The Trouble With My Aunt

PROLOGUE

‘You know, when people pray at the Western Wall in Jerusalem, they write their secret prayers on slips of paper and roll them into tiny scrolls, or fold them up tightly, and push them into the cracks between the stones,’ said my mother.

This worried me. How could you trust that the notes wouldn’t be plucked out and read by someone else?

‘No one ever does that,’ she said. ‘I suppose people just know that some things can only be shared with God.’

It was Friday night and she lit the Shabbat candles. The match popped, and hissed into a flare. I covered my eyes and recited the Hebrew prayer I’d learned at school. As always, my mother remained silent, clearly invoking her right to secrecy, which was probably not such a bad thing, given that she was praying for her sister’s death.

CHAPTER ONE

Nobody really understood what the trouble was with Aunty Vi – all I knew was that it was Gran’s fault. ‘Vi is Gran’s cross to bear,’ said my mother. I remember the very afternoon she first said that. It was 1971; I was ten years old and she had seen fit to introduce the subject of what she called ‘monthlies’.

‘Leah, you’re lucky I’m chatting to you about this. Gran never told me a thing. When I got my first monthly I was terrified, I thought I was dying – and then Aunty Tilly slapped me across the face.’

My chest tightened. ‘But why?’

‘Well, in those days, that’s how they did things. The slap was to warn you that if you did anything naughty you could have a baby.’

My mouth went dry and I could feel my heart beating in my throat. That very morning, a folded piece of paper, torn from an exercise book, had travelled, via twenty-six furtive hands – several of which were clammy and had imparted inky smudges – from one side of the classroom to the other. On the surface, it may have appeared unremarkable, but this feint-lined page was in fact a document of great consequence, not only for me, but for the entire complement of Grade 5A, revealing as it did the current lie of the land. Divided by a line ruled in blue ballpoint pen, the page presented its readers with two columns; in the left-hand column, one wrote one’s name, while the right-hand column, headed by the brazen question: ‘Who do you fancy?’ demanded a terrifying, yet thrilling, admission.

Based on her response to the onset of my mother’s puberty, Aunty Tilly would surely have taken a very dim view of the activity. I felt my cheeks prickle, along with my conscience, since like the other girls in the class, some of whom were already exhibiting precociously apparent breast buds, I had taken the exercise very seriously. I watched Warren Bernstein as he received the note, unfolded it and scanned the contents. He glanced at me and then looked back down at the sheet. I was not the only one who had set my sights on Warren, though – Tammy Berman had also written his name next to hers. When the document finally made its way back to me, I held it to my chest, closed my eyes and offered up a prayer. ‘Please, please, please let Warren have chosen me.’ I didn’t directly address this plea to God; that might have been a bit disrespectful. I was pretty sure the god of the Jews had bigger problems to sort out, like helping the Israeli army fight their enemies. I allowed myself to hope a few angels would be around to attend to my sort of request. When I unfolded the paper, Tammy’s name appeared in an asymmetrical scrawl next to Warren’s. I blinked away the start of tears and then noted my name had been written opposite that of Julian Bloch’s – he was already taller than the teacher, sported a sprinkling of black hairs on his upper lip and had about him an oniony whiff. I glanced at him and he stared back – his eyes like two black olives. I quickly looked away, embarrassed and irritated. When the bell rang for break, I ran out of the classroom before Tammy had even taken her lunchbox out of her school bag. I spent break alone on the far side of the playground. When the bell rang and we lined up to go back into class, I saw Tammy pass Warren a cola-flavoured Tiger Toffee, which she must have bought for him with her tuck shop money.

‘It’s miraculous, really, when you consider the millions of little processes which have to happen to create a normal baby,’ my mother continued. ‘One tiny little mistake and things can go terribly wrong.’ ‘Who makes the mistake?’ I asked, terrified that I might

unwittingly have committed, or be about to commit, another sin.

‘Well, sometimes it’s just Mother Nature’s mistake, but sometimes people make mistakes too,’ she said, then added, ‘like Gran, for instance.’

I swung my head around and stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about your aunty Vi,’ she said. ‘What about her?’

‘For a start, Vi can’t read or write.’

This made sense – unlike the other adults in my life, Vi always refused to test my spelling and times tables or sign my homework book. I’d given up asking. ‘I’m tired – go and ask your granny,’ was her stock response. I always felt angry with her, betrayed even. Vi had been my closest playmate, the one I giggled with after ‘lights out’ when sleeping over on a camping mattress on the floor in her bedroom at Gran and Grandpa’s apartment.

I remembered our favourite game of some years previously, called ‘The Four-Legged Animal’. In truth, it was Aunty Vi’s favourite game, and it was she who had given it that name, but I quite liked it, and at the age of four, I had already learnt that I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Even if Aunty Vi and I started out playing Barbies or shop-shop, sooner or later, the character of the four- legged animal would make an appearance.

The rules of this game were always the same: the four-legged animal was dim-witted and clumsy, an object of ridicule. Sometimes I played this role, pulling funny faces and assuming a waddling gait. I pretended to bump into things and fall down. Aunty Vi laughed until tears came to her eyes. On other occasions, my favourite toy, Kimba Bear – who was more bushbaby than bear, with enormous, round, shiny, amber eyes – was cast in the role of the four-legged animal, and then it was he who must look stupid. I became something of a puppet master, lending Kimba an enviable proficiency in the art of slapstick. It was accepted that Aunty Vi never took on the role, because she truly hated the four-legged animal. It was her private name for a real person. I was the only other living being who knew the secret.

The four-legged animal’s real name was Ken Greenberg, Gran’s first cousin. I didn’t have anything against Ken – he always had toffees in his pockets and he was generous with them.

My mother sighed. It was at this point she had referred to Vi as Gran’s cross to bear. I thought about this, but thus far, my religious education at a Jewish day school had not proceeded beyond the five books of Moses, and the cross I pictured my grandmother carrying was a large ‘X’, which I understood was something to be avoided – that’s why I’d wanted someone to test my spelling. No crosses for me; I aimed for a neat, uninterrupted column of ticks in my jotter; ideally a few stars. If Aunty Vi is Gran’s cross to bear, I thought, then yes, Gran must certainly have made a mistake.

CHAPTER TWO

I prided myself on not making mistakes and I had learned over the years that the best way to avoid them was through self-discipline. I’d trained myself to embrace self-imposed boundaries – without such parameters, who knows? Things could spill over the edges, there was a danger of wallowing or worse, the threat of drowning.

It was 1993 and now more than ever I had to stay vigilant; I’d just been promoted – my glossy new business card proclaimed my stellar status as the Assistant Managing Director of Big Top Events. At thirty-two, I was not only the youngest employee ever to have occupied the position, but also the first female. The promotion came with a salary increase, profit share and naturally, an added load of responsibility. Not everyone was impressed, though.

‘That’s very nice, Leah, but what about a husband?’ My grandmother never missed an opportunity to remind me that I was straying dangerously off the chosen path.

‘A nice Jewish girl should be making a lovely home filled with kindelach, and you’re not getting any younger,’ she said, then added: ‘Like a hole in the head you need to be working in an office all your life with goyim.’

‘Gran, what did I go to university and get a degree for, then?’ Gran shook her head and clucked loudly. ‘Too clever for your own good. Here, have a cinnamon bulkeh, I made them fresh this morning.’

I declined. I’d only just recently managed to finally shed the last two stubborn kilograms which were proof positive of Gran’s baking prowess.

‘A man wants a bit of schmaltz on a woman, Leah. How will you find a good Jewish husband?’ This wasn’t so much a question as an accusation, but either way, I had no response. I had no idea how I would find a Jewish husband, or rather one to whom I was attracted and who might return the compliment. Most of my boyfriends had not been Jewish, and anyway, the pool of eligible Jewish young men had, over the past decade, begun to dry up considerably. There’d been an exodus from South Africa; young Jews, in their droves, had headed for other parts of the planet they believed offered a future for themselves and their unborn children. Sure, I too had toyed with the idea of setting up on foreign soil, like my peers, seeking milk and honey in the UK, North America, Canada or Australia, but leaving my mother after the death of my father had felt immoral – she would never have abandoned Vi and Gran, so if I were to emigrate, it would have been on my own, and that held little to no appeal. And anyway, why give up my great job?

I had just landed a premier new client for Big Top Events – a mogul with a line of luxury yachts. He based himself in Durban. I flew down from Johannesburg to meet with him at his showroom in order to discuss logistics for an upcoming international boat exhibition. That’s when I met Steve – he was designing the furniture and cabinetry for the yacht interiors, and when he walked into the showroom, I was immediately struck by his height; he was well over six feet and towered over me. He was quick to offer his hand – it felt warm and dry and the grip was firm, and I noted he had beautiful, long fingers. After the meeting, he offered to show me around Durban.

‘There is so much happening here; we have a really cool jazz and art scene,’ he said.

‘I’d love that, but it will have to be another time. I fly out at six this evening.’

‘Okay, then let’s go for a walk on the beach.’

Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand and I felt a lurch in my chest. He drew me to the door. I didn’t resist.

‘Run!’ he yelled, yanking me across the street, narrowly missing an oncoming car. I hurtled along in his wake in my high-heeled boots – it was mid-July and it had been a bitterly cold and frosty morning in Johannesburg when I’d boarded the plane. Now the Durban afternoon was hot and muggy. On the beach my ankles wobbled and my heels sank into the sand.

‘Wait, I have to take these boots off.’

‘Let me help you.’ Steve grinned. His teeth were a little crooked and there seemed to be too many of them for his mouth.

I sat on the sand and Steve kneeled in front of me. He unzipped each of my boots, tossed them aside and began massaging my socked feet. I gasped. His touch was firm and confident. But then he stopped abruptly, pulled off my socks, jerked me to my feet, dropped my hands and began walking towards the surf. I gathered up my boots and socks and followed him. Once on the firmer sand, we walked alongside the foaming tide, sidestepping bluebottles and transparent jiggly lumps of jellyfish.

In the plane later on, I tried to focus on an article in the in-flight magazine, but the afternoon’s events replayed themselves incessantly. After reading the same paragraph for the third time, I replaced the magazine in the pocket of the seat in front of me and closed my eyes. I shifted my feet and became aware of the beach sand still stuck between my toes; Steve’s touch lingered like the phantom of a lost limb. I yearned for more.

In the days that followed, I thought constantly of Steve, willing him to call. If I so much as left my office to go to the ladies’ room, I checked in with the receptionist to see if there were any messages for me. Three weeks passed. Finally I phoned him on the pretext of checking up on the progress of the showpiece yachts for the upcoming exhibition. It wasn’t simply pretext, I told myself; after all, ours was a professional relationship, and keeping tabs on the progress of the maritime interior designer was on my to-do list.

Steve sounded enthusiastic. ‘When are you coming back to Durban?’

‘Well, I’ll only be back in three months’ time for the exhibition,’ I said.

‘Oh, well, we’ll have to postpone our wild weekend till then.’ He laughed.

‘Right, so you have it all planned out?’ I felt myself blushing furiously, grateful he couldn’t see me.

‘I have a few things in mind,’ said Steve.

‘Well, hold those thoughts,’ I said, aiming for nonchalance, but as soon as I replaced the receiver, I let out a little whoop.

‘Everything okay?’ asked Trudy, the human resources manager, popping her head around the door of my office.

‘Oh, yes, all good, Trudy, all good.’ It sounded too good, and I couldn’t wait three months.

The next morning, I went into Jack’s office. He was the founder and director of the company and had hired me immediately after chatting to me at a stall I was manning for my previous employer at a trade fair. He was old enough to be my father, and while he had an avuncular air, he always treated me like an equal when it came to executive decisions, and for this he had earned both my fondness and respect. ‘I’ve been looking at the schedule for the Durban exhibition and I’m concerned that there are some loose ends. I would feel better about things if I flew down there to ensure that it’s all running to plan.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Get Trudy to book your flight, but you’ll have to fly back the same day – there’s no budget for accommodation.’ As I walked back to my office, I bit the inside of my cheeks to check my smile. Of course I felt guilty about misleading Jack, but then again, I did intend to ensure that everything was in place to run smoothly for the exhibition, and I would have had to return to Durban anyway. Better to get it done sooner rather than later. I asked Trudy to book me a ticket for the coming Thursday evening, returning on Sunday afternoon. Then I called Ken Greenberg, who

I knew had a holiday apartment on the Durban beachfront.

‘Of course you can stay there,’ he said. ‘The place sits empty most of the year anyway.’

When I rang Steve, my hands were shaking.

‘That’s great, I’ll fetch you from the airport,’ he said.

Far too excited to sleep, I was up and about before sunrise on Thursday. I packed and unpacked my suitcase three times before settling on the garments and shoes I felt would cover every eventuality for the coming weekend. I packed casual outfits, smart- casual outfits, a formal jacket and tailored slacks and gymwear, just in case I found the opportunity for a workout. At the office, I checked my watch every fifteen minutes. The day was interminable.

At last, it was time to leave for the airport. My best friend, Stella had picked me up.

‘I’m already nauseous,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you going to take something?’

‘I don’t know; when I do take travel sickness tablets, I feel woozy and light-headed for hours after landing, and I get the munchies.’

‘So delicate,’ said Stella shaking her head.

‘Anyway, the flight from Johannesburg to Durban is only an hour and a half.’ I tried to calm down, but still, I fretted. I once got seasick in my own bath because it was really full and I started floating a bit. My GP had referred to my sensitivity as ‘exquisite’, ‘medicinally speaking, of course,’ he added, lest his observation be confused with a compliment. He offered a diagnosis of positional vertigo which, he said, heightened my susceptibility to motion sickness. One way I could ease the condition was by sitting on the edge of a bed with my feet planted firmly on the floor and flinging myself from side to side onto the bed. This practice, reasoned the doctor, performed daily, would eventually train the offending tiny crystals in my ears to be more resilient. Just hearing about the exercise prompted an involuntary bout of dry heaving.

As the plane took off, I closed my eyes. I tried to focus on my breathing, visualising a perfect white lily positioned in my chest area. I imagined it opening and closing with the rhythm of my breath. This seemed to work for the duration of the ascent, and when the captain announced that the cruising altitude had been reached, I opened my eyes and still felt fine. I ordered a tomato cocktail with ice and lemon. I took tiny sips while flipping through the in-flight magazine. When the seatbelt lights were switched on and the captain announced that there would be some turbulence ahead, my first reaction was not fear, but anger. It had all gone to plan so far. The plane shuddered and listed, then suddenly dropped and lurched upward again. A collective moan, and a few rogue, and to my mind, lunatic whoops of exhilaration rose from the cabin. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles white. My head began to spin, the nausea started to build. I could feel icy sweat beading on my forehead and upper lip and at the nape of my neck. My entire body tingled with pins and needles. It was no use – I grabbed the sick bag and was violently ill.

When at last the plane stabilised, an air hostess took the bag from me. I thanked her, studiously avoiding eye contact. I felt wretched. With trembling fingers, I plucked the slice of lemon from the plastic cup, brought it to my lips and sucked furiously – this helped a bit. When the plane touched down, I gave thanks for terra firma and rummaged in my handbag for my make-up pouch. Flipping open the vanity mirror, I beheld a deathly reflection. I brushed on some rouge and applied a peach-coloured lipstick, then popped a piece of spearmint gum into my mouth. That felt better. Still slightly nauseous, I disembarked into a wall of knee-buckling Durban humidity, and was forced to fight the urge to start retching all over again. To my relief, we passengers had to walk along the tarmac to the terminal. I needed to feel the ground solid beneath my feet – a lurching bus trip would have been my unravelling.

Steve was waiting in the arrivals hall. I spotted him before he saw me. He was wearing faded loose jeans, a stained, light-brown T-shirt and slip-slops. He could have made more of an effort, I thought. I had shampooed and conditioned my hair, treated it with a masque, shaved my legs and submitted my bikini area to the merciless ministrations of Shaylin at World of Waxing. My feet were newly pedicured and my toenails groomed and freshly painted in a pearly shade of pink. I wore a new pair of Levis, indigo and still starchy stiff. The narrow cut showed off my legs, which I believed to be my slimmest feature, and my backside, I thought, looked pretty good in them too – they also flattened my tummy, which was often too round for my liking and was, accordingly, expected to endure marathon sit-up sessions.