Are You Kosher? (16 page)

Chapter 30

I Predict That You’re Gonna Catch a Beating

Over the centuries, I have seen just about every type of snake oil salesman that you can imagine. Each one of them had his or her own particular sales pitch, but very few of them had the charisma to make them truly legendary. I was acquainted with some, loathed others, but was taken in slightly by one of them in a big way. Not to say that I believed a word that came out of his mouth, but he spoke a good game. His name was Nostradamus.

We were safely living in the New World teaching the Shmeggegycocks to start a proper temple when Bubbe realized that she had left her prized mezuzah hanging on the door. “We have to go back and get it!” she screamed. I tried to reason with her that we could make a new one and that just set her off into a tirade about how I have no respect for history.

At that time, there was not a whole hell of a lot of cross-Atlantic traveling, at least, not on a regular schedule, so this posed a problem. She came up with the brilliant idea of heading back to the West Indies to see if that faygelah Columbus had left to return to Spain yet. Bubbe left specific instructions with my mother to continue to guide the Indians in their pursuit of Jewish clarity while she and I tried to get back to Spain. “There is no way that I am going to let some Spaniard have my mezuzah,” she told me.

Some of the locals escorted us and we ferried our way across the Caribbean to where Columbus had landed. To my astonishment, he was still there, although his ship was beginning to lift anchor. Bubbe went nuts. She stood up and in the loudest voice I have ever heard her scream in, she called out, “
Hold the boat!
” She repeated it a couple of times, and eventually the boat actually stopped. We could see Columbus standing by the railing waving at us. “Look, it’s Mrs. Glassman!” he exclaimed in that ridiculous voice of his. We were welcomed aboard and questioned about why we wanted to go back. Bubbe told them it was because she forgot to lock up before we left. For some reason, this made sense to that shmendrik.

The journey back to Europe was almost as intolerable as the ride over, but the feasting was considerably better. Apparently, some of the other Jews who had traveled in the original voyage could not bear the heat and would rather take their chances with the Church.

We finally arrived back in Spain and not a moment too soon. Bubbe was driving everyone crazy going on about how “those bastards had better not have touched my mezuzah.” As soon as we docked, the two of us were off to our old home. To our surprise, the mezuzah was still there, and to Bubbe’s chagrin, the place was a mess. It was ransacked, furniture was thrown about, windows were broken, and a family of pigs had moved in. This really pissed her off.

I looked around to see if there was anything else that we might be forgetting before we left. I wanted to make sure that this was the last time I would ever have to travel with Columbus. I found a diary that I’d been writing; maybe that will be in the sequel. I also found a really nice coat that I thought had been lost, and the hat box that Bubbe kept all of her recipes in. This was like finding the Holy Grail.

I looked at Bubbe as she removed her prized artifact from the door post and said, “Well, let’s get back to the port and find out when the next ship is leaving.” She shook her head. “No, we are going to go to France and check in on the Markowitzes.”
Great, we’re going to France
, I thought.

France, the ultimate den of filth and immorality. The entire country is full of hedonists, faygelahs, and kvetchers. Not to say that it does not have some charms. For one thing, the food is great, but the problem with France is that it is full of Frenchmen. On the other hand, French women are perhaps the easiest in the world to get laid with. If you have a foreign accent, you’re in, literally. The men and the government, however, have not changed a bit. They have this despicable sense of superiority, as if they are somehow better than everyone else. That’s why I guess whenever the shit hits the fan, they cry for help like stuck pigs.

During our time in France, it did have a bit more charm. It was still a nation of peasants and I happen to like the common folk; there’s very little pretense among those types. They were a nation of people that were still finding themselves, usually in the privacy of their bathrooms. But who am I to judge?

I walked the streets, took in some of the sights and smells, ate, feasted; there is actually quite a nice Jewish population in France, or at least there was before World War II. Paris is perhaps the biggest sausage fest of a city that I have ever visited; no wonder the women are starving for attention. Being a kibitzer, I learned a lot about local customs, where the best places to eat were, who were members of the “It crowd.” I was even given a demonstration by some weirdo on how to lick your own tuchas. It was like living in a friggin’ carnival.

One person did pique my interest though; the locals were all going on and on about him. The chemist who could predict the future, the seer of seers, Nostradamus, or Leon, as I liked to call him. It just sounds more French, don’t you think? Anyway, he was setting their little snail-eating empire all aflame with these ridiculous predictions that he was making. Everyone was buying into everything that came from his mouth; he was like the French equivalent of Oprah, only his “special friend” was not named Gail, but Armando.

For some odd reason, and it is a mystery to me to this day, I took a liking to him. He was, if nothing else, interesting. I have to say that I got a kick out of hearing some of the insane remarks that came out of his mouth. He truly and honestly believed every one of them. He was confident that he was given the gift of prognostication. He spent much of his time writing in his journal. He said that he was writing down his visions for posterity, although occasionally he would make one on the spot. For example, we walked the streets together and he would predict that a horse was about to
plotz
. Seconds later, a carriage would walk by and sure enough, horse shit everywhere.

“I knew that would happen,” he would say smugly in that very feminine voice of his. I remember one day, while walking through a park with him, he turned to me and said, “Izzy, my friend, the world is coming to an end. I can’t tell you the exact date because it is too painful, but brace yourself.” Well I’m sold; that’s like someone telling you that you are going to win the lottery, but he doesn’t remember the numbers that you played. You have to give me something more tangible.

His predictions only got more farfetched and irritating the longer I knew him. One night, the two of us went out to eat at his favorite restaurant. The waiter came to the table and Nostradamus ordered frogs’ legs. He smiled at me and said, “I predict that you will order lamb.” I ordered the veal just to fuck with him. He wasn’t fazed; he shrugged it off and said, “I knew that you would do that.” I was beginning to realize that he was a total fraud, and I have to tell you I was slightly impressed by this. The French were eating it up. He was a cult hero. Women would come for autographs at the table. “And your name is Marie,” he would say.

“No, it’s Josephine,” would be the reply.

“I knew that you would say that,” he responded, and they bought it.

It was all incredible to me. Insane, but incredible. Eventually, however, the act began to get a little tiring. I’ve mentioned before how it is sometimes important for a man to be taken down a peg or two. Well, who else in the entire world can you think of who is better at doing that than Zena Glassman? My Bubbe. I invited him over for dinner. I only wish that there was such a thing as the video recorder back then. Cue the
Rocky
music.

I informed Bubbe that we would be having a guest for dinner. She actually does like company, especially if they are nice Jewish folk. “Is he a good Jewish boy?” she asked. Why she always asks if my guests are boys is beyond me. Listen, I said it once and I’ll say it for the last time, I am not gay!

“No, actually, he’s a goy,” I replied. She looked at me in stunned surprise. “You’re bringing a goy into my house?” she asked, irritated.

“Not all goyem are bad, Bubbe,” I said. “That’s easy for you to say,” she yelled, “You’re just a damn kid!”

This argument could have gone on for hours, but I think that the old lady was a little beaten down by being away from my mother. She’ll never admit it, but she really needs to have her family around her. She went to work almost immediately to prepare a proper feast for our guest—brisket, noodles, and cabbage, and for dessert, her world-famous Jewish apple cake.

Now for a man who supposedly could predict the future, you would think that Nostradamus could arrive on time. He was supposed to be at the house at six thirty; he didn’t arrive until almost seven. Bubbe was not pleased about this. It was causing the brisket to dry out.

He finally showed up and was dressed in full faygelah garb. I don’t think I have ever seen so many sequins on a man in my life—except maybe a Cher impersonator. I made the introductions. “Bubbe, this is Leon Nostradamus. Leon, this is my bubbe, Mrs. Glassman.”

Nostradamus handed her a limp-wristed handshake and said, “Hello, Bubbe.” This was an immediate no-no. You don’t call her that unless she gives you permission. I invited him over to knock that smug look off of his face, but I thought that it would take a little longer for the festivities to begin. My main goal was to act as if I were clueless. Bubbe looked at him for a moment, sizing him up and finally asked me, not worried that he would hear her, “Is he a faygelah?”

I feigned shock. “Bubbe!” I knew that I could count on her. “That’s rude.”

“”That’s quite all right, “Nostradamus interrupted. “I knew she was going to say that.” He smiled smugly. He was so obnoxious that he did not even realize that he was being insulted. “Mrs. Glassman,” he continued, “from the smells emanating from your kitchen, I predict that I am in for a fantastic festival of culinary wonder this evening.”

Bubbe looked at him confused and slowly turned to me. “Why is he talking like that?”

“Let it go,” I whispered. She scowled at me and simply said, “Take his coat, or cape, or whatever the hell that thing is. It’s time to eat.”

She walked off muttering to herself in Hebrew.
Let the fireworks begin
, I was thinking to myself. Bubbe went about setting down every dish and even put out the wine. She was also pissed that he did not bring a bottle as a sign of gratitude; so far the score was Bubbe two, Nostradamus zero. We sat down and the insufferable little bullshit artist said, “I predict that this will be a great meal.”
Keep making your predictions, Mary,
I thought;
while you’re at it, I’ll go get my pet lion and you can stick your head in his mouth.

Bubbe gave her best “shit-eating” grin and simply said, “I hope you enjoy it.” Dinner was not surprisingly delicious, but this shmuck, whom I for some unknown reason had once found fascinating, just could not seem to help himself. Everything was a prediction.

“Would you like some more brisket?” Bubbe asked politely.

He smiled back at her and said, “I predicted that you would say that. Thank you, Bubbe.”
Stop calling her Bubbe
, I thought. She threw a quick glance at me that could only mean,
Wait until he leaves
. Nostradamus could not seem to get out of the way of his own mouth, though. “You know, Bubbe, when I walked up to your house and saw the mezuzah on the door, I knew that this would be an eye-opening experience for me.”

Her face went cold and she simply replied, “Oh really?”

“Yes,” he said happily, “I have always found the quaint, archaic customs of the Jews to be great material for conversation at many of the gatherings I have been invited to.”

“Really,” was her response.
Holy shit,
I thought.

“Oh, yes. Why, just the other day, I had a vision that the Jewish people’s love of money and power, coupled with the misguided belief that they are the chosen people, will eventually result in the destruction of two great monuments to mankind’s greed in the futuristic Gomorrah.”

My jaw dropped. Even I could not have predicted that this shmuck was an absolute and total fucking moron. Everything went quiet. I think that even the birds flying around the neighborhood took off for higher ground.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Now, before you get excited,” Nostradamus raised his hand in a dismissive gesture, “I just want to clarify that I do not pass judgment on either you or Izzy for being members of a self-serving group of people who blame their problems on everyone else.” He smiled at me as he took another bite of his brisket. “Actually,” he continued, “it’s refreshing to see that the stereotypes are not that far off.”

Are you out of your mind?
I thought. I was about to try to change the subject when Bubbe exploded from her seat, her face turning a color I had never seen before. She screamed louder than I have ever heard, “Shut the fuck up you faygelah!” I looked at her, shocked and without thinking, and said, “Bubbe, you said ‘fuck.’” I was actually beginning to tremble a little. She turned on me and said, “I’ll deal with you later!”

“Yes, ma’am,” was all that I could muster.

“And as for you!” she pointed at a stunned Nostradamus, “One more word out of you and I swear you’ll learn just how stereotypical and unbalanced us Jews can be.”