Long before the end of my last year, leading law firms in New York, Chicago and Toronto were turning up to interview us. The Harvard tom-toms can be relied on to beat across the world, but even I was surprised by a visit from the senior partner of Graham Douglas & Wilkins of Toronto. It’s not a firm known for its Jewish partners, but I liked the idea of their letterhead one day reading “Graham Douglas Wilkins & Rosenthal.” Even her father would surely have been impressed by that.
At least if I lived and worked in Toronto, I convinced myself, it would be far enough away for me to forget her, and perhaps with luck find someone else I could feel that way about.
Graham Douglas & Wilkins found me a spacious apartment overlooking the park and started me off at a handsome salary. In return I worked all the hours God—whoever’s God—made. If I thought they had pushed me at McGill or Harvard, Father, it turned out to be no more than a dry run for the real world. I didn’t complain. The work was exciting, and the rewards beyond my expectation. Only now that I could afford a Thunderbird, I didn’t want one.
New girlfriends came, and went as soon as they talked of marriage. The Jewish ones usually raised the subject within a week the Gentiles, I found, waited a little longer. I even began living with one of them, Rebecca Wertz, but that too ended—on a Thursday.
I was driving to the office that morning—it must have been a little after eight, which was late for me—when I saw Christina on the other side of the busy highway, a barrier separating us. She was standing at a bus stop holding the band of a little boy, who must have been about five—my son.
The heavy morning traffic allowed me a little longer to stare in disbelief. I found that I wanted to look at them both at once. She wore a long lightweight coat that showed she had not lost her figure. Her face was serene and only reminded me why she was rarely out of my thoughts. Her son—our son—was wrapped up in an oversize duffel coat and his head was covered by a baseball hat that informed me that he supported the Toronto Dolphins. Sadly, it actually stopped me seeing what be looked like. You can’t be in Toronto, I remember thinking, you’re meant to be in Montreal. I watched them both in my side-mirror as they climbed onto a bus. That particular Thursday I must have been an appalling counselor to every client who sought my advice.
For the next week I passed by that bus stop every morning within minutes of the time I had seen them standing there but never saw them again. I began to wonder if I had imagined the whole scene. Then I spotted Christina again when I was returning across the city, having visited a client. She was on her own and I braked hard as I watched her entering a shop on Bloor Street. This time I double-parked the car and walked quickly across the road feeling like a sleazy private detective who spent his life peeping through keyholes.
What I saw took me by surprise—not to find her in a beautiful dress shop, but to discover it was where she worked.
The moment I saw that she was serving a customer I hurried back to my car. Once I had reached my office I asked my secretary if she knew of a shop called “Willing’s.”
My secretary laughed. “You must pronounce it the German way, the W becomes a V,” she explained, “thus ‘Villing’s.’ If you were married you would know that it’s the most expensive dress shop in town,” she added.
“Do you know anything else about the place?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Not a lot,” she said. “Only that it is owned by a wealthy German lady called Mrs. Klaus Willing whom they often write about in the women’s magazines.”
I didn’t need to ask my secretary any more questions and I won’t trouble you, Father, with my detective work. But, armed with those snippets of information, it didn’t take long to discover where Christina lived, that her husband was an overseas director with BMW, and that they had only the one child.
The old rabbi breathed deeply as he glanced up at the clock on his desk, more out of habit than any desire to know the time. He paused only for a moment before returning to the letter. He had been so proud of his lawyer son then; why hadn’t he made the first step toward a reconciliation?
How he would have liked to have seen his grandson.
My ultimate decision did not require an acute legal mind, just a little common sense—although a lawyer who advises himself undoubtedly has a fool for a client. Contact, I decided, had to be direct and a letter was the only method I felt Christina would find acceptable.
I wrote a simple message that Monday morning, then rewrote it several times before I telephoned “Fleet Deliveries” and asked them to hand it to her in person at the shop. When the young man left with the letter I wanted to follow him, just to be certain be had given it to the right person. I can still repeat it word for word.
Dear Christina,
You must know I live and work in Toronto. Can we meet? I will wait for you in the lounge of the Royal York Hotel every evening between six and seven this week. If you don’t come be assured I will never trouble you again.
Benjamin
I arrived that evening thirty minutes early. I remember taking a seat in a large impersonal lounge just off the main hall and ordering coffee.
“Will anyone be joining you, sir?” the waiter said.
“I can’t be sure,” I told him. No one did join me, but I still hung around until seven forty.
By Thursday the waiter stopped asking if anyone would be joining me as I sat alone and allowed yet another cup of coffee to grow cold. Every few minutes I checked my watch. Each time a woman with blonde hair entered the lounge my heart leaped but it was never the woman I hoped to see.
It was just before seven on Friday that I finally saw Christina standing in the doorway. She wore a smart blue suit buttoned up almost to the neck and a white blouse that made her look as if she were on her way to a business conference. Her long fair hair was pulled back behind her ears to give an impression of severity, but however hard she tried she could not be other than beautiful. I stood and raised my arm. She walked quickly over and took the seat beside me. We didn’t kiss or shake hands and for some time didn’t even speak.
“Thank you for coming,” I said.
“I shouldn’t have, it was foolish.”
Some time passed before either of us spoke again.
“Can I pour you a coffee?” I asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Black?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t changed.”
How banal it all would have sounded to anyone eavesdropping.
She sipped her coffee.
I should have taken her in my arms right then but I had no way of knowing that that was what she wanted. For several minutes we talked of inconsequential matters, always avoiding each other’s eyes, until I suddenly said, “Do you realize that I still love you?”
Tears filled her eyes as she replied, “Of course I do. And I still feel the same about you now as I did the day we parted. And don’t forget I have to see you every day, through Nicholas.”
She leaned forward and spoke almost in a whisper. She told me about the meeting with her parents that had taken place more than five years before as if we had not been parted in between. Her father had shown no anger when he learned she was pregnant but the family still left for Vancouver the following morning. There they had stayed with the Willings, a family from Munich, who were old friends of the von Braumers. Their son, Klaus, had always been besotted with Christina and didn’t care about her being pregnant, or even the fact she felt nothing for him. He was confident that, given time, it would all work out for the best.
It didn’t because it couldn’t. Christina had always known it would never work, however hard Klaus tried. They even left Montreal in an attempt to make a go of it. Klaus bought her the shop in Toronto and every luxury that money could afford, but it made no difference. Their marriage was an obvious sham. Yet they could not bring themselves to distress their families further with a divorce so they had led separate lives from the beginning.
As soon as Christ
ina finished her story I touched her cheek and she took my hand and kissed it. From that moment on we saw each other every spare moment that could be stolen, day or night. It was the happiest year of my life, and I was unable to hide from anyone how I felt.
Our affair—for that’s how the gossips were describing it—inevitably became public. However discreet we tried to be, Toronto, I quickly discovered, is a very small place, full of people who took pleasure in informing those whom we also loved that we had been seen together regularly, even leaving my home in the early hours.
Then quite suddenly we were left with no choice in the matter: Christina told me she was pregnant again. Only this time it held no fears for either of us.
Once she had told Klaus the settlement went through as quickly as the best divorce lawyer at Graham Douglas & Wilkins could negotiate. We were married only a few days after the final papers were signed. We both regretted that Christina’s parents felt unable to attend the wedding but I couldn’t understand why you didn’t come.
The rabbi still could not believe his own intolerance and shortsightedness. The demands on an Orthodox Jew should be waived if it meant losing one’s only child. He had searched the Talmud in vain for any passage that would allow him to break his lifelong vows. In vain.
The only sad part of the divorce settlement was that Klaus was given custody of our child. He also demanded, in exchange for a quick divorce, that I not be allowed to see Nicholas before his twenty-first birthday, and that he should not be told that I was his real father. At the time it seemed a hard price to pay, even for such happiness. We both knew that we had been left with no choice but to accept his terms.
I used to wonder how each day could he so much better than the last. If I was apart from Christina for more than a few hours I always missed her. If the firm sent me out of town on business for a night I would phone her two, three, perhaps four times, and if it was for more than a night then she came with me. I remember you once describing your love for my mother and wondering at the time if I could ever hope to achieve such happiness.
We began to make plans for the birth of our child. William, if it was a boy—her choices, Deborah, if it was a girl—mine. I painted the spare room pink assuming I had already won.
Christina had to stop me buying too many baby clothes, but I warned her that it didn’t matter as we were going to have a dozen more children. Jews, I reminded her, believed in dynasties.
She attended her exercise classes regularly, dieted carefully, rested sensibly. I told her she was doing far more than was required of a mother, even of my daughter. I asked if I could be present when our child was born and her gynecologist seemed reluctant at first, but then agreed. By the time the ninth month came, the hospital must have thought from the amount of fuss I was making they were preparing for the birth of a royal prince.
I drove Christina in to Women’s College Hospital on the way to work last Tuesday. Although I went on to the office I found it impossible to concentrate. The hospital rang in the afternoon to say they thought the child would be born early that evening: obviously Deborah did not wish to disrupt the working hours of Graham Douglas & Wilkins. However, I still arrived at the hospital far too early. I sat on the end of Christina’s bed until her contractions started coming every minute and then to my surprise they asked me to leave. They needed to rupture her membranes, a nurse explained. I asked her to remind the midwife that I wanted to be present to witness the birth.
I went out into the corridor and began pacing up and down, the way expectant fathers do in B-movies. Christina’s gynecologist arrived about half an hour later and gave me a huge smile. I noticed a cigar in his top pocket, obviously reserved for expectant fathers. “It’s about to happen,” was all be said.
A second doctor whom I had never seen before arrived a few minutes later and went quickly into her room. He only gave me a nod. I felt like a man in the dock waiting to hear the jury’s verdict.
It must have been at least another fifteen minutes before I saw the unit being rushed down the corridor by a team of three young interns. They didn’t even give me so much as a second glance as they disappeared into Christina’s room.
I heard the screams that suddenly gave way to the plaintive cry of a newborn child. I thanked my God and hers. When the doctor came out of her room I remember noticing that the cigar had disappeared.
“It’s a girl,” he said quietly. I was overjoyed. No need to repaint the bedroom immediately flashed through my mind.
“Can I see Christina now?” I asked.
He took me by the arm and led me across the corridor and into his office.
“Would you like to sit down?” he asked. “I’m afraid I have some sad news.”
“Is she all right?”
“I am sorry, so very sorry, to tell you that your wife is dead.”
At first I didn’t believe him, I refused to believe him. Why? Why? I wanted to scream.
“We did warn her,” he added.
“Warn her? Warn her of what?”
“That her blood pressure might not stand up to it a second time.”
Christina had never told me what the doctor went on to explain—that the birth of our first child had been complicated, and that the doctors had advised her against becoming pregnant again.
“Why hadn’t she told me?” I demanded. Then I realized why. She had risked everything for me—foolish, selfish, thoughtless me—and I had ended up killing the one person I loved.
They allowed me to hold Deborah in my arms for just a moment before they put her into an incubator and told me it would be another twenty-four hours before she came off the danger list.
You will never know how much it meant to me, Father, that you came to the hospital so quickly. Christina’s parents arrived later that evening. They were magnificent. He begged for my forgiveness—begged for my forgiveness. It could never have happened, he kept repeating, if he hadn’t been so shortsighted and prejudiced.
His wife took my band and asked if she might be allowed to see Deborah from time to time. Of course I agreed. They left just before midnight. I sat, walked, slept in that corridor for the next twenty-four hours until they told me that my daughter was off the danger list. She would have to remain in the hospital for a few more days, they explained, but she was now managing to suck milk from a bottle.
Christina’s father kindly took over the funeral arrangements.
You must have wondered why I didn’t appear and I owe you an explanation. I thought I would just drop into the hospital on my way to the funeral so that I could spend a few moments with Deborah. I had already transferred my love.
The doctor couldn’t get the words out. It took a brave man to tell me that her heart had stopped beating a few minutes before my arrival. Even the senior surgeon was in tears. When I left the hospital the corridors were empty.
I want you to know, Father, that I love you with all my heart, but I have no desire to spend the rest of my life without Christina or Deborah.
I only ask to be buried beside my wife and daughter and to be remembered as their husband and father. That way unthinking people might learn from our love. And when you finish this letter, remember only that I had such total happiness when I was with her that death holds no fears for me.
Your son,
Benjamin.
The old rabbi placed the letter down on the table in front of him. He had read it every day for the last ten years.
Here is an excerpt from HONOR AMONG THIEVES
CHAPTER ONE
February 15, 1993
New York
ANTONIO CAVALLI STARED intently at the Arab, who he considered looked far too young to be a Deputy Ambassador.
“One hundred million dollars,” Cavalli said, pronouncing each word slowly and deliberately, giving them almost reverential respect.
Hamid Al Obaydi flicked a worry bead across the top of his well-manicured thumb, making a click that was beginning to irritate Cavalli.
“One hundred
million is quite acceptable,” the Deputy Ambassador replied in a clipped English accent.
Cavalli nodded. The only thing that worried him about the deal was that Al Obaydi had made no attempt to bargain, especially since the figure the American had proposed was double that which he had expected to get. Cavalli had learned from painful experience not to trust anyone who didn’t bargain. It inevitably meant that he had no intention of paying in the first place.
“If the figure is agreed,” he said, “all that is left to discuss is how and when the payments will be made.”
The Deputy Ambassador flicked another worry bead before he nodded.
“Ten million dollars to be paid in cash immediately,” said Cavalli, “the remaining ninety million to be handed over once we can prove to your satisfaction that everything is in place. The final seventy million to be deposited in a Swiss bank account as soon as the contract has been carried out.”
“But what do I get for my first ten million?” asked the Deputy Ambassador, looking fixedly at the man whose origins were as hard to hide as his own.
“Nothing,” replied Cavalli, although he acknowledged that the Arab had every right to ask such a question. After all, if Cavalli didn’t honor his side of the bargain, the Deputy Ambassador had far more to lose than just his government’s money.
Al Obaydi moved another worry bead, aware that he had little choice—it had taken him two years just to get an interview with Antonio Cavalli. Meanwhile, President Clinton had settled into the White House, while his own leader was growing more and more impatient for revenge. If he didn’t accept Cavalli’s terms, Al Obaydi knew that the chances of finding anyone else capable of carrying out the task before the Fourth of July were about as promising as zero coming up on a roulette wheel with only one spin left.
A Twist in the Tale Page 19
