Wendy’s prayer time always seemed wrapped up in noticing those around her, who they were, what was appealing. She never quite understood the prayers at camp, all in Hebrew. But she liked the slowness of moments they brought, and how they enabled her to pay attention to what was around her, particularly if a guy she found interesting was nearby.
The wordless melody, the pent-up buzz of the congregation, was now set free. The prayer leader began chanting the set of psalms that culminated in the greeting to the Sabbath Bride, the Lecha Dodi. The man now leading the prayers had the wide shoulders yet narrow body and hips that Wendy associated with swimmers, as though his arms were more important in propelling him than his legs. As the service progressed his legs remained rooted, but his hands and arms moved. His tallis was entirely white with white stripes, and with his wide shoulders, he looked as though he might bound into the air and soar at any minute, his spiritual force powering his ascent. His voice was a lovely clear tenor, high and smooth, gliding lovingly over each note and intonation, channeling its melody outward. Enjoying his voice, she wondered, Will I ever find myself so seduced by anything as to change my life completely?
She settled back in her chair and concentrated on the singing around her, its twittering sounds, words rising and falling, joining, trilling a note, crescendoing, falling again. The music was now a slow aching tune of yearning. For what? The Sabbath Bride? God? A heavenly Jerusalem? Messianic times? Was there something else to hope for, even actually being in the Promised Land? She’d have to ask Shani later what the worshippers were yearning for.
In the midst of the congregation, crooning, harmonizing, the prayer leader’s voice out ahead, creating the tune that others wrapped their voices around in a coiled helix of melodic shape, was one solo male voice. As the congregation harmonized, his voice kept originating his own harmony, echoing the others’ song but in his own tuneful, melodic, and utterly gorgeous way. His voice above the others made an impression, lulling and thrilling at once. Whoever the owner of this voice was, he had finessed the dilemma of how to be in a group and be a unique individual, doing both simultaneously. Wendy was in thrall, listening, and puzzled over what type of person had the confidence required to soar above the sound of the crowd, and at the same time, the musical ability to improvise. The sound of his voice penetrated her; she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She wanted to concentrate on the sound, blocking out other stimuli to let this ascending voice pulsate through her, to focus totally on her pleasure.
As she listened, a tingly, swoony, feeling overcame her. She heard harmonies from worshippers around her erupting spontaneously, sounding at once improvised and planned. She kept hearing the solo male voice, mysterious bringer of joyful melody. He was singing alone yet supportive of the communal sound, protective of the entirety of the musical montage. She speculated whether, rather than being seduced entirely, absorbed into the fibers of the entire being of another, it would be possible to have a love that was a partnership, a commingling of two voices with separate identities, which together could create a united sound?
The worshippers rose as the service built to its crescendo at the last stanza of the song to greet the Sabbath Bride. While they were standing, she tried to scan the men’s section and find the owner of the voice, or who she would like him to be. On her feet, broken off from the lulling fantasy of lush sound she had been in, yet now in motion as part of the group bending towards the Sabbath Bride emerging at the door, Wendy gazed around and asked herself, When was the last time most of these worshippers had gotten laid? She would have liked to stay in that moment of desire and connection, but getting out of her chair had shattered her pleasurable moment. Feet on the dusty floor, Wendy reverted back to her observer self: Is the intensity here completely a consequence of repressed sexual feelings, my own included? She hadn’t thought about the role of sexuality and its repression in her baalei teshuvah, but it definitely needed to be covered, she decided, feeling under her chair with her hand for her purse with the notebook as the congregation resumed its seats. She didn’t dare write a note in it now, but just wanted to assure herself that she would bolt to get it down as soon as was feasible.
More importantly, Wendy scanned the room, trying to guess where the owner of that voice was located, even though she needed to crane to see the men’s section while seated. She couldn’t discern any likely candidates, but saw a man at the periphery of the men’s section closest to the women; he was pacing and looking over the mehitza, surveying the crowd. He was looking at the women, intently, searching. He looked like he was on military patrol with the preciseness of his gait and the specificity of where he was looking. Wendy looked away; she didn’t want to be a target of his stare. Notes on sexuality and its discontents, she repeated to herself so she wouldn’t forget later as she sat and tried to follow the Hebrew prayers, with Shani pointing to the spot every so often when she became confused.
At the service’s end, Shani smiled and greeted people. Wendy and Amalia hung behind. Shani introduced Wendy to a few women their age as a friend of her cousin, here in Israel to write a dissertation. Some of them asked politely what it was about and Wendy considered how many times she would have to repeat herself, explaining what she was doing in her research and why. She hated the tedium of constantly explaining herself to new people. Could I just be back in Princeton with my grad school buddies, she thought, feeling meager and inadequate for not wanting to retrace her life for new strangers.
The first day of classes at Princeton, after the introductory seminar required for all religious studies graduate students, they adjourned to Café Metro, all eleven of them, to detox after the stress of the first class, worries about the heft and density of the reading, and early anxieties about the final paper. Each one of her cohort had a different background and potential area of research. With this group of people who were so different, she still shared so much: basic values of intellectual inquiry and skepticism, along with respect or reverence for religious phenomena. And all of them, except Matt Lewis, a former crew rower, had been bad at gym in school, like Wendy. Had a basic disconnect from physical skills led them all to academia? With her fellow grad students, she felt so at home, comfortable, and relaxed. As they trained together in graduate school, reading common texts and learning from the same mentors, their modes of discourse and thought became more strongly formed along comparable lines. Could I find a group in Jerusalem to feel at home with this year? she asked herself, feeling alone in the crowded gymnasium, having little in common with most of the people there.
Finally, the group of four left the school where the synagogue met, the happy chatter of people meeting and greeting following them, knots of individuals in threes and fours dispersing in different directions in the Jerusalem evening. As they walked, they heard the Friday night home prayers, Shalom Aleichem and Kiddush, from the windows of different apartments, a chorus of welcoming. But for who or what? Wendy thought. Are they welcoming me here to the country for my first Sabbath? Or greeting only those who are religious at a certain level, an exclusive band of worshippers? Still, Wendy enjoyed these familiar and comforting songs emanating from apartments along their route.
The dinner at Shani and Asher’s apartment was the same mix of comforting and frustrating as Wendy had experienced at Shir Tzion and on the walk home. On the one hand, it was pleasant: delicious dishes that the newlyweds had prepared together kept popping out. First came homemade whole wheat challah with all kinds of Middle Eastern spreads, alongside a wonderful Moroccan salmon with tomato sauce. Accompanying the main course of chicken baked with forty cloves of garlic were a bulgur salad with pine nuts and onions, redolent of some superb seasoning that Wendy couldn’t name, potato kugel, and green salad. There was plenty of wine, and Wendy enjoyed the pleasant tipsiness she got after a few glasses. Her week of moving at an end, it felt good to be able to drink with others and de-stress. Wendy wasn’t a big drinker, but enjoyed booze at parties, to relax, particularly when meeting so many new people. Finally, there were desserts: a variety of cookies and cakes, including what Wendy had brought from the shuk. She hadn’t been to such an elaborate meal since Passover at Grandma Essie’s.
There was pleasant conversation on a variety of topics. The other guests seemed interesting, not what she would have expected from a religious group. They were aware of the latest TV shows, movies, music, pop culture references. She thought they’d be more bookish and serious and less interesting and hip. But there was a moment when