Part 3: The Occupants

Early Occupants

About a year after my release from the hospital in Singapore, I decided to fly over to Britain. My objectives were to revisit the past and to crystallize my beliefs in the supernatural. Right after my arrival in London I proceeded to Oxford.

Feeling exhausted, I sank into the comfortable armchair in the small house I had rented for three months. Its location – off Walton Street near the heart of Oxford – was excellent. A five minutes walk would take me to St. Giles Road and Carfax. The Bodleian library’s reading rooms, which I had come to revisit and use, were readily accessible from there. Yet another advantage was the reasonable rent. Although I had amassed wealth over the years, I had remained parsimonious.

On all accounts, I should have congratulated myself on a job well done. But a feeling of unease overcame me as soon as I had made myself at home. The fine furniture, sparkling bathroom and modern kitchenette failed to relieve my inner tension. My choice of the abode had not been made freely but under an unexplainable compulsion. Something, I knew, was amiss.

Suddenly, I felt a nudge. Having experienced it often before, I realised that the sequence of events had been dictated by my mentor. Generally, Theophil was not an interventionist; from times immemorial he had kept aloof though watchful. To aid his vigil, he had elected, generation after generation, a friend or two in our dimension. I was the latest. He had revealed himself to me, in full regalia, some two decades earlier in an antiques shop off Kensington Church Street in London. Since then, we communicated regularly. In a sense he was always within reach.

“You directed me to this cosy house, Maestro!”

“I am not an interventionist, Peter’le. I’ve told you this again and again!”

“So you say. Still, I felt something like a nudge before I decided to take the house.”

“I induced you to pause and think; the choice was yours!”

“Very well, then. But what’s so special about this house. I could have taken a room in the Old Parsonage or in Queen Elizabeth House. Would have been even cheaper; and no need to cook.”

“True. But this house is a good base!”

“For what?”

“For our exploratory trips into the past. I want you to meet previous occupants of this house! These meetings will help you to complete the records we have been discussing earlier on.”

“When was this house built?”

“There was a house here more than two hundred years ago. But it had been pulled down and rebuilt several times. I want you to see occupants you can relate to. If I took you back to the 18th century, you might not cope: no cars, no electricity and – you know – no gas.”

Theophil had taken me into the past on previous occasions. To him the past, the present and the future were not delineated by clear boundaries. He dwelt in a different dimension: invisible and incomprehensible. Theophil could, of course, watch any event in our three-dimensional universe from his vantage point. Still, to ease communications he had often assumed a form visible to mankind.

I was familiar with two images. One was Peppi’s: my father’s friend who had saved my family during the Holocaust and who had, many years later, become my own friend. The other image I knew was the traditional appearance of the being called the Archfiend. When I saw him in this shape for the first time I was overcome by terror. It took me an effort to quench it. By now I had come to like that image, especially as I knew that this too was a costume or perhaps a satire.

“I am still in the dark, Theophil. If you choose, you can help me travel in time from any spot. So why the need for a ‘base’?”

“Largely psychological. It will be good for you to recall that, when each trip is over, you are to come back to the new version of the very place we visited. Well, let us start”.

A woman was holding a man in her arms. It was a deep, intimate, embrace. For just a while it lasted. Then it was over; but both kept smiling. He continued to pet her. She was fondling him.

“Name the experience,” demanded Theophil.

“Bliss, I think.”

“Their nuptials. But now have a good look at the house.”

“It looks similar yet very different. There is no electricity; just a kerosene lamp. Also, there are more rooms but they are cubby holes; and the walls are more solid; the windows much smaller; and the open fireplace is quaint!”

“Excellent means for heating the space above the chimney,” he grinned. “As yet, no central heating in England.”

“The furniture and furnishings are appalling and there is no bathroom.”

“It’s an outhouse. When they are sick, or when it snows, they use a chamber pot!”

Grinning inwardly, I recalled how my landlady told me, in 1959, that her in-house bathroom had been the first to be installed in Newton Road. And she had told me that in her younger days nobody in the street had ‘hot and cold running’.

“To which era have you conveyed me?” I asked my pilot.

“1918; just after the Armistice!”

“Primitive,” I muttered.

“In the eyes of a man of your generation. Care to see the 18th century house? It was quaint but smoky! The owners were pig farmers!”

“But surely, the occupants must have raised families?”

“My dear Peter’le: the object of the creation …

“ … evolution?” I interceded.

“No need to quibble, Peter’le. But – be this as it may – the object is ‘procreate and multiply’.”

“So, they knew all about it!”

“From times immemorial. Care to see Mount Carmel man and his Missis?”

“No thank you. I am not a peeping tom!”

“Very well, then. But have a good look at our lovebirds the day after.”

“Sure. But Theophil: didn’t they take a honey moon?”

“They had no money. You are viewing the post-war era. The young generation was ravaged by the mayhem in the trenches. Jack and Mary were lucky to have a place of their own. The College sought to reward Jack for his services as Chief Steward. They let him use one of their properties. But for this lucky break, Jack and Mary would have had to share a house with others.”

Mary held the door open for Jack, who was wearing a suit and tie. He kissed her cheek before he hopped onto his bicycle. To my surprise, the road was asphalted.

“They had to maintain smooth, asphalt surfaced, roads for their bicycles,” explained Theophil. “Mass produced cars were developed later. In 1918 cars were rare: status symbols associated with wealth. Most cars were chauffeur driven.”

Jack rode his bike to a college. On the way, a self-propelled bus – known as an autobus – overtook him. It was a double decker, reminiscent of a horse pulled omnibus or a postal carriage. Its upper deck was uncovered.

As Jack rode through the College’s gate, the porter smiled at him familiarly. Jack nodded and walked briskly to the dining area.

“Were many working class people employed by the colleges?”

“The colleges were the main work providers in those days,” affirmed Theophil.

Jack inspected the kitchen, peered into the pots, tasted the soup and then smiled with satisfaction. Later, he carved the roast and supervised the heaping of potatoes and vegetables on plates. Adroitly, he added slices of the carved meat and, judiciously, ladled out the gravy.

“No Yorkshire pudding?” I complained.

“Not for a college lunch on a regular day, my dear Peter’le. If you like, I’ll add some to your plate!”

“Am I lunching in?” I asked bewildered.

“Incognito: the invisible guest.”

“But what is the object, cher ami? Why don’t I associate with them?”

“They’ll summon the college priest for an exorcism,” he chuckled. “We can do without such nonsense. But as regards the object: please watch Jack carefully. What does he feel? You know I can read his mind; but not his emotions. They are a blur! As I have told you repeatedly, I have no emotions.”

“You’ve mixed too long with us humans to have retained your ‘immunity’.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree. So don’t you complain if one day I don’t step in to help you. I am Satan; not a guardian angel!”

“Point taken – my friend,” I insisted on having the last word.

In the early days of our friendship, I would have feared tackling him in such manner. Theophil had the means and the power to destroy our entire three-dimensional universe. Initially, this knowledge invoked my fear of his wrath. But, as our routes continued to intertwine, I realised my apprehension was unfounded. The constant observation of our universe was the task my friend had set for himself. If our universe ceased, Theophil’s existence – whatever it might be – would lose its focus. He was not going to cut the branch on which – intellectually – he was sitting. I, too, was a requisite dictated by his task. All in all, I was his tool: his physical extension into an alien dimension. I had no reason to fear him.

Theophil read my thoughts with usual ease. “You see, Peter’le, perhaps symbiosis is a more appropriate word than ‘friendship’?”

“Maybe,” I gave in, “but I don’t like to think of it this way. I’ve become too fond of you!”

Both of us were now observing Jack. Theophil kept reading his thoughts. I tried to gauge his feelings. To my amazement, no trace was left of the happiness I had noted on the previous evening. Jack did not recall it. He felt at home with the menial work he was doing. Mary and his home were far removed.

“Something doesn’t add up, Theophil,” I said when I completed my probe.

“Explain?”

When I had completed my analysis, Theophil confirmed that Jack’s thoughts, too, centred on his occupation. His wife and home were not reflected.

“Isn’t that odd?” I asked.

“What does it suggest to you?” he replied quizzically.

“Lack of commitment?”

“Lack of interest, rather. I’m not sure it is an odd phenomenon! Well, let us then observe later developments.”

Mary had just given birth to a baby boy. Having had a painful and difficult delivery, she looked pale and withdrawn. Staring fixedly in front of her, she did not sit up to admire the flowers Jack had placed in a vase on her bedside table. He, in turn, looked worried and worn out. Had he remained awake during her labour?

“I’m not going through this again, Jack: It was awful!”

Despite Jack’s patent sympathy and concern, he had resented Mary’s words. Sensing he had intended to express the same sentiment, I was puzzled by his reaction.

“Perhaps he wanted to have a say?” observed Theophil.

The kaleidoscope moved onward in time. A small boy, some five years of age, was playing in the unfenced front garden. Mary concentrated on her needle work. I liked her embroidery.

The brief glimpse I had of Jack, showed him smiling with satisfaction. He was, again, carving a roast in his College. His heart was far removed from his home as his eye roved in the direction of an attractive kitchen maid, looking prim in her attire.

The next image showed the same boy – some five years later – lying istless on the ground. Mary was bending over him but her attempt to rouse him was in vain. As she continued to cry, Jack came rushing to the scene, dishevelled and shivering in his shirt sleeves.

“What happened?” I asked my guide.

“The boy was knocked down by a bike. His neck was broken in the fall. The rider did not stop! Have a good look at Jack and Mary!”

“How ghastly,” I said feebly after probing. “He resents her carelessness. Why didn’t she look after the boy. Why couldn’t she put her blasted needle work aside for a while.”

“And she?” asked Theophil.

“She blames him for his parsimony. She had told him they needed a fence; but he thought the cost ought to be borne by the College.”

The next screen showed Jack’s dismissal. He had been drinking heavily and often turned up unfit for work. His next job was in a restaurant in a red brick town. Later, they moved to London, where he worked in a pub. He had lost weight, looked forlorn and was ageing rapidly. The real shock came when I glimpsed at Mary. She had never been an elegant dresser. Nevertheless, she used to be tidy and reasonably well groomed. To my disappointment, this image of a good housewife had gone. She was unkempt and looked neglected.

I next witnessed Jack’s death. He had suffered a stroke as he got up in the morning. Mary, who was sobbing, looked frightened. Her next image – a few years later in London – displayed an old, broken, hag. She bore little resemblance to the once presentable even if plain Jane I had seen earlier on.

“She is hungry, cold and miserable. She sees no point in going on,” I told Theophil.

“It explains the next scene, which I’d rather not show you.”

“Was she left penniless?”

“No,” advised Theophil. “He left her enough for a modest living. But she had no head for affairs. It was all gone in no time!”

“What a sad ending,” I said in a trembling voice. “But why, Theophil; why?”

“Let’s go back to the start,” he suggested.

We were back in Oxford of days gone by. Young Jack and Mary were singing in a church choir. A pianist accompanied the group as they sang hymns. Jack was stealing glances at Mary. She was aware of his interest. The next screens showed them going to the cinema, sharing a meal in a modest eatery and walking together to church. Jack’s feelings manifested desire and anticipation. She was responsive. I could tell that both were shy and, as yet, not on familiar terms.

I then watched him proposing. He was eager; she tried to hide her feeling of victory. Their church wedding was plain, followed by a modest dinner with a few friends and relatives. My next image of them was the very first I had observed on my time-trip. They were still embracing one another but their moment was over.

“Watch them carefully,” requested Theophil. “What do you sense?”

“Both are disappointed and Jack is disillusioned.”

“What do you make of it?” he wanted to know.

“Great expectations not coming true,” I mused. “They didn’t get what they hoped for.”

“Both of them?” he asked.

“Mary is not disillusioned. Perhaps she didn’t expect that much!”

“I think you are right,” he conceded.

“So, the sad end is an outcome of a poor beginning. Chance?”

“One element, undoubtedly. Any other?”

It was a turning point. I needed his guidance. Holding my hand out, I waited for the nudge. With Theophil’s perception added to my own, I spotted the answer readily. I had, actually, guessed it for years.

“Theophil, Jack and Mary would have come to a sad end even if the boy had recovered; wouldn’t they?”

“The boy might have kept them together. Children are good glue. But the rot would have set in when he left home. Still, Jack might not have become a drunk.”

“I have not encountered many happy marriages.”

“Ditto! And, as you mutter, I’ve had plenty of time to observe!”

“I believe I’ve now identified the reason for unhappy marriages.”

“Please articulate!”

“Regardless of whether He ‘created’ our Universe or was the ‘prime mover’ of evolution, there was a need to look for a plan: a sort of DNA plan. Did He then make some miscalculation when he ‘triggered off’ a three-dimensional Universe which is alien to him.”

“A miscalculation respecting the physics?” he persisted.

“He got this right. But he made a slip when it came to the psyche.”

Theophil approbated. “Which distinguishes Homo Sapiens from other animals”

When I looked around me, I was back in my rented abode in my own era. A magnificent early Meissen chocolate pot and a handsome beaker in a trembleuse saucer materialised on the dining table. The smell was delicious.

“I’m not allowed to take sugar,” I reminded him.

“I’ll fix it for you this time. So, enjoy it.”

“Thanks for the trip and thanks for these magnificent pieces. Still, how will this trip and the insights based on it help me with the task we have agreed on?”

“Wait and see!”

Three Characters

For ten days, following my trip to 1918, I worked in the library like a beaver. Luck, though, was with me. On several occasions an article, textbook or law report fell open at the very page I was searching for. When I returned home after completing my first rough draft, I felt the familiar nudge.

“Today I’m taking you to 1932,” he advised as he materialised in front of me.

“Theophil,” I wanted to know, “don’t you ever assume the form of a woman?”

“Not when I am dealing with a heterosexual man,” he observed laconically.

“I understand why,” I assured him.

The house had been refurbished. The partitions between the sitting room and the bedroom had been knocked down. The new large sitting room was more tastefully furnished than in the days of Jack and Mary. An old-fashioned gramophone adorned it and the light fittings showed that electricity had arrived. The room was comfortable without being grand or pretentious. The man sitting on the sofa was in his late forties, fat and flabby. The bottle and glass in front of him left no doubt about his state of mind. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, were staring fixedly at an unseen object in the distance. His face was contorted.

“Jealousy?” I asked my guide.

“Care to probe?”

The emotions of this new occupier – Richard Smith – centred on his friend. Willie had promised to come home directly after work but was two hours late. Richard – known to his friends as Dick – suspected Willie was out with a woman. His contorted face reflected the intensity of his dismay.

“I don’t get it, Theophil. His jealousy is triggered by Willie’s involvement with a woman. He is repeating to himself: ‘If I’m not good enough why doesn’t he see another man.’ Surely, even in this scenario, Willie would be ‘unfaithful’? So where is the difference?”

“Why not ask Dick?”

“How? He doesn’t know we are watching him.”

“Care to materialise in front of his eyes?”

Dick’s bloodshot eyes stared at me. He wiped them like a man facing a mirage. He then pinched his arm. At long last he said: “Are you here or am I seeing things?”

“But Dick: if you ‘see’ things won’t you also ‘hear’ them? And let me assure you: I am here right in front of you!”

“I get it,” he grunted. “But who are you and how did you get in? Through the chimney?”

“My name is Peter Berger. And I did not use the chimney. My pilot let me materialise me in front of you!”

“You are a foreigner. Still, you speak good English! From where did you emerge?”

“From the future; I rented this very place in 2006!”

“You expect me to believe such drivel. You some sort of nut?”

“Believe it or not. And no: I’m not a nut. I’m a time traveller.”

“Blimey,” he said and took a stiff gulp from the mug in front of him.

“You are not an Irishman by chance?” I enquired, startled by the expression.

“God forbid; but I lived in Dublin for a while: before I came to this mausoleum.”

“But then, why did you leave Dublin?

“I met a nice Oxford chap in a pub. So, I went with him to this damned place!”

“What’s so terrible about Oxford? I lived here from 1959 to 1961; it’s quite OK!”

“It stinks. And here’s where I met that bloody Willie.”

It was my turn to stare at him. Dick’s feelings were in tandem with his words. He needed Willie. At the very same time, he resented Willie’s hold over him and had no illusions about his friend’s motives and nature.

“If he’s so bloody, why don’t you tell him to get lost?”

“Compulsion, Berger: don’t you know what it means?”

“I do. But look here: with some resolve you can set yourself free?”

“Have you ever managed to do so?”

“Not directly, Dick. But I managed to get some females to jilt me!”

“If that’s what you wanted, why didn’t you simply kick them out?”

“Cowardice … and confusion!”

“They sound familiar,” he said with a shrug. “Here, have a drink!”

“Sorry, Dick, the doctor has forbidden any alcohol.”

He looked startled. It seemed best to tell him I suffered from Hepatitis C and Diabetes. He was familiar with the latter but, of course, had not heard of the former. Still, he gathered it was some liver complaint. Following a few moments of reflection, he suggested the Randolph Bar. He could have a drink and I could get black coffee or a tea. He believed they had saccharin.

Electricity was by then used for street lighting. The roads were better and their surfaces smoother. Cars had become common and the buses looked similar to those I had seen in the fifties. As we proceeded, I was amused by the old houses in St. Giles, which had later been replaced by Queen Elizabeth House. When I asked about concerts and shows, Dick advised a chamber orchestra was playing in the Sheldonian. He added that they had a few cinemas. Further, a Shakespeare comedy was performed by a group of amateurs in New College.

The Randolph looked as it had in 1959. It was marked by its ugly and plain architecture: a masterpiece of bombastic pomp. The bar, too, was familiar as were the neatly dressed waiters. Dick grinned appreciatively as he sipped the beverage in front of him. I enjoyed the strongly brewed black coffee. The appetising snacks placed in front of us were soon gone. For a while, I thought I was back in 1959. Then, as we had a second round, I started to worry about the bill. Dick, I realised, was living from hand to mouth.

“Dick: today it’s my treat. But would they accept my credit card?”

“Your ‘what’?”

Dick stared with amazement at the Visa card I took out of my wallet. He listened attentively to my description of its use and admired my ATM card. He appreciated the advantage of using a dispensing machine to get money from the bank.

“So, you don’t have to queue up to present your cash cheque over the counter every week?”

“Precisely,” I told him, “I can use an ATM in any part of town and even in some cities overseas.”

“And how does the bank keep its accounts?”

“It’s all done by computer. And – just in case any data is lost – the bank has a second copy, called a ‘back up’.”

Dick was out of his depths. The nature of computers and their use in industry had to be explained to him. When I finished my basic introduction, he pointed out that, when a bank had such a ‘computer system’, it could get rid of its incompetent personnel. As Assistant Branch Manager of a local bank, he appreciated the opportunity. Still, he sensed that such automation could, in due course, exacerbate the unemployment faced in his days in many industries. He knew that generally the machine threatened the labour force. He had studied the history of the industrial revolution.

“Can I use these banknotes?” I asked, showing him the pound sterling notes in my wallet.

“I haven’t seen anything like them.”

“How about these?” I asked as another roll appeared in my wallet.

“These are OK,” he confirmed, “and that’s a lot of money.”

“Let’s use it, then” I told him. “And you keep what’s left when I go home.”

“Thanks, but you know: that’s more than a year’s salary.”

I had another coffee and Dick ordered three stiff whiskeys. His face became flushed and, every now and then, he glanced nervously and surreptitiously at his watch. Realising what was on his mind, I suggested he ring home.

“Awkward when you use their telephone,” he told me.

“I wish I could lend you my handphone.”

“And what’s that?”

Dick did not try to conceal his amazement when my handphone materialised in front of us. It took me a while to explain the nature and the use of a cellular phone. In the event, the idea of a person carrying a telephone with him, day in day out, amused Dick. The owner would, then, be available regardless of where he was at the time of the call.

“Provided there is a network connection. You can’t be reached if you are out of bounds or if you switch the instrument off.”

“This means that you have the option: you don’t have to take incoming calls.”

“Precisely,” I told Dick and, having had a word with Theophil, added: “Come, give it a try. My friend will provide a network connection this time.”

Willie answered instantly. He must have been sitting next to the receiver. He had wondered where Jack had gone and could not understand why he was being kept waiting. True, he himself had been held up; but that was no excuse for Dick’s behaviour. Willie’s aggressive complaints, accompanied by demands for money, went on for a few minutes. Before long Dick was dismayed and flabbergasted. In a broken voice, he promised to be back in no time.

“Dick,” I tried to open his eyes, “the chap is preying on you; he is taking you for a ride. I understand he has a hold over you. But he’ll bleed you white before he’s done.”

“I know,” lamented Dick; “but I can’t break his hold.”

“And there’s one more thing I can’t understand. If Willie had been out with another fellow, you’d shrug your shoulders and mutter ‘live and let live’. Why does it matter if he’s with a woman? The very thought gets you berserk!”

“Seeing a woman means he doesn’t give a damn about our … friendship.”

Before long we were back in the house. As I had suspected, Willie was in his late twenties or early thirties. Neatly groomed and well dressed, with a smart sheepskin and shining shoes, his appearance contrasted sharply with Dick’s slovenly and poor attire.

“Did you get me the dough?” he asked aggressively, ignoring my presence.

Dick handed him one of the notes I had given him. “And here’s another for keeping you waiting.”

“Don’t you do it again,” Willie spoke contemptuously. “And I’m off for a snack.”

As he spoke, I probed Dick’s emotions. His desire and commitment mingled with a deep loathing. He was aware Willie was ruining him and did not care for him. But for the hold Willie exercised over him, Dick would be glad to see the last of him.

“Want to step in his aid?” asked Theophil.

“How?” I asked.

“Provoke Willie. Dick cannot stand violence. If Willie loses his cool, Dick might assume the resolve to boot him out!”

“Hello, Willie,” I said.

“And who are you, you ugly mug?”

“Name is Peter Berger; and you Willie – why don’t you look into the mirror?”

“Why on earth should I, you idiot?”

“To see real ugliness!”

“You’re talking to me?” he yelled.

“I am, indeed, you half-wit!”

“Next thing you’d call me names!” he shouted.

“Difficult choice: swine, scum, bloodsucker and louse come to mind; and a few others!”

Willie’s fist went through my image and slammed into the door frame. Losing his balance, he crashed into the wall. When he recovered, his nose was bleeding and he was clutching his wrist painfully.

“Lost your balance? Poor Willie!” I taunted him, wondering whether he was a professional boxer or a mere street hoodlum.

“You better watch your own balance,” he yelled. He was about to ram an empty mug at me, when, using my voice, Theophil warned: “You better cool down, Willie. If you throw this mug, it’ll land straight on your own face!”

“Chickened away?” I chuckled, as Willie’s arm dropped.

“Why don’t you throw him out?” Willie wailed as he turned to Dick.

“It’s not him I want to boot out!” Dick responded.

Shocked and terrified, Willie rushed out into the street. Dick, in turn, went over to the table and took a gulp from the open bottle.

Adroitly, Theophil manoeuvred me to the nearest street corner. Trying hard to appear unruffled, Willie was talking to a woman, who must have been waiting for him. Blossoming in her late thirties, she was too tall and heavy set to be attractive. But I could sense her vitality and strength. A probe confirmed she was not enamoured of Willie. Actually, she disliked him.

“Here take one of these, Liz,” he told her as he produced the two notes he got from Dick. “I’m off to ‘emergency’ at the Radcliffe. I’ve injured my wrist.”

“What on earth happened?” she feigned concern.

“I slipped. And I’m through with him. I’ve had enough.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“You better go home; have a bite to eat on the way. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

For just a moment she reflected. “I think I’ll walk over to Jane’s. I’ll stay with her if it gets too late.”

As soon as Willie was out of sight, Liz walked to the very door from which Willie had emerged. For a few seconds she hesitated. Then, resolutely, she knocked.

“Who’s there?” I heard Dick startled voice.

“It’s me, Dick – Liz – open up.”

“What a night,” said Dick as he opened the door. “To start with, some time traveller calls on me. Then I’ve a fight with my boyfriend and boot him out. And then, it’s my separated wife. What a night!”

“Don’t you worry,” she assured him as she stepped in and closed the door. “I’m not after a reconciliation. It’s been over for two years. I’ve come to bring you back some of your money. Here – that’s what Willie gave me.”

“Willie? What on earth do you have to do with this … chap?”

“I’ve been seeing him for some time.”

“Surely, not that … crap; you can’t be in love with him!”

“Of course not. But I wanted to get you out of his clutches.”

Liz looked around her. Her eye rested disapprovingly on the half empty bottle and the glass on the table. She then grinned as she looked at the smears of blood on the wall and door frame.

“So that’s where Willie slipped?”

“Is that what he told you?” chuckled Dick.

“What happened?”

“He wanted to hit that time traveller but slammed into the door!”

“What’s this nonsense about a time traveller? Are you well, Dick?”

“Of course,” he rebuked.

“You haven’t been seeing things?”

“No, Liz, I haven’t! And look, here’s what he gave me!”

Liz’s eyes opened wide when she saw the money. Having counted the notes, she observed it was nearly enough to buy a large house in Iffley. She wanted to provide a haven for women escaping from brutal husbands or oppressive parents. A mid-way house would provide a shelter whilst they decided how to start afresh.

“Have it,” Dick told her. “We might as well put it to good use.”

“It’s about 300 quid short,” she said sadly.

She looked astounded as the sheaf in front of her swelled. Having counted the notes again, she affirmed it was now more than enough. Then, still looking bewildered, she wondered whether she herself had started to see things.

“No, Liz,” Dick told her, “I too saw them ‘multiplying?”

“Joint hallucinations?” she asked anxiously.

“No, Liz; amazing as they are: the facts are clear! You better take the money with you.”

“Don’t you want to keep some, in the very least?”

“I’ll keep 10 quid: for drinking money.”

Liz looked at him sadly. Once again, I sensed her affection for him. Saddened by his steady decline, she knew he had long passed the point of no return. All the same, she made her last attempt.

“It’s never too late to make a new start. Why don’t you pull yourself together and make one last effort. You are killing yourself. That stuff’s poison; and you can’t take it.”

“I know. But, Liz, do you think I wanted to be like that? Don’t you think I wanted to be a good husband; have a family and a delightful home. Do you think I had a choice?”

“I don’t know, Dick. I don’t know. I too tried. How do you think I felt when we were sitting together – in a restaurant or a party – and you kept stealing glances not at other women but at men? I’m a normal woman, Dick.”

“I know. And you, too, have your needs. Yes, I know: and you did your best. What a pity I was made my way.”

“Don’t you think everyone has a cross to bear?”

“Perhaps; but mine was – still is – an unfair load to carry!”

Liz did not reply. As she made ready to go, Dick urged her not to return to her home that evening. She could use his spare room. As I expected, she declined. A friend, whom she had helped through with her divorce, had asked her to come and stay if the need arose. She lived just around the corner.

“You better take this with you,” Dick pointed at the pile of notes.

“I don’t dare to carry so much money with me. Can I come and take it tomorrow?”

“I’ll deposit it in the old bank account. It’s still in joint names. You can take it whenever you want.”

She looked at him sadly as she departed. As soon as she was gone, Dick seized the bottle. Taking in his pallor, I knew he would be gone before long. Theophil’s shrug affirmed my prognosis. I, in turn, had a question to raise.

“Theophil, I do believe that people are never saints or monsters. They come in different shades: Dick is light grey.”

“I agree.”

“How about Willie? Where is his bright side?”

“How was he with Liz?”

“Coming to think of it, he was OK. Didn’t let her come with him to ‘emergency’: quite considerate, I think.”

“Let’s have a look at him in a different scenario,” he suggested.

Willie was sitting by a low table in an old-fashioned sitting room on the outskirts of Reading. His right wrist was in a cast but his face did not display discomfort or pain. As he took the cup of tea with his left hand, his expression radiated warmth and happiness.

“Tell me again how this happened,” asked his aging mother with concern.

“I just slipped, Mom, and fractured my wrist when I broke my fall. It’s just a trifle; it’ll be alright next time I come over!”

“But you better be careful, Willie. Fractures take a long time to heal.”

“I know. It’s just bad luck; and I was clumsy. Don’t you worry; it won’t happen again.”

“She thinks Willie is a travelling salesman,” advised Theophil. “And she is proud of him. Her husband left her a tidy nest egg. Willie makes sure she has enough to spread jam on her bread and butter. Well, what do you say now?”

“I get your point. This is a different Willie: I like him.”

“You see,” he approbated.

“The human soul – the psyche – is complex and fragile, isn’t it?” I asked as we returned to my era.

“It is,” he said emphatically. “Read this carefully; it will tell you all about it.”

As he vanished a neatly produced book materialised in front of me, entitled The Psyche by Peter Berger and S. Theophil. Its back revealed that it was published in 2028.

“It’s an advance copy,” my friend chuckled. “But you must see the importance of this episode. Some tasks – like saving a lost soul – are futile. You, Peter’le, ought to know. You’ll come back to this very point when you try to carry out the main task imposed on you.

A Dedicated Author

My third trip into the past took place some ten days after I had returned from 1932. By then I had recovered from my harassing experience with Dick, Willie and Liz.

In most regards, Oxford of 1948 looked as it did ten years later, when I arrived there as a post graduate student. Even the college façades looked the same and the double decker buses appeared familiar. Walking invisibly down Cornmarket, Theophil and I observed the flow of people. Their clothes were familiar and the traffic was as heavy as it used to be by the end of the next decade.

The occupant of the house was sitting by her desk and bashing her portable typewriter steadily and incessantly. Her fingers hit the keys rhythmically and unerringly with the lines accumulating speedily on the page she was typing. The house was well furnished and decorated but it needed the attention of a maid.

A mug of coffee placed on the desk was no longer steaming. The occupant had not taken a sip for hours. She was too absorbed in her immediate task. I noted, further, she was unkempt, poorly groomed and appeared to have dressed without glancing into the mirror. Her sweater and slacks were of good quality but would have benefited from washing and pressing.

“What is she typing, Theophil, a research report?”

“Have a look,” he responded. The title page of the work read: “Bright Tiger: a Novel by Barbara Brown”.

“I haven’t heard of her, Theophil.”

“Nobody has,” he advised and produced from one of the drawers in her desk a folder of letters of rejection sent by different publishing houses. Some advised that her work did not “fit into our mainstream”, others suggested the work would not be of the type popular with their readers and others still were curt refusals.

“Care to read her novels?” asked Theophil and pointed to a shelf of typescripts. The were altogether twelve bundles.

“It would take me months to read them,” I faltered.

“I’ll let you use my reading speed,” he volunteered.

“She is brilliant,” I told him some twenty minutes later. “Why on earth do they keep rejecting her books? They are well above standard: sparkling style; excellent dialogue; inordinately rich vocabulary and exciting plots.”

“She just sends the manuscripts to publishing houses. She has no connections, no backer and no PR or skill in handling people. Also, she has no luck”.

What kept Barbara Brown going, I mused? She did not write for money. With her excellent style and writing skills she could have made a handsome income from writing for magazines with a literary or political bent. Obviously, she was not a penny a liner. The furniture, furnishings and, in particular, the modern and well-fitted kitchen showed she was not poor. Why did she not devote a few hours per day to her writings and pursue a hobby or some social events in the time left available? What chained her to the desk, to the typewriter and to the stories formed in her mind?

“Escape?” I asked Theophil.

“Her husband’s sudden death from pneumonia was an incentive to inject all she had into her work. You see, he believed in her. She wanted to prove him right. But that wasn’t all!”

“Was vanity the further incentive?”

“Have you recorded any?”

“I haven’t,” I advised. “I sense some emotion I cannot classify; but – somehow – it appears familiar.”

“No wonder,” he replied dryly; and displayed a scene from my own life in Wellington: a Peter Berger – with dim eyes and a nervous twitch – striving to add a few footnotes to his belaboured legal analysis.

“Was your motivation money?”

“Of course not,” I rebuked. “I wanted to establish my international credentials!”

“Vanity?” he asked rhetorically.

“To a certain extent,” I conceded. “But that wasn’t all.”

“What else, then?”

“A wish to escape from daily life coupled with an irrational drive to do something you feel you ought to do.” Pausing for a moment, I saw light: “an instinctive compulsion not explainable on any rational or emotive basis.”

“A monomania: I’ve seen it possessing you when you looked for a specific piece of porcelain or a print.”

“How do you explain it?”

“A twist of the survival instinct, I think.” he said.

His hints explained one aspect respecting Barbara Brown’s books. At the moment, though, I was puzzled by one matter respecting them. True, I have not seen anyone of the books published under her name. But I had read three of them. They appeared under the name of Ruth Black. Was this Barbara Brown’s nom de plume?

“It was not,” Theophil advised. “Here, meet Miss Ruth Black.”

“Hello, Auntie: I’ve brought your lunch,” said the pleasant girl, in her mid twenties, who burst into the room. She was neatly made up, casually dressed and appeared self-assured and confident.

“Thanks, Ruth,” Barbara responded and devoured the two Wimpy hamburgers ravenously. She had been too immersed in her work to notice she was hungry.

“And you should eat more regularly,” Ruth chided her. “What did you take for breakfast?”

“I can’t remember,” said Barbara.

“You must have stepped straight to your typewriter when you got up; and on an empty stomach!”

“Could be,” Barbara admitted. “You know how I get possessed when I want to write something down before I forget it.”

“I know, but it’s not good for you. You can have breakfast in just ten minutes. That’s what I do every morning; and so can you.”

“You are right,” conceded Barbara. “But bad habits die hard.”

“I know,” Ruth summed up. “And Auntie: what are you writing?”

“I am just about to finish ‘Bright Tiger’. I’ll send it to Fair Publishers; I haven’t tried them before.”

“But Auntie: that’s not the way to do it. They may not even look at manuscripts sent in by people they don’t know. Why don’t you make an appointment to see the Editor or his Assistant: the personal touch, you know?”

“Oh, I can’t be bothered. And I’m not sure it’ll do any good.”

“But why not give it a try?”

“I want to start writing ‘A Bleak Comedy’. I should have done so weeks ago.”

“I understand,” Ruth appeared crestfallen. Before she left, she reminded her Aunt to send her a copy of the new manuscripts. She loved to read Barbara’s books and kept copies of each.

“So, Ruth is a snake,” I said to Theophil.

“Care to discuss it with Barbara? I won’t materialise you but we can ring her!”

Barbara picked her receiver up promptly. At the very same time, my handphone appeared in my hand. There was a comic element in my ringing Barbara from her own room by using an advanced instrument made in another era.

“Good day, Mrs. Brown,” I responded when I heard her ‘hallo’. “My name is Peter Berger. You don’t know me!”

“And I don’t recognise your voice. Who are you?”

“I’m from a different era. I come from 2006! A good friend guided me to times past!”

“I’ve read H.G. Wells’ Time Machine. It’s fiction, isn’t it?”

“His novella was. But time travel is feasible. My friend can travel regularly through time; and he can take others with him.”

“But where are you?”

“In the very same room as you. I rented the house in 2006.”

“Can you see me?”

“I can.”

“So why can’t I see you?”

“My friend won’t materialise me. But he has enabled me to ring you.”

To test me, she stuck out her tongue and asked me what she had done. Disapprovingly, I observed her tongue was heavily coated, indicating she was eating irregularly and smoking too much. I then told her there was no need to cover her eyes with her hands: neither of us was an ostrich.

“I suppose I’ll have to accept the facts. Still, what made you ring me?”

“I’ve read your books. They are brilliant. I couldn’t tear myself away from them.”

“But how were you able to read them? Were they published? And reading all of them would take months. It took me years to write them.”

“Theophil …” I started

“… you mean your ephemeral friend?”

“Precisely. You see, he ‘lent’ me some of his reading speed. Even so, it took me about half an hour!”

“And this friend – your lover of theology – is he who I suspect he is?”

“Yes!”

“I understand,” she said, adding after a pause: “So you liked my books?”

“I did – I mean, do. But look here: the strange thing is I’ve read three of them before. But according to the title page, the author was someone else.”

“Who?”

“Ruth Black – your niece. She has plagiarized your works. And Theophil tells me she published some others as well.”

“Oh, well,” she said without any sign of anger or even change of expression.

“I don’t understand. I thought you’d be furious. Ruth is – obviously – a snake in the grass! A thief!”

“That’s one way of looking at it. But you see, I want people to read and enjoy my books. That’s why I write them. It doesn’t matter to me if Ruth published them under her name or mine. The main thing: the books saw light.”

“Will you still give Ruth copies of new manuscripts?”

“Of course. But now I must really get back to my work. It was nice talking to you. Ring me again when you are next around.”

Theophil was neither astounded nor put off by Barbara’s reaction to her being plagiarised. To him Barbara’s response made sense.

“But how could Ruth do such a thing? Didn’t she have qualms?”

“Let me show you how she made her decision.”

Instantly, we moved to a small office in East London, some ten years later. Barbara had died from a perforated ulcer three years earlier, leaving all her money and other possessions (including her manuscripts) to her niece. Ruth Black was immersed in a discussion of her aunt’s books with a young, radical and reasonably successful publisher. He was impressed by the books but, all the same, was reluctant to publish the work of an author who had failed to gain any recognition during her lifetime. He thought it was too risky. He added that the dialogue and general vocabulary had to be brought up to date.

“I thought auntie’s style was excellent and modern.”

“It was up to the standard of her own days. Language – especially English – metamorphoses constantly. Even for her own days, Barbara Brown’s choice of words was a bit pedantic, perhaps even old fashioned.”

“Can anything be done about it?”

“The manuscripts need editing – a revision. Why don’t you give it a try. You majored in English literature.”

Ruth heeded his words. Two years later she saw the same publisher again, with three fully revised manuscripts. To her delight he agreed to publish them but insisted Ruth should figure as the author. He saw no point in publishing them under the name of a long deceased, unrecognised, writer. Reluctantly, Ruth agreed. She salved her conscience by using the royalties to fund the Barbara Brown Scholarships for needy students. In the preamble to the trust deed, she recognised her debt and lauded Barbara’s achievements.

“Ruth wasn’t really a snake in the grass,” I had to admit. “Just a collaborator in a piece of chicanery. Still, this way, these excellent books saw light. I’m glad they weren’t lost to posterity.”

“I agree with your sentiment,” Theophil concluded as we re-entered my natural era. “Well, you better have a rest now.”

“But before I do, please explain why this experience is relevant to the task I have accepted?”

“It indicates that every emotion, thought and reaction is relative. This knowledge will stand you in good stead when you set out to deal with your lasting marriage.

The Musician

A few days following my time travel to 1932, Theophil took me for my next trip. We surfaced near Radcliffe’s Camera: on a bright late spring morning. The air was crisp and the sun played on the cobblestones. As I looked around me, I saw a man in his mid-twenties, in a shabby leather jacket and corduroy trousers. He wore thick glasses, was unduly thin and his hair was receding. Staring fixedly in front of him, he proceeded to the entrance of the Bodleian reading rooms.

“Did I really look so forlorn in 1959?” I asked.

“You did rather,” he chuckled.

Turning into Turl Street, we walked past Walters. Recalling days gone by, I insisted we step in. But the blazer I used to admire – and could not afford – appeared showy and vulgar. Reading my mind, Theophil pointed out that individual tastes changed over the years. In my youth I had been a moderately conservative dresser. I had, since then, become a fuddy duddy: a reactionary.

“Would you wear corduroy trousers nowadays?”

“Of course not,” I responded spiritedly. “I am 70! Might as well wear pink pyjamas!”

“I’ll get them for you,” he chuckled.

The Broad looked exactly as I recalled it. For the sake of old times, we had tea in a coffee house opposite Blackwells. Most patrons were undergraduates, some accompanied by their girl friends. To my delight, the waitress wore the outfit I recalled.

About fifteen minutes later we faced the old version of my present rental accommodation. The occupant – a middle-aged portly gentleman – had just finished shaving. On the sofa lay a cello, which he had played earlier in the morning. It bore witness to his occupation.

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I can’t materialise you or arrange a call on your handphone. He is superstitious: might start screaming.”

“Oh, well,” I gave in gracefully.

“But there is a way: care to join him for lunch?”

“Oh, yes: but you can’t sit down at a stranger’s table?”

“You can ‘join’ if they have a full house! I’ll nudge him to the Oxford Union.”

The cellist took the only vacant table. Having been laid for four, the chief waiter looked at him disapprovingly. He would have preferred him to take a high stool at the bar. When I went through the door, the chief waiter asked me if I would mind joining and led me to the same table. The cellist looked at me with interest as I placed my order.

“In which district of Vienna did you live?” He wanted to know.

“Leopoldstadt,” I retorted, referring to the 2nd predominantly Jewish district of the town.

“I thought so – from your accent. I, too, come from there. I’m Heinz Popper.”

“Peter Berger. And it’s nice to meet you. When did you leave?”

“In 1936: I saw the writing on the wall.”

“My parents fled in 1938: just in time.”

When his first course was placed in front of him, I urged him to start. He tried the soup, muttered it was too hot and waited until my starter arrived. Sensing he was responsive, I asked what his line of business was. It turned out he was the lead cellist of a well-known London orchestra. He had been with it for more than ten years.

“Do you give recitals?”

“Very seldom. I’m not a soloist. But I play regularly with a chamber orchestra.”

“I know very little about music. I can’t even tell a specific instrument – except a harp and percussions – when I listen to a concert.”

“So, you do go to concerts?”

“Well, yes; but not often: only when they perform pieces I’m fond of.”

“Like?” he persevered.

“Sibelius’ Violin Concerto; Spring, Chopin or one of Mozart’s piano concertos.”

“You probably know more than you think,” he said supportively. “Very few people can identify individual instruments when they listen to an orchestra. Do you play an instrument?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“That’s the explanation. Your hearing develops as you play.”

For a while, we continued to talk about music. He had chosen the cello mainly because of its mellow tone and elegance. Chance, too, had played its role. Some two years after he had started to take violin lessons, he had inherited his grandfather’s cello. Out of curiosity, he tried it out and came to like it. In due course, he switched to it.

“Can you tell the cello when you listen to a piece?”

“I can. I get upset if one of the cellists is no good.”

Eventually, I assumed the courage to ask what had dissuaded him from becoming a soloist. Solo pieces for cello were uncommon, he explained; the demand for cello soloists was not there. But, he added, even if he had concentrated on some other instrument – like the violin – he would have opted for a musical chair rather than a soloist’s career. Employment by an orchestra provided security and enabled you to lead a normal life. You could keep regular working hours and had the chance to engage in teaching. You had a base and you could bring up a family.

A soloist, in contrast, had a harum scarum existence: travelling whenever invited and, except in the case of top performers, having no steady income. Instead, there was the endless waiting for prestigious invitations. Worse still, when the concert was over, the soloist was left on his (or her) own, often spending evenings in an impersonal hotel room. No wonder so many soloists remained single, gave up or, alas, committed suicide.

“What determines a soloist’s success?”

“To start with a soloist must be good; but that’s not all. He must believe in himself, be confident, be good in his PR and have some presence or charisma. A mentor can, of course, help. But you need luck. I can think of a few excellent musicians who have preferred a steady engagement in a good orchestra to the soloist’s limelight.”

“The same considerations apply in other fields too,” I conceded.

“In yours?” he wanted to know.

It did not take him long to grasp the difference between the role of a dedicated court room advocate and the less glamorous existence of the backstage solicitor or notary. The litigation attorney had to be endowed with confidence and needed good tactical ability and timing. He had to be quick on his feet and often had to know how to counter bombshells whenever they were thrown at him.

The solicitor, whose main task was to prepare documents, had to have the same practical grasp and discerning eye as a court room advocate. Often, he, too, worked long hours and had to grope with minute details. In the ultimate, though, he was the master of his own time and could plan his progress. Once he left his office for the day, he had the right not to be disturbed.

“I take it you opted for the backstage?” he observed.

“Not exactly. I was too slow on my feet to opt for the limelight. However, I found the endless drafting of documents a bore.”

“Well, what did you do?”

“I became a law teacher. The university offers a safe career and a comfortable way of life. And I had no wish to become rich.”

“So, you compromised?”

“I suppose so. But I do enjoy my career. And I get a lot of ‘opinion work’.”

“What is that?”

“Some generalist lawyers ask me to opine when they get cases or difficult transactions in my area. I enjoy it; and it pays.”

“ctually, you have a foot in both camps.”

“I do, rather. And this way, I have my share of the limelight.”

“That’s why I perform with a chamber ensemble. I lead it.”

“Doesn’t your wife mind your being out so often?” I asked naively.

“She left me some time ago. For years we used to play in the same orchestra. Then she fell in love with a young violin soloist and eloped with him.”

“How long did it take you to recover?” I asked.

“My pride was dented and I kept regretting my decision to turn down the chance of becoming a soloist. Still, time is a great healer: when she wanted to come back to me after two years, I refused. Fortunately, we had no children.”

We had coffee together in the Broad. We then walked together in the direction of the house in Walton Street. Shortly before we reached it, I took my leave.

“Shall we return to your era?” asked Theophil.

“Why not take a walk?”

Starting at Addison’s Walk in Magdalen College, we walked by Merton College and onward to Christchurch Meadows. As we proceeded, a squirrel hopped onto my shoulder and looked at me expectantly. It accepted the nut proffered by Theophil, cracked it open with its sharp teeth, jumped back to its tree and disappeared in a hole in the trunk.

To my chagrin, my glasses were getting misty. Looking at me sympathetically, my mentor observed that I had been walking down memory lane. No wonder my emotions were getting the better of me.

“Were these my happiest days?” I asked him.

“You didn’t think so then.”

“The future was so uncertain. My heart was full of foreboding!”

“It’s your nature, Peter’le. When you drink, you see the empty portion of the cup. Later, you recall the cup as it looked when it was filled to its brim.”

“You may be right,” I conceded. “But how can anybody know, in retrospect, which were his happiest days?”

“It’s simple. Would you want me to turn your clock back? It can be done.”

“Actually, I’d rather stay put,” I told him after a pause. “Better the …”

“ … devil you know than the one you haven’t experienced,” he chuckled. “No, Peter’le, I’m not offended. I know what you mean. You have traversed life from childhood to old age. You have usually been quite contented with your lot or – in the very least – you came to terms with it. In contrast, the ‘unknown’ is ‘uncertain’. You fear it.”

“True.”

“So let us proceed with your afternoon walk,” he concluded.

“You mean: our walk,” I corrected him. “You have held my hand from day one. I happen to know.”

Shortly thereafter, we reached St. Aldate’s. For a while, I kept staring at Tom Tower. Despite its pomp, I loved it. It had been an integral part of my old world. As we emerged back in my era, I had just one question to ask.

“Oxford changed my life, Theophil. What happened?”

“During your days in Israel, the idols of your home clashed with the milieu of your school. You realised that both were bent when you travelled to Italy with your mother. But you didn’t accept the Italian norms: the trip filled you with doubts.”

“I never accepted Oxford’s British mores, surely?”

“No, you didn’t. But Oxford opened your eyes. You realised that you had the right to make your own choices. You too had a voice to raise; and you did.”

“Did Oxford set me free?”

“It did, rather. It enabled you to exercise your right to individuality. There was no longer a need to search for a mid-way.”

“I understand. This entire period was crucial, definitive. Is this why you chose to reveal yourself to me during it.”

“Surely, I did not reveal myself to you in Oxford.”

“I know. But I met you in the opera when I visited my father in Vienna; in 1960.”

“Care to revisit the event?” he asked magnanimously.

“Wouldn’t I ever?”

The performance of Freischütz lacked lustre. Weber’s music was dull; and the libretto was, as I well knew, childish. Father, who was sitting to my right was equally bored. We had intended to book seats for the Rosenkavalier but got muddled over the dates. The patron sitting to my left appeared a colourless, middle-aged run of the mill Viennese. During the first two acts, I hardly noticed him. During the intermission, though, as I queued up at the bar for a drink and snack, he was standing in front of me.

“It’s a long queue,” he muttered as people shuffled their feet.

“Is it always so crowded?” I asked.

“Not really, especially when it’s not a mainstream event: like a Verdi or Puccini. But quite a few people thought they were showing a Richard Strauss opera tonight.”

When – at long last – we were served our drinks, he asked me to join him at the high tabletop adjacent to the bar. For a few moments we talked about operas. When I told him my favourite was Carmen, he pointed out that, like Freischütz, it abounded with prejudices about the supernatural.

“Still, Bizet’s music is more exciting than Weber’s,” he conceded. “I enjoyed the premiere. It was great, although the audience did not appreciate the last two acts.”

His words gave me a jolt. Carmen was first performed in 1874. I wondered whether I had heard him correctly. But, before I had the chance to ask, the bell summoned the crowd back.

“You better return to your seat,” he told me.

“Aren’t you going back?”

“I don’t like the remaining part. I’ll give it a miss.”

“This was our first encounter, wasn’t it?” I asked my friend.

“The first in which I gave you a hint. You perceived me earlier on but without a clue it was me.”

“But what was your object in 1960?”

“To make you ponder. To prepare the ground for the future.”

Theophil’s materialisation had had its desired effect. My heart and instincts told me whom I had met. My mind, though, remained sceptical. Should the logical equations I had accepted for years be affected by such a chance meeting? I sought to dismiss the event as a hallucination. All the same, my staunch atheistic philosophy was shaken. It dawned on me that the universe was more complex than I had assumed. Dismissing the supernatural out of hand was as dogmatic as a blind adherence to faith.

“You certainly made your point that day in 1960,” I told my friend. “You are a good teacher.”

“Thanks for the compliment” he replied.

As I looked around me, realising we had once again returned to 2006, a small parcel surfaced on the sofa in the sitting room. The tracksuit contained was of greyish pink. It looked warm and comfortable.

“Wear it as you walk in the park,” Theophil advocated. “It is more suitable – more useful – than a pair of pink pajamas.”

Milestones

During the next few mornings of my visit to Oxford, I jogged in the park. The tracksuit given to me by Theophil was warm and comfortable and fitted like a glove. The swans on the Cherwell looked at me with interest. So did some of the punters who made their way up the river.

Having finished my work at the library, I kept revising my draft in my study in the house in Walton Street. One morning, as I raised my head from the sheaf of papers in front of me, Peppi Stölzl faced me across the table. He looked as he was in his late eighties. His hair was grey streaked with white. He was no longer too heavily set but did not look gaunt; and his broad shoulders gave him an aura of robustness.

“Hi, Peppi: nowadays Theophil calls on me in his other form. What’s up?”

“You are going for a trip of revelations. We want to get you ready and to humour you. You love to see Peppi!”

“True: seeing him puts me at my ease. But what’s so special about this trip?”

“We move from the present to the past: your own past. We are not restrained by a pre-determined spot like your rented house.”

“In any event, I’ve just rented the house; I’ve got no ‘past’ in it.”

“Actually, you had a glimpse at the house when you looked for lodgings in 1959. But the room had been taken. So, you ended up in Newton Road.”

“So, this house was never my centre. Where are we going to?”

“To milestones in your life! We are travelling backward.”

“Very well. And when do we start?” I asked him.

“We did so a few minutes ago. We are in Oxford, in 2006. Where shall we make our next stop?”

“In Singapore: my emeritation?”

The Kallang Theatre was fully packed. Law degrees were to be conferred on students who had finished their Bachelor of Laws course. In addition, five of my research students were to be awarded their Masters. I, too, was the recipient of an award. Some years had elapsed since any staff member had been constituted an Emeritus Professor. My selection was an act of recognition. But it also signaled my retirement from full service!

As the University Orator narrated my attainments, a sad ambience descended on me. What had I really achieved? A safe place by the academic hearth backed by a long list of sound publications, none of which would be read by the end of the decade. I may have fooled the world: but not myself. True, I had made the careers of some bright men and women. Some had been appointed to the Bench; others had made their own academic careers; and others still were successful lawyers. All the same, I knew that each of them would have got to his target even without me. In a process of natural selection, the individual educator had but a minor role to play.

As the University Orator’s tirade reached a new peak, I spotted my wife and guests. They were sitting in the second row of the huge hall. Pat was smiling: was it an expression of satisfaction or, perhaps, just good manners? We had never been happy together. Was she, nevertheless, pleased by the University’s decision to honour me?

“In some ways, Pat is a simple soul, Peterl’e,” Theophil whispered. “She is proud of you. She basks in your glory.”

“What glory?” I asked sardonically. “And Pat’s no fool!”

“She isn’t. But she is keenly aware of the honour conferred on her husband.”

“Well, I am not! It’s hollow!”

“I don’t think so,” he countered. “But to you it does appear this way. You see, it’s your wake-up call but you aren’t ready to be passed over. You want to hold on!”

“Is that why I looked for a fresh link?”

“That’s one reason. The other is the void in your personal life!”

He was right. My years in Singapore brought me professional laurels. My personal life had remained in the disarray occasioned by my myopia. I had little to be ashamed off; but even less to brag about.

“Where do you want to make our next stop? It has to be your choice, Peter’le.”

“Monash; saying farewell to Carol.”

My decision to resign had been made after what had appeared a prolonged agony. I kept counting the pros and the cons, getting mixed results. In truth, though, my decision had been made as soon as I received Singapore’s final offer. Two years earlier on I had turned down an offer to move to London. The salary was poor and I feared the harsh climate. In addition, I was not ready for a change. When the unexpected deterioration in my wife’s eyesight ruled out a move to London, I became ready to make the ‘sacrifice’ of staying put. Relief overrode regrets.

The offer to move back to Singapore – my wife’s hometown – made room for a salvage operation. In Melbourne we led an isolated existence. And we were falling apart. Singapore presented the opportunity for a fresh start.

Before we left, I called on Carol. I had visited her house in the Carlton district on previous occasions. A student who lived across the road saw me when I walked in. Being a simple soul, he concluded that two and two made five. In truth, though, it had not been an affair. When Carol was ready to say ‘yes’ I failed to act. When I made a feeble attempt, it was too late. Outwardly, we remained on good terms. Rumours about us were rife although the smoke was thin. During my nine years at Monash, I remained the moth attracted by the candle’s flame. I was scourged in the process but – all in all – the scars remained superficial. A positive response could have done more harm.

That evening, I came over because Carol had invited me. Her influence had, actually, abated during two periods of leave I had taken when my administrative duties at the University became too much for me. It dawned on me that, notwithstanding the spell Carol had cast over me, life was simpler without her.

My decision to leave Monash was not a direct result of the entanglement with her. It was my realisation that I had been promoted to my level of incompetence. Managing people had never been my skill. My strength was in research and, to a lesser extent, in teaching. When Monash appointed me, the Selection Board had overlooked my patent inadequacies for a post requiring leadership.

“When are you leaving?” asked Carol soon after I entered her house. Even as she spoke, I felt the old admiration and desire. True, Carol was not a beauty: her features were too sharp, too accentuated. But her effervescent personality, her ability to call a spade a spade and her down-to-earth mannerism had remained captivating.

“By the end of the month.”

“What made you decide?”

“The hope Pat will be happier there.”

“She won’t,” Carol spoke soberly. “You were wrong for one another from the start. The rift is too deep to heal. I wish you well. But don’t kid yourself.”

“You are, probably, right. I wish I knew what really prompted me to resign.”

“The need for a fresh start. I think it’s the right decision.”

“Have I been a total failure here?”

“I don’t think so. You were alright when you got back into your banking law. Your attempt to get into the policy-oriented areas was unreal. You are not interested in policy and law reform.”

Carol was thinking of a book on Legal Change we had been working on for five years. I had completed some of my chapters but Carol kept pulling back. She remained committed to American realism, which searched for sociological motivations behind abstract legal principles, such as a judge’s prejudices based on race, sex and class. I was searching for the historical origin of principles and for their conceptual basis. Each approach was legitimate. But they were incompatible. At the end of my second sabbatical spell, when my new text on banking law was getting into shape, I gave Carol my completed chapters of Legal Change and suggested she better proceed on her own. It turned out to be the end of the project.

“You were right about our research project. The book was doomed from the start,” I conceded. “Is it because I am a conceptualist, divorced from real life?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied candidly. “You are pragmatic when you deal with the facts of some sordid commercial dispute. But you don’t care whether a party is a poor slob, a racially disadvantaged minority person or a wealthy bank. You want to tackle the concepts and win the case.”

“True; I work for my client: once I accept a brief.”

“In reality, policy is irrelevant to you. To me it matters.”

“I know. The truth is: I wanted to work with you. So, I suggested the book.”

To my relief, she did not persist. Did she know I had confused the scholar with the woman? I had had my doubts about her intellect all along. She was encyclopaedic and good at repartee but lacked substance. When, for instance, she criticised a bank that called up a mortgage loan, she closed her eyes to the fact that the bank was not a philanthropist. It would have turned the borrower’s application down if the Credit Officer had suspected difficulties in its repayment.

The scholar in Carol was one-eyed. The woman, in contrast, was fascinating: a Roman Catholic convent girl metamorphosed into a radical. It had taken me a while to realise that many of her acts and attitudes were motivated by her need to rebel. She had been unable to walk away from the hearth without a fuss. My own separation from many tenets of Judaism had been less dramatic. I had shaken off the bonds but, at the same time, kept my foot in the door. The road back remained traversable.

As Carol prepared the meal, I reflected that on all previous occasions we had gone out for lunch or dinner. All in all, Carol’s cooking left much to be desired. The fish was undercooked, the vegetables tasteless and the potatoes soggy. The wine I had brought with me was poor; but then, my taste in wines had been defective all along.

During the dire repast we engaged in small talk. Had I ever managed to kindle some response in her? As often before, the answer eluded me. Perhaps I was no longer interested in the subject. I was relieved when I sensed the time was ready for my departure. As I left, Carol gave me a cold goodbye kiss on the cheek. It was a befitting end to a spell in dreamland.

“Were my years in Monash a waste of time?” I asked Theophil.

“You entrenched your academic credentials during the period. You were a well-regarded minor scholar when you joined. You left as one of the leading men in your field.”

“But my personal life?”

“It was a mess both before and after Monash. I fear Pat would agree.”

“Why have I been such an utter failure with women?

“You weren’t, Peter’le. Quite a few nice family girls bestowed gentle glances on you. But you kept looking at glamour women who caught your fancy.”

“Why was I so blind?” I asked, realising he had put his finger on the pulse.

“I can’t be certain. Still, I suspect that you were obsessed by the need to maintain your independence. Plain Janes are possessive: you looked in another direction. And you were guided by your sexual impulses.”

“Did they drive me to Pat? She was attractive,” I told him

“So she was; and she had the mystique of the East. That’s why you fell for her. You did not realise she was a possessive and insecure girl. She expected a lot from you; and you were not ready to deliver.”

“Was a divorce the only solution?” I asked.

“Perhaps. But you were unable to set yourself free. And when Pat wanted to leave, you asked her to stay. You were not acting rationally but compulsively.”

“Where shall we make our next stop – in Wellington?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Do you think our Bridge session at lunch is worth a re-visit?”

The Staff Common Room in the Rankine Brown Building was crowded during lunch time. The snacks were inexpensive and the coffee strongly brewed. It was more convenient to have a quick meal there than to take the cable car down to Lambton Quay.

Most staff members congregated at a table occupied by other members of their own department. The Bridge players alone were interdisciplinary. As soon as four of us arrived, we started to play. Later arrivals were given the chance to play by ‘cutting out’ one of those who had already played four hands.

The daily Bridge game was a relaxation. None of us took our sessions seriously. It was a pleasant pastime for the midday break. Over the years, I came to know most amateur Bridge players in the University: engineers, sociologists, political scientists, philosophers and administrators. If they knew the game, they were welcome to join in.

In the early years I was in doubt as to whether to join my colleagues from the Law Faculty or to partake in the game. In most instances, I was guided by my instincts, which told me that Bridge was a pleasant game whilst the administration of the Law School was tedious and that discussing it with my long-winded colleagues was a bore. After a few months, the lawyers ignored my arrival whilst the Bridge players made room for me.

The Bridge game had a further advantage. It saved the need to ring my wife during lunch time. I knew she felt cooped up at home and was thoroughly unhappy. The meetings of the wives of the diplomatic core, which she attended regularly, exacerbated the problem. She envied those who came over for just a stint of three or five years. She yearned to be back in Singapore or – in the very least – in a more cosmopolitan environment. Her success as an amateur potter was of little help. She did not believe in her own creativity, although many of our friends thought her pieces were exceptional.

“I suspect that, but for her, I should have stayed put,” I told Theophil.

“I am not certain. You knew your research was getting stale and your personal life brought you no satisfaction. You needed fresh horizons.”

“Was there a point of no return?”

“Let’s look for it,” he suggested.

The social worker had taken her leave. She appeared neither surprised nor disappointed by our decision. After eight years of a childless marriage, Pat had suggested we adopt. We had tried all other avenues – but our case kept eluding the specialists. Pat was convinced it was my fault. The medical men kept mum.

When we contacted the Social Welfare Department personnel, they recommended a baby boy fathered by a Singapore Chinese on a New Zealand girl. All went well but – at the very last minute – Pat changed her mind. She was not prepared to adopt a boy. In addition, under the law of New Zealand, an adoptee had the right to be told the identity of his (or her) natural parents. Pat found this an unpalatable constraint.

“You must be disappointed,” Pat said when we were left on our own.

“Not at all,” I lied. “As Miss Lawrence told us: if in doubt, don’t adopt because you may not love the baby. She also said you must adopt for the sake of the child; not for your own personal reasons.”

“Do you think she is right?”

“I think so. But when couples want to adopt it is usually because they are childless or can’t have more children.”

To my dismay, Pat started to cry. She had cried in the same manner when she turned down a suitable job in a bank I found for her after a long search. Another disappointment had been her decision to discontinue her studies at the University. She had done well in her first two terms but, alas, was unable to adapt. On that occasion, she made her announcement calmly; but I realised she had become bitter.

“Why was the failed adoption the point of no return?” I asked Theophil.

“You realised Pat’s feelings of insecurity and inadequacy were the real block. She would not have another go at adoption. Where did this leave you?”

“With a barren marriage and a career …”

“… getting routine and hence boring. The Bridge game was not an adequate compensation. You were too young to move backstage. A change of venue was the only realistic way out.”

“I could have divorced Pat?”

“You were unable and unwilling to do so.”

“That sums it up, rather. Theophil: why did I propose to her?”

The Residential Fellow’s flat at King Edward VII Hall, the medical students’ dormitory near Singapore’s General Hospital, was compact. It had a spacious sitting room, a bedroom and a convenience. There was no kitchenette. Fellows were expected to participate in the students’ meals. This way we had the opportunity to meet them.

I had met Pat about a year after I had moved into the Hall. We were introduced by a colleague, who had dated two girls for the same evening. I accepted the unexpected invitation to join them when he assured me that I should be his guest. In the end, though, he stuck me with the bill. I avenged myself by dating his girlfriend.

After a few weeks, I started to take Pat out regularly. Before long we were going steady. After some time, she started to visit me in the Hall. One of the revelations made to me was that Pat had spent a few months in the local TB hospital. She had been cured by antibiotics. At the very last moment, an operation was pronounced unnecessary.

I met Pat some two years after her discharge. Over dinners and visits to my flat, she told me about her harassing spell in hospital. Fortunately, there was no danger of a relapse. Her spirit, though, had not recovered. She missed the boyfriend who had jilted her when she was diagnosed. Further, she remained unemployed. The impoverished condition of her once wealthy family was another cause for concern. She could not remain idle for too long.

Even so, Pat did not see me as Prince Charming appearing from nowhere. When I proposed, she had a reservation. Jews, she told me, had been persecuted persistently. She had misgivings about marrying in. In addition, she knew I was not an easy man to manage. I had my own idiosyncrasies, was a career rather than family orientated and had a hard and stubborn core. All the same, she accepted: she preferred a European to another Chinese and – I suspect – knew that few of her countrymen would show an interest in a girl with her medical history.

“Why did I propose?” I asked Theophil. “I sensed it would be a mismatch.”

“You found her attractive. Also, you were still on the rebound. You feared to miss the bus again.”

“When did I decide to propose?”

“Probably, long before you did. You passed the point of no return when you started to date her. Your mind turned her faults – her difficult character and her patent unsuitability – into virtues. You wanted to show you could accomplish the impossible, Peter Pygmalion.”

“How about her resistance to pre-marital sex?”

“It underwrote her aura of mystique.”

“So, I made a fool of myself?”

“I don’t think so,” he countered. “Pat has been a faithful and constant wife for over forty years. True, no love was left; perhaps there wasn’t much to start with. But how many loving couples have you met in your life? And I suspect many a wife would have run away from you. You can be impossible!”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Telling the truth can test a friendship,” he replied.

“Not when you ask a friend to tell you the truth!”

The kaleidoscope kept turning to scenes from my old days in Singapore. The visits with Pat to local antiques shops, the long evening walks along the night market that stretched for about two kilometers along Tanglin Road and Orchard Road and the pleasant meals in local food courts and hawker centres. My working life, too, was reflected. The fan-ventilated lecture rooms; the stormy Faculty meetings and my regular spells in the library.

“Why did I leave Singapore?”

“Your premature and unsuccessful application for promotion and the need to look for fresh pastures. And you hoped a move would detach Pat from her family.”

“It didn’t,” I told him.

“I know. It was a lost cause from the start. The two of you never made it and so she had to look back at the family hearth. Your having remained childless exacerbated the problem. You were unable to build up your own family environment.”

I saw no point in revisiting Oxford. We had done so on our previous trips. It was time to shift the kaleidoscope to my twenty years in Tel Aviv. They were the formative years, in which my character and aspirations were forged out of a sickly childhood and of my inability to fit into my environment. Despite its remoteness, this period was the branch on which I had been sitting later in life. It could not be cut away. All the same, I had no wish to put these years under a powerful lens.

“You feel no need to meander through your youth?” queried Theophil.

“I do not. But I’m not certain why!”

“Are you afraid of opening Pandora’s box?”

“I suspect I am,” I confessed, adding after a pause: “I must overcome these baseless fears. Very well then let’s resume our trip.”

Donolo Hospital was on the outskirts of Jaffa. I had been admitted when, after a lengthy court case, my chest could not take any more. My hissing breath and appalling pallor told their story. The Head of the ward – a well-known consultant of internal medicine – decided to make a last effort to break the hold of my asthma. It had to be carried out under medical supervision.

Initially, all went well. Then, during a cold spell, I caught a chill. Late one night I experienced an attack of breathlessness. Dr. Bruner was unavailable. Mahmood Diab, the male nurse in charge of the ward, sat by my side during my struggle. Postponing the administration of an injection, which would have brought instant relief, he insisted I should try to combat the attack on my own. If I shook off the ensuing panic, the spell of breathlessness would come under control.

In the event, I succeeded. When it was over, I smiled at him gratefully. He smiled back with patent relief. I then noticed that his hand, which I had grasped throughout my ordeal, was swollen.

Mahmood Diab became a close friend. We went out regularly for lunch, dinner or a show. Regrettably, Mahmood had to leave Donolo. He had fallen in love with a Sephardic nurse. When her brother, who served in the Military Police, found out, he had Mahmood beaten up. A transfer to a hospital in Haifa was Mahmood’s best way out. Dahlia, though, was a constant nymph. Though uninvited, she kept calling on him in his new quarters on Mount Carmel. On one such occasion she arrived when three Arab fugitives, Mahmood’s group had been sheltering, were about to depart. Dismayed by her discovery, Dahlia consulted her brother. Having witnessed his wrath, she rang me. Would I see how to save Mahmood from the clutches of the Military Police?

My old bomb – a Ford Anglia – stood us in good stead. When I arrived at Mahmood’s premises shortly after dawn, he packed his few possessions and was ready to leave within ten minutes. To avoid an undesirable encounter, we took an indirect route out of Haifa. Shortly before lunchtime, Mahmood told me to stop on the outskirts of Tiberias. To ensure my safety, he decided to cover the remaining few miles by a local bus.

Having no wish to return home, I drove to Jerusalem, with a view to spending two days in the University library. Early next morning, I took some documents for stamping by the Registrar of Companies’ office. To my delight the attendant had forgotten to adjust the date on her rubber stamp. The imprint suggested the documents had been stamped on the previous morning. In consequence, I had an iron clad alibi for the day involved.

“Did you step in aid?” I asked Theophil.

“Of course not,” he grinned. “But I nudged her to think of her errant boyfriend. In the process, she forgot all about her rubber stamp for some forty minutes. Naturally, she was not going to blabber about her lapse. You – my dear Peter’le – reaped the benefit of her state of confusion.”

In the event, although one of Mahmood flat mates told the Military Police of my involvement, no alibi was needed. The force thought it best to shove the incident under the carpet. But a stern warning – coupled with a suggestion that I make suitable plans for my own future – was conveyed informally. To my surprise, though, Officer Kaplan concluded his homily by conceding that, if Jewish refugees had asked for his protection in Europe, he would have given it. He could understand – perhaps even sympathise with – my act.

“In peace,” he told me, “friendship and loyalty are assets. In war they can turn into a liability.”

“Are we then in a state of war with our neighbours?” I asked him.

“Surely, you know the answer!”

“Theophil,” I asked my pilot, “what bound me to Mahmood? Was it just gratitude for his having helped me to break the grip of my asthma?”

“That was the initial cause – the causa causans. But it went much deeper than that! Have a look.”

That day, Mahmood had called unexpectedly. I knew something was on his mind but thought it best not to probe until after dinner. I was about to proceed when Mahmood came to the point without any prompting on my part. In a shaky voice, he told me about certain atrocities that had been committed by the Israeli army in an Arab village. Our soldiers had destroyed property, had raped women and had killed children and innocent old people. I had heard some rumours about the massacre but had tried to disbelieve my ears. Having listened to Mahmood without interruption, I experienced a deep – biting – sense of shame.

“Eli,” he asked, using my Hebrew name, “what are your politicians trying to do? Israel’s only hope of survival is to come to terms with us. And the people killed by your soldiers were not enemies or terrorists. They were peaceful Falachim: all they wanted was to live and let live!”

Mahmood’s narration cemented our friendship. I realised he would not have referred to the sordid episode unless he had full trust in the listener. He knew he could count on my sympathy.

“Well, you see, Peter’le,” confided Theophil. “We are not dealing with hidden passions or desires. You had no such inclinations, drives or urges. Mahmood Diab brought to the surface that strange sense of national guilt, a communal sense of responsibility, that had plagued the Jews from times immemorial. If a gentile commits an atrocity, you dub him a brute, a barbarian or a savage. If the predator is Jewish, you feel ashamed – even if you had never heard his name before!”

He was right. According to our folklore, the Jews were a chosen people: a holy nation of priests. Politically, they were the underdogs; but notwithstanding persistent persecutions they had managed to cling to their heavenly heritage. Although the Viennese Jews of my parents’ generation were amused by such fantasies, they too believed in the ‘superiority’ of the Jewish ethos. In their own way, the assimilated mid-European Jews were patronising and objectionable.

“You see, Peter’le,” proceeded Theophil, “you were taught in school that the atrocities of the Holocaust or of Russian pogroms were not something ‘your people’ would ever carry out. Mahmood exposed the fallacy. He opened your eyes to the plain truth: the Mongols, the Turks, the Cossacks and the Huns were no angels. Your own people were no better. Violence, cruelty and disregard for aliens are part and parcel of human nature.”

“Homo homini lupus,” I stammered.

“No, Peter’le: wolves are faithful and warm hearted animals, although they are not kind to hunters! The correct saying is: ‘homo homini monstrum’.”

“Some people rise above this,” I protested. “Peppi was ready to sacrifice his life for my family’s survival.”

“And you, mon cher Pierre, took a similar risk to save Mahmood! So perhaps you too were not a plain monstrum!”

“A mixed-up character: between a saint and a …”

“… devil from hell,” he chuckled. “Quite so, Peter’le. Perhaps Erasmus was nearer to the truth when he said: homo homini aut deus aut lupus.”

I decided to revisit my four years in Secondary School. During that period, I had grown from an unformed boy into a youth. The child – even if not innocent – was superseded by a teenager, with his own aspirations and view of life. In some regards he was still immature and biased; but his eyes were open and observant. Behind the cynical façade and the selfishness produced by ill health and caring parents, he had developed the urge to be liked. Many of his acts were dictated by this need.

“How can I meander through these years?” I asked Theophil. “They were full and rich: the formative years!”

“Why not traverse the entire period and focus on the telling episodes. You’ll recognise them as we skim through your youth.”

My school days were brightened by interesting and creative classes. Much as I disliked Mathematics, Physics and Chemistry, I had the stamina to memorise their essentials. The subjects I enjoyed were Literature, Composition, History and Bible Studies. The last was enhanced by the excellent classes of our Biblical Studies Master, a shriveled, rapidly ageing but charismatic lecturer. His dispassionate, critical analysis of the Book of Job and of Jeremiah had a lasting effect on my intellectual life.

‘Old Frank’ – as we had nicknamed him – was an eccentric and, unlike most of our teachers, an atheist. Although the school’s guidelines required teachers to show due respect to our traditions during Bible Classes, his skullcap usually dropped off shortly after he entered the classroom. In contrast, the secular boys in the class kept their Yarmulkes on, mainly out of respect for orthodox classmates.

On one occasion, when our Principal – dubbed Sheen on account of his bald pate – made a surprise visit to our form, Frank’s skullcap was lying beside the book on his desk. Sheen looked at him disapprovingly and, a few minutes later, was incensed when Frank exposed two verses which he considered interpolations. Sheen’s orthodox outlook found such views intolerable.

“Our school’s policy requires teachers to cover their head in Bible Classes,” he told Frank.

“I am sorry, Sir,” stammered Frank. Placing the Yarmulke back on his head, he added: “please forgive the oversight.”

Everybody was shocked. A rebuke in public, especially of an eccentric teacher close to retirement, was monstrous. If Sheen felt like making a remark, he could have done so in private, during the break.

Something had to be done. “Sir, this rule of covering your head – does it apply to teachers and pupils alike?”

“No; it doesn’t,” advised Sheen, embarrassed by his outburst and ill at ease. “It applies only to our teachers and only in respect of religious studies.”

“Thank you, Sir,” I responded and removed the skullcap from my own head. Most of our classmates, including an orthodox friend of mine, followed suit. For a few seconds Sheen stared at us. He then left the room. As soon as he was gone Frank resumed his class. We, in turn, replaced our head attire.

“You admired Old Frank,” observed Theophil.

“I did; still do. He taught me that the Old Testament is a magnificent literary work of art. I love it but do not accept it either as a historical truth or as a divine revelation.”

“You have read it daily since you left Israel!” Theophil told me.

“I have. It is my foot in the door; and I remain grateful to my teacher!”

“You protested when Sheen humiliated him. But did you rebel just out of respect and sympathy for him?” he probed.

“What else?” I prevaricated.

“Wasn’t it a declaration of independence?”

“It was,” I conceded. “I was willing to show tolerance; but would not submit to coercion.”

For the next half hour, I re-visited cherished scenes from that long gone by period. During the summer and early autumn, I used to roam on our beaches: Bat-Yam, Herzliya, Caesarea and as far north as Tantura. Notwithstanding my bad chest, I was an accomplished swimmer. During weekends I rowed with friends on the Yarkon and, on rare occasions, drove over to Tiberias.

During the evenings, my home was the meeting place of a circle of friends from amongst my classmates. An indoor football set was much in demand. Occasionally, we played cards and, from time to time, mahjong or dominoes. During the local festival of Purim, we marched through the streets in masquerade. I recall the chaos we had caused when we put on Ku Klux Klan uniforms and chanted tunes from Gone with the Wind. Next day, a local rag described our performance as childish and inarticulate: a silly debacle dreamed up by a bunch of pseudo-intellectuals, who merited a punch in the nose.

“So – in retrospect – what do you say of your secondary school days?”

“All in all, they were good days, marred, alas, by asthma and bronchitis. I hate to think how I had to miss out on our school’s trip to Masada and to the Galilee.”

“But were there compensations?” he probed.

His query reminded me of the development of my reading habit. Even during my primary school days, I was a voracious reader. By the time I was fourteen, I had covered German literature and had read translations (into German or Hebrew) of the major Russian, French, Italian and English writers. During my secondary school days, I taught myself to read English and American writers in their own language. This way they gained momentum. I recall the pleasure I derived from The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and from Light in August.

“Is there any specific episode you want to re-live?”

“Most people would wish to re-visit their first day in school, their first sexual encounter and – I suspect – their graduation ceremony?”

“And you?” asked Theophil

“I want to find out what induced me to read for law. My mother wanted me to study medicine. Coming to think of it, would I have been any good at it?”

“You did not have the hands, the eye and the presence of mind of a good surgeon,” he told me. “You would have been a tolerable diagnostician; but your bedside manner would have been appalling and your hypochondria and fear of sicknesses would have been a handicap.”

“So it is fortunate I opted for another calling.”

“It is,” he agreed; “here, let us see how you made your decision.”

The examination in Basic Mathematics and Algebra, administered by the Department of Education, was held in a building owned by the Town Council. All of us had to sit for it. When it was over, my friends suggested we walk to a modest eatery in Yehuda Halevi Street. I was tempted to join them but decided it would be better to have a rest before we had to return in the early afternoon to sit for the Geometry Paper.

Having quenched my hunger, I went for a short walk. It took me to the District Court, housed in those days in a building adjacent to the examination hall. A long queue comprised spectators keen to follow a spectacular murder trial. To avoid the need of waiting, I entered another courtroom with a session in progress.

The accused were prosecuted for trading in smuggled refrigerators. When I took my seat, their counsel, a small middle-aged man with protruding eyes, was cross- examining a key witness. Jacob Keren was renowned for his down-to-earth manner and his persistent and searching questions. Further, his highly effective gestures and grimaces manifesting disbelief were effective. In no time he convinced everyone present in court that his clients were not hardened criminals, seeking to profiteer from unlawful trade practices. They were ordinary middle-class merchants. True, they might be guilty of some technical breaches; but their object was to compete with the prices offered by the government’s fat cows, which were exempt from taxes and import charges.

I was so captivated by the proceedings that I came a few minutes late for our afternoon examination. During the next weeks I went over to the court whenever I had free time. After a while Jacob Keren got used to my presence. By the end of the year, I secured an attachment to his firm. Later, he became my pupil master.

“Was my decision to opt for the law produced by the spell exercised by the courts?”

“That too. The decisive cause, though, was your unwillingness to adhere to the course dictated by your mother’s nagging.”

“Rebellion?” I asked.

“To a certain extent. My own summing up is: the strive for independence!”

“Plus, a friend’s subtle nudges?”

“The less said about them the better.”

I had no urge to view in detail my primary school days, suggesting that, instead, we take a brief tour. To start with, Theophil produced a screen showing how I ate my non-Kosher food during our school breaks, ignoring my classmates’ jibes and unfriendly stares. Our teachers, too, disapproved but adhered to the strict edicts against discrimination.

Next the kaleidoscope showed my endless visits to medical charlatans, who were trying to cure my chronic asthma. Their unreasonable financial demands were patiently met by my loving parents. I was relieved when the screen turned to my involvements in activities of the boy scouts and to my first swimming lessons.

“I’d like to show you your home: it was your cradle,” said Theophil.

“More so than the school?”

“I think so,” he replied.

The reek of stale tobacco offended my nostrils. Mother had been a chain smoker ever since she enjoyed her first cigarette whilst hiding in the bathroom in grandfather’s flat in Vienna. Our two rooms, in the flat in Melchett Street (shared with a childless couple), were plainly furnished. Father was struggling hard to keep us going financially. Mother assisted by running a table d’hote, which she had to close when the price of food kept escalating. Later, she accepted contract work from a textile factory. Her job was to eliminate faults left in the cloth by the loom. It was hard, poorly paid work, which made its demand on her eyesight. I recall her pulling one length of cloth up after the other, constantly tapping her cigarette against the ashtray.

“How could she endure it?” I asked Theophil. “She was the pampered daughter of a rich Jewish merchant. She helped her father in his business in Vienna and managed his real estate for him. But she had never experienced manual labour!”

“There was no other way out, Peter’le: and beggars can’t be choosers.”

“If she had only given up smoking. What a difference it would have made to all of us – especially to me. Cigarette smoke was poison; sheer poison.”

“She didn’t know any better. And your family doctor, too, was a chain smoker! The international campaign against smoking commenced in the sixties!”

“Would she have stopped smoking, if she had found out it was harmful?”

“She would have tried,” he told me. “But addictions are not easy to overcome. We can’t tell.”

My eye caught the affectionate face of Rudi Marx, who ran a secondhand book shop. That evening he came over to deliver a book ordered by mother. He also had a small parcel for me. When I took my new book out of its cover, a sheet of paper dropped onto the floor. It contained a typed copy of a terse entry from a diary. Don Quixote, it advised, was Sancho Panza’s demon.

“An extract from Franz Kafka’s notebooks, edited posthumously by his friend,” confirmed Theophil. “I thought you ought to read it.”

“I understand, Herr Rudi Marx. I didn’t realise you assumed his role that evening.”

“I beg to differ,” he told me plainly. “You had by then sensed my presence, although your eyes were closed until that evening in the Vienna opera.”

“Maybe. Still, most of the people I’ve met in life are Sancho Panzas: world wise, greedy and materialistic. But each of them had his quixotic dream.”

“Such dreams kept your people going in periods of disaster. And Peter’le, I never stopped any assault on the windmills: broken bones are better than unrequited aspirations!”

“I have to agree,” I affirmed. “Well, what was my mother’s dream?”

“She wanted her only son to be a doctor. But she had to give up. Still, her real defeat was her realisation you did not love her.”

“Why didn’t I? She was a good mother. Was it the stench of the cigarettes?”

“That too; but you kept resisting her attempts to dominate you. In the process you lost your son’s affection for her.”

“I loved my father!” I observed lamely.

“He knew how to handle you.”

I had no wish to re-visit other events from my primary school days. I could not help smiling when Theophil displayed scenes from our days as refugees. Mother’s prowess was evidenced by the scene she created when the Police in Marseilles proposed to press my father into the Foreign Legion. The Police Commissioner was relieved when she left the station accompanied by her husband and son.

We went further backward to the small pension in Chantilly. It looked drab and neglected when, years later, I revisited the posh racing town during a trip to France. It had looked grand and commanding to my little boy’s eyes. Another screen showed how I pulled a chair away when an old lady was about to sit down. Fortunately, she did not break her back. Father had thrashed me although the very idea came to me when he pretended to pull my own chair away. The incident left no doubt in my mind about human justice.

The next kaleidoscopic images took me back to Venice, where we had landed after our escape from Vienna, and to our refuge in Palermo. One screen showed my resistance of an attempt to convert me to Roman Catholicism. I knew that the family friend, who tried to persuade me to cross myself, was well meaning. All the same, I refused and burst into tears.

“What stopped me, Theophil?” I asked my guide. “I know you did not intervene.”

“Of course not,” he confirmed. “But I watched you intently!”

“What happened?” I persisted.

“Your mother’s expression was a bar. You still loved her then. But there was another element: your instinctive rejection of the unknown and an unwillingness to obey orders.”

“What would have happened if I had gone ahead?”

“That’s a speculation: a waste of time!”

Travelling further back in time, we broke our trip to observe an event that had taken place in an orange grove near Palermo. Mother and our family’s friends had a picnic. Having wandered away on my own, I came across a saturated lime pit. Its white smooth surface appealed to me: I stepped onto it. Fortunately, I had taken just a few steps when I started to sink. Overcome by panic, I nevertheless managed to climb back to the brink. Mother – and everyone else at the picnic – was flabbergasted when I got back all covered in white lime and mud.

“Why was this stupid antic so significant? I have recalled it – with terror – all these years!”

“It was your ‘survival’ lesson. Your instinct was dormant till then. Children who fail to acquire it often die prematurely.”

The kaleidoscope screens lost their luster as we made our way back to Vienna. My recollections were hazy and far in between. One was of an outing in the Prater [Vienna’s Loona Park], where I was frightened by a brief show depicting the four seasons in the life of man.

“That pretentious performance communicated to you the inevitability of death. No wonder it frightened you,” advised Theophil.

Another screen showed a rare antic of little Peter’le, some two or three years old at that time. To manifest his irritation with a guest who came to admire him, he opted for an act unique to small boys. Mother was shocked and the charming guest fled in dismay. I can’t recall her ever coming over again to our flat.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” I told Theophil with a grin.

“But did the end justify the means, Peter Gulliver?” he observed, not seeking to hide his merriment.

It dawned on me that Theophil was present visually only when he wanted me to see ‘him’. In other scenes, where he hovered around without materialising, his presence was not reflected in the screens recorded by the kaleidoscope.

“I won’t materialise myself in scenes in which you did not see me when they took place. Further, up to now, I have re-played the past. Changing any detail in it retrospectively is too risky. Still, I’ll let you ‘sense’ my presence at your beginning.”

My mother, Dora Berger, was lying in her hospital bed in the Moll Clinic in the 1st District of Vienna. A uniformed nurse was bathing the newborn, ready to place him in his cot. He looked small, shrivelled and agitated. I viewed him with curiosity and sympathy: yet another visitor to our earth-crust who would seek to leave his mark. I was about to avert my eyes when I noted a blur in the background.

“That’s my impact; the shadow alone is visible to you,” confirmed Theophil.

“I understand. But what were you doing?”

“Your mother smoked heavily during her pregnancy. I was cleaning your organs and vascular system. The small blood vessels in the brain required special attention.”

“How about my breathing system?”

“Too affected to be tampered with. In any event, I saw how asthma and a weak constitution were to be turned by you into an asset. So, I decided to leave well alone. You – my friend – have enjoyed bad health all your life!”

“I understand” I said, noting with glee that, for the first time in our encounters, he described me as a friend. Deeply moved, I raised my last point: “But how did you work all this out years before it took place?”

“Prescience,” he summed up laconically.

“Is this then the end of the trip?” I asked after a lull.

“I think so,” he responded. “Anything that happened before then is blurred, unformed. Still, I am sure the trips have given rise to questions. Care to raise any?”

“Just one,” I told him. “Why was I so reluctant to re-visit my years in Israel – my youth. In reality, the sun was bright most of the time. So why did I recoil?”

“Surely, you must know the answer.”

“Most people recall their youth with glee,” I told him. “If a person wishes to cut it away with a sharp razor, he has a reason. His childhood or youth could be a matter of shame or of sufferings. But I can’t understand my own urge. There was nothing to hide.”

“Not if put in these terms,” he agreed. “But Peter’le, let us outline the stages of your life.”

“Early childhood in Vienna cum a few months as refugee in Italy and France. The rest of my childhood and most of my youth was spent in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. I then left Israel and spent the rest of my life in Anglo-Saxon and Asian milieus.”

“Were you at home in these places?”

“I was accepted as a respectable and civilized foreigner!”

“And back in Israel – did you feel a man of the crowd?”

“Not really. I interacted comfortably enough with my classmates. But their powerful East European Jewish milieu and outlook drove a wedge.”

“So, you moved back to a fresh Diaspora: you exiled yourself.”

“I did: it was easier to live as an odd-man-out away from Israel than within its realm.”

“Which means, Peter’le, that you preferred your ‘alien’ existence to the making of the concessions anticipated from you in the country in which you grew up. No wonder you sought to escape from that period when you re-visited the past. You had no wish to concede that you were an odd-man-out all your life: not just abroad but also in your home country.”

“But once I took the courage to look back, I was pleased with what I re-visited.”

“Precisely,” he agreed. “You were relieved to realise that all in all you have been the same man throughout.”

As I reappeared in Pandan Valley – our family home in those days – Pat assumed I had returned from my trip. It appeared best to leave well alone. Hopefully, Theophil arranged for the payment of arrears in the rent for the place in Walton Street in Oxford.