by Jeffra Hays
“Should I sit here with you?”
“Go if you like. I’m happy just to stay here for a while.”
“Then I’ll wander outside for a few minutes and come back when you’re full of, full of whatever it is you’re looking for.”
The tour group filed out. Open book in hand, Benny walked around the central, circular platform which served as pulpit: three carpeted steps above the tiled floor, an ornate wooden balustrade, brass finials. The most lavish of all the glass chandeliers hung directly above it. He glanced over the parapet at Hannah, bowed, and tipped his hat. As soon as she smiled, he left to find his sandals.
He walked along the shady side of the street and sat on the higher of two stone steps with his back against a wrought iron gate. While Benny studied his map, Pete and a street vendor talked and smoked in the shade of the rickshaw, tourists dodged the hawkers or browsed the shops. Waving a shawl at Benny, “For Madam?” the aggressive merchant approached him again. Benny drew back, sure that he would wrap the shawl around his head. A voice behind Benny scolded in their native tongue, then the shawl swayed and backed away.
“Good morning. I told him you were not buying now, that you wouldn’t choose anything for your wife without her approval.”
His voice, his accent, were not those of a local vendor. A slight man with creased olive skin nodded down to Benny from behind the slatted wooden gate on the third stair. He wore a loose white cotton shirt, and Benny watched as he fumbled with something -- his dhoti? -- behind the gate, hidden from Benny’s view. Then he leaned on knobby elbows; hands hung from the railing, milky eyes focused down as he addressed Benny.
“Use the shadow of my house to escape our persistent sun, but please, do say hello.”
Benny had assumed that the building was part of the synagogue or an old mikvah. He rose and looked past the man. A pair of heavy wooden doors was open slightly; two tarnished brass lion-head knockers guarded all that Benny saw between the doors: darkness.
“I am sorry,” Benny said. “I didn’t think anyone would mind my sitting on a step.”
“Mind? No, I’m delighted that you and your wife have come to see our famous old synagogue. What did you think of it? You were there for only a few minutes, but you must give me your opinion.”
“But how do you know?”
“Know what?”
“That I stayed only a few minutes.”
“And your wife is still inside? My duty to know. Sir. I live here, an old member of the community. And we need you, and your support.”
“You need our money.”
“Ah, as I thought, a gentleman from the world of business. Yes. And your support. The buses come here several times a day, even on the Sabbath when the synagogue is closed to tourists. The shops open anyway, and they buy, and most are just as happy to board the bus again -- their cool coaches beckon,” he laughed.
Benny smiled back. This man had the right attitude.
“But when Jews like you come to visit our extraordinary old community, still functioning, still surviving, we feel a special intimacy.”
“How do you know we’re Jews?”
“You arrived just after the German tourists. I watched this morning as I do every morning, and I’m sure you made a particular effort to visit Jew Street.”
“Yes, my wife wanted to come. We saw every religious structure she could include in twelve days. This is our last stop.”
“How long are you staying here in Kochi?”
“Only tonight, then back to Mumbai.”
“To Bombay, yes, but why so fast? There is plenty to see here and Purim is tomorrow night. Frankly, we’re always in need of Jews for the quorum.”
“We’ve already made our reservations.”
“But do you understand that we need you desperately? A few young Jews live across the river in Ernakalum but they show little interest in us. I’ll be reading the Megilla, as I do every year. Ah, beautiful Esther, who saved our people. When was the last time you heard it?”
The man was persistent, as was Benny. “We have our tickets and changing again is impossible.”
“Are you quite sure?” His chin swayed, he nodded and smiled past Benny. “Madam, good morning.”
“Hello. Good morning.” Removing her hat and smiling, Hannah tried swaying her chin. “At least there’s some shade here. I began to wonder what happened to you, Benny. What a magnificent synagogue, its detail, its history.” She looked up at the man. “I finally had a few minutes alone, and then I waited for my husband, so I bought two postcards, then I spoke to the shamesh.”
“Yes, Joe, forty-two years with us now.”
“Joe?”
“Short for Joseph,” he smiled, his chin swayed.
“Joe told me there would be a Megilla tomorrow night. Oh Benny, I’m so excited. Purim in India! It’s too good to be true.”
“Hannah, listen to me. We can’t afford another day here.”
“Why not? That’s not what you told me in the hospital. You said we wouldn’t be concerned about that. What did you call it? A fiduciary frolic?”
“We’re leaving.”
“No.”
“Madam, I was urging your husband, only a moment ago, to postpone your departure.”
“So it was you who captivated my husband. Unusual for Benny, and I don’t even know your….”
“David Cohen.” He leaned forward and bowed.
“David Cohen? Imagine finding a name like that here!”
“Yes, and you are Mrs.?”
“I apologize,” said Benny. “My wife Hannah,” he climbed the two steps and offered his hand, “and I’m Benjamin Holman.”
They shook hands. Cohen, smiling and nodding, reinforced his grip with his left hand, pulled Benny’s hand in both of his and stared directly into Benny’s eyes. Cohen was too close. Benny nodded in reply, then dropped his eyes. He saw behind the fence now. Below Cohen’s shirt there was nothing: no dhoti, no feet, no legs, no bottom half.
“Really Mr. Cohen, Benny and I are so thrilled to be here. And especially now for the holiday.”
Benny stared at the bottom of Cohen’s shirt. The man ended somewhere in there. He tried pulling his hand out of Cohen’s grip, but Cohen held on and drew closer to Benny as Benny pulled. He smelled Cohen’s breathing.
“My husband and I could arrange to stay an extra day or two. Right, Benny?”
Benny frowned down at Hannah as she spoke, then glanced up as Cohen, still grinning, released his grip. Benny stared again. Cohen was not standing; he was floating. Benny grabbed the fence.
“Yes, why not?” asked Cohen. “Please do reconsider.”
“Well, Benny? What do you say?”
Benny stepped down and held Hannah’s arm.
“We just made new plans.” He put his arm around her shoulder, squeezed and hugged, hard.
“Then I’ll expect you both at the reading tomorrow evening. That makes another member of the quorum.”
“You mean minyan,” said Hannah, leaning into Benny, “but there are two of us.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Holman, but only men are counted.”
“We’ll be there, Mr. Cohen, both of us.”
As arranged, Pete waited for them at their hotel the next evening.
“To the synagogue again, Pete,” said Hannah.
“Synagogue is closed now, Madam.”
“The synagogue is open now. It’s a Jewish holiday.”
“Never mind that.” Benny checked his watch. “How much?”
“Only fifty and I wait, but synagogue is closed now. Back to hotel, fifty.”
Hannah slapped mosquitoes from Benny’s neck. “I told you to wear long sleeves.”
“And who lost the bug spray?”
“We’ll buy more,” she said. “Let’s get going. I don’t want to be late.”
“If he skips the elephant, you’ll be on time.”
Pete drove. Gritty haze, burnt orange clouds, dusk in Kochi.
“Make sure you look,” whispered Ben
ny.
“I said I would. I told you all night and all day that I believe you.”
“But it’s some kind of Jewish Indian trick. Hokum bull for tourists. I just can’t explain it yet.”
“My dear Benny, this is India.”
He grunted.
“Maybe he’s a magician,” she said. “Remember the snake charmer?”
He fluttered his fat fingers. “Hocus pocus. I’m in no mood for your jokes.”
“Or an incarnation. He was so friendly, and well spoken. If you need an explanation, ask him.”
As they parked beside a mound of garbage, a crow limped away; bald cats and a one-eared goat scattered. Pete peered down Jew Street as light from the open doors of the synagogue spread into the opposite courtyard. Gesturing with his chin, remarking, “Synagogue is open. Never before, never at night,” he lit a cigarette and sat on the ground beside his rickshaw.
“It’s Purim, Pete,” said Hannah. “We’re so lucky to be here tonight on such a joyous holiday.”
“Christmas for you. I understand.”
“No, Pete, we don’t…”
“For Chrissake, Hannah, forget the lecture and move it. These damn things are vicious,” and Benny slapped his hands together, and smeared mosquito plus blood on his shirttail.
The diurnal world of the small synagogue had vanished. From the dim, silent street into the light of prism and globe chandeliers, festive light which greeted the small congregation, the Holmans entered, removed their shoes, and waited to be seated. They were late.
David Cohen, in white with silver and silver skullcap, chanted from the pulpit and faced the front of the synagogue and its small ark. In breathy baritone he continued as he turned back once again to the congregation. He stopped, surveyed his listeners in silent anticipation, smiled down at them, right, left, center.
