Boaz arrived before me. As soon as we had placed our orders, he told me the truth about Fischer. A few days before our trial, Boaz went to have an eye check. As he stepped into the waiting room, Fischer emerged from the ophthalmologist’s room. His eyes were still blurred and so he failed to recognise Boaz. From Fischer’s conversation with the receptionist, Boaz gleaned that Fischer was making an appointment for the removal of one of his cataracts. Dr Much was uneasy about operating on both eyes together.

“What did you do?”

“I went over and greeted Fischer. He was embarrassed but after a while blurted out that he had been suffering from cataracts on both eyes for a few years. Dr Much had urged him not to delay surgery any further. It was best to operate forthwith.”

I looked at Boaz uneasily. Our profession imposed certain ethical doctrines on us. Every lawyer was ‘an officer of the court’. Misleading a judge or suppressing the truth was an offence. Reading my thoughts, Boaz explained he would have discharged himself from the case if had learned the truth earlier on. He was not prepared to leave his client in the lurch just before the trial.

I realised that, in Boaz’s position, I would have taken the same course. He faced Hobson’s choice: desert your client or compromise yourself. Boaz’s misgivings were allayed when we agreed to divide the case into two separate parts. The ex gratia settlement got him off the hook.

“I feel sorry for Fischer.” I observed. “No wonder his eyes could not focus. And he lost his cool as soon as my questions got too close to the mark for comfort. Still, now that I know the facts, I can’t understand why they eluded us.”

“Again, I agree, Eli. I believe Fischer arrived at the site at about eight o’clock. He lost his way as he climbed up. When he realised he had overshot, he returned to the first floor. All this took a while! Impaired eyesight is the obvious explanation.”

“A man in his condition should not climb up a scaffolding. He was no longer fit for his job. But I can see his dilemma. If the cat got out of the bag, he would lose his livelihood,” I concluded

“Precisely. Who would employ a surveyor with defective eyesight? Fischer tried to hang on. Well, we know the outcome.”

“Did Ruth know about his condition?”

“I suspect she did. Still, to Rotem the ex gratia payment is a mere trifle. Fischer was their regular expert witness. The payment will help to tide him over.”

All in all, I found Boaz’s analysis unexceptional. In those early years, any eye surgery was serious. The healing process was prolonged and the prognosis – especially in the case of cataract removals – was questionable.

Having exhausted the issues respecting the trial, we turned to personal affairs. Boaz told me all about his life in the Kibbutz, about Miri and about their children. I told him many of the anecdotes I picked up at Oxford. I was amused by the shudder that passed his spine when I referred to boiled mutton. We laughed together when I related my reaction to hot Indian and Indonesian dishes.

He also told me about his life as a back bencher of his left-wing party. On some occasions he had to vote with the other MPs even if his conscience pricked him.

“But surely,” I told him, “in the very least you can bring up the social problems that used to bother up. And you hold the key to law reform.”

“The trouble is that politician raise questions only when an issue is topical: if it can bring them votes. Many of the idea we have developed, for instance, about fixed pensions for injured parties, are not popular at the moment. Parliament will deal with them when some interested lobbies emerge. Sometime, we can trigger them. But such instances are rare.”

“Would you have better chances if you moved to the front bench – became a minister?”

“Marginally. You see a front bencher must always reckon with his electorate.”

“Still, will you get there?”

“Time will tell.”

“If you had remained with the law, you could by now be on the Bench!”

“Perhaps. But, Eli, I still prefer to slog on in politics. I’ve made my choice.”

I accompanied Boaz to Tel Aviv’s old bus exchange. He asked when I would visit Israel again. He had been told I had met a nice girl in Singapore and assumed I would marry her and stay put in her town.

“Are you more content there than with us, Eli?”

“Difficult to say. You see, here in Israel I shall always be an insider who does not fit in. The best choice of the odd man out is to live away from home. He is unlikely to be ‘accepted’ but, as long as he is sensible, he will be regarded an outsider who moves with the tide. It can be a pleasant existence.”

“I wish you well, Eli. And, yes, I know what you are talking about. Here, at home, everybody knows everybody. Look at our case. You have known Rachel, Ruth, Fischer Morag and me for years. Your mother, too, knows every person or, in the very least, hard the relevant gossip! It is a small, incestuous, network. True, we are a tolerant lot. Nobody interferes with you if you don’t cross the line. But how many times did you, yourself, do things because you knew they were expected of you?”

“Most of the time. Worse still, on many occasions I did not raise my voice …”

“Because you thought it best to shut up?”

“That too, Boaz. But usually I maintained my silence because ‘acting’ would have been ‘unacceptable’.”

“And overseas you are a free man?”

“Not really. Each society has its norms and conventional wisdom. But nobody expects an outsider to be a member of the crowd. In consequence, it is easy to follow the old wisdom of ‘don’t see, don’t hear and don’t speak’. It makes life easy.”

“I must agree. But you know, Eli: the way back will always be an option.”

“Precisely. And you can trust me to keep a foot in the door.”

We joined the lengthy queue in front of bus stop to Haifa. Most busses left the depot full to the brim. In sheer disregard of local norms, Boaz did not board a congested bus. Shortly after that packed sardines can departed, another bus slipped in. Boaz embarked, found a comfortable seat and let down the window. We kept talking until the bus went on its way.

Mother was not surprised by my revelations. My account of the proceedings had aroused her suspicions. My description of Fischer’s demeanour suggested to her that his vision was down. True, she had not suspected he had cataracts. But she perceived that the explanation of his stupid behaviour could be a deterioration of his eyesight.

In my mother’s opinion, Fischer did not deserve much sympathy. You had to take life as it came. Once you reached forty, you had to wear sunglasses or, better still, give the glaring beaches a miss. Fischer had always acted as a young man. In the end, he had to pay a price for his extravagance.

“How do you know he pretended to be a youth?”

“Rachel tells me he used to be seen on Herzliya’s beach in the company of girls half his age!”