Free Scraps of Heaven by Arnold Zable Page B

by Rosner’s band:
    Let us all, and all as one, toast the groom and bride
Let us all, and all as one, drink a glezele wine
    As the guests down their toasts, Yossel makes his way to the adjoining table, and stops by his sister’s side. He places a hand upon her shoulders, he is a man full of charm and a broad smile, lubricated by wine, ‘Zofia! You must sing! Please, a nigun , a Yiddish song. Nu?’ he says. ‘Why be so shy?’
    Zofia resists. Yossel persists. He turns to the guests, lifts his arms, and they join him in urging Zofia on, and she rises to her feet. Her voice falters, but slowly the mist clears, the veil lifts, and her voice regains its strength, finds its rhythm, its resonant depth. She is singing as she had sung in yenner velt , the other world, in ‘the time before’, at bar mitzvahs and weddings, community simkhes , celebrations:
    Stands a young man, deep in thought,
Thinks and thinks, the whole night long,
Who to take, or reject, without shaming.
Tumbala-tumbala-tumbalalaika
    Zofia’s voice is now full-throated, she is no longer self-conscious, and Josh sees that she can move an audience, that she is in command, and he glimpses her as she once was, far der malkhumeh , pre-war in that other land:
    Maiden, maiden, what can you tell me?
What can grow, without raining?
What can burn and not be extinguished?
What can yearn, without tears flowing?
    And Rosner, the seasoned bandleader, sensor of mood swings, reader of crowds, motions to his band, and Zofia’s tumbalalaika becomes a waltz, and the waltz a tango, and the guests are back on the dance floor, and the tango becomes a foxtrot that gives way to a faster beat; and the older dancers are retreating, and the tuxedo boys are back on their feet. ‘One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock’; and the younger dancers are jiggling, moving back-to-back, front-to-front, round full circle, and back again, ‘We’re going to rock, rock, rock till broad daylight.’
    The clock is now approaching midnight, and it is time for the newlyweds to depart, and time for the band to pack up, and for the guests to mill in the foyer, where the air reeks of aftershave seasoned with sweat. And the women emerge from the toilets one last time, with powdered cheeks and moist red lips, they lean over to kiss Josh, and he shies away from the taste of their breath, and the tightness of their embrace, yet lingers for a glimpse of their breasts.
    They step out into the mild night, and there, in the shadows, on the footpath, against the wall, leans Bloomfield, who had made his way here by tram, to the Empire Ballroom, on the south side of the river, in distant Prahran. And he had resumed his circling, interrupted by an occasional pause at the door, where he had loitered, and listened to snatches of laughter and song, and when he was invited in he had declined and resumed his circling. He clings to the fringes, to the community’s hem, content to warm himself in their reflected heat.
    It has been a late summer wedding, and it will be autumn as quick as a wink, but there remains a tan on the guests’ arms, and a flush on their cheeks. And Uncle Yossel, father of the bride, with Aunt Liebe seated by his side, is driving Zofia, Romek and Josh home in his Ford Customline, two-toned blue with silver chrome. And the car is crowded, and the occupants are a little drunk, and more than a little tired, and happier than Josh has seen them, and singing louder than he has ever heard them:
    Enjoy yourself, it’s later than you think
Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink
    Across the bridge that spans the river from the south side to the north, the car moves through the city core via Swanston Street past the town hall doors, and Josh glances at the town clock whose hands are moving past twelve o’clock. And they are gliding past the domed library and the smaller domes of the City Baths, and the neon-lit billboard