Theophil

 

 

T H E O P H I L

 

 

 

 

TO  C.A.Z.

 

With thanks

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Copyright: Peter Berger 2025

 

No rights reserved.

 

 

 

P R E F A C E

 

            The common thread running through this book is the effect of the ephemeral being I call Theophil, known to humanity as Satan or Mephisto. Monotheistic religions as well as folklore see in him the epitome of evil or, in other words, regard him as wicked per se.

            My stories display Theophil in a very different light. Far from being treated either as ‘good’ or as ‘evil’, he is staged as an Adviser or Vizier, on whose advice the ‘Good Lord’ often relies (just as he did in the Book of Job).

            Theophil has powers of his own; but he exercises them sporadically. In general, he is a non-interventionist. Occasionally, though, he drops an appropriate hint in the right quarters. Moreover, from time to time he materialises in front of the eyes of a being of his choice. Usually, those he accepts in this manner become disciples and admirers.

A complementary function, occasionally performed by Theophil, is the opening of the eyes of people searching for reason. In doing so, he tends to bear in mind that not everybody wishes to see things as they are. Often traditional men (or women) of faith are unwilling to call a spade a spade because they do not care to see it. Materialising to them would be a waste of time. Accordingly, Theophil ignores them.

            To enhance readability the book is divided into four Parts. Part I (comprising the first five stories, which are narrated by Theophil) deals with events in which I, Peter Berger, play no overt role. In each, Theophil acts in harmony with the Good Lord.

            The next three Parts, which comprise the remaining eleven stories, are narrated by me (Peter Berger). They reflect actual episodes from my life, reconsidered through Theophil’s lens and philosophic perspective.  Part II, comprising stories 6 to 9, relates events which I recalled during my hospitalization in the XX Ward of the National University Hospital following a fainting spell. Part III, comprising stories 10 to 14, deals with events from my own life, on which I focused (with Theophil’s aid) during a period of Sabbatical Leave spent in Oxford.

            The last Part – Part IV – comprises the remaining two stories. They deal, respectively, with my life following my wife’s demise. The first story, respecting my tour of the Indonesian islands,  lampoons the hypocrisy often associated with the orthodox front displayed by pillars of faith. The last story deals with a milestone in my life, exposed by Theophil.

Originally, the stories in this collection were self-published under the title Ephemeral Stories, but on further  reflection — and with the thoughtful assistance of an AI conversational partner — I decided to change the title to Theophil.  While diverse in setting and tone, all emphasise his philosophical musings and interventions and lend coherence to the work. On this basis, I decided to treat the collection as a novel.

 

 

CONTENTS:

 

                                                                       

PART I: Fantastic Stories

1. Archimedes and the Mammoth                                            
2. The Trip to Aldebaran                                                          
3. The Priest and Tiger                                                              
4. From a Party to a Crowd                                                      
5. Free Choice                                                                             

 

PART II: The Ward

 

6. Susan                                                                                       
7. Bachan                                                                                     
8. Soryani                                                                                     
9. Discharge                                                                                 

 

PART III: The Occupants

 

10. Early Occupants                                                                      
11. Three Characters                                                                    

      12. A Dedicated Author                                                             

      13. The Scholar and the Musician                                             

      14. Milestones                                                                              

 

PART IV: Tag Ons

 

                                                                  

15.  The Komodo Dragons                                                          

      16.  A Painful Memory                                                                

                                                                                                                                                                                            

 

 

 

                                                                                                         

 

 

 

PART I: FANTASTIC TALES

 

 

 

ARCHIMEDES AND THE MAMMOTH

 

            Archimedes’ appointed hour arrived one bright morning in Syracuse (probably in 212 BCE). Our panel had to determine his destination. Real sinners – nasty fellows like Joseph Stalin – would, of course, be sentenced to a spell in inferno. When their mandatory term was completed, they would be allowed to enter purgatory. When all their sins were purged, they would be entitled to a place in paradise.

            The composition of the judicial panel varied from case to case. Difficult ones would be referred to a panel of three or even five. In Archimedes’ case such a Coram was not needed. The judges were to be Friend – the Good Lord – and I, Mephisto, the archangel and the Good Lord’s bosom pal.  

            Archimedes faced our panel with self-assurance. To start with, Friend, who invariably has the first word, asked whether Archimedes had led a good life. Further, he wanted Archimedes to reveal his crimes. Archimedes protested. He had been, so he said, a fine citizen of Syracuse, had invented many devices and instrument needed to defend his hometown and, in addition, had always been faithful to his wife!

“But surely, Archimedes, you exposed yourself when you jumped out of the bathtub stark naked and danced – with water still dripping all over you – throughout the streets of Syracuse chanting: ‘Eureka, Eureka’. That is importuning!” said Friend, seeking to sound severe.  

“It was a silly act. But you know, I was overcome by glee when I solved that cursed mathematical problem. I didn’t know what I was doing!”

“That’s no excuse,” said Friend. “And that’s not all! True, the good burghers of Syracuse were amused by the new eccentricity of their honourable compatriot. They knew you had to be taken with a pinch of salt. But the wife of a Greek merchant, who was a newcomer, had a shock and fainted. And she miscarried. So, you killed her child!”

“But surely, Archimedes, had no malicious intention,” I decided to intervene. 

“I know he didn’t,” affirmed Friend. “Still, a man of his intellectual calibre should have foreseen the dire consequences of dancing naked at high noon! Accordingly, he was culpably negligent!”

“Come, come,” I rose to the defence. “Archimedes did not know what he was doing: he was a man possessed. How then could he foresee anything?”

“Oh well,” conceded Friend. “Still, he is guilty of homicide.”

“Guilty as charged,” confessed Archimedes. “But please tell me: was it really homicide? When does a foetus become a human being?”

“Some religions believe a foetus is human as from the moment of conception. This is a strict view. But when you, Archimedes, paraded yourself, the lady was in her sixth month.”

 

            To the dismay of both of us, Archimedes banged his head against the wall. Overcome by both remorse and shame, he burst into tears. He thought it was monstrous that a moment of pride and joy had such dismal consequences.

 “Now, now, Archimedes: there is no man on earth who does the good and never sins,” consoled the Good Lord, who – despite his stern front – was kindly.

            “So where shall we send him to? Surely, inferno is not on,” I opined.

“Of course not,” said Friend. “But, alas, so is paradise. Homicide is a felony; and so is importuning!”

“I agree,” I ventured. “But, surely, the spell in purgatory ought to be in a ward in which a man of genius can continue to go from strength to strength!”

“Does this rule out the ward for bores?” meandered Friend.

“What is a bore?” asked Archimedes humbly.

“A bore is a fellow who keeps repeating the same message again and again until nobody wants to listen to him any longer. A fellow sentenced to the ward is elevated to heaven only if he serves a jubilee as president and then is knocked out by a democratic vote of all inmates!”

 

In answer to Archimedes’ further question, I explained that the current president has remained  one, Plato. He was nearly knocked out by Aristotle and, much later, had a draw when Emanuel Kant entered the arena. To avoid a second vote, we set Kant another task. He was ordered to re-write the first sentence of the Critique of Pure Reason so as to make it comprehensible to plain mortals. He was still working on it. However, in due course one Karl Marx decided to stand for the presidency. The vote was to take place in due course. The odds were even!

“But, surely, I’m not a bore. I never repeated myself,” asserted Archimedes.

“You shouted ‘Eureka’ at least two hundred times,” observed Friend.

            “But that was an exclamation; not a message,” I stood up for my protégé.  

“True. But, then, how about the ‘Impossible Missions’ ward?” asked Friend.

“And what is that?” queried Archimedes.

 

Archimedes let his disgust show when I told him about the lot of Sisyphus. Having annoyed Poseidon, he was ordered to fill a bottomless barrel. Every drop of water that escaped would be counted against him.

“But that’s a child’s game. All he had to do was to plug the bottom!”

“But how about the water that would have run off whilst he was plugging the barrel?”

“Surely, these drops were going to escape in any event!” asserted Archimedes.

 

My Friend – the Good Lord – nodded sagely. Archimedes, he explained, had to be given a hard task.

“Flying the mammoth?” I asked.

“Precisely,” agreed Friend enthusiastically.

            Archimedes looked with forebodings at the huge head and tusks emerging from the deep pool. Judging by the head, the apparition was immense. This, though, did not perturb Archimedes. He wanted to know what had induced us – a panel of fair-minded judges – to immerse the poor brute in a huge bucket.

“He wanted to fly,” Friend told him.

“What’s wrong with that? Man had risked his life in attempts to fly. Poor Dedalus’ wings of wax melted when he ventured too close to the sun.”

“Flying is for birds. Mammoths are not meant to fly,” asserted the Good Lord.

“Why not?” persisted Archimedes.  

“Because mammoths are too majestic. Their role is to walk sedately and with dignity. They are not meant to hover merrily in the sky. In my universe, every being has a role to play,” elaborated Friend.

“But you gave all beings ‘free choice’, Friend. So why shouldn’t a mammoth choose to fly?” I asked innocently.

“You have a point there, Matey!” responded Friend.

“Well, Archimedes, do you think you can help the mammoth fly?” I ventured.  

“Where there is a will, there is a way!” replied Archimedes with pomp. He then added that to remove any doubt it would be best to see the entire mammoth – not just its head.

 Obligingly, Friend unfastened the chains which tied the mammoth. He then drained the pool. For a while Archimedes viewed  the mammoth. Impressed by its size, he walked around the gigantic beast, feeling its skin and muscles. When he completed his examination, he asked whether we were in purgatory or in inferno. The poor mammoth was freezing!

“In inferno the environment is too hot: not too cold,” disputed Friend.

“But what would the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals say about the mammoth’s condition?”

“They may not be pleased. But surely, they have no say in purgatory. Still, cruelty is repugnant. And we have to think of the Press. Can you warm him up, Archimedes?” asked the Good Lord.

“It will take a long time. He is huge!” replied Archimedes soberly.

            To ease the atmosphere, I produced an immense massaging machine. When I finished, the mammoth regained his vigour and spirit. Looking at me gratefully, he bowed humbly and then trumpeted.  

“Well, Archimedes. Can you make him fly?” asked Friend benignly.

“I can! But only with his cooperation.  I must be able to converse with him.”

“Mammothskrit is not an easy tongue! And you’ll have to raise your voice,” observed  Friend.

“Like when I yelled ‘Eureka’?”

“Precisely. So, are you still game to try?”

“I am!” affirmed the Man of Syracuse.

 

            Notwithstanding his misgivings, Friend endowed Archimedes with knowledge of ‘basic Mammothskrit’. I, in turn, gave Archimedes a loudspeaker and provided a Persian hovering-carpet. With its aid, Archimedes levitated himself to the Mammoth’s eye level.

“Who are you, Respected Sir?” asked the mammoth.

“I’m Archimedes. You must have heard my name, haven’t you?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t, Respected Sir. You see, I was immersed in this pool for eons!”

“How ghastly,” said Archimedes and then told the mammoth his own life story.

“Does this means that you, Respected Sir, are a great inventor?” asked the mammoth shyly.

“I am the greatest! And I’m told your dream is to fly! Well, I’ll make it come true!”

“Will you? But I’m so big. Can you really do it?”

“Of course. But I need your cooperation, Mr. Mammoth.”

“I’ll be delighted to give you any assistance I can. But, please, don’t call me ‘Mr. Mammoth’. My friends call me Moti.”

“And I’m Archie,” countered Archimedes warmly. “And I shall make you fly!”

“Pride comes before fall,” warned Friend.

“Eh?” said a startled Archimedes.

“You say, Moti will fly! I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Let’s give him a chance and a hand,” I stepped in.

“Oh, very well,” summed up Friend. “Archimedes, you have all the time in the world to accomplish your task!”  

            Before we departed, the mammoth expressed concern about Archimedes’ well being. He, himself, might step on him by error and, on top of it, there were nasty snakes and wild cats around. They would not dare to tackle a mammoth but Archimedes might become their prey. To forestall all problems, I erected a small hut on the mammoth’s back. It was to be Archimedes’ residence during his spell in purgatory. 

 

            When I returned to the site after five thousand years, there was some evidence of progress. Two huge wings were attached to Moti’s ears. Still, notwithstanding all vigorous efforts to attain levitation speed, the mammoth remained earth bound.

“Is there anything wrong with my calculations?” wailed Archimedes.

“Please don’t worry, Archie. The construction of the wings was fun! I enjoyed every minute,” consoled Moti.

“Let’s have a look at the calculations,” I volunteered.

            For a few hours, I studied Archimedes’ equations. Initially, they appeared fool proof. Then, with disappointment, I discovered the error.

“Archie, how did you calculate Moti’s weight?”

“The body and trunk were easy. But I had to estimate the weight of the tail. My instruments are not adequate for an exact calculation.”

“Well, let’s do it together!”

            Archimedes viewed the result with dismay. When he realised how grossly he had underestimated the weight of the tail, he burst into tears. Moti looked at him with concern. Gently he stroked Archimedes’ shoulder with his trunk.

“Don’t worry Archie. We knew all along the first try might fail. We’ll have another go. And one day you’ll find the answer! You will fly me!”

“I sure hope so. But to think of all the work I made you do!”

“But I love doing things together with you. So don’t you feel sad.”

“And, Archimedes, it was not in vain. When Moti rises, he’ll need to propel himself. The ears are just right. So don’t you fret,” I augmented.

 

I returned after another millennia. To my relief the pair continued experimenting. Poor Moti was running as fast as he could. His winged ears were moving steadily and his tail was pointing down to the ground.

“I don’t think we can make it this way. You see, Lord Pan, Moti cannot run fast enough to rise.” 

“Correct,” I told him. “If he runs any faster, he’ll have a heart attack. You’ll have to try another method.”

Archimedes looked subdued and bewildered and, finally, asked: “But how?”

“Give them the basics,” prompted Friend. “We want them to succeed.”

 “Moti, why can’t you rise? What holds you down,” I asked Socratically.

“My weight, Lord Pan. I am too clumsy.”

“Nonsense,” I reassured the still panting mammoth. “Archie, too, cannot rise: and he is much lighter than you!”

“So please tell us the reason,” begged Archimedes.

“Let’s have a go. Moti, do you think the earth is flat or round?”

“Flat,” averred Moti.

“But what do you see far away?”

“I see the horizon touching the surface.”

“But if the horizon was flat?”

“It would never touch,” affirmed the mammoth.

“And what would you see if you galloped to the place where the horizon touches the earth?”

“The same thing,” conceded Moti after a short pause.

“Wel’ is the earth flat or round?” I asked him patiently.

“So it is also round …,” stammered Moti.

“Precisely,” said Archimedes. “Lord Pan is a fine teacher. What you and I see, Moti, is an optical illusion!”

“Quite so,” I affirmed. “Further, the earth turns on its axis and rotates around the sun. For the moment, accept these as axioms.”

“But then, why can’t we move away from it?” asked Moti, still bewildered.

            To explain the point, I produced a ball and placed small pieces of iron on its surface. As soon as I rotated the ball, the pieces fell off. I then inserted a powerful magnet in the centre of the ball. The pieces remained in place even when I rotated the ball at high speed and turned it on its axis.

“What did you put into the ball?” asked Archimedes. 

“It’s a magnet. It is used in a compass. And in the 20^th century, ladies loved to buy slogans and small paintings fixed onto magnets. They attached them to their fridges.”

“Compasses were not known in Syracuse. They must be a new invention,” observed Archimedes.

“Invented after your demise,” I affirmed. “Still, now you know what is involved.”

“I do. But can a magnet catch everything?”

“No, Archie. It pulls only some metallic objects. But the earth, and all heavenly objects, exercise a pull which affects everything which has a weight. We call the substance ‘mass’. The ‘pull’ is called gravity.”

“Aristotle said something about it. But how can I learn more about all this?” asked Archimedes humbly.

“I’ll give you the writings of a fellow called Newton. Also, you need to know more about the movement of heavenly object. Please start by reading Copernicus, Galileo and Keppler.”  

“Both of us will be delighted,” affirmed Archimedes and bowed respectfully.

“Well done, Matey” approbated Friend’s gentle voice. 

 

            When I returned after another five years, Archimedes had digested the information imparted to him. He concluded that, to fly the mammoth, he had to free him from the pull of gravity. The best way was to create a surface – a carpet or blanket – which could neutralise the pull. Moti would step on it, be alleviated and then proceed by manipulating his ear-wings.

“The idea is sound. But how do you create the anti-gravity device?” I asked.

“You gave me an anti-gravity carpet when we met Moti for the first time. I must use the same principle. But I am still in the dark. I don’t know how the device works and can’t understand the forces used. Can you possibly give me any reading materials?”

“Some are very old; but most were written hundreds of years after your time. They are not easy to comprehend. But, still, have a go.”

 

            When I returned after four years, Archimedes showed me his device. He had tried a sort of a balloon and then a Zeppelin. But he found them inflexible and simplistic. The device he now displayed proudly was a replica of the very system used by Friend and me.  

Manifesting doubts, Archimedes asked: “Will it work, Lord Pan?”

“Let’s have a look at the engine and your equations.”

“I don’t want to risk Moti’s safety. So, we better be absolutely certain,” averred  Archimedes.

“Spot on,” I confirmed at long last. “Is it OK with you, Moti?”

“As long as Archie (and of course you, Lord Pan) are happy with it.”

 

            Friend and myself attended the launch. Protected by an anti-meteorite and radiation shield provided by myself, the pair flew high into the sky. Within a few seconds they rose much higher than any balloon or Zeppelin known to mankind.

They proceeded at a dignified speed, propelled by Moti’s enormous ear wings. Their voyage, accurately calculated  by Archimedes, took them to the lower levels of  the stratosphere. Eventually, they landed, victoriously, next to us.

“What a wonderful performance,” said Friend with glee.

“A victory of the human mind with a few nudges from … outside,” I endorsed.

 

            When the travellers recovered from their ride, Friend advised them they had served their terms in purgatory. Each of them was now entitled to his reward: a safe passage to paradise. Archimedes was destined for the human paradise and Moti for the paradise of mammoths.

“Can’t we remain together?” asked Archimedes with trepidation.

“I am afraid not,” I explained. “You see, the human heaven is out of bounds for mammoths and vice versa.”

“Why? Life without Archie is unthinkable. I’d rather be immersed again in the freezing pool. Why can’t I go with him?”  Moti let his chagrin show.

“What will young children do when they see you?” asked Friend.

“But I am not dangerous. I am a strict vegetarian,” protested Moti.

“True. But they don’t know this,” I pointed out.

“I understand. But is there no way to keep us together? I can’t imagine life without looking after and being taken care of by Moti. He is my only friend. Please help us,” beseeched Archimedes.

            Deeply moved, Friend explained that a soul had to take its reward. A refusal to enter paradise would be a contempt of court. Still, the best jurist in heaven was one Gabriel, who loved to construe the law. Being the master of fictions, he might find a way round the plain words of the law. We would consult him and return forthwith.

            Gabriel was pleased to render an opinion. In his analysis, the law was unclear. A soul had to enter heaven when invited to do so. But no rule prescribed how long it had to stay put. It was an open-ended arrangement. The legislature did not anticipate that a soul might wish to leave paradise. In consequence, no provision was made.

            Armed with this iron clad opinion, Friend and I faced our charges. Before long, a simple bargain was struck. Their ward was to be sealed off from the rest of the purgatory. A door on its right opened to a narrow tunnel to heaven. Once a year, Archimedes had to walk through it and spend a day in paradise. His task was to mount a stage and, equipped with a loudspeaker, was to sing and dance Eureka. Once he completed his performance he would be free to return to their special ward. Moti would be allowed to watch the show from a special cloud to be provided by me. If, at any time, he felt his friend was threatened, he would summon my help.

            On some other day, Moti was to proceed for a one-day spell in the heaven of mammoths. Floating alongside on his levitation carpet, Archimedes would be allowed to keep him company. He would, of course, remain invisible to the remaining inmates of the M heaven. At the end of the day, Moti would make his way back.

“Any specific do’s or don’ts?” asked Archimedes.

“Yes. You must wear a pair of Bermuda shorts under your tunic when you perform in paradise. Importuning is strictly forbidden in heaven!” I told him.

“To hear is to obey,” countered a deeply touched Archimedes.

 

            Friend and I watched Archimedes’ first performance with glee. So did Moti who, unseen by others, hovered on his platform. At one point he was so moved that he rose on his hind legs and danced to the tune of the band.

 

“Well, these two found their paradise in purgatory!” observed Friend as we made our way back to our heavenly residence.

“But what is wrong with that?” I asked perplexed.

“Purgatory is meant to be a place of banishment. And it is to be kept quite apart from both paradise and inferno,” explained Friend.

“But, Friend, every rule is subject to exceptions,” I told him.

“I suppose so. But, you know, I think that, quite apart from these two, another ‘being’ found his happiness in this place.”

“You have a point there,” I conceded.

 

THE TRIP TO ALDEBARAN

 

 

          Friend – the Good Lord – looked as dismayed as myself, Mephisto. For centuries we went to watch the annual performances of Archimedes, the Man of Syracuse, and Moti, the mammoth, who – as told in the preceding story – dwelt in a special ward Friend created for them. Technically, it was located in purgatory; but out of bounds for anyone except the pair.

Once a year Archie was required to spend a day in the human paradise. His task was to sing ‘Eureka, Eureka’ and tell his audience all about recent journeys into space undertaken by Moti and himself. Dancing on an invisible platform, Moti was expected to trumpet, to applaud and to get engulfed in his pal’s performance.

For centuries, Archie’s performance was watched eagerly by the inmates of paradise. In recent years, though, their enthusiasm had diminished and their applause was half hearted. It did not take Friend and me long to discern the cause. Although Archie and Moti had visited many stellar objects close to earth, most of their trips were repetitions of their earliest success. Their accounts had become monotonous.   

 

“The only solution, Matey, is to give them some new tasks,” said Friend.

“But we can’t let them fly too far away. It would be dangerous, Friend. I hate to think of what might happen if they ventured out of our planetary system. The universe continues to expand at a rate we haven’t fully worked out. Would they find their way back?”

            For a while, we walked silently. Both of us had become increasingly fond of our protégés. Their happiness mattered. True, they may not have discerned the setting of their tide. Sooner or later, though, they were bound to note it. Each would hide his negative outlook from the other. Yet, in due course, each would feel the need to unburden himself.

“Let us get to the bottom of things, Matey. I still wonder why Moti wanted to fly. Mammoths look down on other beings. So, we can be certain Moti did not wish to emulate the birds.”

“His dream to fly was an aberration, Friend. No mammoth had such a dream before him. Most of them just want to walk about majestically and mate.”

“Like many humans, Matey! Still, mammoths are not climbers.”

“Why not pay them a visit? Moti will be glad to enlighten us.”

“Go ahead, Matey. I’ll come over when needed.”

 

            Archie and Moti were delighted to see me. Archie bowed deeply. Moti rose on his hind legs and trumpeted. The cause of their elation was clear. Usually, Friend and I paid them a visit once or twice a year. An unscheduled visit so soon after their annual performance was a compliment.

            I started the proceedings by asking Moti what had induced him, originally, to dream of flying. I knew he had no wish to imitate a bird. What then had led to his daydreaming?

“I wanted to fly to a beautiful star.”

“Just one star?”

“Yes, Lord Pan,” replied Moti humbly. Viewing the night sky screen, he searched for a short while. Then, triumphantly, he pointed out Aldebaran.

“Why?” I wanted to know.

“Because it is such a bright and colourful star, Lord Pan. You see I wanted to grab it and balance it on my trunk. Like I do with the rock Archie carved out for me.”

            Looking at me gleefully, he used his trunk to raise a huge ball-shaped piece of marble, lifted it high up, and balanced it. His act was as graceful as a juggler’s.  Archie and I watched him with admiration. 

“How big is Aldebaran, Moti?” I asked when he finished his performance.

“Oh, I know it is far away. It’s not just a red dot. Is it as big as Archie’s rock?”

“Let’s carry out a little experiment, Moti’le. Archie will walk away from you. I’ll help you watch Archie as he moves into the distance. And don’t you worry. He’ll soon be back.”

            Moti watched anxiously as Archie moved away from us. Initially, Moti did not react when his pal shrunk. He had expected this. Still, he looked around him anxiously as Archie’s image disappeared altogether.

“Where is he? I hope nothing happened to him.”

“Have a look,” I said, placing  telescopic lenses over Moti’s eyes.

“I see him now. But you know, Lord Pan, he is growing bigger and bigger!”

“He is moving back to us. Please keep watching.”

 

Moti let his dismay show as his pal turned into a giant. Then, as I removed the lenses, a happy expression descended over Moti’s face: “Now he is again our Archie.”

“Precisely. But you know, Moti, his size and appearance remained unchanged throughout. He was and has remained our Archie.”

“So, he became smaller when he moved away. But what made him look so big? Was it the glass you put over my eyes, Lord Pan?”

“Precisely, Moti’le.  Your eyesight became very strong.”

“This means that what we see depends also on the power of our eyes,” concluded Moti.

“Precisely.”

            Archie was about to explain but took the hint conveyed by my suppressing hand signal. Moti, who put his trunk protectively around his pal, looked at me inquisitively. After a slight hesitation, I produced a powerful electronic telescope, put a dark protective shield on top of it, and asked Moti to have a better peek at his bright star.

“How awful. It looks like a boiling red soup,” exclaimed Moti.

Unexpectedly Archie had his say: “Doesn’t it ever?  It reminds me of an outbreak of a volcano. If Moti and I touched its surface, we’d be incinerated.”

“You would. Even after your transition you have some mass and physical existence. And, surely, Archie: you could never turn back.”

“Because of the ‘pull’ – the force you call gravity, Lord Pan?”

“Precisely.”

“How about Lord Jupiter and yourself? Can it pull you?”

“Hard to say, Archie. We have even less mass than Moti and you. Aldebaran may not exercise a pull on us. But we’re not sure about other objects: like black holes.”

“So even you can’t be certain, Lord Pan,” Archie spoke respectfully but, at the same time, with confidence.

“No, Archie: I can’t. You see, when Friend created the world, it was smaller than today. The universe keeps expanding at a rate incalculable. And Friend does not wish to control it. He decreed free choice: even to the universe.”

 

            Archie and Moti digested the information. I kept watching them. I had realised that Archie used Moti’s intellect as a supportive tool: Moti had become his calculating machine. After a pause, Archie observed that, to assess Aldebaran’s size and gravity, we had to measure its distance from us.

“I know how to do it. Archie taught me,” bragged Moti.

“Come on; let us see,” I coaxed him.

“I can’t handle the instrument, Lord Pan. Archie will take the measurements and I’ll do the calculations. I can’t use a calculator; but I have a Mammo-Abacus.”

            It took the pair a while to come up with their results. Anxiously, Archie proclaimed that such a distance was unthinkable. They ought to have another go. Once again, they took their time but, in the end, came up with a similar result.

            At my suggestion, they changed the basic unit of their complex calculations. After some fine tuning, Archie asserted that a beam of light would fall on our planet some 63 years after it left Aldebaran. This led our protégés to the conclusion that they would need at least 126 years for a ‘round trip’. As they were unable to travel at the speed of light the trip was bound to take an even longer time.

            Archie appreciated that any landing on the giant star was ruled out by its temperature and gravity. Still, even a trip to a vantage point – for instance, half the distance separating the two worlds – would take too long. Moti’s quest would have to remain a dream.

            “But, Archie, can’t we find a better route?” I asked.

“The shortest distance between two dots on a two-dimensional surface is the straight line; and there can be only one such line. It is a basic axiom, Lord Pan.”

“Can we find a way around it?”

 

Archie’s expression became strained. He was uncertain and, just for once, bewildered. To my delight, Moti stepped in. He averred that he had never seen a two-dimensional object. Everything – even the thinnest sheet of paper – had length, width and thickness. The ‘two-dimensional surface’ was a theorem.

“Accordingly, your world has more than two dimensions. Moti mentioned three. Is there any other?”

“Archie tells me that ‘time’ is also a dimension,” stammered Moti.

“It is. And you, Moti, are the smartest mammoth in the world,” exclaimed Friend, who had joined us with glee. His pleasure affected me. Both of us were beaming. Moti, in turn, looked at us reverently, basking in Friend’s commendation.

“Well, Archie: we have to adapt our axiom. How many straight lines can there be between two dots on a four-dimensional surface?” I asked.

“Archie told me some time ago: an infinite number,” interceded Moti.

“And the shortest route depends on the mode of movement,” augmented Archie.

 

            Shortly thereafter Friend and I departed. Aldebaran’s gravity and state ruled out a landing on its surface. Archie and Moti were to find the best vantage point for viewing and studying the red giant star. Friend and I would supply the travelling apparatus.

             Archie’s annual performances in paradise regained their lustre. Instead of telling his audience about new short trips undertaken by Moti and himself, he sang about the discovery of a new route to Aldebaran. Quite a few former sinners, who had entered heaven after completing their respective spells in hell and purgatory, proffered their advice. Kepler, for instance, suggested Archie draw a diagram comparing Aldebaran with the sun. Einstein, who had been sent to purgatory’s ward for Propaganda Mongers, insisted the vantage point ought to be at a spot in the universe that did not intersect with planetary objects. Fresh from the district  of Short-Fused Individuals, Hubble thought Archie ought to calculate the distances from the sun to the earth and to Aldebaran respectively.

 Generally, the discussions produced heat and, hopefully, some light.  There were also some subdued moments. Ticho Brahe, for instance, kept muttering that it was all in the hands of the Good Lord. When told that He was behind the project, Ticho sighed and repeated himself.  Keen not to offend him, Archie said: “Oh, very well.”

 

One day Moti and Archie invited me for afternoon coffee. As a prelude, they produce their results. One diagram showed that, when compared to Aldebaran, the sun was a mere dot. Light, Archie added, would take some 4.5 minutes to travel form the sun to earth. All in all, their calculations agreed with views expressed by astronomers of the 20^th and 21^st centuries. They also pinpointed a vantage point for our observations. Only one problem remained unsolved. The vantage point was even further away from us than the red star. Reaching it appeared impossible.

“True: if you travel by a conventional three-dimensional propellant,” I pointed out.

“But is there any other way? I have sampled the infinite straight lines between the vantage-point and us. The distance is vast. How can we traverse it? I am unable to come up with an answer, Lord Pan. I am out of my depth,” confessed a much-humbled Archie.

“We’ll get you to the vantage point within a few minutes,” I promised.

“But how?”

“We’ll start by dematerialising you to the next possible point,” I explained.

“Is the process safe?” asked Archie anxiously, stroking Moti’s trunk.

“Friend and I have used it for eons! Have a good look.”

            As Moti and Archie looked around them, they exclaimed with delight. A huge Aldebaran took up most of our night sky. At one point, far away, a smaller object was rotating.

“How magnificent,” exclaimed Archie.

“Beautiful,” echoed Moti.

 

            Before long, they went on their own multi-dimensional flight, keeping at a safe distance from the glowing and elegant object of their observation.

“Are we the first to see it like this?” asked Archie when they were back with us.

“Except Friend and me. You see, humanity has theorised about space flight for generations but, alas, without glowing results. Still, one day humans, too, may learn to use our system. It will, though, take them an immensely long time.”

“So, we are privileged,” observed Archie.

“In a way; except that both of you have completed your spell on earth and in purgatory and so you are not ‘real’,” smiled Friend.

“And other … spirits?” asked Moti.

“We saw no need to humour or reward them. Paradise is good enough for them,” replied Friend.

“But haven’t you yourself seen the entire universe, Lord Jupiter? Archie tells me you created it. It must be like an open book to you.”

“Perhaps it was originally. But as Matey told you, the universe keeps expanding according to its own free will. Matey and I travel across it rarely and only when needed.”

 

            Back in their ward, Archie and Moti showed their gratitude and appreciation. Still, Archie was keen to know how we covered such an immense distance in a matter of second. Surely, we could not travel faster than light.

“Of course not, Archie. Don’t you know what would happen to Moti and you if we travelled in space at the speed of light?”

“Einstein claimed we would sort of shrink into ourselves.”

“He’s right, Archie. So, you did not travel in space alone,” I ventured.

“You might as tell them the basics, Matey” shrugged Friend.

 

            Moti and Archie listened pop eyed when I explained we had travelled simultaneously in space and time. Our part of the universe was four, rather than three, dimensional. We made use of this principle and propelled the four of us into space and into time. Science fiction writers talked about space warps and time travel for decades. Scientists  remained far behind.

“Did we  see Aldebaran in its present state and composition, Lord Pan?” sasked Archie.

“You didn’t. You saw it as it had looked millions of years ago. But its composition has not changed. A million years on the time scale of the universe is comparable to ten second on the human time scale.”

“So, we really saw Aldebaran as it looks today,” said Moti.

“Precisely,” I affirmed.

“And I dreamed of balancing it on my trunk!”

“Obviously, it’s a bit too big for that. But we managed to get you a small piece of Aldebaran rock. You’ll be able to juggle it when it has cooled off, Moti’le.”

 

            Friend and I watched the pair’s next performances with glee. A fellow called Max Planck, who had finished his term as President of the Obscurantist Ward, gave Archie a hard time. He claimed our achievement was incompatible with one limb of his quantum theory. Initially, Archie was the epitome of patience and tolerance. I was relieved when, in the end, he claimed that Max’s theory required reconsideration. Max’s protégé and bosom ‘pal’, Einstein, grinned with satisfaction.

            “Max, you once said: ‘New ideas are always opposed by old minds’.”

            “I said: ‘minds’, not mammoths and dematerialized fellows!”

            “Still,” Einstein mused, “I like their method. They moved in space and time – not faster than light but … sideways.”

            “Nonsense,” asserted  Planck.

            “Perhaps your theory does need … a friendly update?” Observed Archie, who was unable to hold his peace any longer.

            “That’s the right spirit,” observed Einstein. “Science continues to advance: it never ends!”

            Planck muttered something about ‘intolerable liberties’ and wandered off.  

 

            All in all, Friend and I were satisfied with the outcome. Archie and Moti regained their zest. As has been seen, their audience  raised questions, unexpected points and counter arguments. Yet, the applause was wholehearted and warm. We, too, basked in it.

 

 

THE PRIEST AND THE TIGER

 

 

            Tiger looked around him sadly. He was getting too old to hunt deer. Occasionally, he got a stray lamb or managed to catch a sleepy hare. Most of the time, though, he was hungry, except for the leftovers he got when younger tigers killed their prey.

Now that Tig-La was gone, he was, in addition, lonely. Often, he missed her nagging and shrill voice and her sharp tongue. She had hurt him regularly; but his lonesomeness took an even heavier toll.  He failed to see the object of his existence. He had become a shadow of his younger and effervescent self.

 

He was sad and depressed when, to his amazement, Priest came on stage. He was wearing a dark long cassock, a shining string of beads and a coloured head gear. His eyes were fixed on the page of a book he was holding in his right hand. He was so immersed in it that he stumbled into Tiger. Muttering excuses as he rose back onto his feet, he looked at Tiger apologetically.

“I only hope I haven’t injured you. My eyesight is not what it used to be,” Priest explained lamely.

“Don’t give a thought. Age ravages everyone of us,” said Tiger good naturedly.

“How very true,” conceded Priest and lowered himself beside Tiger.

“What is that strange object you hold in your hand?” Tiger let his curiosity show.

“It’s the Holy Bible. And it tells you all about God …”

“God? I haven’t met him. Who is he?”

“He exists everywhere. And he is so great and mighty that we can’t understand him. Our role is to accept Him and to obey.”

“And what does he order us to do?” asked Tiger.

“He wants us to be good, obedient and worthy. You see, my young friend: this is our role. He gave it to us when he created us.”

“Come off it. I’m no longer young; and I can’t understand why you dub me a ‘friend’. But me‘think you must be very great indeed.”

“I am your friend because I hope to enlighten you. I hope you too will accept the Good Lord. And what makes you say I am great?”

“You say He is so great that we can’t understand Him. But surely you can’t preach his word without having a full understanding of his nature. So, you must be greater than us, common folk; perhaps as great as Him!”

“That’s blasphemy,” Priest let his irritation show.

“What is blasphemy?”

            “Using the name of the Good Lord in vain.”

“In that case, you are guilty of this very crime. How can you talk about the greatness of a being you can’t understand?”

“You are very stubborn!”

“No. I’m just a plain tiger, who believes his eyes, ears and other senses. In contrast, you are the epitome of stubbornness and parochialism.”

“Anything else?” asked Priest in resignation.

“And you are simple minded: you believe in something you can’t understand.”

“Oh well, we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Quite. But tell me please: does your Good Lord expect his creatures to follow the dictates of their nature? Surely, he doesn’t want a tiger to fly.”

“True,” conceded Priest.

            For a few seconds, Tiger stared at him. Priest’s wild gesticulations and unruly conduct had whetted Tiger’s appetite. All in all, the portly priest looked a tasty morsel. Without further ado, Tiger set on him.  Discovering that the cassock had no taste, Tiger stripped it away and devoured his prey’s prostrate body. The flesh, alas, was imbued with wine. Tiger did not enjoy it. Still, he knew that beggars can’t be choosers.

 

            Far away, in our chosen dimension, Friend (the Good Lord) and I (Mephisto) had watched the scene with mounting interest. Friend smiled benignly when Tiger tore Priest’s arguments into shreds. Still, he looked sad when Tiger devoured Priest.  Neither of us, though, felt an urge to intervene. Tiger had performed a natural function, seeking to satisfy his hunger.

“Do you think Priest really believed in you, Friend?” I wanted to know.

“Most people profess to do so but employ different guises. Still, each creed  proclaims a hierarchy of men in charge of the faith. Many such officers are sophisticated hypocrites: they get as much as they can. Others are blind believers, brainwashed by their elders. Priest was such a blind believer. So, all in all, he deserves a place in paradise,” concluded Friend.

“I agree, except that a spell in the Ward of Bores might clear his mind!”

“Optimistic as ever, aren’t you, Matey? But honestly, what are we to do about Tiger? He is old, hungry and lonely. Shall we step in his aid?”

“I’ll have a chat with him,” I volunteered.

 

            Tiger blinked his eyes when I materialised in front of him. For just a moment he tensed, arched his back, but then relaxed. His weary eyes assumed a friendly, carefree expression.

“Have we met before, Respected Sir?

“We haven’t. I am Pan, known to my enemies, and there quite a few of them around, as Satan, Ashmadeus, Lucifer, Archfiend and the Snake. Friend, who also lives in another dimension, calls me Matey. Priest just told you a lot of rubbish about Him.”

“Is your friend then the Good Lord, Lord Pan?”

“He is indeed, except that many know him as Lord Jupiter. Like myself, he was dismayed when Priest misused his name to demand blind obedience. Friend and I believe in free choice. In His wisdom He gave it to the entire world when he created it. And I am convinced he chose the correct way.”

“But wasn’t he dismayed when I gobbled up the priest?”

“Both of us hate the sight of blood. But then, hunting is a tiger’s choice and lot. So how could either of us blame you, Tiger the Katz?”

“I see, Lord Pan. But why do you call me ‘Cats’? I am a cat – a fierce cat – but I am an individual, with my own mind and, as you say, right of free choice. It is wrong to describe me in the plural – like ‘Cats’.”

            Tiger spoke with conviction. Unexpectedly, I recalled the writings of Martin Luther. He, too, asserted an individual’s right to opt for his own brand of faith, albeit Christian. Had his spirit influenced the thinking of my new protégé?

“Sorry for the misunderstanding, Tiger’le. I meant ‘K-a-t-z’ – not ‘C-a-t-s’!” I set out to clear the matter up.

“What is ‘Katz’? I am unfamiliar with the word.”

“No wonder! What a silly blunder on my part! In the language of the people who claim to be His chosen and holy nation, ‘Katz’ is the acronym of ‘Righteous Priest’. But, of course, you are unfamiliar with these people’s culture and language, Tiger’le.”

“I take your point, Lord Pan. But surely, I just gobbled up one of His priests. How can either of you take it so lightly?”

“A sect of learned priests, who composed the Mishna, the Breitas and the Talmud, would conclude that the fellow you gobbled up was an evil or false priest.”

“On what basis, Lord Pan?”

“If he were a Righteous Priest – a Katz – you wouldn’t have executed him. His fall establishes his guilt! A fellow called Job eulogised this platitude in lengthy discussions with three friends. And another fellow, called Abbayey, would say that yours was an Act of God.”

“What a splendid conclusion,” beamed Tiger.

 

            For a while we sat together in harmony. Tiger wondered why I had appeared to him. He sensed I was not seeking to harm him. After his initial fear of the unknown, he looked at me benevolently. All the same, he was startled when I explained that Friend and I had been watching him with growing dismay. He had ceased to enter the cave in which he had dwelt with Tig-La, guarded the entrance persistently and had stopped hunting. He lived on leftovers and sporadic kills. Was this a suitable lifestyle for a tiger?

“Of course not. But you see, Lord Pan, Tig-La is no more. One morning, soon after she woke up, she toppled over and never rose again. I don’t wish to see her like that. So, I don’t enter the cave. But I don’t want hyenas or jackals to get in and harm her. I decided to be a sentinel.  Also, you know: I can’t hunt any longer. My left front foot is very painful and, if I try to run fast, I start to gasp.”

“I understand, Tiger’le. You pant because you are getting old. You are not as fit as you were years ago. But what happened to your foot?”

“When I chased my little Tig-La, I skidded over a rock. I pretended it was nothing. But it kept smarting. Then, one day, I made Tig-La mad and, alas, she bit me in the very same spot. She apologised but, you know, the foot never healed.”

“Friend can cure you, Tiger’le.  He is the master of the universe and He cares for all his creatures (big and small) and looks after them. During the last three storms He erected an invisible canvass over you.”

“But this was before I devoured Priest. Would He help me now?” wailed Tiger.

“Of course I shall. I like to answer prayers,” said Friend, as he materialised in front of us.

“But how about Priest?” persisted Tiger.

“He wasn’t my priest. Not everyone who wears a uniform like a cassock or a Talith and Yarmulke is a Man of God. Many of these fancy-ball apparitions are hypocrites who use my name to make a living.”

“So how can somebody like me know whether a preacher is genuine or false?”

“Let your instincts guide you, Tiger’le. Unless they tell you a preacher is OK, assume he is a knave and a fool. The fellow you gobbled up deserved a medal for each attribute!”

            Having settled this doctrinal issue, Friend examined Tiger’s smarting foot. When Tiger asked Him to beware of his claws, Friend demonstrated that they could not touch Him let alone scratch Him. Dwellers of other dimensions, like Him and me, had no genuine physical existence. Claws, bullets or arrows could not harm us in our natural state.

“But just now Lord Pan stroked my mane,” pointed out Tiger.

“He wanted you to feel his touch. Still, both of us can vanish altogether whenever we wish.”

            When Friend completed his methodical examination, he explained that one ligament was chronically inflamed. It would be best to replace it surgically. He assured Tiger that He could perform the surgery in a matter of seconds if Tiger remained absolutely still.

“You must let us know if you feel any pain. And you’ve got to tell us so truthfully. Don’t try to be a hero.”

“I always tell the truth,” affirmed Tiger. “Lies are useless. If you tell one, you’ve got to cover it up with another. So, you end up with a litany of irreconcilable lies.”

            Friend performed the operation in a few seconds. He then told Tiger that further treatment was required. To eliminate the panting, we had to replace a valve in Tiger’s heart. This time, a local anaesthesia was unavoidable. Tiger winced as the syringe penetrated his skin, but then kept still during the heart surgery. When told he would have to keep resting on his right side for two days, he reminded us he needed to eat and drink.

            In response, I produced a boneless shoulder of veal. Tiger sniffed, ate it with delight and beamed at us. It smelt, he assured us, much better than Priest. Where did we get it?

“It comes from the butcher’s shop of Reb Schlemiel. It is real ‘kosher’ meat,” I explained.

“But how does Reb Schlemiel get it?”

“He buys it in Smithfield’s market. He bleeds the meat before he sells it to Orthodox customers,” I explained.

“And here is bowl of milk. If you can sip it together with the meat, you are a real Goy,” added Friend with relish.

“Please forgive my curiosity, Dear God. What is a ‘goy’?”

“The fundamentalists say: “Everyone except a Boibrick, with long sideburns, a beard, a black Kaftan and a Streymil.’ And, in their opinion, even such a Yid turns himself into a Goy when he puts on ordinary clothes and goes to the pub, the casino or … h’m … to the brothel,” I explained piously.

“How remarkable. But surely, I have nothing in common with a Boibrick.”

“Actually, you do. Neither of you eats pork.”

“Wild boars are fierce: they are best left alone. And little pigs are filthy. I prefer gazelles and deer. With me, it is not a matter of faith,” explained Tiger.

            At the end of the surgery, we moved the healing Tiger to his cave. He let his relief show, when I explained that Tig-La’s remains had been placed in a deep hole at the far end of their dwelling.  He should reoccupy the remaining space. To comfort our new protégé, I produced a magnificent Persian rug.

“Careful, Matey, that’s an anachronism,” warned Friend.

“In the Torah, ‘early’ and ‘late’ do not exist. Time is irrelevant in religious analysis,” I assured him.

 

            Friend and I took turns seeing Tiger through. After two days, he was able to rise from his carpet. After another five days, we started to take him for daily walks. A week later, Friend made a gazelle cross our path. Tiger got ready to chase, but then relaxed and allowed her to speed away.

“You are providing my daily bread, Dear God and Lord Pan. My stomach is full. So why should I chase the poor gazelle? I don’t kill for fun.”

“Spoken like a real gentleman,” said Friend.

“All the same, I felt the urge to attack,” confessed Tiger.

“That’s natural: you are a hunter,” I interjected.

“But he has learned to control his instincts. He is semi-human,” opined Friend.

 

            Just before we were ready to take our leave, Tiger raised the ultimate question. He knew our help would postpone the day on which he would cease to exist. But he realised that each creature was ‘finite’. He recalled how Tig-La had toppled over and ‘expired’. His query was plain.  What happened to a creature after that ‘appointed day’?

            Patiently, Friend explained that each creature had to face a panel of judges. Depending on its mode of life, it could be sent directly to the paradise of these creatures, to a place called purgatory or, if it was a nasty being, to a horrid place called hell. Most tigers went straight to Tigersdream. A few had to spend a short spell in purgatory, mainly if they were found guilty of vanity or pride. No tiger had ever been sent to hell.

“Where am I likely to go?” he persisted.

“The panel will decide. But me’think you have been a good tiger,” opined Friend.

“But isn’t Tig-La in Tigersdream?” asked Tiger shyly.

“I believe she is,” I said indiscreetly.

“Can’t you send me somewhere else? She was good wife; but isn’t one spell enough?”

“You could join Matey. But, if you do, you become part and parcel of his ‘components’. You lose your individuality,” explained Friend.

“I would not like this. Each being has its own destiny,” replied Tiger shyly, brushing gently against my robe.

“In any event, Tiger’le: I accept only humans. They alone are sufficiently curious and stupid to pursue an endless search. You may not fit in,” I told him.

            After some consideration, Friend raised a third possibility. Hidden in a special ward off purgatory resided Archimedes (the Greek mathematician and physicist) and Moti, the mammoth.

“How does this affect me?” asked Tiger.

“Your task would be to induce Archie and Moti to invite you to join them.”

            “But would they accept me?”

“Where there is a will, there is a way,” Friend assured him.

“I agree,” I added laconically.

 

                                                                                

 

FROM A PARTY TO A CROWD

 

 

            Moti was taking his bath. As he immersed himself in the huge pond, Archie hovered around him on his levitation carpet. With a soft, wetted, cloth, he sponged his huge friend. Moti enjoyed the soft circular motion. Archie, in turn, was perspiring. Still, Friend, the Good Lord, and I, Mephisto, encouraged him to pursue the weekly procedure. It was his main exercise. It kept him lithe and fit.

            For hundreds of years, I watched the pair living in their ward – which was out bounds to others. In a sense, theirs was an exclusive habitat. This very morning the two were to be put to a test. As Moti got ready to emerge from the pool, a previously invisible door opened itself. When Tiger entered through it, Moti tensed. His huge trunk encircled Archie and, fondly, he placed his friend on his enormous back. Then, raising his trunk threateningly, he faced the intruder.

“Please, Respected  Sir, I have not come as an enemy.”

“But you are a fierce tiger. You come from a race that dared to challenge us. And who taught you to speak Mammothskrit?”

“Lord Pan did. He also taught me Greek.”

“But why did he send you here?” asked Archie.

To the sound of his friend’s composed voice, Moti relaxed. Still, he continued to eye Tiger intently. Seeking to reassure the mammoth, Tiger explained the background of his sentence. He had, actually, been a good tiger, hunting when his stomach was empty and never killing or chasing for fun. The Divine Panel was inclined to send him straight to Tigersdream. But when he realised that Tig-La, whom he had lost after many years of marriage, had already entered their paradise, he beseeched his Judges to send him elsewhere. Their final decision was to set him the task of inducing Archie and Moti to invite him to join them.

            “Were you so unhappy with Tig-La?” asked Moti in his direct manner.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. All in all, she was OK, notwithstanding her sharp tongue and sharp teeth. Still, I felt that one spell was more than enough.”

“You, too, Tiger’le! My Motia nagged like hell and then eloped with a younger mammoth. Initially, I gave chase. But then I decided it was good riddance of bad rubbish. So, when I caught up with them, I simply wished them the best of luck.”

“Good on you, Moti’le. Why didn’t you tell me this before?” interjected Archie.

“I was embarrassed. But how about your exploits with human ladies?”

“The less said, the better. Still, here were are: Archie and Moti, the two confirmed loners with a common goal.”

“Actually, what is your goal?” asked Tiger.

“We want to find the answers to some questions. Still, our main object is to lead a peaceful and harmonious life.” 

            Tiger looked at them with unconcealed envy. The pair had achieved the impossible: an enjoyable and unpretentious existence. His wish to join them had crystallised. Still, his first meeting with our protégés was over. As pre-arranged with myself, he went back to the door through which he had gained admission. Archie and Moti smiled happily when he promised to visit them again as soon the Good Lord and Lord Pan told him to go ahead.  Our protégés had come to regard Tiger a benevolent visitor.

 

            A few days later, Tiger went through the door when his new friends were applying their minds to an old problem. Was the invention of a tool, needed for the refinement of a known practice, original or just an application? For instance, was the invention of a brush, used for applying colours, an original invention? They realised that, prior to its introduction, painters used their fingers or a piece of cloth.

“Why does the originality of this innovation matter?” queried Tiger.

“Originality ought to be applauded,” explained Archie.

“But surely, the brush is useful. If it was invented by a specific person, he did the Art of Painting a service. So did the unknown genius, who replaced tempera with oil colours. We ought to recognize their contributions regardless of their cause. The issue of originality is a red herring.”

“I agree with Tiger’le. And, Archie’le, think of the anonymous mammoth who taught us how to make full use of our trunk.”

“So, you prefer a utilitarian test to an intellectual one?” wailed Archie.

“But surely, the object of tools is to improve our lives. Why does it matter whether the inventor was moved by intellectual, and hence original, curiosity or by a practical urge which led to the improvement of an existing tool?” 

“Coming to think of it, you are right,” conceded Archie.

“I suspect tools affect our lives regardless of their origin,” augmented Tiger.

“Please explain,” said Moti.

“Take fire. It may have been the gift of the Gods or its use might have manifested

itself when Man warmed himself up beside it. So did tigers and, perhaps, Mammoths …”

“… we did,” interjected Moti.

“Still, only Man taught himself to nurture fire and later on to ignite it. Fire has had a lasting effect on Man’s development. He taught himself cooking, firing ceramics and smelting.”

“Well,” prompted Archie.

“Surely, the origin of fire and of its cultivation is immaterial. Regardless of whether there was a scientific search, a chance discovery or a preordained step upward, the effect of fire on the life of Man is undeniable.

“I take your point,” nodded Archie.

“But then, why was Man alone able to utilise fire? Tigers and mammoths loved to warm themselves up beside it. Yet they were unable to cultivate it or use it. Why?” asked Moti.

            By way of reply, Archie placed his right hand in front of him and asked Moti and Tiger to place their respective front feet beside it. He then explained that all three of them – the man, the mammoth and the tiger – had good minds. Moti, for instance, had a memory much better than Archie’s own and, once trained, could perform complex calculations faster than anyone else he had encountered. Tiger, he added, had a knack of raising unexpected issues: he was endowed with curiosity and imagination. But he was unable to make tools and machines.

“But our limbs serve as tools. As you know, I need my front and back paws. Their coordinated movement enables me to build up speed. My teeth and claws are additional tools. And Moti has his legs, his fearsome trunk and his long tusks. Nobody except a pack of crazy tigers would dare to challenge him!”

“I know,” conceded Archie. “Both of you use your natural tools to their utmost advantage. But your structure rules out the production of extra tools you may need. You, Tiger’le cannot produce a hunting tool like a lasso.”

“How about me?” asked Moti.

“You, Moti’le, are unbelievably strong. But you can’t construct a lever to enable you to lift even heavier weights. You may, possibly, think about it. But neither your hoofs nor your trunk will stand you in good stead when you want to produce a lever.”

“What then makes you different? Is it the calibre of your brain?”

“That had to be built up slowly and persistently. You have the same base as me. The difference is in my natural tool.”

 

            To demonstrate his point, Archie moved his thumb and then showed them how it enabled him to grab objects, to handle them and, where necessary, to manufacture helpful tools, like a saw, a knife and a brush. The ‘autonomy of his thumb’ had an effect on the development of his mind and orientation.

“So, your great leap forward was produced not just by your mind but also by a natural tool you were endowed with. But then, why do you have it and, further, why did we fail to develop it? My paw has five fingers. But they move together. I can’t move one in a direction other than the remaining four. Also, apes have hands and fingers similar to yours. But they, too, failed to discover fire. Why?”

“I don’t know the answer, Tiger’le. Hopefully, Lord Pan will explain.”

 

            All three watched me expectantly. In truth, though, I too was in the dark. Friend and I had meandered through the possible answers. We had, however, faced a stumbling block. The real question was whether development, or evolution, was a response to a need or took place largely by chance. In the latter case, the fittest were bound to survive. The inadaptable ones were bound to perish or be superseded. Man’s ability to apply his mind to the manufacturing of complex tools enabled him to leap forward.

            To my surprise, Archie looked baffled. He had read the leading works on evolution, had made mathematical calculations of his own but, in the event, had come up with an ultimate query. What – he wanted to know – was the meaning of ‘evolution’? Was it inherent in a race as created or was it triggered by chance responses to changing circumstances? If evolution was ‘inherent’ it was part and parcel of the original creation. If it involved a response to random environmental changes, creation was still in progress. Like evolution, it was an infinite and progressive process. Apes, for instance, might in due course learn to cultivate fire. Some of them knew how to make rudimentary tools, like sharp wooden sticks used to extract worms from their hiding places.

 

“Let’s put the question to Friend. As you know, he is the Creator.”

“Indeed! He ought to know the answer,” augmented Tiger.

“I wish I did,” Friend told them as he materialised beside me.

“But Tiger’le is right: the Creator is bound to know the ‘nature’ of ‘creation’!” averred simple minded Moti.

“He would indeed, provided ‘creation’ was planned in detail – had been fully mapped out – at its inception,” replied Friend.

“Wasn’t it then?” asked Archie eagerly.

“What do you think, Archie’le? Take your skill as a mathematician, as architect and as inventor. Were your achievements planned by Him at the beginning of ‘time’? Or take Einstein’s pungent theories and Da Vinci’s brilliant works of art. Were all these mapped out when He created the world?” I asked rhetorically.

“You imply they weren’t. I understand. But then, what was the Good Lord’s (Jupiter’s) role?”

 

            Benignly, Friend explained that ‘creation’ was neither a simple word nor a transparent concept. True, somebody – in our universe He Himself – had to ‘create’. That meant that He started the process, which enabled a primordial mass – a Tohu and Boohoo – to form itself into our world.

Biblical writers tell us he did so in seven days. The word ‘day’ though was relative. A ‘day’ could take a split second; or it could take an eon. The official account of ‘the creation’ had to be understood symbolically. It meant that by the end of the sixth ‘day’, He completed the initial tasks he had set himself. He then gave the entire world ‘free choice’. As anticipated, the ‘world’ opted for evolution. Some changes were linear, or progressive. Others were occasioned by chance. Friend Himself and his mate Mephisto kept watching with genuine curiosity.   

            To underscore his point, Friend asked our three protégés to tell him how their races procreated. Each pointed out that both the male and female of the species had a role to play. All of them looked with amazement at the amoeba shown to them by Friend. It took them a while to appreciate that it propagated by splitting into two. The species did not have a ‘male’ and a ‘female’.

“What, then,  led to the development of species multiplying by the joint efforts of a male and female?” asked Tiger.

“I suspect the development was ‘inherent’ in the original structure. Lord Jupiter continued to ‘supervise’ it until he completed the ‘creation’ of humans,” mused Archie.

“Precisely. Afterwards the species developed – evolution continued – by the vagaries of ‘free choice’. Matey and I continue to observe it but, except in rare cases, do not ‘intervene’.”

“Have some species disappeared?” asked Moti.

“Many have. Your own race, Moti, is a case in point. Due to climatic and environmental factors it was superseded by elephants. Earlier species – like terrestrial dinosaurs – are extinct!”

“And the amoeba?” asked Archie.

“Still exists. If it penetrated your system, you’d have serious stomach trouble. You see, the amoeba adapted itself to changing circumstances,” I stepped in.

“Was its survival due to its ‘design’ or was it a matter of chance?” asked Tiger.

“Matey and I have discussed the point ad infinitum. Shall we say that, perhaps, chance is inherent in the precept of ‘free choice’. You see, Tiger’le, frequently ‘chance’ determines ‘who’ or ‘what’ is the fittest.”

“So whichever way we put it, you, Lord Jupiter, are both the creator and the  originator of evolution,” summed up Moti, who had been listening intently. 

“I am. But you must remember: chance plays its role in evolution. It is an inherent component of the order of things.”

“So, you made room for it,” concluded Moti.

            To bring the discourse to its conclusion, I pointed out to our protégés that each species was perfect for its task. Tigers were superb hunters. Their feet, muscles, sense of smell and teeth were perfect tools. Mammoths were outstanding vegetarian mammals. Their enormous bulk, fearsome trunk and their tusks gave them adequate protection against predators. In addition, their trunk was used for feeding, for drinking and for trumpeting. Humanity, too, served its complex purpose. Its major tools were the adaptable brain and the flexible hand. 

            Perfection, though, was relative. When circumstances changed, each species was at risk. For instance, what would become of tigers if the animals they hunted became extinct? What would happen to any one of the many species if the amenable climate they were used to turned into a new ice age? For a while, tigers may be protected by their warm fur. Humans might, if given enough time, come up with some invention. But many races, like Moti’s, would ‘expire’. Still, some particularly adaptable races or sections thereof may survive the calamity and even ‘initiate’ a new species, as did the mammoths who metamorphosed into elephants. 

“And the cataclysmic change, for instance of climate, may be produced by chance,” mused Tiger. “You, Lord Jupiter, have allowed ‘chance’ to affect and alter the order initially instituted by you.”

“Unless you maintain that ‘chance’ was part and parcel of the initial order. In other words, you maintain that ‘change’ or ‘movement’ governs the world,” I interjected.

“In the words of Heraclitus:  pantha rhei,” said Archie.

“That’s the issue. Matey and I keep pondering on it and try to dissect it. But you, Archie’le, beware of the amoeba. It isn’t any good for you!”

 

            Friend’s jest lightened the atmosphere. Up to that moment all present had been deep in thought. Friend’s exposé shed light on points which, up to then, had been clear just to Him and to me. I was pleased by his frank and enlightening revelations. Iyself, he treated our protégés as members of an inner circle. He knew that his disclosures were safe with them.

            Shortly thereafter Tiger left the realm through his door. Friend and I also took our leave. I suspect that, like me, Friend needed a rest.

 

            Tiger’s next visit took place three days later. Both Archie and Moti greeted him warmly. After a short exchange of pleasantries, Moti told Tiger they would be delighted if he joined them. Both were convinced he would fit into their pleasant way of life. Deeply moved, Tiger accepted. To seal the bargain, I moved his Kum carpet next to a rock Archie had modelled, by chisel and hammer, for Moti to balance.

 

            The very same night, when Archie was soundly sleeping on his small hut on Moti’s back, I conducted an experiment. A plastic contraption, looking like a scorpion, moved slowly in the direction of Tiger, who was resting on his carpet. Tiger watched the intruder keenly but did not move. He rose only when the scorpion proceeded in Moti’s direction. Seeking to ensure Moti would not be disturbed, Tiger crept in the scorpion’s direction and, notwithstanding the contraption’s threatening tail, struck it with his front paw. He then dug a hole and buried the contraption’s remains in it and paw-toed back to his rug.

“You sent us a real friend, Lord Pan,” whispered Moti.

“Of course. Lord Jupiter and I want the three of you to be happier here than you could ever be in any other place.”

“So we are. Archie and I are oddballs and I think so is Tiger’le. Our real happiness is when we are together, Lord Pan.”  

“I know. This ward off purgatory is your paradise.”

 

            Indeed, all three were content. Archie prided himself on having shaped a piece of rock into a suitable toy for his friend. Moti was delighted to balance it on his trunk. Tiger was, of course, unable to lift the rock. Further, he lacked the capacity to construct a lever or some other device for moving it. Still, he could rest beside it, could shield behind it and could meander on the perfection of its smooth surface.

 

            Back in our own dimension, Friend and I celebrated a job well done. Our special ward was now the domain of three outstanding occupants. Each of them had risen high above the ordinary standard of his own species. Archimedes was a scientific genius. Moti was a brilliant mammoth. Unlike his contemporaries, he had his own dreams and aspirations. Tiger was a philosopher and a searcher for truth.  I knew that two were a party; three were a crowd. But then, what is wrong with a happy crowd, regardless of whether it settles in heaven or in purgatory?

 

 

 

 

FREE CHOICE

 

            Tiger’s gaze took me in as soon as I, Mephisto, materialised beside him. His luminous cats’ eyes stared at me benevolently. He knew I was fond of him and that I had great regard for his intuition. Quite often I talked to him when the two other dwellers of the heavenly purgatory were fast asleep.

            “You are deflated, Lord Pan. Why are you so sad today?”

            “I’ve been taking stock. It is possible that I too am guilty of the mess in which the world finds itself, my friend.”

            He looked at me bewildered. Usually, I addressed him as ‘Tiger’ or, affectionately, as ‘Tiger’le’. Never had I elevated him to the position of a ‘friend’. A tiger’s face is not as reflective as a human’s. All the same, I sensed the satisfaction that descended on him.

             “I am honoured, Lord Pan. And, yes, I know the world is in a mess. Inmates of earth, heaven and hell have every reason to envy Archie, Moti and me. Ours is the good life in a ward of our own. It is off purgatory and far from inferno. I know it is not paradise. All the same, it is heavenly, Lord Pan.”

            “But then, you don’t demand or expect much. The three of you are as happy a crowd as you can find. You live in harmony and without fear or regrets.”

            “Lord Jupiter and you gave us the chance and made the arrangements. We are indebted to you. But, surely, the rest of the world ought to blame itself. You did not teach them warfare, torture methods or self destruction. They taught themselves. They are their own best pupils. A fellow called Stalin and his mate Hitler deserve a ‘distinction’. Genghis Khan deserves a ‘mention of honour’!”

            “Well spoken, my friend. But then, why is it that races other than humans do not inflict misery on their own kind? Man forms the best-known exceptions. Have you ever seen a tiger killing another for fun or in reliance on some silly doctrine.”

            “Of course not. A boy will ‘wrestle’ or ‘scare off’ another boy when they compete for a girl or argue how to share a ‘kill’.  But it’s pretence. A lot of snarls but no bite.”

            “So why is man different, my friend. Even a peace-loving man like our Archie invented a set of mirrors to be used for setting the enemy’s fleet on fire!”

            “He told me; and he boasted because the experiment proved his originality and imagination. But then, he is a rum sort of chap. When the Romans sacked his town, he was so immersed in some circles and spheres that he ignored the soldier who threatened him. That fellow killed him!”

            “I like your trend of thought, Tiger’le. Still, would a tiger kill another tiger in that scenario.”

            “Of course not. It would be too silly for words. You might rub the other tiger’s nose in his circles – to teach him manners. But killing? What for?”

 

            He spoke like a fine member of a closely knit race. United they stood. Divided they might fall. The very notion of exterminating their own kind was repulsive in their eyes. It could not serve the purpose of the clan. Humans  were different. Some enjoyed the misery they inflicted on their own  kind. It was part and parcel of their twisted natures.

             “I accept what you say about Man’s nature, Lord Pan. But why do you blame yourself? You insist that the Lord Jupiter, whom you call Friend or the Good Lord, is the creator. How could an error made by Him reflect on yourself or be brought home to you? Where is the cause?”

            “You have read the story of the ‘creation’, my friend. I believe Archie asked Moti and you to learn it by heart.”

            “We did. Both of us love to oblige our Archie.”

            “One detail is omitted in the accepted versions. When Friend created Eve from Adam’s rib, he invited me to partake in his effort. I too breathed on poor Eve, who became imbued with the spirit of both of us and transmitted it to her offspring.”

            Tiger looked at me with sympathy. He understood what went through my mind. My usual line was to deny any responsibility for the sad state of the world. Man was destroying his own environment and his awareness of the process of self destruction, which he initiated, had not induced him to call for a halt. Religion, politics, science and a relentless pursuit of the demands of the moment prevailed over the restraint dictated by the survival instinct. What spurred Man on in the direction of unavoidable self-induced extinction?

            “I can’t answer your question, Lord Pan. It is too complex. I can think of many factors, each of which plays a role in the scenario. Still, I know this much: neither Lord Jupiter nor you yourself are to blame.”

            “Why ever not, Tiger’le?”

            “Lord Jupiter decided to give Man free choice and you, Lord Pan, stood by him.”

            “Doesn’t our guilt speak for itself, then?”

            “It does not. When you gave Man free choice you encouraged him to choose his own route. If he opted for self destruction, why is either of you blameworthy?”

            “Thanks, my friend. May the Good Lord – Friend to me and Lord Jupiter to Archie and Moti – bless you.”

            “Surely, he already has!”

 

 

                                                                           

 

 

 

 

PART  II: THE WARD

 

S U S A N

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“You wonder why I let it happen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not somebody we can see,” she agreed.

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

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

“Is he who I think he is?”

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

 

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

“Father José!” exclaimed the nurse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What can you tell me about her?”

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

“Bruised too badly earlier in life?”

“Why not find our from her!” 

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

“The job,” she replied laconically.

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

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

“He suggested I ask you directly.”

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

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

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

“Is he discreet?”

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Life is not that simple,” she sighed.

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

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

“I did,” she smiled.

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

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

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

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

“What did you do?”

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

“What did you do?”

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

“What did they say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“That awful feeling of emptiness!”

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

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

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

“What was it then?” she implored.

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

“And Paulo had always been a weakling!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“And in Kenya?”

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So she unburdened herself,” I summed up.

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

“Do you agree?” she asked Father José.

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

“So?” she asked, puzzled.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about wars, earthquakes and other disasters?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Weren’t the Holocaust or slavery evils?”

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

“That’s a sophistry,” she protested.

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

“You mean Genghis  Khan?”

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

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

“As seen by the defenders of Samarkand  …”

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

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

“Well, Susan?” asked Father José.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

“Thanks, Theophil,” I exclaimed.

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

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

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

“Precisely.”

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

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

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

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

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

“After you,” I told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What triggers  human emotions?” asked Theophil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I can get confused!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is,” he conceded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

B A C H A N

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“B…b..ach…an,” I stammered.

“At your service, Sir,” he chuckled. 

 

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

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

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

“But wasn’t that rather sudden?”

“It was,” he nodded.

“How did you settle your affairs?”

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

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

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

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

“How about your family?” I asked Bachan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“After you, Sir,” retorted Bachan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you off to, Bachan?”

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

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

 

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

“Weren’t they ever?” I affirmed.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

“It did rather,” advised Theophil.

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

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

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

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

“What makes you think so?”

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

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

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

“Passing him was a mistake?”

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just nudged her along!”

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

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

            “So now all is clear,” observed Theophil.

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

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

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

“Do!” he prompted.

 

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

 

 

 

S O R Y A N I

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What brought her here?”

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

“Can they save her?”

“I don’t think so. It’s too late.”

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

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

“Should I call on her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You think Soryani cute?” he asked proudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

“I like Ahmad,” she told him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite a scene,” I told Theophil.

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

“Was there a sequel?”

“Wasn’t there ever!”

 

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this true, son?” asked Mr. Li.

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And where is your Dad today?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” I said readily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did we then summon you from inferno?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Could you have cured her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Our competitors undercut us all the time.”

“Then why don’t you undercut them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No way,” she countered.

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

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

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

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

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

“My friend and husband,” she affirmed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please do,” grinned Soryani.

“What do you suggest?” asked Ahmad.

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

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

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

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

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

“Take it or leave it,” replied Soryani.

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

“How about me?” asked Ahmad.

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

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

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

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

“Who perused the accounts?”

“My own lawyer: Rahmat,” she grinned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long you had it?”

“A few weeks.”

“You better see a doctor, Soryani.”

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

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

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

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

“You had it before?” she persisted.

“Oh, a few times, off and on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“That will be the day,” chuckled Theophil.

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

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

D I S C H A R G E

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Simon?” I asked my mentor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

“I worked that out two days ago …”

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

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

“Which instinct triggered this feeling?” asked Theophil.

“I suspect my survival instinct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

“You did, rather.”

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

“A splendid break – comfortable and instructive.”

“Glad you see it this way.”

 

 

P A R T  III: 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 18^th 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 18^th 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 2^nd 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.”

 

M I L E S T O N E S

 

            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 1^st 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.

 

 

PART  I V:  TAG  ONS

 

 

 

 

THE KOMODO DRAGONS

 

         

            A few years after my return from leave in Oxford, Pat succumbed to a fatal disease. She was no longer able to manage the stairs in the Pandan Valley and our spacious flat became hard to manage. We had to move to a flat in the Mandarin Gardens Condominium, on Singapore’s East Coast.

A few years after her demise, I decided – at the suggestion of a close friend –  to embark on a cruise of the Indonesian Islands. By then I had come to accept my having been ostracized by my late wife’s siblings. I was living comfortably in Mandarin Gardens and kept renovating it to fit my taste. Good friends helped me to find my way back to equilibrium. When I decided to take the cruise, I invited my God Daughter, Sophie, to join us. 

            One morning the cruise ship had to anchor off the coast. Access to the shore of Komodo Island was by engine driven boats which made the trip every fifteen minutes or so. Sophie and I left the ship at around 11.00 a.m. Some ten minutes later we disembarked at the pier. Just for once, my walking cane was of no use. Sophie had to help me out of the boat onto terra firma.

            As we left the pier on our half day tour, one of the local attendants offered me his arm. To steady myself, I had to grasp it firmly. The twinkle in his eyes helped me to identify him as my lifelong friend.

            “Since when do you inhabit this island?” my mind asked Theophil.

            “You know very well why I decided to come over. You, Peter’le, are bound to need my help. Your health is poor and you are old and worn out. What made you take this tour?”

            “I want to see the Komodo Dragons, Maestro.  I decided to take a chance.”

            “It’s free choice, Peter’le. I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”

 

            The trail appeared to me long and winding. Sophie and the attendant had to keep me going. In my heart of hearts, I cursed my impulsive decision to go ashore. Theophil read my mind. Still, he showed no sympathy. He remained a smiling, levelheaded tour guide.

            After some twenty minutes we got to the water hole. Four Dragons were now visible. They were massive: as big as average crocodiles. They did not move or open their eyes and appeared fast asleep. Indeed, they might have been part of the rock formation. All the same, some local trainers, armed with two-pronged wooden sticks, were keeping watch over them.

            “These wooden sticks are strange, Maestro. Why should an active full-size Dragon pay attention to them?”

            “Each Dragon tasted the prod of these sticks, especially around the eyes, before it grew to full size. Accordingly, the Komodos ‘respect’ the sticks. But they are useless when a Dragon attacks a prey.”

            “In that case, why do  the trainers dare to display the Dragons?”

            “They feed them well and so the Dragons are usually not dangerous.”

 

            At that moment Sophie drew my attention to one of the Dragons. It had opened its eyes and its two-pronged tongue was touching the ground. To me, it looked dangerous. The trainers, too, became apprehensive. One of them took hold of a rifle.

            “What is happening?” my mind asked Theophil.

            “This Dragon did not get a full share of the feed. It is hungry. But there is no real danger. It will not attack a crowd. A closely knit group appears to be too big. Hopefully, nobody will leave the group. The Komodos attack strays!”

            At that very moment, Sophie drew my attention to one of our fellow tourists, a woman of about sixty years of age who wore clothes more befitting a girl in her mid thirties. Brandishing a digital camera in front of her, she broke away from the group and walked towards the Dragons, trying to capture them in the centre of her screen. Ignoring the attendant who asked her to remain with the group, she asserted  that she had the right to take photographs. Looking at her closely, I recalled that, on the previous day, she displayed ill temper in a friendly Rubber Bridge session and had made sarcastic remarks to her partners.

 She had by now set herself apart from the group and approached the Dragons. Suddenly, the hungry Dragon lurched and then leaped in her direction.

            “It’s charging!” Sophie let her apprehension show.

            “Isn’t it afraid of the trainers?” I asked aloud.

            “The fear of the stick is a conditioned reflex,” explained Theophil to my mind. “The Dragon is running amok. Its main reflex now is the urge to satisfy its hunger! And prey is within grasp!”

            Just before the Dragon threw itself on the photographer, it was hit by the bullet. It rolled over but, in its final struggle, managed to bite its prey’s thigh. Blood oozed from the wound as the frightened photographer steadied herself and used a handkerchief as bandage. After a few minutes she recovered from her shock and a strained smile descended on her face.

            “Are you hurt?” asked Sophie.

            “It’s just a scratch,” she replied composedly. “It’s nothing!” 

            “She is kidding herself,” Theophil told my mind. “The Dragon’s bite is venomous. The poison will soon begin to act. Watch your photographer closely.”

 

            All of us started to wind our way back to the pier. After ten minutes the photographer displayed fatigue. She looked unsteady.

            “Can I be of some help?” asked Sophie anxiously. “Shall we get you water?”

            “Oh, I’ll be alright,” she assured us but at the very same time started to sway and appeared out of control.

            “It’s the venom,” explained Theophil to my mind. “Usually, the venom does not act that fast but she has a poor constitution.

            “Please help her, Maestro. I know you can!”

            “Sorry, Pere’le: I am not an interventionist! And, you know, she worships Him and so it’s His business!”

            “Is she then a goner?”

            “Unless you pray to Him! Occasionally, He grants a supplicant’s plea.”

            “But how can I – one of your followers – address him? I am not a turncoat!”

            “You have my permission and I urge you to go ahead.”

            “Please Mighty God, please cure her!” I misquoted the scriptures.

 

            A light, windy cloud hovered for a few seconds. Then – right from its centre – emerged the figure of Michelangelo’s Creator. I had seen the Fresco in Rome and had noted that, at that time, the Lord’s beard had flaws.

            “When was your beard varnished to perfection, Oh Lord?” I assumed the courage to ask.

            “I got the artist out of his ward and made him do the job. Initially, he was stupefied by the pigments I created for the occasion but then came to terms with them. But what is this all about? Whom did you ask me to ‘cure’? Why should this friend of yours be brought back from the brink of death! Isn’t she happy with her past?”

            “I’m not sure, Good Lord,” I explained. “I turned to you because …”

            “I,” interjected Theophil, “told him she believed in You and hence needed to be attended by You rather than by me!”

            “Is she really a worthy person?” asked the Good Lord.

            “Well, she goes to Church every Sunday, says her blessing as often as possible and makes her donations to God’s Charity!”

            “True,” mused the Good Lord, “but she starves her maid and does not pay the poor servant’s salary regularly; she speculates in real estate in the Church’s name and fails to declare all her income to the authorities! Is she the type we want in heaven?”

            “What a strange reversal of roles,” I exclaimed out of control.

            Both the Good Lord and Theophil looked at me with amazement. In the event, the latter asked me to explain.

            “Well, in the bible the Good Lord tells …             

            “… Satan …” interjected Theophil

            “… that a fellow called Job is a fine man who avoids all things evil, whereupon

Satan points out that Job may have ulterior motives. Presently, You – the Good Lord – find fault with the photographer and Satan seeks to promote the faith!”

            “But there has been a dramatic change of circumstance,” explained Theophil. “In Job’s era most people were good and worthy. Very few wanted to turn to me. My ward was getting empty! So, I wanted to extend hospitality to Job!”

            “And now?” I asked bewildered.

            “Now queues are forming in front of my gates! Many of the applicants are lawyers, bankers and software engineers. Worst of all, they bring with them sophisticated air-conditioning equipment.  So, they don’t fear the heat! Me’think, they prefer it to the cold weather high above. And, of course, I allow them to play chess, bridge, poker and dominoes. They are also permitted to gamble (with electronic money), drink and behave in any way they like. For instance, women can be free with their favours  and men – especially those who were overcome by shyness down on earth – are free to womanise etc.  So, Peter’le, I try to turn applicants to Him! And your photographer has a ‘good core’! She belongs to His department!”

            “Oh, very well,” responded the Good Lord. “Let her have an extended term on this planet. We’ll judge her when her day comes!”

 

            When I regained my earthly vision, the photographer was recovering. Her face had regained some colour and she walked again steadily and with determination.

            “You look much better,” said Sophie.

            “And I feel fine. It is as if nothing had happened: a miracle.”

 

            Back on board, the photographer excused herself, left our group and rushed back to her cabin. Sophie helped me back to my own. When she left, I took my shower and then tried to relax. It had been a day of adventures.

            “Come and have a look at our photographer,” urged Theophil who decided to appear in front of me in full regalia.

            “Is she that interesting? I thought she was rather dumb!”

            “You and your negative outlook! Here have a look!”

            Back in her cabin, the photographer was wiping her eyes and kneeling devotedly.

            “Oh, Mighty God, I bless you for saving me. From now on I shall follow all your teachings. I shall give enough food to my maid, pay her all arrears and settle her salary punctually. And I shall give her every Sunday off: she too deserves rest. And – oh Lord - I am not going to speculate and I shall never scold people again! I’ll do my best to be worthy of this miracle!”

            “What a strange conversion,” I mused.

            “Indeed, Peter’le. A real conversion: a return to God with her whole heart. A conversion affected by Satan!”

            “So, on occasions, you turn yourself into a pastor, Theophil!”

            “And some say I am the epitome of evil!”

                                                 

A PAINFUL MEMORY

 

 

            Some four years had elapsed since my cruise to the Indonesian Islands. I was no longer able to travel and spent as much time as possible at home.

That evening, the skies were clear and the view from my sitting room in Mandarin Gardens was as exciting as ever. But I was not calm. A painful memory kept disturbing my peace. Wishing to unburden myself, I waited impatiently for Theophil’s appearance. Before long he was seated by my side, assuming Peppi’s guise.

            “What’s the matter, Peter’le?”

            “A sad memory keeps plaguing me! I believe you know what is on my mind.”

            “I do; and I will indulge you. In truth, though, you should have visited the occasion involved when we covered the milestones in your life. Please tell me why you avoided revisiting it when we meandered through your life.”

            “Shame; and the feeling I ought not to talk about it to anybody!”

            “Yet it was a milestone. In the aftermath you lost the remnants of your regard for Pat. Well, let us time travel.”

 

            We were back in New Zealand. A man in his forties, overweight, balding and dressed untidily, was walking along the shore in Lower Hut near Wellington. His wife was him. The man was downcast and silent. That very morning his mother advised him that his father had given up the ghost. She had asked her son to give the funeral a miss and, in any event, he felt unable to fly over. All the same, he felt shattered  and dissatisfied. 

            For a while, the woman and the man kept their silence. Then, unexpectedly the wife had her say: “One Berger less. So what?”

 

            “You never recovered from this outburst,” stated Theophil.  “You continued to walk in silence, Peter’le. I watched you from afar on that very occasion. Why didn’t you tell her off?”

            “To what end?” I asked bitterly.

            “So as to get it off your chest. Instead, you recalled in silence the many occasions in which you treated Pat’s mother with honour and helped Pat’s siblings when she asked you to step in! And, Peter’le, this silent resentment did you more harm than any outburst you have had in your life.”

            “Why was this incident crucial, Maestro? Was it really a milestone in my life?”

            “You alone know the answer! It is patent that the matter was never smoothed over in your mind. It kept gnawing at you. Months later, you discussed the incident with two of Pat’s siblings.

            “I recall their reactions. They tried to tell me Pat’s comment was acceptable. They pretended she wanted to soothe me. Nowadays, I can understand them. They felt that any member of their inner circle could do no wrong; and I was on the fringes. I was not one of them. It is of course possible that my reaction to their words had been too severe. But why do you think this was a milestone?”

            “What were your feelings for Pat up to that that very day?”

            “Sympathy and guilt: I knew I had not come up to her expectations and tried to be supportive whenever I could. Oh, . . . I see what you mean: as from that day I simply felt bound by the duties I undertook when I married her but my sympathy and the remnants of my affection were gone.”

            “That is the point, my dear Peter’le. Putting it bluntly: you no longer felt the duty to pretend to be a loving husband.”

            “True,” I conceded.

            “From that day onward, your priority became your hobbies and whims. Frequently, you were uncivil to Pat and to her siblings. They realised that you disliked them! No wonder they ostracized you after Pat’s demise.”

            “You make sense!”

            “That is not my only point, Peter’le. Your excuse for not flying over to attend your father’s funeral was Pat’s inability to remain on her own in Wellington. But did you really wish to attend the funeral? If Pat had been your real concern, you could have taken her with you or asked her sister to fly over to Wellington for a visit.”

            “I know: I simply wasn’t ready to bid my late father goodbye. In my mind he remained alive and kicking; I loved him.”

            “Pat’s bitter outburst was unfortunate,” Theophil explained. “But you faulted her for your own inadequacy: your unwillingness to face facts. Do you continue to think of your father?”

            “I ceased to do so after I met Peppi: he filled the void in my life.”

            “And after he died, I revealed myself to you, Peter’le. As from that day, you were able to turn to me.”

            “Was I then unjust to poor Pat?”

            “I cannot tell. Emotively, though, it was a turning point. Your grudge against Pat was anchored in the shouting match she had had with your father some two years earlier on. You tried to forget about this incident but it continued to irk you. It surfaced when she had her outburst.”

            “So that was a milestone in my life!?”

            “I believe it was: it was a turning point in your emotive make up.”

            “Why, then, did I fail to revisit it on our previous journey?”

            “You alone have the answer: Peter  FitzOstrich.”