Consolaçam 11

By Ron Singer

Chapter Three.

Returning to the “earthquake,” I will begin with another overheard kitchen conversation. In this case, the speakers were once again my husband, Moise, and the Yemeni magnate, Ishak BinMahfooz, the father of Ariel, that thief who stole our Dorit’s heart. Once again, I eavesdropped from the stove.

BinMafooz, Senior, was a very tall, slender man who always dressed in the finest black gabardine coat. The rimless pince-nez of a scholar perched on his hawk-like nose. The Yemeni’s manner, together with his great height, meant that he would look down on most men, let alone my stocky spouse. BinMafooz’s voice was high-pitched and nasal, his speech, clipped and authoritative, making him sound like he was reading the riot act to poor Moise, while at the same time affording him a condescending courtesy.

“Not that I have anything against my son’s marrying into the Turkish-Jewish community, Mitrani bey,” he declared. Pausing for a moment, he added, “It is only that we hoped that Ariel, who is our eldest son, might…” again he groped for words to convey his offensive meaning as inoffensively as possible “… might choose to ally himself with a family more nearly equal to ours in… status. Not that I mean to imply…”

Although, by then, Moise had heard enough, he tried to keep his temper as he interrupted, stutteringly. “And what makes you think the Mitrani clan would welcome this alliance, BinMafhooz bey? We certainly share your sense of its unsuitability. Like you, we have entertained high expectations for our darling child’s marriage. That is to say…”

Now, it was Moise’s turn to be interrupted. “Good, then, we agree,” declared the haughty Yemeni. “So the question becomes, ‘how are we to stop them?’” This led the two fathers to put their heads together to try to come up with an effective strategy. Their ideas ranged from reasoning with the young couple to disowning them.

After several minutes of listening to this exercise in futility, I finally spoke up, turning from the stove to the men, who were standing with their backs against the kitchen table, facing the stove. (Since it was only three p.m., on a Wednesday, preparations for the evening meal had not yet begun in earnest, so the table was bare, except for a few condiments and the large family bread basket.)

“ ‘How do we stop them?’ “ I repeated. “We can’t. And, if we try, they could wind up either eloping or, God forbid, committing suicide, a la Romeo and Juliet.” For whatever reason, this work, in Turkish, of course, is the most popular of Shakespeare’s plays in our community. Its relevance to the matter at hand was obvious.

“No,” I continued. “Opposition will be futile. What we must do, instead, is to stall, and hope that the time it takes us to make the elaborate preparations for ‘the blessed event’ will give the ardor of our offspring time enough to cool, so that they may come to their senses.” As I was saying all this, my Moise wore his look of husbandly pride, and, in a condescending way, even BinMafooz bey seemed impressed. Without demur, they readily agreed to my plan.

Alas, however, it failed! For, after another month, or so, Dorit began to show unmistakable signs that she would soon bestow a grandchild on her reluctant parents and parents-in-law. With that, our two families wound up making the wedding preparations not slowly, but in great haste!

There was no time for an erusin [engagement], not even to engage a shadchan [matchmaker], let alone the formalities of introducing the chatan [groom] to our family, or the visits by the gariban [two of his friends]. No misi kinyan [paternal vows]. No white handkerchief. No anything! And the traditional exchange of golden jewelry between the two families? Ha! that never happened, either. As Tsvi Buzaglo might have said about this earthquake of a wedding, “Nature ruled!”