of wine which she sipped listening to Rosenthal expand on his life. She put down her chopsticks and placed her dish aside. As the waitress collected their plates, he ordered another martini.
“Ever married?” she asked him.
“Twice married, twice divorced.” Laughing, he held up two fingers as though he was making a “V” for victory sign. “Made a lot of money for the attorneys. A lot of money.”
“That would seem to make you a two-time loser,” Zhang Heng said. Divorce seemed like such a casual matter to the Westerners she knew.
“Perhaps so,” Rosenthal said, shrugging his shoulders. “Perhaps not.”
“In China, divorce is a disgrace,” she exclaimed. “It represents a personal failure.”
“Well, it’s not quite that way we see it in the West. It’s not that way in Canada. It’s not that way in the States or in Europe. Not that it’s something to be proud of, no sir. It’s not something to be proud of, but it’s not a disgrace. It may be a failure, but it’s not a disgrace.”
“Maybe it should be.” Heng swirled what was left of the red wine in her goblet and then swallowed it. “You’re an odd man, Mr. Rosenthal. Maybe not odd, but just different.”
“My ex-wives would definitely say that.” Again, he guffawed. He brushed his hand across his forehead as though he was wiping away a sheen of perspiration. He beamed.
“Say that you’re odd.”
“Probably say that I’m different. I was twenty-two when I married my first wife. I was just a year out of college, trying to claw my way up the corporate ladder. She was a good Jewish girl, my first wife. Good in every sense of the word. I stayed with her for fifteen years. We had a boy and a girl.”
“What happened?”
“We drifted apart. I had my career. She had her family, our family” he said, spreading his arms apart. “I was working twelve hour days and she was home alone with the kids. I didn’t have the time for her. I didn’t have the time for them. As time wore on, we drifted further and further apart. It just wasn’t working out. At some point all the love in the marriage was just gone. It was as simple as that.”
“Was it worth it?” As she asked, she looked around the restaurant at the other couples. Which ones were married? Which ones weren’t? Which ones would eventually divorce?
“Was what worth it?” He acted as though he failed to understand the question.
“Getting the divorce from your first wife. Was it worth it?”
“Oh, my. Heavens yes.” He grinned, draining the second martini. “We’d be miserable if we were still together. She married a lawyer two years after we split up. A real mensch.”
“What’s a mensch?” She dabbed at a speck of rice resting on her chin.
“It’s Yiddish. A mensch is a stand-up guy. Someone who could be there for her. Be there for her the way I never could. The way I’d never wanted to be...No she traded up in the bargain. She got a good deal. I was pleased for her. I was happy she got what she wanted. I was even happier I got what I wanted.” A gracious smile played across his face. It was the gracious smile of a pastor greeting his flock as they passed through the doorway out of the church when services were over.
“I see...”
“No you don’t...you can’t possibly understand.” Suddenly Rosenthal seemed very serious, speaking with some vehemence. “You’re too young. You’ve never been married. You’ve never had kids. You’ve never had to deal with in-laws. You’ve never had to deal with in-laws that you couldn’t stand. You’ve never been up all night nursing one of your kid’s fevers. You’ve never had to make the rounds with the family on all the religious holidays. You’ve never started to grow old with anybody. You’ve never had to put up with the ups and downs of a relationship. You just don’t know.” Rosenthal stirred his martini with the plastic swizzle stick. Then he took the swizzle stick and swallowed the two olives that were still impaled on it.
“Maybe I don’t,” she said. For a moment she was silent. The joviality had abruptly disappeared. “Maybe I don’t.” Heng looked over at the waitress to see if she had heard any of Rosenthal’s brief tirade. Levinson looked over at her, too. As he did so, she caught his eye. He began waving his empty martini glass. Guessing, Heng said, “Make that one more martini.” With some hesitancy, she asked, “So tell me about your second marriage?”
“I was on the rebound. Just like in the movies, just like in all the dime novels, I married my secretary. She was a very pretty, very efficient young woman, but she was a goy.”
“What’s a goy?”
“She wasn’t of the faith. She wasn’t Jewish. First wives are almost always Jewish. Second wives...” He raised his arm and with a rocking, up and down motion with his hand that indicated maybe yes, maybe no, he said, “I don’t know why it’s that way. It mystifies me to this day.”
“Did it matter?”
He took a sip of his martini before he replied. “That. Not really. The Jewish bit wasn’t a problem. It was the rest of it. For years she had managed my office. I thought she could manage my life. She couldn’t. Where she had always been friendly and cheerful at work, she became an obnoxious, hypochondriacal bore. We got divorced three years later. There were no children. It was an amicable split. In fact, I’m still on amiable terms with both my wives. There weren’t a lot of hard feelings when the marriages fell apart. Both divorces were unusual in that way.” Where he had seemed somewhat jovial a few minutes ago, he now seemed somewhat morose.
“It doesn’t sound as though you liked being married.”
“Liked it. I loved it for a few years. Then it just wore out. Both times, it just wore a little bit thin. I liked it well enough in the beginning both times.”
“I understand.”
“I just wish you did.” Just as quickly as his mood had changed before, it changed again. He flashed her that same big top smirk. There was that twinkle in his eyes.
Once they departed the restaurant, they strolled down the Bund. The sun having set, the street lights were on. Due to the change in season, many of the leaves had fallen, and the harsh light of the overhead street lamps filtered through the bare branches of the trees along the sidewalk. Though it was autumn, it was still warm enough for her to stroll along without wearing the sweater that she’d brought with her. In her high heels, strolling beside him, she found that Rosenthal was scarcely taller than she was. Reflecting off the water of the Pu River was the pale moonlight of the rising half-crescent of the moon. A breeze was blowing in over the water. It was a dry, cool breeze that took the edge off the humidity that had so oppressed the city over the past few months. The Bund was thronging with people. Couples ambled arm-in arm; apartment dwellers walked home carrying shopping bags full of goods; tourist groups trod behind their guides who held up banners for them to follow; and, panhandlers approached all those who went by, shaking their cellophane cups at the pedestrians begging for money. Heng walked beside Levinson for about a half hour. Walking with his hands in his pockets, he talked a little bit about his life and when he wasn’t talking he was whistling some tune or other that she didn’t recognize. Here and there, Rosenthal told her more about his life. His life growing up in Toronto, his parents running a mom-and-pop grocery
