The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (28 page)

November 2008 – London

Her feet on firm ground once more, Chani lost herself to the delights of dancing. She forced herself to jump and whirl and spin and jig and clap even though the weight of the dress proved cumbersome and exhausting. The stays gouged into her hips with each turn but she ignored the pain.

This way she did not have to think too much. The familiar faces swirled around her as a different friend took her hands. Together they spun round and round leaning backwards, creating a vortex at the centre of the circle.

She was safe here amongst the women. Her mother shuffled forward to dance with her and Chani slowed down to accommodate her. Her mother's paws dripped with sweat making them difficult to grip. They rotated at a gentle pace. Her mother's eyes were warm and bright and when the time came for them to part, Chani did not want to let go.

She would no longer share the same roof as her mother or her sisters. How quiet and strange it would seem. How lonely. Her mother's face was lost in a blur of tears. She blinked them away. How would she ever get used to living with just one person?

Before she knew it, her sisters had taken her hands and her feet trod the circle rapidly once more. She was tired now but she had to keep going. As she twisted and turned she searched the room for a particular face. But once again the Rebbetzin had eluded her. Where was she? Chani longed to see her. She wanted the woman who had taught her to become a Jewish wife to see the results of her work. She thought about the lesson that had ended with the Rebbetzin's terrible revelation. How good it would be to see the Rebbetzin smiling and enjoying herself. Moreover she wanted to share the joy of her wedding with her, to dance with her as a friend, released from her duty of education. But the Rebbetzin was nowhere to be found. And neither was her mother-in-law. For this small grace Chani was most grateful.

 

Avromi observed the men's frantic dancing from the sidelines. He was reminded of the last time he had been a wallflower – at Shola's birthday – and loneliness and anxiety welled up once more inside him. His sobriety did nothing to quell it. He had no taste for drink after his initial experience of inebriation.

He worried about his mother. He had not seen her since Friday morning and although his father had tried to calm his children's panic by telling them she had gone to stay with friends in Manchester for a short break and would be back on Monday, Avromi had not believed him. Neither had Michal. They had never heard of their parents having friends in Manchester but Avromi dared not question his father, terrified that he would invoke his displeasure further. His father seemed subdued and pensive. Something was certainly wrong. Avromi had repeatedly tried calling his mother's mobile but it had been switched off all day. His parents' marriage had not been healthy for a while and Avromi miserably sensed that his affair with Shola had been the toxic catalyst for its deterioration. His mother's miscarriage had simply accelerated the crisis.

He stared mindlessly at the wild scene before him and thought longingly of Shola in her dusty pink dress. There was a dearth of scantily clad young women for him to ogle, since the only dancers were the familiar, bearded, black suited men of his community revolving in concentric circles at breakneck speed. In the past, he would have been among the first to leap and whirl, to thrust himself into the maddened, joyous throng. Instead, he inhabited a self-appointed purgatory.

He was determined to re-establish his place in the frum world into which he had been born. And Jerusalem now beckoned, with a chance to start afresh, and all the possibilities that that entailed. Two weeks prior, he had received an acceptance letter at a yeshiva favoured by his father, which had led to a slight thawing in his father's icy demeanour. He knew very few people in the city – Baruch was one of course – and was grateful for it.

When Avromi had informed him that he had dropped out of university to study in Jerusalem, Baruch had been pleasantly surprised, but also disappointed that Avromi had not completed his secular education, a liberty Baruch openly envied and admired. Avromi had not divulged the real reason behind the sudden switch. He still could not bring himself to confess the truth to Baruch, especially now that Baruch was a respectable married man. There was also a part of him that feared Baruch's reaction.

His old and loyal friend had acquired a wife. It was bound to happen to one of them sooner or later, but the shy scholarly Baruch had shown a bewildering aptitude for pursuing his chosen bride against all the odds. Good old Baruch. He had shown them his true mettle in the end. Avromi searched the heaving black sea for his friend. He spotted him being dragged along as if caught in a revolving door. Baruch's head was dangling, his arms limp and his whole body that of someone who had spent the day in the village stocks. Avromi steeled himself to mount a rescue. It was the least he could do.

Like whirling Cossacks the men spun round and round, shoulder to shoulder, their coat tails fanning out behind them. Baruch was lifted off his feet with the force of their momentum. He felt faint and nauseous and wished he could sit down to catch his breath but the human whirligig showed no sign of abating. He was flagging as the sweat streamed down his face. He stumbled causing the man behind him to kick the back of his knees. He had no idea who these men were. Here and there he spotted a recognisable face. He wished he had not eaten so much. The salmon fillet threatened to swim to the surface. He wished he had not drunk so much. The two glasses of champagne that had seemed such a good idea at the time now churned in his belly.

Suddenly arms pulled him to safety. Avromi disengaged his tangled limbs and led him to a seat. He was so thankful he could have kissed him then and there. Avromi produced a bundle of napkins and wiped Baruch's face. Then he disappeared and returned with a jug of water and a couple of glasses.

‘Thought you needed a break, old chap. You looked like you were losing it in there.'

Baruch paused while his breathing returned to normal.

‘Take your time.' Avromi poured him a glass of water and Baruch drained it in one gulp.

‘What would I do without you, Vrom?' he gasped and held out his glass for a refill.

‘Whoa, easy does it, B'ruch. You'll be sick if you drink too fast.'

‘Already feel sick.'

‘Maybe you need some fresh air?'

‘Great idea. But how do I get out of here?'

‘We'll just tell them the truth.'

‘Ok.'

Baruch rose unsteadily and followed Avromi as he crossed the dancefloor, in itself a dangerous exercise. They manoeuvred themselves carefully around the various flying limbs and garments and made for the exit.

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder: ‘Where are you going, my son?'

Mr Levy resplendent in crisp white and jet black barred their way.

‘Dad, I need some air. I'm feeling a bit ill – '

‘Ah, come on, Baruch, it's your wedding day – you can't leave in the middle of the dancing! What would your guests think?'

‘Dad, please – I really need – '

Baruch's face had taken on a ghastly pallor. His eyes bulged and his hair stuck to his forehead.

‘Mr Levy, I think he's going to – '

Dodging his father, Baruch made a dash for the doors. They swung shut behind him. All was cool and quiet in the thickly carpeted corridor. The carpet was a lurid olive green with a snaking black pattern. The print writhed before his eyes and before he knew it he had grabbed the first receptacle available, a large bronze urn, one of a pair guarding the doors to the ballroom, and vomited copiously into it.

Avromi gingerly patted his back. ‘There, there. You'll feel much better now.'

Another heave and a fresh onslaught erupted from his stomach. He waited a moment, breathing heavily into the urn. When it seemed safe, he straightened up and let Avromi lead him into the men's toilets.

The cool, white tiles and drip of water were a balm to his throbbing senses. He ran the cold tap and leaning over the basin he washed his face and hands. He gargled and spat out the stale taste in his mouth. Avromi waited patiently leaning against the next basin.

‘You've overdone it, B'ruch.'

‘I know,' moaned Baruch. He stared at himself in the mirror. A wretch stared back. He examined his bloodshot eyes and stuck out his furry tongue. ‘I look awful. What's Chani going to think? Probably smell awful too.'

‘You can wash later and brush your teeth. Here have some gum.'

Baruch leaned against the mirror and closed his eyes. The fear of performance overwhelmed him.

‘Vrom, how am I going to – ' He paused not knowing how to phrase things.

‘Do it?' suggested Avromi.

‘Yes,' replied Baruch grateful for his friend's intuitive response. He unwrapped the stick of gum and shoved it in his mouth. Avromi joined him. After a few chews, he spoke again.

‘I really don't know, Bruch. But I'm sure you'll manage. Later on, you'll feel calmer and better when it's just the pair of you in the room.'

Baruch groaned.

‘You can just lie back and think of England as they say.'

Baruch opened one eye and squinted at his friend. ‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘Just something I heard said once. I think it refers to the girl actually not the guy. You know she has to lie there and think of something else while you get on with the job.'

‘You make it sound so enticing. Why on earth would Chani want to think of England?'

‘Not really sure. Come on, Bruch, cheer up! You're lucky to be getting the chance to actually do it with a real, live girl!'

'Do what exactly? That's just the point. I don't know what it is exactly I have to do, do I? I mean how I am supposed to know what needs to go where? So how can I do it?'

‘All right, all right, calm down.'

They remained in silence for a few moments, chewing meditatively, each contemplating the act that was required of Baruch.

‘I admit it's a little bit problematic,' said Avromi finally.

‘Yup.'

‘But if your parents managed it. And my parents managed it – then we should be up to the job.'

Baruch thought of his mother and father managing it. The bile rose in his stomach again. ‘Great advice, Vrom. But I'd rather not think of my parents, if you see what I mean.'

‘Yes, I see. Could put one off. Sorry, B'ruch. Was just trying to help.'

‘I know, Vrom, I know . . . we best be getting back!'

‘It will be all right on the night!' Avromi gave Baruch's shoulder a playful punch. Baruch smiled wanly and made for the door.

November 2008 – London

The Rebbetzin stared at the grey, concrete façade. From the outside, most of the rooms were dark and appeared vacant. Here and there a subdued light glimmered from the otherwise lifeless exterior. A battered sedan idled in the stony forecourt.

The rain was falling heavily. The hotel would have to do. She went in. The foyer was dusty and forlorn. Blinds fell in uneven slats across the large, dirty windows. The carpet had atrophied under years of accumulated dirt. She looked up and saw that the ceiling light had become a mortuary for hundreds of insects, their small black corpses piling up along the inner edges of its glass bowl.

‘Hello, anyone here?' she called out.

Something stirred from behind the desk. A small, ash-grey Asian man shuffled into view. He had been slumped in a corner behind the desk so that at first the Rebbetzin had been completely unaware of his presence. A small television flickered silently on the counter. He had been watching her all the time.

‘Yes, ma'am, can I help you?' He eyed her wet wig that had begun to mat in clumps. His gaze took in her over-sized coat, wrinkled, soggy tights and scuffed loafers. The Rebbetzin fiddled with her wedding ring. She was a married woman and perfectly respectable but still she saw the question in the man's eyes.

She cleared her throat and spoke as boldly as she could. ‘I'd like a room please. A single room.'

‘Of course, ma'am. Can I take your name, ma'am?'

The man's fingers began to tap at an ancient computer on the shelf below the counter.

‘Yes. The Reb – I mean, Mrs Zilberman. That's Z-I-L-B-E-R-M-A-N.'

‘How many nights, ma'am?' He made the question sound as if she might reside in this dusty forgotten hole forever.

‘I'd like to stay the whole weekend if that's possible, including Sunday night. How much is it per night?'

‘Certainly, ma'am. It's sixty pounds per night and that includes breakfast.'

She paused, thinking of the obscene waste of money to which she was about to commit, just so that she could lay her head on a dirty pillow. She thought of her old mahogany bed at home and sighed. Then she handed over her credit card.

Moments later she was holding a plastic key fob embossed with the number thirty-one.

‘Just go down the corridor, you'll find the lift at the end and press number three for the third floor. Your room is on the right. I'll bring your luggage up for you in a moment, ma'am.'

‘Oh that won't be necessary, thank you. I have no luggage.'

The receptionist leant over the counter and peered at her feet just to make sure. He tried to resume his previous blank expression but his eyebrows had remained stranded in surprise. The Rebbetzin blushed furiously. She drew herself up to her full height, nodded her thanks, and strode towards the lift leaving the receptionist staring in her wake.

‘Breakfast is served in the dining-room on the first floor between seven and ten,' he called after her. She did not reply but stepped into the lift and pressed the button for her floor.

She had become an outcast, a nobody, an eccentric middle-aged woman who wore a wedding ring but arrived alone. She
was
alone. Casting her eyes around the newly bought cell, there was no doubting her solitude. This was the freedom she had longed for. The room was as silent as a morgue. She ran a finger along the sill just to confirm her suspicions. The room was as she had expected. Tired and soulless.

The Rebbetzin allowed herself a bitter smile. As she sat down, the bed springs creaked a warning, which prompted her to stand and investigate the bathroom. The shower curtain was stained brown and had stuck to the bath. Two dead bluebottles lay belly up, their tiny legs brittle and stiff. She ran the tap. It gurgled and vomited a rusty gush that eventually ran clear and whisked away the flies.

Discarding her wet things, she stepped into the tepid running water as the bath began to fill. A half used mini bottle of green shampoo and a slither of soap rested in the soap dish. The Rebbetzin pulled off her sheitel and the hair net it concealed, releasing the tight coils of hair. The water reached her shoulders and was finally pleasingly hot. She slipped below its surface hearing the clank of rusty pipes, her hair spooling around her like seaweed.

Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, she blow-dried her hair with what looked like a ribbed hose pipe, a relic from the seventies. Her mother had had one. She had not told her that she had left Chaim and the children. She considered calling her but it would be enough of a shock for her mother to receive a phone call during Shabbes; she would think there was some sort of emergency. She would contact her after Shabbes went out and hoped that her mother would not ring Chaim before she could tell her what had happened.

The Rebbetzin suddenly felt exhausted. She did not want to think any more. Easing herself into bed, she spread her damp hair across the pillow, curled up on her side and closed her eyes. She heard a distant door slam and the rumble of suitcase wheels.

She fell into a fitful sleep in which she dreamt of her husband and children. They were walking down Brent Street, coming towards her, but they made no sign that they recognised her. She called out to them but they remained deaf to her cries. They walked straight past her as if she was a ghost. When she stared after them, she realised that there were five figures not four. Another woman clung to her husband's arm. She turned round and the Rebbetzin saw the swell of her belly. The woman laughed scornfully at her and turned her back.

On Saturday morning she woke late. She had not eaten since Friday lunchtime. She scrambled into her clothes and out of habit donned her sheitel.

Outside, the Rebbetzin wandered along the grim and noisy Finchley Road until she found a café that appeared reasonably clean and peaceful.

The waitress handed her a menu and reeled off the daily specials: ‘We've got spaghetti bolognaise, jacket potatoes with a topping of your choice, either cheese, tuna and sweetcorn, sour cream or bacon, mushroom soup with a fresh roll and butter. Or spinach and onion quiche. So what would you like?'

The Rebbetzin could not bring herself to eat treif but everything was non-kosher here, even the plates. She ordered the soup and bread roll as it seemed like the most neutral option. When it was set before her, she hesitated and muttered a quick prayer before she dipped her spoon. By now her family would be home from shul and would be sitting down to lunch. It felt strange to be eating alone. She used the bread to mop up the remains of her soup and fished out her mini prayer book from her pocket and whispered grace.

The rest of the day stretched emptily before her. She needed clothes, a toothbrush and paste, some shower gel. There was nothing for it but to go shopping. She had not shopped on Saturday for years and a guilty shiver of excitement ran through her as she headed for the Tube and into town.

 

On her return, she laid out all her purchases on the hotel bed. The Rebbetzin pulled on her new jeans, enjoying the strangely familiar roughness of denim against skin. The jumper was soft and its collar covered her collarbones, which she was still reticent to expose. She regarded her reflection and on impulse, yanked at her wig and, ignoring the pain, sent the grips flying. She shook out her hair. It fell in soft waves over her shoulders and down her back. She looked ten years younger. Her reflection smiled back at her.

Eight o'clock. Too early for bed but nor was she ready to take off her new clothes. She wanted to go out and show them off but what does a single middle-aged woman do on her own on a Saturday night?

 

An hour later, clutching an enormous box of popcorn, the Rebbetzin settled into her velvet seat and watched the curtains open. The screen flashed and music blared. All around her were courting couples but she felt far from lonely. She shovelled another handful of popcorn into her mouth, let her head loll back against the seat and waited for the film to begin.

When she stepped out of the cinema it was still early. Although it had grown dark, there was an air of expectancy and spontaneity in the air. Couples dawdled in front of shop windows and groups of teenage girls and boys loitered outside Nando's. The weekday rush had been forgotten and the night stretched before them. It seemed to the Rebbetzin that all of London was out on the town.

It was too early to return to her miserable cell. She had not eaten supper and could not bring herself to eat treif again. The Rebbetzin thought longingly of the houmous and falafel joints on Golders Green Road. Better still would be juicy lamb shwarma dripping in tachina, wrapped in a fluffy, warm pitta.

Her stomach growled but she could not risk it. What if someone recognized her? But then again, so what if they did? What was the worst that could happen? Her appearance would simply generate more grist for the rumour mill but she could survive that. But could Chaim and her children? What if she bumped into them? It was unlikely. Avromi would be hiding in his bedroom and she felt treacherous for not being there to cheer him up. Michal and Moishe would be at friends' houses. Her husband would probably be at home. Her heart tightened at the thought of him, sitting at the kitchen table alone, worrying about her whereabouts. She wondered what he had told them and hoped it was plausible enough not to cause them concern, for she doubted he had told them the truth. She squared her shoulders and strode towards the bus stop. Within minutes, a number 13 pulled up and she was chugging towards her old world.

She leapt off at the station. The wind whipped her hair and it fluttered, banner-like in her wake. The Rebbetzin buckled her husband's trench coat tighter to ward off the icy fingers of an early autumn breeze. Shabbes had gone out and Golders Green would be busy. She braced herself, holding her head high as her heart pumped faster with the thrill of trespass. Starbucks, Costa Coffee and Caffé Nero; the strange, old-fashioned clothes shop, full of furs and kitsch; the Middle Eastern grocer's; and the all night chemist with its glamorous adverts promising the illusion of flawless skin. She was still in neutral territory. But soon enough she passed a kosher bakery and the cafes loomed, their windows bright and cheery as the great and the good met after Shabbes to gossip over cheesecake and cappuccino.

The pavements were filling up. From a double-parked people carrier, several young frum girls emerged wearing identical navy quilted jackets. They slammed the doors and ambled towards the kerb, heedless of the enraged hooting coming from the cars held up behind them. The Rebbetzin approached them warily. Sure enough, she spotted Michal's classmate Sissy Ross. The girl was a gawky bundle of nervous energy, and whilst not a close acquaintance of her daughter's, a face she knew well. The Rebbetzin edged past the group, staring into the middle distance. Sissy was far too busy chattering to notice.

Her route wormed its way under the railway bridge that spanned the road. Young African men exchanged news outside the shabby internet café and call centre that was squeezed into an alcove in the bridge's shadow. A Polish couple gazed longingly at the display in the window of the discount shoe store next door.

The faded front of the Dizengoff café appeared on her right. Small pockets of customers huddled within its gloomy interior, beneath the large, perennially dusty, glass photos of 1980s Tel Aviv. To the Rebbetzin's horror, trundling towards her were Mr and Mrs Schwartz, regular shul goers and keen participants in her husband's lessons. She had even taught their daughter how to use the mikveh. It was too late to cross the road. The Rebbetzin held her breath. She could not help but stare at Mrs Schwartz, who was leaning heavily on her husband, due to her arthritic hip. Her face was twisted with painful effort. She was a kindly, benevolent soul and it unsettled the Rebbetzin to see her struggling. The couple passed within a foot of the Rebbetzin. They gazed at her, blinked, but showed no sign of acknowledgement. Instead, the pair continued to shuffle forward, Mr Schwartz gently encouraging his wife. Within seconds, they had passed her by. The Rebbetzin sighed and walked on.

The woman had stared straight through her. There had been no dawning of recognition, no greeting uttered. The Rebbetzin felt invisible, a ghost of her former self. She drifted on, perturbed yet relieved. Perhaps since she was no longer dressed in frum attire, she no longer existed for her community; they only saw what they wanted to see. In her jeans and loose hair, she was not of their ilk and therefore unimportant, merely another obstacle to negotiate as they progressed along the street. She may as well have been a lamppost. What a strange, blinkered world they inhabited.

Solly's beckoned and she pushed open the heavy glass door to join the queue. The bored Israeli youth took her order with insouciance, barely glancing at her. She handed over her money and in return received a warm bundle of meaty spices and dough. Once outside, she tore open the paper and bit into tender, greasy lamb, allowing the sauce to coat her chin.

 

On Sunday morning the Rebbetzin lay in bed. She stretched languorously, enjoying the space, her mind replaying choice scenes from the film. Reluctantly, her thoughts turned to home and her husband and children. The guilt and the worry returned and her mind swung like a pendulum between them. She began to feel sick with anxiety. How could she walk out on them? She thought of Moishe, his skinny body, his messy hair that he refused to comb flat, his teenage fits of pique – he needed her. And who would listen to and comfort Avromi? He needed time and her careful encouragement in order to heal. Lastly, she thought of Michal – her sensible, pragmatic daughter on the brink of adulthood: despite her maturity, Michal still needed a mother's guidance.

What was she thinking of by abandoning them?

She sat up and reached for her mobile but could not press the buttons. She stared at the lump of plastic in her hand, knowing that as soon as she heard their voices, she would be rattling back home in a cab within minutes.