Next morning I packed my suitcase, went for a walk and then had a light breakfast. When I stepped back into the lobby, the receptionist told me the room facing the Matterhorn was ready. After I settled in it, I took Pilkin’s gift out of the spacious pocket of my parka. Was it a paper knife or some other small Bezalel artefact? First to be revealed was a fine chamois sachet. Inside it was a velvet sheath, neatly tied with a maroon lace. When I opened it, my hand started to tremble. I was holding in my hand an exquisite religious object, delicately crafted in silver: a Mezuzah, traditionally mounted on the door post of Jewish homes in remembrance of the Exodus myth. Smilingly, I recalled the Mezuzah that had been displayed on front door of my parents’ home in Tel Aviv. It, too, was a fine piece, but not of the same quality as the work of art I admired this morning.
What – I asked myself – did Pilkin intend to convey through it? Did he mean to tell me that, wherever I turned, I had remained one of the fold? Even as the thought crossed my mind, I realised that Pilkin would not seek to acquaint me with such a basic truth. A sophisticated, worldly, man like him would know that I, too, was aware of this fundamental fact of life. He would also have realised that, if I had sought to sever my links with the past, I should not have kept our rendezvous. Could he, nevertheless, have wished to underscore the existence of the link – driving its existence home in the manner of one preaching to the converted? Grinning inwardly, I rejected the notion. Such a banal ruse was out of Pilkin’s character.
What then was the hidden message attached to his generous gift? Closing my eyes, I let my fingers run along the lines of its articulately engraved pattern. Far from breaking into precise geometrical forms, they wound around an axis, imperceptible to the eye, spraying in places into loops arranged in a capricious design. I sensed that the hand that shaped these fine embossed lines had been guided by a keen eye and an inwardly focused glance. The artist had viewed his emerging masterpiece even as he was forming it with his unerring hand. He, too, sought to convey a thought, perhaps even a credo, through it.
Opening my eyes, I experienced a strange sensation. A few minutes earlier, when I had slumped into the armchair in my room, my heart had been pounding with trepidation mingled with anticipation. I had been edgy and restless. Now that sense of unease, of disharmony, had evaporated. It had given way to a welcome feeling of inner piece and calm: a rare sensation in my turbulent life. I was in harmony with the world around and with myself.
Had the Mezuzah, an artefact without a life or soul of its own, triggered off this reaction? Did it have the effect of a tranquilliser? As my eye travelled along the skilfully grafted petals of the Mezuzah and its intertwined configurations, I wondered why did a message enshrined in an artefact affect me? I had never met the Bezalel artist. In a way, though, the tragic experiences that spurred him on when he crafted the piece were common to mankind. From times immemorial, life proceeded along endless grooves. Anyone could have a fall as he wound his way through one of them.
The message conveyed by the Bezalel craftsman – a message forged out of pain and sufferings, out of misery and longings – was loud and clear. Somewhere along the path you traversed, as the blizzard disrupted your comfortable routine, you had to rekindle your strength by looking deep into your own soul to find the way back to light. Once you had spotted the nearest petal en route, you had to grab it and pull yourself up by holding on to it. More often than not, that petal was your own survival instinct but, occasionally, it turned out to be the willing support – the ready shoulder – of a real friend. He alone could and would step in when needed. And he would not do so for gain, not even with the hope of being rewarded with words of thanks, but, simply, because you were friends.
This, I felt certain, was the message of the Bezalel artist and of my friend Pilkin! For a while, I continued to admire Pilkin’s gift. Then I placed it back in its protective wraps and hid the parcel in the small safe in my room.
Having put on my parka, I closed the window and went out. “Did you have a pleasant dinner, Herr Professor,” asked the receptionist as I dropped my key on her desk.
“Outstanding,” I assured her.
“I am delighted! And what are you doing today?”
“I’m taking the chair lift well above Furi.”
“It’ll be lovely up there today; but the air is very thin!”
“I won’t go too high up. And thanks for warning” I smiled at her. “And I hope you have a nice day down here.”
“It should be: it’s my last day in Zermatt.” “Your last day?”
“Well, yes: my fiancé wants to open a restaurant in Kufstein; and so we’re getting married!”
“Congratulations! So you’re going back to Austria?”
“Yes! I’m from St. Anton – in Tyrol, you know; and it’s time to go home!”
“All the best to you then; all the very best!”
“Thanks,” she beamed; “and you, take care of yourself!”
“I’ll sure try,” I affirmed.