"How so?"
"The captain came back and said"-Rubin smacked his forehead with his palm, in the style of a man having an epiphany-" 'It's supposed to be eight people rowing and one person yelling'."
Tess was so unaccustomed to Rubin's making jokes that it took her a bewildered moment to laugh. But he was clearly pleased by her guffaw, belated though it might be.
"A crew-Jew joke! You're in a good mood this morning."
"It's a pretty day, got that nice crisp autumn feel. And it feels good to be doing something. I was wrong not to tell you about Natalie's father, I see that now. I was so wrapped up in the idea that it was a shanda, something I must never speak of outside the family. But he didn't tell you anything, did he?"
"No, he didn't."
"So I was crazy, all those years, worrying about nothing. What a waste."
Burdened with the information she was keeping from Rubin, Tess could only nod noncommittally.
The Jaguar drove the way that Tess's greyhound sometimes ran when seized by memories of the track-smooth and fast, with a kind of carefree rhapsody.
"My midlife-crisis car," Rubin said, almost apologetic. "And, of course, I couldn't buy German."
"Of course? Oh, of course. I get to thinking that all cars are the same, mere modes of transportation. But this really is a different ride from my fourteen-year-old Toyota."
"Do you want to try it?"
"No, I'd be too nervous behind the wheel of something whose value exceeds my net worth."
"It's not that dear."
"And my net worth isn't that high."
They had already covered over ninety miles, reaching the point where the roads, shaped by the demands of the Appalachians, started to climb and curve. Mark Rubin was relishing the drive as much as the car. In sunglasses, his usual dark suit and tie-shirt immaculate, thick hair gleaming-he had an almost James Bond-like savoir faire, Tess thought. Assuming one could imagine James Bond wearing a yarmulke.
"I have to ask you something," she said.
" 'Have to'-that construction actually means a person wants to ask something but knows it's rude."
"Not rude, but naive perhaps. Anyway, the yarmulke-what's the point?"
"It reminds me that God is always above me."
"You could wear a hat. Besides, if you need a piece of cloth to remind you where God is, how sturdy is your faith?"
"At some point rituals cannot be deconstructed. The acceptance of ritual is part of faith. Why take communion? Why bow to the east in prayer?"
"I don't do any of those things, but at least they can be done in private. A yarmulke-it announces you're a Jew."
"So?"
"So did six-pointed stars pinned to jackets, and everyone agrees those were a bad idea."
"One is a choice, the other an attempt to stigmatize."
"But having made the choice, you single yourself out, which can lead people to stigmatize you anyway."
"Single myself out? There are more than a hundred thousand Jews in the Baltimore area. I'm far from alone."
"I mean-the yarmulke tells everyone you're Jewish, which invites everything you do to be viewed through the prism of all sorts of prejudices and judgments." Tess was thinking about how tough he had been in negotiation, the day she had overheard him on the phone. His contact in Montreal probably ascribed Rubin's behavior to his religion-assuming the Montreal supplier wasn't a Jew himself. "Don't you ever want to pass through the world anonymously, responsible for only yourself?"
"Look, Tess, I can take my yarmulke off, but what will that gain me? Do you think that Mark Rubin-seller of furs, resident of Pikesville, owner of a striking yet prominent nose"-he thrummed the tip of said nose with an index finger-"is going to pass? I've never wanted to be anyone but who I am. No offense, but your views on religion are a little warped."
"Warped?"
"Maybe that's too strong a word. But-you'll forgive me a little dime-store psychology-just because you like to have it both ways doesn't mean everyone else wants to play the same game."
"What do you mean?" He had, however accidentally, echoed an accusation made against Tess not long ago, although in a different context.
"You like this game you play, shifting between identities, confusing people. With me, you act like a shiksa naif. But I bet when it suits you, when you're around more unambiguously goyish types, you play the Jew."
He had scored a bull's-eye, but Tess didn't see any reason to concede his point.
"I'm not playing anything. I'm legitimately stranded between two religions."
"Do you believe in God?"
"That's awfully personal."
Rubin laughed. It was the first time Tess had heard his laugh, and it was full-bodied, extremely appealing, the kind of laugh that made her want to keep saying funny things.
"Tess, you've asked me about my marriage, my sex life, my wife's convict father, and my finances. I think I'm entitled to ask whether you believe in God."
"Okay, okay. I… do."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure I could explain it."
"Maybe there's your yarmulke."
"I don't get it."
"Think about it."
Tess might have said something more, but as they crossed the next summit, the horizon turned gray-green and the air changed perceptibly. A sudden drenching rainstorm began moments later, a downpour so complete that visibility was reduced to virtually nothing. The scenario happened to match one of Tess's recurring nightmares, one in which she was driving but could not see-because of weather or simply because her eyes refused to open.
"Pull over," she urged Rubin in a tight, dry voice.
"It's safer to keep going, as long as I can see the taillights of the car ahead."
"Yeah, assuming he's still on the road. You could follow him right off the side of the mountain, too."
Rubin did not bother to reply, just drove in grim silence. The freak storm lasted no more than a minute or two, but Tess spent every endless second awaiting a plunge over the side of the highway or the sudden jolt of a runaway truck on the Jaguar's bumper. She would have felt so much better if she were behind the wheel.
The rain ended as abruptly as it began, stopping completely instead of tapering off. Over the next few miles, Tess and Mark passed dozens of cars on the shoulder-cars with crumpled fronts or crushed backs, surrounded by dazed-looking people. At least no one appeared to have been badly injured.
"See?" Mark said.
"See what?"
"They pulled over and ended up having accidents."
"You don't know that. They could have pulled over after the collisions."
"Do you always insist on having the last word?"
Tess opened her mouth, saw the trap he had set for her, and shut it, shaking her head emphatically instead. Rubin's laugh boomed out again, but she could not quite recapture the pleasant mood. The rain had seemed prophetic, a reminder that they had crossed some unseen boundary and all natural laws were now suspended.
Amos Greif lived outside Grantsville on a large farm, a place of several hundred acres judging by the long expanse of barbed-wire fence that fronted the roadway, no trespassing signs were posted every few feet, and when the Jaguar turned into the long, dirt driveway, two mutts raced it for much of the way, dropping out only because the distance was so great, almost two miles by the odometer.
Tess hummed a few lines from the old Deliverance banjo duet.
"Are you sure this guy is Jewish?" she asked Rubin.
"In his own way, yes."
"How did a car thief ever make a living in Grantsville? It's pretty small."
"Amos ran a chop shop out here, dismantling cars stolen from Baltimore and Pittsburgh-and who knows what else. I think he took care of the paperwork, too."
"One-stop shopping. How convenient."