Vava again, and in a context of sweet potatoes and petrol, and with an apology, so to speak, for having laughed at him, it does seem to indicate he’d thought of something new.’
‘Obviously. It’s what he’s saying.’
‘Mmm. Well. Could be,’ Beylis said. ‘It’s a fact that problems ticked on in his mind for years. He kept returning to them, like a dog to a bone. He was a very dogged man.’
‘Yes.’
‘As well as being intuitive. Things often happened to him like that. Suddenly he would know something. He was very much of a piece – in his political work as well. But I’m afraid this doesn’t help you much.’
I had an odd feeling – no doubt to do with his remarks onintuition – that it did. Something had happened to me today. Something had started to tick, and I couldn’t think what it was.
It continued ticking after I’d left him, though.
3
I took a taxi to Connie’s at seven, and brooded all the way. It was a long way. Bat Yam was below Jaffa on the coast, a newish town. It was apartment land, the streets canyons of tall blocks. I thought of the ships disgorging their occupants a generation ago, and of the encampments of tents, and of the problems they’d had to deal with then; and of the kind that they could now apply their minds to. Not so long ago, a generation. Just time enough to change from being objects of the world’s sympathy into the villains of the piece. Well, hardly a novel transformation for the people hereabout.
I alighted in Balfour Street, still brooding, and went upstairs to Connie’s apartment. Three people were there already, including Marta: one of Connie’s promised delights. Not a word from her during our inspection of the muscle machine that she would be a participant in the evening’s revels. She’d apparently gone home with Connie in the car. Some other people turned up while we were having a drink, and Marta said to me, ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I need a weekend off.’
‘How is the car situation?’
‘Settled.’ I was borrowing Ham’s. ‘We could have lunch either at Jerusalem or Zohar.’ We were going to Zohar. There was a quite good hotel there. Friday was half-day, which gave one Friday night and Saturday night; drive back Sunday morning .
‘Have you booked?’
‘Two rooms,’ I said.
‘We can have lunch in one of them.’
During the course of the evening, Connie said, ‘Is something the matter, Igor?’
‘Fatigue.’
‘We won’t make it late.’
We didn’t. At twelve, it broke up, and I took a taxi back alone. Marta was sleeping at Connie’s.
*
I didn’t have a very good night, still brooding; I rose early, went below, and saw Dr Patel again. It was a very strange thing. At whatever time I descended, Dr Patel was there: going in to breakfast, or at it, or just leaving. This time it was absurdly early. The restaurant wasn’t even open. The girls were still laying out the trays of victuals. He was standing by Mr Deutsch’s desk with an envelope in his hands while Mr Deutsch, back turned, was placing mail into the slots.
‘Ah, here is Mr Druyanov. It is for-you, Mr Druyanov,’ Mr Deutsch said, turning.
Dr Patel gave me the envelope somewhat hurriedly. ‘I was expecting an express from London myself,’ he said.
I looked at it, and saw the express stamps, and turned it over and looked again. It was a Manila envelope and on the back it said. ‘From Dr O. Kutcholsky-Green, 32 Tancred Court, London, N.W.3.’ Dr Patel was looking at me as I opened it and drew out the contents. I didn’t draw them fully out. I just saw, in the sheaf of papers, the familiar signature ‘Ch. Weizmann,’ and stuffed everything back again, and went out of the swing doors, at the trot. It was a lovely morning. Dew was glistening on the grass as I panted across the drive, and across the main avenue, and into the courtyard. I heard my breath singing out as I pounded on the door.
‘Mr Weisgal, please,’ I said politely when it
‘Obviously. It’s what he’s saying.’
‘Mmm. Well. Could be,’ Beylis said. ‘It’s a fact that problems ticked on in his mind for years. He kept returning to them, like a dog to a bone. He was a very dogged man.’
‘Yes.’
‘As well as being intuitive. Things often happened to him like that. Suddenly he would know something. He was very much of a piece – in his political work as well. But I’m afraid this doesn’t help you much.’
I had an odd feeling – no doubt to do with his remarks onintuition – that it did. Something had happened to me today. Something had started to tick, and I couldn’t think what it was.
It continued ticking after I’d left him, though.
3
I took a taxi to Connie’s at seven, and brooded all the way. It was a long way. Bat Yam was below Jaffa on the coast, a newish town. It was apartment land, the streets canyons of tall blocks. I thought of the ships disgorging their occupants a generation ago, and of the encampments of tents, and of the problems they’d had to deal with then; and of the kind that they could now apply their minds to. Not so long ago, a generation. Just time enough to change from being objects of the world’s sympathy into the villains of the piece. Well, hardly a novel transformation for the people hereabout.
I alighted in Balfour Street, still brooding, and went upstairs to Connie’s apartment. Three people were there already, including Marta: one of Connie’s promised delights. Not a word from her during our inspection of the muscle machine that she would be a participant in the evening’s revels. She’d apparently gone home with Connie in the car. Some other people turned up while we were having a drink, and Marta said to me, ‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘I need a weekend off.’
‘How is the car situation?’
‘Settled.’ I was borrowing Ham’s. ‘We could have lunch either at Jerusalem or Zohar.’ We were going to Zohar. There was a quite good hotel there. Friday was half-day, which gave one Friday night and Saturday night; drive back Sunday morning .
‘Have you booked?’
‘Two rooms,’ I said.
‘We can have lunch in one of them.’
During the course of the evening, Connie said, ‘Is something the matter, Igor?’
‘Fatigue.’
‘We won’t make it late.’
We didn’t. At twelve, it broke up, and I took a taxi back alone. Marta was sleeping at Connie’s.
*
I didn’t have a very good night, still brooding; I rose early, went below, and saw Dr Patel again. It was a very strange thing. At whatever time I descended, Dr Patel was there: going in to breakfast, or at it, or just leaving. This time it was absurdly early. The restaurant wasn’t even open. The girls were still laying out the trays of victuals. He was standing by Mr Deutsch’s desk with an envelope in his hands while Mr Deutsch, back turned, was placing mail into the slots.
‘Ah, here is Mr Druyanov. It is for-you, Mr Druyanov,’ Mr Deutsch said, turning.
Dr Patel gave me the envelope somewhat hurriedly. ‘I was expecting an express from London myself,’ he said.
I looked at it, and saw the express stamps, and turned it over and looked again. It was a Manila envelope and on the back it said. ‘From Dr O. Kutcholsky-Green, 32 Tancred Court, London, N.W.3.’ Dr Patel was looking at me as I opened it and drew out the contents. I didn’t draw them fully out. I just saw, in the sheaf of papers, the familiar signature ‘Ch. Weizmann,’ and stuffed everything back again, and went out of the swing doors, at the trot. It was a lovely morning. Dew was glistening on the grass as I panted across the drive, and across the main avenue, and into the courtyard. I heard my breath singing out as I pounded on the door.
‘Mr Weisgal, please,’ I said politely when it
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