Page 54 of The Phoenix Bride
“Not Sara?” he asks, bewildered. “Who?”
“A gentile,” I say in a vindictive moment of self-sabotage. “An old patient.”
He goes silent with horror, staring at me with his eyes widened. I feel immediately remorseful for upsetting him; my mistakes are not his burden to bear.
He says, “Davi, youcan’t.”
“I know. It is finished now. I will never see her again.” At this, he looks so relieved that it pains me. I feel like the marigold crushed beneath my pestle. Pulling my hand out of his, I say, “I will go buy us some pasties for dinner.”
It is a peace offering, but Father will not permit me peace. “What of Sara?” he asks. “She is a wonderful woman, Davi. Surely, this gentile is not preventing you…?”
“It isn’tthat,” I snap, my temper finally fraying. “Not only that. It— I don’t love her. Sara, I mean.”
“What? What is this really about? You have been acting so strangely recently, and this concerns me. You have not gone to synagogue in months.”
“I…”
“You lie sometimes, and say that you have, but I know it is not true. Why? What is the reason? Surely it is not laziness.”
“I have been busy,” I reply.
“Too busy for Hashem?”
“No, of course not—I just—”
“You what? What could possibly be a suitable excuse?”
“Do you ever feel as if we are not Jews, not truly?” I ask him, and he looks utterly astonished. I regret the question immediately, but frustration pried it loose.
“What do you mean?” he says.
“When we were in Portugal, we did not practice. We did not go to synagogue. We couldn’t hang a mezuzah.”
“Because we had to hide. We were still Jews, of course.”
“Yes, but—but we were not Jews as we are here. As you have become.”
“We wore a mask; we had to,” he says.
“But I was born a Jew beneath it,” I say. “I was raised wearing it. Now I can’t take it off. I don’t know how.”
He sighs. My father’s sighs have the character of a gale; it seems as if they should gust around the room and topple things over. “It will take time,” he says. “Time to adjust.”
“It has been years.”
“You must be patient.”
“I am finished with patience,” I say. “I despise the chimera I have become. If I marry Sara, will I become a real Jew, finally? We make sacrifices for this, for the sake of our blood, our faith,but will they ever be worth it? If I marry her, if we have a family, will it be worth it then?”
“David…”
He reaches for me once more. I shake my head.
“Listen to me,” he says. “You cannot seize happiness by fleeing sorrow. They often lie in the same direction. Sara is a good woman; and you are lonely, I think, for all your friends and amusements. You have a big heart, with more than enough space to share. Consider it.”
“I…”
“Consider it, Davi,” he repeats stoutly. He sits back in the chair, takes another sip of the tisane, grimacing. “You cannot spend your entire life running away.”
