He had a handsome head, she thought, wondering how the thick curls would feel if you ran your fingers through them. Kinky or soft? And his beard, how would that feel on your face, brushing over your cheek? His long aristocratic face, half hidden by the dark curly beard, nevertheless seemed pale and fraught with seriousness. She felt humble thinking of the lofty thoughts, the immense scholarship, that must weigh upon him. To know so much was wonderful. She, who felt she knew so very little, admired that more than anything. He would be a wonderful teacher, too, she imagined, with his troubled, caring eyes and delicate hands. He would be a leader, with his powerful shoulders, his clear, penetrating gaze.
His eyes, she told herself, had seen the mysteries of the Torah, the very mysteries of the Kabbalah. He had been on that treacherous journey to the center of truth hidden to most people because of their ignorance and cowardice. He had been there, she would swear it. She could tell by his eyes that mirrored his magnificent soul. He would be able to lead her there, step by step.
Her eyes focused on his hands. So white and long and fine. She wondered how these hands would feel, those gentle, understanding hands. Wondered how it would be to touch those hands, to have them smooth her hair back, to touch the small of her back. All through dinner she heard almost nothing, smiling uncertainly, hoping the pounding of her heart would not sound as loud to others as it did to her. But then after dessert her parents got up with Reb Avigdor and just disappeared, leaving her alone with Isaac.
It was an awkward, almost terrifying moment. She was afraid he would read her thoughts, and if he did, she might just as well die. He got up and smiled pleasantly and began to ask her questions in Yiddish. She was startled. Yiddish! But of course, his English was almost nonexistent and Hebrew was the holy tongue not to be used for everyday conversation. She knew so little Yiddish, just what she understood from her teachers and from the private conversations of her parents.
“I must answer you in Hebrew or English, Isaac,” she explained, feeling stupid and inadequate. He nodded sharply and she interpreted it to mean, very well, we will make allowances. What had she studied most recently in school, he wanted to know. “Secular studies, and the Book of Kings, the Book of Ruth, and Deuteronomy with the commentaries of Rashi, Rambam, and Ramban.” He nodded approvingly. “And privately, I have been tutored in Mishnah and Talmud.” He looked at her sharply, with disbelief and disapproval.
“It is not the custom to teach women Talmud.”
She was not sure he had said that. Actually, she was sure, but she couldn’t, didn’t want to, believe it. It poured such cold water over everything. Perhaps he didn’t understand that it was all right, her father approved. “But I enjoyed it and benefited from it.”
There was a moment of silence while Isaac Meyer Harshen looked over Batsheva Ha-Levi. What he should tell her, it occurred to him, was that women were not given the intelligence to study the Talmud as it was supposed to be learned. Their minds were too flighty and inconstant. But most important, women had other things to do that were their role in life—and learning Talmud wasn’t one of them. Isaac, a product of his environment and education, was not naturally bigoted or insensitive. He sensed very clearly that if he should tell this particular woman his philosophy of the division of labor between the sexes, woman’s role in life, her limitations and responsibilities, the wondrous eyes that sought his now with such shy interest would cloud over with resentment and irritation.
Orthodox Jews believe that each human being is possessed of a good and an evil inclination that stand like close friends beside one every minute of one’s life. At every crossroad in life, they are there, pushing in one direction or another, advocating the long difficult road to heaven or the short, pleasant one to hell. At every turn, they whisper advice that a man may heed or disregard, thus deciding his own fate.
At this moment then, Isaac Meyer Harshen’s Evil Inclination, so long suppressed and trod upon by his strong conscience and the power of his vast knowledge, suddenly breathed fresh oxygen and sprang up with unbridled strength at his side.
He had never seen a woman like Batsheva and had no knowledge that such a creature could exist. She made him think of Esther, the matchlessly beautiful Jewish girl chosen as queen by the king of Persia over every other woman in the kingdom; or Rachel, for whom Jacob had worked fourteen years and they had seemed “but a few days” because of his love for her. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn what her views on study were, her views on anything. He was lost in her eyes, in the beauty of her body, her glistening hair and skin. And, though it was an unworthy thought, he considered how much material comfort she would bring him as a dowry. He would never have to worry about money again. But most of all, he thought of her as the successor to the Ha-Levi dynasty, a position of such power and prestige in the Jewish world, a position he would step into because of her with unquestioned authority. It would give him enormous power, power he, of course, would exercise with the greatest care.
He saw her exquisite face looking up at him with a puzzled look, waiting for his answer. Almost against his will, a smile flashed across his face and she saw his eyes glance over her body. “It doesn’t matter, then, if you enjoy it.” She relaxed and smiled back, glad to have been mistaken.
He made her feel so shy, so young and ignorant. But he was kind about her mistakes in Yiddish. He seemed so pleased with everything she told him. She loved to take photographs, to play the piano, to read everything and take long, wonderful nature hikes in the hills. She revealed everything to him. How she planned to travel and study and pursue her photography as an art. And all the while he sat watching her attentively, his eyes keeping hers captive, looking, she thought, into her soul, approving everything he saw there.
Actually, Isaac Harshen, at that moment, was not the least bit interested in Batsheva Ha-Levi’s soul. He looked at her beauty, at the the fine carving on the chair that framed the back of her head, and beyond at the man who was the last of the Ha-Levis. He let her speak on, telling himself that she was a young, innocent creature who needed guidance. But this was not the time for it. Instruction could and would come later. It would be harsh and unrelenting, as he had experienced all instruction must be. She would no doubt suffer, as he had suffered. But in the end, she would arrive at a much higher spiritual plane, and she would view him as a husband, a teacher, and a benefactor. But now was not the time to talk of these things, a voice whispered to him and he felt himself mightily propelled down a definite road by a strong, implacable force. He smiled at Batsheva, smiled and said nothing.
The week passed with incredible, breathtaking swiftness. There were long walks in the garden, trips to Disneyland and Universal Studios. Hikes in the mountains. It was almost as if she had found a dear new friend. True, he spoke very little, but this she interpreted as a result of the language barrier between them. She didn’t listen to his long silences for what they were—a refusal to deal with the issues—which at the bottom line, was plain dishonesty. He would not have agreed to this interpretation. He meant to have this girl and to mold her into the kind of wife she had to be. She was a given. Her opinions, hopes, dreams, desires were not relevant. He would become the undisputed leader of the Ha-Levis and she would be his wife, with all that entailed. He would have the Law, history, and all the pressures of society on his side to help him. And so he let her talk.
His long silences gave her an opportunity to fill in the blanks, to imagine what he would say if he had the words. She took each small incident and interpreted it, the way Rashi took each syllable in the Torah and gave its hidden meaning: The wonder and deepening smile that began in his eyes and ended in the corners of his mouth told her how very beautiful and special she was to him, that hers was a transfixing beauty. The hand that had accidentally brushed against her arm when they walked through the garden at sunset, her parents right behind her, whispered to her that he longed to touch her, to hold her, whispered that he would be gentle and passionate and wonderful and loving. The soft glow in his eyes every time he saw her shouted to her that he found her adorable and intelligent and special beyond imagination, with no hint of anything but complete delight in everything she did and said. And most of all, the way his slim, powerful body arched, bending to catch each word she uttered, told her she was totally in control. He was her servant, her helpless, adoring lover.
It had been decided that at the end of ten days, he would have to leave, as Reb Avigdor had to get back to his students. As the time drew to an end, so did the carefree moments of exploration and indecision. He would be leaving in a few days and she realized that she would miss him. He had been someone to confide in, to be close to, the way one could never be with a parent or a girlfriend. He was almost a total mystery to her, and yet that only increased his appeal. How boring to know someone completely, she told herself. How wonderful to discover him slowly, the way an explorer happens upon the beautiful mysteries of the strange exotic places he visits, with no forewarning. Of course there was so much more to him than met the eye. But that was what marriage was for. Long days in the sunshine side by side talking and laughing; long intimate nights of wonderful, soundless discovery. Gentiles did this on dates, perhaps. But that was denied her. To discover Isaac (and she had no doubt he was worth discovering, just as she had no doubt he longed to discover her) she had no choice but to marry him.
She awoke early, almost delirious with joy at how easy the decision had been, how happy it would make her and her parents and Isaac. She went down to the breakfast room, bursting to tell someone, when she unexpectedly saw Isaac sitting in the garden, stretched out on a lounge chair, a Talmud propped up in his lap. Curly, the butler’s little Yorkshire terrier, was sitting and watching him, its tongue and tail flapping. She smiled, watching the dog approach Isaac from behind. It loved to bark, little ridiculous thing, like a tiny ball of fluff, under the delusion that it was a fearful terror. It barked at Isaac, then jumped up and nipped him in the arm. Isaac kicked out at the animal, his face contorted with a coward’s fear and anger, becoming a face she had never seen before and could not have imagined. Then, when the animal stood cowering in a corner, she saw Issac get down on one knee and beckon it with a smile, cooing softly to it. It approached again, with a hesitant wag of its tail, until it was at arm’s length. She was pleased and relieved to see that. Anyone startled by a strange dog might react with initial fright. She forgave him that and waited to see his kind, gentle hand reach out and pat the whimpering little thing. Instead, she saw Isaac’s arm shoot out, grabbing it by the collar. He dragged it away and locked it in the pool shed, ignoring its terrified barks. Settling himself comfortably back into the lounge chair, he took up his book once again, ignoring the animal’s pitiful wails.
She leaned back against the wall, hidden from sight, all her good feeling suddenly gone. She felt as if someone had pushed her in the chest hard, taking away her breath, and a blade of sharp fear cut through her stomach.
She needed to talk to someone. She realized who it was that she really needed. Who it was that would wipe away the opaque cloud of her confusion, the way one cleans a dirty window, leaving the view crystal clear. Elizabeth. She mourned her loss for a few moments, realizing that she had no one who could take her place. Her parents were indulgent strangers. She was a little afraid of her father. Even her friend Faygie had become “one of them” since she became engaged, spouting pieties as if she had never hung a bra on the back of Rabbi Elimelech’s chair. It was the end of the summer, and almost all of her friends were either engaged or on the verge.
She had grown up in splendid, pampered isolation and there wasn’t anybody she knew whom she trusted, the way she did Elizabeth, to tell her the truth without ulterior motives, without pampering her, or worrying about the consequences. Elizabeth was probably having a wonderful time in London. It was selfish of her to wish that the scholarship hadn’t come through quite so soon. She didn’t want to be mean, it was just that Elizabeth had said it would probably take months. She just wasn’t prepared for the huge gap that had been torn suddenly in the small circle of people she loved and trusted.
Ironically, the only other person she felt would understand her was Isaac. He would bend his large head down, giving her his complete attention. She had spoken to him as she had never dared speak to anyone else. She had so loved being with him, pouring her heart out to him, feeling his utter approval. And now it must all end, mustn’t it? She was so confused.
She went out to the pool shed, hoping to talk to Isaac, but he had already gone. She let the dog out. It bounded over to her with a yelp, jumping up and nipping her arm. She felt annoyance at the small, painful pinch. This was the big deal, then, over this ungrateful, wretched animal? She shook her head, relieved, her heart lightening a little. How could she have considered such a thing so important? And yet the look on his face…perhaps it had just been a shadow, or the way the light had hit him. As a photographer, she knew the sleight of hand light and shadow often played with real images. Or perhaps she had really imagined it. He had been annoyed and startled, as anyone would have been. Merely that. And of course he had been right to lock the silly animal away, she told herself, denying the revulsion that had come over her at his slyness, his clever deception, his disregard for the animal’s suffering. The whole morning, which had begun with such marvelous clarity and pleasure, was spoiled for her now.
“Ima.” She knocked on her parents’ bedroom door, knowing that her father was already downstairs saying his morning prayers. She climbed into the warm bed and laid her head down on her mother’s softly padded, comforting shoulder.