At six, Levy answered the doorbell. A messenger stood at the door and a white panel van was waiting outside in the street. The large purple sign on the side of the van proclaiming that Angelo’s of Orange Grove brought true love from Italy was belied by the van driver on his cell phone trying to placate the accusations of infidelity by his angry wife.
‘Is this the Levy residence?’
‘Yes,’ Levy replied. ‘May I help you?’
‘I’ve got a delivery from Angelo’s. Could you sign here please?’
As Levy tentatively reached out to grasp the proffered receipt, Mrs Levy called out from the kitchen.
‘Who is it, Aaron?’
‘It’s a delivery. Did you order anything?’
Wiping her hands on a dish cloth, Mrs Levy came bustling to the door. ‘I’ve ordered nothing,’ she said.
The messenger checked his notes. ‘It’s for a Sylvia Levy. It’s a hundred red roses.’
He waved to the van and Levy and his wife gaped as a third man clambered out of the back and brought a giant bouquet of scarlet long-stemmed roses to the house. A small bouquet of pink roses followed.
‘Sylvia! Come quickly!’ squealed Mrs Levy.
Sylvia hurried from her work at the oven. Her hair was pulled up in a pony tail and her face was flushed and damp with perspiration. She stared at the mass of flowers in the hallway.
‘For you,’ Levy announced.
Sylvia reached for the envelope clipped to the red roses. Three heads touched as they read the enclosed card: ‘For Sylvia. I love you. Jerry.’
‘Oh my,’ said Sylvia.
‘Oy vey,’ said Mr and Mrs Levy.
It was Levy who noticed that the little bouquet also bore a card. Curious, he read it and then passed it to Mrs Levy.
‘For Dolly. I noticed you liked pink. Jerry.’
Sylvia sighed. ‘Isn’t he wonderful?’
Mrs Levy’s brow held a tiny frown. Wonderful was nice but a guarantee was better. ‘Why have you never bought me flowers, Aaron?’ she asked.
Shortly before seven Sylvia put the finishing touches to her make-up and pirouetted gaily before the mirror. ‘Jerry will flip, even if I do say so myself.’ Walking quickly from her room, she called out to her parents, ‘Mom and Dad, I’m expecting—’ She stopped in mid-sentence and cavorted down the stairway ‘—him at any moment!’ she yelled cheerfully from the hall. ‘I’ll meet you downstairs!’
Inside their bathroom Levy dropped his razor and frantically dabbed at his gashed cheek while Mrs Levy struggled to get a brushful of mascara out of her eye.
Humming happily to herself, Sylvia made minute adjustments to the already impeccable dinner table. Levy slowly walked down the stairway. His cheek was covered with a blood-stained bandage. Behind him Mrs Levy was wearing a pair of Sylvia’s sunglasses.
Sylvia stared at them. ‘What happened?’ she cried in alarm.
They shook their heads.
‘Have the two of you been fighting about Jerry?’ Sylvia asked suspiciously.
‘We had a little accident,’ replied Levy.
‘Both of you? And at the same time?’
Levy nodded. Sylvia ran to her mother and removed the sunglasses.
‘But your eye is full of mascara! How did this happen?’
‘I had a little accident,’ Mrs Levy explained again as the doorbell rang.
Following his floral offerings, Dr Koekentapp had expected a warmer reception when he entered the Levy home.
‘Hello, Jerry,’ Sylvia said distractedly as she opened the door, ‘won’t you come in?’
She stood aside and Dr Koekentapp took in the spectacle of a bloodstained Levy with his wife glaring at him through a ferociously inflamed left eye.
Looks like the Addams family, Dr Koekentapp thought. He turned to Sylvia. ‘Should I come back later? I seem to have come at an awkward time.’
Ignoring his question, Sylvia rushed into his arms and kissed him. Dr Koekentapp returned her kiss with the gusto it deserved.
‘I hope you got my flowers,’ he commented.
‘Yes, all ninety-nine,’ Sylvia said.
‘Ninety-nine? There were supposed to be a hundred.’
‘So who’s counting?’
Dr Koekentapp looked at Sylvia’s parents again. ‘I won’t be a moment,’ he said and turned back to his car. He was carrying his medical bag when he returned. Ignoring the polite protestations of Levy and his wife that they were alright and that Sylvia hadn’t invited him over to attend to her parents, Dr Koekentapp quickly cleaned Mrs Levy’s eye and taped up Levy’s cut. Then Sylvia led Dr Koekentapp to the lounge and sat down next to him on the sofa.
The Levys followed and sat in separate chairs.
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ Mrs Levy said politely. ‘They are very nice.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
‘And thanks for helping us,’ said Levy, ‘just send us the bill.’
‘Dad!’ Sylvia remonstrated.
Levy shrugged.
When no one had anything else to say, the mood in the lounge plummeted. Dr Koekentapp got up and stood in the centre of the room. He smiled at Sylvia, then looked intently at her parents.
‘There is something I would like to say,’ he began.
Oy Gott, Mrs Levy thought weakly, he is going to propose! I must warn Aaron.
She turned to Levy. ‘Aaron, you are the head of this house,’ she said loudly. ‘I want you to act like a man! I depend on you!’
Levy, who was idly picking at his new plaster, straightened up in his chair. He pulled in his belly and placed his most determined expression on his face. He wasn’t sure what else he should do. Being seated, he dismissed his previous plan to kick the bugger in the balls.
Dr Koekentapp moved to face Levy squarely. ‘Mr Levy,’ Dr Koekentapp said, ‘as you know from my card, I am in love with your daughter Sylvia.’
‘Aa-ron, be stro-ong,’ quavered Mrs Levy.
Sylvia stood up and went to stand next to Dr Koekentapp, facing her father.
‘Aa-ron . . .’
‘Because of this love,’ Dr Koekentapp went on, ‘I have made a very important decision, one that will affect my life from this day on.’
Sylvia took his hand and held it. Mrs Levy held her face and stared at him. Her eyes, still bloodshot, were wide with apprehension.
‘I have decided . . .’
Mrs Levy began coughing violently. Dr Koekentapp waited for the paroxysm to pass.
‘I have decided,’ he continued solemnly, ‘to convert to Judaism.’
Levy let out his belly with a grunt. Sylvia looked blankly at Dr Koekentapp. Mrs Levy slowly pushed herself out of her chair. She clasped her hands in front of her breasts. Tears poured down her face. ‘Thank you, thank you, God,’ she whispered.
‘But I thought . . .’ Sylvia began.
Like lightning, Mrs Levy recovered her composure. ‘Thought? You thought what? Did you think that a man like Dr Koekentapp was going to propose to you? Don’t you know that Dr Koekentapp is a man who knows the order of things?’
Dr Koekentapp gently shook Sylvia by the shoulders. His expression was stern as he said, ‘Did you really think I would let you marry a goy?’
Mrs Levy stared at him in astonishment. Then she began laughing, a shoulder-quivering, breast-jiggling, belly-joggling laugh that went on and on and scooped them up until they were all crying and hugging and pleading with each other to stop.
When it was time to sit down to dinner, Mrs Levy and Sylvia vied like cats.
‘This is my dinner!’ Sylvia insisted. ‘I cooked it and I will serve it!’
‘We cooked it,’ Mrs Levy replied, ‘and in my house I decide who does the serving.’
‘Sit down, Dolly!’ commanded Levy. ‘This is Sylvia’s party. You are her guest tonight.’ To his surprise, Mrs Levy smiled radiantly at him and sat down meekly.
‘You will sit here, Jerry,’ Sylvia said, taking him to the head of the table, ‘and Dad – you will sit on his right.’
Dr Koekentapp looked at his place setting. A single red rose lay there. A sealed envelope lay next to it. He looked enquiringly at Sylvia. ‘May I?’
‘Please do. That’s the hundredth rose.’
The expression on her face made his heart ache.
He tore open the envelope. The card inside read, ‘I love you too, Jerry. Sylvia.’
Sylvia recited the words as he read them. Mrs Levy held Levy’s hand and everybody smiled. Mrs Levy looked at her bouquet of roses and sighed with absolute contentment.
‘Pink is a guarantee,’ she breathed.
Mrs Finkelstein lost no time in booking an appointment for Martha with Dr Koekentapp when she heard the news. Sitting next to Martha, she excitedly turned towards Dr Koekentapp. ‘It takes a long time, you know. I can remember when Sadelle Botnick was going to marry an Italian bricklayer she met in Warmbaths. But after all the studying he wouldn’t go through with the ritual and they had to cancel their arrangements. Poor Sadelle. She’s still a spinster, you know. I’m sure she will be returned unopened.’
Dr Koekentapp looked in confusion at her. ‘What do you mean by “it” and what’s the ritual?’
‘It is the conversion to Judaism.’ With unconcealed glee Mrs Finkelstein watched for Dr Koekentapp’s next reaction. ‘And the ritual is the bris,’ she said. Seeing his mystification, Mrs Finkelstein added, ‘You know – the bris – the circumcision.’
‘The circumcision?’ Dr Koekentapp repeated weakly. He hadn’t really considered the details of this aspect of things. He suddenly remembered Candy’s words: ‘Not with that bloody great foreskin. Mrs Levy would have a fit.’
Mrs Finkelstein nearly whooped with joy at the expression on Dr Koekentapp’s face. She began to compile a mental list of people she just had to phone. Revelling in her role of bitter informer, Mrs Finkelstein continued, ‘It’s easier for a baby, of course. All the men in the family congregate in a room at the child’s home. The women wait in a different room. The sandek, who is the child’s godfather, sits on the chair called the Throne of Elijah. The baby boy is placed on the sandek’s knees and, while prayers are recited, the mohel, who is a professional circumciser, cuts off the foreskin. The baby is given a name and then there is a party with wine and sponge cake for the guests.’
Mrs Finkelstein paused to admire Dr Koekentapp’s discomfiture. He was contemplating a dreadful scenario. He was lying naked from the waist down across the knees of his godfather, Paddy O’Reilly, who – at eighty and suffering from emphysema and arthritis of both hips – was sitting on the Throne of Elijah and ensuring that Dr Koekentapp’s penis was fully exposed to the male members of Sylvia’s family. A chanting and palsied professional circumciser was plying a double-edged knife with appalling effect while Sylvia, Mrs Levy and Mrs Finkelstein sat in another room with Mrs Kindel and Mrs Cohen, eating sponge cake and drinking wine.
‘But I’m sure you have planned everything,’ continued Mrs Finkelstein, ‘the sandek, the mohel, your new name, everything!’
‘My new name?’ asked Dr Koekentapp, sweating profusely.
‘Certainly. You have to have a Hebrew name.’
Dr Koekentapp wondered what was wrong with Jeremiah, but considering his recent full appreciation of his need for domestic surgery, thought Schmuck would do very nicely.
Highly satisfied by the effect of her revelations on Dr Koekentapp’s psyche, Mrs Finkelstein came to handle the business at hand. ‘I actually came here because Martha isn’t well again,’ she said.
Martha was regarding Dr Koekentapp sympathetically and wondered why the white community should feel it necessary to give their healers, even the crazy ones, a ritual domestic circumcision. She stood up at the mention of her name.
‘Hello, Martha,’ Dr Koekentapp said absently, ‘how are your eyes?’
‘Eyes?’ queried Mrs Finkelstein. ‘There’s nothing wrong with her eyes.’ She began the explanation. ‘It’s her wrist. She was helping Lucas in the garden and the wheelbarrow fell on her hand.’
‘When did this happen?’ asked Dr Koekentapp, desperately struggling to regain his concentration.
‘Two days ago. Lucas couldn’t manage alone because of his rash and I have been having such trouble with my tummy and, since his bar mitzvah, all Sheldon thinks about is girls.’ She sighed. ‘It’s so difficult having to do everything alone.’
‘Tell me about her hand.’
‘She said she can’t use it. I don’t know, she seems to be able to use it very well when she wants to. I mean she hasn’t stopped cooking her food, but when I want a simple Sunday lunch for the family and a few friends all I get is a sour face. Oy, it’s so difficult to get good help nowadays.’ Mrs Finkelstein rolled her eyes towards Martha. ‘But you know how it is. Me and my big heart. I can’t just let her suffer.’
‘Madam,’ said Martha.
‘What now?’ snapped Mrs Finkelstein.
‘Madam, I was mixing the porridge with my other hand. Lucas has been cooking the food.’
‘What?’ squawked Mrs Finkelstein. ‘Lucas? With his diseases?’
‘He hasn’t got diseases, Mrs Finkelstein,’ Dr Koekentapp interrupted. ‘He is just allergic to manure.’
‘Lucas made the gefilte fish?’ Mrs Finkelstein went on.
‘Yes, madam.’
‘And the chicken soup?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘With his filthy hands?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Oy!’
Dr Koekentapp stood up. He had heard enough. ‘Come on, Martha,’ he said, ‘let me see your arm.’ He opened the examination room door and showed her inside. ‘Take off your jersey. I’ll be back in a moment.’
Mrs Finkelstein waited until he had shut the door. ‘Are you sure we won’t catch anything from Lucas? I mean the whole family was there on Sunday. I had twenty-seven people and what does Lucas know about kosher? Rabbi Zindelman and his wife were there!’
‘Let’s go and see Martha’s arm,’ Dr Koekentapp replied.
Martha was lying on her side on the bed. Her broad dimpled buttocks were fully exposed.
‘Martha! What are you doing?’ shrieked Mrs Finkelstein.
‘I’m waiting for the doctor,’ came Martha’s muffled reply. She was holding the pillow over her head.
‘Cover yourself! Get up!’ screeched Mrs Finkelstein. She turned in consternation to Dr Koekentapp. ‘Honestly! I swear I don’t know what’s come over her.’
Anne arrived. ‘What’s all the shouting about?’ She glanced at Martha’s dusky posterior. ‘Oh, has Martha got pink eye again?’
‘Pink eye?’ enquired Mrs Finkelstein. ‘What is everyone talking about? I swear I’m going mad!’
‘Now, now, Mrs Finkelstein,’ Anne murmured placatingly, ‘let’s wait outside. I’ll give you a nice cup of tea while the doctor examines Martha.’
She grasped Mrs Finkelstein by the arm and led her to the waiting room. Elizabeth was on the telephone.
‘No, Mrs Kindel, I’m sure he won’t get rabies from Pupick. But you are welcome to bring Cecil in.’
She glanced at her watch. It was eleven o’clock. ‘No, you won’t have to wait very long. I’m sure you’ll be back in time for your hairdressing appointment.’ Elizabeth broke the connection and looked at Anne. ‘Cecil Kindel has been bitten,’ she told her, ‘and his mother is bringing him in now. They are at the hairdresser just around the corner.’
‘What bit him?’ asked Anne.
‘Pupick. His mother’s chihuahua. It tried to bite Mrs Kindel’s hairdresser and then bit Cecil when he tried to stop it.’
‘Some bite!’ laughed Anne. ‘I’ll get a stitch tray ready but he’ll probably only need a Band-Aid.’
Martha’s wrist was swollen. She winced as Dr Koekentapp gently moved her hand up and down.
‘It is worse if I try to pick up anything,’ she said.
‘Try moving your fingers.’
‘That’s alright. That doesn’t hurt.’
‘Now squeeze my hand.’
Martha grimaced as she tried to apply pressure.
‘It’s just a strain,’ Dr Koekentapp said after a few moments. ‘I’ll strap it up, prescribe an anti-inflammatory, and your wrist will be as good as new in about ten days.’
‘This is an emergency!’
Mrs Kindel stormed into the waiting room dragging Cecil by his good hand. His other hand was covered with a blood-stained towel and he was screaming, ‘I’ll killim!’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Kindel,’ said Elizabeth, ‘the doctor’s almost finished with his consultation and will see you soon.’
‘Soon?’ yelled Mrs Kindel. ‘Soon? This is my Cecil, my angel, my baby. He has been mutilated! He is bleeding to death! He is busy getting rabies!’
‘I’ll killim!’ cried Cecil.
Elizabeth sighed as she pressed the intercom button.
‘Mrs Kindel’s here with her son Cecil, doctor. He’s been bitten on the hand by a dog and Mrs Kindel is very upset.’
‘Ask Anne to take him through to the suture room,’ Dr Koekentapp’s voice replied. ‘Let her begin cleaning the wound and I’ll see him as soon as I’ve strapped Martha’s wrist.’
Anne had finished cleaning Cecil’s wound when Dr Koekentapp entered. Cecil was lying on the bed and his arm was draped, leaving only the wound exposed. It was a ten-centimetre gash extending upward from his wrist.
‘What bit you?’ Dr Koekentapp asked. ‘A German shepherd, a Rottweiler?’
‘Pupick,’ wailed Cecil. ‘I’ll killim.’
On hearing his name mentioned, Pupick thrust his apple-domed head out of Mrs Kindel’s handbag. The bag was hanging by its strap from her shoulder.
‘That dog caused this wound?’ Dr Koekentapp was incredulous.
Pupick snarled at him from beneath Mrs Kindel’s armpit.
‘You didn’t mean to bite naughty Cecil, did you my darling?’ cooed Mrs Kindel.
‘I’ll kill you!’ Cecil hissed at Pupick.
Pupick’s lips drew back from his yellow-brown teeth and his eyes glowed with hate. He had meant to bite naughty Cecil.
‘Please get that animal out of this room, Mrs Kindel,’ Dr Koekentapp said coldly. ‘This is a clean area for surgical procedures and dogs are not allowed.’
‘This is not an animal!’ exclaimed Mrs Kindel. ‘This is my Pupick. He is like a child to me!’
‘One child at a time is quite enough,’ said Anne.
She gingerly took the bag from Mrs Kindel and, holding the strap with her arm fully extended in front of her, carried away the fiercely snapping and yapping Pupick.
‘I’ll look after him, Anne,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’m good with dogs. Leave him with me.’ Elizabeth warily hung the bag over the back of her chair. Pupick quietened and Elizabeth bent over and cooed at him. ‘You’re not such a bad chap, are you? You’re quite sweet really.’
Like a piranha, Pupick went for her nose. Jerking her head back, Elizabeth heard his teeth clack as he missed. Using a ruler, she prodded his gnashing head back down into the bag and closed the zipper, leaving only a nosesized gap for ventilation.
Dr Koekentapp began probing Cecil’s wound.
‘Ma!’ wailed Cecil.
Mrs Kindel’s eyes were apprehensive as Dr Koekentapp injected local anaesthetic into the edges of the laceration. She grabbed Cecil’s good hand and squeezed it tightly against her navel.
Cecil began howling. ‘Leave me alone,’ he bellowed, ‘I can’t stand it! You are killing me!’
‘Shouldn’t we get a surgeon and give Cecil a general anaesthetic?’ Mrs Kindel asked worriedly.
‘It’s not him,’ yowled Cecil. ‘It’s you! Your ring is cutting into me! Let me go!’
He jerked his hand free and stared at the three-carat dent in his palm.
‘I’ll use 4-0 silk to suture,’ Dr Koekentapp said. Anne passed him the sterile threaded needle and he began closing Cecil’s wound.
‘Will he be scarred for life?’ asked Mrs Kindel.
‘I’ll killim,’ muttered Cecil.
‘Yes,’ Dr Koekentapp replied, ‘but it won’t be too bad – just a thin line. It will fade with time.’
‘Are you going to give Cecil a rabies shot?’ queried Mrs Kindel.
‘Pupick’s vicious but he is not rabid,’ Dr Koekentapp answered. ‘I’ll give Cecil an antitetanus injection.’
‘Tetanus! That’s what I meant,’ said Mrs Kindel.
Cecil gritted his teeth as Anne injected the tetanus toxoid into his upper arm.
‘I’ll killim.’
‘I’m going to give Cecil a prescription for an antibiotic,’ Dr Koekentapp told Mrs Kindel a few minutes later. ‘Dog bites often go septic and I want to avoid that.’
‘He’s allergic to mycins,’ said Mrs Kindel.
‘Which ones?’ Dr Koekentapp asked.
‘Mycins,’ she repeated.
‘There are several mycin antibiotics,’ Dr Koekentapp said patiently, ‘and they are all different – streptomycin, erythromycin, terramycin.’
‘That’s them,’ confirmed Mrs Kindel.
‘But he can’t be allergic to all of them!’
‘All I know is mycins. He mustn’t have mycins,’ insisted Mrs Kindel.
‘I’ll give him penicillin,’ Dr Koekentapp capitulated.
‘I’m allergic to penicillin. When I was under my gynaecologist for a discharge he told me never to use penicillin.’
Cecil was looking at his bandage and rubbing his arm where Anne had injected him. He momentarily forgot his injury and contemplated his mother. ‘Why were you under him? He must be some kind of pervert like old man Goldsmith.’
Mrs Kindel clouted Cecil on his wounded arm. ‘Don’t be a pig!’ she snarled.
Elizabeth poked her head around the door. ‘I heard you mention Mr Goldsmith. He isn’t here. Should I call a taxi?’
As soon as the Kindels had gone, Dr Koekentapp contacted Rabbi Zindelman.
‘Hello, Jeremiah,’ Rabbi Zindelman said warmly, ‘I’ve spoken to Mrs Levy just this minute. She phoned to say you have decided to convert to Judaism. Is it true, my boy?’
‘Ye-es,’ Dr Koekentapp replied slowly. Things were suddenly going too fast for him.
Rabbi Zindelman sensed Dr Koekentapp’s indecision. ‘Are you sure about this? You sound a little hesitant.’
‘No, I’ve made my decision. It’s just that I’m concerned about the circumcision. Mrs Finkelstein was here and she explained about the sandek and the mohel and the ritual bris with the men of the family present. I’m not sure I can take all that. Mrs Finkelstein made the Throne of Elijah sound like a medieval instrument of torture – like a rack or a thumbscrew.’
‘She would, of course,’ said Rabbi Zindelman, nodding grimly. ‘I must have a little talk with Naomi Finkelstein.’
‘But you must admit the whole procedure sounds a bit barbaric?’ Dr Koekentapp pleaded. ‘Am I allowed to get drunk first? Is a circumcision absolutely necessary?’
‘Let me explain the need first,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman, ‘and then I’ll describe the method. Have you got a few minutes?’
‘I’ve got all day if you need it. This is my foreskin we are talking about!’
‘In Genesis 17:10,’ Rabbi Zindelman began, ‘the Lord makes his Covenant with the people of Israel and stipulates that “every man child shall be circumcised”. Circumcision is the seal of God. It symbolises a commitment to follow a virtuous and obedient life according to God’s Law. It may interest you to know, Jeremiah, that Abraham circumcised himself.’
Considering his impending personal involvement in the process, Dr Koekentapp winced in sympathy.
‘Circumcision has remained an unalterable practice down the centuries,’ continued Rabbi Zindelman. ‘Jews have remained faithful to this ritual despite savage suppression, even penalty of death, by men such as Antiochus Epiphanes, who placed a permanent garrison in Jerusalem in 167 BC and established the worship of the Olympian god Zeus in the holy Temple.’
Dr Koekentapp fleetingly imagined himself prostrate before a Greek deity with a mandatory foreskin.
‘The tradition is so deep-rooted . . .’ – Dr Koekentapp shuddered – ‘that even non-practising Jews who never go to shul, never even have a bar mitzvah, have their sons circumcised. So you will understand that, in adopting Judaism, your circumcision is not a negotiable procedure,’ concluded Rabbi Zindelman.
‘But the Throne of Elijah!’ wailed Dr Koekentapp, for whom the Throne had assumed the proportions of a household penile guillotine.
Rabbi Zindelman smiled. ‘You can relax, Jeremiah. What Mrs Finkelstein described is the ritual for male infants on their eighth day of life. In your case the circumcision will be done in a surgical theatre under general anaesthesia.’
‘Oh! That’s different,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
‘Indeed it is,’ said Rabbi Zindelman. ‘I want you to come and see me. We have to find you a Hebrew teacher and you have a great deal to learn. In the meantime, if you will excuse me, I’m going to prepare a little lesson in humility for Naomi Finkelstein.’