn’t she amazing? You sure know how to pick your friends.”
“Uh-huh,” he mumbled. He had hardly spoken a word all morning.
“Don’t bother with them,” Yvette said. “They wandered around Me’ah She’arim all night.”
Me’ah She’arim?
Dave hadn’t mentioned that when he had left her apartment after dinner. He had displayed no special interest in Chassidism. The surprises kept coming. Each day she discovered another facet of Dave Schwarz.
“Thanks for the invite,” she said.
Dave produced a sheepish smile. “The Tish was strictly men only.”
“I’m thinking of doing night tours of Me’ah She’arim again. Dave was my test group.” Ben gave Dave a tired look. “Thanks for your help, Dave.”
Dave didn’t look up from his plate of cholent. “Don’t mention it.”
Mandy wrote off the resentful undertone to British Humor. “Yvette, I wish I had a glamorous job full of travel and interesting people.”
Yvette cradled her chin in her palm. “Too much travel, if you ask me. I fly again on Sunday for a week. And the people? Pffff. So-so. Some are kind. Most are shallow. Once this old Italian man tried to chat me up and I told him to get lost. One of the girls came up to me after. ‘What did he say to you?’ she says, so I told her. Then she says, ‘Don’t you know who that is? That’s Giorgio Armani!’ I was so embarrassed.”
After lunch, Dave walked Mandy home along Emek Refaim. Birds dipped overhead and sang of spring. Violet and white Rakefet flowers peeked over walls and brightened up the sidewalk flowerbeds. Joggers and Sabbath strollers passed them. The promise of new beginnings and fresh horizons hung in the air.
Dave’s string tassels peeked out the belt of his trousers and Mandy’s thoughts drifted to the world underneath his clothes. She felt her cheeks heat up.
Oh, my.
She let her hand brush against his but he didn’t seem to notice.
They walked past Bell Park. Only a short stretch of sidewalk remained to Mandy’s street, where Shani and Ruchama awaited.
“Guess what?” she said.
“What?”
“You’re looking at an Israeli citizen.”
Dave stopped in his tracks. “You made aliya?”
“Uh-huh.”
Dave seemed confused. The circles under his eyes deepened. “I thought you were just trying it out.”
No smile. No mazal tov.
“I did. And I like it.”
His eyes glazed over as he sank into dark thoughts.
“We have more time now,” she said. “That’s all. No pre
ssure.”
He ran a hand over his face. He looked exhausted.
“Are you OK?”
He blinked as though waking up. “I’m just… surprised. That’s… great news. I’m happy for you.”
They crossed King David Street and climbed Keren Hayesod.
Not the reaction she had hoped for but her timing could have been better. Dave had slept little and he was about to start a new job. A dose of not-so-subtle relationship pressure was all he needed.
Way to go, Mands.
“Tuesday night is Independence Day,” she said, artfully changing the topic. “Let’s do something fun. A hike. Or a picnic. What do you prefer?”
“Yes,” Dave said, his voice distant. “That’s a great idea. Let’s talk after Shabbos.”
Of course! Shouldn’t make plans on Shabbat. Silly girl.
They walked in silence and soon reached the stilts of Mandy’s apartment building on Mendele.
“Want to come upstairs?”
He shook his head. “I should get some rest.”
She’d seen that coming.
“I love you,” she said.
The words bypassed her brain and slipped out her mouth before she knew what she was saying. She and Dave had never used the L-word. Mandy needed to hear it more than ever.
He smiled and his eyes filled with a secret sadness. Or hurt.
She had hoped for four words; she settled for two.
“Me too,” he said.
***
Dave plodded down Keren Hayesod in a daze. The afternoon sun reflected harsh light off the apartment blocks. A cloudless blue sky studied him without mercy.
Oh, God. What have I done?
He had endured lunch with a growing sense of disgust. Countless times, he had sat at Ben’s Shabbat table in awe of Ben and his beautiful wife, unaware of the deception beneath the veneer of marital bliss.
He had discovered, if not the whole truth, enough loose ends to make out the thread.
Dave’s love for Mandy, for he had loved her, was an illusion. Ben clung to his rationalizations but Dave could not escape his conscience. He woke at night in a cold pool of doubt that destroyed the peace of mind necessary for sleep.
He had toyed with Mandy’s heart. Her soul. Changed the course of her life. Turned her into a Stepford Wife. But unlike in Dave’s nightmare, it was not too late.
He paused for breath on Emek Refaim.
His stomach cramped. The dry taste of death filled his mouth.
Someone was calling his name.
“Geez, Dave,” said a stocky Australian. “I called you three times.”
“Shmuel.” Dave shook his friend’s hand. He felt his face redden. He had last thought of Shmuel and Rochel at Nat’s Shabbat dinner catastrophe when Alfred E. Neuman had added their names to a rogues’ gallery of compromise. “Long time no see. You look good.”
Shmuel had cropped his hair short. His cheeks had shed their soft edges. “Thanks. What’s news?”
“All good.” He waited for Shmuel to address the obvious absence of his wife. Was Rochel pregnant? In labor at a Jerusalem hospital?
“What brings you back to Jerusalem?” Dave asked.
Shmuel and Rochel, like many young couples, had left exorbitant Jerusalem for the yuppie suburbia of Modiin.
“I moved back,” Shmuel said. “Around the corner from here. We should get together.”
I moved back. The words grated on Dave’s nerves. He could take no more. “How is Rochel?” he asked.
“You haven’t heard?” Shmuel’s smile faded. “We got divorced a few months ago.”
The universe tilted off balance. Dave fumbled for words. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No worries. It’s not the kind of news you spread around.” He placed a consoling hand on Dave’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said.
“Sorry,” Dave said again. “You seemed so happy.”
“Yeah, well.” Shmuel studied the trees across the street. He did not seem too broken up about it. “We had issues from the start. I feel relieved, actually. You’d be surprised how often it happens. There’s a bunch of divorcees in Katamon. I’m just glad it’s over. You know? Get on with my life.”
“That’s good,” Dave said, still reeling.
“A word of advice,” Shmuel said. “Listen to your heart. Don’t compromise.”
Shmuel walked off and left Dave gagging on his words.
I can’t believe it.
Dave had envied Shmuel. His wife Rochel—his ex-wife—was a dark American-Israeli beauty with a needlepoint wit. He had enjoyed a Shabbat lunch at their table six months ago before they’d relocated. He replayed the table talk, the body language, in his mind and searched for signs of impending doom.
Nothing.
Dave stopped walking. He stood beside a shaded square of grass at the far end of Emek Refaim. He had passed the walkway to his building. Two goats of flat, hammered metal, nailed together in the name of art, hung atop a pole like cadavers on a stake; a gruesome warning to passersby.
Dave sat down on a steel bench. He held his head in his hands. Small birds pecked at breadcrumbs in the speckled shade of trees. The Sabbath shoes of passersby drummed the sidewalk.
Dave knew of divorce among young, religious couples the way he knew of car accidents. Tragic. Regretful. Happened to other people. Never people he knew.
What shook him most was Shmuel’s nonchalance. His relief. Was Dave heading off the same cliff?
Just breathe, Dave. You’re tired. You’re in shock. You are in no state to make rash decisions.
He became aware of changes in the ambient sounds. A pair of high heels had paused on the sidewalk. A scratch on the asphalt and then the footfalls continued.
Cla-clack, cla-clack, cla-clack.
Instead of fading into the street noise, the steps grew louder, more decisive. The birds scattered. A pair of elegant black sandals and pedicured feet entered his visual field. His eyes followed the sandals, up the ankles of flawless ivory, the Barbie legs, the elegant dress and shapely form. Sunlight danced on her flowing, black-satin hair. Dave stared: a hobbit spellbound in the presence of an Elven princess.
Could it be?
The remnants of his sanity had snapped and now tortured his poor mind with the most sweet and cruel of delusions.
The apparition parted her perfect red lips.
“Dave?”
Now he heard a voice, too. Precise. Feminine. British. The voice that had haunted his regrets.
He fought for air. He fought for words. Questions queued up and bottlenecked his brain.
How? What? Why?
Finally, he managed one word, the last desperate gasp of a man whose lungs had filled with freezing, salty water.
He said: “Shira?”
Chapter 7
Blessed is He who divides between Sacred and Mundane.
Shani sipped from the silver goblet and spilled grape juice into the tin saucer. Ruchama extinguished the Havdalah candle in the puddle and with it the Sabbath sanctity.
Shavua tov! A good week.
Mandy yawned. She had slept through the afternoon. She powered up her mobile. No messages yet. Dave would return from synagogue in a few minutes.
The post-Sabbath cleanup began. Mandy helped Ruchama scour the dishes and shove the dinner table to the corner of the living room.
The languor of Saturday afternoon gave way to the anticipation of Saturday night.
“Princess Bride?” Ruchama suggested.
“Nah,” said Mandy. “I’ll probably go out with Dave.”
After all that sleep, Mandy was in the mood for a night on the town. She selected two skirts from her closet, stepped under a hot shower, and settled on the living room couch while her hair dried. The microwave hummed in the kitchen.
Mandy glanced at her phone in the soft lamplight. No missed calls.
Dave must have overslept.
Poor thing.
She typed a text message.
> Shavua tov! Need coffee. Say when. Xxx. M.
Send.
The bathroom shower hissed. Shani always spent at least half an hour in the shower, turning the bathroom into a steaming rainforest, with wet towels draped over doors and faucets like the branches of tropical plants.
Ruchama bustled into the living room with a large bowl of buttered popcorn, collapsed beside Mandy, and turned on the TV with the remote. Mandy reached for a handful of popcorn and leaned back.
According to the laws of physics, Ruchama’s Princess Bride DVD should have worn away long ago. Mandy had walked in on enough snatches of the movie to piece the plot together: Buttercup and Westley fall in love. Westley leaves to find his fortune. Pirates attack his ship and these particular pirates never leave survivors. Buttercup must marry the mean Prince Humperdinck. Outlaws kidnap Buttercup.
All her life Mandy had consumed movies and books about love but never truly understood.
Until now.
“Not that dreck again.” Shani stood in the corridor wearing a short red dress. She leaned against the wall and slipped on a pair of black stilettos with heels long and sharp enough to kill a man.
“Too ‘ove!” Ruchama protested, her mouth packed with popcorn.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” Mandy asked.
“Some CEO looking for a trophy wife.” Shani spoke of her dates as though they were dentist appointments. Her meticulous makeup told a different tale.
Five dates a week, at Mandy’s count. No wonder the girl had never learned to cook.
A horn honked outside, the high-pitched trumpeting of a Porsche or Ferrari.
“That’s my ride,” Shani said and she click-clacked out the front door.
Shani and Ruchama returned to their movie.
A pirate rescues Buttercup from the outlaws. The pirate is her beloved Westley! They flee the outlaws and cross the Fire Swamp.
Mandy needed a plan for Independence Day. Her options included a walk along the stream of Wadi Kelt and a concert at Safra Square. Which would Dave like best?
Mandy glanced at her watch.
9:30 PM.
Strange.
She got up, walked to her room, and dialed Dave’s number.
It rang.
So you’re up after all.
Café Hillel would do nicely. Or Aroma.
