Part 2: The Ward

Susan

A spacious room with an attached bathroom; the furniture, too, was up to standard. But the hospital bed, with the guards on both sides and the gadgets mounted on top, revealed that the room was not in an up-market hotel. It was a deluxe room in Ward xx of the National University of Singapore Hospital.

I had been warded by Emergency. One of their doctors stitched the deep cuts on my brow and, to avoid further dehydration, put me on a drip. The physicians would take a few days to determine the cause of my fainting spell. The functioning of my heart, of the brain and of the vascular system required assessment.

For the time being, I was not allowed to get out of bed except under the vigilant eye of a nurse. A tag attached to my wrist ensured the edict would be observed. It reminded me of the yellow Star of David forced on my race long ago.

As soon as my wife and relatives left the ward, I tried to let down one of the guards so as to walk to the bathroom. But, after a short struggle, I had to give up. Resignedly, I rang the bell and had the humiliating experience of proceeding to my destination with a nurse on each side. Still, as I returned to my bed, I realised the prescribed precautions were justified. I was feeling giddy and nauseous. A second fall could not be ruled out.

When, at long last, I was on my own, I waited for Theophil’s anticipated nudge. I was, of course, aware that Theophil’s nature was debatable. I had sensed his existence from my early childhood but, in the event, he did not materialise in front of my eyes until I was in my late middle age.

My initial reaction to his appearance was one of terror. He had chosen to reveal himself in his traditional Mephisto set-up – the Devil Incarnate of Judaism, Islam and Christianity. When my shock subsided, we had a frank chat. I had been his disciple ever since. I knew also that, without giving me clear evidence of his existence, he had looked after me from the day of my birth. I had no evidence of his being evil. In my eyes, he had become a benevolent friend; and I had come to trust him implicitly. The knowledge that, all in all, he may be but an expression of my inner subconsciousness did not stop me from rejoicing whenever he chose to materialise.

To my disappointment, Theophil did not materialise in my room in the Ward. Instead, I heard his voice in my head.

“You wonder why I let it happen?”

“I do; but, you know, it could have been worse. If I had fallen at a slightly different angle, I would have lost an eye and broken my nose. That would have been a real mess. But you wouldn’t let that happen. Thanks.”

To my relief he did not refer to his policy of non-intervention. He had saved me from disasters on previous occasions. In each case I escaped unharmed. But then, why did he not help me to overcome the fainting spell?

“I let it happen because you must begin to watch your pace. You are 72 years of age; but you work as hard as you did twenty years ago. Further, you have a daily fight with your wife. The incessant arguments leave you drained. The fall is a wake-up call; and a few days on your own in a luxury ward will do you good.”

“I understand; and I suppose next you’ll give me an elegant walking stick. But I don’t want to grow old; and I don’t want to turn into yet another broken old drifter.”

“There is no danger of that,” he assured me. “But you must learn to take basic precautions. You can no longer jump out of bed as soon as you wake up, Peter’le. Chronus takes his toll; and Theophil won’t do anything about it. Remember: I am not an interventionist.”

“I understand,” I conceded awkwardly. “But how to fight boredom in this hospital ward?”

“You can learn a lot here; keep your eyes open.”

“Will you visit me regularly?” I asked anxiously.

“You know I am always there; but materialising here is dangerous. If any nurse sees me, she’ll have a fit. Chatting too has its risks. If they see you talking to empty space, they’ll move you to a different institution. I suggest we talk inaudibly – mind to mind.”

“Good precaution,” I approbated; “but I’m not sure I can control my expression.”

“You might find it easier if we used a different language. How about Hebrew?”

“Ata me’daber Ivrit? {You speak Hebrew}” I grinned, allowing a patronising tone to creep in by intoning the “you”. It was an uncivil expression of surprise that an outsider, like a rich American tourist, purported to command our tongue.

“Ma ata choshev!” {what do you think!}, he snubbed back.

Both of us burst into laughter. Then, in a changed tone, he added: “Nurse is coming to take your blood pressure. Speak to you later.”

“I’ve come to check your blood pressure.” The nurse, an attractive Philippina in her late thirties or early forties, wheeled in an ugly, even if functional looking, apparatus.

“Can I go to the bathroom room first?” She summoned another nurse and, once again, I proceeded to my destination with one on each side.

“Quite a procession,” chuckled my Hebrew speaking friend. The nurses could not hear him but, I sensed, noticed my grin. The Philippina nurse took my blood pressure before I climbed back into bed. She measured it again as I sat down. A third reading was taken when I was stretched out, again, on my back.

“So your hypertension is postural. Didn’t you know that?”

“No…” I started and then recalled the words of the endocrinologist in Melbourne, who had diagnosed my condition. He had advised me to treat my diabetes and ignore my irregular blood pressure. For the time being, it was best to keep it in view. I relied on his advice as an excuse for dismissing the matter from my mind.

“A sudden change in blood pressure caused your fall,” observed Theophil. “It was unwise to rush to your bedroom when you started to feel faint: should have lowered yourself onto the floor.”

“I understand,” I told him and was alarmed by the Philippina’s change of expression. As soon as the other nurse had left, she asked me directly whether I used to talk to myself.

“I do,” I lied. “This way I get wise answers to smart questions.”

She smiled politely. Then, in a direct manner that took me by surprise, she wanted to ensure I had not been speaking to someone else. “There is no outsider here,” I told her.

“Not somebody we can see,” she agreed.

I was about to turn the issue into a joke when Theophil warned, albeit in Hebrew, that he had placed her. She was the daughter of a disciple who had defected and turned back to faith. Following his withdrawal, Theophil ceased to keep tabs on the defector and his family. He thought I might as well tell her the truth: she knew a great deal about him from the days of his friendship with her father.

“Actually, I do talk to my pilot. I’ve known him for years.”

“Is he who I think he is?”

“He is,” I conceded. “I call him Theophil.”

I was about to add a few words, but cut myself short as an elderly Philippino, with neatly combed hair, golden rimmed spectacles and a goatee, wearing a black shirt and a dark pair of trousers, materialized in front of us. I had not seen this image before.

“Father José!” exclaimed the nurse.

“Father José died years ago,” replied Theophil. “He was a nice man. I just ‘borrowed’ his image.”

“But didn’t you resent him? He pulled Dad back into the Church?”

“Of course not, Susan. To start with I have no emotions. Your Dad told you so many times. And I do believe in free choice. A ‘disciple’ has the right to change his mind till the very end.”

“Some won’t,” I interceded, feeling a pang of envy at the rapid progress he made in securing her goodwill.

“I know,” soothed Theophil, assuming the image of a broad-shouldered octogenarian – the image of my late friend Peppi Stölzl.

“Is this the costume he uses when he visits you?” she asked me. “And who was he?”

“A close friend of my late father, of myself and of Theophil. I met him late in life, when he had set himself up as an antiques dealer in London.”

“But does Mephisto always use this image when he visits you?”

“Or his other one – the traditional one. But it might give you a scare!”

“Let’s try,” summed up Theophil and transmuted himself into the archfiend.

Susan did not bat an eyelid. Had she seen him, in this form, before or was she too sophisticated to take a fright? “But is this your real form?” she wanted to know.

“My real form – if this is the word – is invisible to the human eye. What you see is the image familiar from times immemorial! Most people freak out when they perceive it. How comes you didn’t?”

“Dad told me a lot about you. Even after he returned to the fold, he continued to admire you. Still, your emergence settles one point: for a whole term, in the University of Manila, our Professor of Philosophy discussed ‘the existence of God’. We were unable to reach a conclusion based on reasoning. But surely, if you exist so must He?”

“Does the existence of one metaphysical being establish the existence of others?” he wanted to know.

As she stood there lost in her thoughts, an attendant brought in my afternoon snack. Another nurse came to take my blood sugar. Discreetly, Susan withdrew. When I was once again on my own, I turned to Theophil: “So she is an educated woman!”

“That much was clear from the way she addressed us!”

“What can you tell me about her?”

“You better put your questions directly to her. But be careful not to fall for her. She won’t respond.”

“Bruised too badly earlier in life?”

“Why not find our from her!”

For the next two hours I watched films on the television. It was a luxury denied to me at home, where my wife, Pat, regarded the t.v. as her own toy. Having no interest in the Chinese soaps she kept watching, I usually spent the evenings with my computer. Here, in the Ward, the t.v. was at my disposal. To my delight, one of the films available was the Mutiny on the ‘Bounty’, with Charles Laughton.

“So, you are not too badly off here,” chuckled a familiar voice.

“Right as always,” I had to concede, “and thanks for the arrangements.”

“You better switch the light off soon; you are far more tired than you realise.”

Several times during the night I was woken up by nurses wheeling in the blood pressure monitor. In the morning, I was checked by a neurologist, a cardiologist and by the ward doctor. Shortly thereafter, Pat came to visit me, bringing along some relatives. While they conversed in their native dialect – which I did not understand – I took a nap. When, at long last, they were gone – with Pat looking at me reproachfully – I watched The Third Man. As often before, I was moved by the gesture of the badly wounded Harry Lime, pressing his friend to finish him off.

Susan turned up for the afternoon session. When she completed the medical procedures and made a record in my patient’s card, I asked her what had induced her to come to Singapore.

“The job,” she replied laconically.

“But why would a Philosophy Graduate of Manila University look for a job in a hospital in Singapore?”

“Didn’t he tell you?” She replied, looking over my shoulder.

“He suggested I ask you directly.”

“I don’t divulge people’s secrets,” explained Father José, materialising in front of our eyes.

“I see,” she replied, mollified. “But then, he is your disciple. I am not!”

“That makes no difference,” he explained. “A confidence is a confidence.”

“Is he discreet?”

“He is,” confirmed Father José. “Like all lawyers, he is curious but, at the same type, tends to respect a confidence.”

For a few seconds, Susan looked undecided. Then, with a mild shrug of her shoulders, she embarked on her story. Before long, I realized how little I knew of alien cultures and people.

When Susan graduated, she started to look for a job. Initially, her attempts were unsuccessful. A degree in Arts – especially with a major in Philosophy – had no currency in Manila. Teaching jobs were unattractive and, in any event, very few schools in Manila were in a position to hire. Turning down an administrative post in a Secondary School, she continued to knock on doors which, alas, remained closed.

“But then,” I asked, “why hadn’t you enrolled in Law or in Medicine?”

“My school results were marginal; and I had no connections. So only Arts was available.”

Susan was about to give up when Fortuna decided to smile. An enterprising businesswoman, who ran a smart boutique, offered to take her in. Susan made a success of it. She had to work hard, had to learn how to handle difficult customers and how to arrange her show windows and the racks of women’s clothes. By the end of her second year, her satisfied employer left the management of the shop in her hands. In due course, Susan was constituted a partner.

“Sounds like a success story: all rise and no setbacks,” I pointed out.

“Life is not that simple,” she sighed.

To meet the standard demanded by her employer, Susan had to spend long hours away from home and from her husband, Paulo.

“You married during your University days?” I wanted to know.

“I did,” she smiled.

“Did you have an active social life during your years of studies?”

“Not really. I spent most of my time in the lecture theatres and the library. I met Paulo in a cafeteria near the campus. He was the manager. Well, he kept looking at me and I thought he was sort of cute. Eventually, we started to go out. When I discovered I was pregnant, Paulo proposed. I accepted.”

The arrival of her son created problems. During her first two years at the boutique, her mother-in-law looked after the son. When the matron passed away, Susan engaged her own sister, Maria, a young, unmarried and jobless girl as maid cum nanny.

Initially, everything worked out well. Then, shortly after Paulo was retrenched by the owners of the cafeteria, Susan observed that he and Maria were getting increasingly close to one another. Occasionally, when she was about to leave home in the morning’ they exchanged furtive glances.

“What did you do?”

“It appeared best to close my eyes. I did. Then, one day when I came home early, I found them together.”

“What did you do?”

“I suppressed my urge to make a fuss. I stared at them for a while and then left the room.”

“What did they say?”

“They were too shocked to say a word. When he recovered, Paulo pulled the blanket over them.”

There was no longer room for the ostrich tactics. Susan had to take a stand or lose her dignity and credibility at home. Sending Maria back to the family home was a poor solution. It would sort out the immediate issue but could not bring Paulo and herself back together. The only way out, she concluded, was a change of scene.

In the event, her business partner, who had by then become a friend, suggested a spell overseas and offered to put Susan in charge of a boutique in Singapore. She suggested Susan proceed on her own. Time would reveal the appropriate long-term solution.

“But wasn’t this an escape – a means to get away from the problem?”

“It probably was; but I couldn’t see another way out.”

“Didn’t you ask for a divorce?” I assumed the courage to ask.

“But for our son, I would have demanded it. But I am not sure a Judge in the Philippines would have granted it. Ours is a Roman Catholic country.”

When Susan arrived in Singapore the local boutique was struggling. Within a few months she managed to turn it into a thriving business, popular with expatriates and the wives of the local elite. Unburdened by a husband and a home, she devoted all her time to the shop. It became another success story.

Then the pendulum swung. From her very arrival in Singapore, Susan had sent money to her home in Manila. Maria – a kindly person by disposition – used the funds mainly to look after her nephew’s education. Susan thrived on the favourable reports on his progress in school. His sporadic letters affirmed that he enjoyed a pleasant existence. His letters, though, were not warm.

Susan realised that her links with her family were becoming tenuous. Her son did not miss her. She had not played a significant role in his upbringing. Even before she left Manila, she had been a distant mother.

Susan hoped to repair the damage on a forthcoming visit to her hometown. An unexpected telephone call shattered her dreams. Crying as she spoke, Maria advised the boy had died from an infection picked up at school. They had rushed him to hospital and, for a while, they hoped he would pull through. He was amongst the ones who did not.

When the funeral and the period of intense mourning were over, Susan decided to return to Singapore. Paulo and Maria had become a close-knit couple. Susan had no desire to intrude. Before she left, Paulo told her he had found a job. Maria, too, was contributing to the household expenditure from occasional needle and knitting work sent to her. Paulo told Susan she need not send them money any longer.

Back in Singapore, Susan tried to go on as usual. Looking after the boutique was, of course, no hurdle. The problem was a feeling of emptiness she experienced when she went back home late in the evening. Prior to her son’s sudden death, she used to dream about a family reunion. These personal aspirations had been nipped in the bud.

“What did you do? And how did you end up with a hospital job. It must be far more demanding than running a boutique; and surely: it is not well paid?”

“Of course it is not well paid. I made much more in the shop. And, as you ought to know, nursing is a demanding job.”

“What made you swap?” I asked, prompted by curiosity. “Why didn’t you stay put?”

“That awful feeling of emptiness!”

“But why? You had become a successful businesswoman?”

“That was one way of looking at it. On the personal side, I was a failure. I was in my thirties, effectively unmarried and childless. Often, I wondered where I had made my mistake; was it in neglecting my home?”

“No Susan,” said Father José, who materialised in front of us.

“What was it then?” she implored.

“You married the wrong man! You are a strong and resourceful woman. You needed a sturdy companion: a man with a strong character.”

“And Paulo had always been a weakling!”

“You never looked up to him. You married him because you got yourself pregnant and because Paulo was a good looking and kindly man …”

“ … suitable for a casual affair but poor husband material!” she concluded.

“Precisely,” confirmed Theophil. “Still, you did find a way out of the void in your life.”

“How do you know all this. You must have been keeping an eye on me for years!”

“No, Susan,” he responded readily. “But after we met, two days ago, I used my … resources … to make an assessment. Well, in my judgment, you did very well!”

“Don’t you overlook the role played by chance?”

“No; I don’t,” he assured us. “But luck works only if you know how to grab it!”

Susan’s lucky break came when a regular customer turned up accompanied by a sun burnt, shriveled but self-assured companion. This companion, Lena (a nurse by profession), had returned to Singapore for a short reunion with friends and family. She came to the boutique, hoping to get blouses for patients in a hospital in Kenya. She had been working there for the last few years.

“What decided you to go there?” Susan had asked Lena.

“I was getting fed up and tired with the regime in the hospital in Singapore. Most of our patients were well to do people, some of them local but most from wealthy Indonesian families. We had to cater to their whims and do our best to meet their often-capricious demands.”

“And in Kenya?”

“It is a poor country; the work is hard but I get job satisfaction; and I am needed!”

Susan met Lena a few times. In the process, Susan formed an impression of her new friend’s motives and aspirations. She realised that, having turned her back on material success, Lena was getting satisfaction from the sacrifice she was making. Unlike Lena, Susan had no altruistic streak; she had always been a hardheaded and realistic entrepreneur. At the same time, she appreciated the happiness derived from dedication to a hard and demanding job.

A few weeks after Lena’s return to Kenya, Susan resigned from the boutique and enrolled in a course on nursing. She realised that, to be effective in a nursing post in a Third World Country, she had to acquire the necessary knowledge and experience. A spell in the National University of Singapore Hospital was bound to provide the required qualifications.

Susan turned out to be well suited for a nursing job. She had the necessary commitment, the dedication and a good bedside manner. Patients admired her. Within four years she rose through the ranks to a senior position. Once again, it was a success story.

“Are you going to remain here then?” I asked.

“No. As soon as I have saved enough I am moving to some Third World Country, where a good nurse is in high demand. I have kept in touch with Lena; and she has offered to let me know when she finds a suitable opening.”

Having digested Susan’s story, I wondered what had induced her to open up. She struck me as a reserved person. What had prompted her to drop her guard?

“To whom did she tell her story?” asked Theophil in Hebrew.

“To both of us, I suspect,” I conceded willingly.

“Wasn’t she addressing someone else as well?”

“Not the real Father José,” I protested. “She knows he is dead.”

“True. But wasn’t there as third person in the room?” he prompted.

“Surely, not” I pointed out; and then – at long last – the penny dropped.

“I get it,” I told him. “She was soliloquizing. That explains the irritation she displayed whenever I interrupted her flow.”

“Precisely. Susan is tight lipped and world wise. But she knows her late father trusted me even after he defected; and I assured her of your discretion.”

“So she unburdened herself,” I summed up.

As we conversed, Susan’s eyes shifted between me and Theophil, disguised as Father José. On several occasions she sought to intercede but, with a shrug of her shoulders, kept her counsel. For a while, the three of us remained silent. Then spontaneously, she asked me what I thought of her plan. She smiled with satisfaction as I assured her that she had come up with an excellent design. It would enable her to bring comfort to those who needed her most.

“Do you agree?” she asked Father José.

“I do, but for a somewhat different reason. You, Susan, have strong maternal instincts. On many occasions you were driven by the wish to assist, or to look after the needs of others. When you succeeded, you felt fulfilled.”

“So?” she asked, puzzled.

“Your plan centres on this very instinct. I doubt the ability of any person, be he a physician, a nurse, a missionary or a political leader, to have a genuine effect on the disaster faced by the people of many Third World Countries. But your plan fits in with your own needs and personality. So go ahead!”

When she was gone, I grumbled that the choice of films on the t.v. was poor. To my relief, Theophil built in two further choices. Notwithstanding the excellence of Greta Garbo’s film on Napoleon, I opted for These Magnificent Men and their Flying Machines. After the strenuous session with Susan, I felt the need for light entertainment.

About two hours later, Susan re-entered my room. Her attractive skirt and blouse suited her better than the heavily starched nurse’s uniform. It dawned on me she was an attractive and self-assured woman. Why, I wondered, had she not found another man? Were there no suitable candidates around, or had she persistently turned down advances, acting on the principle that “once bitten twice shy”?

“I need your advice, Prof,” she said in her direct manner. “I mean your own advice; not his!”

“We usually see eye to eye but, in any event, what is it?”

“I checked my bank balance on my way home. Somebody paid $15,000.00 to my credit. I now have the means to leave forthwith.”

“You probably won some raffle,” I soothed, sensing with trepidation what was on her mind.

“I never buy such rubbish. Surely, you know who paid the money in!”

“Perhaps he did. But why does this matter? There are no strings attached; and he knows you aren’t a disciple.”

“But, look, Prof. I know you admire and love him. So did my father. But isn’t he the epitome of evil? How can I accept his gift?”

“But why do you consider him evil? What harm has he done to mankind?”

“How about wars, earthquakes and other disasters?”

“Why do you attribute them to him? He does not claim to be the Creator.”

“Well said,” I heard Theophil’s voice in my mind.

“And how about his very first encounter, with Eve? He taught her disobedience!”

“He taught the mother of mankind to use her own mind. He made her realise she was more than a pretty and mindless doll. He revealed to her she was a woman – a woman capable of bearing children.”

“I take your point. Still, I’m not convinced,” she said after a short silence.

“But Susan,” said Father José as he materialised in front of our eyes. “What distinguishes good from evil? Doesn’t the answer depend on a person’s outlook?”

“Weren’t the Holocaust or slavery evils?”

“Those who profited from them did not think so,” I stepped in. “Dixieland conducted a civil war in a desperate attempt to perpetuate slavery and cotton!”

“That’s a sophistry,” she protested.

“I disagree,” I countered firmly. “Let me tell you of one of the deeds of the greatest military genius of all times.”

“You mean Genghis Khan?”

“I do indeed. When he took Bokhara by treachery, he spared some of the inhabitants. Later, he used them as a human shield, driven in front of his soldiers when his army stormed Samarkand. The defenders were not prepared to kill their kin. Well, when the army closed in on the city, the Mongols killed their hostages and, over their dead bodies, stormed the walls. The city fell!”

“How ghastly,” exclaimed Susan. “Surely, Prof, that is evil and unforgivable cruelty.”

“As seen by the defenders of Samarkand …”

“ … and, by any common human standards, it was nasty,” she concluded.

“But how about Mongol soldiers advancing in the front line? The human shield saved many of their lives. They praised and admired their leader for his concern for their safety! They did not think his tactics were evil.”

“Well, Susan?” asked Father José.

“I take Prof’s point,” she conceded at long last.

“Nothing is evil per se,” concluded Theophil. “Take the money and put it to good use. And if you need my help over there, call me!”

“As Prof said, I am not a disciple!” Susan insisted.

“I know,” he affirmed. “But that, Susan, makes no difference. Let us say that I’ve acted on the spur of the moment. Remember: I too am entitled to my whims.”

Using her unclaimed leave, Susan left the hospital two days later. I do not know what became of her. I hope she re-discovered happiness or, in the very least, self-satisfaction.

Next morning a porter took me in a wheelchair to the x-ray and imaging department. After the tests had been completed, another porter wheeled me back to the ward. When a door connecting two corridors suddenly swung in our direction, nearly knocking my wheelchair over, the porter moved me adroitly to safety. Looking at him searchingly, I realised who he was.

“Thanks, Theophil,” I exclaimed.

“Did you ever imagine, Sir Peter, that one bright day I would wheel you about?”

As we proceeded along the winding corridors, my mind turned to a question that had troubled me often before. Theophil had claimed persistently that he had no emotions. Why then had he been so kind to me and, to a point, even to Susan? He had claimed that his relationship with me was a symbiosis rather than a friendship. His argument had force. Maybe our relationship involved mutual support. But then, why would he have provided the funds needed for Susan’s plan? True, it might have been a whim. But then, why had he not salvaged the hostages when the Mongols pressed them on to the walls of Samarkand?

“Once again, Peter’le, you are asking yourself if I have emotions and, if I do, why do I deny their existence?”

“Precisely.”

“Are you up to a discussion of the subject? Aren’t you tired after these tests?”

“I think I can manage,” I assured him.

“Very well then, let us move to a less noisy place.”

The tidy reception room had an eerie ambience. I suspected it was in a place far removed from Earth. As I took a comfortable chair at the ebonised conference table, the usual set of 18th century Meissen porcelain materialised in front of us.

“Have a cup,” invited Theophil; “a hot coffee will do you good.”

“After you,” I told him.

“How gracious,” he approbated, and proceeded to pour the delicious coffee into our cups.

My nerves, which had been tested by the unpleasant procedures prescribed by the physicians, were soothed by the strong brew. After a second cup, I was back to myself. Seeking to speed up my lethargic intellect, I held my hand out.

“No, Peter’le. This time you have to proceed on your own.”

“Are you concerned I may speed up to the limit?” I asked, reflecting on the speed of thought I experienced whenever we linked. On quite a few occasions, my mentor had to break the contact to ensure I did not burn myself out.

“That too,” he nodded. “These medical procedures – primitive as they are – take a lot out of a patient. Speeding up or any further exertion is inadvisable. Still, today I am not so much concerned about the speed as about the ‘influence’. This time you better reach your conclusions without external aid.”

A review of my many encounters with Theophil convinced me that he liked me. I had, further, noticed that he approbated of other people we met. Susan was but one example. Theophil was, then, capable of likes and, presumably, dislikes. Further, he had conceded that he was grieved whenever a disciple deserted him. Was he then capable of experiencing some emotions.

“What triggers human emotions?” asked Theophil.

“Three instincts, I believe: the survival instinct (which is the motivation behind most humans’ search for success and glory), the sexual instinct and curiosity. The sexual instinct is dominant. Up to a point, it explains also our aesthetic appreciation. For instance, a Man’s admiration of a smart outfit, of a fashionable bonnet and a nice pair of shoes are closely related to his appetites.”

“So, you see my problem,” he approved. “I do have the survival instinct: it is common to all beings and creatures in the universe and other dimensions.”

“But you are ‘timeless’. Death does not provide a threat!”

“True. But the universe may be finite. Like Him, I emerged at the beginning. But I am concerned about the ‘end’ which even I cannot ‘survive’.”

“I see,” I agreed after a pause. “The only instinct missing in your case is the sexual drive …”

“ … and the immediate products of it. When I try to read emotions linked to the sexual instinct, I face a blur.”

“But I know you can read my emotions and, I suspect, you read Susan’s emotions.”

“Some of them,” he agreed. “But these are special instances. In your case, my clairvoyance stems from our long association. In her case, I was guided by my understanding of her father.”

“But in ordinary instances, especially where the emotions are complex and triggered by a combination of instincts, your ability to read is limited.”

“And I can get confused!”

“But surely, the sexual instinct is closely linked to the survival instinct,” I pointed out.

“In humans, the two are inter-related – perhaps inseparable; but, of course, not in my dimension.”

“So, what is the problem?” I persisted.

“It is difficult for any being to probe something which, to a large extend, is alien to him. And, Peter’le, the sexual drive tends to intervene in most human motivations. Once it affects an issue, reading gets tough.”

“I see: you prefer to probe an issue – or episode – with somebody who can read the emotions effortlessly. It makes sense.”

“It does; and I proceed on this basis.”

“Your lack of emotions, then, is subject to certain exceptions,” I concluded.

“It is,” he conceded.

“But then, Theophil, what causes you to like or dislike a person? I know you like me – always did. But I am not a strong, superior or outgoing individual. I am aware I have feet of clay!”

“Perhaps that’s why I like you; and let’s not forget that you are also dogged, resourceful and intelligent. So is Susan, and she, as you know, is endowed with a strong character.”

“I know,” I agreed. “I could have never walked away from a ruined marriage in the manner she did. I’d try to salvage the situation: find a compromise; and make a real mess in the process.”

“You would,” nodded my mentor. “But, when all facts are considered, both Susan and yourself are unusual characters. That makes both of you interesting and hence likeable.”

“I understand,” I agreed, adding to myself that, unlike most humans, his emotions would not be affected or distorted by a direct or indirect sexual motivations.

“True,” he responded, having read my mind.

Neither of us had anything to add. Back in my room in the Ward, both of us stared at a functional, yet unadorned, aluminium walking stick, which had been placed next to my bed.

“They want me to use it as I start walking along the corridors of the ward,” I muttered, feeling defeated by the implications involved. In addition, I took a dislike to the object. Did it have to be so mundane?

“You may prefer this one,” said Theophil as a magnificent cane, made of carved ebonised wood and boasting a fine ivory handle, materialised in front of my eyes.

“It’s lovely,” I told him, “many thanks.”

“Tell them it’s a gift from Father José,” he chuckled.

Bachan

After my return to the ward, I rested for two hours. I then had to face a visit of some of my in-laws, brought over by my wife. For a while they made the effort of conversing with me in English. Then – as if by a signal – they switched over to Hokkien. Before long they were immersed in a discussion of their own daily affairs.

“Who gave you this cane?” my wife looked with overt suspicion at the handsome walking stick.

“A nice old Philippino pastor called Father José. Years ago, I tutored his younger brother. He recognised me and wished to show his respect. He gave me his own cane. Isn’t it lovely?”

“Ugh,” she voiced her dislike. “I thought it was a gift of one of the pretty nurses!”

“How very interesting,” I muttered. “Why would she give me a cane?”

“To tell you, you are a useless old man.”

“Thanks for the compliment,” I summed up. “Aren’t you sweet?”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour,” rebuked a voice in my head.

Shortly after my visitors had left, a nurse came to monitor my blood pressure and sugar levels. When she was done, she mentioned that a patient in an adjacent room recognised me. His door had been ajar when I was wheeled back to the ward.

“I think he would love to see you. Let me wheel you over. He is bedridden.”

“Go ahead,” prompted Theophil. “He is a friend from the old days, fallen, alas, on hard times.”

The patient I went to visit was a dark Indian fellow in his mid sixties. His pie bald head, sagging shoulders, wrinkled face and skinny arms projected an aura of defeat. He was clean shaved but the occasional stubbles showed his beard had gone white.

Initially, I was unable to recognise him. Then I observed the twinkle in his dark eyes and the ghost of a smile spreading over his face.

“Have I changed that much?” he asked in a husky, alien voice.

“B…b..ach…an,” I stammered.

“At your service, Sir,” he chuckled.

It took me a while to recover from my shock. When I knew him in the old days, Bachan was a broad shouldered and heavy-set giant. The bedridden man in the ward was an emaciated shadow of my erstwhile student. He had aged considerably less gracefully than I or any of his contemporaries.

“I thought you had settled in Perth, Bachan,” I tried to salvage the situation. “When did you return to our shores?”

“Ages ago, Sir,” he grinned, then added awkwardly. “You see, my Australian wife ran away. I planned to stay put but, then, I met Lynn, a nice dental nurse who came over from Singapore to visit her sister. She took me back to Singapore.”

“But wasn’t that rather sudden?”

“It was,” he nodded.

“How did you settle your affairs?”

“There wasn’t much to settle,” he said flatly. “A young colleague took over my files. All I had to do was to give up my office and sell my house. No big deal!”

“And how did you re-settle in Singapore?” I ventured.

“Not too well. Most of my old friends had long forgotten about me.”

“You better tread carefully,” Theophil told me in Hebrew. “Bachan had acquired a dubious reputation in Perth. He was regarded tricky and untrustworthy. This type of information travels fast. Back at home nobody wanted to take him in!”

“How about your family?” I asked Bachan.

“They washed their hands off me when I married Jill.”

I was about to ask why Jill had left him but was stopped by Theophil. Bachan, Theophil whispered to me, wanted to have children but Jill refused. This led to endless arguments and scenes. In addition, Bachan made certain demands, and indulged in practices, which Jill had found repugnant.

Having failed to secure a post in an established Singapore law firm, Bachan started to practice on his own. Although none of his old friends offered him a post, some kept referring to him undemanding and usually not too remunerative matters. There were also some walk-in clients, who engaged him for simple matters such as traffic offences. All in all, work was not abundant but, in the very least, he eked out a living.

Bachan’s main comfort was his home life. True, Lynn was not a beauty. But she was a self-assured, vivacious, supportive and understanding wife. She kept Bachan happy. Further, her contribution to the household expenditure enabled them to enjoy a comfortable existence. Then, unexpectedly, Lynn developed cancer of the stomach. She struggled bravely for a few months but, in the end, passed away.

Bachan was devastated. Friendless and lonely, he started to hit the bottle. Often, he was too inebriated to go to his office. Before long, he lost most of his clients. One morning he collapsed in a supermarket and was rushed to ‘emergency’. Like myself, he was admitted into Ward XX.

Bachan’s sad story contrasted sharply with his joyous life during his university days. I had come to know him well when I was constituted a residential fellow of Raffles Hall. Bachan, who was in his third year of studies, shared a room with Simon, a Chinese student from a middle-class background. Their corridor was adjacent to mine.

Shortly after I joined the Hall, Bachan organised a welcome lunch, at a well-known eatery owned by a fellow called Gomez. The grapevine had it that Gomez stirred his pots with his ‘leprous finger’. Still, his South Indian curries were so hot that the bacteria succumbed.

Gomez’ curries were, indeed, pure fire. To consume them, I had to drink one glass of ice water after the other. Bachan cherished my profuse thanks but, on future occasions, led us to a North Indian eatery. I enjoyed the mild chicken livers and sea food curries while Bachan and his gang ordered such hot dishes as were available.

Once a week our two corridors engaged in a contest of strength, known as a tug of war. Two teams pulled a rope in their opposite directions. Unfortunately, some problems arose from the terrain. Usually, the team stationed on the upper part of the slope lost out to the team on the lower part. As the teams changed their position after each tug, the general outcome per afternoon was a draw.

Bachan and I were the ‘heavy weights’ on each side. As he was some ten kilos heavier than me, we ensured that our team included some husky fellows. Initially both teams used the same tactic. Each had a timer who, upon the blow of the whistle, yelled “one … two … three: pull”. Seeking to gain an advantage, I induced our timer to forego the count to three and, instead, shout “pull, ho” as soon as the whistle was blown. Taken by surprise, Bachan’s team lost that tug although they were stationed on the favourable, lower, terrain.

They took their revenge in the following week. When our timer yelled “pull, ho” his counter-number commanded: “let go”. As our team members stumbled over each other, Bachan’s group pulled us up the slope. I recall Bachan’s roommate, Simon, who teamed with us that afternoon, dangling at the end of the rope and yelling “this was a mean trick, Bachan”.

Bachan’s reputation as a student was, alas, mixed. He could work hard but often failed to see the wood for the trees. Occasionally, he lost the thread of the lectures he attended. On one such occasion, the lecturer – a well-known bully – was irked by Bachan’s patent failure to concentrate. In the end, he asked Bachan to explain the last point covered in class.

“Sorry, Sir,” confessed Bachan, “I can’t.”

“Bachan,” roared the enraged staff member, “why don’t you jump out of the window?”

“After you, Sir,” retorted Bachan.

Unsurprisingly, Bachan maintained a low profile at the Faculty. In the Hall, he was one of our bright sparks, always happy to mastermind the organisation of our numerous functions and parties. In my first year in residence, Bachan took charge of the preparations for our annual, festive, dinner. The master of the Hall contributed by raising extra funds for drinks.

As expected, everybody partook. By 9.00 p.m. most of us had more to drink than was to be recommended. Some slept it off under the huge dining table, others danced merrily on its top and the few remaining semi-sober fellows withdrew discreetly to their quarters where, in the very least, they had beds.

As the proceedings turned chaotic, I saw Bachan dancing happily on the stage. Being well stoned, it occurred to me that it would be nice to have Bachan’s smart green turban. It was, I felt certain, far more desirable than Bobby’s helmet.

Acting on my whim, I offered Simon – Bachan’s roommate and bosom pal - S$10.00 for the trophy. Simon hesitated but, when I doubled my offer, his eyes gained lustre. Still, cold bloodedly he demanded $25.00 – a substantial amount in those remote golden days. Reluctantly, I closed the bargain.

A few minutes later, all of us were startled by a haul of anger. Simon, who was a small chap, made a triple somersault, coming to rest against a sliding door. Anxiously, Bachan rushed over to his side.

“Oh my God,” he wailed, “what have I done?”

“You, Bachan, better learn to reckon with your own strength,” muttered Simon as he rose back to his feet, dusted himself and proceeded in the direction of the conveniences.

Later in the evening, I discovered the entire truth. Simon had told Bachan about my offer and suggested they share the spoils on a fifty-fifty basis. Bachan insisted that, as the object of the transaction was his turban, he deserved $15.00. When Simon called him ‘a turbaned skinflint’, Bachan lost his temper. He did not punch his friend but simply pushed him out of the way.

Two days later, when I returned to the Hall after work, I was surprised to discover a neatly folded green turban on my table. The card accompanying it read: “Sorry for the fuss, Sir.”

In the following academic session, Bachan became my problem. Contrary to my advice, he enrolled in my Advanced Banking Law course. The subject was difficult and the issues were complex. Occasionally, it was difficult to reconcile the mass of judicial pronouncements found in English and local authorities. Even the brightest students were, frequently, struggling.

By the end of the first semester most students came to grips with the convoluted subject. Bachan was the exception. His mid-year exam revealed that he had not managed to master the relevant topics. I feared that if his final year paper was to be of a similar calibre, he would have to be failed. The problem was serious: Simon had told me in confidence that if Bachan did not pass, his father would withdraw his financial support.

The only way out was to give Bachan some extra tuition. When I went over to his room to make the offer, I was flabbergasted to see Bachan leaning against the wall whilst standing on his head. His eyes were closed and he was chanting words in an alien language. Had he gone off his rocker?

It seemed best to withdraw quietly and think the matter over. To soothe my nerves, I went over to the cafeteria and ordered a cup of the strongly brewed local coffee.

“I must have given you a turn, Sir,” said Bachan, who sneaked in while I was sipping my coffee.

“You did rather,” I affirmed. “What on earth are you up to?”

“Look, Sir: I know I’m not a bright student. But my Guru assures me that I’d have a chance if I stand on my head for half an hour every morning and say some prayers!”

Notwithstanding the Guru’s counsel, Bachan’s final year paper was even worse than his attempt at mid year. If my own assessment were final, I would have had no option but to fail him. Fortunately, we had at that time a regime of external examiners. It seemed best to pass Bachan and settle the matter when our ‘external’, a well-known scholar of London University, put in his appearance.

“I have approved all your marks, except this one,” the ‘external’ told me when we met. “Do you really think this candidate deserves a pass? Was his class performance outstanding?”

“Well …” I stammered, “ … actually it wasn’t. He was a marginal candidate throughout.”

“On what basis do you, then, recommend a pass?”

A twinkle crept into the external examiner’s eye, when I told him how I found Bachan standing on his head. His stern expression mellowed as I expounded the Guru’s advice. When I finished the story, our seriously minded ‘external’ was grinning from ear to ear.

“We can’t possibly slight the Guru,” he concluded and added his signature to mine.

A few days later, when the decisions of the Board of Examiners had been posted on the noticeboard, I saw Bachan hailing a taxi.

“Where are you off to, Bachan?”

“Downtown, Sir,” he confided. “I’ve got to pay my Guru.”

“I understand,” I muttered when I recovered my voice.

“They were great days,” said the bedridden invalid.

“Weren’t they ever?” I affirmed.

“They were the best years of my life; my heyday.”

“Would you like to turn the clock back,” I asked indiscreetly.

“Of course! I only wish it was possible! And how about you, Sir. Wouldn’t you like to turn back?”

“I’m not so sure, Bachan,” I told him. “Life was full of uncertainties then. I’d rather stay put.”

“My life is full of uncertainties now,” he told me sadly.

Back in my room, I reflected on Bachan’s unfortunate life. What had gone wrong with his journey? His wish to turn the clock back worried me. The old days had had their lustre. But most men I knew had no wish to traverse the road again. Had Bachan’s Odyssey involved a slow but steady decline?

“It did rather,” advised Theophil.

“But where did he go wrong? Was it his move to Perth?”

“What where his prospects in Singapore?” asked my friend.

“Poor; everybody liked him but nobody took him seriously.”

“Precisely,” said my mentor. “You see, Bachan opted for the wrong profession!”

“What makes you think so?”

“His record. He passed his exams due to the examiners’ misguided generosity; and thereupon he was entitled to practise. But was he going to be any good as a lawyer?”

“Well,” I yielded. “What should he have done?”

“He should have looked for a more suitable career. Bachan had the making of an excellent entertainer or hotel executive. He was a shrewd individual but lacked the ‘machinery’ to make it in the world of the law.”

“Passing him was a mistake?”

“It was,” agreed Theophil. “You and the ‘external’ delivered the coup de grace!”

“I wish I hadn’t looked Bachan up this afternoon!”

“Nonsense,” contradicted Theophil. “You walked with him down the memory lane! This made his day!”

Later in the evening my wife came over, this time without appendage. We chatted for a while, trying to decide what to do when I was discharged. Our flat – in Singapore’s oldest but homeliest condominium – was comfortable; it suited us. But the stairs from the lift lobby to our floor constituted a problem. Would either of us be able to manage the climb in a few years?

Next morning I was wheeled over to the main building for the last and final test. On my way, I noticed that the door to Bachan’s room was wide ajar and his bed was empty.

“I’d love a cup of coffee,” I told Theophil, who could always hear me. “And then it would be time to look Bachan up.”

“I am afraid that’s not on,” he told me directly. “You see, Bachan passed away late last night!”

I looked around me in dismay: “What happened? How did he die?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I do.”

Shortly after I had returned to my own room following my chat with Bachan on the previous day, a staff member of the cashier’s department called on him in order to obtain a deposit. It was her third visit. When Bachan could not pay the amount demanded, they moved him to Class C Ward, which had no air condition. Late at night Bachan suffered an attack of breathlessness. The nurse called the duty physician but decided not to give Bachan oxygen. She was deterred by a recent circular soliciting thrift and economy in C Wards. By the time the doctor arrived, Bachan had given up the ghost.

“I wish I had known; I should have readily paid the deposit.”

“And you wonder why I didn’t make an arrangement or, in the very least, nudged the nurse to apply the oxygen mask?”

“I do, rather. You see, Theophil, you willingly helped Susan, who kept reminding you she was not a ‘disciple’. What made Bachan unworthy?”

“Surely, that’s not hard to see. When, Peter’le, does a person deserve help?”

“When he (or she) is going to put it to good use.”

“Precisely. Now, Susan had had a disastrous family life and, further, realised she was in a rut. So, she settled for an existence she was going to enjoy. She made no pretences of ‘making a sacrifice to help others’ or ‘to do good’. And, Peter’le, she made an impressive start on her own.”

“You just nudged her along!”

“Precisely; I like individuals who can take a hold over their lives. Up to now, you are with me, aren’t you?”

“I am,” I conceded. Halting for a few seconds, I added: “Bachan, alas, was unable to get over Lynn’s death; any help would have just prolonged his life of misery.”

“So now all is clear,” observed Theophil.

“Except one point,” I told him: “I was off track several times in my life; and you stepped in and put (or ‘nudged’) me right. What made me worthy of your guidance and vigilance?”

“We’ll discuss this some other time. There is, of course, a reason; and here is the clue: how do you, Peter’le, define our relationship?”

“I believe I know the answer,” I confided; “but I’d like to reflect on it.”

“Do!” he prompted.

Soon I was back in my comfortable room. Being unable to do any real exercise, I walked up and down the corridors of the ward. My elegant cane – and the glances of admiration it earned – cheered me up.

Soryani

Late in the evening, when I was about to switch off the lights of my room in the hospital’s ward, I muttered to myself that, notwithstanding my comforts, I yearned to be discharged. Quite a few files awaited my attention in the City and a number of students wanted to see me.

“In any event,” I mused, “I suspect I have now seen it all.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” said the voice I knew so well.

“Eh? Don’t tell me there is yet another person I ought to meet?”

“There is, rather,” he volunteered. “You met her years ago when you visited your brother-in-law in Medan. One evening he took you to meet their neighbours. Do you remember how their little daughter asked her mother to give you that ebony elephant you use as a paper weight to this very day?”

“You mean little Soryani is here in the ward? How come?”

“She isn’t ‘little’ any longer. She is in her forties with two marriages behind her!”

“What brought her here?”

“Neglected cancer, which first manifested itself in her larynx. Her Indonesian surgeon botched up the initial operation.”

“Can they save her?”

“I don’t think so. It’s too late.”

“Why is she in this Ward. I thought you said she was a cancer patient.”

“She is. But, you see, when the specialists in the Cancer Ward realised she had passed the point of no return, they sent her over to this Ward. There was a shortage of beds in the Cancer Ward and no free beds in palliative care.”

“Should I call on her?”

“I don’t think so. She doesn’t speak much English. But Pat can converse with her. Soryani, as you may recall, is an Indonesian Chinese. She is fluent in Hokkien.”

“What do you expect us … me … to … gain?”

“Perhaps a better understanding of the way I function. You see, Peter’le: I did not step in to save Soryani!”

That night I had difficulties falling asleep. For a while I counted sheep. When this exercise remained ineffective, I let my mind travel back to the visit we had paid to my brother-in-law, breaking our journey in Medan on our way to Singapore.

In those days, Medan – the capital of Sumatra – was a neglected, ramshackle town. I recalled, with dismay, the stench, the dust and the flies.

The untidy shops and the poorly ventilated food hawker stalls, cramped on the sides of narrow streets, passed a cold shiver down my spine. Still, it seemed best to mask my reaction. Medan was Pat’s original hometown and, despite her many years in clinically hygienic Singapore, in New Zealand and in Australia, she had retained a soft spot for her old environment.

Following an enjoyable trip to the hilly resort of Brastagi and a hair-raising drive to Lake Toba in the centre of the island, we wound our way back to my brother-in-law’s house in Medan. On our arrival, close to midnight, I watched with fascination how the family removed the barricade they had erected in front of the entrance door so as to keep intruders at bay. Although the entire exercise, required to enable us to enter, took only a few minutes, my brother-in-law felt the need to supervise the proceedings with his shotgun at hand.

Next evening – just a few hours before our onward flight to Singapore – we went over to visit my bother-in-law’s neighbours. Mr. Li’s spacious house was a few notches above my brother-in-law’s comfortable but modest dwelling. It transpired that Mr. Li was a successful coffee and tobacco merchant, whose export business had grown phenomenally over the years.

In his broken English, Mr. Li confided that on the professional side he had every reason to be content. His main complaint was that his wife, a stern, aloof and elegantly dressed woman, had given him just one daughter. He was still hoping to have a son but the years kept passing by.

“You can’t have everything you covet, Mr. Li,” I assumed the courage to tell him. “Look at my wife and me: no children at all.”

“But you European: you not mind so much?”

“Perhaps not,” I conceded; “but my wife is Chinese: and she minds.”

“You try hard?” he asked in the directness acceptable in a Chinese society.

“Everything, Mr. Li. We saw the best doctors; but they couldn’t help.”

“Is great pity,” he nodded; “but, like you say, man cannot have everything. I understand you famous scholar. So perhaps is some … consolation?”

“What would I not give to have a daughter half as cute as yours,” I told him spontaneously.

“You think Soryani cute?” he asked proudly.

“Of course, like a little princess from fairy land!”

Every member of the family cherished the compliment. Even Soryani’s stern mother bestowed a smile on me. Later on, when we enjoyed the excellent but spicy dishes served at dinner, Soryani kept bringing me glasses of iced water to stop the sweat forming on my brow. Just before we left, she said something to her mother, who – with a supportive nod – gave me the black ebony elephant carving I had admired throughout the evening. It has graced my desk ever since.

“A little princess,” I muttered to Theophil, “long haired, olive skinned and black eyed. And now she languishes – close to her end – in a hospital room adjacent to mine!”

Somberly, he replied: “Heaven has no favourites! You ought to know that, Sir Peter.”

“I do, except that you – Theophil – have the power to break a human’s cycle of things.”

“A power,” he reminded me, “I exercise sparingly!”

“And normally only in the case of people special to you,” I added.

“Precisely,” he agreed. “But Peter’le, I want to give you a better understanding of Soryani. Let us review her life. Naturally, they conversed in their own language; but I’ll give you a dubbed version in plain English. In some ways what has unfolded resembles a soap opera; but Peter’le, real life can be more complex than fiction!”

Mr. Li had aged during the four years following our visit to his home. His temples were now streaked with grey and his hair was receding. Lengthy periods of strain left their mark on his face. This evening, though, he was at the top of the world: next to him stood a woman considerably younger than Soryani’s mother. The bundle in her hands was the neatly wrapped up baby boy.

“We’ll call him Ban Koon,” he pronounced.

“But he needs an Indonesian name,” observed the proud mother.

“Any suggestion?” Mr. Li beamed at her.

“I like Ahmad,” she told him.

“Ahmad it is,” he approbated. “So now the Li family has an heir. Our line will not expire when I pass away.”

“But, Papa,” Soryani spoke haltingly, “am I no good to you?”

“You are a good girl,” Mr. Li tried to reassure her, “but one day you’ll marry out. Every family needs a male heir: to make sure of the family’s fortunes.”

“So, a daughter is no good,” countered Soryani. She made no effort to hide her frustration.

“I did not mean this,” Mr. Li spoke with patent unease.

“Perhaps a family cannot do without a son,” Mrs. Li spoke calmly yet resolutely. “But I shall leave all my money to Soryani.”

“And how about Ahmad?” Mr. Li let his irritation show.

“He is not my son,” replied his wife and left the room. She kept her head high, but her hands were trembling. Soryani followed her.

“Was that the point of no return?” I asked Theophil.

“Perhaps it was,” he affirmed. “But the rot started to set in earlier!”

“At about the time of our spell in Medan?”

“Earlier on,” he told me. “It took place when Mr. Li’s realised that his first wife was not going to bear him a son!”

We skipped through the next five years. The next screen that materialised showed Ahmad’s first day in school. Soryani, who blossomed into an attractive teenager, had taken him with her in the morning.

When they arrived back at home, Ahmad complained that he had to wait two hours because Soryani’s classes ended later than his.

“So why didn’t you take him back earlier?” asked Mr. Li sternly.

“It is far,” Soryani spoke calmly but firmly. “I did not want to miss a class.”

“Tomorrow you’ll take Ahmad back as soon as his class finishes.”

“No,” said Mrs Li. “Soryani will stay for all her classes. Your son can walk back on his own. You have no right to stop Soryani from attending her classes!”

“That’s not what I meant,” Mr. Li was cowed.

“That is what you said,” retorted his wife. “If Ahmad wants to come back with Soryani, he must wait until she is ready.”

“I’ll take Ahmad to school and back tomorrow,” said Mr. Li’s second wife.

“Very well,” said Mr. Li. Then, in an attempt to reassert his authority, added “a sister must be kind to her brother.”

“My daughter must not miss classes; her brother can wait,” replied his wife uncompromisingly. “And a brother must be kind to his sister; and a father must be good not only to a son but also to a daughter.”

“Don’t say this,” Mr. Li let his anger show as he addressed his first wife.

“Now you listen: I am your first wife! You better remember this, Mr. Li!”

Ruffled, Mr. Li departed. Within a few minutes no one was left in the room.

“Quite a scene,” I told Theophil.

“Especially if you bear in mind that we are in Indonesia: where people lay store on gracious behaviour.”

“Was there a sequel?”

“Wasn’t there ever!”

For the rest of term, Ahmad was chaperoned to school by his mother. Soryani made her own way to school and back. Often, Ahmad went after school to the homes of friends with whom he professed to do his homework. His mother waited patiently in front of the house he visited until he was ready to go back home.

By the end of the year, Soryani topped her class. Ahmad, in contrast, was lucky to pass. Unhappily, Mr. Li asked why Soryani had not helped her brother with his schoolwork.

“You did not ask me, Papa,” complained Soryani.

“And you, Soryani, stick to your own work in school. You have done well and I am proud of you,” said Mrs. Li sternly. “If Ahmad is stupid, you better get him private tuition, Mr. Li.”

“He is not stupid,” interjected Soryani. “But he goes to play with his friends after school and does not do his homework.”

“Is this true, son?” asked Mr. Li.

“We do our homework together,” Ahmad spoke defensively.

“How strange that all of you had lousy results,” Soryani had the last word.

A few weeks later, Mr. Li told his first wife it would be best if the two families had separate homes. He had already found suitable accommodation and asked her to move as soon as possible. Mrs. Li refused. Standing her ground, she pointed out that their present house was left to her by her mother. It was her own property. If a split was desirable, Mr. Li’s second family ought to move to the new place.

“But I spent a fortune on the renovation of this place,” sighed Mr. Li.

“This does not give you the right to kick me out and give my house to your second family.”

By the end of the month, Ahmad and his mother moved out. Mr. Li shuttled between his two families. He looked worn out and tired; and he was aging fast.

In the next episode, Ahmad called on his stepmother and sister. He apologised profusely for neglecting them and then explained that one of his business friends was looking for a wife. He thought Soryani, who was now in her early twenties, ought to consider him. He was a good catch and a marriage with Soryani would cement the relationship of two business empires.

Soryani’s initial reaction was negative. She had met Bambang at a party and had not been impressed. He struck her as overweight and opinionated. She could not imagine herself falling in love with him.

“But this is not a question of love. It would be a business union. It would be of great help to Dad and me.”

“And where is your Dad today?”

“He feared you would snap at him,” confided Ahmad.

Soryani was about to turn the proposition down, when her mother suggested they think it over. As soon as Ahmad was gone, Mrs. Li warned Soryani not to act hastily. Bambang was known to be a responsible and highly regarded businessman. A marriage tie might inject new blood into their own business. Ahmad, who had recently been put in charge of the firm, was not making a success out of it.

“Ahmad is useless,” observed Soryani. “He was lucky to pass his exams here. Then father sent him to Canada but he came back without a degree. He is stupid, incompetent and arrogant!”

“So, it is better to get a good man into the firm,” concluded Mrs. Li.

“Is Bambang a good man? I was not impressed when we met.”

“But you met him in Ahmad’s company,” asserted Mrs Li. “This explains why you do not like him.”

Soryani’s wedding was a major family affair. Every member of the family was present. Mr. Li looked distinguished in his tuxedo. Ahmad wore an elegant evening suit and both Mrs. Li and Ahmad’s mother were elegantly dressed and appeared relaxed and in good cheer.

The ceremony itself and the sumptuous dinner that followed were of the usual high profile. After the cutting of the wedding cake, Bambang and Soryani proceeded from table to table to exchange pleasantries and to take photographs with the guests. Notwithstanding the loud ‘Yam Seng’ {bottoms up} proclaimed at each table, I knew the proceedings were tedious and felt sorry for the bride and groom.

“I often wonder how the couple manages to proceed with it after all this fuss?”

“Come, come, Peter’le,” grinned Theophil. “Many times, it’s not a ‘new’ experience. The ‘parties’ know all about it!”

“And if one of them or both are ‘virgins’?”

“Have a look at the morning after of our lovebirds’ wedding.”

Bambang was leaning against the window, looking strained and unhappy. Soryani was lying on the bed with her face turned away from him. She made no attempt to hide her frustration, disappointment and dismay.

“They did not make it,” I told Theophil.

“That’s obvious. Care to probe and find the reason?”

“Of course,” I said readily.

Notwithstanding his fatigue, Bambang had done his utmost to please his newly wedded wife. He was no newcomer to intimacy, had enjoyed the embraces of women from his early teens and had no reason to anticipate defeat. His efforts, though, remained unsuccessful. Soryani remained distant, withdrawn and aloof. Being unable to rouse her, he eventually gave up his futile efforts and in no time fell fast asleep.

“But what went wrong, Theophil?” I wanted to know. “Both are young and not bad looking. Further, Bambang is potent; and he likes women and is at home with them.”

“How about Soryani?” asked my mentor. Noting the puzzled expression on my face, he suggested: “Let us consult an expert. I – as you well know – am a stranger to sexual intercourse.”

The formally dressed man, who materialised in front of my eyes, had a long beard, a strong chin and piercing eyes. His neatly pressed suit, white shirt with a stiff collar and sober tie gave him an aura of respectability. As I watched him, he tried hard to suppress his surprise about the environment to which he had been transmuted. In the end, though, curiosity prevailed: “I’m Dr. Sigmund Freud of Vienna; where am I?”

“In 2005, in a private conference room in an Eastern town!”

“H’umph,” said he. “Quite a pleasant change of venue!”

“Actually, from where did you come? Not from ‘above’, surely.”

“Of course not: I hate the lyre and the harp and ‘they’ can’t stand my beloved percussions and horns.”

“Did we then summon you from inferno?”

“What an eccentric question,” he protested. “A soul cannot be roasted, affected by heat or ‘punished’ by other means of torture. No, Sir, I am heading from purgatory!”

“From purgatory? But that’s just a place of passage, on the way to heaven.”

“One single day there is too long. They have placed me in the Ward of Bores.”

“But, Dr. Freud, Dante does not describe such a ‘department’!” I told him.

“I know. His guide was too considerate to lead him through it.” Grinning sardonically, he added: “Well, Sir, what can I do for you?”

Having listened attentively to my account of Soryani’s life up to her marriage, he observed that she had not enjoyed a happy childhood. Ahmad’s birth had deprived her of her father’s love. She might have overcome her initial disillusionment but Mrs. Li had added fuel to the fire by feeding Soryani’s resentment and disappointment.

“But why should that affect her nuptials with Bambang?”

“I cannot come up with a definite answer unless she tells me her dreams and submits to psychoanalysis. My guess is that she had a fixation on her father and that his rejection laid the foundation for her turning into an iceberg. Further, Bambang was fostered on her by Ahmad, whom she has hated since he was born. That did not help.”

“Could you have cured her?”

“Hard to say,” admitted Dr. Freud. “Psychoanalysis is still in its infancy.”

“So that’s that,” I said as my unexpected visitor metamorphosed back into my mentor. “What a pantomime, Theophil,” I scolded.

“Still, Sigmund had made his point,” grinned Theophil.

“I feel sympathy for Bambang,” I concluded. “He married Soryani in good faith and with the best of intentions.”

“He did,” agreed Theophil. “The business aspect was secondary.”

The next few snippets of the kaleidoscope showed Bambang in a good light. Apart from his patience and understanding, he showered gifts on his bashful wife: a lovely string of black pearls, an elegant broche of white gold and diamonds and an endless array of flower baskets. His efforts, though, bore no fruit. Soryani did not – perhaps could not – warm up to him.

For a few months both Bambang and Soryani tried to work out a modus vivendi. Then Mrs. Li broke her hip. When she was discharged from the surgical ward, Soryani had to shuttle between her old family home and her husband’s elegant house. Mrs. Li was a difficult patient and demanded constant care and attention; and Soryani had remained the only person close to her. In the end, Soryani went back to live with her mother, visiting her husband sporadically. For all practical purposes, they led separate lives. Feeling rejected, Bambang found solace in other arms.

Events came to a head when, after a few months, Bambang asked Soryani’s consent to his taking a ‘second wife’ or ‘ts’ip’. He wanted a son and heir which, as both knew, Soryani would not give him.

Soryani sympathised. Bambang’s proposed solution was, she knew, dictated by Chinese custom. But she could see no point in remaining formally tied to a marriage which had not worked out. She thought the interests of both would be best served if, before he remarried, Bambang gave her a divorce. Reluctantly, her estranged husband agreed.

“You are a good man, Bambang,” said Soryani as he was getting ready to leave. “Pity our marriage did not work out. It was my fault.”

“It is a pity,” he agreed sedately. “I only hope you re-marry to a fellow you really like. An arranged marriage is not suitable for you.”

Soryani kept nursing her constantly ailing mother. When, a few months later, Mrs. Li passed away, her husband organised an impressive Buddhist funeral. Afterwards the family convened for the reading of the will. As was to be expected, Mrs. Li had left everything to Soryani. To Soryani’s surprise, though, a Mr. Guatama – the firm’s lawyer – took the Chairman’s place at the conference table. Smiling ingratiatingly, he advised that, in his discretion as the family’s lawyer, he proposed to realise the assets and pay the total amount over to Ahmad as Executive Officer of the family’s business.

When he finished, a man sitting next to Soryani introduced himself as Mr. Rahmat and advised that he had been the late Mrs. Li’s sole legal adviser. Under the terms of the will, he was appointed sole executor and, in this capacity, was already disposing of the assets and would pay the amount realised over to Soryani.

“But I represent the family,” insisted Guatama. “I demand that you obey my instructions.”

“I cannot,” said his protagonist. “I must observe the terms of the will.”

“Soryani,” said the family lawyer, “you must respect your father’s wishes. Your brother is an excellent businessman. He will invest the money on your behalf.”

Soryani hesitated. She was about to reply, when Ahmad yelled at her: “You must obey sister. And what would you do with the money? You have no head for figures.”

“At least as good as yours,” Soryani yelled at him. “My mother left her assets to me; and I shall take the money. What I do with it is not your business.”

“But family piety requires that that you hand the money over; you must humbly obey brother and father,” persisted Guatama.

“Not under the Law of Indonesia. It is Soryani’s money and I shall pay it to her!” said Rahmat.

“I think I better leave,” said Guatama. “This is a violation of Chinese tradition and custom.”

“Perhaps it is the best if you leave,” agreed Rahmat. “You are not the executor.”

“I think I better also leave,” said Mr. Li. He looked old, fragile and awkward.

“As you please,” said Soryani, before her lawyer had the time to respond.

Soryani put her inheritance to good use. Within two years she trebled its value by smart investments in stocks and bonds. Thereafter, she founded a company, advancing funds mainly to finance international trade transactions. Her clients encompassed Bambang and his firm. As anticipated, they were punctual payees.

Soryani’s business continued to go from strength to strength. By the end of its third year, she renovated the old family home, converting it into a large modern dwelling. The front was turned into business premises.

Mr. Rahmat became her sole legal adviser. On his advice she engaged a chauffeur cum bodyguard. Abdul, a man of mixed blood, was some five years younger than Soryani. He was good looking, broad shouldered and renowned as a brave and loyal employee. Before long, Soryani got used to relying on him. In due course, they formed a close friendship.

After a few months, Soryani proposed that they get married. She offered to convert to Abdul’s faith: Islam. Their simple, even modest, marriage solemnized by the Registrar contrasted sharply with Soryani’s first high-profile wedding. Only a few close family friends were invited. Looking awkward in his tuxedo, Abdul bestowed admiring glances on his elegantly dressed and beautifully made-up bride. As soon as they were back in the hotel, he changed back to his accustomed clothes.

“So now everybody must call you Mr. Abdul,” Soryani told him as she stroked his arm.

“But to you I shall always be Abdul,” he assured her.

To the outside world, Abdul continued to present the image of a bodyguard cum chauffeur. When on their own, they were a loving couple. To her own surprise, Soryani discovered she could be tender.

One morning Abdul informed Soryani that a Mr. Li and his son, Ahmad, had made an appointment to see her.

“They are my father and half brother. I wonder what they are up to?”

“We’ll soon know,” soothed Abdul, who was alarmed by the change in her expression.

“Ahmad is a bully; I don’t like him,” she told her husband.

“I’ll be in the next room. Ring the bell if there is problem.”

Mr. Li appeared punctually, accompanied by Ahmad and Guatama, the family’s lawyer. He asked Soryani to inject a substantial amount into the firm. It was facing hardship but a loan ought to see them through.

“USD200,000 is a great deal of money,” reflected Soryani. “How will you pay me back? You say the business is failing?”

“Our competitors undercut us all the time.”

“Then why don’t you undercut them?”

“We have high running expenses; it is impossible to lower prices.”

“So how comes Ahmad just bought a posh Mercedes car and a Cadillac limousine?”

“Representation expense; status symbol,” said Mr. Li unhappily.

“Please send your account books to Mr. Rahmat – my legal adviser,” countered Soryani. “I have to know what is involved.”

“But I already prepared the accounts,” interceded Guatama.

“What is that credit described as ‘USD200,000’ fund injection,” asked Soryani after skimming through the balance sheet.

“It’s the money you are going to inject. It’s your duty as a daughter. You just sign this cheque.”

“No way,” she countered.

“How dare you refuse to sign, Sis,” exclaimed Ahmad. Placing the cheque in front of her, he continued ominously: “Have you no loyalty to our family? Sign!”

As soon as Soryani rang the bell, Abdul made his appearance. Feeling secure in his presence, Soryani tore the cheque, and repeated: “You send the account books to Rahmat, Mr. Li.”

“Mr. Li … ” he stuttered. “I’m your father!”

“How kind of you to remember,” she responded.

“And who is he,” asked Ahmad, pointing his finger at Abdul.

“My friend and husband,” she affirmed.

“You married without father’s consent?” expostulated Guatama. “It’s against Chinese custom and tradition.”

“Under Indonesian law, the father’s consent to a marriage is not needed if the bride has reached the age of majority. I have. And I have converted to Islam. I am now a Muslim, like my husband.”

“Converted without father’s consent or advice?” stammered an aghast Guatama.

“I used my own judgment! And you mind your own business, Mr. Guatama,” she snapped at him. Turning to Abdul, who was looking tensely at Guatama and Ahmad, she concluded: “These people are leaving. Please show them out. If you, Mr. Li, want my help, send the company’s books to Rahmat. I’ll contact you when I have studied his report.”

The next meeting took place some three weeks later. Once again, Mr. Li insisted on bringing Ahmad and Guatama with him. Seated beside Soryani were Rahmat and Abdul.

“Your firm is insolvent, Mr. Li,” started Soryani. “Ahmad is incompetent and a bad manager.”

“Ahmad is a brilliant businessman,” interjected Guatama. “Here: you just sign cheque.”

“I advise you not to,” said Rahmat. “An injection of money into a bankrupt firm is pointless.”

“Precisely,” she agreed, and tore the new cheque that had been proffered to her.

“So, you do not give us a loan,” complained Mr. Li. “So it’s best to go to a bank.”

“Please do,” grinned Soryani.

“What do you suggest?” asked Ahmad.

“I’ll buy the business for what it is worth!”

“Here sign the cheque!” speaking exuberantly, Guatama wrote out a new cheque. “USD200,000: fair price and Ahmad runs the business well. Teach you and make you rich soon! Very wise decision!”

“Shut up,” Soryani displayed her irritation. “The business is bust; it’s not worth 200,000 dollars. Mr. Li.: I’ll pay you USD15,000.00 for it. Ahmad can keep his expensive cars. I understand they are registered in his name. I’ll pay you the price after both of you have resigned from the Board of Directors and transferred all shares.”

“Ridiculous offer,” yelled Guatama. He was about to add a few words of protest but checked himself as he noted Abdul hostile glance.

“It is rather low,” Mr. Li spoke soberly.

“Take it or leave it,” replied Soryani.

Following two days of haggling, Soryani raised her offer to USD20,000.00 and agreed to pay Mr. Li a monthly allowance of USD2,500.00. Rejecting her father’s suggestion that the preparation of the contract be entrusted to Guatama, she advised that her lawyer, Rahmat, would be appointed the firm’s new legal adviser. The services of his predecessor were no longer required.

“How about me?” asked Ahmad.

“We are told you are a brilliant businessman. Surely, one of your many friends will offer you a suitable job.” Ahmad did not reply.

Shortly after the execution of the documents, Soryani invited Bambang over to her place. When the polite small talk had been concluded, Soryani told him about her purchase of the family business.

“How much are you paying for it?” he asked with concern.

“USD20,000.00,” she confided. “My original offer was USD15,000.00 but they kept haggling. So, I raised it.”

“Who perused the accounts?”

“My own lawyer: Rahmat,” she grinned.

“Good. Guatama, their ‘family-lawyer’, is a scoundrel. In his capacity as Honorary Secretary of the firm he approved your bother’s purchase of expensive cars with the firm’s money.”

“Did you have a falling out with them?” she wanted to know.

“I did. I severed my contact with the firm.”

“Would you like to buy it over. You can have it for what I paid plus USD3,000.00 for my ‘trouble’.”

“I don’t want to have anything to do with your father and brother, Soryani.”

“Both have tendered their resignations; they are out! And Bambang, I know who their competitors are. If one group owns both firms, it will have an effective monopoly.”

Having had a brief consultation with his partners, Bambang accepted the offer. Points of contract were signed there and then. Before he left, he told Soryani she had lost weight and that her voice was hoarse.

“It’s just a touch of ‘flu,” she shrugged.

“How long you had it?”

“A few weeks.”

“You better see a doctor, Soryani.”

Soryani’s physician prescribed some lozenges and a cough mixture. As the symptoms did not abate, Soryani made a second appointment. Events at home, though, prevented her from keeping it.

One evening, as Soryani was getting ready to retire, she was surprised to hear moans and groans coming from Abdul’s room, which was adjacent to her own bedroom. When she entered, she found him writhing in pain, his brow covered with sweat.

“What is it, Abdul?” she asked with concern.

“Oh, just little bit of pain,” he gave her the marriage smile. “I’m sure it’ll pass tomorrow.”

“You had it before?” she persisted.

“Oh, a few times, off and on.”

“Where is it?” she asked with growing alarm.

“Here,” Abdul pointed at his abdomen. “But Soryani: it’s nothing. Don’t you worry.”

When told the symptoms, her physician insisted that Abdul be rushed over to emergency. It sounded like a severe attack of appendicitis. Throughout the harassing ambulance trip, Soryani kept mopping Abdul’s brow. Smiling gratefully, he assured her again ‘it was nothing’.

The hospital’s surgeon disagreed, diagnosing a burst appendix. Within half an hour of his arrival in emergency, Abdul was in the operating room.

“You are a wonderful wife,” he told Soryani as he was being wheeled in. “I love you very much.”

“And you, Abdul, are the best husband wife can hope for.”

“Thanks,” he replied gratefully; “and you take care Soryani; you better go home and rest.”

Soryani waited anxiously in the anteroom. After some two hours, the surgeon emerged with a strained and worn-out face. Abdul had a chance. His robust constitution enabled him to survive the peritonitis operation. The next few days were bound to be crucial. To save Soryani the need of shuttling between her home and the hospital, she was allocated a spare room in the building.

Abdul lingered for three days. Most of the time he was in a coma. When he regained consciousness for a short while, he smiled at his wife and stroked her hand. He then closed his eyes again and soon gave up the ghost.

A few weeks later, the doctor referred Soryani to a specialist. A methodical medical examination and ultrasound radiology confirmed she was suffering from cancer of the larynx. His diagnosis was confirmed by a renowned Ear, Nose and Throat specialist in Singapore. In his opinion, a complete removal of the larynx was imperative. It meant Soryani would lose her voice.

Back in Medan, the local specialist thought there was no need for complete removal. A skilful operation might preserve Soryani’s voice. Hoping for the best, Soryani decided to go ahead with him.

Originally, it all seemed well. Soryani regained her voice in no time and, being a determined woman, proceeded with business as usual. Then, after some six months, she became hoarse again. A few cancer tissues, not removed by the local surgeon, had grown and spread. The specialists in both Medan and Singapore advised that hospitalisation and chemotherapy presented the only hope for her survival.

This time Soryani opted for Singapore. When she failed to respond to the treatment, she was transferred to the XX Ward.

“So now you know Soryani’s story,” concluded Theophil.

“The cute little princess of Medan,” I retorted.

“Who existed only in the eye of the beholder,” chuckled my friend. “Well, Peter’le, if you had my powers, would you have intervened to save Soryani?”

“I don’t think so,” I conceded after some reflection. “Her life had run its course. I might have nudged Abdul to seek medical help before it was too late.”

“But Peter’le, can you be certain that he and Soryani would have continued to enjoy a happy marriage? Would he have remained satisfied with his role and public image?”

“Hard to know,” I concluded. “But you have prescience. Couldn’t you discern the answer?”

“Prescience enables you to determine what is to happen if events are left alone. It is impossible to predict the effect of a ‘change in the chain of events’.”

“And, when there is room for doubt and uncertainty, it’s best to remain in the background.”

“Precisely,” he approbated. “You see, Susan was still looking forward to the future. In contrast, Bachan and Soryani had had their respective heydays. And you, Peter’le, have benefited from the learning curve assigned to you.”

Next morning Pat arrived early. After a while, she went over to Soryani’s room. When she came back to mine, she confirmed the patient’s identity and told me she had just died.

“Did she remember us?” I wanted to know.

“Yes. She had not forgotten your compliment. And she wanted to know if you got used to spicy dishes.”

“That will be the day,” chuckled Theophil.

“She was so happy when I told her you still had the elephant,” concluded Pat.

Pat kept me company till late in the afternoon. She left my room when a physiotherapist came to impart his pearls of wisdom but returned to the room when a dietician came over to instruct us on some new discoveries on foodstuffs.

Discharge

When Pat departed from my sick room in the ward, Theophil made his appearance in the form of Father José.

“So, Peter’le, Soryani remembered your compliment. I suspect it was one of the few happy moments of her childhood.”

“Where will she be buried?” I wanted to know.

“You’ll be surprised. Bambang is coming over to take the body back to Medan. Mr. Li is too frail to fly. Ahmad has migrated.”

“All the same, Soryani’s funeral is bound to be quite a family affair,” I guessed. “Poor Bachan’s funeral must be far more modest. Nobody remembers him!”

“You’re wrong there,” contradicted Theophil. “Here, have a look.”

Bachan’s remains had been placed in an elegant coffin. His body had been cleansed and made up. A green turban adorned his head. To my surprise, he looked like Bachan of old: not like the invalid I had cheered up in the ward. Another aging, sparse but still energetic looking, man acted as the master of ceremonies.

“Simon?” I asked my mentor.

“Who else?” he affirmed. “And look at the list of signatures in the book.”

“It looks as if all his old classmates and friends from the Hall have congregated for the occasion,” I let my surprise show.

“Actually, Peter’le, all of them remembered Bachan. True, nobody offered him a job; not with his tarnished reputation. But quite a few of them donated money when Simon passed the hat around to help Bachan.”

“What a strange mode of conduct,” I grumbled.

“But what would you have done in their place?”

“Actually, the very same,” I had to concede.

“You see, the high horse is more readily preached than mounted!”

Theophil’s philosophy – his approach to life – was now clear. All the same, one question remained unanswered. Why had he been so kind and considerate to me all my life. I knew I did not have a strong character. In many delicate situations, I had been unable to make up my mind and kept going forward and backward. Would I have been able to take prompt and appropriate action if I had met a fate like Bachan’s or Soryani’s?

“Don’t you underrate yourself, Peter’le,” rebuked Theophil. “All in all, you are one of most resilient survivors I have come across. I remember how you attended meetings, even conducted legal cases, amidst severe attacks of asthma. But this resilience, of course, is not my reason for stepping in when needed. I gave you a clue, remember?”

“I worked that out two days ago …”

“I know,” he interspersed, “but you were unable to take it much further. Well, why don’t you have another go?”

Once again, I concentrated on the clue. My own feelings for Theophil were readily explainable. As a young boy – and right into my teens – the only person I had loved with all my heart had been my late father. I had trusted him implicitly, considered his interests priority to my own and was always keen to please him.

“Which instinct triggered this feeling?” asked Theophil.

“I suspect my survival instinct.”

“Precisely,” he affirmed. “The shattering of your Viennese world, the vagaries of a refugee’s existence – all these underscored the safety and feeling of security provided by your father’s figure. Your mother was unable to invoke these feelings of dependence which mattered so much to you.”

He was right. Even later in life, when a difficult marriage threatened my sanity and very existence, I kept turning to my father for advice and help. His death – when I was in my early forties – had hit me hard.

For years I felt friendless and cut off. Then, one bright day when I was in London on business, my feet led me to a small shop in Kensington High Street. A nudge prompted me to look carefully at the items in the show window. I entered and, to my surprise, met my late father’s boyhood friend, Peppi Stölzl, who owned the shop.

Peppi and I became close friends. To see him as often as possible, I flew regularly to London, ignoring my wife’s objections and protests. Before long, I felt for Peppi the very deep love and loyalty I had for my late father.

“You knew who was behind Peppi,” averred Theophil.

“True. But ‘know’ is a difficult word,” I told him.

“You have even learnt how to use my twists and tactics,” he grinned.

“But, surely, Theophil, I kept doubting your existence until you revealed yourself to me in full regalia. Still, I had sensed all along that, if a metaphysical being existed, it was ‘behind’ Peppi. And I had surmised that, in that event, Peppi would be non other than your alter ego.”

“Which did not stop you from developing love and affection for him.”

“Precisely,” I agreed. “But how does all this affect your position or reaction to a mortal like me?”

“Over the years, Peter’le, I insisted I was incapable of emotions. This is true in the sense that I have no physical impulses or desires. But I have already conceded that I, too, can ‘feel’!”

“But where does this take us …” I started; and then, abruptly, saw light.

“So now you understand,” he said with satisfaction. “As you know, I exist in another dimension. Generally, I am not affected by feelings or desires common to members of your world. But no being – even if he exists in another dimension – would sidestep or dismiss out of hand a genuine affection which he can relate to. And you, Peter’le, transferred to me your feelings for your father.”

“Yes; I see it now,” I told him in a voice charged with emotions. “Yes, I do see. But Theophil, you have looked after me all my life. How could you have known, when you first set eyes on me, what sort of emotions I would experience many years later on?”

“That, Peter’le, is prescience. If events are not twisted, it holds true.”

“So now, all is clear,” I assured him. “And Theophil, the dimensions we have been talking about are inter-linked – not mutually segregated.”

“Of course not,” he conceded. “Otherwise, how would I be able, or motivated, to observe and study your dimension; and how could you sense – even if not ‘know’ – that I am in existence?”

“I am trying to understand,” I assured him. Then, placing my hand in his, added: “And thanks for everything you have done for me over the years; my friend.”

“It has always been a pleasure,” he assured me.

Next morning, shortly before lunch, the ward doctor signed my discharge. When we emerged from the building, there was no taxi at the stand. Dismayed by the prospect of a long wait, I stared in front of me nervously. At that very moment, a taxi pulled up beside us and its auto-door opened invitingly. As soon as we fastened the seat belts and gave him the address, the driver took the quickest route to our place.

When we arrived, he insisted on helping us with the bag, containing the few belongings I had taken with me to the hospital, and accompanied us up the stairs. Thanking Pat profusely for the token tip, he winked and then closed the entrance door behind him. As I looked through the peep hole, there was, of course, nobody there.

“Gave you a start, didn’t I” Theophil chuckled.

“You did, rather.”

“And what do you say now about your week in the ward.”

“A splendid break – comfortable and instructive.”

“Glad you see it this way.”