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GRAFT A NOVEL A Thesis Presented to The Faculty of Graduate Studies of The University of Guelph by ALEXIS VON KONIGSLOW In partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts August, 2009 Alexis von Konigslow, 2009 Library and Archives Bibliotheque et 1*1 Canada Archives Canada Published Heritage Direction du Branch Patrimoine de I'edition 395 Wellington Street 395, rue Wellington OttawaONK1A0N4 OttawaONK1A0N4 Canada Canada Your file Votre reference ISBN: 978-0-494-56793-7 Our file Notre reference ISBN: 978-0-494-56793-7 NOTICE: AVIS: The author has granted a non­ L'auteur a accorde une licence non exclusive exclusive license allowing Library and permettant a la Bibliotheque et Archives Archives Canada to reproduce, Canada de reproduire, publier, archiver, publish, archive, preserve, conserve, sauvegarder, conserver, transmettre au public communicate to the public by par telecommunication ou par I'lnternet, preter, telecommunication or on the Internet, distribuer et vendre des theses partout dans le loan, distribute and sell theses monde, a des fins commerciales ou autres, sur worldwide, for commercial or non­ support microforme, papier, electronique et/ou commercial purposes, in microform, autres formats. paper, electronic and/or any other formats. The author retains copyright L'auteur conserve la propriete du droit d'auteur ownership and moral rights in this et des droits moraux qui protege cette these. Ni thesis. Neither the thesis nor la these ni des extraits substantiels de celle-ci substantial extracts from it may be ne doivent etre imprimes ou autrement printed or otherwise reproduced reproduits sans son autorisation. without the author's permission. In compliance with the Canadian Conformement a la loi canadienne sur la Privacy Act some supporting forms protection de la vie privee, quelques may have been removed from this formulaires secondaires ont ete enleves de thesis. cette these. While these forms may be included Bien que ces formulaires aient inclus dans in the document page count, their la pagination, il n'y aura aucun contenu removal does not represent any loss manquant. of content from the thesis. 1+1 Canada Graft Prologue: Oserov, Russia, 1928 "I want you to practice spelling," said Aielle. Blima crawled out from under the dining room table, and sat across from her mother. It had been work, all her behaving. This would be easy. "I want you to write our family name." Blima did, and her mother took it and crossed it out. She wrote something new, then slid the paper back "I want you to write it like this." "That spells something different." "Write it like I showed you." Blima wrote her name again, and Aielle crossed it out. "I want you to write our family name the way I show you." "I know, I said." Blima slid off the chair. She inched toward the door. "I know how to do it." Then she rushed back to the table, pushed the paper off, and it drifted to the floor. "Things that are in the world are not immutable." 1 The Day Before the First Day 1. Emily set an extra wine glass at the table and listened to the low shush of the dishwasher. It was like the waves of Lake Ontario. Maybe the lodgehouse would be carried away. Maybe her grandmother's old boyfriend would never find them. Aunt Blima shuffled into the dining room, carrying a big, white box. "Blessed are the Pacific tribes, for they dine with the saints." "Could you please be less weird?" "It's a family tradition to use your Great-grandma Aielle's good China for Passover's extra setting." "I know- " "It's not every family who serves Elijah. You'll find lots of Jews who only pour him a drink But he needs something to line his stomach. That's what our mother always said." "I remember great-grandma Aielle." "These plates were hers," said Aunt Blima. "And they're not for use by just anyone. Especially not the guests. They have germs and who knows who raised them. You'll see. It's just for prophets, and for anyone who isn't corporeal enough to scratch a good plate. In case I die, now you know how we do things in this family." "Who is this guy who's coming tonight?" "Doran Baruch." Aunt Blima handed Emily the box. "Is he related?" She might have misread the signs. He might be some long lost relative, although romance and blood-relations might not be mutually exclusive in this place. "How is your work coming along?" Aunt Blima said abruptly. 2 "Fine." "It's your thesis, your mother said." "Just the abstract, introduction and conclusion," said Emily. "The writing parts." "You must be almost finished. Your mother said you needed the quiet and the lodge is closed for the Seder. There's nothing here but quiet." Emily set the box on the table and eased open its flaps. She didn't look up. This morning, she'd opened a document on her computer and titled it (Introduction), and other than that title, she hadn't typed a letter. "Maybe my Eliyahu can help you." Blima shuffled around the table, straightening the napkins one by one. "Except if Elijah's spirit can find his way to our table after all that wine, then it really would be a Passover miracle." Emily took out a big plate, a little plate, and a delicate little bowl, and arranged them carefully. She probably did need a miracle. She couldn't admit that, however, especially not to family. "You see lovie, every year, Elijah drinks with the Pacific Ocean Jews, whose geographic location allows them to dine first and be most blessed. But soon after the nightfall of the Tasmanian Jewish populations, he gets lost in the region of the Himalayas. Every year, the same. He's shikkered, you see, because all of those families and all that wine, and most of it, I hate to tell you, is Manishevits. It reflects badly on our people, but there you have it." "I like Manishevits." "Elijah generally wakes up in late April, in either a cave, or in a motel with coin operated beds." "Can we leave a setting for any ghost?" 3 Blima put a warm hand on Emily's arm. "Doran Baruch should sit at the head of the table, and your Bubie Sonja should sit beside him. I was going to put Elijah in between Sonja and Doran to make them behave. But as we well know, he hardly ever shows up. And who knows. He might even like if they got frisky." "That's my grandmother," said Emily, "please don't be gross." "Elijah's ways are not for us to understand." Aunt Blima shuffled back to the cupboard. Gray hair, pink cheeks, perfectly put together in slacks and a sweater, she looked exactly the same as she'd always looked, if slightly more compact. Maybe Emily was taller now. "Maybe I should sit on Doran's other side," Aunt Blima said after a moment, "but maybe I shouldn't." "Bubie Sonja and her boyfriend need privacy, you mean." "Oh no." Blima gathered together the name cards that Emily had printed. "I was just joking that they might hold hands under the table. Although. You never know. Sometimes your uncle Moshe and I still do, but mostly because he forgets which fingers are his after all these years, and he grabs the wrong ones when he wants to wring his hands." "Who invited Mr. Baruch?" "Who do you think?" "My Bubie?" "God no. He invited himself. He called yesterday in the morning. You can't refuse. If someone asks you to attend a Seder, you have to say 'of course'. It's called a Mitzvah." "I know." Emily heard a creak, and she turned to the doorway. Since she got here, she'd often imagined that her cousin was keeping an eye on her. "A mitzvah is a law of comportment." Blima shuffled back to the kitchen. 4 And Jonah was probably just cooking, or whatever he was paid to do here. "It's a good deed, but regulated," Aunt Blima veiled through the door. "Now you know." Emily moved from place setting to place setting, rattling the knives and forks and dropping them on the table, and making cups in the cupboards clatter. Jonah wasn't out there. Otherwise, he would have walked in as soon as Aunt Blima had gone out. 2. Harpo felt tugged along, like he was attached to a string and someone at the other end was pulling. He was one of those wooden ducks with wheels that poor families bought their kids instead of pets, and, right now, the string was leading him on a tour of the waterfront. He slowed, to test it out, and there it was again. He hurried along the path, up a gentle incline full of weeds and spots of light like pennies, that were less bright now than when he'd started out. It must be getting late. He must be getting hungry. Harpo slowed as he passed the lodge's canoe shed, then tripped over a broken oar, propelled forward again. No water sports. He tried to stop at the equipment shed, but found himself stumbling forward faster instead. No fishing either. That one was okay. He hadn't had the stomach for fishing since that trip to Montauk anyway. On he went again. He could hear the bustling of people who'd been packed like sardines in the lodge last night. He'd bet they were whooping it up on the waterfront now, with their deckchairs and bathing suits and the little martinis with the snaking orange peels too, probably.

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