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Authors: Paula Marantz Cohen

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BOOK: Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan
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“My name is Giancarlo, and it is my pleasure to show charming ladies my beautiful city,” said the gondolier, smiling.
“Why don't you take us to shore now,” said Margot, afraid that her mother would begin to confuse the gondolier, or that his appreciation of herself might become more pointed. She had noticed that Hal seemed annoyed by the man's admiring gaze. “We can walk back to the ghetto from here. By that time, the restaurant should be open.”
They all agreed that this was a good idea. The gondolier deposited them on the little pier about a quarter of a mile beyond the ghetto, and they walked back slowly, taking time to peek into a small church, unassuming in outward appearance, that happened to house a Bellini in one of its corners. “In Venice, you stumble on a Bellini the way you might stumble on an Elvis poster back home,” noted Hal. “It's a fundamental difference in cultural density.”
As they left the church, Jessie announced that she was hungry—not surprising, since she had eaten almost nothing for breakfast and it was almost noon. She pointed to a small restaurant on the side of the canal, where they took a table by the window and shared a large platter of fresh mozzarella and tomatoes, along with a loaf of freshly baked Italian bread.
“I don't understand why this tastes so much better than it does at home; it's only cheese and tomatoes,” observed Margot.
“It's the sun,” said Jessie knowingly. “It falls at a different angle.”
Margot and Hal looked at each other, amused. It was unusual for Jessie to admit that anything she had not prepared herself was actually tasty, but she was clearly enjoying this meal. She dipped her bread into the little ceramic bowl of olive oil on the table. “You can't get olive oil like this anywhere,” she explained, “even at Whole Foods.”
After they had eaten, they stopped at a shop that sold souvenirs made of Venetian glass. Margot bought Stephanie a brightly colored glass pen with a little bottle of red ink to go with it. It was
Hal's suggestion. He said Stephanie would like to use the pen and ink for her “process journal.”
“I have them write down their thoughts about literature as these come into their head,” he explained. “Stephanie always has lots of good insights—but she's also into fancy notebooks and pens. She says that the tools sometimes
do
make the carpenter. It's the kind of reverse cliché that the young are fond of, and which, I've learned, generally contains some truth.”
Margot also bought a pair of glass beads for Carla and wanted to buy another pair for her mother, but Jessie said no—she had always found Venetian glass too bulky for jewelry. “For a window or maybe a lamp, yes, but who wants to wear glass around your neck? I'd rather have a nice silver locket.” She glanced approvingly at the one she had given Margot. “And at my age, a string of pearls is best.” She patted the pearls she had on. They had been a gift from Milt on their thirtieth anniversary.
By the time they reached the ghetto again, it was one o'clock, as planned, and they saw Anish and Felicity waiting for them as they entered the little campo. They could see that Gam Gam was now open; a few people were going inside.
They were about to cross over to the restaurant when a group of tourists began leaving the yellow stone synagogue that Jessie had pointed to earlier and were congregating rather noisily a few yards away. Their voices identified them as Americans, and a young man, speaking in English with a thick Italian accent, was trying to shepherd them into some semblance of order.
Jessie, Hal, and Margot, with Felicity and Anish behind them, began to walk forward in the direction of the restaurant.
As they moved, the tour group began to move as well. They had obviously completed their visit to this portion of the ghetto and were on their way, possibly to the other ghetto or to other sites in Venice. Their young Italian guide was pointing out architectural details of the buildings they passed, while they chattered among
themselves and called out questions. As they approached, Jessie appeared not to see them and indeed walked straight ahead so that the group was obliged to part for her.
“So she can't step aside?” One of the women in the group spoke up loudly to her neighbor.
“Some people have no consideration,” said the other woman. “They think they own the sidewalk.” She cast a disapproving look toward Jessie, who continued in her obliviousness, incensing the women still more.
“It's how they were brought up,” said the first woman more loudly.
“That's hardly an excuse,” said the second.
As they were voicing these sentiments, a man who was part of the group and whom several other women were trying to engage in conversation turned his head, his attention drawn to Jessie. He stared for a moment and then suddenly stopped in his tracks and exclaimed: “Jessie Lubenthal!”
At this point the two groups had intersected and were about to pass each other. Jessie, however, hearing her name, also stopped where she was. Her gaze, which had been directed at the restaurant, shifted to the person standing directly in front of her.
He was a man of about seventy-five, wearing a tweed cap and a light raincoat. He looked, quite frankly, like an average elderly Jewish man: sparse gray flyaway hair, middle height, soft sagging gray eyes, a slightly hooked nose, and a stoop.
But Jessie looked at him with an air of surprise. She had now taken a few steps forward, as had the man, so that the two had separated themselves from their respective groups, meeting, as it were, like two dignitaries, with their entourages behind them. The man's group consisted of about twelve people, mostly women, but with a smattering of men—all apparently in their sixties and seventies with the exception of the local guide, a handsome youth who was eyeing Margot with some interest. Jessie's group, meanwhile,
was waiting for her to finish the encounter so they could proceed to search for Jessie's lost sonnets.
“Saul Millman!” exclaimed Jessie as she stared back at the man. “It
was
you! I thought I was dreaming when I saw you from the gondola a few hours ago.”
“Jessie Lubenthal!” Saul exclaimed again.
“Kaplan,” she corrected gently.
“My mistake,” said Saul. “How's Milt?”
“He passed away two years ago,” said Jessie softly. “And Frieda?”
“Gone,” said Saul.
“I'm sorry.”
Saul tilted his head slightly forward in acknowledgment, but his eyes did not leave Jessie's face.
“It's been a hundred years,” she said, putting out her hand.
“More,” said Saul, taking it in both of his. “Not that I haven't thought about you. Every day.”
Jessie blushed but did not withdraw her hand, which he continued to hold with no apparent intention of letting go.
“I'm told you moved to North Jersey and made a fortune,” she said.
“A fortune, I don't know, but I'm comfortable,” said Saul. He paused, then felt obliged to clarify. “Video rentals. I knew right away, it was the future. Movies in your own home: How could it miss?”
“You always liked movies,” noted Jessie.
“But I wasn't so creative—just practical. I figured: I'm lazy, so is everyone else. Video is the way to go. So I took a chance and I was right.”
“Milt didn't have such good business sense, I'm afraid.”
“But he had something better.”
Jessie blushed again but said nothing.
“I thought I'd take a little time off,” continued Saul, trying to
cover up the awkward silence. He gave a nod in the direction of the group behind him, though still not taking his eyes off Jessie. “A JCC Seniors tour. We already did Florence, and we're on to Rome tomorrow—very educational.”
“Aha!” said Jessie, as though this detail did not much interest her.
“I have a chain of stores now,” Saul continued, returning to the topic of his work. “Mostly my son takes care of things, but I keep my hand in. Videos Unlimited—that's the name of the company.”
“Videos Unlimited!” exclaimed Jessie. “Didn't you just open a store in Cherry Hill?” Videos Unlimited was where Hal had gotten her
The Merchant of Venice
tape.
“I did!” said Saul. “Do you live in Cherry Hill? I thought you were still in Vineland. I didn't want to pry, you know.”
“I left Vineland almost a year ago. It was lonely after Milt died. I live in Cherry Hill with my daughter now,” said Jessie. “Not this one”—she motioned to Margot—“the other one.”
“This one looks like you,” noted Saul, glancing at Margot. “Of course, I like the original.”
Jessie didn't answer.
“You haven't changed,” said Saul.
“Don't be a fool.”
“I'm serious. As beautiful as ever. More beautiful.”
Jessie waved her hand. “You always knew how to flatter.”
“Not enough, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, more than enough,” said Jessie with a trace of rancor. “You flattered me plenty and then took up with Sara Feld.”
“What are you talking?”
A floodgate of emotion seemed to open for a moment in Jessie. “You kissed her on the sidewalk after you dropped me off that night after the movie.”
“A fabrication!” exclaimed Saul, turning bright red. “A bald-faced lie!”
“You didn't kiss Sara Feld after you dropped me off?”
“Kiss Sara Feld? Are you crazy? Whoever told you such a thing?”
“She did.”
“The
mishkeit.
I could wring her neck.”
“She's already dead,” sighed Jessie. “I read it in the
Vineland News.
She passed away last month.”
“Good riddance to her.”
“Saul!”
“Excuse me, but she cost me the woman I loved.”
Jessie and Saul stood silent for a moment, contemplating this statement. Then Saul exclaimed again: “Jessie Lubenthal!”
And this time, she didn't correct him.
“
M
om,” said
MARGOT, APPROACHING THE PAIR AFTER waiting what she thought was an appropriate interval. Saul had continued to hold Jessie's hand, and Jessie had made no effort to take it away. The members of Saul's tour group were engaged in steady chatter that made them oblivious to the passage of time, while their guide, apparently smitten with Margot's appearance, was engrossed in sending her facial signals, by turns lascivious, pouting, and plaintive in the manner of an accomplished mime.
On Jessie's side, Felicity and Anish were deeply engrossed in the reference book they had found in the bookstore up the street. It dealt with the archival material housed in the doge's palace.
Hal and Margot were the only members of either party who seemed aware that the clock was ticking. They had been watching Jessie and Saul Millman with a certain fascination but with growing impatience. What was going on here? Although it was rather moving to see the look of surprised affection on the two faces, it also seemed slightly embarrassing for people of this age to be looking at each other like that. And it was, quite frankly, a detour from the established itinerary. They were nearing the final object of their pilgrimage. To be stalled now in the middle of the campo
as Jessie greeted some
alter cocker
from the past was, to say the least, an annoyance.
Thus, Margot finally stepped forward to intervene: “Mom, we ought to get moving.”
Saul looked up as she addressed her mother, though Jessie continued to look at Saul.
“So this is your daughter,” he said, smiling. His smile, Margot noted, was very nice. “They told me you were the spitting image of your mother when she was young, and they weren't off base on that.”
“This is Saul Millman,” said Jessie, finally looking up at her daughter. “I knew him in my youth. What a coincidence to run into him here.”
Margot, growing more annoyed by her mother's insistence on prolonging this casual chitchat, spoke in a rather peremptory tone: “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Millman. I'm sure Mom will want to be in touch. But now, I think, we ought to be on our way.”
“We're staying at a very nice place,” said Jessie, still not letting go of Saul's hand.
“The Gritti Palace,” said Margot, hoping this information might facilitate a leave-taking.
“We're at the Danieli,” said Saul. “Very fancy too. Do you remember, Jessie, the winter dance in the tenth grade? How they decorated the gym with gold streamers? You wore the pink gown with the crinkly skirt. Like a fairy princess.”
Margot, now losing all patience, shot Hal a look. He came forward, nodding politely to Saul and then turning to Jessie. “Don't you think we ought to get going?” he asked in his soft, teacherly voice.
“I don't want to keep you from your tour,” said Saul in an unconvincing tone.
“He owns the new video store in Cherry Hill,” said Jessie to Hal, “the one where you got that
Merchant of Venice
tape.”
Hal nodded. “A fine store—I commend you. I'm Hal Pearson.”
He put out his hand. Saul, who had continued to grasp Jessie's, seemed momentarily at a loss. He finally let go and shook Hal's hand. Jessie seemed upset, and Hal hurriedly addressed himself to Saul on her behalf. “Maybe you can stop by the hotel later for a drink.”
“I'd like that,” said Saul. “What time should I drop by?”
“Around five. We should be back by then.”
“I'll be there, with bells on,” said Saul, inching back toward his group, which immediately swallowed him up and began to move forward, the young Italian guide sending a sad Pierrot look to Margot as they went.
Jessie, Hal, and Margot were now left together, standing in the middle of the campo.
“Are you all right?” asked Hal, noting that Jessie had a rather blank expression on her face. “Do you want to sit down and rest for a while?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, then,” said Hal, “let's get on with it. As Hermione said to Paulina in
The Winter's Tale
: ‘There is no lady live / So meet for this great errand.' We're at your service. Lead us forward, lady.”
BOOK: Much Ado About Jessie Kaplan
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