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Ruth Weissmann sat meekly at the table, waiting for her husband and her son, Yitzhak, to come down to dinner. She had called them twice already. She was an unassuming lady, prim and devoted to her husband, who happened to be both a Rabbi and an underworld macher. So she waited quietly for them to come to dinner.
It was a fine casserole that she had cooked. She could not remember off-hand where she had got the recipe from. Somehow, she thought it might have been from the new sensie that she was playing with at the moment, although that did not feel quite right. Her husband was a busy man and a frummer. He liked things in their place and a woman's place was in the home. She had a lot of spare time so she played sensies: romantic period dramas mostly. They kept her entertained.
Her latest one was good. She could not quite remember what it was all about; it seemed quite complicated, magic realist somehow. There was, actually, quite a lot today that she could not put her finger on, as though her mind was filled with a thick rolling fog.
Soon her husband materialised from the fog and sat down at the table. Efraim Weissmann was getting old gracefully. He had always been a solid man, in a muscular, rather flabby way, and an impressive, grey rabbinical beard only heightened the effect that he had on people. She was lucky to be the Rebitsin and she knew it. His second wife, Rachel Yisroel, had been divorced on amicable terms (what other choice did she have) when the Rabbi grew weary of her. He would never grow weary of Ruth, she had determined that.
The first wife, who was not spoken of, she felt must have parted on less amicable terms. It had taken her a couple of years of questions whispered around Efraim's friends to find out her name: Deborah Rosenbaum. The name seemed familiar to her today, as though it had been important to her long ago. But she had never known anyone called Deborah Rosenbaum. Was it the sensie again?
"Where's that boy of ours?" asked Efraim, gruffly, helping himself to the casserole.
Somehow Ruth had the feeling that Yitzhak would be late to dinner but she could not remember why. Maybe he was at a friend's house. She could not recall. Of course, saying that would sound stupid so she said,
"Do you want me to call him again?"
"Shame to let the food go cold," said Efraim and passed the casserole over to Ruth.
Since first playing this new sensie ("Thyestes' Feast" she seemed to recall was its name) she had passed her hours in the real world with life breathing over her like a vague dream. But it was in that fantasy world she truly lived. The setting was diaphanous, floating over centuries of history like a mist. Strange garden-ships sailed over black glassy seas. And through it all, an enigmatic figure, a dream lover, with a boyish smile and smouldering eyes. Sometimes he would appear garbed like a Pharaoh and at others in the armour of a Roman centurion, then at others in a sleek, black military uniform.
"Mmmm, this is good. What is it?"
Efraim had not noticed that, caught in a reverie, Ruth had not yet touched the casserole.
"Special recipe," she replied, almost robotically. Efraim would not understand the delights of her dreamworld so she saw no reason to try to make conversation. He felt alien to her.
"Where is Yitzhak? He doesn't know what he's missing out on."
Where was Yitzhak? Where? Somehow it seemed important.
Then, slowly, oh so slowly at first, then with exponential momentum she remembered in an awful, implacable crescendo.
Must get it out of her head. Dybbuk! Before it is too late. Get it out. Get it out. Is it too late? Too late. No! It cannot be too late.
Nell was standing watch in the hallway when she heard the strangled groan, soaring into a shrill scream. She was already running to the dining room. The door, though sturdy, was torn from its hinges as the metamorph crashed through it.
"Bloody 'ell!"
Rebitsin Weissmann was beating her head against the wall, already smeared with blood and phlegm.
"Stop her. Please stop her!" shouted the Rabbi, standing still, shocked into immobility. But Nell had already dived and tackled the frantic woman, pinning her arms to her sides. The Rebitsin went rigid, breathing shallowly.
Eventually she spoke but it was not the Rebitsin's voice. Nell felt goosebumps rise on her skin as she heard that crisp, indifferent English voice boil up from somewhere within the Rabbi's wife, slurred only by the wreckage of her teeth.
"Sorry to spoil your meal, Rabbi. But now you understand that my reach extends beyond the grave. You shall not escape it. Very soon you will be dead. I am not a cruel man. I would not have even you live for long in the wilderness I bequeath you."
"Shut him up. Shut him up!" the Rabbi was screaming. Other aghast onlookers, Jews and Shabbas goyim, had gathered now. The Rebitsin was still.
Nell felt for a pulse.
"Nah! She's kicked the metaphorical."
Geoff Hinkley, 22/10/00
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