The Matzo Ball Heiress (26 page)

“Where can we sit?” I ask. “Do you want to go inside the restaurant and order some hot-and-sour soup?”

“Not kosher,” he says softly.

Internally I roll my eyes.

We cross the street to the steps of Seward Park Library.

Jared stares back across the road to the tallest building on the block, about ten stories, with a clock on top. There’s a Hebrew word carved over the parapet under the roof.

“Can you believe that’s the old Forward Building?”

“What’s that word in Hebrew?” I say, pointing.

“Yiddish. It says
Forward
. I took a walking tour once. I cannot believe it’s being turned into condos too.”

“What was the Forward Building for?”

“That’s where they published the Yiddish newspaper that first put Isaac Bashevis Singer into print in America.
The Forward
is still going, but there’s just not that many people reading Yiddish these days. They publish the paper daily in both languages, but most people read the English one. They moved the offices years ago to a nondescript building in midtown. Check out the four carved flaming torches that are symbols of the socialist movement. Those socialists would turn in their grave if they could see what was moving in.”

“Do the new condos make you that sad?”

“I’m not sure. Should I even care about such things? No one else seems to.”

We sit silently for at least a minute.

“Jared, I know we tried to talk this through. But I’ve thought a lot more about us, if you’re still interested in hearing what I have to say.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

I start: “This kosher thing is a problem, huh?”

He pauses in thought and says, “In Israel, they wouldn’t even recognize what American Judaism is. You are just a Jew. You keep the
kashrut
and the
shabbos
or you don’t at all. There’s no such thing as picking and choosing what works for you from Column A and Column B, like orders of beef with snow peas or chicken with broccoli at an old chop suey restaurant.”

“You don’t wear a
yarmulke
, so how much of a stickler are you?’“

“I told you, I didn’t get film jobs with one,” he says a bit angrily. “Anyhow, there’s no Jewish law about wearing a
yarmulke
. There’s an old Middle Eastern tradition of covering your head for a king. Jews probably starting wearing them because God was seen as the King of Kings.”

“That sounds a bit fishy to me.”

“Maybe I’m finding loopholes but—”

“So why can’t we find loopholes when it comes to us?’

He looks at me and picks up one of my hands before he answers. “How so?”

“Say we tried being together. Let’s even go a step further—say we move in together if all goes well. What if we were kosher inside our home? What I do out of your sight wouldn’t matter, would it?”

“That’s an interesting possibility—but would you go to synagogue with me?”

“I’m not sure. I could try it out. Honestly, it’s not something I’d look forward to.”

“But why? This is your own heritage. Why do you run from it?”

“The heritage I don’t mind. I love hearing everything you have to say about the religion, about our traditions. Synagogue is a different story. Lectures from a pulpit have always turned me off.”

“How would you know if you’ve never gone?”

“I’m a Jewish girl from New York. I’ve been to
bar mitzvahs
. I’ve been to weddings.”

“That’s not the same as seeking it out on your own. I think you’d be surprised how much focus going to synagogue could give you. You’d try it at least once?”

“Yes. But don’t count on me. I really have a strong sense of what I’d enjoy.”

“All I want is for you to try it.”

“Like I said, I will.”

Jared pulls on the tips of my fingers. “Tell me, what do you expect of me if—we gave it a go?”

“I just want to be able to feel I’m an autonomous individual who happens to be in a couple. If I want to stay home on a Saturday, I want to be able to. If I want to eat meat and milk, then as long as it’s out of your house, I don’t see why it should worry you. It’s my own moral decision.”

Jared stares at two Chinese toddlers racing toward the Seward Park kiddie swings.

“That’s all well and good, but we’re in our thirties now, babe, so there’s no avoiding the big issues. What if we got married? What would we teach our children?”

“I don’t have the answer, Jared. It’s all so new. All I know is that I think—I like you a lot.”

Jared breaks into a smile and scoops me into his arms for a hug. “Know when I fell for you? When you told that dumb matzo joke on day one. You have no idea how much sleep I lost this week. I’d go so far as to say I think I’m in love with you.”

“Love? Jared, we hardly know each other. We’ve had one date, even if it was an all-nighter, and then some. Don’t get me wrong it was a
great
date—”

“Heather, why are you here? Why did you call? You must have strong feelings.”

I burst out crying. “I just want to warn you—it’s hard to understand who I am.”

“I understand.”

“No, you
don’t
fully understand. It’s not just feeling alienated from the kosher life. It’s not just being a little neurotic about relationships. Being an heir comes with a lot of responsibilities. Being an heir really fucks you up.”

“I hear you, it’s a struggle for me too.”

“What is?”

“Being an heir.”

Is he playing with me? I wipe away a tear with my thumb. “To what?”

“Something that goes with matzo very well. Jewish horseradish.”

It comes to me with a thump. “You’re the
Silver
of Silver’s Horseradish?”

Jared grins sheepishly. “One of them. There are many of us. Actually, I’m a double heir. To horseradish on my dad’s side, and my mother is ball bearings.”

I donkey-kick him in the shin.

“Ow! That hurt!”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything? You don’t think being a kosher-food heir isn’t relevant information?” I kick him again.

“Stop!” Jared says good-naturedly but quite loudly. “Why does an heir not say anything? Would you be talking about your family on camera if it wasn’t to save your finances?”

“Probably not.”

“Look, I wanted to be sure you liked me for me.”

“That’s what you say to a poor person! I’m not after any money—”

“I was going to surprise you with this info at the seder, but then when Steve revealed a little more than I wanted to know—”

“I was hoping that whole night Steve and I spent together would never come up.”

Jared reaches for my hand. “It’s okay. We weren’t an item yet, even if I said we were. It was just a little awkward, that’s all.”

“Thanks for understanding. But, mister, I’m not done with my shock of your birthright.” Sarah’s cryptic words at Second Avenue Deli come back to me. “Did Sarah know what family you came from?”

“Yeah. I took her to my parents’ estate once, even though I knew she wasn’t right for me.”

“Then Steve must know, too?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, he is richer than the two of us combined.”

I snort. “Where’s his money from, vinegar?”

“His great-grandfather started a shipping firm. He’s used to keeping mum, so I whispered to him at the first shoot not to tell you my background.” Jared pokes me. “Hey. This isn’t about Steve. This is about us. Do you want to give
us
a shot?”

I nod my head enthusiastically.

That Time of Year (Again)

A
fter weeks of discussion on striking a balance between fluffy and didactic filmmaking, Vondra and I still haven’t settled on a new project.

“I think you should stick to women as your milieu, but try a historical angle,” Jared says. “Don’t get typecast, like I’ve been—I love working on indie films but unless there’s food involved I can’t get hired.”

Jared’s brushing the hair out of my eyes in the main exhibition room of Deitch Projects, one of the few remaining essential galleries in SoHo. We’re halfway into the opening night of
Cocky!—
Pieter’s first photography exhibit in New York.

My mother, clinging close to her only daughter and her only daughter’s fiancé in a room packed to the rafters with
men men men
, overhears Jared’s advice, and surprisingly, has her own strong opinion. “How about women in castles?” she says. “You could do a film on that.”

“On what exactly, Mom?”

“A day in the life of a medieval woman. You could show an average day, not a coronation or anything.”

“That’s pretty clever,” I say appreciatively. It’s not such a far stretch from the BBC idea of a day in the life of a post-9/11 New Yorker. “What got you thinking about that?”

“I’m reading
Mrs. Dalloway
.”

“You’re reading Virginia Woolf these days?” I ask incredulously.

“Well, Pieter rented
The Hours
because he loves Nicole Kidman, and then Sol suggested we all read the inspiration. The movie only features women in the twentieth century. Don’t tell your dad, but I’m also reading a castle romance novel at the same time.”

“It’s the high-low influence.” Jared laughs, but that crack is wasted on my mother. She doesn’t read art magazines.

I think for another second as I sip my red wine. “It would be a fun project, Mom, but what’s the bite?”

“You and your obsession with bite,” Jared teases. “You and Vondra will think of a novel feminist slant that has all the critics salivating. How many award nominations do you want? Let’s just get as much travel in before we have kids.”

I laugh. Jared has a right to spout off. The next film is supposed to be a
we
decision. Our company has grown: Jared is now our in-house cameraman, his chance to break free from his soufflé segments. We’re changing our name to Two Dames and a Gent to celebrate his arrival.

“We’ll have to talk it out with Vondra.”

“If you like that idea, don’t forget Scotland,” Mom says. “They have castles and top-notch yarn.”

I smirk. “Since when do you care about yarn?”

“I’m taking a knitting class at the 92nd Street Y,” she says. “A cooking class, too,” she adds with a wink.

“Try Stirling Castle, the childhood home to Mary Queen of Scots, my favorite queen,” someone says.

I turn with a start. Where do I know that campy voice from?

Charity Royall. And her British friend Natasha. In full drag.

We air-kiss.

“What are you doing here, girls?” I say.

“You inspired me to go to New York,” Charity explains. “The way you stormed out to Amsterdam—and did what you had to do to get your father back—made me face what I really wanted to do. Live back in North America.”

“I came along for a holiday and a look,” Natasha adds. “First we came to see Stonewall and The Great White Way. Tomorrow we’re going to Canada.”

“The Great White North,” Charity quips.

“But how did you hear about this exhibit?” I say. “It’s bizarre that you’re here.”

“We missed
Cocky!
in Amsterdam,” Natasha explains. “It caused quite a sensation there. So when we saw the same exhibit listed here in the
Village Voice
, we decided to take a look.”

I lean in close to my friends and whisper, “The photographer is my father’s boyfriend.”

“Wonderful!” says Charity.

My mother tugs on my sleeve. “I’ve had enough of the art people. I’m calling Wilson to take me back to the safety of my living room.”

“Wait, Mom—I want you to meet some friends from my Amsterdam trip. Charity, Natasha, this is my mother, Jocelyn Greenblotz. I met them before I found Dad, so, uh, they know the, uh, back story.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” she says as a hello.

“Mrs. Greenblotz, the gay community is very tight-lipped,” Natasha assures with a self-contained laugh.

Charity leans conspiratorially toward my mother, “So, the world wants to know. Which cocks are your husband’s?”

“It’s been too long,” my mother says with a girlish giggle.

My father creeps up behind us—dressed by Pieter’s new stylist in a vintage black cowboy shirt, black Levi jeans, and three-hundred-dollar sneakers from Jeffrey, a store in the hipper-than-thou meatpacking district. Dad slips an arm around my mother. “What’s so funny?”

“Sol, these nice ladies asked me which cocks are yours, and I told them that I can’t remember.”

“What else have you said to them?” he says with a start.

“It’s okay, Dad. These are the friends I made in De Amstel Taveerne before I tracked you down. They were very helpful when I was beside myself. Very discreet.”

“Okay,” he says, not entirely convinced.

“So what’s the answer?” my mother says.

“All of them,” Dad says sheepishly.

We all share a belly laugh.

“How was Pieter’s show?” Vondra asks the next morning in our office. “I hope you told him I was sorry I missed it.”

“I told him. It was a little uncomfortable for me, but I didn’t let on.”

“Is he talented?”

“I guess the photos were executed well, but it’s hard to take note of talent when your Dad’s penis is framed ten times around the room.”

Vondra giggles loudly in horror and delight. “That’s what the exhibit was? I came so close to taking my mother!”

“Well then, it’s a really good thing you didn’t come. I would have told you, but I just wanted to see your face when you walked in.”

Vondra is still laughing when the phone rings. “Can you pick it up?” Vondra asks, wiping some mascara from her laughter tears.

“Heather, it’s Roswell.”

“Hi,” I say wearily. How many times is he going to apologize for jeopardizing the seder broadcast? It’s been almost a year already.

“I’m just calling you to apologize again.”

“It’s yesterday’s news. It’s over with. So you learned one big thing, don’t smoke weed on a shoot.”

“Yeah, I’m going to make that a law on my film.”

“What film?”

“That’s the other thing I wanted to call you about. I wanted to thank you for kicking my ass.”

“When did I ever do that?”

“Remember that conversation you had with me in the car to your cousin’s house? You told me if I ever want to make a film I should start with what I know best. I had a long discussion with my parents about it, and I decided to follow Abdullah’s struggle to stay in America. It’s unbelievable the crap he’s still going through.”

“You know, that’s a terrific idea. There are some great teen-filmmaking festivals I’ve heard of. I could probably give you some leads—”

“I don’t think so.”

I raise my eyes to the ceiling. Same old Roswell. “So what’s your plan then?”

“You know Cecelia Neville over at HBO?”

Where is this going? “Very well.”

“That’s what I thought. My dad said to be aggressive because that’s how he got ahead in the audio/video duplication business. So I used your name—”

“What!”

“I got right through to Cecelia, and pitched a film about Abdullah’s problems with the Immigration Office.”

“Shit, Roswell. You can’t use people’s names without checking with them first.”

“No? My dad thought it would be all right with you. That you would be proud of me.”

“Tell your dad he missed the class on corporate etiquette. I’m sure Cecelia was royally pissed off when she realized she was talking to an eighteen-year-old.”

“Well, uh, not really. She said she was looking for the right project for the youth audience, and check this shit out—
Yo, Are You a Terrorist?
just got the highest advance ever for a first-time documentariat.”

“Documentarian—or documentary maker.”

“Whatever. Pretty cool, huh? I don’t need to go back to my freshman year at Hampshire College anymore, man.”

“Vondra,” I say when I hang up the phone. “And just when you recovered, this will set you off—”

She has her back to me, and swivels around with a finger pointing to her cell phone. I can tell by her tone of voice that she is talking with Mahmoud. She must be still trying to work out some travel glitches for my trip to Cairo, where Mahmoud and Vondra’s wedding will take place.

Vondra smiles at me when she’s hung up the phone.

“Wait until you hear about what Roswell’s done—” I start.

“No, wait until you hear about what Mahmoud’s done. Forget about your other hotel. He made one phone call to the head of Oberoi, a luxury hotel chain in India, who called the manager of the Oberoi at the Pyramids, the Giza Mena House Oberoi. Everyone from Winston Churchill to Britney Spears has stayed there. You have the suite with the most stunning view of the Pyramids.”

I smile. “Well done.”

“Can we go over our arrangements for Israel now? Mahmoud’s doubtful we’re going to be able to go.”

“You’re both going to be fine.”

“How can you say that? How is he going to get a visa? Even if he’s a high-level diplomat, he’s an Arab traveling from Egypt to Israel.”

“It’s not a problem. Jared and I took care of it.” I should have left it at that, but I can’t resist: “Jared called President Bush.”

Vondra looks at me with a curious expression and says, “Jared knows Bush? Does his family know him? The president? I’m not even sure Mahmoud knows Bush.”

“Of course.”

I can’t take the pained look from my one-upmanship. “I’m kidding.” That was a bit cruel of me.

“Why would you joke like that? What did I do to you today?”

“Nothing. But honestly—you go on and on and on about Mahmoud and who he knows. Concentrate on your own considerable talents and achievements. You’d be a bit more fun to be around.”

“You don’t like him?” she says in an angry voice. And then after a visible pause, she adds, “You were no picnic last year, I’ll have you know.”

“I know that. I’m really sorry I just said that. But I need to get this off my chest. You used to be very, well, more yourself, and less Mahmoud’s fiancée.”

She glares at me.

I rise and give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry. I adore Mahmoud. And I love you. Look, it was so important to me that both of you could come to Jerusalem that Jared and I spent an hour strategizing how to get Mahmoud the visa. It took a lot of wangling.”

“Okay, so how did you do it for real?” she asks softly.

“Luckily the man at the Israeli visa office said, ‘Greenblotz like the matzo?’ And I took that as a cue to proceed. I’d come prepared, and let’s say, it’s lucky Mahmoud knew Sadat.”

I have Vondra’s interest again. “He’s been dead for what, twenty years now? How did Sadat help you?”

“I’d clipped the articles about Sadat’s staff at the library. I showed him Mahmoud’s picture. And I emphasized that one of the highest-ranking individuals with the U.N. would hardly be a problem. I’m just going to have to bring you two in to the Israeli visa office and ask for this guy. He’s going to type in clearance on the computer system.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Well, if Mahmoud had to have known one Arab for him get the clearance for Israel, Sadat was the one. But I should warn you that we’re all going to have to fly back to Europe to enter Jerusalem. There’s no direct flights to Israel from Egypt. And you should allow for a massive layover time for getting onto El Al.”

“Are they that tough?”

“They strip-searched my grandma Lainie once when she went to a spa near the Dead Sea for her seventy-fifth birthday. She was so upset she nearly collapsed at the airport. And that’s before all this chaos we’ve got going now.”

“Did your grandmother have to take her bra off?”

“And her briefs. A woman checked, of course. My father thought they should change their slogan to
EL AL: So safe, we’ll strip-search your grandmother
.”

Vondra laughs, if a bit reluctantly. I guess my earlier outburst is forgiven. I should have approached her still-chronic Mahmoud-worship more diplomatically.

“I was just thinking, Heather, will Amy Hitler have problems getting through Israeli customs with her last name? Or did she get married to Greg already?”

I shake my head no. “I didn’t tell you this? She’s not with him anymore. Greg’s bringing his new girlfriend to Israel. Sukie from the seder.”

“That Valley Girl he drove in as a favor to you? Isn’t she about twenty years old?”

“She’s twenty-six. Remember, she told Jared when he was figuring out who to ask the Four Questions?”

“Like,
Ohmi-gawd
, those pigtails confused me.”

I shake my head no. “Don’t typecast her like that. She’s way smarter than you think and very sweet. Greg slipped her his number when he dropped her off, and the next thing I knew she was visiting him in Miami. She’s closing Upsy Daisy because it isn’t turning a profit in this recession. And apparently she got obsessed with the idea that her last name means she’s from the priest class. She’s found her religious roots. She’s kosher now, and she’s converting next month and applying to a progressive rabbinical school in Florida.”

“Why does she have to convert if she’s already half-Jewish?”

“Jared explained this to me. Judaism is a matrilineal religion. You can only truly prove birthright by the mother. If we didn’t have that regulation we could claim Harrison Ford and Sean Penn as truly our own.”

Vondra laughs, and closes the clear plastic lid on her Flatiron Sushi order.

I eye it ravenously as I down my second of two iced coffees I ordered at the deli downstairs—I have to keep alert with so much work on my wedding and new documentary arrangements. “You ate the cooked egg and you’re leaving a crab roll, are you crazy? Give that to me this second!”

“I thought you’d gone kosher. Didn’t you tell me shellfish wasn’t kosher?”