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.
“Perfect men and women exist in novels: not in real life, Peter’le. Thank goodness she did not take you on as ‘Prince Charming’. She knew yours were feet of clay. But then, women are more realistic than men.”
“You may be right, Mamma. I do like the Rachel I met today. But she isn’t the girl of my fantasies.”
“Lucky it is all clear to you now. Still, will you see her again?”
“Only to discuss the case. I’ll have to peruse the documents during the next day or two. I’m having lunch with her on Friday.”
“So, you have taken the case on?”
“I have, Mamma. A one-day hearing won’t disrupt my schedule. And the money will be handy.”
“You know. I’m relieved you have decided to go ahead with matter.”
“Why?”
“Because you are now on firm ground.”
Before I went to my room with the bundle of documents, I told mother that Boaz represented Fischer. Mother knew that Boaz was one of my closest friends. He had often come over for lunch or dinner when both of us were in practice in Tel Aviv. To my surprise, she also knew Boaz had moved to Yokneam, the very Kibbutz on which his wife had grown up. Mother ran into Boaz in Allenby Street a few weeks ago. He had confided that, occasionally, he missed the drama of the courtroom.