Boaz and I had lunch in a small vegetarian eatery patronised by students. The food was wholesome and cheap even if plain. Boaz dug enthusiastically into a dish of aubergines and okra (called Bamia in our part of the world) and, for a while, was oblivious to what was going on around him. When he finished, he licked his fingers, grinned and asked amiably: “Well, what do you think of today’s proceedings?”
“Simha’s speech left an impact on the Judges.”
“You, too, were moved!”
“At our age, we are supposed to be emotive. The Judges, in contrast, are old hands!”
“A nice aphorism,” chuckled Boaz. “I suppose you haven’t heard about ‘old fools’ and ‘sugar daddies’. As a rule, such ‘prodigies’ are well beyond the great ‘passions’ of life. But this does not stop them from ‘falling’!”
“True,” I conceded. “But how about Judges?”
“They are human,” replied Boaz. “And believe me: to them too that unmentioned injury was the coup de grace.”
“You are right. And you deserve to be congratulated. Simha will get a pretty decent award from them.”
“You congratulated the right person earlier on,” Boaz spoke sombrely. “We, Eli, were nothing but the paraphernalia! Simha won the day: it was his hour of glory. And Solbon rose to the occasion. But they, Eli, did not lose their cool.”
I knew what was on Boaz’s mind. In the long run, the payment of a lump sum – be it as substantial as may be – would cost Solbon and their insurers, Rotem, less than the pension offered to Simha. The pension was bound to go up with inflation and, over the years, the medical bills could escalate alarmingly. Simha’s wages, too, would have gone up periodically, reflecting escalations in the cost of living. Indeed, if Simha had accepted the generous offer made to him, he would have remained a long term liability on the books of Solbon or Rotem. A lump sum obviated this problem.
“But, Boaz,” I quizzed. “Suppose Shimon loses the money: won’t Solbon do something to alleviate Simha’s plight? Won’t they feel sort of obliged to provide some assistance?”
“I doubt it. They won’t be under a legal obligation to do so and they’re not a charitable institution.”
“How about Dagan? The decision to drop contributory negligence and the instruction not to reply to Simha’s speech must have come from him.”
“Probably; but it wasn’t just his decision. The Trade Union and a group of Simha’s buddies did their own ‘little bit’ of pushing. I coached them. And, in any event, don’t you make any mistake about Dagan. In the army he was reputed a fair but hard man. If you asked for ‘justice’ he’d listen. If you looked for ‘clemency’ or ‘pity’, it was better to turn to someone else. In our case, Dagan ensured Simha got maximum compensation. But once Simha got justice – whatever this may mean – Dagan would feel he’d done his ‘duty’. Simha won’t get any more help from him.”
“Are you sure Dagan is like this?”
“When Dagan’s daughter bombed her first year at the University, he consoled her and raised the money to give her a second chance. When she panicked in the next year and failed again, he told her she was on her own.”
Boaz got things right. In the ultimate, the two of us were soft touches. In contrast, the world around us was hard, unsentimental and uncaring. This meant that Simha Balani’s future depended on Shimon’s business acumen. If the son did well, the crippled father would thrive. If Shimon failed, Simha’s lot would turn into sheer misery. Malka would take the brunt of it, but he, too, would suffer. Dejected and disillusioned, they would slowly waste away. True, Shimon might still try to do the right thing by his father. But much would depend on the girl Shimon married. If she was a selfish, unkindly woman, she would drive a wedge between father and son.
“Do you know what Shimon proposes to do with the money?” I asked. “Hopefully he’s not putting it into an unsound business.”
“I have no idea. Time will tell.”
“So, despite a phenomenal award Simha may still be the looser.”
At 2.00 p.m. the Court reconvened. Boaz explained that the plaintiff had to return to Tel Aviv to attend his physiotherapy session. Nodding sympathetically, the President delivered the Court’s unanimous judgment. Emphasising the case rested on its own facts and should not be regarded a precedent, Simha was awarded the unheard amount of IL400,000.
Boaz got ready to take the train back to Tel Aviv. Miri and the children were expecting him. Having some time to kill, I accompanied him to the station, then situated in the German Colony.
As soon as we entered the cafeteria, I raised a question that had been weighing on my mind. “Who, then, who is the real gainer? Surely not Simha! His lot depends on Shimon’s business acumen.
“I agree. Still, he had his hour of glory when he addressed the Court. It’s a memory he’ll cherish for the rest of his life!”
“And, as we’ve also agreed, Solbon and Rotem aren’t the real losers,” I pointed out.
“True. They’ll be glad to wipe the liability off their books. And they’re bound to get a favourable Press for their ‘decent behaviour’! They’d love being called ‘fair players’!”
“How about the ‘contributory negligence’ point?”
“Baram’s Committee will take care of it. The cost incurred by Rotem’s will be covered by a rise in premiums. Their ‘loss’ will be passed on to policy holders. So, it ain’t a big deal.”
“Are we – I mean you and me – the losers, then?”
“Not really, Eli. All in all we had a relaxing day in Court and both of us left a good impression. If we remain in practice, the appearance might stand us in good stead in time to come! Still, neither of us had the chance to shine: we ain’t big winners either!”
“Who then is the winner – Shimon and his partners?”
“Not if they lose the money; and I think they will.”
“So, it is a case without real gainers and losers?” I asked rhetorically.
“Except that, perhaps, the two of us got a better understanding of the working of our venerable law. For me it drove home the inadequacies of our system!”