By the following morning Dr Koekentapp’s mood was slightly better. Just before he had left the Sydenham Highlands North synagogue, Ms Smelkin had assured him that she knew he would work hard and not beat about the bush and that she already had a soft spot for him. Sylvia had told her to can it and Rabbi Zindelman had provided him with the name of a mohel who was also a specialist surgeon. Although still cautious about the prospect of tunking, Dr Koekentapp decided to face the first phase of his conversion to Judaism. Sitting in his consulting room, he perused his patient files for the day and asked Elizabeth to get Dr Keppelshnaier on the line.
In the waiting room Mrs Chaimowitz was in for a repeated check-up, her aged-complaints list ready in her hand. She listened curiously as Elizabeth reported through the intercom: ‘Doctor, I’ve got Dr Keppelshnaier on the line.’
Dr Koekentapp reluctantly stretched across his desk and answered the call. ‘Hello, Dr Keppelshnaier,’ he said waveringly, ‘thank you for your time. I was referred to you by Rabbi Zindelman.’
‘Yes, he’s already spoken to me. I’m looking forward to meeting you,’ Dr Keppelshnaier responded heartily. ‘I understand you are a very special case.’
‘Rabbi Zindelman is too kind,’ said Dr Koekentapp. He was thinking that when Rabbi Zindelman said he would take care of technicalities he wasn’t joking.
‘I take it you are in good health and there is no medical contraindication to anaesthesia?’ asked Dr Keppelshnaier.
‘Yes,’ said Dr Koekentapp, feeling strangely vulnerable at being at the receiving end of his profession.
‘Good. Then we can meet in theatre,’ declared Dr Keppelshnaier. ‘I’ll arrange a bed at the Park Lane Clinic. How would next Thursday morning at eleven suit you for your bris?’
Dr Koekentapp felt suddenly ill. He reached for the intercom button. ‘How are my bookings next Thursday and Friday, Elizabeth?’
‘Quiet so far. There are three rechecks and two Canadian immigration medicals.’
‘Cancel them and rebook them for the following week.’
‘Whatever for?’ Elizabeth exclaimed in surprise.
‘I have to have a little operation.’
Dr Koekentapp returned to Dr Keppelshnaier. ‘Next Thursday will be fine,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll be at the clinic at ten.’
‘Excellent. I don’t have to tell you to have nothing to eat or drink that morning, but don’t forget to bring your yarmulke.’
Dr Koekentapp’s tongue groped dryly in his mouth. He watched silently as Elizabeth and Anne burst into his room.
‘You are going to have an operation?’ Elizabeth yelled loudly enough for Mrs Chaimowitz sitting outside to hear.
‘An operation?’ yelled Anne loudly enough for Mrs Chaimowitz to begin worrying where she was going to find another doctor now that Dr Koekentapp was critical.
‘What operation?’ Elizabeth and Anne yelled together. Mrs Chaimowitz also wanted to know.
‘Nothing major,’ Dr Koekentapp hastened to say, ‘it’s only a minor skin procedure.’
‘You have to cancel all your consultations for two days for a minor skin procedure?’ Elizabeth asked sceptically.
Equally disbelieving, Mrs Chaimowitz clucked loudly to herself.
‘Well I do have to have a general anaesthetic,’ Dr Koekentapp admitted almost apologetically.
‘A general anaesthetic?’ his staff wailed.
‘Yes,’ he said bravely. ‘I’ll see the next patient now.’
‘He’s got skin cancer,’ Mrs Chaimowitz announced as Elizabeth and Anne returned to the waiting room. She met their stare with a tragic gaze. ‘I had an aunt who was taken from us in her prime. She had hardly turned eighty when skin cancer literally ate her away. She died a horrible death. From being a big woman like me she was skin and bone at the end.’
‘Well, I’ve gone and done it,’ Dr Koekentapp told Sylvia while Mrs Chaimowitz embarked on her prolonged undressing programme. ‘I’ve booked a date for my bris.’
Sylvia’s grip on her telephone tightened excitedly. ‘Wait a moment,’ she said, ‘I must tell Mom!’
Dr Koekentapp heard Sylvia’s footsteps hurrying up the stairs. Then patches of Mrs Levy: ‘Really? I don’t believe it! Mazeltov! I’ve got a new recipe for sponge cake. When?’
There was a silence after when. Then footsteps hurried down the stairs.
‘When?’
‘Next Thursday morning.’ To forestall another needless trip up and down the stairs Dr Koekentapp added, ‘At the Park Lane Clinic.’
Mrs Levy came to the telephone. She almost managed to make her smile audible.
‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t tell you how happy I am. Who’s the mohel?’
‘Dr Keppelshnaier.’
‘He’s excellent!’ Mrs Levy cried euphorically. ‘You won’t have a thing to worry about!’
‘That’s precisely what’s worrying me,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
Mrs Levy laughed delightedly. ‘You are such a joker. You really mustn’t worry. It will all go off without a hitch.’
Dr Koekentapp began dithering in his chair.
‘So tell me, who will be your sandek?’ Mrs Levy continued. ‘It’s not really necessary to have one in a theatre but it’s such a nice tradition.’
Dr Koekentapp simply couldn’t envisage a wheezing O’Reilly abandoning his morning visit to the pub and hobbling into theatre for the sake of his godson’s foreskin.
‘I doubt that my godfather would be able to come,’ he said.
‘I know! Aaron can be your sandek. I’m sure he would be greatly honoured!’ exclaimed Mrs Levy.
‘Perhaps,’ said Dr Koekentapp very doubtfully.
The thought of his genitalia being available for close scrutiny by his future father-in-law was not one that particularly appealed to him even if it was a great honour.
‘We’ll discuss it tonight after your first Hebrew lesson,’ said Mrs Levy. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I am. I can’t wait to prepare for your party.’
‘Sponge cake and wine,’ Dr Koekentapp said miserably.
‘And chopped herring and liver,’ added Mrs Levy enthusiastically. ‘You are such a clever boy!’
Elizabeth and Anne refused to allow Dr Koekentapp to examine Mrs Chaimowitz until he had told them what surgery was being planned. After eventually yielding to their impassioned insistence, he worriedly returned their goggle-eyed gaze.
‘You have got to promise to keep it under your hats,’ he whispered.
‘Why on earth would I want to keep it there?’ asked Anne, flashing a wicked look at Elizabeth.
‘I mean it,’ insisted Dr Koekentapp desperately. ‘If it got out I wouldn’t know where to put myself.’
‘Don’t worry, doctor,’ Elizabeth said soothingly, ‘they’ll have to skin us alive before we’d let it out of the bag.’
‘You know you can trust us to keep it private,’ said Anne kindly. ‘Don’t worry your little head about a thing.’
It was a doubly joyous day for Mrs Levy. Dr Koekentapp had embarked on his guarantee. Not only had he booked his bris, but he was starting his Hebrew lessons at her house. At five to seven Dr Koekentapp arrived. Not knowing what stationery would be needed for his first Hebrew lesson, he had in his briefcase two exercise books, one lined and one with squares, a pencil box containing a pencil, a pen, a rubber and a sharpener, and an old compass set he had rediscovered in his bottom drawer.
Sylvia rushed down the pathway and flew into his embrace. Armaround-waist they walked to the veranda. Levy was standing there. He was wearing a brand-new yarmulke for the occasion.
‘Mazeltov! Mazeltov!’ he cried.
Mrs Levy appeared behind him. She spread her arms wide open and squealed delightedly: ‘Well, hello, doctor!’
Intoxicated by the warmth of his welcome, Dr Koekentapp couldn’t help himself – he dropped his briefcase, grabbed Mrs Levy round the waist and began singing ‘Hello, Dolly!’ at the top of his voice. He stopped after the second verse only because the neighbourhood dogs were barking and howling frantically and a patrolling police van had parked outside the Levy home. The sergeant-in-charge stopped fingering his pistol and drove off when he saw Sylvia and Levy clapping their hands enthusiastically. As Dr Koekentapp raucously paraded Mrs Levy to the front door, she barred his way. She was flushed and smiling radiantly.
‘It would be nice if you kissed my mezuzah before entering,’ she said.
Dr Koekentapp’s eagerness faded. He gazed warily at Mrs Levy. A highspeed mental review of human anatomy failed to identify the m-organ. Mesentery and medulla were as close he could get and he felt confident that she didn’t have abdominal membranes or brain tissue in mind. Deciding it had to be inanimate, Dr Koekentapp quickly scanned Mrs Levy’s person for a possible clue. Attached to her necklace a gold Star of David dipped into her ample cleavage. Sylvia’s eyes widened disbelievingly as Dr Koekentapp’s gaze locked on target. She darted forward, grabbed Dr Koekentapp’s right index finger, placed it to his lips then touched it to the scrolled container on the right door post of the entrance.
‘That’s the mezuzah, you idiot. You surely weren’t going to do what I thought you were going to do? Or were you?’
‘Well some people do customarily kiss crucifixes, you know, and I thought she meant . . .’ mumbled Dr Koekentapp, as the remaining traces of his zeal turned to dust.
‘Talking about customs, I am not accustomed to being kept waiting,’ interrupted Ms Smelkin, jiggling her cleavage and affiliated baubles. She had just arrived and was standing directly behind Dr Koekentapp.
‘Yours wouldn’t be a custom, it would be a ceremony,’ retorted Sylvia, ‘you’d need a whole minyan.’
Dr Koekentapp started muttering that he couldn’t take any more mwords.
‘A minyan’s a quorum of ten adult Jewish males,’ Sylvia explained quickly. ‘You need at least that number of men before prayers at any religious ceremony can begin.’
Dr Koekentapp reverted to his particular religious ceremony. ‘Including brisses?’ he asked weakly. At least ten adult Jewish males praying while he was being anaesthetised and preputially exposed were grounds for cancellation. He didn’t really know ten adult Jewish males anyway and inviting suitably qualified strangers was totally unacceptable.
‘No. Excluding brisses and weddings,’ replied Sylvia.
‘Thank God,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
Mrs Levy watched the interchange with increasing confusion. ‘What are you young people doing standing outside and discussing customs and minyans and brisses and weddings? We are here for a Hebrew lesson. Come in, everything is ready!’
In the middle of the lounge, Levy’s poker table stood disguised as a Hebrew table. A white tablecloth hid the corrupt scars of cigarette burns and whisky stains acquired over innumerable nights of rummy, poker and klaberjass and imbued the table with a temporary purity suitable for Hebrew lessons. A matchbox under one leg ensured a stable working space. Two kitchen chairs provided seating arrangements. In the dining room the table was set for a banquet. Mrs Levy had insisted that Dr Koekentapp would not be merely hungry after his lesson, he would be naturally ravenous. She showed Ms Smelkin and Dr Koekentapp to the Hebrew table, and then modestly sat on the sofa to observe the education of Dr Koekentapp. Levy and Sylvia joined her and watched as Dr Koekentapp sat down and scrabbled in his briefcase. Ms Smelkin stood facing him. He chose the compass set and the exercise book with squares and set them neatly on the table.
‘Right,’ said Ms Smelkin, ‘we will begin. The first thing you must understand, Dr Koekentapp, is that we will be moving quickly and I must insist you keep abreast.’
Sylvia began examining her nails.
‘I am a very busy Hebrew teacher,’ declared Ms Smelkin. ‘I take my work very seriously. Unlike many women I know’ – her eyes flicked towards Sylvia – ‘I am not just a pretty face. Rabbi Zindelman thinks I am overqualified.’
Dr Koekentapp kept his eyes on his book and Sylvia began hyperventilating between clenched teeth.
‘My students achieve their goals,’ Ms Smelkin went on, ‘and if you listen and pay attention you will learn to speak and write Hebrew in no time.’
Cavalierly pushing Dr Koekentapp’s compass set and exercise book to one side, she slapped a textbook on the table. On the back cover Dr Koekentapp read First Hebrew Primer, plus something else he couldn’t read because it was in Hebrew. He turned the book over and opened it. The first page read:
THE END
The authors wish to thank Rachel Mandelbaum
for her invaluable typing assistance
Dr Koekentapp thought it was a bloody funny way to begin a book and inquiringly cricked his neck again at Ms Smelkin. She leant over him and flipped the book so that First Hebrew Primer faced up again. Dr Koekentapp was acutely conscious of her right breast resting heavily on his left shoulder.
‘It’s right to left,’ she said.
‘I’m very aware of that,’ Dr Koekentapp replied.
‘And back to front,’ added Ms Smelkin.
‘Oh,’ said Dr Koekentapp faintly.
He correctly opened the book the wrong way round and began paging backwards through it. It was liberally illustrated. The theme was middle-eastern with little boys and girls regarding donkeys and tents and wateringholes. Dr Koekentapp stopped to admire a drawing of a camel on a hill.
‘Ha har,’ said Ms Smelkin behind him.
Dr Koekentapp turned around. ‘Har?’
‘Yes,’ said Ms Smelkin, ‘ha har.’ She sat down on the chair next to him. She licked her lips and tapped the drawing with a finger. ‘Ha har is the hill,’ she said.
‘Oh, I see,’ replied Dr Koekentapp. He stretched over and retrieved his compass set and exercise book. Opening the box he selected his dividers and placed one point at the top of the camel’s hump and the other at the front foot. Using the mini ruler in the set he measured the span and wrote ‘2.5 cm’ in his exercise book. He measured the hill and made some swift calculations.
‘Assuming the camel is 2.1 metres high at its hump and allowing for perspective, the hill is 6.9 metres high. Not much of a hill,’ he said deprecatingly.
Ms Smelkin had watched his display of trigonometric expertise with mounting incredulity. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ she replied.
Dr Koekentapp stopped himself from saying how lucky it was he had brought his compass set along.
‘You are quite mad, you know,’ added Ms Smelkin.
‘I beg you pardon?’ he asked.
‘Quite mad. Ha har means the hill. It doesn’t matter how high it is.’
‘I thought you wanted to know,’ said Dr Koekentapp.
‘I don’t. I can’t take this,’ Ms Smelkin replied. ‘I can’t teach a lunatic. I want to go home.’ She grabbed the First Hebrew Primer and, without bothering to jiggle her breasts at either Dr Koekentapp or Levy, hurried to the front door and left.
Dr Koekentapp looked sheepishly at the Levy family sitting on the sofa in silence. Sylvia smiled and blew him a rueful kiss.
‘I seem to have duffed it,’ Dr Koekentapp said.
‘Bullshit!’ declared Levy loudly.
Mrs Levy and Sylvia looked at Levy in astonishment.
‘Aaron! How can you say such a thing?’ cried Mrs Levy.
‘Easily. Bullshit!’ repeated Levy even more loudly.
‘Our Hebrew teacher just walked out on us and that’s all you can say?’ wailed Mrs Levy.
‘The day I need a nafka with big tits to teach my future son-in-law Hebrew will be the day!’ roared Levy. He stood up and strode towards Dr Koekentapp, who was still sitting in his chair. ‘Jeremiah, forget what the kurveh taught you,’ Levy bellowed. He prodded his chest with a forefinger. ‘I am Aaron Isaac Levy, the eldest son of Benjamin Solomon Levy. I was taught Hebrew by my father and I will teach you! Myself!’
Mrs Levy stared at her indignant and assertive husband. She didn’t see a fat middle-aged man loudly proclaiming his heritage. She saw her Aaron dominating the situation and she remembered why she had fallen in love with him. For an exquisitely tender moment Mrs Levy forgot about her hysterectomy and wanted to bear him another child.
Since Dr Koekentapp couldn’t remember having been taught anything, except that a har’s height was irrelevant, he agreed with alacrity.
‘We will begin at the beginning with aleph,’ said Levy.
‘What’re a nafka and a kurveh?’ asked Dr Koekentapp.
Mrs Levy began spitting.
‘A prostitute and a whore,’ replied Levy.
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Even a nafka calls a kurveh a nafka.’
‘What’s aleph?’
‘Aleph is an ox. It is also the first Hebrew letter. The Hebrew word for “alphabet” is alephbet. It is a fusion of the first two letters of the Hebrew alphabet – Aleph and Bet.’ He rolled up his sleeves with all the determination of a lumberjack about to fell a giant redwood in record time. ‘Open your book and get out a pen,’ he ordered.
Dr Koekentapp opened his exercise book and quickly turned the page that proved Ms Smelkin’s hill was a bump.
‘I’ll get some snacks,’ said Mrs Levy happily.
‘Sit down, Dolly!’ Levy demanded. ‘No one eats until the lesson is over. No one! In this family we eat together and work together and, right now, we are working!’
Mrs Levy sat down. Her heart was thumping. Dr Koekentapp’s lessons – and even Sylvia – had suddenly become secondary in her life. She was experiencing emotions she hadn’t felt for over twenty years. At the age of sixty-one Levy had become a man. For the second time Mrs Levy fell head-over-heels in love with her husband.
Dr Koekentapp proved to be an acute student. Without the barriers essential for training by Ms Smelkin, he tested and challenged his new teacher in a noisy and uncompromising search for knowledge.
‘Why is aleph an ox?’ he asked.
‘It probably derives from eleph an ox,’ replied Levy. ‘It corresponds to the Greek alpha and the first letter of the Phoenician and several Semitic alphabets. Bet is the second letter and means a house.’
By the time Levy had explained that lamedh was the twelfth letter of the Hebrew alphabet and corresponded to an oxgoad, Sylvia was yawning and an hour had elapsed. Mrs Levy was regarding her beloved as the greatest teacher that had ever set foot on Earth.
‘Enough,’ said Levy, ‘it is time to eat.’
Mrs Levy grabbed Sylvia by the hand. ‘You heard what your father said. It is time to give our men food.’
Sylvia stared at her mother in mute astonishment, then turned to look at Dr Koekentapp. He was discussing the symbolism of water with Levy. Mem was the thirteenth letter.
‘I suppose you are my man,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve never thought of it quite like that.’ Sylvia liked the idea. It made her feel secure. It made her Jerry’s woman.
When Dr Koekentapp’s mouth was full of roast chicken, Mrs Levy broached the subject of godfathers.
‘Aaron, what would you say to being Jeremiah’s sandek at his bris?’
‘I’d say it would be a great honour,’ replied Levy.
‘I knew it,’ Mrs Levy said. ‘That settles it then.’
She smiled at Dr Koekentapp, who was frantically trying to swallow and speak.
‘We have got lots to do and people to invite,’ she went on. ‘We will prepare the food and make the sponge cake the day before. Aaron can take us all to the hospital. Sylvia and I will wait in the ward until Jeremiah comes back from theatre. Once he is over the anaesthetic, we will all come back here for the celebration. I will make up a bed for Jeremiah in the spare room. He will need an overnight bag with some clothes and toiletries. I think we should keep the party small. We must invite the family, of course, plus a few close friends – naturally Rabbi Zindelman and Mrs Zindelman and Yankel and Ruth Cohen. What about Rikva Kindel? Is she still seeing Goldsmith? I must find out.’
Dr Koekentapp began thumping his lower chest in an attempt to dislodge the half-chewed chicken stuck in his food pipe.
‘What about Jerry’s family?’ Sylvia asked the question that Mrs Levy had been carefully avoiding. Dr Koekentapp rapidly swallowed a glass of wine.
‘I haven’t told my father yet,’ he gasped, as his impromptu coq au vin settled.
Levy looked at him. ‘I don’t mean to interfere, Jeremiah, but speaking as a father I think your father deserves the courtesy of knowing that his son is converting to Judaism. It’s still before nine. There’s a phone behind you. Why not tell him now?’
Hiccoughing gently, Dr Koekentapp regarded Levy. ‘You don’t know my father,’ Dr Koekentapp said, ‘but then again, despite your religious differences, the two of you actually have a lot in common.’ Dr Koekentapp grinned. ‘Who knows? You may even become friends. He lives at the Regal residential hotel. I’ll give him a ring but I doubt he will want to come.’
‘Colonel Christopher Koekentapp, please,’ Dr Koekentapp said as his call was answered. He smiled at Mrs Levy, who had gone pale at the thought of imminent contact with her non-Jewish male counterpart.
‘Hello, Chris,’ Dr Koekentapp said as his call went through, ‘it’s Jerry speaking. Yes, I know it’s about time. I’ve been busy. Listen. I’ve met the girl I want to marry. She’s Jewish.’
Despite the brevity of the inter-Koekentapp communication, Sylvia hugged her mother and stared starry-eyed at Koekentapp. He was listening to his father.
‘We haven’t fixed a date for the wedding and, no, she isn’t up the pole,’ replied Dr Koekentapp.
Mrs Levy gazed in horror at Sylvia.
‘Damn it, Chris, stop lecturing me and listen!’ yelled Dr Koekentapp.
Everybody listened.
‘Her name is Sylvia Levy and I’m going to convert to Judaism. I’m going to have a bris up in theatre at the Park Lane Clinic, next Thursday at eleven. We will be having a party afterwards. I’d like you to come. Will you?’
Colonel Koekentapp’s booming laugh came clearly through the Levy phone. ‘A chip off the old block, hey,’ he bellowed. ‘I must say, I am amazed at the venue though. I would have thought you’d have had it at home. Most people do – at least, they did in my time, even though it’s bloody messy.’
Dr Koekentapp’s voice trembled. ‘Well, me being me, you know, I thought it would be easier in theatre.’
Colonel Koekentapp roared with laughter. ‘Pulling rank are you? Well, why not? Let those buxom nurses handle the loose ends!’
‘I take it you want to come then?’ Dr Koekentapp asked.
‘My dear son, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Hang on a minute.’
Dr Koekentapp smiled wanly at Levy, who said that he had told him so.
‘Paddy wants to know if he can come too,’ returned Colonel Koekentapp.
‘Paddy? Paddy O’Reilly? Is he with you?’
Paddy O’Reilly’s wheeze preceded his Irish lilt as he came to the phone. ‘You weren’t going to leave your old godfather out now were you?’ he asked reproachfully. ‘Not on such an important occasion?’
Dr Koekentapp scratched his head bewilderedly. ‘I can’t believe this,’ he said. ‘You mean you actually want to be present?’
‘Oh you malign us so badly, me boy. Your old dad and me, we’re all you’ve got for a family. Why shouldn’t we want to be present?’
‘Then you are both welcome,’ said Dr Koekentapp very shamefacedly. ‘I’m just surprised, that’s all. I really didn’t think it was your cup of tea.’
‘Listen, me boy. We are not talking about stinking English tea here. It’s not every day that a Koekentapp stands and howls and, when he does, it’s not too much to expect the only men of the family to stand by him now is it?’
‘Thank you, Paddy,’ said Dr Koekentapp, ‘I’ll be lying not standing but I’m proud to know you and prouder to be a Koekentapp.’
‘Now you are talking, me boy. I’ll drink to your health and that of your bride and when you lie down and pass out I’ll drink to the both of you!’
‘I’ll drink to that too,’ replied Dr Koekentapp, ‘and I’ll see you both in theatre on Thursday.’
Dr Koekentapp was incredulous when he put down the telephone. ‘I can’t understand it,’ he told the Levys, ‘I’ve known them all my life and I don’t know them at all. They are both coming!’
‘Who are both?’ asked Mrs Levy, mentally changing her seating arrangements.
Dr Koekentapp sat down and helped himself to another glass of wine. ‘My father and Paddy O’Reilly, my godfather. Now I’ve got two sandeks.’ He looked apologetically at Levy. ‘And one is Catholic.’
Mrs Levy sat next to him and patted his hand comfortingly.
‘I think it’s lovely to know that your family cares so much,’ she said. ‘I’m even looking forward to meeting them now,’ she added bravely.
Later that night, Mrs Levy put on her best nightie and carefully combed her hair. After brushing her teeth and dabbing on the imported perfume she kept for special occasions, she demurely approached Levy, who lay in bed reading the newspaper.
‘Aaron?’ Mrs Levy ventured softly.
Levy put down his paper and looked over his glasses at her.
‘Can you believe it,’ he said, ‘petrol’s going up and the rand is down. They say global warming and Aids are going to kill most of the world and the hole in the ozone layer will make sure that those who are left won’t survive.’
Mrs Levy didn’t want to discuss Aids, global warming or ozone depletion. ‘Aaron, do you still love me?’ she asked.
‘Love you? Why shouldn’t I still love you?’
That wasn’t the answer Mrs Levy wanted. She moved to his side of the bed and tenderly touched his cheek.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not beautiful for you anymore,’ she said.
Levy smiled gently and embraced her.
‘Dolly, to me you are as beautiful as the day we met.’
Mrs Levy sighed and returned his hug. ‘I wish I could believe you were not just saying that,’ she whispered. ‘I was looking at Sylvia tonight and thinking how things were when we were young. You were so strong and young and vigorous.’
‘And thin,’ Levy added ruefully.
‘I thought you were wonderful tonight. I know it’s been a long time since I told you, but I love you, Aaron.’
Levy gazed at his wife’s face. Fatter and older she might be, but the dimple in her cheek, the way she smiled and the look in her eyes when she wanted loving – these things hadn’t changed. Levy kissed her. ‘I love you too, Dolly.’
‘Make love to me, Aaron.’
So he did.