Reason on a Scaffolding

Lydda’s airport – recently renamed the International Airport of Tel Aviv – had been reconstructed during my two years of study at Oxford and my two first years in Singapore. The old viewing gallery, from which you could drop a parcel with black market money to a departing friend, was gone. So were the untidy passages leading from the pandemonium of the main hall to the well guarded and orderly departure gates. The new airport looked smart, tidy and functional. Like most airports I had seen during my years of self-imposed exile, it had an impersonal atmosphere. ...

Next morning I walked over to Rothschild’s Boulevard. The old building, housing Jacob Keren’s law firm, looked as dilapidated as ever. So did the boulevard. The sparse shrubs along the centre lane had grown wild. They had not been pruned for months. Indeed, this ancient part of Tel Aviv remained as ugly and as untidy as it had been during my pupillage. The door to the office of the Head of Bank Documentation was slightly ajar. Having knocked and entered, I looked Rachel over with amazement. In her days as a courtroom advocate, she had looked tidy and trim. Now no trace was left of her smart coiffure and her elegant posture. I was facing a woman past her youth. True, her confident manner and her captivating smile had remained unaltered. Somehow, though, she no longer looked like the woman I had worshipped. ...

Mother looked at me searchingly when I passed through the door. After a short pause, she came straight to the point: “What went wrong when you met Rachel?” “She is no longer the woman I fell for. She is a different person.” “But, Peter’le, did you fall for the real Rachel or did you create your own image of her?” Mother’s question made me see light. The real Rachel was a fine woman: smart, vivacious and enterprising. She had entered into my barren life at the appropriate moment. But, in my simplicity, I had placed her on a pedestal. I had created a perfect statue and, like Pygmalion of old, was perturbed when I discovered her real image. ...

To my relief, Boaz and Rachel had agreed on a ‘bundle’ of documents. Accordingly, the judge was entitled to review the documents before the hearing. A conscientious man like Morag would go ahead. In consequence, he would have a basic grasp of the case before the trial. The more I looked at the documents the less easy I felt. Fischer had stated in his report of the accident that he had parked his car on the grounds at about 8.30 a.m. The car-park-attendant’s record suggested he had arrived half an hour earlier. I realised it might have taken Fischer time to find a vacant lot. Thirty minutes, though, suggested the car park had been near full. But could this happen early in the morning? ...

During the Friday lunch, I devoured the Mediterranean dishes as if I had been starving for days. When the meal came to its end, an amused Rachel wanted to know what sort of food I took overseas. She grinned when I told her Chinese cuisine was tolerable but that the delight of boiled mutton kept eluding me during my two years at Oxford. She was not surprised when I repeated my mother’s observation about the oddity of our instructions. She, too, sensed that Ruth might have acted without authority. All the same, it was best to stick to our instructions. The case was bound to turn on the legal issue. A searching cross-examination could be counter productive. ...

On Saturday – the day of rest in Israel – I went again through the documents. I was by then certain Fischer was lying between his teeth. Ruth was prepared to stand by him. Still, she had not asked us to throw the towel in. To look up recent authorities, I went down to the Supreme Court library on Sunday morning. As soon as I entered, I spotted Boaz. He, too, was refreshing his memory. To my delight, he invited me to have morning coffee with him. ...

Boaz and myself wore gowns: a remnant of the colonial period. The judges had by then discarded the archaic attire. They wore a black silk jacket and a matching discreet tie. Wigs were no longer in use. As I entered the courtroom accompanied by Rachel and a young employee of Rotem, Zvi Fischer stepped over and shook my hand. “I’ve heard you are back, Eli. I hope you liked Oxford.” ...

Boaz and Fischer slid out of the courtroom forthwith. I was taking off my gown when Ruth Schwartz’s voice startled me. “Why didn’t you stick to your instructions?” Her voice was harsh and her demeanour antagonistic. “What on earth do you mean?” I asked angrily. Before Ruth had the time to respond, Rachel approached us. “I’ll tell you what she means: she wanted us to lose the case. Well, Rotem did not instruct us to do so. And we should not have accepted such a brief. We are lawyers: not clowns.” Rachel was breathing hard. On occasions, I had seen her irked or annoyed. But she had never lost her temper before. ...

I had no wish to remain in the empty courtroom for about three hours or to join the queue of advocates at the cafeteria. To save mother the trouble of preparing a hasty lunch, I got myself a Pitah Falafel – a local delicacy which had lined the pockets of many a surgeon specialising in abdominal ulcer operations – and walked home. In those golden days of youth, a half hour’s walk appeared a trifle. ...

Rachel was waiting for me when I arrived sharp on time. I admired the skill she showed as she steered us through the congested traffic. To my delight, we got the very table we used to occupy in the same restaurant in times past. Rachel grinned again as I devoured the excellent dishes. During the first two courses we talked about the case. Rachel was happy with the settlement but, like myself, continued to wonder about Fischer. Why would an experienced expert witness step out of line for no apparent reason? He knew I had been instructed to handle him with silk gloves. What had induced him to become antagonistic when the reply was obvious and harmless? ...