or Kaufmann sons was enough to make her weep. After all, she’d been the one to beg her parents to do things differently. She’d wanted them to send her to America. She wanted a college degree. To her surprise, they’d readily agreed. Her mother in particular had been supportive of her only daughter’s wishes. ‘If Mimí wants to study, she should. I see absolutely no reason
not
to send her.’ She ought to have spotted the difference. Finding no reason
not
to send her wasn’t quite the same thing as wanting to send her. But she was sent abroad to one of the best schools, no expense spared, just as she wanted. In her four years at Cornell, her parents made sure she lacked for nothing.
Now, on her return, she would be expected to make good on their investment. It wasn’t about the money. The Hausmanns ‘had more money than God’, as she’d once overheard someone say. It was about something more elusive, less graspable. They wanted her to make a good
match
, the right sort of man from the right sort of family. Betty had
no
idea just how claustrophobic it could be. Venezuela had been good to those Jews who’d come in the 1920s and 30s as professionals. These immigrants were not
shtetl
Jews, fleeing pogroms and living timid lives in their new, adopted homes. No, the Jewish immigrants who arrived in Caracas were prosperous, influential people. They settled into palatial homes in Altamira and the like, and the Hausmanns were no exception. Within a generation, the Hausmanns produced two Nobel prize-winning scientists, scores of doctors, two judges, a novelist and three government ministers, including her uncle, Jorge Hausmann,
el ministro
. The Minister. Everyone knew Jorge Hausmann. One summer when Embeth was in high school, there’d been talk of a match between Embeth and Julio, Uncle Jorge’s middle son. Fortunately, her mother had seen the look of horror on Embeth’s face when the subject was first broached and she swiftly put an end to the hopeful speculations.
At the thought of her mother, Embeth’s stomach gave a little lurch. Hard as it was to
imagine
, in just under a week’s time she’d be back there in Caracas, back amongst her family, sitting under the soft, warm glow of the chandelier that hung above the dining table. The maids, Sophia and Mercedes, who’d been with the family as long as Embeth could remember, would bring in the many dishes. Her mother, Miriám, would serve herself first, then indicate Embeth’s turn, watching her carefully to make sure she didn’t overeat. Miriám needn’t worry. The puppy fat Embeth had had at thirteen had long since been shed. Now, at twenty-two, she was every bit as slender as Miriám. She would never say it out loud, least of all to Betty, but when she’d first met Betty’s mother at the end of their freshman year, she’d offered up a silent prayer of thanks. She couldn’t
imagine
having a mother like Betty’s. Enormous, with triple chins that quivered every time she spoke, a cigarette hanging permanently from fleshy, over-ripe lips and those
feet
. . . like pink sausages stuffed into scuffed, pointed shoes. She’d stared at her, unable to recognise in her the fresh-faced Betty she’d come to know and love. There was almost nothing of Betty in Sally, or vice-versa. How could
that
be? Miriám was everything Embeth wanted to be. And more. What, she wondered to herself, must it be like to have a mother like
that
?
She hauled the last suitcase onto the bed. One more to go. What would her mother be doing right now? It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon in New York, four p.m. in Caracas. It was a Tuesday. She would just be returning from tennis. Her mother’s life was a never-ending stream of social engagements, charity functions and exercise. She played tennis, rode horses and practised daily the tortuous calisthenics that kept her slender and firmly toned. But mostly she did nothing. Embeth had never seen her mother read anything other than a
not
to send her.’ She ought to have spotted the difference. Finding no reason
not
to send her wasn’t quite the same thing as wanting to send her. But she was sent abroad to one of the best schools, no expense spared, just as she wanted. In her four years at Cornell, her parents made sure she lacked for nothing.
Now, on her return, she would be expected to make good on their investment. It wasn’t about the money. The Hausmanns ‘had more money than God’, as she’d once overheard someone say. It was about something more elusive, less graspable. They wanted her to make a good
match
, the right sort of man from the right sort of family. Betty had
no
idea just how claustrophobic it could be. Venezuela had been good to those Jews who’d come in the 1920s and 30s as professionals. These immigrants were not
shtetl
Jews, fleeing pogroms and living timid lives in their new, adopted homes. No, the Jewish immigrants who arrived in Caracas were prosperous, influential people. They settled into palatial homes in Altamira and the like, and the Hausmanns were no exception. Within a generation, the Hausmanns produced two Nobel prize-winning scientists, scores of doctors, two judges, a novelist and three government ministers, including her uncle, Jorge Hausmann,
el ministro
. The Minister. Everyone knew Jorge Hausmann. One summer when Embeth was in high school, there’d been talk of a match between Embeth and Julio, Uncle Jorge’s middle son. Fortunately, her mother had seen the look of horror on Embeth’s face when the subject was first broached and she swiftly put an end to the hopeful speculations.
At the thought of her mother, Embeth’s stomach gave a little lurch. Hard as it was to
imagine
, in just under a week’s time she’d be back there in Caracas, back amongst her family, sitting under the soft, warm glow of the chandelier that hung above the dining table. The maids, Sophia and Mercedes, who’d been with the family as long as Embeth could remember, would bring in the many dishes. Her mother, Miriám, would serve herself first, then indicate Embeth’s turn, watching her carefully to make sure she didn’t overeat. Miriám needn’t worry. The puppy fat Embeth had had at thirteen had long since been shed. Now, at twenty-two, she was every bit as slender as Miriám. She would never say it out loud, least of all to Betty, but when she’d first met Betty’s mother at the end of their freshman year, she’d offered up a silent prayer of thanks. She couldn’t
imagine
having a mother like Betty’s. Enormous, with triple chins that quivered every time she spoke, a cigarette hanging permanently from fleshy, over-ripe lips and those
feet
. . . like pink sausages stuffed into scuffed, pointed shoes. She’d stared at her, unable to recognise in her the fresh-faced Betty she’d come to know and love. There was almost nothing of Betty in Sally, or vice-versa. How could
that
be? Miriám was everything Embeth wanted to be. And more. What, she wondered to herself, must it be like to have a mother like
that
?
She hauled the last suitcase onto the bed. One more to go. What would her mother be doing right now? It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon in New York, four p.m. in Caracas. It was a Tuesday. She would just be returning from tennis. Her mother’s life was a never-ending stream of social engagements, charity functions and exercise. She played tennis, rode horses and practised daily the tortuous calisthenics that kept her slender and firmly toned. But mostly she did nothing. Embeth had never seen her mother read anything other than a
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