Elizabeth was very indignant when Peruvnick phoned to speak to ‘Cantor Koekentapp’.
‘Listen here, little man,’ she hissed, ‘you may have weaselled your way out of your account, but I won’t take any of your lip you pipsqueak!’
‘You mean a schlemiel,’ replied Peruvnick.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said a schlemiel. It means a pipsqueak. It can also mean an imbecile or a nitwit.’
‘You’re all of them. What do you want?’
‘Will you go out on a date with me?’ Peruvnick asked.
Elizabeth recoiled. ‘Drop dead,’ she said.
Peruvnick decided to behave. ‘May I please have a word with Dr Koekentapp?’
‘Is this a medical matter?’
‘No. It’s personal and rather urgent.’
‘Wait.’
Elizabeth took time to file a rough edge off a fingernail then asked Dr Koekentapp whether he wanted to speak to the gambling schlemiel.
‘I see he’s begun teaching you too,’ Dr Koekentapp remarked. ‘He’s rather good at it, don’t you think?’
‘He’s a good-for-nothing cheapskate! Will you speak to him? If you say no, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’
‘Put him on the line,’ said Dr Koekentapp, forgoing tea.
‘So how’s my finest and only student?’ asked Peruvnick.
‘Well, I hope. I’ll know tonight,’ Dr Koekentapp replied.
‘I’ve been thinking about your brocha,’ Peruvnick went on. ‘It’s my responsibility too, and there are a few special touches you could add.’
‘Such as?’
‘Listen carefully, Jerry. If you can manage this, not even a rabbi could fault you.’
Dr Koekentapp’s expression was very thoughtful when he put down his receiver.
At seven Dr Koekentapp critically examined himself in the mirror. After closing his consulting rooms, he had rushed home, bathed, and then dressed with particular care. He carefully straightened his tie and, turning around, examined his reflection to ensure that his suit wasn’t creased. Leaning closer to the glass, he pressed a finger against his nose to see what he would look like if he were Jewish. The scent of his Christian Dior aftershave mocked him. Next to him were the presents he had bought for the Levys. Mrs Levy’s gift was a large box of chocolates bearing a blue ribbon that read ‘Kosher for Passover’. Dr Koekentapp thought that was a nice touch. The lady at the sweet shop who regularly consulted Dr Koekentapp for her eczema had tried to sell him a large chocolate Easter egg, but he had opted for kosher. For Mr Levy, Dr Koekentapp had purchased a bottle of vile Israeli wine that the Pakistani salesman at the bottle store had assured him was ‘on special’ and the perfect gift for the Sabbath. Sylvia’s present was a bouquet of pink roses. Dr Koekentapp had been hesitant to buy red roses, feeling that red should be reserved for a more physically orientated relationship.
At eight he pulled up in front of the Levy home. The family had already returned from their Sabbath evening prayers at the Sydenham Highlands North synagogue. Three cars were parked in the street outside the house and another occupied Levy’s driveway.
‘I’m dead,’ he muttered to himself, ‘the whole bloody tribe’s here.’
Dr Koekentapp sat in his car, practised his brocha once more then overcame a frantic impulse to drive away. Climbing out slowly, he leant against the door and surveyed the scene.
The Levy home was ablaze with light. From inside came the sound of Mrs Levy’s excited chatter. ‘He’ll be here any minute!’ she exclaimed. ‘Aaron, have you combed your hair? Fasten your top button. You look like a schlump! Hymie! Stop nibbling from the table. You are ruining my setting! Sylvia, you look beautiful already. Stop fussing with your lipstick!’
Mrs Finkelstein looked out of the window and spotted Dr Koekentapp hovering indecisively next to his car. ‘The goy’s here!’ she whispered loudly enough for Dr Koekentapp to hear and Mrs Levy to snarl. There was a sudden hush in the room.
‘Quiet everybody,’ Mrs Levy hissed into the silence. ‘Get ready!’
The assembled guests looked at each other for guidance, being unsure what getting ready quietly meant in practical terms.
Dr Koekentapp fiddled in his pocket and, as per Peruvnick’s instructions, placed his yarmulke on his head. Ten pairs of eyes watched him do so.
‘Some goy,’ Mrs Levy said, quickly checking to see whether her husband was also wearing his yarmulke, followed by a triumphant glance at Mrs Finkelstein.
Dr Koekentapp walked up the pathway to the front door. His hands were filled with parcels so he pressed the doorbell with an elbow. The door opened immediately.
‘What a surprise!’ exclaimed Mrs Levy. ‘We weren’t expecting you yet. We thought you might be busy with an emergency and here you are, right on time!’
She turned and sang, ‘Yoo-hoo, Aa-ron, Syl-via. Dr Koeken-tapp’s here. Come and say hel-lo to our guest.’
Dr Koekentapp’s heart missed a beat, then began thumping madly as Sylvia approached. She was wearing a pale blue dress that accentuated her azure eyes. The elegantly simple lines set off her full figure to perfection. Her hair was a rippling tawny mane reaching down to nuzzle her shoulders. As his eyes locked with hers, Dr Koekentapp leant forward unconsciously, as if to kiss her.
‘I see you brought us presents!’ Mrs Levy exclaimed. She smiled delightedly, revealing front teeth smeared with bright-red lipstick. Intuitively she went for the chocolates. ‘Are these for me? And they’re kosher!’ The last was shouted for Mrs Finkelstein’s benefit. Mrs Levy reached out and deftly relieved Dr Koekentapp of the wine. She glanced at the label. ‘And a bottle of Israeli wine! This is Aaron’s favourite! How did you know? Aaron, look what Dr Koekentapp brought you!’
Levy, who was strictly a J&B man, smiled his thanks and accepted the bottle graciously.
‘And flowers!’ As Mrs Levy made to take the bouquet from Dr Koekentapp’s now resisting grasp, Sylvia moved forward.
‘I think those are for me,’ she murmured. She slipped past her mother and kissed Dr Koekentapp. Her lips were soft and warm and their touch, though brief, lingered on his lips.
‘Pink!’ Mrs Levy squealed, staring at the flowers. The roses were the exact colour she wanted for her dress at the wedding.
‘Come in, come in,’ invited Levy, feeling a little left out. He held out his hand for a man-to-man handshake, but Mrs Levy was ahead of him.
She grasped Dr Koekentapp by the arm and ushered him into the lounge. ‘Look everybody,’ she announced, ‘our Sabbath guest of honour is here!’
‘Good Shabbes,’ came a chorused reply.
‘Shabbes goy,’ mumbled Mrs Finkelstein.
Goy was something Dr Koekentapp recognised. He looked at her. ‘Tochis afn tish,’ he replied, then remembering Elizabeth’s new word added, ‘Schlemiel.’
Mrs Levy and Sylvia rushed to hug him. With both Levy women delightedly hanging on to his arms, Dr Koekentapp struggled to remember the rest of his Yiddish repertoire. ‘Tsimmes,’ he managed.
‘Tsimmes?’ Mrs Levy squawked. ‘The poor man is starving. Day and night he works bringing relief to pain. Like a messiah he tends to the suffering of humanity. And what do we do?’ She challenged her bewildered guests with a withering gaze. ‘I’ll tell you what we do! We let him starve!’ With an uncompromising sweep of her arm she announced, ‘We eat! We will eat now!’
Mesmerised by her impassioned insistence, Mrs Levy’s guests moved to the dining room. As they gathered around her table, Mrs Levy began her formal introductions. ‘Dr Koekentapp, you know my husband Aaron, whose life you saved, and our gorgeous daughter Sylvia, the radiant beauty queen. You have already met my brother Hymie, the nut-eater, and his wife Naomi, the critic. My sister-in-law Sarah, the widow, you also know. I would like you to meet Rikva Kindel, the divorcee, and her friend Mr Solomon Goldsmith.’ As Mr Goldsmith had been strongly rumoured to consort with prostitutes, Mrs Levy declined to provide him with a nominal description.
‘We know each other,’ Dr Koekentapp said discreetly.
‘You do?’ inquired Mrs Levy.
‘Yes, I’m one of his patients,’ explained Mrs Kindel.
‘And Mr Goldsmith too?’ asked Mrs Levy. She decided it wouldn’t be apt to spit.
As his only contact with Goldsmith had been in absentia when Goldsmith had fled following the public revelation of his capers with Mrs Kindel, Dr Koekentapp said he didn’t know Mr Goldsmith and shook Goldsmith’s hand.
Mrs Levy turned to the remaining couple at the table.
‘Rabbi and Mrs Zindelman, I would like you to meet Dr Jeremiah Koekentapp.’ She was about to add, ‘my future son-in-law,’ but stopped just in time.
Dr Koekentapp felt his mouth go dry. Peruvnick, if you’ve bullshitted me you’re dead, he thought. He leant across the table and shook Rabbi Zindelman’s hand.
‘Rabbi,’ he said.
‘Guten Shabbes,’ Rabbi Zindelman answered. His voice was mild but his eyes held a steely glint that boded no mercy for impostors.
Levy, as master of the house, stood at the head of the table. Mrs Levy indicated that Dr Koekentapp should sit at Levy’s right-hand side with Sylvia next to him. When all the guests were seated Levy cleared his throat and intoned in Hebrew:
‘Yom hashishi. The sixth day. And the heaven and the earth were finished and all their hosts. And on the seventh day God had finished his work which He had made; and He rested on the seventh day from all his work which He had made. And God blessed the seventh day, and He hallowed it, because He rested thereon from all his work which God had created and made.’
Dr Koekentapp was uncomfortable. Not understanding a word of Hebrew, he stared at his shoes. When Levy paused Dr Koekentapp looked up. Rabbi Zindelman was gazing at him. Sylvia gently nudged Dr Koekentapp. ‘Dad’s going to make the brocha for the wine now.’
Levy poured some red wine from a crystal decanter into a silver goblet. He lifted the goblet and recited in Hebrew: ‘Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who createst the fruit of the vine.’
Everyone looked to see if Dr Koekentapp would say ‘Amen’. He did but was puzzled why Levy hadn’t sung. Peruvnick had assured him that brochas should be sung. Dr Koekentapp decided that only his brocha was a brocha for singing. Levy then intoned the blessing for the Sabbath and, when the men made for the bathroom for the ritual washing of hands before the meal, Dr Koekentapp followed their example. Mrs Levy stood up as the men returned. ‘Dr Koekentapp, would you do us the honour of making the brocha before we eat?’ she asked loudly while looking at Mrs Finkelstein.
True to his promise to Sylvia, Dr Koekentapp affected both surprise and bashful acceptance. Victoriously eyeing Mrs Finkelstein, Mrs Levy escorted Dr Koekentapp to the head of the table. There was a loaf of bread in front of him. Covered with a white silken cloth emblazoned with a blue Star of David, the loaf symbolised bread from the earth. Dr Koekentapp felt surprisingly relaxed. He declined to accept the prayer book proffered to him by Levy.
Mrs Finkelstein mouthed, ‘I knew he couldn’t read,’ to Mrs Levy.
Dr Koekentapp lifted his hands in benediction. He closed his eyes.
‘BARUCH ATAH ADONAI ELOHEYNU MELECH HA-OLAM,’ he sang.
The sheer power that only a pure tenor voice can achieve glorified the ancient words. Levy’s guests bowed their heads as the house resounded with the proclamation of God’s might. As if in affirmation, an echo boomed from the street outside.
‘ELOHEYNU MELECH HA-OLAM!’
Mrs Levy shed a small tear. Astounded, Rabbi Zindelman stared at Dr Koekentapp. Naomi Finkelstein gaped in wonderment. Sylvia’s gaze was one of adoration. Dr Koekentapp grasped the bread and held it high. He lifted his face to heaven.
‘HAMOTZI LECHEM MIN HA-ARETZ.’
His voice was earth prolific. It was golden wheat fields rippling in the wind. It was the sound of the reapers and the wheels of the mill. It was freshly baked loaves and the laughter of children.
Mrs Levy burst into tears. His lips trembling with suppressed emotion, Levy put an arm around her. Dr Koekentapp took a deep breath. He sang one more word, an appeal for continued bounty that rose and soared then settled to a whispered promise.
‘AMEN!’
‘My God!’ Finkelstein murmured.
Mrs Kindel quietly swore on her mother’s grave that she would never abuse Dr Koekentapp again. For a long moment Dr Koekentapp stood with his head bowed. Never before had he experienced such an upliftment of his spirit. Elated, pale and drained, he slumped into his chair. Sylvia rested her head on his shoulder. A long silence followed. No one dared break the spell.
It was Mrs Levy’s maid Lydia who intruded. ‘Hau!’ she said.
Lydia had been stirring the chicken soup in the kitchen when Dr Koekentapp began his brocha. Startled by the power and purity of his voice, she had hurried to the dining room and watched through the open door. She placed her palms together in a gesture of respect and curtsied deeply to Dr Koekentapp. As the tension was broken everyone began talking simultaneously, a hotchpotch of praise that barely reached Dr Koekentapp. He was still trembling in the aftermath of unexpected exultation.
‘Didn’t I tell you he was like a god?’ shrieked Mrs Levy.
‘I’ve never heard anything like it,’ said Goldsmith.
‘Who would have believed it?’ asked Finkelstein.
‘I still can’t believe it,’ muttered Mrs Finkelstein.
‘I’m proud to be his patient,’ declared Mrs Kindel.
Lydia was more pragmatic. ‘Madam, should I serve the soup?’
Mrs Levy leapt to her feet. ‘What’s the matter with me? Lydia, if you’ve burnt the chicken soup I’ll kill you! The man is starving. Let’s eat! This is a celebration.’ She rushed jubilantly to the kitchen with Lydia hurrying after her.
During the meal Dr Koekentapp was unusually quiet, preferring to listen rather than talk. The other guests, sensing his withdrawal, chatted inconsequentially with regular glances at Dr Koekentapp to acknowledge his inclusion in the conversation. Even Mrs Levy kept her distance. While ferociously plying the others with extra helpings she accepted Dr Koekentapp’s ‘no’ to seconds.
‘He needs more spiritual feeding,’ she whispered to her husband.
Incongruously, Mrs Levy didn’t consider Rabbi Zindelman a candidate for ethereal nourishment. Having been coerced to consume a prodigious meal, he leant back and keenly regarded Dr Koekentapp after Levy recited the grace after meals.
‘Who are you really?’ Rabbi Zindelman asked abruptly.
Dr Koekentapp shrugged his shoulders.
‘What kind of a question is that?’ Mrs Levy interjected. ‘He is Dr Koekentapp.’ She decided to make another move towards her pink dress. ‘He’s like a member of the family.’
‘I mean where do you come from? Tell me about your family,’ Rabbi Zindelman persisted.
Mrs Levy liked these questions. She sustained an inquisitive silence.
‘Well,’ Dr Koekentapp began hesitantly, ‘my father immigrated to South Africa from Kathmandu after he resigned his commission in the army . . .’
‘He was a Ghurkha? A Hindu?’ expostulated Mrs Finkelstein.
‘No, no, the British Army. He was a colonel.’
‘Is that better than a captain?’ Mrs Kindel whispered to Goldsmith.
‘Shh,’ hissed Mrs Levy, who didn’t know either.
‘Your father was born in England?’ asked Rabbi Zindelman.
‘London.’
Mrs Finkelstein nodded significantly at Mrs Levy.
‘You keep quiet, Naomi,’ said Mrs Levy, who knew there were Jewish families in London.
‘And your mother?’ Rabbi Zindelman went on.
‘I never knew my mother. She died giving birth to me,’ replied Dr Koekentapp. An embarrassed silence followed.
‘Enough sadness already!’ Mrs Levy exclaimed. ‘Let’s go through to the lounge for coffee.’
‘One moment, please,’ Rabbi Zindelman said firmly. ‘Dr Koekentapp, you do understand that something very special, something extraordinarily spiritual, happened tonight?’
‘Yes,’ Dr Koekentapp replied.
‘Can you explain it?’
‘No.’
‘I would like to discuss things with you. Would you be willing to do so?’ Rabbi Zindelman glanced at the people around the table. ‘In private?’ he added.
Dr Koekentapp nodded.
‘Good. I’ll expect your call then.’
Rabbi Zindelman stood up and smiled at Mrs Levy. ‘You said something about coffee?’
In the lounge, Mrs Kindel said she had eaten like a horse. When everybody agreed, she asked Dr Koekentapp to recommend a diet. It didn’t occur to her that she had just broken her supper-time oath that she would never abuse Dr Koekentapp again and risked having her mother turn in her grave. After Mrs Kindel broke the ice, the saga of Levy’s kidney stone was related, followed by the details of Mrs Levy’s hysterectomy and the anguish of Sarah’s prolapse repair. Mr Goldsmith was a stranger to the knife but his athlete’s foot problem was well worth describing. When Mrs Finkelstein thought her gall attack would fascinate everybody, Dr Koekentapp remembered that he had to visit an urgent case in hospital.
As Sylvia escorted Dr Koekentapp to his car, Mrs Levy watched through the net curtains. It did not occur to her that she was clearly visible from the darkness outside.
‘Thank you for coming. You were unbelievable,’ Sylvia said.
‘Thank you for asking me. And for preparing me for the brocha.’
‘Preparing you! That’s a joke.’
‘Honestly, I could never have done it if I hadn’t known,’ Dr Koekentapp said.
Sylvia tenderly reached out and touched his cheek. ‘Call me,’ she said, ‘soon.’
With one eye on Mrs Levy lurking like a giant spider at the net curtains, Dr Koekentapp gently kissed her.
‘How about meeting me for lunch on Monday?’
‘Love to. Where?’
‘Fidelio’s. Would one o’clock suit you?’
‘Perfectly.’