Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 4 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
“Listen, Jacob,” Abe Rubinson said as he filled his glass with soda. “You speak beautifully, but you can’t use the word ‘Eibishter’ in your shiurim. Haven’t I made it clear to you that a large part of our listeners are people who are just starting to get closer to Judaism? Unfamiliar words might distance them. From now on, please, only straight English.”
Yaakov Shlomo looked at him. “I think you are making a mistake.”
Batya was sitting at the small table in the kitchen, rocking Shmuli’s carriage while listening silently to the voices from the dining room. Shimmy hardly spoke about what his father did. It sounded like even her own father’s job, as a cheder secretary, interested him more. Maybe it was because of this unpleasant employer?
“And I think that I’m not making a mistake.” Rubinson sipped slowly. “In any case, it doesn’t matter what you think. It matters that as long as I am the operator of these shiurim, I would like you to follow the guidelines I’ve established, okay?”
“And you think that if I say ‘Eibishter’ in a shiur, that might turn people off? Even if they understand very clearly Whom I am referring to?”
“Yes.”
Yaakov Shlomo fell silent.
Chumi and Tzippy, standing at the sinks full of Shabbos dishes, exchanged angry glances. Chumi imagined the table laden with the food that Rubinson had brought with him, and she had an urge to just go over there, sweep it all into a big box, and place it defiantly outside the door of the house.
Rubinson was a tough guy, but for the most part, he knew how to be extremely courteous. Why had he chosen to chide their father specifically when Batya was here and could hear it all?
“And the more significant matter is regarding the quality of the recordings. I wanted to tell you that the quality of your home phone line isn’t working for us, and a cell phone is certainly no better.” Rubinson picked up a large carton. “I brought you a different telephone, one that has an option for clearer and sharper recordings. Read the instructions carefully before you work with it for the first time.
“Besides that, which room do you call in from, Jacob? Not here, I hope.” He looked around with distaste at the particle board bookcase and the big shutters that had yellowed long before the current residents had even thought of making aliyah and settling in Yerushalayim.
“We spoke about this already on your previous visit,” Yaakov Shlomo replied, his hands folded, as he studied the yeast pastry that Abe had put on the plate in front of him, oozing with vanilla cream and chocolate chips. “I speak in a small room across from the kitchen.”
“Without the air conditioner on, right? Or any fans, or any other background noise.”
“Of course.”
“There are options today to clear the recording of any background noises, but it’s a shame for me to have to invest the money. So try to make it as high quality and as clear as you can, if we want to continue working together, okay?”
***
The first thing Shimmy did was close the window. Even if eight insects in a row would enter the room, he was leaving this window closed. The single visit by that one flying insect had provided him with enough craziness to last a lifetime.
Was there a way to train bats?
But who had trained the bat—someone who wanted to see his contract with Sun Jang? Had the guy sent the bat in to make Shimmy leave the room, and then he came in to rummage in Shimmy’s suitcase? It was unbelievable chutzpah!
Shimmy went out toward the elevator again, but not before he made sure that everything was locked very well.
“The room was locked the entire time,” the clerk at the desk said, appearing puzzled when Shimmy presented his questions in English. “No one went in there, sir.”
“My suitcase was turned over, and things were taken out of there!”
“Stolen?”
“No, not stolen. But these are personal things!”
“But the room was locked,” the Chinaman repeated patiently.
“Maybe someone has a key, and he went in and locked the door behind him,” Shimmy snapped. “Maybe someone from the staff here was working together with the bat.”
“No, sir,” the man said. He was quiet for a moment and then said, “If I would send someone a bat, I wouldn’t do it like that.”
“Like what?”
“That the owner of the suitcase should come and see that they rummaged around in there. Does it make sense that—” His phone rang just then, and, throwing an apologetic glance at Shimmy, he turned away to answer the call.
“Maybe someone really wanted me to see that they’d gone through my suitcase,” Shimmy said to the desk, before walking off. He had to call the interpreter to set up another meeting with Sun Jang. Before he left China, he had to make sure that no one was going to copy the idea of the talking doll. He knew he was thinking a bit foolishly, because this really wasn’t a groundbreaking idea that was worth stealing. It was a doll the likes of which existed in the thousands around the world, and the fact that it was designed to look like an upsherin boy, and would “act” in an age-appropriate manner, did not seem enough of a reason for anyone to want to peruse his contract.
Maybe he himself had inadvertently moved the suitcase, while trying to banish the bat, and that’s when the contract had fallen out?
***
“Ruchy is in the hospital, Ima,” Yudi updates me. He doesn’t sound good.
“The hospital? What happened?” I am alarmed. From far, everything seems much scarier. On the other hand, from far, you don’t see everything, so maybe it’s better.
“I don’t know. The doctor is talking to her parents the whole time, not to me.”
“That’s because your English isn’t good.” I sense his insult, thin and delicate, laced between his words, and I try to sound encouraging. “Actually, you really don’t know much English at all.”
“Right,” he says heavily.
“But what happened? Why did you go to the hospital in the first place?”
“I don’t know,” he says, sounding distraught. “She went to the doctor because her head was hurting and she didn’t want to eat.”
“And they took tests, like blood tests?”
“Yes. They said she has to be there for a few days.”
“So what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he repeats. “Her mother is in the room with her the whole time, so I went back to our house. I don’t like the hospital.”
“Do you want to come to us in the meantime?” Without thinking, the question escapes me.
“No, no,” my wise, sweet son says. “Ruchy can’t be there herself. And she’s crying a lot, Ima. She needs someone to watch her.”
“But you said that you don’t like the hospital.”
“So I’ll only go a little bit, each time, and then I’ll go to work. But I can’t fly to Eretz Yisrael now. It’s not nice.”
“You’re right,” I say, feeling a blend of pride and pity at the same time. “Maybe I’ll talk to Ruchy’s mother. I’ll ask them if they think I should come to America to be with you, with her.” Please, Hashem, let them tell me it’s not necessary.
“There’s no need,” he says quietly. “You’re not insulted, right, Ima? But Ruchy doesn’t want anyone to come. Her mother asked her aunts who would want to come and watch her for some of the days, and Ruchy cried that she doesn’t want anyone. And her mother asked her who can come, and she said only her mother and her sisters.”
I translate the story to myself: It’s going to be a long hospitalization. At the same time, I breathe a sigh of relief that I’m not among the lucky ones Ruchy had chosen. I don’t want to go to America now. The month of Av last year, during which we had been in New York for the wedding, was enough for me for a long time. A very, very long time.
But what had happened to her? Is it something dangerous?
For a moment, I panic at the evil thought that steals into my mind and then passes after a second as if it never was.
“I’ll call her mother,” I say loudly, to banish the remnants of that horrible thought. “To hear what exactly is going on and how I can help. Because I’m also thinking about you, Yudi, dear. Everyone is worrying about Ruchy and coming to visit her, but you are alone. Maybe I should come just for you. What do you say?”
“No, I won’t have time for us to talk. I’m at work for a lot of hours, and after that,” he swallows, “I do have to go to her in the hospital. Until she gets let out.” He is quiet for a minute and then asks hastily again, “You’re not insulted, right?”
“Of course not.” Because despite everything, I’m really proud of him.
My mechuteiniste doesn’t answer the whole day, and my thoughts are already taking flight in all kinds of direction. Only sometime in the early predawn hours, our time, when I call her for maybe the eighth time, does she answer. There’s music in the background.
“How are you?” she begins warmly. “I’m so sorry I didn’t answer or call you back.”
“I understand it’s been a really hectic day.”
“Very,” she says. “We’re here now in the room. Regards from Yudi.”
“He doesn’t like hospitals,” I say, and I’m not sure how brilliant my statement makes me sound. As if she does like them.
“Obviously,” my mechuteiniste replies in a tone that makes it clear to me that the couple is listening to her every word. “He’s a very good husband, and he came to see Ruchy even though he really doesn’t like it here, because she asked him to come. And do you hear the music? He brought it so that she should listen to it and be happy and shouldn’t think about sad things.” Her tone is a bit too sweet, and I felt like screaming at her not to talk to my son as if he is a kindergarten child, even if that is the type of speech she is used to. Because of her own daughter.
***
If anyone is listening, maybe they should stop for a bit.
Stop listening, and my voice will go silent. Think a little about what I said until now, or about other things. Sometimes, we need quiet, even from things that are good and correct. In the quiet, only you are there, with yourself. With yourself—and with Hashem.
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