A Castle in Brooklyn(15)
A tap on his shoulder and Jacob woke as if from a dream, remembering that he needed to move his legs toward her now, that indeed she was not an ethereal being, something of another world, but his Esther, the girl he was about to marry.
The words that united the two, the customary sweet red wine, the seven brachas, the prayers for a happy future, the ring placed on her forefinger, the breaking of the glass. And then the cheers that erupted, shattering the solemnity of the occasion, seemed mechanical, forgettable, even. Clasping her hand, he sensed the smallness of it, the delicacy of her skin. It was just as it had been that first time, and Jacob felt as if he had awakened from an exceptionally long sleep. As if now, after all the years that had come before, his life was only just beginning. And when he looked into her blue eyes, which were now shining with tears, he knew that she, too, felt the same.
Hours later, as he stood off by himself to take another breath before resuming the raucous dancing, a slap on the back startled him.
“So, my friend, how does it feel to be a married man?”
Zalman smiled up at him, his face rosy with drink and sweat.
“And I could ask the same of you? How does it feel to be a best man?”
“Not as good as you will feel tonight!” Zalman joked, pulling out a chair for Jacob who, dizzy with the frenetic pace of the klezmer band, had begun to rock on his heels.
Jacob was glad finally to be free of the kittel. He was starting to feel suffocated by the marriage coat, his jacket, and fancy black bow tie. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Jacob could not recall dancing this much in his life, ever. There was one dance of sorts with his new wife, though neither felt the touch of the other. Lifted aloft by a half dozen men, Esther and Jacob held on to the corner of a skimpy white cloth that separated them as they laughed, consumed with the absurdity of it all. In a few hours’ time, he knew he would trace the curves of her long neck, sense the sweep of her brown hair loosened against his cheek, and his body shivered now with anticipation. Within the fuzz that his mind had become, he could hear Zalman speaking in their native Polish again.
“I swear, Yaacov, never have I seen such a thing. Goblets of ruby-red wine, roast beef dripping in its juices, and so many dancers! All this festivity—it is as if something has been waiting all this time, after so many troubles, so many tears, just waiting to explode to the surface. And we deserve it, finally. Yaacov, don’t we deserve it after so long?”
Jacob remained silent and poured himself yet another glass of wine. He did not want to think about the past, pushing down his memories, that despair, the latent anger. Not today, he thought. Maybe not ever.
Zalman was talking again, an endless stream of words. Jacob needed to cleanse his mind. Perhaps another sip of wine.
“So different,” he was saying. “The life of a farmer is so different than the way things are here. We move slower; even the animals are not so rushed. Not that I am not busy, oh, no—there is plenty to do, milking the cows, collecting the eggs, hoeing, and harvesting. I tell you, even the food tastes more ba-tampte, the sleep deeper. Next time, you and your pretty wife must come visit me in Minnesota. I am quite certain that Rozenstein will welcome you both.”
Jacob wiped his brow again. Would Zalman ever stop talking? He’d have to have a serious conversation with his friend later. But not now. Where was Esther? The music had, finally, blessedly, stopped playing for more than half an hour, and the only sound was the click of utensils or guests biting into their steak or salmon, murmured voices confiding, expounding, occasionally the burst of raucous laughter. Jacob sat alone at the center of the long dais. Finally, Esther collapsed into the gold-painted chair next to him, her cheeks rosy from all the dancing. He took her hand in his. It was okay; it was expected that the women would claim her for every hora. Tonight she would be his and his alone.
Sometime between the main course and the cutting of the cake, Boris came over to him. Jacob, who along with Esther was busy thanking guests, noticed his father-in-law only after several minutes. He turned in surprise and greeted the older man, who nodded and shifted his feet as if waiting for Jacob to address him.
His bow tie, Jacob noticed, remained impeccably tied throughout the evening, no wrinkle in his rented tuxedo. The only sign, in fact, that Boris had partaken in a night of revelry was the traditional royal-blue kippah that usually hugged the exact center of his balding head and was now slightly askew. After what seemed like an eternity, Boris spoke, but he directed his question to Esther.
“Would you mind, my dear, if I steal your husband away for only a few minutes?”
“Please, Papou, go right ahead,” she said, and laughed as she turned to say goodbye to a woman whose bracelets clanged noisily as she wrapped her arms around the bride.
Jacob wasn’t sure if it was a kindly benefactor or the executioner he was following into the vestibule off the reception area. He’d had only one verbal exchange with the short, stocky landlord since meeting Esther, and that was some months ago when he’d asked for her hand in marriage. Even then Boris’s only response had been a curt yes, and with a nod of the head and a quick handshake, the affair had been done. But now Jacob wondered as he accepted a cigarette from his father-in-law, What could he possibly want to speak to him about? Perhaps he realized the marriage to a man of no means and a background that remained for the most part a mystery had all been a mistake.
“There is a matter that I’ve thought about for some time,” he began in faltering English, “and it is something we need to talk about today. I’m sorry to have pulled you out of your own wedding, but now I think is the best time.” Boris stopped to inhale the smoke from his cigarette.