The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (15 page)

Above her, swallows wheeled effortlessly against a diminishing turquoise sky. She could hear children playing within the small, red-roofed houses – a ball thudded and a mother scolded. Perhaps HaShem would answer their prayers this time and she would finally fall pregnant. She picked up her skirt and vaulted the stairs to their apartment, two at a time.

Inside, all was cool and dim. She turned on the lights. The blinds rattled in the evening breeze and moths hurled themselves against the kitchen window. In the dusty, neglected garden below, the scarlet hibiscus closed for the night and date palms shivered and swayed. A yowling catfight had begun in the bushes.

Rivka loved these moments, as the longing for intimacy mingled with the sweetness of lingering anticipation. She still had dinner to prepare. She stirred, sliced, pounded, mixed and fried, every ingredient bringing him closer, every action filled with love. On these nights, her dishes were created with extra delicacy, the spices sharper and more poignant, the textures more satisfying in their contrasts, as if every morsel had been infused with her desire.

The table was laid, the plates blank spaces awaiting fulfillment. Rivka hummed as she polished the wine glasses and stirred the pots. Then she turned the gas down low, leaving the soup and sauces to simmer. She examined her reflection in the mirror, noting her flushed cheeks and wide, shiny eyes. Finally, she unpinned the brooch she had worn since the start of her period as a warning to Chaim, to avoid touching her. She placed it on the table, between their plates.

His key turned in the lock and she raced to open the door. He took one look at her happy face and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing so tight she could barely breathe. He walked her backwards until she bumped against the table, knocking over the wine glasses. He began to kiss her neck, his hands sliding over her buttocks. She laughed and pushed him away until he was at arm's length, so that she could look him in the eye.

‘What took you so long?'

‘I couldn't get away from Rabbi Yochanan, man, can he talk and talk? But hey, I'm here now.'

She buried her head against his chest, hiding her grin. Then she pulled away and shoved him gently into a chair, just in time to rescue the soup.

May 2008 – London

Mrs Levy surveyed her reflection in the rear view mirror. She applied another coat of lipstick, tugged a mascara wand through her sticky lashes and patted her wig into place. She changed her flats for heels, grabbed her handbag and exited the car only to plunge her elegant court into an oily puddle. Yet again she had parked miles from the kerb.

‘Feh!' she exclaimed in disgust. The water had seeped into her shoe and soaked through her stocking leaving a grimy tidemark below her ankle.

She was running late. There was no time to re-park so she slid across the passenger seat and stepped out onto the road. Not too bad. It was a quiet road and hopefully no one would hit her Saab.

Mrs Levy opened the small wooden gate and clicked up the front path, disliking the wet rub of her foot inside her shoe. Just as she was about to press the bell the door swung open. Mrs Gelb­mann stood in the doorway smiling graciously.

The two women examined each other. Too much lipstick as always, thought Mrs Gelb­mann. Such a plain woman, thought Mrs Levy for the umpteenth time. And yet she wields so much power. Why doesn't she update her sheitel at least? Mrs Gelb­mann was dressed as always in black, reminding Mrs Levy of a giant cockroach.

They did not embrace or even shake hands although they had known each other for years. Instead they exchanged courteous nods and continued smiling benignly at each other.

‘Hello, Mrs Gelb­mann. How are you?'

‘Baruch HaShem, Mrs Levy. And you?'

‘Baruch HaShem, everything's fine, Mrs Gelb­mann.'

‘How are Yisroel and Tali getting on? I hear she is expecting again.'

‘Baruch HaShem, just fine – thank you, Mrs Gelb­mann. And yes, another one's on the way.'

‘That's good to hear. Wonderful news. Baruch HaShem.'

Mrs Gelb­mann looked down and noticed that one of Mrs Levy's shoes was wet. Her eyes locked on the soiled nylon.

‘Oh it's nothing! I'm such a klutz, stepped into a puddle on my way out of the car!' Mrs Levy gabbled.

Mrs Gelb­mann continued to smile but inclined her head apologetically and holding her hand out, beckoned her bedraggled guest in. Mrs Levy touched the mezuzah, kissed her fingers and stepped over the threshold.

‘Come in, it's warm inside, you'll soon dry out. Can I take your coat?'

‘Yes, please.' She shrugged off her floor-length mink and clacked into the living-room.

The room had not changed since the last time she had visited. That was two years ago when she had come to find a bride for Ilan, her second eldest son. The electric coals still glowed steadily in their iron grate. Above the mantelpiece the ormolu clock continued to remind the unmarried clients that with each gentle tick, time was passing and with it, their youthful charm. On either side of the clock stood framed photographs depicting legions of Gelb­mann offspring providing evidence of the fruits of successful matchmaking. Mr Gelb­mann himself was frozen in black and white for eternity. A fine husband, beloved but dead.

Four small, shrivelled satsumas nestled at the bottom of a huge, maroon Venetian glass bowl. Mrs Levy eyed them warily. They too had probably been here last time.

Mrs Gelb­mann gently closed the door and settled herself into the chintzy armchair opposite her visitor. She held herself ramrod straight and folded her hands in her lap. Instinctively Mrs Levy sat bolt upright, clutching at her handbag propped up on her knees.

‘And what can I do for you today, Mrs Levy?'

She had thrown down the gauntlet. The tournament had begun. Refreshments would not be offered until business had been made clear. Mrs Gelb­mann did not favour time-wasters and since Mrs Levy was dying for a cup of tea, she decided to do away with subtleties.

‘A small matter, Mrs Gelb­mann. One in which you may be able to assist me.'

‘Baruch, I presume?'

‘Yee-es. This concerns Baruch.'

‘I have some lovely girls in mind for him. They all come from excellent, Hasiddisher families with the best credentials – '

‘Actually Mrs Gelb­mann, he has seen someone and I wondered whether you knew her or knew of her family.'

‘Seen someone?' Mrs Gelb­mann peered down her aquiline nose at Mrs Levy. Her right eyebrow rose in an elegant, practised arch. Mrs Levy fluttered before her, a songbird caught in its gilded cage.

‘Yes, it's rather embarrassing, but he was late to the dancing at the Vishnefski wedding and he had to slip through the women's section and well, there she was . . .' She was not going to mention the fact that her son had peeked through the mechitzah.

Mrs Gelb­mann tilted her head slightly. Mrs Levy plunged on.

‘He liked the look of her. Apparently her name is Chani Kaufman. Do you know the family?'

‘I most certainly do, Mrs Levy. A good family, very frum. They live in Hendon. They are simple, decent people. She comes of good stock.'

‘But simple, you said?'

‘Her father is the rabbi of that tiny shul on Bell Lane. He survives on his stipend and has managed to raise and educate eight daughters on it.'

‘Is the family financially solvent?'

‘Well Mrs Levy, how shall I put it? The Kaufmans are not, well – ' Mrs Gelb­mann gave a little laugh, ‘as financially solvent as you and your husband.'

She knew it. Baruch had gone for a penniless beauty.

Mrs Gelb­mann regarded the crestfallen Mrs Levy. The room fell quiet as each woman considered her next move. Mrs Gelb­mann sensed Baruch's attraction was strong; strong enough for Mrs Levy to remain seated. Perhaps a match could be struck after all. Softly but steadily she would reel Mrs Levy in. The Levys had paid handsomely in the past, demanding that their sons met only the most popular and respectable young maidens the community had to offer. Although Chani occupied a lower rung, it would be foolish to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

‘Tea, Mrs Levy?'

‘Oh yes please, Mrs Gelb­mann. Two sugars. No milk though, I ate a salt beef sandwich for lunch.'

‘No problem. If you'll just excuse me – '

‘Oh yes, yes.'

 

It was not that Mrs Levy was a supercilious snob nor was Mrs Gelb­mann a mercenary. Each had their part to play and marriage was a serious business. For a successful match to be struck both families must come with equal goods to the table. Should one basket be fuller than the other, an imbalance would occur and a myriad of awkward situations would result, beginning with the payment for the wedding itself. The bride's family would usually provide, with the groom's side oiling the financial wheels where necessary. But should one side struggle so much as to feel beholden to the other then the wealthier party would influence all future decisions, whether their impoverished relatives liked it or not. It was unusual for a match of such obvious differences to proceed.

Mrs Levy did not relish the idea of lording it over another family. She desired joyful and warm relations with her extended family through marriage. Inequality bred underlying resentment not unity. It was never a good start. Besides, what would the neighbours say?

But at the heart of it lay her son's happiness. Baruch always so reliable, so biddable and compliant had made a rare request. She could not dash his hopes. He had never disappointed them. True he had his idiosyncrasies, his love of art and literature (she had found the novels secreted away under his mattress and had left them there), his gaucheness and over-sensitivity, but he was hers and Mrs Levy adored him.

As for Mrs Gelb­mann, matchmaking was her livelihood. Although widowed, her profession gave her financial independence, a rarity for a single woman. Nor was she forgotten and set aside as a woman past her prime, alone in her empty nest. Mrs Gelb­mann was a vital component of the community, working hard to ensure its continuity. Naturally it was prudent to treat her well.

Of course she was an opportunist. Matchmaking was a challenging and exhausting profession. Unaware of their own mediocrity, young people demanded perfection in a spouse.

In practice, the boy and girl did not set eyes on each other until the date itself. Hence rejection on the basis of physical disparity was a frequent excuse for failure. Too short! Too fat! Where's his hair? Then there were the potential pitfalls in differing levels of observance. Too frum! Not frum enough! The complaints rumbled on and on making Mrs Gelb­mann's head ache.

But in this case Baruch had already seen the girl and was anxious to see her again. Half her work had been done for her. All that remained was for Chani to return the compliment. The attraction must be mutual. Yet Chani had rejected suggested matches and in turn had been rejected several times. The girl might be getting desperate. Even if Baruch did not live up to Chani's expectations, there was a good chance that she would agree to marry him regardless. He was a fine catch, better than all her previous suitors. The girl would be a fool to turn him down.

Mrs Gelb­mann prepared for battle. She released the brake and wheeled in the tea trolley.

 

The shivering of porcelain interrupted Mrs Levy's brooding. She sat up straight again and watched as Mrs Gelb­mann parked the gleaming trolley in front of her. A plate of almond thins nestled beside a fat strudel dusted with icing-sugar. Near the teapot a honey-cake glistened, anointed with golden syrup.

Mrs Levy licked her lips. Her eyes followed the deft movements of Mrs Gelb­mann's hands.

‘Cake or some biscuits, Mrs Levy? Or both?' offered Mrs Gelb­mann. Her smile was genial, neutral, but she knew Mrs Levy was trapped.

‘Oh Mrs Gelb­mann, I really shouldn't! I'm on a diet,' protested Mrs Levy.

‘A diet? What for, you're as slim as a pickle! You haven't put on an ounce. A pitsel of honey-cake won't hurt. Or a slither of strudel? I baked it this morning,' purred Mrs Gelb­mann. In truth she thought Mrs Levy was looking rather plump like a juicy sultana. But flattery got you everywhere. As for the strudel, both women were well aware it had been bought at Carmelli's that morning. Little white lies – the currency of diplomacy.

‘Ahh, if you insist, a slice of strudel please, Mrs Gelb­mann,' replied Mrs Levy. Resistance was futile. The smell of cinnamon had flooded her mouth with desire.

When both women had finished spearing forkfuls of stodgy sweetness into their mouths, business resumed.

‘So,' began Mrs Gelb­mann, her voice glutinous, ‘tell me a little about Baruch.'

What mother can resist the opportunity to boast about her beloved son? Mrs Gelb­mann sat back and waited for Baruch's accolades to be expounded. She helped herself to another slice of honey cake, sensing the list would be lengthy.

Mrs Levy seemed to inflate with pride. She took a deep breath and began. ‘My Baruch is a special boy, a very clever boy. He's different from the others . . . he's more sensitive. He's deeper and more spiritual. And
very
academic, Mrs Gelb­mann! Top of the class in every subject at school. The Head gave him a glowing reference for the Yeshiva in Gateshead and he did brilliantly there as well . . . so my husband and I, well, we hope . . . well, we would like him to become, im yirtzeh HaShem, a rabbi . . .'

She had stuttered to a halt. Mrs Gelb­mann's beady eyes had been fixed on her throughout. She felt uncomfortable, foolish for imparting the last piece of information. The Levys were not in the habit of producing rabbinical scholars, let alone rabbis.

‘A rabbi? A most unusual choice for one of your sons, Mrs Levy, if you don't mind me saying. Until now they have all been so, so . . . how shall I put it?' Mrs Gelb­mann fumbled for the right word. Materialistic was not it.

‘Entrepreneurial?' suggested Mrs Levy, her heart beating a little faster.

‘Yee-eess, that's right. They are all highly successful businessmen. Born with an excellent head for financial success.' Shysters, every one of them, with the father being the worst! The apple does not fall far from the tree.

But this third son was apparently different, a future rabbi perhaps.

‘Tell me more about your future plans for Baruch if you will, Mrs Levy. How old is he now exactly?'

Her complicated, brilliant but insecure son had become a commodity ready to be bartered. Somehow it had been easier with her other sons. They were cast from a different, less brittle metal.

‘He's just turned twenty. At the moment he's living at home having finished his studies at Gateshead. He's been accepted at Or Yerushaliyim and we're hoping he'll start learning there by Pesach.' Eat that thought, Mrs Gelb­mann. Or Yerushaliyim was
the
yeshiva; only the elite gained entry. And her Baruch was one of them!

‘Baruch HaShem! Or Yerushaliyim . . . how wonderful for you, Mrs Levy. He must be a true yeshiva bocher. You must be very proud,' trilled Mrs Gelb­mann. There was always a catch though. Otherwise news of this Levy wunderkind would have already reached her ears.

‘Oh we are, Mrs Gelb­mann, we are. Mr Levy was thrilled when he received Baruch's acceptance letter,' enthused Mrs Levy.

‘And what does Baruch look like? How tall is he? Have you got a picture?'

Tall she could do. ‘He's about six foot two. That's pretty tall, isn't it?'

‘Most certainly. Especially for a Jewish boy. Is he dark like Mr Levy or fair like you?'

‘He takes after me. I've got a fairly recent photo here, taken about a year ago at his cousin Brochele's wedding.' Mrs Levy dug in her handbag and retrieved a dog-eared photo from the confines of her purse. She hesitated wishing she could avoid exposing her poor son to the shadchan's calculating eye. She knew Baruch was ordinary looking.

Mrs Gelb­mann scrutinised the picture. Clearly more than a year old. The boy in it was no older than sixteen at the most, his features blurry and indistinct. She noted the protruding chin and heavy spectacles – nothing unusual there, they all looked like that. His skin appeared to be blotchy in places. Or was that simply patchy facial hair? He bore no resemblance to his smoother, darker brothers who had clearly surpassed him in the looks department.