Parishioners and Other Stories. Joseph Dylan

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 store in a predominantly Jewish section of Toronto; of his life in the oil and gas business; and, of his move to China two years ago. “This is where the money is,” he informed her. “You mark my words, China is where the action is. And it’s gonna be that way for a long time.”

      “Not for me,” Zhang Heng replied. “Not for me...Now, I must be getting home.”

      “You sure.” He made an audible sigh, feigning great disappointment.

      “I’m sure. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

      “Let me catch you a cab.” Heng, who was used to riding buses in Shanghai, was not about to turn down a free taxi ride. Rosenthal waved down a cab. He opened the door for her. After she got in the back seat, he asked. “Can we do this again?”

      “You mean dinner?”

      “Of course, I mean dinner. What else could I mean?” Levinson smiled. “Dinner. Just the two of us.”

      Biting down on her lower lip, she said, “I suppose so.”

      “I’ve had a very pleasant evening,” he said, bending over and kissing her on the cheek. The touch of his lips was not all that unappealing.

      “Me, too.” She smiled off into the distance, giving her address to the cab driver.

      Handing the cab driver two twenty RMB notes, he said, “This ought to get you home.” As the cab pulled away, she glanced back at Rosenthal. Tugging on his shirtsleeve, a panhandler was begging for money. Rosenthal shook the beggar’s hand away abruptly and waved to her in the departing taxi.

      In the taxi, on the way home, she reflected upon the evening. Joshua Rosenthal was an unusual, perhaps even peculiar, man. Still, she had enjoyed his company, despite his almost adolescent demeanor. He was kind; he was considerate; and, he was generous. These were things that her two previous Chinese boyfriends had lacked.

      Age, she told herself, was something relative. Besides, she was soon to be twenty-nine and that was practically middle age for a Chinese woman. Finally, she wondered if Joshua Rosenthal could possibly open doors for her to get out of China. She suspected he could. She hoped he could.

      As soon as she reached her apartment, she kicked off her high heels and picked up her mobile phone. She dialed her sister, Hui, in Beijing. It was just after ten and Hui would still be up after putting her daughter to bed. Hui answered on the third ring.

      “How are you?” inquired Heng. Just fine, her sister told her. Then she asked about her husband and her young daughter. Her daughter was named Heng after her. They exchanged further pleasantries about their mother, work, and life. Then, Heng came out and asked her, “What do you think of older men?”

      “What do I think of older men?”

      “Yeah, what do you think of older men?”

      “It depends. How old?”

      “Old...Old as dad.”

      “It all depends. Is he nice? Does he have any money?” Hui’s husband had been unemployed as an accountant for three months and even before that they had lived from paycheck to paycheck. For Hui, money was important in a relationship.

      “I think so.”

      “A lot.”

      “Enough. Besides he’s nice.”

      Heng could hear her sister sigh on the other end of the line. “Money can erase a lot of problems,” she said. “Of course, dad would never have approved. You can be certain that mom won’t approve.”

      “I don’t need her permission anymore.”

      “I guess not.” They talked for a few more minutes. Heng told Hui how she had met Rosenthal and what he did for a living. For a few more minutes, they just talked about life again, and how each of them was getting along. That night, when she went to bed, she wondered what it would be like to be rich. What it would be like to be rich and living somewhere outside China.

      Fall that year in Shanghai was blessedly languid and warm. Gone were the thundershowers of the summer. The sun each day traced its arc in a cloudless sky. Zhang Heng began seeing Joshua Rosenthal each weekend for dinner, each restaurant different, each restaurant more than a little out of her means. Soon, it was a few nights a week. If Rosenthal begrudged Heng’s expensive taste in restaurants, he never complained. As date followed date, as he began knowing Heng better, he started holding her hand as they stepped into the restaurants and when they sauntered down the sidewalks. Soon, she began letting him wrap his arm around her as they walked. Then came the night, she allowed him to kiss her on the mouth. Kissing her on the mouth was not nearly as repulsive as she thought it might be given Levinson’s age. No, it had not been repulsive at all. Despite the irrepressible grin, the sometime irritating laugh, she found herself growing more fond of Rosenthal. Joshua Rosenthal was a much more serious man than she had first given him credit for. He was indeed clever. Though he was generous, she could