The Saturday Wife (38 page)

And in the end, they would all agree that she, Delilah, was a wonderful rabbi’s wife and that the congregation was lucky to have her and her special skills.

TWENTY-THREE

S
olange was chilly but correct. And Joie Shammanov was unaccountably delighted and grateful to get the invitation. In fact, she seemed thrilled.

“Viktor has been after me to make some friends, to get us more involved socially. Who will be coming?”

Delilah described the board members, and Joie seemed extremely interested. “But I have to warn you, Joie, they are all twice our age.”

“I don’t think that matters, do you? Have you seen their homes? How do they dress? What cars do they drive?”

Delilah was only too happy to tell her everything she wanted to know. And in the end, Joie even offered to send over her own chef to help Delilah plan the menu and do the cooking.

“That would be fantastic!”

The chef was a fairly new French import. He had fabulous ideas. “What about ze Peking duck and ze green papaya salad in a rich ginger
and cardamom sauce, and zen ze pan-roasted squab stuffed wiz truffle and soft polenta, wiz per’aps an Armagnac-scented
jus
. Charlotte
aux fruits de saison
profiteroles
au chocolat
?”

She discussed it with Chaim.

“I don’t know, Delilah. Is this guy Jewish? Does he know anything about preparing a kosher dinner?”

“What difference does that make? We’ll buy all the ingredients. He’ll use our utensils. I’ll be in the kitchen to supervise him. What in this menu sounds problematic?”

“No, nothing—well, truffles.”

“I thought they were like mushrooms?”

“They are not
like
mushrooms. They
are
mushrooms. But it’s an interesting halachic problem. What blessing do you say over them? The Talmud in Berachos 40b states that even though mushrooms grow on the ground, they don’t get their nourishment from the soil. But the
Aruch Hashulchan,
among others, hold that if one made a mistake and recited the blessing over vegetables on mushrooms, it’s nevertheless acceptable—”

She rolled her eyes. “Chaim?”

“Oh, yes, what were we talking about?”

“So they are kosher, right? You can eat them?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And Joie’s chef can do the cooking?”

“Delilah, I’m really
not
comfortable about a non-Jew doing the cooking. I’m sure he wouldn’t do anything deliberately, but there is always something he might not understand.”

She stood still and lowered her head. “Well, if you really think so.”

Chaim, who had expected a huge argument, was taken aback. She was, after all, doing this for him, and it was going to be an enormous amount of work. Why shouldn’t he try to make things easier for her? “Look, I don’t want to take a stringent view for no reason. As the great Reb Yechiel Halevi Epstein used to say, ‘To say
forbidden, forbidden, forbidden
doesn’t take a great scholar. But it takes talent, wisdom, and understanding to take a lenient view and
say permitted.’
I suppose it would be all right. Do you promise to supervise him carefully and not let him bring in any food or utensils?”

“I promise! Thanks
so
much!” She hugged him.

“And please, Delilah. Don’t make yourself crazy. The people who don’t like us now, won’t like us even after they’ve eaten a wonderful dinner,” he said with a shrug.

She bought all the ingredients, which cost a fortune. She hired a serving girl to help her for the evening, and even rented a uniform for her. She bought a lovely toile tablecloth and matching napkins and had a professional service draw up place cards using hand calligraphy. Joie’s florist sent over the flower arrangements, and the whole house smelled of lavender and roses and lilacs and peonies. Joie’s dressmaker made Delilah a fantastic wraparound dress the color of her eyes, copied from the latest styles seen on the runways in Milan and Paris, from which Joie had recently returned with the real thing.

“Are they here already?” Stuart Grodin asked, his eyes staking out the territory, while Delilah and Amber kissed the air outside each other’s ears.

“Who?” Delilah asked innocently.

“Why, the Shammanovs,” Stuart said, rubbing his hands together, like a baseball player getting ready to hold the bat and hit the ball out of the park. “I understand you know them well, Delilah?”

She smiled mysteriously. “Yes, we’ve become dear friends.”

“What are they like? What’s the house like?” Amber pressed her.

Delilah smiled, ignoring the question. “Would you excuse me, Amber? I need to be in the kitchen.”

The chef was working his magic. Everything smelled wonderful, and he seemed to be managing just fine. “Go, go.” He shooed her out the door.

She heard the door opening and closing, Chaim greeting more guests.

It was the Malins, the Rollands, and the Borenbergs. Mariette came around and kissed her. She had a tall handsome stranger with her, who turned out to be the elusive Dr. Rolland.

He had thick, salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly and recently cut, an aquiline nose, a strong jaw, and firm, young skin, except for a few distinguished creases on his forehead. He was really tall and broad-shouldered and athletic, Delilah thought, as his heavy-lidded blue eyes peered at her beneath thick, dark lashes. In short, a ladies’ man with all the qualities needed to fulfill his potential. He gave Delilah a hug, his hand dipping just a bit too low.

“Good to finally meet you.” He smiled.

“Yes, finally. You certainly do wander,” she said, firmly moving his hand off its target.

Mariette’s eyes were suddenly cool.

“Wherever did you find that dress, Delilah?” Felice Borenberg demanded.

“Why, yes, dear. It looks as if it were made for you!” Solange said enviously, as Amber looked on, her lips pursed in disapproval.

“It was. Made for me,” she said nonchalantly.

“Well, I had no idea you were getting your clothes custom-made these days. It must cost a fortune,” Felice said, raising her eyebrows at Solange.

“Joie Shammanov has the best little dressmaker. She did it for me practically as a favor. Please, come in. Let me take your coats.”

“Everything all right in the kitchen, Delilah?” Chaim whispered.

“Everything is fine. I was just in there a minute ago!”

“Please, you promised!”

“I can’t be everywhere, Chaim!”

She rushed back into the kitchen. The first course was already being plated: a fantastic mixture of duck and papaya salad. The chef stood at the stove stirring the ginger sauce. The scent alone made Delilah’s mouth water. They smiled at each other.

“
Fantastique, non
?”

She nodded, smiling. “Fantastic.” The bell rang again. She heard Joie’s high-pitched laughter, and then a deep, unfamiliar bass. She rushed into the hall.

“Joie! So good to see you!” Delilah hugged her. “They are all dying to meet you! So, how does it look so far?” she whispered.

“Everything looks fab,” Joie whispered back. “Delilah, my husband, Viktor.”

Viktor Shammanov was a bear of a man, with the back and shoulders of a body builder, the kind that are so pumped up they seemed to be constantly leaning forward in a Mr. Universe see-my-muscles pose. He had to be at least six foot three. His hair—spread over the top and back of his head in thinning, unnaturally black waves—swept over his forehead from a strange side part. His face was part pit bull, part Khrushchev. And although he wore a suit of impeccable cut, a silk tie, and shiny black shoes, still he resembled one of those guys on
The Sopranos.
He took Chaim into his arms and hugged him, kissing him vigorously on both cheeks. “Viktor Shammanov. Good to meet you, Rabbi! My vife, she spends the day now with your vife. Is good!”

“Yes, it’s great. They’ve become great friends. Mr. Shammanov, let me introduce my wife, Delilah.”

Delilah waited in apprehension for the grizzly to pounce. He didn’t. He didn’t even hold out his hand to her.

“Am grandson of big rabbi, Ukrainian rabbi. I know not to touch rabbi’s vife.” He bellowed with laughter, his voice bouncing off the walls like a sonic boom.

“Very good, very good!” Chaim rubbed his hands together nervously. He suddenly noticed another couple standing by the door. He’d never seen them before.

“Please, come in, won’t you? I’m sorry. You are?”

“Khe doesn’t speak English.” Viktor unleashed a flood of Russian. “Khe is cousin, bodyguard. And khis vife. Also cousin.”

The man took off, prowling around the house, looking for assassins. Delilah quickly added two more settings to the table.

“Let me introduce you to our synagogue board, Viktor,” Chaim said, making the introductions. He went through the names, and each person then stepped up like a petitioner at the court of some Oriental potentate, almost curtsying as they shook his hand and nodded to his wife. Only Joseph Rolland took Joie’s hand and kissed it, causing Viktor Shammanov to stop what he was saying and stare. Dr. Rolland soon stepped back.

“In Russia, you take khand of another’s man’s vife to your lips, and you die,” he said casually. There was a sudden silence. Then he bellowed with laughter. “Kidding, just kidding,” he boomed.

Everyone exhaled.

“Please, everyone, why don’t we just wash and then sit down to dinner?” Delilah said, with perfect poise.

“Vash? Am I dirty I need to vash?” Viktor asked, looking around him with mock shock like a Catskills comedian.

“I know it sounds strange, but it’s a religious custom. We wash before saying grace over the bread, the way the priests in the Holy Temple washed before preparing sacrifices on the altar,” Chaim explained companionably, taking Viktor’s arm and leading him off to the special basin built into an alcove of the dining room for exactly this purpose. Everyone followed. Delilah then helped them find their place cards and be seated. Chaim said blessings over the bread, then tore off some pieces and dipped them in salt, handing a piece to each guest, as was the custom.

Delilah rushed back into the kitchen. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course, madame,” the chef said, taking a large swig from a very
expensive bottle of wine bought especially for the evening. It was, she noted, already half gone.

“We’ve got two extra guests. Maria, you can start serving now,” she told the help.

The girl lifted the plates up to the chef, who ladled generous amounts of sauce on top of each. She carried them to the table and began to serve.

Viktor handed his plate to his bodyguard, who tasted it. Everyone stared, wondering how long Viktor would watch him not dying before agreeing to eat. He didn’t wait very long. “Food vonderful!” Viktor announced. “I loff good food.”

“Yes, I have quite a few business contacts in Russia, and they all know how to eat,” Stuart Grodin said obsequiously.

“You khav bizness, in Russia? What kind bizness?” Viktor asked.

Stuart was thrilled. He started discussing the subcontractors for his bears, who were going to manufacture them under license and distribute them all over Eastern Europe.

“Bears? You sell bears to Russians? Like snow to Eskimos!” Viktor roared. “You vant bizness in Russia, is only vun bizness. Only vun bizness in vorld.”

Everyone leaned forward a little in their seats, placing their utensils down so as not to make a single sound that might obscure the answer.

“Oil! Oil bizness. You heard of Turdistan? You khear what happen to oil after communists? All people get certificates, oil certificates in Turdistan. Every family have certificate. But don’t need certificate. Need—” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “So me and brother, ve buy certificates. Ve get friends to buy certificates. Now ve own oil company. Now ve drill, make oil company bigger. Ve sell certificates. Our friends, all very rich. Like Sultan of Brunei!”

“Can others buy these oil certificates? Is it like stocks and bonds?” Stuart asked eagerly.

He tilted his head, then shook it. “Is very difficult. Need to organize. Only Russian peoples who lives in Turdistan can buy. Is almost impossible for people like you to buy. You buy bears!” He looked around the table, smiling. No one smiled back. “Vhy so serious, you Americans? Ah, yes, I know vhy.” He looked around the table expectantly.