The Saturday Wife (41 page)

The woman nodded. Money changed hands.

She knew better than to take them out and examine them on the street, in case an undercover cop was around. On the way back to the subway, she went into a store on a side street and bought three Louis Vuitton lookalike wallets. Each one cost her ten dollars. The real ones cost four hundred. Each.

When she got home, she took out her booty and examined it. Her purchases even came with their own monogrammed felt holder, just like the real ones. And inside the bags and the wallets there was a label that said
LOUIS VUITTON, PARIS
. She looked at the fake, and then she looked at her original. It was almost impossible to tell them apart. OK, it was
totally
impossible to tell them apart. What people never realized about Louis Vuittons until they shelled out thousands of dollars and brought them home was that most of the real models weren’t even leather, just laminated cloth.

“Delilah?” Chaim said, when he saw her wearing her new purse.

“Relax. I picked up a fake on Canal Street. Pretty realistic, no?”

He looked it over. It looked exactly like the one Delilah had shown him the day before. “Are you sure this is fake?” he asked suspiciously.

“My goodness! Only a man would ask that. Of course it’s a fake! It’s obvious. Just look at the stitching; it’s got two extra stitches. And the zipper? I mean, come on!”

He shrugged, lost. “Well, you know it’s against the law to buy these. You could get arrested, Delilah. Not to mention the fact that it is totally unethical.”

“The only police that would arrest me over this are the fashion police. Relax, Chaim. This is America.”

“It’s stealing. It’s wrong. You’ve got to take it back.”

“To whom, the Chinese Mafia?”

“Promise me you’ll never do it again?”

“I promise.” She meant it too. Who wanted a fake, even a very good one? It was like cubic zirconium, or a really well-dressed whore. The fact that nobody could tell the difference didn’t change what they were.

The sisterhood looked over the rebbitzin’s new handbag with envy. But anyone who asked was told it was a fake. From Canal Street. To salve her conscience, she added the two fakes to her collection. She couldn’t see what difference it would make to victims of terror, who, she was sure, would be equally delighted with these bags, since Israelis, being over there in the Middle East, wouldn’t know the difference anyway. Besides, Palestinian terrorists, those beasts, had absolutely no respect for either human life or really, really important designer handbags. It would be such a shame if a real, brand-new Damier Speedy got caught up in a terror attack.

To help speed donations to her project, Joie agreed to give a luncheon buffet at Uspekhov. Delilah was thrilled. To please Joie, she went down the synagogue list, paying personal visits to almost everyone and duly noting the size of their lots, the upkeep of their homes, the quality of their furnishings, and the cars in their garage. From these women, she received further lists of names of non-synagogue members, whom she approached and visited, until she was able to compile a true A-list of the most well-to-do people in the community and its surroundings. She went over the information with Joie, and together they prepared the guest list. The invitations were eagerly accepted, and the best-dressed, best-jeweled, richest women of Swallow Lake soon flowed through the iron gates of Uspekhov, touring the estate.

It was a huge success, Delilah’s designer and almost-designer handbag collection swelling to hundreds of bags. She was thrilled. And so was Joie.

Soon after, the Shammanovs were suddenly everywhere. They were the honorées at the annual Hebrew Day School fund-raising dinner, pushing aside Arthur and Solange, who had spent years toiling to help balance the budget of that money-eater. They were announced in the highest category of the Lions of Judah circle for the UJC fund-raising campaign. They were seated to the right of the Israeli ambassador at the five-star Israel Bonds Dinner in Hartford. They were on the cover of
Lifestyles
magazine.
They were photographed with Steven Spielberg and Demi Moore and her very young husband at a benefit for the Shoah Foundation. And there was a smiling photo of them accepting a medal of honor from former President Clinton and a smiling Hillary at a B’nai Brith dinner.

Discussions were held and it was decided, although not unanimously, that Viktor and Joie Shammanov be invited to join the synagogue board.

All the while, the members of Ohel Aaron felt their hearts rise and fall, buffeted equally by waves of envy and admiration. Suddenly, their homes began to feel cramped, and they started to find contractors to add porches and finish basements. They hired landscape designers and began importing dwarf trees from Japan. They watched the fashion channel for the latest designer shows in Milan and Paris and then rushed to get their dresses made by Joie’s dressmaker.

And then the community held its breath in hushed anticipation as they waited to see who among them would get an invitation to the Bar Mitzva of the Shammanovs’ son, Anatoly. All over the community, wild rumors abounded. A synagogue was already under construction in Macchu Pichu, fortress city of the ancient Incas, in a high saddle between two peaks in northwest Cuzco, Peru, they whispered to each other in wonder. Llamas would bring up the kosher foie gras. Or Viktor was building his own island, like Sealand, in the middle of the ocean with the help of his oil rigs, a place where he would declare himself king and give out passports to all the guests, giving them tax-free status for the rest of their lives. The Bar Mitzva boy would be brought in by aircraft carrier, or strapped to the back of a great whale. Destiny’s Child would be there, and/or Shania Twain, Michael and Janet Jackson, Celine Dion, the entire cast of the Cirque du Soleil from Las Vegas, Britney Spears, Nicole Kidman, and Natalie Portman and her Israeli boyfriend. They would argue, debate, and discuss, rumors flying, becoming more and more fantastical with every day that passed.

The hunger to be on the guest list soon became ravenous.

Delilah and Chaim were spared the suspense. Their invitation had been personal. Delilah had already begun shopping for cruise wear.

“Shorts? You’re buying shorts? I’m not so sure we should even go,” Chaim told her, scandalized and depressed over the whole thing.

She was stunned. “Not go? Are you insane? Why not?”

“Because I’m the rabbi, and there will be some members of the congregation who won’t be invited, and they deserve services on the Sabbath. Who will provide them if I leave?”

“So for one Sabbath there will be no speech! Believe me, they’ll survive.”

“It’s not just that. They’ll probably invite all the people who run the service. The cantor and the Torah reader and the
gabbai
—”

“So what? All the synagogue needs is ten people to hold a service! Believe me, there will be more than ten who aren’t getting invitations. They’ll manage. For Pete’s sake, you aren’t going to make me miss this, are you? Because that would be cruel, Chaim, really cruel. Besides, the Bar Mitzva boy is going to need your support. You need to stand next to him as he’s reading, in case he forgets.”

That was certainly true, he thought morosely. Little Anatoly, with his thick Russian accent and even thicker brain, would need all the help he could get. “There is only one way that kid is going to get through this without humiliating himself and his parents: if he doesn’t open his mouth.”

“You’re his teacher! How can you say that? He’s got to read something. You just have to try harder. After all, you’ve got another two months, no?”

“If I had another two years I still wouldn’t manage. The kid’s got a wooden ear. And he doesn’t remember anything.”

“But he’ll have it written in front of him, no? He doesn’t have to memorize, does he?”

“No, thank God for that. But he does have to remember in which direction to turn the page. He can’t even remember that!”

“So that’s not a reason to be upset with him. He’s just a kid, after all.”

“I’m not upset with him. I’m upset with how this whole extravaganza is affecting the community. I know what will happen: All the women in shul will be running around in bathing suits on Shabbes, and the men will sit around the pool playing cards! I just don’t understand it.” He shook his head. “When I first spoke to Viktor, he seemed perfectly willing to have something modest, here in the synagogue. I don’t understand where they got the idea for this circus.”

Delilah cleared her throat. “Actually, it was Amber who had the idea about the circus,” she murmured, examining her manicure. “Look, Chaim,
isn’t it better that they
spend money on a religious ceremony than spending it on something else that would be more frivolous, like… like…” But she couldn’t think of a single thing that would be more frivolous.

“Religious ceremony? You mean the half hour in the synagogue? The rest is just one big, ostentatious, overblown, see-how-much-money-I’ve-got festival! You know what? It would be better to tell everyone in the world not to have a Bar or Bat Mitzva at all. To skip it. Believe me, most of these boys and girls would have a much better chance at actually becoming thoughtful, spiritual adults without one!”

She gasped. “How can you say that? What about
hedoor mitzva
?”

“That doesn’t mean spending the most money on something! You know, rabbis in certain Hasidic sects have put a ceiling on how much people can spend on weddings. They say, if the wedding has more than one hundred and fifty people and is held in too expensive a place, they won’t attend or officiate. They did it because they didn’t want people to go into debt or be ashamed, and because it was becoming impossible for parents to marry off their children. That’s
hedoor mitzva”

“Well, that’s all very nice, but it’s too late now. You can’t embarrass the Shammanovs by staying away and by saying these things out loud.”

“I’ve already said all these things out loud,” he sighed, “but, obviously, no one was listening.”

The feeling was dawning on Rabbi Chaim Levi that not only was he not doing any good, he had actually become just one more facilitator for all that was going wrong in the Jewish world. The Shammanovs’ Bar Mitzva was just the tip of the iceberg.

He remembered the Bat Mitzva invitation he had gotten the month before, directing him to a Web site. He had dutifully logged on and looked it up. There he was confronted by a photo of Selma and Max Gutfreund’s chubby twelve-year-old daughter Leah in a sleeveless white top, bra strap showing, who managed to give him a braces-filled come-hither look over her bare tattooed shoulder. When he clicked on her picture as instructed, she breathily announced that he was invited to her “golden girl rock concert” and invited him to click onto her video.

Mesmerized with horror and fascination, he clicked.

There he found the child wandering through a mall with a group of her prepubescent friends holding shopping bags as she wiggled her hips and threw back her hair, singing. The lyrics, which he tried hard to decipher, went something like:

If I was rich, I could be a bitch,

I’d never go slow, yo, because of my cash flow, wo!

So don’t be a smarty, come to my party.

There was a picture of Leah sitting with provocatively crossed legs on a motorcycle as she sang an off-key rendition of a song that went:
Give me a chance to make you happy, your lovin me is the key.

And then he saw something else. There was a link entitled MY RABBI. His heart beating, he clicked on it. There he was confronted by a picture of himself and of the synagogue.
I want to thank Rabbi Levi. He’s a super cool dude! Like, he’s taught me everything I know.

He felt like laughing. He felt like weeping. He was furious, mortified, and overwhelmed. He felt like retraining, becoming an electrician or a plumber or any other profession in which you can enter a situation with a competent tool box and fix the bloody problem; a profession where the people who hired you actually respected your expertise.

Instead, he allowed people to enter his synagogue week after week and to leave feeling good about themselves, whether or not they deserved to. He was unable to provide them with true values, true direction. Not that he hadn’t tried.

There was that time he had talked to the congregation about the importance of shiva calls to the bereaved. A young widow had complained to him that few people had made condolence calls, and one who did had cornered her young son and told him, “Your father was so good that God needed him more,” bringing the child to hysterics, lest he too behave himself into an early grave. Another shul member, who hadn’t bothered to show up at all, had come over to her in the supermarket and said, “You were just so together that we didn’t think you needed a shiva visit.”

He had exhorted his congregation, chastised them, explained to them, entreated them to please
please
visit the bereaved during their week of mourning, not to speak unless spoken to, and to be respectful.

And what had been the result of this heartfelt sermon? A group of synagogue members, together with a sprinkling from the board, had accosted him during afternoon prayers, demanding that he apologize because certain people were now embarrassed and were thinking about leaving the synagogue altogether! And a synagogue, they explained to him ominously, can’t afford to lose dues-paying members.