The Mammoth Book of Angels & Demons (25 page)

When an exasperated – and increasingly frightened – Aunt Rifke would challenge him, “You’ve turned into Red Skelton, painting nothing but clowns on velvet – Margaret Keane, all those big-eyed war orphans,” he only shrugged and replied, when he even bothered to respond, “You were the one who told me I could paint an angel. Change your mind?”

Whatever she truly thought, it was not in Aunt Rifke to say such a thing to him directly. Her only recourse was to mumble something like, “Even Leonardo gave up on drawing cats,” or “You’ve done the best anybody could ever do – let it go now, let
her
go.” Her own theory, differing somewhat from Jules’s, was that it was as much Uncle Chaim’s obsession as his model’s possible madness that was holding the angel to Earth. “Like Ella and Sam,” she said to me, referring to the perpetually quarrelling parents of my favorite cousin Arthur. “Locked together, like some kind of punishment machine. Thirty years they hate each other, cats and dogs, but they’re so scared of being alone, if one of them died—” she snapped her fingers “—the other one would be gone in a week. Like that. Okay, so not exactly like that, but like that.” Aunt Rifke wasn’t getting a lot of sleep either just then.

She confessed to me – it astonishes me to this day – that she prayed more than once herself, during the worst times. Even in my family, which still runs to atheists, agnostics and cranky anarchists, Aunt Rifke’s unbelief was regarded as the standard by which all other blasphemy had to be judged, and set against which it invariably paled. The idea of a prayer from her lips was, on the one hand, fascinating – how would Aunt Rifke conceivably address a Supreme Being? – and more than a little alarming as well. Supplication was not in her vocabulary, let alone her repertoire. Command was.

I didn’t ask her what she had prayed for. I did ask, trying to make her laugh, if she had commenced by saying, “To whom it may concern . . .” She slapped my hand lightly. “Don’t talk fresh, just because you’re in fifth grade, sixth grade, whatever. Of course I didn’t say that, an old Socialist Worker like me. I started off like you’d talk to some kid’s mother on the phone, I said, ‘It’s time for your little girl to go home, we’re going to be having dinner. You better call her in now, it’s getting dark.’ Like that, polite. But not fancy.”

“And you got an answer?” Her face clouded, but she made no reply. “You didn’t get an answer? Bad connection?” I honestly wasn’t being fresh: this was my story too, somehow, all the way back, from the beginning, and I had to know where we were in it. “Come on, Aunt Rifke.”

“I got an answer.” The words came slowly, and cut off abruptly, though she seemed to want to say something more. Instead, she got up and went to the stove, all my aunts’ traditional
querencia
in times of emotional stress. Without turning her head, she said in a curiously dull tone, “
You
go home now. Your mother’ll yell at me.”

My mother worried about my grades and my taste in friends, not about me; but I had never seen Aunt Rifke quite like this, and I knew better than to push her any further. So I went on home.

From that day, however, I made a new point of stopping by the studio literally every day – except Shabbos, naturally – even if only for a few minutes, just to let Uncle Chaim know that someone besides Aunt Rifke was concerned about him. Of course, obviously, a whole lot of other people would have been, from family to gallery owners to friends like Jules and Ruthie, but I was ten years old, and feeling like my uncle’s only guardian, and a private detective to boot. A guardian against what? An angel? Detecting what? A portrait? I couldn’t have said for a minute, but a ten-year-old boy with a sense of mission definitely qualifies as a dangerous flying object.

Uncle Chaim didn’t talk to me anymore while he was working, and I really missed that. To this day, almost everything I know about painting – about
being
a painter, every day, all day – I learned from him, grumbled out of the side of his mouth as he sized a canvas, touched up a troublesome corner, or stood back, scratching his head, to reconsider a composition or a subject’s expression, or simply to study the stoop of a shadow. Now he worked in bleak near-total silence; and since the blue angel never spoke unless addressed directly, the studio had become a far less inviting place than my three-year-old self had found it. Yet I felt that Uncle Chaim still liked having me there, even if he didn’t say anything, so I kept going, but it was an effort some days, mission or no mission.

His only conversation was with the angel – Uncle Chaim always chatted with his models; paradoxically, he felt that it helped them to concentrate – and while I honestly wasn’t trying to eavesdrop (except sometimes), I couldn’t help overhearing their talk. Uncle Chaim would ask the angel to lift a wing slightly, or to alter her stance somewhat: as I’ve said, sitting remained uncomfortable and unnatural for her, but she had finally been able to manage a sort of semi-recumbent posture, which made her look curiously vulnerable, almost like a tired child after an adult party, playing at being her mother, with the grown-ups all asleep upstairs. I can close my eyes today and see her so.

One winter afternoon, having come tired, and stayed late, I was half asleep on a padded rocker in a far corner when I heard Uncle Chaim saying, “You ever think that maybe we might both be dead, you and me?”

“We angels do not die,” the blue angel responded. “It is not in us to die.”

“I told you, lift the chin,” Uncle Chaim grunted. “Well, it’s built into us, believe me, it’s mostly what we do from day one.” He looked up at her from the easel. “But I’m trying to get you into a painting, and I’ll never be able to do it, but it doesn’t matter, got to keep trying. The head a
little
bit to the left – no, that’s too much, I said a
little
.” He put down his brush and walked over to the angel, taking her chin in his hand. He said, “And you . . . whatever you’re after, you’re not going to get that right, either, are you? So it’s like we’re stuck here together – and if we were dead, maybe this is hell. Would we know? You ever think about things like that?”

“No.” The angel said nothing further for a long time, and I was dozing off again when I heard her speak. “You would not speak so lightly of hell if you had seen it. I have seen it. It is not what you think.”

“
Nu?
” Uncle Chaim’s voice could raise an eyebrow itself. “So what’s it like?”

“
Cold.
” The words were almost inaudible. “So cold . . . so lonely . . . so
empty
. God is not there . . . no one is there. No one, no one, no one ... no one ...”

It was that voice, that other voice that I had heard once before, and I have never again been as frightened as I was by the murmuring terror in her words. I actually grabbed my books and got up to leave, already framing some sort of gotta-go to Uncle Chaim, but just then Aunt Rifke walked into the studio for the first time, with Rabbi Shulevitz trailing behind her, so I stayed where I was. I don’t know a thing about tenyear-olds today, but in those times one of the major functions of adults was to supply drama and mystery to our lives, and we took such things where we found them.

Rabbi Stuart Shulevitz was the nearest thing my family had to an actual regular rabbi. He was Reform, of course, which meant that he had no beard, played the guitar, performed bar mitzvahs and interfaith marriages, invited local priests and imams to lead the Passover ritual, and put up perpetually with all the jokes told, even by his own congregation, about young, beardless, terminally tolerant Reform rabbis. Uncle Chaim, who allowed Aunt Rifke to drag him to
shul
twice a year, on the High Holidays, regarded him as being somewhere between a mild head cold and mouse droppings in the pantry. But Aunt Rifke always defended Rabbi Shulevitz, saying, “He’s smarter than he looks, and anyway he can’t help being blond. Also, he smells good.”

Uncle Chaim and I had to concede the point. Rabbi Shulevitz’s immediate predecessor, a huge, hairy, bespectacled man from Riga, had smelled mainly of rancid hair oil and cheap peach schnapps. And he couldn’t sing “Red River Valley”, either.

Aunt Rifke was generally a placid-appearing,
hamishe
sort of woman, but now her plump face was set in lines that would have told even an angel that she meant business. The blue angel froze in position in a different way than she usually held still as required by the pose. Her strange eyes seemed almost to change their shape, widening in the center and somehow
lifting
at the corners, as though to echo her wings. She stood at near-attention, silently regarding Aunt Rifke and the rabbi.

Uncle Chaim never stopped painting. Over his shoulder he said, “Rifke, what do you want? I’ll be home when I’m home.”

“So who’s rushing you?” Aunt Rifke snapped back. “We didn’t come about you. We came so the rabbi should take a look at your
model
here.” The word burst from her mouth trailing blue smoke.

“What look? I’m working, I’m going to lose the light in ten, fifteen minutes. Sorry, Rabbi, I got no time. Come back next week, you could say a
barucha
for the whole studio. Goodbye, Rifke.”

But my eyes were on the rabbi, and on the angel, as he slowly approached her, paying no heed to the quarreling voices of Uncle Chaim and Aunt Rifke. Blond or not, “Red River Valley” or not, he was still magic in my sight, the official representative of a power as real as my disbelief. On the other hand, the angel could fly. The Chasidic wonder-
rebbes
of my parents’ Eastern Europe could fly up to heaven and share the Shabbos meal with God, when they chose. Reform rabbis couldn’t fly.

As Rabbi Shulevitz neared her, the blue angel became larger and more stately, and there was now a certain menacing aspect to her divine radiance, which set me shrinking into a corner, half concealed by a dusty drape. But the rabbi came on.

“Come no closer,” the angel warned him. Her voice sounded deeper, and slightly distorted, like a phonograph record when the Victrola hasn’t been wound tight enough. “It is not for mortals to lay hands on the Lord’s servant and messenger.”

“I’m not touching you,” Rabbi Shulevitz answered mildly. “I just want to look in your eyes. An angel can’t object to that, surely.”

“The full blaze of an angel’s eyes would leave you ashes, impudent man.” Even I could hear the undertone of anxiety in her voice.

“That is foolishness.” The rabbi’s tone continued gentle, almost playful. “My friend Chaim paints your eyes full of compassion, of sorrow for the world and all its creatures, every one. Only turn those eyes to me for a minute, for a very little minute, where’s the harm?”

Obediently, he stayed where he was, taking off his hat to reveal the black yarmulke underneath. Behind him, Aunt Rifke made as though to take Uncle Chaim’s arm, but he shrugged her away, never taking his own eyes from Rabbi Shulevitz and the blue angel. His face was very pale. The glass of Scotch in his left hand, plainly as forgotten as the brush in his right, was beginning to slosh over the rim with his trembling, and I was distracted with fascination, waiting for him to drop it. So I wasn’t quite present, you might say, when the rabbi’s eyes looked into the eyes of the blue angel.

But I heard the rabbi gasp, and I saw him stagger backwards a couple of steps, with his arm up in front of his eyes. And I saw the angel turning away, instantly; the whole encounter couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds, if that much. And if Rabbi Shulevitz looked stunned and frightened – which he did – there is no word that I know to describe the expression on the angel’s face. No words.

Rabbi Shulevitz spoke to Aunt Rifke in Hebrew, which I didn’t know, and she answered him in swift, fierce Yiddish, which I did, but only insofar as it pertained to things my parents felt were best kept hidden from me, such as money problems, family gossip and sex. So I missed most of her words, but I caught anyway three of them. One was
shofar
, which is the ram’s horn blown at sundown on the High Holidays, and about which I already knew two good dirty jokes. The second was
minyan
, the number of adult Jews needed to form a prayer circle on special occasions. Reform
minyanim
include women, which Aunt Rifke always told me I’d come to appreciate in a couple of years. She was right.

The third word was
dybbuk
.

I knew the word, and I didn’t know it. If you’d asked me its meaning, I would have answered that it meant some kind of bogey, like the Invisible Man, or just maybe the Mummy. But I learned the real meaning fast, because Rabbi Shulevitz had taken off his glasses and was wiping his forehead, and whispering, “No. No.
Ich vershtaye nicht
. . .”

Uncle Chaim was complaining, “What the hell is this? See now, we’ve lost the light already, I
told
you.” No one – me included – was paying any attention.

Aunt Rifke – who was never entirely sure that Rabbi Shulevitz
really
understood Yiddish – burst into English. “It’s a
dybbuk
, what’s not to understand? There’s a
golem
in that woman, you’ve got to get rid of it! You get a
minyan
together, right now, you get rid of it! Exorcise!”

Why on earth did she want the rabbi to start doing push-ups or jumping jacks in this moment? I was still puzzling over that when he said, “That woman, as you call her, is an angel. You cannot . . . Rifke, you do not exorcise an angel.” He was trembling – I could see that – but his voice was steady and firm.

“You do when it’s possessed!” Aunt Rifke looked utterly exasperated with everybody. “I don’t know how it could happen, but Chaim’s angel’s got a
dybbuk
in her—” she whirled on her husband “—which is why she makes you just keep painting her and painting her, day and night. You finish – really finish, it’s done, over – she might have to go back out where it’s not so nice for a
dybbuk
, you know about that? Look at her!” She pointed an orange-nailed finger straight in the blue angel’s face. “She hears me, she knows what I’m talking about. You know what I’m talking, don’t you, Miss Angel? Or I should say, Mister Dybbuk? You tell me, okay?”