By Francesco Bianchini
Denise and Matthew’s backyard
Denise and Matthew’s house, like those nearby – all equally clad in pastel-colored shingles – faces an inlet. On the opposite shore, hidden from view by reeds, is the runway of the small Groton-New London, Connecticut, airport. Apart from rare air traffic, the stillness there is only punctuated by the screeching of wild geese and seagulls swooping over the tongue of water. My elderly friends have a pier projecting out from which they enjoy the sunset, and one is easily content with that evening spectacle, by the peaceful surroundings, with a glass in hand. But to entertain their young friend, who has burst in on them like a stray gander that has lost its bearings, Denise and Matthew have accepted an invitation to a dinner party from Matthew’s brother, the chief rabbi of a local Orthodox synagogue, and his wife, a painter of biblical scenes.
Waiting for sunset at Jupiter Point
Denise’s cousin Leslie and her husband Robert from Vermont were also joining the party that evening. Driving into New London, the two women wanted to prepare me for the event. The rabbi, they warned, is of ‘rather orthodox tendencies’ and I would be exposed to an environment of which I’m probably not accustomed. The two were certain that I hadn’t the faintest idea of what it means to be a strict, rule-abiding Jew, and they were not that far from the truth. (My familiarity with the Jewish world is limited to the pages of Giorgio Bassani and the films of Woody Allen.) On the short journey across the river Thames, they thus imparted a whole series of facts and the practices of the most radical sects of Judaism.
As they seemed to enjoy dabbling in the religious observances they find most paradoxical, they asked Matthew to pull over long enough to finish their anecdotes. In spite of themselves, the two men contributed to the conversation with forced laughs as Leslie randomly listed the thirty-nine things forbidden on Shabbat – the holiest day of strict rest and inactivity – including tearing sheets of toilet paper, unless someone does it instead of the observant. As I took all this in, I envisioned the evening unraveling like a Marc Chagall canvas, with his whimsical characters and animals swirling to the beat of a frenzied Klezmer dance.
The Tribe of Asher, by Marc Chagall, 1964
A portentous bustle of voices, people coming and going, and cameo situations reigned in the rabbi’s abode. One could tell that this has housed a large family, and that different generations were gathered for tonight’s celebration. Some of the women were finalizing preparations for dinner, evidenced by loud cackling and the spread of pungent scents. The kitchen was open to the living room, and I could see two refrigerators, two sinks – everything was doubled. I asked why, and the rabbi – a tall man with a full beard and a piercing gaze that seems to have come straight from the pages of the Torah – went out of his way to explain to his visiting gentile the kosher dietary precepts that he is specifically charged with overseeing, even in his own home.
We toured the wife’s studio before dinner. Her paintings resemble altarpieces, in colors both nocturnal and phosphorescent, all featuring women of the Bible whom Janet places at the center of every action. In the lunette spaces above them, there are green hills shaped like breasts from which flow trickles of milk; there are also scenes of rape and mutilation, of shoes in piles, as in Nazi death camps. She explained every juxtaposition; each figure with the grim details above it, heedless of the children who were jostling hungrily around her. She has unambiguously depicted her feminist reimagining of Scripture, which to me is not surprising as I found the women in the family towering over the men by several notches. Matthew’s brother, whose name is Sholom, may dictate the law in the home, but I got the impression that Janet has the final say.
Esther and Mordechai, by Janet Schafner, 2002
Every culture, though aspiring to the harmonious and accomplished unity of life, inevitably exposes the elements that are missing to close the circle, the gaps between things, the fissures that each individual carries within him or her. Food, and its perpetual sharing, is what brings insider and outsider together. The buffet was a riot of colors and flavors, an ode to the richness of family traditions. The meal began with a variety of appetizers: creamy hummus with black olives and parsley, steaming baba ganoush accompanied by crispy pieces of freshly baked pita, and a selection of salads dressed with olive oil and lemon. The meat dishes seemed to have been prepared with a zest for color combinations, such as a succulent roast beef, marinated in a secret herb sauce, and served with crispy potatoes sprinkled with garlic and rosemary.
A girl offered to serve me lemony chicken meatballs, light and fragrant, melting in my mouth at every bite. She had pale skin and minute freckles, a young version of Vermeer’s milkmaid. She refilled my glass of Chardonnay from a strictly kosher harvest and winemaking process. The rabbi explained to me in great detail what is required for a wine to be certified kosher, but now I have forgotten all the steps. The girl and others before had shown curiosity about the intruder, wanting to learn what I was made of. And indeed she took my hand as we both sat on the steps that separate the kitchen area from the rest of the living room. She intertwined her fingers with mine as if taking their measurements, asking prying questions. How did I happen to be there, why do I travel alone? I had a story ready to tell her, the same one I sold to Denise, who grilled me in the third degree upon my arrival. I can’t. I didn’t want to tell her that I am on the run from one lover to another.
Kosher feast
Finally the desserts arrived, and another girl approached us with two plates, one with an apple pie with a golden and fragrant crust, the other with a cherry tart covered with a crunchy layer of crumble. She held them out in front of us, playfully crossing her hands alternately, back and forth, while laughing. But I – who had gamely tried with ethnographic rigor every dish of this rich feast, and felt more satiated than ever – declined both. Desserts are not my cup of tea, I said – a sacrosanct truth. So she still held the plates in mid-air, and the Vermeer girl looked at me with disbelief and consternation. Her worldview, fresh from adolescence, had never contemplated the possibility that someone might not like sweets. Had I been nibbling on a pork sausage, she might not now be regarding me so sternly. Was that then the greatest blasphemy I could have committed in a rabbi’s house?
