Odyssey In A Teacup (9 page)

Ralph and I wove our way around the tables until we found ours. We were the first ones there. It was right in front of the bridal table, and our place cards had us positioned to face it. We would be in Zelda’s direct line of sight. I wanted to move the cards so that I wouldn’t have to look at her, but it was too late. The other six guests assigned to our table joined us. My breath caught in my throat.
Fuck ...
They were all morbidly obese!

It was as if Zelda had handpicked her biggest and best to sit with us. I was losing carbon dioxide again and starting to feel woozy. I turned to Ralph for support. He was of no use, though; he was having his own crisis. The colour had drained from his face. Propped against the table next to him was a pair of crutches. Their owner, who was immediately to Ralph’s left and about to seat himself, was missing a leg. Ralph had developed apotemnophobia—a fear of amputees—around the same time that his OCPD manifested. But I suspect this was connected to the incident eight years before that, when Daffy became his birthday dinner. Aside from the fact that this man next to him didn’t have a
pair
of legs, all Ralph could see when he looked at this fellow was one
drumstick.

Ralph and I were a mess. I was frantically deep breathing and Ralph was in a frenzied state, elbows on table, his hands running wildly through his hair, both legs jackhammering. Just then, a flashbulb went off in our faces. It jolted us out of our insanity. The photographer smiled benevolently and gave us his card.

‘If you want a copy of this photo, just call us in about three weeks.’

‘No, I don’t want a copy ... I want the negatives!’ Ralph had returned from Hades with a vengeance.

Luckily for the photographer, the music started up. He purposively snuck away and started snapping the bridal party. They had entered the ballroom and were making their way onto the dance floor. Most of the guests joined in the Hora, the Israeli circle dance. After a rambunctious ten minutes of this, in keeping with tradition, the bride and groom were to be uplifted on separate chairs. They would hold the opposite corners of a handkerchief to connect them symbolically as guests danced around them. Four men effortlessly lifted Neville’s chair, but there were no takers for Zelda. Awkward.

At last, a number of burly blokes grudgingly stepped forward. They stood looking around for more recruits. One of them called Ralph over. Ralph predictably feigned a backache, but another two brave men volunteered. All eyes were fixed on these daredevils (or idiots) as, with shirts stuck to their sweaty bodies, grunting, heaving, deltoids straining, clavicles at risk of snapping, they looked as if they were about to pop a blood vessel as they successfully hefted Humpty up. Applause broke out. If the Clean and Jerk was a team effort in the Olympic weightlifting events and this was an entry, it would have racked up a bronze at the very least.

With bride and groom now back on the ground and the dance bracket over, we all returned to our tables. The meal was served on ornate Wedgwood (Miri and Isaac had spared no expense). Gazpacho entrée was followed by another dance bracket, which was followed by the main meal of Fish à la Meunière, Duchess Potatoes, Carrots Vichy, and green beans. Bowls of Waldorf salad, French salad, and a basket of white bread rolls were placed in the centre of each table. Conversation and the clanking of cutlery drowned out the soft dinner music playing in the background. But there was no dialogue at our table because these behemoths were too into their food. It was scary, yet fascinating to watch them eat. A bunch of opportunistic omnivores, they gorged, guzzled and gobbled.

Ralph leaned over and whispered,
‘I feel like I’m in the middle of a Roman food orgy with players who’ve never ever seen the inside of the vomitorium.’

‘Unlike Monique?’

Ralph smiled at me. He was about to answer but got distracted. One of the players was noisily mopping up every visible streak of sauce on his plate with military precision and a bread sponge. Ralph couldn’t resist a jibe:

‘You might want to leave the pattern on your plate. Wedgwood isn’t cheap, you know. Costs an arm and a leg.’

Ralph had eclectic taste where his reading material was concerned. That would be the only way he’d know Wedgwood is pricey. I so admired his ability to bounce back, though, and to make light of an uncomfortable situation. I laughed at his comment, but stopped short as they all downed cutlery and glared at us. Had we spoiled their appetites?
Did Pinocchio have wooden balls? Yes ... but not for long!
They resumed their scoffing. I winced as one of them asked for my scant leftovers, but I handed him my plate because I felt so guilty for having ugly, judgemental thoughts. The tables were then cleared and the formalities were about to start.

My father had a special connection with Zelda, so she had asked him to make a speech. The emcee, a friend of Neville’s, took his place at the podium and Joe hovered around it, waiting for his cue. Parents quickly collected their young children, who had been running around on the dance floor. Mary walked past the podium with her three-year-old son, Jason. Joe, who was never one to waste an opportunity, beckoned the munchkin over. Next thing, Jason had hold of and was tugging at the old man’s index finger. Jason laughed hysterically. And anyone who knew Joe expected nothing less ... or nothing more.

When a family member has a special aptitude, it becomes a kind of fulcrum and life revolves around that person’s activities: a champion swimmer—training schedules; a gifted violinist—special classes; an actress mother—taking her family on location. In our family, Joe had a special aptitude for farting. And he was renowned for it in the Jewish community. There were whispers:
Psst, did you hear what Joe Roth did during the visiting dignitary’s speech? What chutzpah! Still, never heard anything like it before!
and,
That’s Ruth Roth. Her father’s the one who farts in public
. This earned him the nickname ‘Joe Blow’ (clever, but also dumb because he was anything but your average Joe). Sylvia was appalled by his ‘prowess’, and when we were young she organised our activities around him, to a point (for one, we never went to the movies as a family; she feared the silent moments). How did I ever end up with these two as parents?
That
was the mistake; I myself wasn’t. Surely.

On the surface, it looks like Joe’s problem—or talent, depending on how you view it—stems from the way he eats, which is a truly horrible thing to witness. He hoovers his food (even if it had little legs, there’d be no chance of a getaway). So his fare to air ratio is 1:1, and his food retention is also directly proportional to his air release. In other words, he eats and farts in equal measure.

I wondered what Mr Kosta would make of this. I remembered he’d implied there’s at least one depraved character that escapes suppression in our dark, ancient consciousness, and can pull the strings in our lives.
Ha!
In Joe’s psyche it had to be the
Anemoi
—the wind gods. There were several of these—some the gods of beneficial winds, others the gods of destructive winds (the Anemoi Thuellai).
Joe’s antics make him an embarrassment to us. Without question, he’s much more aligned with the destructive ones, especially their old man,
Typhon
, because this god, a stormy bastard, was the source of devastating winds that issued forth from the dark nether realm.

Joe’s finger-pulling stunt was a warning sign that Typhon was already engaged. I wanted to rub my hands with glee as I noticed this register on Zelda’s face. There was a fine patina of sweat on her forehead, which had nothing to do with her size. If Joe farted during his speech, I could overlook the embarrassment and in my book, he would qualify for an upgrade to the embodiment of a beneficial wind. Alas, it didn’t happen.

Several gushy speeches followed and then it was time for the bridal waltz, which surprisingly turned out to be a neat piece of footwork. Towards the end, though, the two tables of teenagers at the edge of the dance floor chanted: ‘Dip-dip-dip-dip ... ’ Worth a try but nobody really expected Neville to dip his jumbo bride. It would have been a death drop.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of more food (a dessert of Strawberries Romanoff with ice cream; and then supper of millefeuille wedding cake with tea and coffee). There were more speeches and more dancing. Then just before midnight, all the single girls were invited onto the dance floor for the bouquet toss. I tried disappearing amongst the guests gathering at the edge, but Sylvia saw me and gave me an almighty shove towards the centre. Sandwiched between two heifers and hyperventilating again, almost to the point of passing out, I felt a strong pair of hands cupping over my mouth and nose. Ralph was screaming in my ear, ‘Breathe!’ He then led me back to the perimeter, where I happily opted out of the toss. But then, it was time for the groom to remove the bride’s garter. Zelda sat on a single chair brought into the centre of the dance floor. Neville was down on his knees lifting her dress up a little, and poised to plunge.

‘Dive-dive-dive-dive ... ’ The ‘dip-dip’ teenagers were at it again. Other guests were whooping on the sidelines. Then, in amongst the hubbub behind me, I heard a whisper.

‘Oi! Nisht gut!’
I turned to see Uncle Isaac shaking his head. Echoes of an earlier time, but tonight it was about his own daughter.

‘If she closes her legs, he’s
farkakt,’
said Ralph. More echoes. Uncle Isaac nodded.

Finally, it was time for the bride and groom to leave. The guests formed a farewell circle on the dance floor, and Neville and Zelda made their way around it, hugging and kissing each one of them.

As Zelda hugged me, she whispered in my ear.
‘Hopefully one day I can dance at your wedding ... if you can find someone who’ll put up with you.’
Sylvia used to tell me nobody would. I felt my cheeks flush with shame. Then, the Princess of Darkness drove the knife in deeper.
‘Ooh, little black sheep, you’re going red. Your face is beet ... Root. Baa.’

At first, I was dumbstruck, the pain in my shoulder intensifying to the point of agony. Chaos—a mishmash of thoughts, but no music this time. Zelda didn’t move; she was rejoicing in my inescapable torment. Slowly, slowly, though, I became lucid. I was mystified as to how someone, on one of the happiest days of their life—when they would supposedly feel warm and fuzzy towards
everyone
—could be compelled to deliver such a spiteful comment. Sylvia’s many justifications over the years for Zelda’s barbs came back to me:
She gets picked on at school; she’s not a happy girl; make allowance for Zelda, she doesn’t mean to be nasty.
Oh, and the best one:
She has glandular problems.
Pig’s arse! If Sylvia knew anything about the witching hour and black magic, she’d no doubt use that to support Zelda’s mean-spiritedness now.

But all of it was bullshit—every one of these excuses that once tugged at my heartstrings, even if only momentarily, cut no ice with me tonight. It had become increasingly harder to feel compassion for someone who constantly targeted me. Anyone who could feel compassion under these circumstances qualified for sainthood. This excluded me, partly because I didn’t feel merciful; partly because I’m Jewish and I don’t think there are any Jewish saints; but mostly because canonisation comes after death. And although I had been feeling kind of dead of late, I was about to come back to life.

Sometimes, you need to hit someone between the eyes because there’s just too much at stake if you don’t. Tonight, Zelda’s remarks were like a red rag to a bull. The bitterness and resentment I’d been nursing for years gave way to full-blown anger.
I leaned forward and whispered in
her
ear.

‘I will eventually find someone who’ll love me for who I am, and not just put up with me. But I’m not putting up with you anymore. I don’t care if it is your wedding day. Don’t you dare talk to me like that! If you’re old enough to get married, then you’re old enough to deal with your shit. And if you can’t, then find someone else to dump it on, because I won’t take it anymore. Is that black and white enough for you?’

I too could fence in bloody colour, and I could bleat with the best of them!

Zelda’s face blanched. She was dumbstruck, and the pain she was so adept at offloading clearly showed on her face. She looked like a frightened little girl. I felt like a total bitch ... but only for a split second. And the pain in my shoulder eased up significantly. I broke from the circle, collected my handbag and headed for the exit. Ralph followed me. He had heard only bits and pieces of my exchange with Zelda, so I filled him in.

‘I’m so proud of you, Ruthie,’ he said when I finished.

I was proud of myself. I missed Glen, but there’s nothing like being able to stand alone. Although I felt worn down, I still had it! Even better, from this afternoon till now, I’d gone from zero-to-hero. Ralph, on the other hand, ended the evening the same way he started it: scavenging.

We were almost at the door when he backtracked and grabbed bonbonnière bags from a couple of empty tables. He filled his silver pockets with as many of them as he could fit, and carried as many as he could hold.

‘Ralph! Does it
always
have to be about food?’

‘You might want to think about that one yourself.’ And he left it at that.

CHAPTER SIX:
FRUITY NUTS

I was so hyped up after having opened my mouth at the wedding, I couldn’t sleep. I relived that milestone moment over and over. I felt proud! But Ralph’s comment as we’d walked out of the reception was niggling away in the background. What did he mean?

When I’d confronted Zelda, I had been a woman with fire in my belly, a state that had lately been waxing and waning. Much like my relationship with food. But how could this be? I was Jewish. The tribe’s hunger for knowledge and success is equal to our desire for food. We’re encouraged to be fruitful ... veggieful, meatful, breadful and cakeful. We eat heaps. My mind drifted, trying to locate what had affected my appetites, and when it had started ...