Mrs. Cohen, the matchmaker, had over five hundred names in her computer, each of them individualized: likes, dislikes, talents, and family histories were all entered in on Mrs. Cohen’s master file, a genetic gold mine, promise of the future, shidduch machine. Mrs. Cohen would stay up late into the night shuffling and reshuffling the names, matching this one with that one, that one with the other one, playing with the kids’ futures like a novelist thinking up different twists a tale could take. This would have been a nerve-racking business if it were not for the fact that Mrs. Cohen believed that really all these matches were beshert, destined, anyway—Mrs. Cohen was just the facilitator for the divine. Still, she worked hard to find the voluble girl to draw out the studious boy, the levelheaded oldest sister to bring a dreamy baby of the family to heel. Mrs. Cohen made a lot of good matches. This was, of course, all on a free-will basis, and if the kids didn’t hit it off with each other, this too was beshert! As long as they married somebody. Mrs. Cohen believed in marriage above all things, because Jewish marriage meant Jewish babies. Her whole family—seven people—had been murdered by the Nazis within a month of one another in 1943. Only one ten-year-old boy, her grandfather, survived the camps, though he nearly died from the Hershey bar an American soldier gave him to buck him up on the day they liberated Dachau. When he came to America he married a girl who lived on Hester Street and they had thirteen children. Mrs. Cohen’s work was a continual joy.
When her second cousin by marriage, Pearl Edelman, called and asked her to find a match for her daughter Masha as soon as possible, Mrs. Cohen needed to take a breath and think. Masha Edelman was a good catch in some ways: she came from a wonderful family. She was FFB: frum from birth, meaning she came from an observant family and was not one of those girls who turned to Torah Judaism from the outside. A lot of those women were lovely, but they tended to try too hard, and they weren’t as desirable in the marriage market as the FFB girls. The Edelmans, though—they were an exemplary family. On the downside, Masha wasn’t sturdy, healthwise, much as the mother tried to hide it. Mrs. Cohen had done her homework. She was a bewitching girl, what’s more, and allure was only good in moderation. Even wearing a skirt five inches below her knee and old lady shoes, this girl managed to look immodest. The wrong man—an overly sympathetic or weak man—could end up being the girl’s servant. An overly lustful man would never leave her alone, or become crazed with jealousy. Too much appeal, Mrs. Cohen had learned over the years, was almost always a curse. And what about the relentless strains of child-rearing? There were no sick days for mothers. Mrs. Cohen tried to imagine Masha helming a brood of three, four, five, eight children. It didn’t seem right. Yet the girl had to marry someone.
Late one night, Mrs. Cohen sat in her housecoat and slippers, a steaming cup of tea on the desk, and stared at Masha’s file on the computer. The letters of her name were displayed in capital letters in red, like all the other names, yet for some reason this name seemed different. One by one Mrs. Cohen tried matching Masha with each boy on her list. As she always did, she imagined their children, what they would look like, which characteristics from each of their parents they might inherit. Each of the young men on the list had something special: this one would make a good businessman, this one a scholar, that one would be a great father. The girls, having all been raised to be mothers—though many of them would work all their lives as store clerks, teachers, doctors, therapists—could be various types: harsh, hotheaded, resourceful, loving. But for Masha, all Mrs. Cohen could come up with were qualities of no use to anyone: charismatic, laconic, possibly canny, with an odd power over people. Mrs. Cohen kept up the game of matching men with Masha until she had three believable alternatives. One of these men would work. She knew it.
Seth Allen was courtly. Masha liked the way he opened her car door and flared his nostrils slightly, allowing her to settle herself fully before clicking the door shut with just the right amount of oomph and then walking, unhurried, over to his own side. Opening the door, he whooshed into the leather seat deftly for such a husky guy, and started talking about himself.
Seth was twenty-eight, a successful businessman. He had lived in Israel for several years but, he said, “I came back home to find a wife. The women over there—they’re beautiful, but—I don’t know, they’re different. I couldn’t bring myself to propose to anyone. A great Jewish woman is a tall order,” he said. There was something about the way he said it that made Masha want to climb out of the car at the next stoplight.
When they arrived at Delgano’s, he opened the restaurant door for her, pulled out her chair, reached around her, unfolded her napkin, and dropped it into her lap, careful not to come too close, then glided around to his seat, asking the Italian-looking waiter for the kosher menu, and perused it earnestly.
“You’ll have the chicken cutlet,” Seth announced, nodding to himself.
“How do you know?” Masha asked.
“I know what’s good here.” You also know what’s the cheapest thing on the menu, thought Masha. “With a green salad,” added Seth. “You’re watching that figure, I assume. Good habits start early.” He then ordered spaghetti bolognese for himself.
Seth had a way of talking straight through his nose, with no break between the words. The boneless-looking hands he flapped in front of his face to make his points actually reminded Masha of chicken cutlets.
“My kids are going to the Lubavitcher preschools, they’re the best,” he droned. “And I want the boys in kollel to study for at least three years once they finish yeshiva. I don’t care if they’re married—a good wife deals with these things, she’ll be happy anyway, who doesn’t like a scholar for a husband? Do you agree about the Lubavitcher preschools?”
Masha shrugged. “My sister Miriam, one of hers goes to the Chabad preschool, the other ones went to the one in her neighborhood. They all seem pretty happy.”
“School is not all about happiness,” said Seth. “But on the other hand, pleasure has its place.” He smiled at her, his lips shining with oil from the pasta. There were specks of tomato sauce on his jacket. “It’s simple: to have a harmonious home, a couple needs to think things through and be on the same page from the outset, because that’s where the misunderstandings come in.” He glanced at the menu. “How about a scoop of sorbet?” he asked.
“Great,” said Masha glumly.