The Enemy of the Good (13 page)

Having reminded herself that they were above the age of consent, even if, in Marcus’s case, not always that of responsibility, she reminded them that they were due in the office at nine thirty on the dot. Any vestige of regret at her failure to explore the Rocky landscape vanished when he put his lips to her ear and whispered: ‘Are you sure I can’t make you change your mind? I’m nine and a half inches,’ to which, thanking God and the six penalty points that had ensured her sobriety, she replied, ‘Cap or crotch?’ The ensuing drive was so dreary that she even began to hanker for one of Marcus’s
manholes
. At least she was able to smoke, free of the smug disapproval of people whose organ of abuse was the nose. She arrived home wrapped in misery, which she assured herself was cultural not sexual.

Her spirits sank still further the following morning when she walked into the conference room to find a bright-eyed Davinia and Marcus regaling their colleagues with lurid accounts of their antics the night before. Affecting not to notice the hush that greeted her entrance, she ran through the regular agenda before raising the subject of the Atlases.

‘On mature reflection I’ve decided not to pitch for them.’

‘But the contract’s in the bag!’ Davinia said. ‘Mandy as good as promised.’

‘That may be,’ Susannah replied. ‘But I’m not taking on a group of
muscle-bound
morons who’ve pulled themselves up by their jockstraps.’

‘Someone not impressed by Mr 9½ inches!’ Marcus suggested in a whisper as piercing as Rock’s the previous night.

‘You said it, Marcus! The biggest thing about him is his ego. Listen guys, I’m just being practical,’ she said, afraid of being thought priggish. ‘What’s the point of having the place feng shued if we go for something so sleazy? No matter how hard they try to change their image, they’re forever stuck in the nineties. They’ll never make the water cooler today.’

Susannah returned to her desk, where her gloom was compounded, first by a postcard from a former colleague who had thrown up her job to ‘find’ herself in Peru, and then by a phone call from a friend whose tearful account of failed IVF treatment chipped away at the cornerstone of her faith:
That There Is Still Time
.

She spent the morning trying to minimise the fallout from the catalogue to the jade exhibition at the British Museum. The introduction by Sir Peter Lyons, chairman of the principle sponsors, Weston Tea, had been reprinted in Hong Kong and, having ignored her warning that his reference to the Opium Wars would offend the Chinese, Lyons blamed her for the threat of a boycott that had shaken Weston’s shares. Although the first rule of her profession held that, when a campaign went well, it was to the credit of the client and, when badly, it was the fault of the PR, she refused to be made a scapegoat, sending him a robust reminder of how he had dismissed her objections as political correctness and enclosing copies of the relevant email. Needless to say, he did not reply.

His rudeness fuelled her disenchantment with the world she had inhabited for more than twenty years: the arrogant editors and venal journalists who considered themselves to be more important than the people they profiled; the celebrities who claimed her as their dearest friend at the start of a
campaign
and then forgot her name the moment it was over; the rising stars who abused their power and sulked when the media denounced their antics; the fading stars who failed to attract coverage and expected her to bolster their self-esteem; the lovingly nurtured assistants who broke away, eager for ‘new opportunities’, which invariably meant poaching her clients. On top of which, to the public at large, the work itself was parasitical. No matter how tough the brief or how original the promotion, it fed off other, genuine talents.

Sensing the onset of self-pity, she was especially glad to have arranged a girls’ night out with Carla. Unlike Clement whose faith and vocation
intimidated
her, Carla put her at her ease. Just as she never called herself an artist, preferring the more modest
craftswoman
, so she never called her beliefs a
religion
. On the contrary, she claimed that the Buddhist ‘don’t take our word for it, but seek out the truth in your own lives’ credo was the antithesis of Christianity. When pressed, she would describe herself as spiritual, quoting a friend’s definition that religious people were afraid of going to Hell, whereas spiritual people had been there. The events of the past two days had deepened Susannah’s feelings of futility. She longed for a more purposeful existence: to be someone for whom ‘having my feet done’ meant reflexology rather than a pedicure. She knew better, however, than to confuse escape with discovery. The secret was to find herself in Notting Hill, not Peru.

Having left the choice of restaurant to Carla, she was dismayed to realise that
Ne Goryui
’s authentic Georgian atmosphere extended to personal hygiene. She was determined not to carp and addressed the problem by the judicious application of her napkin and ordering food that was even more pungent than the waiters. They discussed the Roxborough debacle over yoghurt soup, with Carla explaining that the Dean had already consulted her about repairs. Then, while she waited for turkey in walnut sauce and Carla for cheese pie, she described her brush with the Atlases. Carla, who knew of the troupe by repute, said that, for people with no inner life, sexuality had become the all-important measure of authenticity. ‘What about people who don’t have either?’ Susannah asked, feigning a laugh. When Carla failed to pick up on her tone, she described her recent humiliation at a party where, seeing a sad-looking middle-aged man on his own, she went over to talk to him, only to endure a ten-minute eulogy to his girlfriend after which he rushed off to refill his glass, never to return. It was left to her hostess to explain that he was afraid she was chatting him up.

‘Who was it said that no good deed went unpunished?’

‘Whoever it was, it isn’t true,’ Carla replied. ‘Every good deed adds to the store of merit in the world.’

‘I envy you your certainty. You have such resilience… such strength.’

‘So do you. As the Buddha teaches us, you just have to look within.’

Susannah had never found Carla’s faith more attractive. While she bewailed her single state and the imminence of her fortieth birthday, Carla bore Peter’s defection with her usual stoicism. But, however much she longed for peace of mind, Susannah knew that she would never find it in Buddhism. Her one experience of a meditative retreat had been a disaster. She had scarcely quelled her suspicions of a group from whose tongues every abrasive note appeared to have been surgically removed, when she was plunged into incredulity by a plump middle-aged couple, looking like a pair of skittles, who had
rhapsodised
on the joys of levitation.

‘I’ve tried. Remember the retreat? I’ve ummed for England… if that’s not a contradiction in terms. But it all seems so alien to me. I need a faith, a
discipline
… call it what you will, that’s closer to home.’

‘Have you thought of Kabbalah?’

‘Oh please!’ Susannah laughed. ‘I may work in PR, but credit me with some integrity.
PR World
described it as the best networking opportunity in town.’

‘I don’t mean the Kabbalah Centre. All that Madonna crap! Rachel Gibbon, one of my neighbours – you met her at my summer party – goes to a private class run by a Chassidic rabbi.’

‘Thank you very much! They’re seriously scary. All those pasty faces and corkscrew curls!’ She felt an instant revulsion as much at their appearance as their ideology, before reflecting that that might be part of her problem, which she would need to address if she wanted to engage more profoundly with life. ‘Where’s it held?’ she asked casually, ‘Stamford Hill?’

‘Don’t worry. Hendon.’

‘And that’s better?’

‘You’re such a snob! Though I gather they’re just as bad. Not so much preaching to the converted as to the chosen. Of course that wouldn’t be any obstacle for you, with your mum being Jewish.’

Susannah felt strangely intrigued. The longing to reach beyond her
day-to-day
existence had never been stronger. Moreover it would be an opportunity to learn about the Judaism that was part of her heritage but had never been part of her life. Her mother had found it hard enough as an atheist married to an Anglican cleric without dwelling on her Jewish background. Clement had an idiosyncratic faith in which Christ was remade in his own image. Mark had rejected all dogma and turned East. She herself had been left with a
comfort-blanket
Christianity, which was looking increasingly threadbare. What an irony it would be if the side of her she had yet to explore should prove to be her salvation! So, while making no commitment, she asked Carla to contact Rachel for details of the class.

Fireworks exploded unnervingly close, lighting up the affluent north London street. Susannah shivered in the early evening chill as she strode down the garden path, striving to keep pace with Rachel. They were greeted at the door by their hostess Layah who, apologising for her floury hands, asked Rachel to show Susannah inside while she finished off in the kitchen.

They walked through the cramped hall past a large leather rhinoceros and into an airy room dissected by a white curtain. ‘It’s called a
mechitza
,’ Rachel whispered, even though they were alone. ‘The men sit on one side and we sit on the other. The Rabbi stands there, in the alcove, so he can talk to us all.’ Although forewarned of the segregation, Susannah found it disturbing, bracing herself with the image of a TV dating show where only the host knew who lurked behind the curtain, before dismissing it as just the sort of trashy culture she had come here to escape. She was grateful that the women had been placed beside the fireplace, with its impressive display of early Hanukah cards and invitations. While Rachel inspected them, she surveyed the room, peeking through the curtain as though she were back in the school
changing
rooms. Rachel, a dumpy woman in her early forties who was soberly but smartly dressed, sought to put her at her ease, promising that she would find the Rabbi’s words so inspirational that she would soon forget about the
partition
. Having grown up in the shadow of two older brothers, she remained to be convinced.

She had dithered over taking the class for weeks before finally agreeing to meet Rachel for tea at Carla’s. To her surprise, when she thanked her for arranging the visit, Rachel replied that she was the one who should be
grateful
since Susannah’s interest allowed her to perform a
mitzvah
or good deed. ‘I’ve been studying the Kabbalah for eighteen months, ever since my boss dragged me along one evening. He’s a Lubavitch – they’re a branch of
Chassidim
who are specially keen to educate other Jews. I expect he thought that Miss Five O-Levels here was the perfect candidate.’ Susannah left Carla to dismiss Rachel’s self-deprecation, before asking about the exclusive concern with their co-religionists which contrasted sharply with the missionary work of the Church. ‘I can’t be sure,’ Rachel said, ‘but I think it’s to do with the Tanya, that’s the Chassidic Bible – although not officially. Right at the start, it makes a distinction between Jewish and non-Jewish souls. Jews have both a godly and an animal soul, whereas non-Jews only have an animal one.’

‘That’s me done for then,’ Carla said with a grin.

‘How do they know?’ Susannah asked, at once shocked by the chauvinism and awed by a conviction that was the antithesis of Anglican compromise.

‘Lord!’ Rachel exclaimed, buying time with a biscuit. ‘You’ve got me there. I think it’s to do with the Jews being cleansed when God gave us the Law on Mount Sinai. Only don’t quote me on that – especially not to the boss.’

Susannah wondered if she meant the boss at the travel agents, the
synagogue
or even in the sky. ‘So what about me,’ she asked, ‘with a Jewish mother and a Christian father?’

‘That I do know,’ Rachel replied. ‘The Rabbi says there are no half-measures in Judaism. Any child of a Jewish mother is a Jew.’

Susannah put the exchange from her mind as the far side of the room filled up and she tried to picture the various men from the weight of their
footsteps
and warmth of their greetings. Their own side remained relatively empty, with the arrival of just two women, one of whom was Layah. They both wore the same long-sleeved, high-necked, calf-length dresses as Rachel, although Layah’s was adorned with a large diamond bee.

‘It’s very good of you to open up your home,’ Susannah said as Layah joined her. ‘It must be a lot of trouble, what with the curtain and everything.’

‘It’s an honour,’ Layah replied. ‘We have a big house, God be thanked. The Rabbi holds several classes here. He’s rare – at least in my experience – in mixing men and women. But, as he says himself, God told Moses to teach the women first.’

‘Really?’ Susannah asked, surprised by the subversion of the usual biblical order.

‘Of course the men say it’s so we can teach it to our sons, but I say it’s because we’re a more receptive audience.’

The Rabbi, a portly man with a grizzled beard, bulbous nose and
black-rimmed
glasses, arrived, greeting the group in Yiddish. Steeling herself for an evening of incomprehension, Susannah was relieved when no sooner had he moved to the alcove than he switched to English. She wondered if it were for her benefit, since so far as she knew she was the only newcomer, that he chose to start with a statement of intent.

‘Last week my son, Tali, who’s old enough to know better, told me about a pop star who described herself as a student of the Kabbalah. I reminded him as I now do you – just in case anyone remains in the slightest doubt – that the Kabbalah is not the latest New Age craze for people bored with Buddhism, nor is it about putting on a red wristband and studying the Tree of Life… indeed, the tree, although it’s mentioned, is of minor importance in classic kabbalistic writing. Rather, it’s about exploring the Tanya, the central text of Chassidic mysticism. The Tanya is both a manual on practical Kabbalah and a guide to the various spiritual problems that you – any one of you – might encounter in the world. Nor is the Kabbalah a philosophy, since a philosophy is the product of human minds and the Kabbalah was given by God.’

Susannah struggled with the novel concepts as the Rabbi discussed the nature of existence and the interplay between the infinite oneness of God, a phrase which despite his disdain for the New Age he repeated like a mantra, and the multiplicity of the world. He explained that the Kabbalah offered two basic models for this. The first was that of the
Sefirot
, the Ten Divine Emanations: wisdom; understanding; knowledge; kindness; severity; mercy; victory; submission; dedication; and kingship; through which, different aspects of God’s radiance were reflected like light through stained glass. The second was that in which radiance was reflected through the letters of the Hebrew alphabet. The world was created through words: God’s words in the first chapter of Genesis fanning out into all the words of the Hebrew
language
, containing the essence of everything that ever was.

‘The word for something… anything, for instance this cup,’ he said, holding up his hostess’s Crown Derby, ‘is both its formula and its soul. Let me give you an easier example: salt. Just as in English NaCl is no mere convention but the chemical formula for salt, so in Hebrew
melach
, the word for salt, is the true nature of salt, its inner essence. By mastering the word, by changing its letters, you can change the nature of reality. This is verbal alchemy and the core of practical Kabbalah. By studying it, we lay bare the secrets of the universe. By piercing through the finite nature of things, we discover their infinite nature and, ultimately, the nature of God.’

The Rabbi drew to a close, much too soon for Susannah who would have happily listened to him talk all night. Something in both his sonorous delivery and his audience’s rapt attention had struck a chord. Beyond that, however, were his words: words he himself had imbued with new authority through his claim that they were the way to reach God. She had grown up in a household where words were held to be, at best, poetry and, at worst, politics, and the way to God – or rather the idea of God – was through ritual and art. It made a welcome change to find someone who upheld his faith without caveats and cavils, standing by the creed to which he had signed up without trying to ignore the small print or rewrite the terms. Even the thought of Clement’s attack on Biblical literalists failed to daunt her, since his qualms about mistranslation could not apply to students of the Hebrew. In her elation, she plucked up courage to thank the Rabbi, only to feel cheated when after a fleeting glance towards the fireplace he hurried to join the men. ‘Remember Moses,’ she
whispered
to herself as she struggled to commit his ideas to memory.

‘So what do you think?’ Rachel asked her.

‘I can’t remember the last time my brain was this stimulated. And not just my brain. I’m buzzing! It’s so refreshing to come across someone whose message is simple yet in no sense simplistic, who gives you hope without insulting your intelligence. I’ve lived among people who…’ She broke off,
conscious
that she no longer wanted to define herself by her past. She had not felt such a wealth of possibilities opening up for her since the agent handed her the keys to her first office.

‘Then you’ll come again.’

‘If they’ll have me.’

Susannah’s hope that the end of the class would lead to greater integration was dashed by Rachel’s request that she join the women in the kitchen. As she edged through the bevy of beards, offended despite herself when several turned away, she joked that even the Iron Curtain had been easier to breach than the deceptively flimsy
mechitza
. Rachel, however, claimed to find the division restful. ‘I’m not going to pretend I’m constantly getting hit on. I’m forty-two years old: in other words, invisible.’ Susannah grimaced; for all her nascent spirituality, she had no wish to become a nun. ‘On the other hand,’ Rachel added, ‘I’ve retained enough of my training to feel it’s my duty to make myself attractive to men. In the Lubavitch world, of course, I’m a freak. Most of the women my age have been married twenty-five years. With a handful of grandchildren.’

Glimpsing the pain in Rachel’s eyes, Susannah began to see the point of matchmakers. Although at eighteen she would been outraged if her parents or any of their friends had tried to find her a husband, her views had changed now that the prospect of a child, let alone a grandchild, was growing more remote by the day. ‘But if you’re suffering from withdrawal symptoms,’ Rachel said, ‘I’ll introduce you to my boss. I’ll lure him out when I take in the pastries. Wait for us in the hall; that’s neutral ground.’

Susannah hovered beside the rhinoceros, staring at several portraits of a solemn elderly man whom Rachel had identified as their spiritual leader, the seventh Lubavitch Rebbe. Having anticipated the arrival of the boss, all beard and belly, she was amazed when Rachel introduced her to a disarmingly
handsome
man called Zvi. As her palms began to sweat, she gave thanks for the taboo on touching. Zvi was indeed bearded, but in every other respect he was a far cry from her imaginings, being tall, broad-shouldered and spruce. He had a reddish tint to his hair (although his beard was darker), pale green eyes, and rugged features. With his meaty chest visible through his heavy suit and his lean waist unconcealed by the fringes under his shirt, he was much more her idea of a god than any pumped-up Atlas. Terrified of gawking like a schoolgirl, she proffered her name. He smiled and she felt a burst of energy between them, which she prayed was a current not a spark.

‘Rachel told me she was bringing a friend,’ he said in a faint, indeterminate accent. ‘What drew you? Idle curiosity or something more?’

‘Must curiosity always be idle?’ she asked, unwilling to admit that the
triggers
had been a visit to a cathedral and a strip show.

‘I’m sorry. I meant nothing by it. Just a phrase.’

‘Of course,’ she said quickly, worried that her quibble had offended him. ‘Besides we all have to start somewhere.’

‘True. I’m a convert myself. Which is why I’m out here talking to you. Not such a stickler for the rules.’

‘Is it also why you don’t have sidecurls?’ she asked, shuddering at her shallowness.

‘None of the Lubavitch do, didn’t you see?’ She shook her head, refusing to trust to speech when ‘How could I when I’m barely allowed in the same room as you?’ was on the tip of her tongue. ‘It’s only shaving that’s forbidden in the Torah. I know one man who keeps his beard rolled up under his chin, but when you see him in the mikvah he looks like Methuselah. Satisfied?’

The word shot through her, provoking an intense desire to run her fingers through his beard, which to her relief was short, setting off the strength of his chin, rather than disguising it. She glanced at the soft copper hairs on his wrists and pictured his strong arms enfolding her. She forbade her thoughts from straying further, as Mr 9½ inches repeated his smutty innuendo in her ear.

‘Well, I’d better go back inside. I hope we’ll see you here again.’

‘Me too.’

Zvi returned to the men, leaving her gulping for air.

‘Are you all right?’ Rachel asked, alerting Susannah to her presence.

‘Fine. Just a little faint. Don’t you find it close in here?’

‘I’m quite chilly,’ Rachel said, giving her a suspicious look. ‘Shall we join the others?’

She followed Rachel to the kitchen where Layah and her friend were
stacking
plates in one of two large dishwashers. To her surprise, she was starting to warm to a faith that separated milk and meat as strictly as women and men. When they turned down her offer of help, she said her goodbyes and drove Rachel back to Dartmouth Park, plying her with questions about the Lubavitch, the Kabbalah and, with studied nonchalance, Zvi. Rachel answered as best she could, although it soon became apparent that she knew more about life in eighteenth century Lithuania than the domestic affairs of her boss. The one thing of which she was certain was that there was no Mrs Zvi. Susannah could scarcely conceal her delight. The alarm bells that would normally have rung at the sight of such an eligible forty-year-old were silenced by the setting. No one trying to escape an ex-wife or criminal past, let alone sexual ambivalence, would have chosen such a group. Zvi evidently applied the same rigour to his choice of partner as he did to his beliefs.

Reflecting on the evening’s events with increasing urgency over the
following
week, she was clear that something profound had touched her. What was less clear was whether that something was the Kabbalah or Zvi. Her
determination
to sign up for the course was tempered by the fear of becoming one of the sad women her father had counselled, whose daily attendance at church owed more to the vicar than to God. In the end she resolved the dilemma by picturing Zvi as the embodiment of the Kabbalah, the righteous student who, in the Rabbi’s phrase, would prepare the ground for the Messiah.