Water Music
By David Kemper
Even in fiction, life isn’t all action. It also flows from place to place like a stream. And just like a trickling brook, often the most appealing stretches are between the tumult of the rapids. Take a literary trip through the day-to-day life and journeys of an urban rabbi, accompanied by a little Handel.
When the red wine breaks, he is almost free. The foot comes down, a grinding of glass beneath the heel, and “Mazeltov!” It is the signal to clasp hands before crotch and gaze beatifically at the newly joined soul. The band begins to play. It’s the hornpipe, again, from Handel’s Water Music Suite (the third time this week!). Why do they always choose that one? It’s not as if there weren’t others. Certainly, it has no spiritual relevance here (Handel, that Teutonic maidservant of Albion!). Is it simply logistical accident? That all the local bandleaders just happened to have attended the same fire sale? (”ALL SHEET MUSIC, $2.00. HANDEL’S WATER MUSIC, ONLY 99¢!”) To make matters worse, the pianist today is especially ham-handed. He plunks out the notes like a railroad-man hammering spikes into the track, craning his neck to whisper venomous exhortations at the flutist, who is flatter than matzo and struggling to keep up. None of the guests notice this, of course. It is only he-hands clasped, beatifically gazing, wincing inside at every sour note. When your work entails suffering Handel several times a week, you become virtuosic at finding even the minutest of flaws.
It’s not long before the crows have dispersed, scavenging out across the roses for Hors d’oeuvres and drinks. He stands alone now under the chuppah in his blue serge and tallith. It is his show no more. The throttle has been taken-God’s co-pilot demoted to a valet at a lonely-hearts ball. A few of the guests-older ones, mainly-stop to touch his arm and compliment his voice. It is the awkward time, the part he likes least. He must politely extricate himself from the prattle, sidle over to the parents, and siphon his fee from their pocket and into his. It’s a complicated business, requiring skills most seminaries just don’t emphasize enough. One has to have tact; the trick is to avoid appearing too eager.
“You’re not leaving already, Rabbi?”
Yes, he’s sorry, but he must.
“Stay and have a glass, at least.”
He points to his watch and shrugs. Another ceremony across town, you see.
“Well, thank you so much for the inspiring words. Please, don’t be a stranger.”
He’d like to say the same to them. He never forgets a face and can’t remember any of these in his temple, ever. At such moments-a gunslinger surrounded by a mob of pay-by-the-corpse strangers-he finds himself doubting the wisdom of the Yellow Pages listing. It especially troubles him that his name has been situated at the very bottom of the page, directly above a fortune cookie-like message that warns:
“MODERN PEOPLE FIND THE ANSWERS TO THEIR BUYING PROBLEMS IN THE YELLOW PAGES. YELLOW PAGES SHOPPERS ARE 33.3% MORE LIKELY TO RESPOND TO ADS CONTAINING PERTINENT INFORMATION ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS. IF YOU’RE STILL JUST A LISTING, NOW IS THE TIME TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. CALL YOUR YELLOW PAGES SALES REPRESENTATIVE TODAY AND UPGRADE TO A FULL-, HALF-, OR QUARTER-PAGE AD!”
Still just a listing, he strides alone down the garden path under English grape arbors receding into the mottled sun, afternoon falling and fading on his gold-brocaded skullcap. Children crisscross in his wake, chasing dragonflies across the lawn. The celebration seeks out his deserting ears through the trees: Corks pop. The band apes Sinatra. Revelers clink tall glasses. Old folks on benches put heads together. . . .
“He didn’t look much like a Rabbi to me. Too young. A baby.”
“Oh, they all look like that, these days. It’s the fashion. They practically churn them out. Like latkes.”
Turning into traffic, he tunes in Car Talk, displeased to have missed the first ten minutes. A caller from Eugene, Oregon is describing a problem with his 1990 Maxima: The windows, for some reason, go up and down by themselves in the rain. Rabbi chuckles at the image of the hapless owner, trying to make a withdrawal at an ATM, his arm painfully stuck, a twenty-dollar bill fluttering down to wet pavement-glistening and running like a mountain stream in May. All that water reminds Rabbi of temple-the ugly brown stains on the ceiling and the funds that must be raised for a new roof. The thought helps give purpose to his toil-ameliorates (somewhat) the loneliness of his mercenary day.Shannon, meanwhile, has called in seeking help (though that’s not her real name, she quickly confesses). She’s scared she may have ruined her boyfriend’s new Jeep-which is really bad timing, since she was just about to dump him for the guy who sold it to him. Now, she wonders if she should wait a bit on that-at least until the car is fixed. The Car Talk brothers yuk it up and feign they are scandalized by Shannon’s fidelity of expedience.
“Turncoat!” cries brother number one. Number two hollers “Traitor!”
This causes Rabbi to recall he’d hoped to have time to swing by temple and check on the “FREEDOM” sign. He’s anxious to see if the vandals have returned-painted Vanunu over Jonathan Pollard again. He has a theory on who may be responsible. The Yeshiva kids from the rock band that rehearses in the basement have earned his suspicion of late. He’s been paying attention to their lyrics-pro-Labor and dovish, in English and Hebrew, even a line of Arabic here and there ( almost as if they were taunting). Still, he has no proof. He’ll have to catch them in the act. Weaving westward down side streets, he decides against the detour. He is due across town in fifteen minutes. Taking all the shortcuts, he will barely make it as it is. Jonathan Pollard will have to wait.
At the hotel, he finds a space deep in the corner and kills the car, but not the talk.
“And that’s when it starts to smoke,” says the caller.
“What, like a black smoke?” queries brother number two.
“No, it’s more like white.”
“Interesting,” muses brother number one.
“The intake manifold,” counsels Rabbi, turning up the volume, as though that will increase the chances of his advice being heeded. “Check the intake manifold.”
Traversing the lobby, Rabbi strolls the long hall of banquet rooms, reading the names. In front of each door is a gold-framed menu board, resting on an easel of imitation oak. The letters on the menu boards have been arranged to identify which wedding party belongs to which banquet room, the way, at other times, they might be arranged to identify chicken Kiev and twice-baked potatoes. Finding the entrée called Maloney-Smolensk, Rabbi stands on the threshold and watches the flurry of activity going on inside-the various workers, ant-like, swarming about with preparations. Housemen are adjusting the room to match the floor plan, sculpting size and shape to guest list, conjuring walls where there were none (like Moses unearthing miracles in the Sinai). Electricians on ladders and tippy-toes tweak gels and disco strobes. A string quartet is tuning up. Florists weave $8,000 roses about the columns of the chuppah (making them look uncannily like $8,000 barber poles). The set-up crew for the band is busy fighting the PA (and each other). They all sport long hair and buckteeth. One of them isn’t wearing any shoes. Another tries to beg a beer from the bartenders, who are wheeling liquor cases from the storeroom and over to the bar for stocking-the long, colorful necks peeking through the cardboard like camouflaged 88-millimeter guns trained upon the heavens, scanning the skies for angels.Over by the bar, Rabbi spies the backwards collar, chatting with the parents of the kallah, who’s exorbitantly veiled in white lace, a fashion-conscious mummy. It’s an interfaith service this time. It’ll be crowded beneath the canopy, elbowing Father, Son, and Holy Ghost for a fair share of the spotlight. When he goes for his fee, he’ll have to wait in a queue. The whole thing promises to go especially slow, what with Pastor Meyer and his whiskey-tinged stutter. Last night at rehearsal, during the exchange of vows, the chattan had played it for laughs, repeating verbatim, as instructed: “I, B . . . B . . . B . . . Ben, do p . . . p . . . p . . . promise to n . . . n . . . nurture and s . . . s . . . strengthen you, J . . . Jenny, as long as we b . . . b . . . both shall l . . .
l . . . live.” Poor Meyer turned crimson. He got even afterwards, “accidentally” drenching the chattan with an overloaded aspergillum.
The chattan and his parents emerge from an adjacent room and come over to greet Rabbi, big smiles all around. Chattan extends a lavender-scented, hand-gleaming gold cufflinks and monogrammed sleeves. A nice, sharp Jewish boy, Rabbi thinks, a bit too the Epicurean, perhaps, certainly too liberal with the cologne, but on the whole, an okay kid. The four of them enter the room together, stopping to huddle near the dais.
“Oh, darling,” kallah sings out, “can we see you a moment?”
Chattan’s head swivels around like a trained monkey’s. The huddle breaks, like billiards, sent hurtling to corners by a white cue ball. Kallah and Pastor Meyer are waiting patiently for a conference.
A bartender sets down a stack of cases beside Pastor Meyer’s foot and walks away. Pastor Meyer coughs. From the corner of his eye, he contemplates the bottles. He runs his tongue over his lips, politely nods at kallah’s rambling, then takes a handkerchief from his pocket to blot his red and beaded brow. The bottles beckon. Kallah chatters on, oblivious to fallen angels on her big day.
The four billiard balls regroup. Together, they form a flying wedge, and roll, angling across the banquet hall, dodging air walls and housemen en route to meet the other side.
As if accompanying Chaplin, the string quartet puts horsehair in motion, gooey rosin tugging at the powder-white steel, sending tiny clouds into the air and gritty shivers up Rabbi’s spine. Bows and billiards meld in a collage of contrary motion, trampolining off the cable, crashing headlong into Jesus, exploding the too-familiar strains of Handel’s Water Music. . . .
