The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (12 page)

He was beginning to sound like Shifra. Her Chaim, the old Chaim – always so cynical, self-deprecating and humourous – was disappearing.

‘You're changing. I don't like it. It's all happening too fast. I can't keep up. I've done enough, Chaim. I've gone as far as I can down the path you're on but I'm not sure I can follow you any further. I've ditched the trousers, given up the traif, started keeping Shabbes for you . . .'

‘For me? What about for you? Doesn't any of this mean anything to you, Becca? I thought it did. I thought it made you feel good. Better.' He was beseeching her now. Hurt filled his eyes. She wished she had been less blunt. But that was it: she had done it for him.

‘It does. But I wouldn't have done any of it if you hadn't started to turn frum on me.'

A flash of teeth in the darkness. He was grinning now at the strangeness of the term.

‘I'll never be like one of those penguins. Come on Becca, you know me, I'm not like them.'

‘Chaim, I know what you're like and it doesn't matter what your personal style of being frum is – you're there and I'm not. So maybe we should call it a day.'

He grew very still. She could not tell whether he was angry or just hurt. She had wanted to jolt him out of his reverie, to make him see that he had gone too far. Now she was beginning to feel like the boy who cried wolf. She waited.

‘I don't believe you. I don't believe you want us to end. If you need more time, Becca, I'll wait. There's no rush.' His voice was a croak, as if she had winded him. She could still reach him, but the effort made her feel cheap and spiteful. She was testing him, knowing deep down she did not want to let him go.

‘You can believe what you like. I think you need a different sort of girl to be your wife. The proper frum sort, someone who has been frum from birth, who can help you and guide you . . .'

His hand shot out and grasped her forearm. He was gripping so hard it hurt. She pulled away.

‘Becca, stop it! I'm sorry – did I hurt you?'

She shook her head, rubbing her arm to release the tingle.

‘I want you. I love you. I don't want some silly, boring girl like Shifra – no offence to Shifra. I want us to go on this journey together. I don't want to be with anyone else.' A pilot light of relief flickered once more. He had not abandoned her. Still it was not enough. She could not let it rest.

‘But you won't sleep with me any more? How can you give that up?'

He sighed. ‘Because I know we can be even better if we follow the right path.'

Rebecca sagged. She felt hollow with exhaustion. ‘Ok, Chaim – I need to think this over. I need to take it all in.'

‘I'll give you all the time you need.' He moved to embrace her but she evaded him. ‘What is it?'

‘You don't want us to sleep together. You want to be shomer nageah.'

He looked bewildered, caught out like a child that had promised to behave. ‘We can still touch – just not . . .'

‘Fuck?'

He laughed uneasily. She had never used that word before to describe what passed between them in the heat of the night. Now it seemed a sullied thing.

‘Don't cheapen it, Becca.'

‘I'm not. You're the one telling me it's wrong, it's dirty, dishonest.' She felt the anger rising like sap. He had better be sure what he was asking for.

‘You know I don't mean it like that. Becca, please.' He reached out for her hand and this time she let him.

‘Ok, so what do we do?'

‘We carry on.'

‘Just like before but without the sex?'

‘No. We can't even sleep together any more, Becca. I want to – it's going to be really hard resisting you – but I have to do this. I've made a choice.'

‘You can always change your mind.' She moved into his arms.

‘I'm going to try not to. And you need to help me.'

‘How?' She knew how but she needed to hear it from him.

‘By not provoking me. By not seducing me.'

‘Ha! Now I sound like Lilith!' She squirmed against him, enjoying her power.

‘I mean it, Becca.' He shook her lightly then he kissed her hair, burying his face in it, breathing in the smell of her scalp, the grease of her roots.

Then he sat up, softly letting her go. He reached for his jeans and began to pull them on. She watched in silence.

‘Where are you going?'

‘Back to my room. It's easier that way.'

‘You can sleep here. In my bed. I'll sleep in Kate's.'

‘No, Becca. You know that won't work. We'll miss each other too much. Get tempted.'

‘We'll miss each other more in separate rooms.'

‘Well, maybe that's a good thing. We can learn to savour things in the long run. It will be even more special if we hold back until then.'

He really was serious. Now he was pulling on his old hooded sweatshirt, kneeling to retrieve his trainers from under the bed, searching for his right sock.

‘Like I said, I need to think about it.' She said it to regain some sense of herself. But she had already decided.

‘Ok, you do that. I'm not going anywhere.' He shuffled over on the bed and hugged her tight, burying his face in her neck. ‘I'm going to miss you so much,' he mumbled, his stubble scratching her skin. For once she did not pull away.

Her heart felt as if it was about to burst. She let him hug her and then he pulled away to unlock the door.

Chaim stood framed in the yellow light of the corridor. She remained a huddle in the bed, knees, ankles and feet long dead from lack of movement. She could not believe he was really going.

‘I'll see you tomorrow. Meet me for coffee in the Humanities Cafe at second break. I have a lecture at three.'

‘Ok.'

‘See you. Sleep well.'

‘You too. Laila tov.'

‘Laila tov.'

He closed the door behind him leaving her sitting in the dark.

May 2008 – London

Baruch glanced at his watch. He had crept through the women's section, keeping as close to the wall as possible. His legs seemed to move in huge, jerky steps of their own accord. His size 14 feet resembled flippers in his brogues. He concentrated on planting them carefully. Closer and closer he sidled towards the mechitzah. On the other side of the screen lay refuge: the men's section.

The women ignored him, but Baruch knew better. He was being watched and assessed. Their eyes monitored his progress through their territory, storing information like security cameras. Their soft perfumed shapes were only a disguise. All female creatures were actually secret agents on a mission to marry or marry off. This knowledge unsteadied him and he wobbled mid-step, one foot in the air. He glanced about him to check no one had noticed. And that's when he saw her.

She had been standing next to the ice sculpture, on the edge of a gaggle of girls.

 

Chani had been engrossed by the prospect of bitter chocolate ganache topped with maraschino cherries. The cherries nestled in the dip of the swan's clear frozen back. She had already had two helpings but was bored and needed something to do before the dancing started. She gripped the silver ladle in her hand and dipped it into the steaming vat. The ladle was pleasingly smooth and heavy in her palm, and caused thick, shiny undulations as she stirred.

The chatter ebbed and flowed around her. It was the usual idle nonsense picked over by young single women, waiting their turn.

Usually it started like this: ‘How are you?'

‘I'm fine Baruch HaShem.'

‘No – how
are
you?'

‘I'm FINE, Baruch HaShem. And you?'

‘Baruch HaShem, fine.'

Then they got down to business:-

‘. . . and he's going to Or Yeshiva in Yerushaliyim – they're renting a flat in Mea She'arim – '

‘When's the wedding?'

‘Next Tuesday at the Watford Hilton.'

‘Well, I heard his younger brother's looking, he's so cute – '

‘Dovid? I've known his family for years, they'd only accept a Bobover – '

‘Guess that rules me out then. Plenty of Bobover girls in New York – where does Benji's Kallah come from?'

‘Brooklyn.'

‘Typical. Those American girls get all the luck.'

‘Well, I've heard her parents had hoped for a shidduch with a son of an old family friend but it fell through. They were engaged and he broke it off.'

‘Why? Wasn't she good enough for him?'

‘Sounds like she wasn't. And then Benji rescued her.'

‘Nebbuch!'

Although the act of spreading gossip was considered a serious transgression, here it provided urgent relief. It was therapy for the girls who were still waiting. To each, the unbearable reality of the shelf seemed to draw nearer every day. They gleaned some comfort from not being alone in their unmarried state. It was always the same. The same talk, the same food eaten by the same girls. One by one they would disappear, joining the ranks of the newly anointed, the young married women. They stood patiently shifting their weight from hip to hip, their feet aching in elegant shoes that were neither too high nor too low. Their eyes rested on each other but their minds fluttered uneasily. They wore clothes that made them appear older, sensible, almost matronly. Stiff skirts hid their knees in velvet or wool but the stockings they wore were of the thinnest denier, enough to conceal their flesh but give the impression it was bare. Jackets were tightly buttoned although the room was tropical.

Some of the girls were barrel-like already; sugar dulled each disappointment. There was always a ready supply, the dessert table groaning with sticky pastries and crystallised fruit. Their hands reached blindly for their next fix. It did not matter what went in, as long as their jaws continued to grind. Others remained whippet thin; they ate with their eyes, gazing wistfully at the bride in her finery.

Every wedding they attended rubbed salt into the wound and every bride with whom they danced saw the yearning in their eyes and breathed a sigh of relief that her turn had come. Spinsterhood was a living hell and was to be avoided at all cost.

 

He saw her thin shoulder blades, shifting and flexing beneath her black cashmere sweater, its elbows a little worn and faded. Had he been close enough Baruch would have noticed that the sweater had become slightly bobbled. But it was what the sweater concealed that interested Baruch – her slender back, the outline of her spine visible under the wool, melting into the narrow waist that twisted as she lent forward to grapple with the cherries. Her hair was a smooth, black coil. A restless energy in her slight frame made her movements quick and neat.

He wanted to see her face. Turn, turn. He couldn't wait. He was trespassing.

Her friend had noticed him staring. She spun round and gave Chani a nudge. The cherries tumbled off the spoon, staining the white cloth.

‘Shulamis! Look what you've made me do, you idiot!' yelped Chani, giggling. Her white shirt cuff had been splashed with juice.

‘Someone's watching you!' hissed Shulamis.

‘Who? I'm not turning round, so you have to look – but don't make it obvious – try and be a bit subtle.'

‘Ok, ok – keep your hair on – you never know, he might be looking at me for once – '

‘He might be but it's unlikely.' Chani rammed her elbow into Shulamis' well-insulated rib. Shulamis' face fell causing Chani to regret her jibe. She put an affectionate arm around her friend. Beneath the boisterous exterior, Chani knew that Shulamis lacked confidence and was sensitive about her weight. She had not had as many shidduchim as Chani and was becoming increasingly anxious about her single status. She loved Shulamis and hated to see her hurt. She was a dear, loyal friend. They were partners-in-crime: equally playful, slight misfits, lacking the poise and quiet dignity of their peers. They found the sober maturity of their friends stultifying. Yet at times it was necessary to assume the cloak of adulthood if they didn't want to be left behind.

‘I'm sorry. You're right, he could be staring at either of us.'

Shulamis shrugged. ‘You're forgiven! Actually, I don't care – let him stare.'

Curiosity gripped Chani even though experience had taught her that a young man's attention was a fickle thing. She had been stared at before. Enquiries had been made, the phone lines had buzzed and then nothing had happened. The young man heard she was a little too lively and moved on. It would probably be the same this time, but a flicker of hope refused to be doused. Chani composed herself, straightened her back, lifted her head, and shifted away from Shulamis. A veneer of modesty was called for.

 

Baruch knew the girls had been whispering about him. This was what girls did. He had two sisters and they spent most of their time in a huddle in the kitchen. Nothing went unnoticed in their world, the glance that lingered a little too long or the blush that flared at an importune moment. He was young, he was single and therefore an object of subtle female inspection wherever he went. He hated it: the constant evaluation of his eligibility, his family and his prospects. But this was the ghetto he lived in and there was no escape. The only exit was through marriage. It was time.

He was no Adonis and knew it. His face was long and thin but his shy smile was warm and wide. His hair was soft and thick but his head was cone-shaped, as if the forceps had squeezed too hard at birth. His glasses gave him an owlish air through which he peered myopically at the world. Chani was probably not as attractive as he perceived her to be. He needed a second opinion. He would ask Avromi.

The mechitzah was taller than him. The screen was covered in rampant ivy. A rose nestled here and there amongst the shiny, dark leaves. There was something primeval about such lush growth. Baruch pushed against the end screen and slipped through. The leaves felt scratchy – they weren't real. Nor did they provide full coverage. Gaps appeared framing flashes of black and white as the men shuffled to and fro on the other side.

He was through. The colours disappeared and the jostling began. The sour smell returned. The men steamed in their wool suits and furry black hats. A stink of fish balls filled the air. Avromi was listening intently to Rabbi Weisenhoff. Baruch's heart sank.

Rabbi Weisenhoff spoke in a hoarse whisper but when imparting spiritual wisdom his voice became barely audible. His forefinger would stab the air, its nail yellow and thickly ridged. His eyes widened with the intensity of his words, stretching the pouches beneath and making his eyebrows rise like wisps of cloud. The Rabbi was old and alone. His wife had died many years ago. He had lived long, too long and now only his love of learning sustained him. His emaciated body required little nourishment; food irritated his gullet making him cough and splutter so he refrained from eating in public. He preferred to talk.

On any other day, Baruch would have greeted the rabbi and joined the discussion. He was very fond of the kind, gentle man. Rabbi Weisenhoff was a great teacher, passionate but patient and Baruch loved listening to him. But time was of the essence. The girl might move away and he may never know who she was or whether she was as pretty as he had thought. He moved a few paces behind the rabbi and tried to catch Avromi's eye. It was no good. Avromi was having his face tickled by Rabbi Weisenhoff's beard. He was staring at the ground, nodding along to the rabbi's monologue. The rabbi was leaning on Avromi for support.

Baruch slipped away to a quieter spot by the wall. The air hummed with male voices, the words inarticulate but the noise swelling around him. They seemed to be saying ‘zuh-zuh-zeh, zuh-zuh-zeh' or ‘wus-wus, wus-wus'; the mingling of Yiddish and English creating a hybrid tongue: Yidlish.

 

Avromi's mobile bleated in his top pocket. He ignored it, not wishing to insult the rabbi by answering. The Rabbi stopped.

‘Somebody is calling you, Avromileh, you should to answer.'

‘Thank you, rabbi – I'm sorry, please excuse me.'

‘Please.' The Rabbi proffered, his palm open.

Avromi acquiesced although he didn't like leaving the old man on his own. He led the rabbi to a chair and settled him in it, ignoring his faint protests when the ringing stopped. Moving away, he flipped open his phone and redialled.

‘Bruch?'

‘Quick, come over to the wall, next to the bread rolls – I need

to show you something.'

‘Okey dokey. Coming over.'

Baruch waited for his friend to push through the army of dark shoulders and suited backs. Avromi was handsome and Baruch felt a momentary stab of envy. Suddenly he was relieved that the mechitzah existed; he felt sure the girl would prefer Avromi. Baruch was ashamed for having these thoughts. Avromi was his closest friend, his brother in all but a shared name and he should not resent his looks. Avromi was tall and broad-shouldered, with clear olive skin and dark and lustrous eyes.

As usual, Baruch felt deeply inadequate. He hated being ugly; or so he considered himself. When he walked down the street with Avromi, he was well aware of how girls stole glances at his friend but ignored him. Avromi never seemed to notice the discrepancy in their appearances or the girls' interest. Or if he did, he never alluded to it. He usually liked to talk about girls with Baruch. Avromi had confidence and more importantly, a dusting of worldliness. He was a university student and met girls regularly in his tutorials, albeit goyishe ones. Of late, however, he had seemed distracted and at times, a little distant. Baruch assumed that the heavy university workload was taking its toll.

‘Bruch!' Avromi grabbed Baruch in a bear hug. ‘What's up? Where's the fire?'

‘It's this girl,' gasped Baruch.

‘A girl, eh? Who's this marvellous creature then? Do I know her? Have you two been on a shidduch then? You didn't tell me, you crafty bugger – '

‘I don't know her. I don't even know her name. Maybe you know who she is since you know nearly everyone. She's over there.' Baruch pointed to the mechitzah.

‘Oh. I see. So what do we do? Pole vault over?'

Baruch grinned uneasily. ‘No-no – I was hoping that we could find a hole and take a peek when no-one's looking – she was just over there, at that point.' He pointed to the spot at the mechitzah where he imagined Chani to be standing.

‘Baruch, this place is booby-trapped with rabbis – how on earth do you expect us to look? If we get caught, my dad will roast us alive!'

Baruch's face fell. He gazed down at his enormous feet.

‘All right – stop with the broken-heart act – show me this girl, let's just be quick about it! Now's our chance, they're all toasting the groom!'

The men had turned. Somebody was rambling into a microphone. Baruch and Avromi scuttled towards the mechitzah.

‘She's probably moved away – she was standing just there with her friend, talking. They saw me staring – '

‘What's her friend like? Would I like her?'

‘Um, fat.' Baruch felt awful for saying it; who was he to talk?

‘Great. Couldn't you have picked a girl with a lovely friend for me? You only think about yourself, don't you?' teased Avromi.

‘Well, maybe she's got a great personality.'

‘Stop with the sales pitch and show me your princess. Hurry up already.'

They were speaking in whispers. Behind them the men broke into a loud chorus of ‘L'chaim! L'chaim!'

Baruch grabbed his chance and peeped through a hole. They were still there. Baruch HaShem. She looked even better framed by a ring of plastic leaves. She was facing his way and he liked what he saw, her small sharp face, the soft, pink mouth and the straight fringe that accentuated her eyes.

Avromi gave him a poke. ‘Budge over and let me look – which one is she?'