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.
Mother was waiting for me just outside the customs area. Her hair had gone white and the wrinkles on her face had multiplied. From a woman in her late middle age, she had metamorphosed into a senior citizen. Still, her smile was unchanged, and her self-confident airs had remained as of old. I was amused to observe how her glance took in my receding hair. She knew, of course, that many men had a similar experience when they were close to thirty.
We took the bus to the terminal in Tel Aviv. From there we proceeded home in a taxi. I was too tired to engage in small talk. After a few questions about my health and progress, mother, too, remained silent. Fortunately, we arrived before the atmosphere became oppressive.
The old bedroom, in which I had grown up, looked unchanged. The sofa-bed, the small cupboard and the mahogany desk were still there. So was the shelf with my books.
“It’s all as it used to be, Mamma.”
“What did you expect? Well, you better wait here while I warm up our supper.”
I was perturbed by the arrangement of my books. I had classified them by using the Hebrew alphabet. After four years abroad, the method appeared alien. Reflectively, I leafed through a Hebrew translation of The Pickwick Papers. Before long I pushed the book aside and read pages of the original. I then turned to Light in August. Some six years earlier on, I had struggled with it. Presently, the text was clear and the style appeared smooth and flowing. To my relief, I had no difficulty with a novel by Remarque, my favourite German author.
We had supper in the compact dining room. As anticipated, mother had prepared a goose liver followed by cabbage rolls. I enjoyed every morsel, although during my Oxford days I got used to steak and kidney pie and, over in Singapore, learned to cope with Chinese cuisine.
Mother started the old questioning process while I was digging into the goose liver. She began by asking about my defence of my doctoral thesis. She then kept asking about my life in Singapore. To mother, who had never been in the Far East, a street with crowded food hawkers’ stalls appeared alien. So did my description of Chinese and Indian cultural traits and culinary attainments.
She came to her main point when I enjoyed the spicy cabbage rolls. I had written to tell her that I had met a nice girl in Singapore. Mother realised Pat was not of our race or religion. This did not perturb her. She had rung my father, who was then living in Vienna, and he convinced her that neither of them should interfere in such a delicate matter. In truth, I had discussed my plans with him before I wrote to her. All the same, I felt the urge to talk to my mother. I wanted to get her blessing.
“Do you intend to marry her?”
“It looks that way,” I conceded.
“Then you won’t be my problem any longer!” Seeing I was not going to reply, she added: “Do you love the girl?”
“I believe I do.”
“If you marry her, you would find it hard to come back to Israel, Peter’le. Have you thought about this?”
“I have, Mamma. By and large, life in Singapore is easier than over here.”
“You don’t intend to change your faith, Peter’le?”
“Of course not. Singapore is tolerant. Nobody will interfere with my faith.”
“Not even your wife?”
“Pat and I have a clear understanding in this regard. And look, Mamma, there is very little to attract me back to Tel Aviv. Father has re-settled in Vienna and, sooner or later, you’ll join him. You know I never fitted in here. The ambience of our home, and my general outlook, made me an odd man out.”
“Is there nothing to draw you back to Israel?”
“I am afraid not, Mama.”
Mother’s last question turned my mind back to my years as an advocate in Tel Aviv. I had spent them as an employee of Jacob Keren & Associates, a well known law firm in Tel Aviv. One of my colleagues was Rachel Zeitlin. She used to practise law in Jerusalem but, after the breakdown of her second marriage, took up the position of a Senior Associate in our firm. Initially, I appeared as Rachel’s junior in a number of cases assigned to her by our aging employer. In due course, we became a team.
Rachel, who was some six years older than me, was a brilliant courtroom advocate. Her timing was perfect and her manner firm and dogged. Further, she was an outstanding cross-examiner. Frequently, she exposed dishonest witnesses.
My role was mainly to fortify our legal points. Rachel, whose understanding of theory left much to be desired, relied on my analytical ability. In a sense, my task was to guard her flanks.
Before long, we became close friends. Then, one evening, she invited me over to her place. She knew I admired her and that I had fallen deeply in love with her. When we became intimate, she was still recovering from the breakdown of her second marriage. She got over her setback only after she invited me to live with her.
“Do you think of Rachel frequently, Peter’le?”
“I do, Mamma. I’ve tried hard to put her out of my mind; but I can’t.”
“Do you know Rachel and I have become friends?”
I had been aware of their friendship. Mother had met Rachel in a bridge club. Rachel had invited her for dinner and in due course they started to meet regularly. Was this an indication that Rachel, too, had not forgotten? During my years abroad, I wrote to her sporadically. Whenever I did, she replied punctually. She had told me of her friendship with my mother, asking: “How on earth could a lively woman like her have a morose son like you?”
“Rachel asks you to call on her as soon as possible. She wants you to handle a case for one of their clients: an insurance company called Rotem.”
“What sort of case, Mamma?”
“It concerns a claim by a fellow called Fischer. He fell off a scaffolding erected in a building he had designed as an architect.”
“What took him there?”
“He was also appointed as surveyor. Rachel tells me you know him. He appeared as expert witness in a few of your cases.”
“Oh yes: I remember him. I would rank his integrity at minus zero. Still, he is glib and proficient. Actually, Mamma, this type of case is very much Rachel’s domain. Why does she want to pass it to another lawyer?”
“Nowadays she scarcely appears in court. She has taken over the Banking Department. She drafts documents, handles corporate finance and has become an expert in home loans and mortgages.”
“So why haven’t they assigned to another lawyer of the firm?”
“I am sure she has reasons.”
“But should I really take on a case when I am here for just a few weeks? And how did she know I about my visit. I did not contact her.”
“I told her you were coming over for a few weeks. And, Peter’le, whether to accept or decline the brief is up to you.”
“Well, I’ll decide after I’ve seen her.”