Gerard Mouton, Mrs Levy’s hairdresser, owned a very fashionable salon deep in the heart of the mink-and-manure set of Sandton. Fat and balding, he had been born Gerald Moskowitz but, realising that exploiting spoilt and ageing women required class, he had changed his name, cultivated a French accent and always charged exactly twice the going rate for his services as a coiffeur.
‘Mais madame,’ he would say, staring soulfully at a new ciliary meringue on the head of a client, ‘put down ze bill. I will mail it to your husband. You are beyond money. You are radiant! Oui! Look in ze mirror and look at your hair. Is it not art?’
Gerard’s was in and Gerald Moskowitz was rich.
Late that afternoon he entered Dr Koekentapp’s rooms. Mouton was the last patient of the day and he was in a black mood. He returned Anne’s cheery greeting with a surly nod. Sitting down he gazed sullenly at her.
‘Bloody bitch!’ he exclaimed suddenly.
Seated at the reception desk, Anne stopped sorting the mail, looked up and silently returned his gaze. Her look would have been identical had he been a foul-smelling amorphous lump jammed between her toes after a barefoot walk through a pigsty. Next to her, checking the computer entry forms, Elizabeth jerked her head up.
‘I beg you pardon!’ Elizabeth rapped.
Mouton’s pupils contracted as his gaze focussed on Elizabeth. ‘Excuse me?’ he asked.
‘Excuse you? Excuse you!’ Anne spat. ‘You just called me a bloody bitch!’
Mouton leapt to his feet and grabbed Anne’s hands. ‘Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle,’ he begged. ‘My thoughts were very far away. Please forgive me. I had no intention of offending you. My comment was mentally directed at a particularly terrible member of my clientele.’
‘Save the French,’ snapped Anne, ‘you swore in good old Anglo-Saxon. You were looking at me. And keep your hands to yourself!’ She wrenched her hands free, spun around and walked stiffly into the sluice room. The clatter and banging of kidney bowls and receivers being stacked into the steriliser broke into Dr Koekentapp’s consultation room.
‘I vant to tank you for saving mein Yankel,’ Mrs Cohen was saying to Dr Koekentapp. ‘Ve vent trough his life policies last night and vould I have been in trouble! Half der policies vere made out to his late sister, may she rest in peace. I am only his vife, if you don’t mind, and I vould have been left penniless, pauperised and even dirt poor! Naturally I phoned our insurance agent right avay and now everyting has been put into mein name so you don’t have to vorry about your account anymore.’
Dr Koekentapp assured her that he wouldn’t worry about his account anymore and began to worry about the clamour in his sluice room.
‘Mein medical aid has finally accepted mein breasts should be reduced,’ Mrs Cohen went on. ‘You vouldn’t believe how I had to argue! I tought I vould have to expose meinself in front of der whole stingy company! I took your advice about mein breasts hanging from mein neck like two veights slowly trottling me to det and showed dem dis account from anudder dokter vhere it reads pain in der neck for der diagnosis.’
A very astute diagnosis, Dr Koekentapp thought as Mrs Cohen threw her account on his desk. He reached out and scanned it.
‘It reads neck pain, Mrs Cohen,’ he said pleadingly, ‘and it was after a whiplash injury to your neck in a car accident two years ago. It had nothing to do with your breasts.’
‘So der timing vasn’t exact. Vot’s der difference? Pain is pain!’
Anne’s clattering in the sluice room increased in volume. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Cohen,’ Dr Koekentapp said, ‘there seems to be a problem outside. I won’t be a moment.’
Mrs Cohen grunted irritably as he stood up. ‘Interruptions, alvays interruptions. I vanted to discuss a tummy tuck mit you. If I have to have an anaesthetic, vhile I vos under shouldn’t I take advantage of der opportunity?’ She pressed her breasts against her chest and peered over them at her corseted abdomen. ‘Mit modern surgery, who needs to diet? Dey can just cut avay all der ugly fat. Mein friend Mrs Ethel Pelkowitz had a tuck and she looks vonderful!’
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ Dr Koekentapp replied.
Anne was standing at the steriliser with her back to the door. Her forefinger was rapping irritably on the top of the sink as she waited for the water to boil. Her shoulders were hunched tightly forward and she was muttering furiously to herself. Dr Koekentapp gently touched her on the shoulder.
‘I told you to keep your hands to yourself!’ Anne yelled. She whirled round and glared red-eyed at him. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she mumbled.
Dr Koekentapp stared at her. He had never seen her like this.
‘What’s wrong with you, Anne?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Anne whispered.
‘Nothing? Anne, don’t give me that. What’s going on?’
Her eyes flashed. ‘Going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on! Mr Mouton, alias Mr Fancy Gerard, alias Mr Gerald Money-Grabbing Moskowitz, just called me a bitch!’ She began to weep, angry tears of frustration pouring down her cheeks. ‘It’s bad enough having to accept demands and rudeness on the phone. It’s worse having to be treated like a servant when patients arrive for a consultation. I know I’m only a nurse but I will not be called a bloody bitch! I will not!’
Mrs Cohen appeared in the corridor. Her face was florid as she strode rapidly from the consulting room towards Dr Koekentapp. ‘Dokter, can’t you talk to your staff later? I am paying for dis appointment and I vant to get mein arrangements ready. Having major surgery is not a joke, you know. I could die vaiting here!’
Dr Koekentapp glared at her. Anne turned away. Elizabeth arrived carrying a magazine.
‘Here is the latest edition of Fair Lady, Mrs Cohen,’ she said. ‘Please sit down again. Doctor won’t be long.’
She escorted a muttering Mrs Cohen back to her seat in Dr Koekentapp’s consulting room. Returning, she closed the door behind her.
‘I think it’s a misunderstanding,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Mr Mouton said he was daydreaming when he swore, but he was looking straight at Anne.’
‘Where is he now?’ Dr Koekentapp asked.
Elizabeth looked at Anne. Anne shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
‘In the waiting room,’ Elizabeth said.
Mouton didn’t see Dr Koekentapp approaching. His face was buried in his hands. It was obvious he had heard Anne’s outburst. Dr Koekentapp dispensed with formal greetings.
‘Mouton, you will apologise to Anne for swearing at her!’
Mouton looked up. ‘But I didn’t!’ he pleaded.
‘Mouton, if Anne says you did, you did. Apologise now!’
Mouton began yowling. ‘Doctor, I swear I never swore at Anne. I’m sorry if I offended her. Anne is an angel, a darling!’
‘That’s better.’ Dr Koekentapp nodded approvingly. ‘Now you can tell me why you were swearing in my rooms.’
Anne’s face appeared in the doorway. Next to it was Elizabeth’s. Mouton had their undivided attention.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he said, ‘how can I explain?’
‘No French!’ Anne barked.
Mouton succumbed. ‘Once a month I have a regular client, an elderly woman who drives me mad! Today was the day. She had a magazine with a beautiful photograph of Kate Middleton on the front cover.’
‘So?’ Dr Koekentapp queried.
‘So she held the photograph in front of my nose and demanded a style in the same fashion. My God! It would be easier to style the head of a bulldog! Let me show you. Do you have a copy of this month’s Fair Lady?’
‘Yes,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘but a patient is reading it now.’
Mouton shrugged. ‘Oh well, it makes no difference. Believe me when I say it was an impossible task. I tried to explain that to her. I told her that the style would not suit her. Her face was too broad, her nose too large. She was just too bloody fat!’
‘Mouton, what are you saying?’ demanded Dr Koekentapp.
‘I’m saying I cannot perform miracles. I cannot create elegance if I am given her to work with! I told her that I could not and would not do it!’
‘Mouton, you are stalling. What has all this got to do with Anne?’ Dr Koekentapp demanded.
‘My client was very rude. She threw the magazine at me and told me that she would find another hairdresser, one who could do professional styling. She threw a hairbrush at me. I jumped to avoid it and hurt my leg against the basin. That’s why I’m here today and that’s why I swore.’
‘Dokter! Vhere are you?’
Mrs Cohen came storming down the corridor. The doorway to the waiting room was blocked by Elizabeth and Anne. Mrs Cohen thrust her head between them and shook her magazine at Dr Koekentapp.
‘I’m lucky dat I’m still alive! First you have discussions mit der staff and den you have a whole congregation! I tought human suffering came first! Vot happened to your Hypocritical Oat?’ Her gaze fell on Mouton, who had gone deathly pale. ‘You!’ Mrs Cohen shrieked. ‘You dreck! Are you following me around now, you apology for a barber?’
‘That’s her!’ Mouton screamed. ‘That’s the bloody bitch!’
Sylvia had spent her day planning. Dr Koekentapp had been a revelation. After instigating the exposure of his untrimmed masculinity, he had taken her to heights she had never considered possible. With a purposefulness that made her mother’s interest in Dr Koekentapp seem like ineffectual mewling, Sylvia telephoned Rabbi Zindelman.
‘I want to know exactly how long it takes to convert to Judaism,’ Sylvia said, after completing the niceties of greetings.
‘Exactly? Nothing is exact. It all depends,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman, ‘it is a question of application, of understanding and commitment. Under normal circumstances I would say about two years.’
‘Two years?’ Sylvia was horrified.
‘More or less,’ said Rabbi Zindelman.
‘How much less?’
‘Am I to understand that there is a sense of urgency here? I am still waiting for Jeremiah to contact me.’
Sylvia flinched. ‘No, no, I don’t want to push things. I just wanted to know how things were.’
‘Things are excellent, thank you. I told you before and I’ll tell you again. Get to know him and I’ll handle the technicalities.’
‘But I do!’ squealed Sylvia. ‘I adore him! I worship the ground he walks on!’
‘That’s a good start,’ replied Rabbi Zindelman, ‘but do you know him? Do you know what he is like, what he wants, where he is going?’
‘I know he wants me.’
Rabbi Zindelman sighed. ‘Excuse me, Sylvia, but simply wanting each other is not nearly enough. Wanting is like having a meal. Very enjoyable while you are eating but the bigger and better the meal, the more pots and plates there are to clean up afterwards. And cleaning up pots and plates together is what life is about.’
‘But . . .’
‘No buts, Sylvia. I expect to see the two of you in shul and I have arranged a Hebrew teacher for Jeremiah. Ask him to come and see me after his consultations today. I would like to introduce him to her.’
‘I am going to his rooms now. I’ll tell him.’ Sylvia paused. ‘Who is she?’ she asked curiously.
‘Gilda Smelkin. She is looking forward to meeting him.’
I’ll bet she is, Sylvia thought savagely.
Even at school Golden Puss had been a sexual athlete.
‘Bitz?’ screamed Mrs Cohen. ‘Am I hearing tings? Did you call me a bladder bitz, you filty dreck?’
With schizophrenic facility Mouton reverted to traditional family Moskowitz. ‘Du farshtinkener yachne!’ he bellowed.
‘Did you hear dat?’ Mrs Cohen shrieked at Anne. ‘Did you hear vot he called me? I am going to sue!’
When Anne uncomprehendingly shook her head, Mrs Cohen decided to translate for her. She needed a witness.
‘You stinking busybody!’ Mrs Cohen yelled at Anne.
‘What?’ shouted Anne.
‘Du shaytl-dyeing tsedrayteh!’ blared Moskowitz, now quite beside himself.
‘You vig-dyeing lunatic!’ Mrs Cohen screamed at Anne.
‘Stop it! You stop swearing at me right now!’ Anne returned furiously.
‘Du aroysgevorfeneh schlock!’
‘You trown avay piece of dirty trash!’ Mrs Cohen yelled at the now recoiling Anne.
‘Gey in drerd!’ howled Moskowitz.
Anne was absolutely snarling with rage when she heard Mrs Cohen frantically tell her to go to hell. Dr Koekentapp hurled himself towards the fray as Mrs Cohen and Moskowitz came to blows. Mrs Cohen released a roundhouse whack to the top of Moskowitz’s head. Bending low, Moskowitz butted Mrs Cohen in the area of her future tummy-tuck scar. Her wig went flying as she reeled back, bumping into Dr Koekentapp and sending him sprawling under her on the floor.
When Sylvia entered the room, Dr Koekentapp’s head was swaddled in the varicose cellulite between Mrs Cohen’s knees. Moskowitz was batting Mrs Cohen with a rapidly disintegrating wig, calling her a grauber paskudnika and emphasising each syllable with a swat. Mrs Cohen was dementedly calling Anne a coarse disgusting voman and Anne appeared ready to kick Mrs Cohen viciously in the teeth.
‘Don’t just stand there! Stop them!’ Sylvia shouted at Elizabeth as she grabbed the wig from Moskowitz.
Her yell cut into Moskowitz’s colourful battle language. Elizabeth rushed forward and heaved Mrs Cohen off Dr Koekentapp. Panting and virtually bald, Mrs Cohen stood eyeing Moskowitz malevolently; then, snatching her tattered hair-piece from Sylvia, plumped it back on her own head. Hissing with fury, Moskowitz strode from the room. At the door he turned to release a parting invective.
‘Du fartootsteh gozlin!’
‘You crazy svindler!’ Mrs Cohen howled at Anne before rushing after Moskowitz. ‘Tanks for all der kind words!’ Mrs Cohen screamed as she chased his departing back. ‘I hope you realise you have just lost a paying customer! By der time I am finished mit you I vill own your saloon! I had a vitness in dere you know! Just vait till you hear Anne repeat your compliments in court!’
‘What was that all about?’ Sylvia asked in astonishment.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Elizabeth replied, shaking her head. ‘I couldn’t understand a word he said.’
‘I understood exactly what she said,’ Anne cried. ‘Her witness in court? I’ll see that old hag in hell first! Did you hear what she called me? Jesus Christ! I’ve never had a day like this in my life!’
Quivering with fury Anne stood at the door and watched Mrs Cohen loudly avowing witnessed litigation as she pursued Moskowitz to the lift. Sylvia and Elizabeth tidied up the scene of the Cohen–Moskowitz war. It took another twenty minutes to calm Anne down. Sylvia waited until Anne and Elizabeth had gone home and Dr Koekentapp had recovered his shattered aplomb. He never wanted to see another varicose vein in his life.
‘Jerry, I’m not sure if this is the right time, but Rabbi Zindelman wants you to drop by now,’ Sylvia said. ‘He’s arranged a Hebrew teacher for you.’
‘Oh? I hope he’s not as excitable as Moskowitz.’
‘He’s not a he. He’s a she.’
‘Is she an old she?’ Dr Koekentapp asked. ‘I won’t go near her if she’s wearing a wig.’
‘She’s got huge boobs.’ Sylvia carefully watched Dr Koekentapp’s reaction. She was almost disappointed. He didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Boobs I can handle,’ he said tiredly. Sylvia stiffened.
‘Wigs I can’t,’ he continued. ‘Who is she?’
‘Gilda Smelkin.’
Sylvia sidled over to him and kissed him full on the mouth. ‘Darling,’ she said sweetly, rubbing her groin against his, ‘I’m coming with you and, if you so much as blink at Gilda Smelkin, you’ll lose more than your foreskin at your bris.’ She kissed him again. ‘And that’s a promise.’
When they arrived at the Sydenham Highlands North synagogue, Rabbi Zindelman was waiting in his office. ‘Come in, it’s wonderful to see the two of you together,’ he said by way of welcome. ‘I have someone here I want you to meet.’
He stepped back as Dr Koekentapp and Sylvia entered. Ms Smelkin was sitting in a chair in a corner of the room. Dr Koekentapp looked at her hair. He was relieved to see it was real, blonde and boyishly short. In apparent compensation for her dearth of crowning glory she wore a pink sweater that barely restrained the biggest breasts Dr Koekentapp had ever seen in his life. Mrs Cohen only came close. Acutely aware of Sylvia’s gaze on him, Dr Koekentapp fought hard not to blink. He almost succeeded. Only one eye blinked.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Sylvia hissed softly, ‘you actually winked at her! And stop staring at her boobs!’
‘I’m not,’ Dr Koekentapp retorted though the corner of his mouth. ‘They are staring at me.’
‘Dr Koekentapp, meet Ms Smelkin,’ Rabbi Zindelman said, ‘Ms Smelkin is going to be teaching you Hebrew.’
He turned to Sylvia. ‘I think you two ladies know each other. You were at school together if I remember correctly.’
The two ladies made no attempt to renew their acquaintance. Rabbi Zindelman looked at his watch. ‘Would you young people please excuse me for a while? I have to make an urgent private phone call. As a doctor you will understand, Jeremiah. Please make yourselves at home. I will be back in about ten minutes.’
Dr Koekentapp approached his new teacher. He made sure his eyes were directed above her shoulders.
‘How do you do, Ms Smelkin?’ he asked politely.
Ms Smelkin smiled coldly. Her teeth were small and her canines very pointed. Dr Koekentapp instinctively knew she would bite during mating. She looked speculatively at him over her colossal bosom.
‘Outstandingly, thank you. Rabbi Zindelman has spoken very highly of you. I regard our lessons as a special challenge. I am sure we will make very rapid progress once we get to know one another. Practising your lessons alone at home twice a week with me should be more than enough for you to become reasonably accomplished in intercourse.’
Dr Koekentapp stared blankly at her. He could hear Sylvia’s expiratory hiss.
‘Communicatively speaking, of course. What do you think, Sylvia?’ Ms Smelkin stared frostily at Sylvia, who looked warningly at Dr Koekentapp.
‘I’m sure he’s also looking forward to your tuition, Gilda,’ she replied blandly, ‘but please remember, he is a doctor and is interested in diseases. You being so qualified I’m sure you can communicate many of them. Speaking in Hebrew, of course.’
Dr Koekentapp began shifting uncomfortably. He recognised the potential for a second battle in one day. Ms Smelkin returned her attention to her new student and leant forward to open the briefcase lying in front of her. Considering her high centre of gravity, Dr Koekentapp expected her to land sprawling at his feet. He developed a sudden interest in an old sepia photograph of Rabbi Zindelman’s late parents that was hanging on a wall. With utter disregard for both Newton and his laws Ms Smelkin removed a diary and began paging through it.
‘If it suits you, Dr Koekentapp, we could start your Hebrew lessons tomorrow evening. Say at seven?’
‘That will be fine,’ he said cautiously. He had noticed that Mrs Zindelman senior had worn a wig. He regarded it as a bad omen.
‘At your place or mine?’
‘Mine would be best,’ Sylvia suggested coolly, ‘just in case he feels like something to nibble afterwards.’
Dr Koekentapp agreed he probably would be hungry and Ms Smelkin shrugged.
‘As you like. We will meet twice a week until your bris and then continue after your tunk.’
‘My what?’ Dr Koekentapp pleaded. He knew he shouldn’t have looked at Mrs Zindelman senior’s wig. He turned nervously to Sylvia. She didn’t appear to be unduly worried.
‘Your tunk. Your tunk in the mikveh,’ repeated Ms Smelkin.
‘What’s that?’ Dr Koekentapp asked suspiciously. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Of course it doesn’t hurt. It’s a ritual purification bath.’
‘Like a church baptism?’
‘No. You have to get totally submerged in a mikveh. It’s symbolic.’
Dr Koekentapp thought total submersion symbolised drowning.
‘Religious Jewish women bathe in a mikveh once a month after their periods,’ Ms Smelkin continued.
That doesn’t seem very hygienic, bathing only once a month after a period, Dr Koekentapp thought doubtfully.
‘I hope they change the water when it’s my turn,’ he said.
‘They won’t. It’s not just tap water. The water is slightly turbid, rather like a swimming pool when not enough chlorine is used.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Dr Koekentapp said.
‘It’s a very involved procedure. The water has to come from naturally moving water such as a spring or river. They collect and use pure rain water, hail or snow as well.’
‘Even so, I’d prefer not to wash myself in it, if you don’t mind.’
Ms Smelkin regarded Dr Koekentapp sceptically. ‘It’s not supposed to be a physical cleaning. You don’t use soap. It is a symbolic spiritual purification by water. Religious people consider women to be spiritually impure during and after a period.’
Dr Koekentapp fancied that physically filthy would be more apt if they only washed once a month and then without soap.
‘They wash themselves thoroughly first,’ Ms Smelkin went on.
Dr Koekentapp thought he should bloody well hope so.
‘Then they put on gowns which they must give to the mikveh attendants while they are still sopping wet.’
‘I see,’ said Dr Koekentapp, although he couldn’t quite fathom whether it was the religious women, the gowns or the mikveh attendants that had to be sopping wet.
‘And then they go down some steps into the warmed water. It is about chest deep. The mikveh attendant holds a towel above them while they do their tunking.’
‘What do they do when they do their tunking?’ Dr Koekentapp asked mistrustfully.
‘They squat under the water and recite a benediction. Some women immerse themselves three times, others seven, and so on. It varies according to their particular practice. I tunk three times.’
Dr Koekentapp said that three times seemed perfectly adequate to him, and then quietly speculated on all this information. ‘If it’s a spiritual purification after a period, why do I have to go?’ he asked after a while. ‘And what about other men?’
Ms Smelkin looked at him not unkindly. ‘In your case tunking is a ritual spiritual purification after your bris and mandatory before entering the orthodox Jewish faith. It’s not obligatory for other Jewish men, but some very religious Jews do go to the mikveh before Shabbes or very holy days. Incidentally, utensils obtained from a Gentile also have to be immersed in a mikveh before using them.’
Dr Koekentapp had no interest whatsoever in the purification of utensils. He wanted to know about people. ‘I take it they are in the nude when they tunk?’ he asked slowly. He could feel one of his scenarios coming on.
‘Yes, of course.’
Dr Koekentapp saw himself standing in the nude next to a large communal bath. Like a bow tie, a bandage encircled his bruised and recently circumcised penis. Squatting in the murky water, an enormously naked Ms Smelkin was confidently waiting for him to rend asunder his stitches. Around her, very religious naked men and women were tunking and uttering benedictions while sopping-wet mikveh attendants solemnly held towels above their heads.
When Rabbi Zindelman returned, Sylvia and Ms Smelkin were looking oddly at Dr Koekentapp, who was holding his head and mumbling that he couldn’t take it anymore.
‘Is something the matter, Jeremiah?’ Rabbi Zindelman asked worriedly.
‘I know the Japanese enjoy heterosexual communal baths but yours takes the cake!’ wailed Dr Koekentapp. He whimpered as he associated cake with his forthcoming circumcision party.
Rabbi Zindelman stared in alarm at Ms Smelkin. ‘What is he talking about?’ he asked.
‘Tunking in the mikveh,’ she replied.
‘He thinks it’s a communal ritual?’ Rabbi Zindelman was incredulous. ‘Whatever gave him that idea?’
Ms Smelkin thoughtfully reviewed their conversation. ‘I’m not sure. We were speaking generally but, on second thought, I suppose I rather did take the bull by the horns.’
Rabbi Zindelman put a reassuring arm around Dr Koekentapp.
‘My dear Jeremiah, please let me assure you the mikveh ritual is very private indeed.’
‘And the water is clean?’ Dr Koekentapp asked hopefully.
‘Scrupulously. The many laws relating to mikvehs must be adhered to exactly.’
‘It’s been a hard day,’ Dr Koekentapp said tiredly. ‘I think I want to go home now.’
Sylvia moved quickly to his side. ‘My poor darling,’ she said, stroking his cheek sympathetically, ‘a good night’s sleep is what you need. You look absolutely washed out.’