The Saturday Wife (49 page)

The privileged ones who had been to Maui chuckled with him, while the others stared in shocked, morose silence.

“Construction begins next week and we should be enjoying—well, I don’t know if that’s the right word exactly, heh-heh—our Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur prayers in our new space. For his unbelievable gift, we would like to present Viktor Shammanov with a token of our community’s thanks. Viktor, would you come up here, please?”

Viktor, seated in the front pew, bounded up to the podium, a huge smile on his face. “I luff this man! You are so kind to me and my family! Who vould have thought little Viktor from Turdistan would be in America, an American, in a synagogue? That khe would build synagogue in khonor of khis grandfather, such a kholy man!”

Arthur wiped his eyes, reaching out to hug the man. Viktor hugged him back. When Arthur was able to breathe again, he said, “On behalf of
Ohel Aaron, we wish to present you with this silver pointer that is used by the Torah reader. We think it is appropriate, Viktor, because in all you do you help point the way for our congregation, showing us what we all want to be.”

Shouts of “Mazel tov!” “Bless you!”
“Yashar koachl”
“Wonderful!” rang out from every corner, or so it seemed to Chaim, who turned around, staring at the congregation. The truth was, he realized, that the well-wishers were strategically seated all over the synagogue to give the appearance of overwhelming adulation. In fact, the synagogue was deeply divided, an equal number of congregants sitting stone-faced, their hands clenched in their laps. For a moment, a swell of hope rose in his chest. Just then, he heard his name called: “Vere is khe? My rabbi?” Viktor shouted. “Khere khe is! Come khere, come khere.” He waved. Reluctantly, Chaim got up and walked toward him. “This is reason I came to your synagogue. This man. Khe is responsible for everything!”

Select members of the synagogue broke out into a fury of foot stamping and applause. And even those unwilling to applaud the new synagogue, found it in themselves to unclench their fists and slap their palms together, joining in the adulation for their rabbi, with whom they felt they enjoyed a special bond, especially since he had been willing to forgo his Superbowl ticket to be with them. Still others sat facing forward without moving a muscle or changing their expression as they lifted their eyes to Chaim Levi, the man who had brought Viktor Shammanov to Ohel Aaron.

Chaim stood firmly sandwiched between Arthur and Viktor, facing the congregation, his physical presence blessing the enterprise, the speech in his pocket crumpling and growing moist from the sweat that now drained from every one of his pores.

In the women’s section, Delilah sat shaking hands and air-kissing furiously, like a queen. She had done it. Pulled it off! Her husband was safe in his job. She was safe in hers. There would be no wandering now, no fear of unemployment. There would be a brand-new, huge, custom-designed house with every luxury, to rival those of even the richest members of the congregation. Chaim would forgive and forget. Their lives would be blessed, floating on calm waters forevermore. She glanced up eagerly at her husband.

He looked back at her, expressionless, then turned away. This small gesture landed in her stomach like a rock.

She looked at the fawning smiles of the women who surrounded her,
women wearing clacking, pointed designer shoes, wildly expensive hats, and custom-made suits, suddenly remembering the bored eyes of the captains of the punchball teams when they finally turned in her direction, having no one left to choose. Finally on the team, she had fumbled the ball, let it drop, lost the point, and they had all turned their backs on her, pretending not to know her. Her heart froze. What did it matter how these women looked at her now, when her own husband looked away?

Why did everything she dream of, lean on, depend on, turn to straw the instant it came to fruition, collapsing beneath the weight of reality? she wondered. Was there truly no happiness in the world? Was everything, then, a lie? Love, faith, joy, constancy, sincerity? All those kissing her now, would they still love her tomorrow? Would they love her husband? Or was it a merry-go-round that constantly stopped and made you get off, forcing you to pay for new tickets if you wanted another little ride, another little taste of success?

She wanted someone to take her off the carousel, someone with strong firm arms who would lift her up and let her rest her weary head against his shoulder, whispering compliments and extravagant promises in her ear with unconditional love. She wanted to exhale and be safe and secure at last, she told herself, without conviction.

No, she realized, that wasn’t it at all. That would be supremely boring.

And then the truth finally hit her. As Emma Bovary had finally figured out in the end, there was nothing worth having, nothing that lasted: “Every smile hid a yawn, every happiness, a misery. Every pleasure began to curdle, and every embrace left behind a baffled longing for a more intense delight.”

An image arose in her mind: the neat little figure, the dark passionate eyes, a woman who had driven herself to madness and suicide, who had betrayed and been betrayed. An unfaithful wife, a bad mother, a silly self-destructive fool. And yet, a dreamer who was not afraid to envision a different life, no matter how others condemned her for it.

She took a deep breath and straightened her back. There would be a huge house. Her husband would be head of one of the largest synagogues in the area. People would point to her and say, “Rebbitzin Levi!” And all the punch ball captains and rabbi’s daughters who had lived in Tudor mansions in the Five Towns would think of her when they sat alone, divorced or on their way to teach special ed in hellholes in Brooklyn. And when her name and her husband’s popped up in the social columns with
flattering pictures of her in dazzling dresses at charity events, they would envy her and be sorry they hadn’t been nicer to her. They would understand that all along she had been playing the game alongside them, that she had been a good player, a worthy teammate, and that she too had won. Even if she didn’t feel that way now, she told herself, she was sure she would feel that way tomorrow. After all, as someone much smarter and more successful than Emma Bovary had pointed out: “Tomorrow is an-other day.”

The bulldozers came the following week. All the furniture, the sacred Torah scrolls and the prayer books had been moved temporarily into the spare house on the Shammanovs’ property, where the synagogue would continue meeting until the construction ended.

People stood around in awe, a bit horrified, as the metal teeth bit into the side of the building, bringing down the concrete tepee with its ribbons of stained glass. With amazing ease, where the synagogue once stood, there was only a pile of chalky rubble, twisted metal, shards of brightly colored glass, and splintered wood. Billowing clouds of choking dust filled the air, fogging the windows and whitening the plants of the expensive homes in Swallow Lake. Maids and cleaning services would spend weeks of back-breaking labor erasing the evidence of the collapse.

Chaim stood outside, mesmerized, watching it fall, his heart filled with mixed emotions: horror, regret, and a tiny twinge of strange joy.

Delilah spent the morning at the country club, anxious to talk to Joie about the plans for the new rabbi’s residence. To her surprise, Joie wasn’t there. And when the congregation showed up at the Shammanov estate that Friday night to attend services, they found the gates locked and nobody home.

EPILOGUE

T
he collapse of the Ohel Aaron Congregation on Swallow Lake created a mushroom cloud reminiscent of those hovering over unlucky cities at the close of World War II, filled with controversy, heartbreak, and conjecture. The story, featured in every major newspaper and magazine in America, included photos of the bulldozed synagogue with a furious Solange Malin shaking her fist. Both
News week
and
Time,
on the other hand, chose to use photos of Viktor Shammanov at the airport, ushering his blond wife and baby into a private jet just before they flew off to God knows where.

The whole convoluted tale of Viktor’s business dealings—which turned out to be one huge international con job—was fodder for exposés in both
Fortune
and
Business Week,
which debunked all the facts, the same facts they had written about him earlier—which had convinced people to trust him in the first place. As it turned out, Viktor was selling shares
in
an oil company that the government of Turdistan declared belonged
to them, denouncing Viktor and his company as worthless. But then, the entire government of Turdistan had also been declared a scam, the elections having been rigged and the opposition candidates fed disfiguring poison.

Viktor, of course, had done it all through a tangled web of companies incorporated in places like the Cayman Islands, the Seychelles, and other accommodating sun-kissed shelters. The Four Seasons Hotel in Maui was suing him, as were the cruise line, the catering services, the Lakers cheerleaders, Mick, Christina, Michael, and hundreds more, many of whom were forced into declaring bankruptcy.

And then, just as the dust was about to settle, the true, horrifying dimensions of the scam came to light. It was not just the synagogue that Victor Shammanov had bulldozed in Swallow Lake, but the lives of its most prominent inhabitants as well. From quiet conversations between accountants, lawyers, and financial planners, who shared the painful truth back and forth on cell phones and over alcohol-soaked dinners, the story came out. Unbeknownst to one another, the wealthiest residents, those who had been courted by Victor and his wife, invited to their home and their Bar Mitzva, had one by one persuaded Viktor Shammanov to overlook the rules and allow them to purchase shares in his company. Swearing each to secrecy, and with a great show of reluctance, Viktor had done them the great favor of accepting the substantial investments they pressed upon him.

Many of those defrauded were too embarrassed to admit it. And those who tried to claim a tax deduction on their losses aroused the interest of the Internal Revenue Service, who wondered where all that money had come from, prompting them to do a thorough audit going back many years, resulting in huge reassessments, fines, and even criminal charges.

Soon after, many FOR SALE signs began to appear on Swallow Lake’s largest estates. Many were quietly repossessed by the banks or sold at auction. The kind of people who bought the homes were quite different from the original residents—local small businessmen and white-collar workers who smelled a fire sale and lined up for bargains.

The land where the synagogue had once stood became embroiled in lawsuits and countersuits because Viktor had managed to sell it several times over. The legal wrangling kept it a pile of weeds and rubble, an eyesore,
for years to come. Eventually it was rezoned, and some builder put up condos and then a Baptist church.

In the beginning, Ohel Aaron members used the auditorium in the day school for services, until the dwindling student body forced the school to close its doors. Without a synagogue or a day school, the remaining Jewish families trickled out of the community to places like New York, Boston, and Hartford. Solange and Arthur wound up in San Diego, where they started a new day school. Ari and Felice quietly divorced. Ari is now working in a high-tech company in Ramat Aviv and was recently drafted into the Israeli army.