Jephte's Daughter (28 page)

She shuddered with a sudden coldness. Up there on the fifteenth floor she had almost done the same thing—taken her child’s life as if it were her own to dispose of as she saw fit. The insanity of it. No, she owed her parents nothing. Akiva owed her nothing. From now on, the love she gave him, the love she received, must be unconditional love, the only real love there is. She could just see the mourners—her parents, Isaac and his mother, flattened by the shame of it, not grief, but embarrassment. What would the Hassidim say? What would happen to the family’s illustrious name? How will Isaac hold up his head? She smiled to herself. How wicked I have become! How much pleasure their pain gives me. Her father had come after her once before. When would she feel safe, she wondered. Seeing confirmation of her death in the newspaper, a few lines in the
Jewish Chronicle
or the
Jewish Press
, would help. She would look for an international newsstand tomorrow. Tomorrow, she thought, and for the first time in many years her days stretched out before her as her own book of clean blank pages full of endless, delightful possibilities. She crawled in quietly under the covers and felt the warm, solid press of her son nestled safely against her chest. Beautiful tomorrow.

London in winter. Sparkling Christmas trees and the rosy glow of pub windows bedecked in ivy. Golden leaves fallen from large, old trees, making a lacy pattern over old streets. The houses of Mayfair, carefully preserved, seemed to say: “We are a testament to the calm and gentle passing of time.” Their ornate wooden banisters and doors, their old brass nameplates, glowed from what seemed a special patina of time, the faithful succession of caretakers, dustcloths in hand, all propelled by the same values, the same clear sense of order and duty, rubbing and dusting, oiling and polishing.

Through the parted French drapes of a townhouse, she glimpsed a delicate white-and-gold boudoir, a bed whose luxuriant mauve and powder-blue quilts had been gracefully thrown back.

On the thick, powder-blue carpeting a dainty pair of silver-and-pink slippers seemed to rest with romantic expectation. Unable to resist, she looked into the next window, as if turning the page of an enthralling story, and saw the polished gleam of a table surrounded by exquisite small dining chairs upholstered in powder-blue silk and the glint of an ornate silver centerpiece.

Order and elegance and Old World charm. There were all her beloved stories and characters out of Dickens, Forster, Conrad, and Lawrence, finally understood and come to life in their proper setting, as they never could be amidst the incongruity of California sunshine or Brooklyn drabness.

There were the magic golden gates of Buckingham leading to palaces with horse-drawn carriages and soldiers resplendent in red uniforms. There she could imagine Clarissa Dalloway flinging open her French windows and loving “…the swing, tramp, and trudge;…the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans…the triumph and jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead: life, London…”

The air was as cold and crisp and sweet as the first bite of a winter apple. On the ground, the newly cleared first snow was still white and sparkly with diamonds. Batsheva walked as if enveloped in a delightful dream.

“Look, Akiva, the double-decker buses! Oh, look, there are policemen on horses!” Two children, she admitted to herself. The stores intimidated her a little. Rodeo Drive seemed so long ago, such a dream. Had she ever walked into such stores full of rightful confidence? They seemed so elegant and the shoppers and salespeople were so well-mannered. She had never thought about her manners before, but wondered now, with the flashy blond wig, if she would stand out like a country bumpkin. And then, to top it off, in Harrod’s polished showrooms, Akiva dropped his thermos and glass and chocolate milk went spurting in all directions. Batsheva watched in horror as the brown liquid spread in muddy rivulets on the immaculate floors.

“Oh, dear me,” a saleslady said mildly. Batsheva held her breath. “All that good milk. Such a shame. Here, let me clean it up.”

“I’m so very sorry,” Batsheva murmured, wanting to sink into the floor. She was pale with gratitude as if she were apologizing to the mistress of the house, who had the power to forgive her.

“Not at all, madam. I’m sorry you’ve had the inconvenience of losing the child’s good drink.”

This, Batsheva thought, is real class. The woman does not know if I am rich or poor, a princess or a secretary. She contrasted it to the fawning snobbery of the saleswomen of Rodeo Drive, who would have made her, a stranger, feel tacky and unwelcome. Real class is simply good manners. Kindness and consideration for the feelings of others. She would try to remember that. “I wonder, since you’ve been so kind, if you could help me select a winter wardrobe for the boy?” She bought a great deal, happy to repay the woman’s kindness, and the clothes were so delightful. Good English wools, soft cashmeres and sporty tweeds, all solid, well-made stuff. Such pretty bright colors and red, lots and lots of red.

She loved adding her own step to the happy, determined trudge of the shoppers as they rushed with a secret, restrained joy through the exciting shops of Regent and Oxford streets; the beautiful young men, disdainfully and absurdly hatless, their faces ruddy from the sharp wind, their gold hair carefully cut and combed, their dark-wool overcoats perfectly tailored; the young women, graceful and slim in beautifully cut suits and coats with bright scarves, shawl-like around their shoulders.

And yet, although there was a determined, forward rush to the movement of the people around her, there was still a control, a restraint she had not felt in Manhattan. They did not crowd or push. There was a wonderful civilizing process that seemed to affect everyone. A certain calming force, a correctness and self-control blanketed the crowds. She noticed the small dark men of the Third World, uncomfortable in English wool coats, casting anxious eyes on their small dark sons, in secret terror they would raise their voices and call attention to themselves. Even the punks, in their outrageous leather outfits and wildly colored hair, traveled in groups, needing, perhaps, to shore up each other’s identity, so strong was the mesmerizing, almost magnetic pull of London’s social strictures, its sense of clear order, refinement, and tradition.

On the way back they walked through Hyde Park. There was something reassuring about the slow, happy glide of the ducks, the rolling lawns. A man in a riding cap and jodhpurs, his back straight, rode in slow, controlled circles around the edges of the park, directing his magnificent horse with just the slightest lean to the right or left.

It was a scene that seemed timeless in its beauty. And for a little while, Batsheva felt all the tension, the pain, the uncertainty that had filled her for so long, simply leave her, like an exhaled breath, to disappear smokelike in the cold air. She lost track of time. But by the time she returned to Mayfair, she was grateful for the overheated warmth of the hotel. In the lobby, a roaring fire danced, delighting Akiva. They watched it a while; then, growing drowsy, Batsheva asked the hotel clerk for her key. To her amazement, he handed it to her together with a note, which she opened nervously:

So this is what a date is, she thought, her arm through Nigel’s as they walked to the movies. She glanced at him shyly. If only he weren’t so…pudgy, she thought. If only his hair weren’t so very red. Still, she loved the freedom of saying yes to him, of actually going to a movie that had not been censored and approved in advance.

“Did you like it?” he asked her later over hot apple cider in a red-brick and brass pub. She loved the pub, which made her feel warm and mellow and forgiving. She was glad the place was dark with a red glow. Her face was still burning with embarrassment. He had taken her to see
Last Tango in Paris
. To see such things on the screen in full view of so many people. She had been so ashamed. How could they do such things, such incredibly private, vile things up there, blown up so large? It would not have bothered her perhaps, she thought, to have read it in the private spaces of a book. There is an intimacy, a one-to-oneness in a book that takes you in discreetly. But seeing it displayed on the screen was voyeurism, like walking with a crowd into someone’s bedroom. Perhaps he had not realized the kind of movie it was. He certainly didn’t seem bothered by it. Nor did he apologize. She decided she didn’t like the little dark hairs on the back of his knuckles.

“I’m not sure,” she told him, for she had been taught never to hurt anyone’s feelings.

The next day, a large bouquet of flowers arrived. He would pick her up again at eight, the note said. She wasn’t sure if she had to go, or if she could say no. All the things girls learn when they are fourteen. Dating etiquette. So she went. This time he took her to the theater to see
Evita
. She felt the pleasure of the large audience around her enjoying the songs, the story. But the heroine was a streetwalker, her husband a corrupt politician. The tunes were catchy, but the lyrics strained too hard to fit the music. It really wasn’t to her taste. And she decided she didn’t want any more dates with Nigel.

Afterward he took her to dinner and to another pub. It was much darker than the first one had been and she didn’t like the way the single men looked at her. When she tried to order cider, Nigel waved his hand and told the waiter to bring her a daiquiri. She had no idea what that was. She was embarrassed by her ignorance. A drink meant a little wine on Friday night. A little hot, tasteless liquor in a paper cup in the synagogue after Saturday services together with herring and sponge cake. Drinks in a bar she had only read about in books. The heroines either drank a few and felt very sophisticated, or got roaring drunk and did all kinds of awful, exciting things they either deeply regretted, or didn’t. She wondered which one was in store for her. She began to blush; then, after the second drink, she began to feel she wasn’t going to blush anymore that night.

“Won’t you tell me who you are? Who the child is? What happened to the little blond girl? Where did the boy come from?”

“I will tell you everything, Nigel, my dear and good friend.” He looked so much better now. Almost handsome, she thought. A dear good friend. Funny, she hadn’t felt sleepy at all a moment ago, now her eyelids drooped. Vaguely, she remembered him telling her to drink up still another drink. Then they were walking. And then they were in a car. It was so nice, his arm around her back, supporting her. Sweet. But she didn’t like his breath, hot on her mouth, then down her neck. His cold fingers touched her nipples. She looked down at herself in shock and clutched her open blouse together and pushed him away.

“You want me. Don’t fight it. You know you do.” His hands were on her thighs, pressing them apart roughly. She hit the heel of her hand upward against his nose and heard his sharp cry of pain.

She opened up the car door and ran into the night. The cold air helped her wake up a little. They had eaten dinner at Bloom’s and the pub was nearby. She looked around at the forbidding alleyways of Aldgate East, once the Dickensian embodiment of human wretchedness. The alleyways and courtyards, where Jack the Ripper had once stalked and disemboweled his pitiable victims, were still as frightening in their foul-smelling darkness. Large, bleak tenements in ugly, red Victorian brick, where once, less than a hundred years before, more than half the children born never reached age five, dying from cold, disease, and hunger; where hundreds of brothels full of wretched, hopeless young women had once served up their tawdry pleasures to the aristocracy, hemmed her in from all sides.

She pulled her coat around her and felt the tears roll down her face. The city, which had looked like a birthday cake full of brilliant candles before, now seemed dark and dangerous. She had no idea where she was or how to get home. Suddenly she heard footsteps. In terror, she turned and saw a dark shadow moving closer. She walked a little faster. She heard the steps keep up. There was no point in running. No place to hide. It took all her courage and faith to stand perfectly still. She opened her purse and held her keys between her fingers, the second thing she remembered Elizabeth once teaching her, as a joke long ago (for when would the sheltered, protected Batsheva Ha-Leviever need to defend herself?). She closed her eyes and said a little prayer, waiting.

“Evening, miss.” The policeman tipped his cap, looking her over. “You all right, luv?” She went weak against him. “Whoa, now, steady there you go.” He caught a flash of white breast inside the fur coat and smiled to himself, knowingly. “Now I’ve told you girls not to be roaming around my beat anymore. Call it a night, luv, please.” He shone the flashlight in her eyes and saw that he had made a terrible mistake. “Well, I’ll…Sorry, madam. It’s just so dark here. Are you all right? Who did this to you?”

Police stations. Questions. She shook her head. “Can you tell me where I can find a taxi, please?” she whispered.

“Certainly, here, let me help you. A bit too much to drink, eh?” She leaned gratefully on his steadying hand. She changed hotels the same night and left no forwarding address.

She had not had to search long in the papers. For throughout the Jewish world, the apparent double death of the young Ha-Levi bride, heiress to the Ha-Levi name and fortune, together with her small son, made headlines. Fortunately, though, thanks ironically to Isaac’s manic dislike of photos, the only accompanying photograph was that of her father surrounded by mourning Hassidim. The articles were pitiful: young wife and child in double murder-suicide. She almost cried when she read them, pitying the poor girl who had done that awful thing. It gave details about the family, but no description of her or the child. There was no mention of Isaac. He had sunk back into anonymity again. She felt a small twinge of satisfaction. How he would hate that. The article did say that the bodies had not yet been found and that the whole matter was being investigated. She hadn’t expected it to be so open-ended. The secrecy weighed upon her heavily.

As the weeks went by, she learned how to cope. She rented a small apartment in Bloomsbury, near the British Museum and the University of London. An expensive area, but she felt she needed the safety it afforded. The experience with Nigel had taken some of the exuberant glow out of the city for her and she stopped going out at night. But during the day she never tired of exploring. The amazing indoor grave-yard of Westminister Abbey, the crown jewels in the Tower of London, the breathtaking National Gallery with its rooms full of Rembrandts, the wonderfully musty Victoria and Albert Museum. Only the nights were lonely.

Then a neighbor, an older woman, asked her if she would be interested in hearing some lectures on twentieth-century English literature at London University’s extension service and offered to babysit for Akiva. The university was practically in their backyard. Batsheva accepted gratefully.

She sat down a little awkwardly in the back of the room, feeling anxious that someone might come in and throw her out. It wasn’t a college crowd; she looked around disappointed to see so few people her own age. But then as the lecture began she pulled herself forward and sat at the edge of her seat, her eyes boring into the beautiful blond woman who stood so confidently at the front of the room.