Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [101]
Entry in Panofsky’s Ledger of Ironies:
My first wife, Clara, had no time for other women and is enjoying an afterlife as a feminist icon, but it is The Second Mrs. Panofsky, that yenta still bent on my imprisonment for murder, who is now the militant feminist. I keep tabs on her, and I have learned that every Passover she joins six other rejected wives, latter-day Boadiceas, for a women’s Seder. They begin by toasting the Shekhinah, which is the female aspect of God, according to the Cabbala. Lifting the plate with the matzohs, they chant:
This is the Seder plate.
The plate is flat. Woman is flat, like a plate,
flat in the relief of history …
They go on to chant:
Why have our mothers on this night
been bitter?
Because they did the preparation but
not the ritual. They did the serving but
not the conducting. They read of their
fathers but not of their mothers.
According to the women warriors who composed this travesty of the Haggadah, Miriam, the sister of Moses, never got a fair shake. Where in Exodus, for instance, was the story of Miriam’s well? On the cutting-room floor, that’s where. But, according to rabbinical legend, it was in Miriam’s honour that a well of sweet water followed the children of Israel through the desert. And when Miriam died, the well dried up and disappeared.
The daughter of Rabbi Gamaliel said: “There is anger in our heritage. In the desert Miriam and Aaron asked, ‘Is Moses the only one with whom the Lord has spoken? Has he not spoken with us as well?’ The Lord passed among them and left Miriam white with leprosy but Aaron unharmed. Miriam was treated like the wicked daughter whose father spat in her face and sent her from the tent for seven days until she was forgiven.”
Miriam, Miriam, my heart’s desire. I spit in Blair’s face, never yours.
Miriam’s birthday today. Her sixtieth. Were she still with me, she would have been served breakfast in bed. Roederer Crystal champagne, Beluga caviar, not to mention sixty long-stemmed roses, and gifts of silk lingerie, elegant but naughty. Maybe that overpriced pearl choker I saw at Birk’s. Instead, I imagine Herr Doktor Professor Hopper would splurge on an air-pollution testing kit. Or perhaps a pair of sensible shoes with no animal leather content. No, I’ve got it. He’s giving her a record of whale music. Har, har, har.
I was supposed to be meeting somebody for lunch, but I couldn’t remember where or with whom, and I didn’t dare phone Chantal to check it out as she was already sufficiently suspicious of my occasional memory lapses, which are nothing to worry about. It’s common to people of my age. So I phoned Le Mas des Oliviers to find out if I had a reservation there. No. Neither had I booked L’Express or the Ritz. Then Chantal phoned. “I’m calling to remind you that you have a date for lunch today. Do you remember where?”
“Of course I do. Don’t be impertinent.”
“Or with whom?”
“Chantal, I could fire you just like that.”
“It’s with Norman Freedman and you’re supposed to meet him at Moishe’s at one. Or I could be lying, and it’s with my mother at Chez Gauthier. But since you remember anyway, no problem. Bye-bye now.”
Norman Freedman had been among the more than two hundred guests who came to my wedding at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. Black tie, evening gowns. Boogie stoned and me blasted, my mood vile, as I longed to be in my seat in the reds in the Forum. Damn damn damn. The Canadiens could clinch