Fervor, page 24
Then, after throwing a spent bottle at a nearby pigeon, she squatted down beside the smashed glass, pulled down her knickers, and pissed in the street.
Back home, Elsie was distraught. Eric assured her that the woman, though obviously troubled, was no real harm; they were never in danger. But Elsie wouldn’t stop crying. “Don’t you see?” she said at last. “That’s me.”
Eric told his daughter she was nothing like that woman. The poor vagrant had been addling her mind with substances for decades. And who knows what trauma she’d suffered, what underlying—
“No, Dad,” Elsie said. “That’s how I feel.”
Eric nodded his head slowly. “All the time?” he asked.
“All the time,” Elsie confirmed. Then she corrected herself. “All the time, unless I’m buzzed.”
* * *
Now that Tovyah had finished speaking, I said something didn’t sound right. In Oxford, Elsie had seemed so upbeat. He said so himself.
“You don’t get it,” he said. “She was drinking then. And right after, she crashed.”
I remembered how she had turned down my offer of a gin and tonic. “Are you sure?”
“Who knows? Whatever’s going on, I think what she needs right now is peace.”
“So what’s the plan, we just give up?”
Tovyah shrugged, then indicated it was time to go downstairs. As we descended, I took in the photos on the wall. Family portraits spanning generations. An old sepia print of someone’s wedding, in what I assumed was pre-war Poland. The three children, aged about seven, ten, and fifteen, posed on a white sofa. Gideon on his Bar Mitzvah, cutting cake in his tallit. Zeide being honoured in synagogue, reading from the Torah scroll, the silver pointer clutched in his stubby fingers. Tovyah’s matriculation at Oxford. Hannah and Eric in their youth, toasting something. And at the bottom of the winding staircase: Elsie as a small girl, her hair still blonde, a shy hand raised to cover her face.
TWENTY
In the centre of the table was something wholly unexpected in this religious household. A large Roman vase, empty of flowers, depicting huntsmen spearing a doomed stag. Was this not a relic of pagan culture, celebrating practises that were certainly not kosher? I was reminded of a conversation I’d had with Tovyah around the time we met. He’d told me his parents attempted to mingle Orthodox tradition with a bourgeois appreciation of les beaux arts. Here, I supposed, was the evidence.
Eric caught me looking. “You like it? The genuine article, I’m told. Third century. A gift, of course—my wife has some illustrious friends.”
He sat at the head of the table, large and imperious, with the great dome of his belly rising behind his plate. At the other end was Hannah, dressed in lime green, now waving away her husband’s flattering words, though she did not look displeased. In her ears were ruby studs, and from her neck hung a small golden pendant, the Hebrew word Chai. She invited me to take the seat to her left, opposite an empty space that would later be filled by Elsie. Tovyah took the seat beside mine, and Gideon sat on the far side of the table. There was no wine glass before Elsie’s place, but the rest of us had one for red and one for white and a champagne flute besides. Gideon was refilling his red wine when we came in.
“So,” Eric said, once we were seated, “are you going to tell us about yourself?”
Whether because he was protecting me, or because he feared what I might say, Tovyah tried to derail the conversation.
“Let her settle down first.”
But I said it was fine. “What would you like to know?”
“For starters, why don’t you tell us if you’ve been to Shabbos before.”
I glanced at Tovyah.
“This is my first time.”
“Nervous?”
“Should I be?”
Here Gideon interrupted. “But you’ve heard about the human sacrifices, right?”
Eric tried to take back the conversation. “Gideon, I—”
“You must know how we make bread with blood of Christian children.”
“What a thing to say!”
Gideon caught my eye. “She’s not an idiot. She knows I’m joking.”
Eric scowled. “But who’s laughing?”
I could see that Gideon had played the family comedian his whole life, and everyone, especially his father, was tired of the act. Eric turned to me and spoke confidentially.
“Ignore him. You’re going to have a wonderful evening. The sabbath is a lovely time, the holiest part of the week.”
Now it was Tovyah’s turn to contradict the patriarch.
“Eric, she’s not religious.”
“I know, I know. But she likes weekends. You like weekends, don’t you? Did you know that it was the Jews who invented the weekend? This is what we’re celebrating now. It’s all in the Torah.”
“Darling,” Hannah said, smoothing down the tablecloth and speaking more softly than anyone else, “I think you might be boring our guest.”
This admonition from his wife succeeded where his sons had failed. Eric held up his hands, indicating that he would be silent for the next few minutes. I swore that I hadn’t been at all bored, and everyone laughed. Even Tovyah. Upending all my expectations, here was a warm, good-humoured family, and tonight I was going to have fun.
“I like this one,” Eric said. “So polite.”
Gideon said, “Don’t give her too much credit. It’s not on purpose, she told me earlier. Just a knee-jerk reaction to weirdos like us.”
“Nobody thinks we’re weirdos,” Hannah said.
In the hush that followed, Gideon asked me what I was planning to do after graduation. I wasn’t sure.
“What did you say you studied? English? No money in that, I’m afraid. Tell you what, you’re a bright girl, I don’t think you’d make a bad consultant.”
I knew Tovyah thought his brother’s chosen profession ridiculous. “Based on what?” he said. “You don’t even know her!”
“She’s got that hungry look. There, you see? She’s got good manners, sure, and she’s charming enough, but I think there’s some ambition lurking down there. Would you say so, Hannah?”
“To be honest,” I said, “I’m not even sure what consultants do.”
“Nothing to it. Just bullshitting.”
“Gideon! Don’t swear. It’s Shabbos.”
He apologised to his mother, and then went on. “I’m serious. It’s only a question of language, of codes, really. How do you think bankers make their money? They know how to talk to other bankers. Lawyers know how to talk to other lawyers. Sorry, Eric.”
Eric moved in his chair, which squeaked under the weight. “I try to talk about Scripture, and I’m told I’m being boring. And this, this is interesting!”
“Anyway, Gideon,” his mother chipped in, “you shouldn’t be talking shop on Shabbos.”
“You’re right, you’re right, I forget myself. Always hustling, that’s my problem. But won’t you look at that, the sun’s about to go down. We should get started. Who wants fizz?”
“We can’t get started,” Tovyah said. “Elsie hasn’t come down yet.”
“If we wait for her, we’ll be eating at midnight.”
Gideon was already fiddling with the top of the champagne bottle, which flew off with a satisfying fthunk. There followed a small eruption of foam. He went round the table from glass to glass and suggested that his mother start lighting the candles.
“Let’s give her ten minutes,” Hannah said. “Compromise.”
“Oh come on, you know what she’s like. She only does it for the attention, especially with a new audience. She’ll be hours.”
“I’m right here.”
Elsie had crept down the stairs in silence and was now standing in the doorway. She had changed for dinner as she said she would, but not how I’d imagined. The bright summer dress was gone, replaced by pyjama bottoms and a baggy jumper. Her parents exchanged a look and said nothing.
Gideon wasn’t so reticent. “How nice, Elz, you dressed up.”
Hannah spoke next. “Come on, love. Let’s do the lights.”
Elsie went about lighting candles with a burning match pinched between her thumb and forefinger while Hannah recited the Hebrew prayer. Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu Melech ha’olam… I had witnessed similar rituals on a few occasions, and the foreign words were starting to sound familiar, but I had not seen this. The passion and intensity of the Rosenthals hinted at a depth of feeling beyond anything you’d get in Oxford’s liberal synagogue. Something primordial was taking place here, something fundamental, not so different, really, from how they ushered in Friday nights in the ancient Kingdoms of Israel and Judea, centuries before the birth of Christ, when after the week’s struggle families would gather around their fires to thank Hashem that they were still here, had food to eat, and had earned another brief respite from the toil of existence.
Once the candles were all lit and the prayer was finished, I became aware that Gideon was hovering by my elbow. He brought his lips to my ear and whispered.
“Now your work begins.”
I had no idea what he meant.
“Tovyah! Phones away. Let’s do this properly,” Eric said. “L’kavod Shabbos.”
Without apologising, Tovyah pocketed his device. The twenty-four-hour moratorium on all forms of work, creation, and trade had begun. Electronic appliances could not be used. Even writing was out. I felt my phone vibrating against my thigh but didn’t dare reach for it.
That evening, we ate like kings. I’d been bracing myself for mushy fish balls, dried crackers, and that nasty mixture of beetroot and horseradish I’d encountered on previous Friday nights. In fact, we were treated to rich pâtés spread across slices of bread still warm from the oven, silvery-pink cuts of gravlax that trailed off into mysterious weeds, endless wine, fine meats, all accompanied by various dips, spreads, and sauces. Barely could I finish a glass before someone—usually Eric—was leaning over to top me up. Gideon’s appetite was indefatigable. Again and again, he piled up his plate with food, only to devour the mountainous stack in not many minutes and with obvious delight. It was only after I saw him eat that I realised just how pudgy he was around the face. He was in his twenties then and if he carried on like this, he’d have a paunch before he made thirty-five. More than once I complimented the meal. Each time, Gideon said I deserved nothing less, it being my last. It seemed that when people didn’t laugh at his jokes, he only took it as a challenge to repeat them, with ever more enthusiasm.
At dinner, the Rosenthals could pass for a normal family. Almost. Gideon, Eric, and Hannah were friendly hosts, who enjoyed each other’s company. They gossiped about old friends, exchanged news from their respective lives, asked interested questions. Eric took it on himself to explain to me, resident outsider, the significance of the sabbath.
“Work without cessation isn’t a life. It’s why slavery is an abomination. The sabbath breaks the chain. How long are you with us? If you’re around tomorrow evening, you’ll be here for the Havdalah. It’s worth seeing.”
Looking at Tovyah, I said I wasn’t sure—I might need to head off early.
“Oh, you must stay,” Hannah said. “We have a very special visitor coming.”
“A second special visitor,” Eric corrected.
“Rabbi Grossman is honouring us with his presence,” Hannah went on. “Now there’s a man you want to meet.”
Tovyah looked up from his food. “What does he want?”
“What do you think?” said Gideon. “He’s doing an exorcism on witchy over here. The ultimate showdown: white magic versus black magic.”
“You’re not serious,” Tovyah said.
Eric exhaled. “Emmanuel Grossman is not Max von Sydow. Kate, I must apologise for my two sons, a pair of imbeciles. The rabbi is coming to observe the Havdalah with old friends. That is all.”
“Brilliant,” Tovyah said. “I look forward to being bowled over by wisdom.” Elsie had said nothing during the whole exchange.
Clearly wanting to move the conversation on, Eric ignored Tovyah’s irreverence and changed the subject. It turned out we had had common ground—he was a fellow Eli Schultz reader. His works on the Shoah, Eric opined, were second to none.
“I met him once,” Hannah said. “We were both reading at the same event. I hate to say it, but I’m pretty sure he was flirting with me.”
“A man of taste,” said Eric, blowing her a kiss.
He took back the reins of the conversation. Thanks to his profession, he had a decent store of anecdotes to parcel out. Most of his stories concerned brainless policemen and corrupt barristers who only saw the error of their ways after he, Eric, staged an intervention. “I know guys who won’t let their clients plead. If there’s no trial, it cuts the pay cheque in half. And when the dope lands a heftier sentence, so what? It’s not their funeral.”
Gideon reminded his father that they weren’t supposed to be talking shop.
“This is a parable! An illustration of human folly!”
Still he ceded the floor to his wife, who said the problem with the English legal system was that in defamation cases, it always favoured the plaintiff, regardless of evidence. Hence, she had been stung for describing a famous singer as utterly talentless, various MPs as homicidal, and a certain well-known nun as a Godless charlatan.
“Would that be talking shop,” I asked, “or would that count as another parable of human folly?” Both Gideon and Eric roared. Remarkably enough, in this strangest of families, I was a hit.
All the while, Elsie had sat there moodily, saying nothing. And at this great familial dinner, she’d hardly eaten. I only saw her put one slice of bread on her plate all evening. She buttered it, sprinkled a little salt on top, and then cut it into thin strips, no more than a finger’s width. Slowly, avoiding all eye contact, she ate the strips one at a time.
Hannah put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and asked if everything was all right.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Sure? Is there anything else you’d like? There’s plenty more food.”
“I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine.” She spoke loudly enough to break off other conversations.
“Now, now, Elz,” Gideon said, “behave yourself.”
As I looked across the table at Elsie, I saw she wasn’t the same girl I met in Oxford. She lacked all buoyancy: if you dropped her in a lake she’d sink faster than a pound coin. She had no spark of life in her, no humour, no personality even. It was as if the shy girl in the photo on the landing, with her hand covering her face, had died long ago—in her place, this empty husk. No wonder she wanted to blot everything out with whatever drink she could get her hands on. I felt my phone vibrating again. Almost forgetting, I reached into my pocket, but stopped myself.
“I don’t know about you lot,” Gideon said, scraping up the last of his dessert onto his spoon, “but I’d love a cup of coffee.”
There was something provocative in his tone.
Elsie spoke again. “Everyone else gets to have wine. Even Tovyah and his guest. What are they, like, twelve? I just want one glass.”
I suspect this was not the first dinner she’d made such requests; silence was the agreed response.
“There’s some iced coffee in the fridge,” Hannah said. “I thought we might want it tomorrow morning, but you’re welcome to have yours now.”
“I know, mother dear, but I like my coffee hot.”
“Gideon, don’t be ridiculous,” Tovyah said. He’d cottoned on before anyone else, bristling with indignation as he looked at his brother. And then I realised too. Hot coffee required turning on the kettle, an act now forbidden.
“But I’m not being ridiculous. After all, this is no ordinary Friday night. Tonight, Baruch Hashem, we have a gentile among us. A shiksa! I’m sure, if we ask her nicely, she’ll run along to the kitchen. Won’t you, now? The sabbath goy strikes the match.”
I was tempted to point out that I was Jewish too but didn’t want another lecture on mixed blood. Besides, I was not superstitious and didn’t believe in these ancient strictures. If it would shut him up, I’d boil a kettle.
“Don’t call our guest a shiksa,” Hannah said. “It’s not nice.”
“Please can I have one half glass of wine?”
Eric said, “You don’t have to make the coffee. He’s only teasing you.”
“But I’d be happy to.”
Tovyah scraped his chair back. “I’ll do it.”
“No, no, little brother, that won’t do, even if you are a heathen these days.”
“I don’t understand,” Elsie said. “Can you lot hear me? I would like a little wine, please.”
Tovyah was glaring at his brother. “You’re being a prick.”
“Tovyah. It’s sabbath.”
Elsie slapped herself, hard, and everyone shut up. It was Eric, who had so indulged his daughter as a little girl, that took her part now. “Ok, why not? I don’t suppose one glass will do much harm. As long as you promise.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Tovyah burst out.
The exhalation was forceful enough to blow out one of the candles. This was not a table at which people said “fuck” lightly. Hannah rested her hands in her lap. Elsie looked at the floor.
“Apologise to your father, Tovyah,” Hannah said.
“Me? You heard him, didn’t you? This is insane. Elsie doesn’t do just one glass of wine.”
“I want you to apologise now.”
“I’m not the one in the wrong here.”
“TOVYAH!”
The noise from Eric’s mouth was impressive, the blare of a trumpet up close. Tovyah sank in his chair and said nothing.
Eric spoke next. “We can’t have one night together as a family. One night. Apologise now, and we’ll draw a line under it.”
