Things Could Be Worse (10 page)

Issy Segal was a fussy eater. Every day for breakfast Issy had a bowl of Kellogg's cornflakes. He had been having this breakfast for twenty years, since he was ten. For lunch, he had one cheese sandwich. White bread with Havarti cheese. For seventeen years, Issy had had a slice of Kraft cheddar in his sandwich. One day Debbi had said to her brother-in-law, ‘Couldn't you try another cheese? A real cheese. That stuff you're eating is plastic. Try Havarti.' Issy did. And now he ate Havarti cheese in his sandwich. Last year, Debbi had suggested Issy try some Jarlsberg cheese in his sandwich. Issy said that he was perfectly happy with Havarti.

Every Sunday Issy picked at his salmon patty. The rest of the family ate heartily. ‘This is a very good gefilte fish today,' said Pola. ‘Last week you couldn't get Murray Perch in Melbourne. The places that had a Murray Perch were selling them for a fortune. It happens every Pesach. The fish shops save their stocks of Murray Perch for just before Pesach, and then they put up the price. They know that at Pesach they can get double the price.'

‘Mum, we can afford to pay a bit more for a Murray Perch,' said Debbi. ‘It is easy for you to say that,' said Pola. ‘Listen to her,' continued Pola. ‘She says “we can afford”. Who is this “we” that can afford this? Who is this “we” that has earned the money to pay this price for a Murray Perch? Is it you, my darling daughter?'

Luckily, just at that moment, one of the grandchildren dropped a piece of beetroot onto his white shirt, and everyone was diverted from the issue of who earned the money in this family.

The matter of food took over from the matter of money. Pola, Debbi and Helen all tried to push food into the children.

‘Harry, have some chicken.'

‘Melanie, please eat the schnitzel before the potato.'

‘Jonathan, you have to eat the fish before you can have any salad.'

‘Jason, you know that salmon patty belongs to Daddy. Have a chicken wing.'

‘Have you had a drink yet?'

‘Don't drink the lemonade before you finish your meal.'

‘Don't eat so much egg, you'll be sick. Have some potato instead.'

‘Eat more egg salad, it's good for you.'

This was the main conversation at the lunch table.

After the meal, Pola and Moishe played with the grandchildren, and Debbi and Helen washed the dishes. The sisters had never got on well. They had never confided in each other. Each thought that the other was the favoured daughter. But they had a few things in common. They both wanted to leave their husbands. They both despaired of their brother, Sam. And they both hated Ruth.

‘Did you see that outfit that Ruth was wearing?' said Helen. ‘I saw it in Gucci. It cost three thousand bucks.'

‘Three thousand bucks!' said Debbi. ‘Jesus, by the time our kids grow up there'll be no money left in the business, the rate that Ruth's going through it. I noticed, too, that she had another new ring. Sam keeps buying her jewellery. First of all Sam bought himself a wife. He did, he bought Ruth with that car and that big engagement diamond. And now he just keeps paying. He's an imbecile.'

‘I wonder what she's got that makes her worth all that expenditure?' said Helen.

Helen contemplated telling her sister about her affair with Malcolm Bourke. Sometimes she longed to be close to her sister, but something prevented her. Helen decided against telling Debbi. Debbi might use the information against her in some way.

Helen knew that her affair with Malcolm Bourke had no future. Malcolm wasn't Jewish, and Helen couldn't imagine being married to a non-Jew. There was a comfort and a familiarity and a trust that she felt when she was with Jews.

Helen had rarely found Jewish men sexy. Standing at her mother's kitchen sink, Helen closed her eyes for a moment. She thought of Malcolm licking her, manipulating her. She thought of Malcolm caressing her buttocks, his head between her legs. Helen had to steady herself. She felt limp.

On the few occasions that she and Issy made love, he left his pyjamas on. Helen would lift her nightie to just above her waist. For three minutes they would be joined in a wordless union.

Helen wondered if she would ever find a Jewish man she couldn't wait to fuck. Would there ever be a Jew that she would lust after? Be hungry for? Feel hot about?

There was Charles Roth. He was their solicitor. He was small, articulate and fiery. He had a spark and a swiftness that Helen found attractive. He wasn't overly concerned with himself. He seemed indefatigable. His enthusiasm was infectious. Charles Roth had put himself through law school by playing the piano in jazz bars at night. Now his law practice was very successful and he was a wealthy man. Charles Roth was, however, married. And happily married, Helen had heard.

Never mind, Helen thought. She would make an effort to meet as many Jewish men as she could. It was better to try and find another husband now than in ten years' time when she would be middle-aged. Anything would have to be better than the brief intertwining of the pyjamas and the nightie.

‘It's better that I leave now,' Helen had said when her mother suggested that she wait until the children were older. ‘Mum, the kids will be happier if I'm happier. Issy is at the surgery until eight every night. They'll see just as much of him. If I wait until I'm forty, I'll probably have forgotten what it feels like to feel like a real woman.' ‘Helen, darling, there is more to a good marriage than a good shtoop. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about,' said Pola Ganz.

Helen and Debbi had finished the dishes.

‘Debbi, I'm not happy with Issy,' said Helen. ‘Can we have a cup of coffee somewhere tomorrow, and talk?'

‘Sure,' said Debbi. ‘I'll meet you at The Place at nine.'

Debbi and Helen left Oscar and Issy in the same week.

‘Look, Pola,' said Moishe, ‘if people are going to talk, let them get all the talking about us over with at the same time. It's better that the girls did it together. Otherwise we would have everybody talking about us this week, and then again everyone talking about us next week, or next month, or next year. Now, they will get double the pleasure in their talking, and we will get it over with at once.'

Pola could see the good sense in that. Everyone in the community would get twice as much joy in the Ganzes' failure as parents, and the Ganzes would only have to endure the humiliation for half the time. Moishe could always see the good side of a bad situation, thought Pola.

‘You think, Moishe, that I should speak to Sam about that Ruth?' said Pola. ‘I mean, Moishe, if we have to have people talking, and marriages finishing, and grandchildren who are going to suffer, then maybe I should suggest to Sam that he leaves that bitch Ruth. Three divorces wouldn't be any harder than two divorces. We could get a special bulk price from a divorce lawyer. Things couldn't be worse. Sam could be comforted and looked after by his sisters, who would understand exactly what he is going through. What do you think, Moishe?'

Moishe started laughing. He had known Pola for thirty-four years, but her efficiency still surprised him. ‘Pola, I think that maybe we should leave the matter of his marriage or his divorce to Sam himself.'

Pola was disappointed, but she knew Moishe was right. Still, Pola couldn't resist making a few enquiries.

‘Sammy, my darling, does Ruth cook you the schnitzel the way that you like it?' she said to her son.

Sam looked bewildered. ‘No, Mum. Ruth doesn't cook schnitzel. She doesn't fry any foods. She can't bear the frying smell. She says it stays in her hair for hours.'

Pola put her hands over her mouth to keep her response inside her.

Sam was puzzled by his mother's concern about Ruth's cooking. He was glad that Pola was distracted. He needed some peace and quiet. Yesterday Sam had bought a hat stand for ten thousand dollars. It was a beautiful hat stand. This hat stand had cerulean blue ceramic balls at the end of every hook, and a ceramic sculpture of an owl at the base.

Now Sam had to figure out how to pay for the hat stand without the transaction going through Champs Elysees Blouses' books. Sam thought that Pola and Moishe might just be pre-occupied enough with the divorces not to question the purchase of another home computer. He could repeat the cheque-swapping routine with Solly Rosenberg.

Moishe was with his solicitor and his accountant. They were trying to organise the family finances so that their assets would be protected in case of financial disputes in the property settlements of their daughters' divorces.

Moishe had a headache. Everything was in joint names, in trust funds for the children, in trust funds for the grandchildren. They had already had two lawyers and two accountants working on it for a week.

Moishe noticed that Sam had bought himself another computer. Some people are easily pleased, he thought. If only his daughters would settle for another computer.

A Mixed Marriage

From the day that Lola fell in love with another man, her husband smelt bad. The smell was like stale, sweet cheese. It came from his body and hovered in a thick net around the bed. It made Lola feel bilious.

She began sleeping with the window open. For thirty-five years she had lived with deadlocks, combination locks and iron bolts; her home security system was updated annually. Now, her fear of rapists, burglars and murderers paled next to the horror of the smell.

It came from his ears, his feet, his hands and his neck. She could smell it in the bathroom when he showered. In the kitchen, it crept across the breakfast table. It soaked into her coffee and filtered itself through her grapefruit juice.

Was Rodney suspicious? Was this his body's reaction? Like a skunk putting out a stink when it feels in danger?

But Rodney didn't know that she was in love with anyone but him. She had been devotedly faithful to him for thirteen years. More than that, they were the ideal couple. Lola loved the image of herself, a dark, wild-haired, large-eyed Jewess, standing next to the tall, pale son of the city's establishment.

The smell lodged itself in Lola's throat. She was unable to eat. She got up and called to her children through the intercom system. ‘Kids, we have to leave in five minutes or you'll be late for school.' Lola had never been late for anything. In all her years of psychotherapy, she had not missed one minute of one session. Lola liked to deliver her children to their schools an hour early. This allowed time for possible delays due to heavy traffic, a flat tyre, a mechanical failure or other emergencies. Lola felt that she would be able to tackle any emergency clear-headedly, secure in the knowledge that she would still be on time.

The night before Lola's first day at school, her mother had sat her down for a talk. The family had been in Australia for three years. Mr and Mrs Bensky worked behind sewing machines in a factory during the day, and behind sewing machines at home at night. ‘Lolala, my Lolala,' Mrs Bensky said, ‘You will be in a school now with Australian children. I want you always to remember that a Jewish boy will make you the best husband. Australian boys, they learn from their fathers to drink beer and to smack their wives. My Lolala, what do you know what it is to be smacked? To be treated worse than a dog?'

Lola couldn't imagine anyone smacking the beautiful Mrs Bensky. She knew that the Nazis had. They had tattooed a number on Mrs Bensky's slender strong arm. Lola told anyone who asked that this number was their new phone number.

‘Lolala, look at Mrs Stein's daughter. She married someone who is not Jewish. A nice man he seemed. An accountant. Look at her, Lolala. Three children, no money, dirty everything. He is in the pub every day straight after work, then he comes home and gives her a nice klup on the head. That's what will happen to you, Lolala, if you marry an Australian.'

Lola wasn't surprised at this prospect of violence. Lola knew that she didn't yet know half of how frightening the world was. She did know that there was danger everywhere, and that life was a series of narrow escapes. By the time she was thirteen she had a highly evolved, complex system of warding off evil. She had to touch all the doorknobs and cupboard handles in her bedroom ten times each in the correct order, from left to right, before going to bed. Then she could sleep.

On Sunday nights the world looked better to Lola. In the afternoon Mrs Bensky would bake a sponge cake. It always came out with a soft brown covering, like lightly spun velvet. Next she laid out the bowls. A bowl of dark, shiny chocolates, a bowl of delicately sprigged branches of muscatel raisins scattered with almonds, a bowl of black, fat prunes, and a bowl of fruit-flavoured boiled lollies.

Then she prepared supper. It was always the same. Grated egg and spring onion salad, schmalz herring, smoked mackerel, chopped liver, dill pickles, radish flowers, sliced tomatoes, some rye bread and some matzoh. After that, she unfolded four card tables and chairs and arranged them in the small lounge-room. At four o'clock Mr and Mrs Bensky had a nap for an hour. By eight o'clock the air was scented with heady perfume and cigarettes. Mrs Ganz's long, polished nails sparkled as she dealt the cards. Lola loved Mrs Ganz's husky voice and the way that her breasts moved with her breath.

Mr Ganz argued with Mr Berman: ‘Chaim, you are an idiot! You walk with your eyes shut. You will be finished if you go into partnership with such an idiot like Felek Ganzgarten. You mustn't do it.'

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,' Mr Bensky admonished them in his most formal English.

Mrs Small sang in a low voice as she played. ‘Motl, Motl, vos vat sein mit dir, der Rabbi sogt du kanst nisht lernen,' she sang – ‘Morris, Morris, what is going to become of you, the rabbi says you are not learning.'

And Mr Small, as usual, slipped Lola a couple of very expensive, large, chocolate-covered liqueur prunes. Mr Zelman whistled an old Polish lullaby as he smoothly swept his winnings over to his corner.

Sometimes the hum of the room was low and calm, and other times the atmosphere was feverish. Moves were disputed, news was dispensed, rumours were scotched or debated, advice was given and taken, and money was won and lost.

Mrs Bensky never played cards. She made cups of black lemon tea, refilled the glasses of soda water, emptied the ashtrays and served the supper.

Driving the children to school, Lola remembered Rodney, twenty-three years old, his speech almost a stutter that was expelled in short bursts. He had looked much happier when he was not speaking. And Lola was then free to imagine his thoughts.

One day, Rodney told her that he was never going to marry. He said that he would be too worried that his wife would leave him. This revelation was at odds with Lola's understanding of Rodney. She saw him as independent, self-contained and peaceful. The thought of not being the one who had to worry about being left appealed to Lola. Six weeks later they were married.

Lola and Rodney became good friends. They laughed together. They blossomed as parents and were bound together by a fierce pride in their two beautiful and clever children.

For the first few years of the marriage, Lola was captivated and wholly satisfied by Rodney's blondness. She would lie awake next to him for hours, looking at the golden hairs glinting on his arms.

Lola dropped the children off and parked the car in the supermarket car park. She walked to a taxi rank and caught a taxi to Garth's apartment.

In the taxi, the lies, the deception and the tension of the last month visited Lola briefly, but her happiness crept up and covered her.

Garth was waiting for her. His smile looked as though it might lift him off the ground. He trembled as he held her. He had prepared coffee. She watched him pour the coffee.

The first time they made love, Lola had felt like a virgin. She and Rodney had shuffled in and out of sex comfortably, companionably. Now she ached. She had forgotten what it was like to ache for a man. It felt like a violin screaming between her legs.

That evening at dinner, Rodney said, ‘I think Garth Walker is in love with you.'

‘What?' she said.

‘I've seen the way he looks at you,' Rodney answered. ‘He doesn't take his eyes off you. He talks to the kids and he looks at you. He talks to me and he looks at you.'

‘Don't be silly,' said Lola. She felt bilious.

‘It's infatuation,' said Lola's closest friend, Margaret-Anne. ‘It wears off. After a few years you and Garth will be like you and Rodney. It's not worth the bother.'

Lola fantasised about finding another wife for Rodney. She would find someone intelligent, well-read and with a good sense of humour, and they could all be friends. They could buy a small block of flats and create two large apartments. They could eat together. They could share holidays. And the children wouldn't miss out. The prospect of this happy communal life made Lola feel exhausted.

Lola knew it wasn't going to be easy to tell Mrs Bensky that she was going to leave Rodney.

‘So, Hitler didn't kill me, now you are going to do it for him!' screamed Mrs Bensky.

Mr Bensky said: ‘I lived through the labour camp to hear this news? I wish I would have died.'

Mrs Bensky rang Rodney to tell him that she would do his laundry. She said she didn't want Rodney to suffer the humiliation of having his clothes washed by a wife who was in love with someone else.

Lola had not had such an effect on her parents since the day she told them that she was going to marry Rodney.

‘Lolala, Lolala, how can you do this to us?' Mrs Bensky had wailed. ‘What will our friends say? They will say that we didn't bring you up properly. They will say that we should have sent you to Mount Scopus, not to an Australian school. Lola, get me some Stemetil. I feel sick.'

Now, Mr and Mrs Bensky were hysterical. ‘Lola, you and Rodney were our big hope, our example of how a mixed marriage can work. Everyone says what a wonderful man Rodney is and what a wonderful couple you are. Lolala, wake up!' Mrs Bensky screamed.

For most of her adult life Lola had had trouble waking up. She used to daydream while she was cleaning, while she was driving, while she was reading or watching television, and while people spoke to her. She would nod from time to time, and on the whole no-one noticed.

She had a whole set of fantasies she could slip into. When Mrs Bensky delivered her regular lectures about losing weight, Lola would plug herself into the dream in which she had just completed her fifth best-selling novel. A novel that had made millions of readers weep. A novel that had earned Lola hundreds of thousands of dollars. A novel that had caused passionate debate in dining rooms in Paris, London and New York. Last week, when Mrs Bensky finished her speech, Lola was being interviewed by Johnny Carson on the
Tonight
show.

When she was with Garth, Lola was wide awake. So awake she could feel every part of her body. She could feel her nervous heart. She could feel her knees. She felt as though she could inhale the earth and touch the stars.

Garth taught her about art. He played her music. Mahler, Satie, Berg, Poulenc, Glass, Stravinsky. He read her poetry. Poems by Akhmatova, Tsvetayeva, Brodsky, William Carlos Williams. Poems by Anne Sexton. And he never stopped looking at her. He looked at her as they walked. He looked at her when they talked. He looked at her while they ate. He looked at her as they made love. And he painted her. He painted her happy and he painted her sad. He painted her pained and he painted her exuberant. He painted her as a madonna and he painted her as a warrior queen, a Boadicea streaking across the canvas. Hundreds of portraits of her were stacked around the walls of his studio.

Mr and Mrs Bensky had observed every detail of Lola's life. What she ate, how often she changed her underwear, who she spoke to in the school ground. Mrs Bensky would watch Lola every lunchtime, after she had delivered her daily hot lunch. Later on, Mrs Bensky kept a record of Lola's menstrual cycle on a chart inside the pantry cupboard. And the intercom system that connected all the rooms in the house was always switched on.

Everything was a potential catastrophe. A sneeze indicated pneumonia, a cough was a sign of asthma, a stomach ache pointed towards kidney and liver trouble. An unexpected knock at the door would leave Mrs Bensky breathless, and if Lola was ever late home from school, Mrs Bensky prepared herself for the worst.

Lola, who still complained that nothing she did escaped her parents' scrutiny, became an observant parent herself. Lola adored her son, Julian. For the first year and a half of his life she recorded his every bowel movement. She drew up a chart and headed the columns ‘Time', ‘Size', ‘Consistency' and ‘Colour'. Another chart recorded every mouthful of food baby Julian swallowed. This was headed ‘Food', ‘Description', ‘Amount', ‘Time' and ‘Attitude'.

By the time her daughter, Paradise, was born, Lola was not so intense about being a parent. She allowed Paradise to pat stray dogs and to eat her food from the kitchen floor. Paradise spent hours smudging her meals into the brown quarry tiles under the table before scraping the food into her mouth.

Lola worried about the consequences of allowing Paradise to eat off the floor, but she consoled herself with the thought that at least Paradise was a good eater. Julian was such a fussy eater that Lola had had to pretend that everything she fed him was chicken. Most of Julian's chicken chocolate custard or chicken fruit salad or chicken chops went into Lola.

Mr and Mrs Bensky spent the Saturday afternoons of most summers at St Kilda Beach. The whole gang would go. Mrs Bensky always brought cold boiled eggs and rye bread, and Mrs Ganz made her special carrot and pineapple salad. The Zelmans brought ham and Mr Pekelman brought long cucumbers from his garden.

They sat under the tea-trees on the foreshore, on thick, soft rugs, and ate and drank and talked. The Italian man who sold peanuts was always happy to see them. They bought twelve large bags. Enough peanuts to last until dinner.