The Marrying of Chani Kaufman (16 page)

She paused before she gave her verdict. ‘Very nice, Mrs Levy. A lovely Yiddisher boy. He looks well. Has he had any illnesses or health problems?'

‘A little asthma but he only gets it when the pollution is high in the summer, Mrs Gelb­mann. You know our family's medical history from when we met last time. No change there, my father-in-law's diabetes is a little worse but he has it under control – he' s started using one of those injection pens. He's very proud and likes to be independent so it suits us all just fine. And my parents are still alive and well, Baruch HaShem.' No need to mention Baruch's persistent athlete's foot or his garlic allergy.

‘Baruch HaShem. Good, good. I suspect you are wondering about Chani?'

Chani. The name was common enough. Would the girl be too?

‘Yee-ess, that's why I'm here, Mrs Gelb­mann. What's she like, this Chani? Tell me all you know – of course, only what you feel you can safely reveal, Mrs Gelb­mann.'

Now it was Mrs Levy's turn to watch the other woman's face. But the shadchan concealed any flicker of emotion or judgment. Her features had become a mask of impartiality as she met Mrs Levy's request with a steady gaze. And when she spoke only her lips moved, her articulation precise. She took her time, revelling in her sway over Mrs Levy.

‘Ahh, Chani. A fine young Yiddisher girl. She's nineteen. A bright, pleasant, cheerful girl. Practical, helpful and willing in her manner. Excellent manners. She's about five foot three in height. Has a pretty smile. Slim. She has dark, straight hair worn tied back. Pretty, one would say.'

They were all pretty, even the downright ugly ones, thought Mrs Levy. But Baruch had noticed her so she must be attractive. Until now he had made no mention of being interested in the opposite sex and when she had asked if he was ready to go on a shidduch, he had shuddered in disgust. Mrs Levy had been worried; had even entertained the terrible thought that her son might – God forbid – be . . . be . . . With relief she cast that unspeakable fear aside. There was no place for those of that persuasion in her world. Her Baruch was simply choosy. He'd been taking his time, that was all. Good for him.

But had he been choosy enough?

‘The father is a rabbi as I have already said. His family were originally from Vilna and can trace their ancestry back to the time of the great Rabbi. On Mrs Kaufman's side, there are many illustrious rabbonim, including Rabbi Shmuel Ben Tsvi. Her family hail from Kiev.'

Mrs Levy sipped at her cold tea. So the girl was from a family full of rabbis. But the hard fact remained: she was dirt poor.

‘So which school did Chani go to and how did she do there? And which sem did she attend?'

The shadchan wriggled in her armchair. This was dangerous territory.

‘Well, Chani went to Queen Esther. She's an excellent student just like Baruch, she got straight A's in all her GCSEs and went on to collect two more at A Level, if I remember correctly. At the moment, she's teaching – well, assisting – in art lessons at Queen Esther.'

Mrs Levy smelt a rat. The shadchan had not answered all her questions. She persisted.

‘Baruch needs a clever girl to match him, but hopefully not too clever – those brainy types can be troublesome . . . but Mrs Gelb­mann, you haven't mentioned her sem experience . . .'

‘Chani didn't go to sem. May I offer you another slice of strudel, Mrs Levy?'

Anything, anything to distract her client. Mrs Gelb­mann had a sudden vision of herself tap-dancing on the coffee table, twirling a cane and raising a bowler hat.

‘What? What sort of good Yiddisher girl with those kind of grades doesn't go to sem?' Mrs Levy yelped in glee. There was light at the end of the tunnel, Baruch HaShem.

Mrs Gelb­mann came back to earth with a bump.

‘Mrs Levy, Chani wanted to teach, she stayed on for Sixth Form at Queen Esther at Mrs Sisselbaum's request.'

‘Mrs Sisselbaum asked her to stay on? What for? She usually pushes them to go on to Gateshead. That's her job, isn't it? Come on, Mrs Gelb­mann, let's drop this pretence. Tell me the truth. If this girl is going to meet my Baruch, I need a very good reason for her not going.'

‘Well, Mrs Sisselbaum felt she was better off staying on, that she was more suited to – to – well, Chani is the lively type . . .' Mrs Gelb­mann stumbled on.

‘The lively type?' Mrs Levy narrowed her eyes. The shadchan wavered before her.

‘Mrs Levy, Chani is a lovely girl, I mean, lively as in friendly and warm – a little different perhaps . . .'

‘Mrs Gelb­mann, you and I both know what different really means.'

The shadchan began to explain but Mrs Levy held up a hand.

‘No, Mrs Gelb­mann, please don't say any more. She isn't right for my Baruch. Poor, I can just about accept.' Both women knew this to be a fabrication. Mrs Levy hesitated and then regained her momentum. ‘But her not going to sem is another matter altogether. If Baruch is to become a rabbi, he needs the right sort of girl, an educated, good, quiet, supportive girl. Not some oddball who stayed on at Queen Esther to teach, sorry, to assist in Art! You and I know perfectly well, that the girls that don't get accepted are trouble. I don't want a difficult daughter-in-law. Baruch is too sensitive to cope with a headstrong girl. I've heard enough, she isn't right for him. So let's move on and find someone who is.'

Oh the bird had flown! Defeated, Mrs Gelb­mann began to clear away the tea things.

‘Very well, Mrs Levy,' she sighed as she stacked the saucers. ‘I will look out for a more suitable shidduch for Baruch. It's a shame though, Chani's truly a lovely girl . . .'

‘That she may be! But she is someone else's lovely – not my Baruch's,' snapped Mrs Levy. Enough already. She wanted to go home.

‘As you wish, Mrs Levy, I will make enquiries . . .' murmured Mrs Gelb­mann.

‘Thank you, Mrs Gelb­mann, I appreciate it.' She stood up and brushed the crumbs off her skirt.

‘We will find Baruch the right girl, im yirtzeh HaShem.'

‘Im yirtzeh HaShem.'

Mrs Gelb­mann walked her guest to the door.

‘Good Shabbes, Mrs Gelb­mann.'

‘A good Shabbes to you too, Mrs Levy. I'll be in touch.'

‘Thank you, once again, Mrs Gelb­mann.'

‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Levy.'

Mrs Gelb­mann closed her front door. She stood behind it listening to the receding clack-clack as Mrs Levy walked away, and with a sigh she returned to her cosy living room to polish off the rest of the strudel.

April 2008 – London

‘I can't, Shola, it's just – I can't,' sighed Avromi.

‘But everyone will be there, our whole tutor group and we'll miss you.' She stood opposite him on the pavement outside the law faculty, balancing her file and books on her hip. The wind blew her hair across her face but she remained where she was, blocking his path home.

‘Shola, you know I don't go to these things. My parents expect me to be home in the evenings. You know how my dad feels about me going to uni as it is – he'd have my guts for garters.'

She gazed beseechingly at him, her deep brown eyes wide and innocent. Her ankles were bent outwards in her baker boy boots, her long, elegant legs braced against the leather. She reminded him of Bambi. ‘Just one drink. For me.'

He caved in with a sigh. ‘All right, Shola, just for you. But I'm only staying for half an hour and that's it.'

As soon as he had agreed, he regretted it, but Shola gave him such a sweet, sunny smile that he felt something flip over in his stomach. As he made his way home, Avromi ran through a gamut of excuses for not staying in and studying after supper. He could always tell his parents he was meeting Baruch in Golders Green for coffee.

 

The student union bar was half full, but a puddle of beer had already leaked across the small dance floor. The place stank of stale booze and lost student nights. Posters announced gigs that had already been and gone. The light was a murky yellow, interspersed with silvery rainbow fragments as a lone glitter-ball spun sadly on its axis.

Avromi wore his usual black and white attire replete with discreet black velvet skullcap, but had hung up his jacket in the cloakroom and rolled up his shirtsleeves to the elbow in an attempt to look less conspicuous. During the first weeks of university he had learned to tuck the strings of his prayer shawl into his trousers, in order to avoid the barrage of questions they provoked.

There was no sign of Shola.

The barman lent over and yelled in his ear. He had a pierced eyebrow and one side of his head was shaved to reveal a tribal tattoo. Avromi stared in fascination. The Torah forbade the imprinting of marks on the body.

‘What you 'avin', mate?'

He considered his choices. The wine and beer on offer would not be kosher. There was whisky though. His father enjoyed a dram at the end of a long Shabbes meal and although he hated the drink, if he mixed it with Coke – also kosher – he might manage to swallow half a glass. It might just be enough. He knew full well that he would find the evening unbearable were he to attempt it stone cold sober. So far so good. He would not be transgressing.

‘A Jack Daniels and Coke please. With lots of ice.'

‘Single shot or double? It's happy hour, two for the price of one, mate.'

‘All right then, make it a double.' He paid and took a cautious sip, pulling a face at the medicinal taste.

‘Avromi!'

Shola had materialized and was grinning at him in delight.

‘I'm so glad you're here!' She moved as if to hug him, but remembered and remained where she was. They stared at each other, smiling awkwardly. Avromi did not know the correct protocol. Obviously he could not kiss her and he had no present for her either.

‘Well, it is your birthday and you look quite gorgeous!' Shola giggled nervously. He felt himself blushing and to hide it, he gave her a flourishing bow that brought him face to face with her bare knees. Her feet were clad in her trusty biker boots but the rest of her was new territory for Avromi. She was wearing a dusky pink dancer's dress. It emphasized her slender waist; the chiffon material of the skirt flared out over her hips, stopping at mid thigh. Two gossamer straps held up the dress; its simplicity and fluidity enhanced Shola's delicate frame, making her seem innocent and almost fragile. Her skin glowed like ochre. He gazed at the dip in her clavicle and watched it rise and fall with her voice. Then he remembered his manners.

‘Can I get you a drink?'

‘That would be lovely. What are you having?' She peered at the glass he was clutching.

‘Double whisky and Coke.'

‘Ooh, same again please!'

The rest of the tutor group began to appear, forming a boisterous huddle around Shola. Some had gifts and others embraced her. She was lost in a whirl of social activity but Avromi could not take his eyes off her. He leant against the bar, nursing his drink, wishing she would talk to him.

‘All right, Avromi! How ya doin'? Can I get you a drink?'

Mike had sidled up to him and was now barking into his ear. Avromi had to lean sideways in order to catch what he was saying – Mike was very short.

‘No, Mike, honestly, I'm fine – I've got a drink.'

Mike sniffed at Avromi's glass and returned with another whisky and Coke. What was it with these non-Jews and their need to ply you with alcohol? The room began to feel very warm. Faces crowded round and he was soon embroiled in loud conversation. He could not hear half of what was being said, but for the first time in the evening he felt at ease. A dopey grin spread across his face as he joined in the general banter and bonhomie. To his surprise, he began to enjoy himself.

The bar became more and more crowded. Avromi reached for his second drink, which no longer tasted of anything but was refreshingly cold. A light sheen began to appear on his forehead and his shirt felt hot and stifling. He undid the top two buttons. Well, there was no one from the kehilla to see him.

 

Avromi leant against a wall and watched the bodies writhe on the dance floor. The room span faster, the air foetid and the floor, slick with spilt liquor, vibrated beneath his feet to the throb of the bass. Girls, their limbs bare, hair flying, revolved past him in a succession of shuddering breasts, shimmying buttocks and juddering thighs. He stared openly and swigged another drink. Suddenly, the wall slid away from behind him and he was left slumped on the floor.

Hands hauled him up and he was bundled onto the dance floor, despite his protests, lurching and swaying with the rest of them.

‘Avromi! Are you ok?'

He opened his eyes only to be blinded by the glitter-ball's refractions. He was lying down. On a bench, so it seemed. A face was blocking out the dizzying light, its shadow framed by familiar shaggy spirals. She was kneeling beside him, offering him a glass of water.

He hauled himself upright and tried to speak, but his lips would not work. The room tilted viciously. He lay back down.

 

He woke to the sting of cold night air. His classmates were propelling him towards a black cab. Shola was arguing with the driver.

‘He won't puke, I promise!' Her voice was insistent and anxious.

‘The last time I had a piss-head in here, it took me two weeks to get rid of the stink of vomit. So the answer's no.'

‘Please . . . I'll pay double. I just need to get him home.'

The cabbie sighed. ‘All right, love, double it is but if he's sick, you'll be paying for the cleaning bill too.'

The taxi throbbed. He sprawled across the back seat and clung to the leather edge of the seat as the cab swung around. Opposite him, Shola watched nervously. She leant forward and reached for his hand, but Avromi had fallen asleep again and was oblivious to the impropriety.

When the cab stopped, he came to again. An urgent need to vomit forced him upright. He fumbled with the handle while Shola paid the driver. Shola guided him as he stumbled towards the door of her flat.

‘Where's your loo?' he groaned.

‘Up this flight and first on your left.'

Kneeling over the toilet bowl and gripping its rim, he voided a dark torrent. Afterwards, rising unsteadily, he felt utterly revolted but surprisingly better.

Shola knocked timidly on the door. ‘Are you ok, Avromi?'

‘Yes, I'm fine. Be down in a minute,' he mumbled.

‘Ok, I'll make some tea.'

‘Thank you.'

He knelt at the sink and splashed his face with water. He dared not look in the mirror. Instead he patted the top of his head for his skullcap. It was no longer there. He sighed. It was his own blasted fault. This was his punishment for adopting the habits and customs of unbelievers. He would have to find a way of explaining himself to his parents. He should have been home hours ago.

Cautiously, he opened the door and began his way downstairs.

 

They sat next to each other at the small pine table in the kitchen. Shola had wrapped a grey woollen cardigan over her dress. She was leaning on the table, warming her hands on her mug of tea. Her flat-mates were out and the place was quiet and dark. Avromi held his head in his hands. He still felt very wobbly. All he really wanted to do was to sleep. His mug of tea lay untouched.

‘What am I going to tell my parents? My dad will never let this go. This will just prove him right, that I shouldn't have gone to uni in the first place.'

‘Can't you make up an excuse?'

‘Like what?'

‘Like you were at a friend's house and you didn't realize the time, and you missed the last bus home, so you decided to stay the night.'

‘Well, that would be lying wouldn't it?'

‘Well, yes, but then there's lying and there's lying. You aren't hurting anyone with this lie. In fact, you'd be protecting your parents from the truth, which would only upset and worry them. This way no one suffers. Think of it as a white lie. And you should text them now, so they stop worrying about where you are.'

Avromi blew on his tea and swallowed thoughtfully. Shola was right; he would be transgressing but it was more palatable than the truth. He would just have to daven extra hard for forgiveness. He hated the thought of lying to his parents. But he had already lied to them about where he was going tonight. One more lie would not make much difference now.

‘I suppose I could tell them I stayed at Baruch's. Or maybe another friend who lives in Edgware – that's a bit further away and would make the missed-the-last-tube or bus home excuse more plausible.'

‘There you go then! It's not so bad after all. Make sure you warn that friend in case they check up.'

‘They wouldn't bother. Far too busy.' He sighed into his mug. ‘It's not just the lying part, Shola, I am just so embarrassed.' He grimaced, avoiding her eye.

‘About what exactly?'

‘Getting so drunk, making a fool of myself in front of everyone. In front of you.' He peered up at her sheepishly.

She laughed. ‘Don't be silly! There's a first time for everyone to get legless. It happens to all of us. In fact, I think the others might see it as you being a bit more normal, fitting in with us sinners.'

‘Really?'

‘Like you've won your drinking spurs. However crass that might sound.'

He considered her verdict. ‘Right. I owe you one.'

‘What for?'

‘For looking after me.'

‘You're my friend. After all, I invited you to my birthday drinks.'

‘It's your birthday and I've totally spoilt it. What a plonker I've been!'

‘It's not my birthday any more so stop beating yourself up, Avromi. You're here, aren't you?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘With me. Now.'

She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. He did not let go. Avromi leant forward slowly and kissed her. She tasted of hot, sweet tea. Shola wrapped her leg around his, pulling him closer. His hands cupped her waist then slid towards her hips, driven by an instinct he had been trying to suppress ever since he had first met her.