by Frank Kusy
Then I noticed the small passport sized photograph that had fluttered out of the letter. It was plastered to the top of my shoe. Bending down to retrieve it, I recognised Bertie, flanked by two grinning children, standing in what appeared to be some kind of Arab bazaar. He was wearing his fez and his woolly dressing gown and his carpet slippers. He could have been one of the locals. But it was the expression on his ruddy, red-nosed face that struck me. Now he didn’t just look like Punch. He looked as pleased as Punch.
In a panic, I rang Brenda.
‘One of my old gentlemen has gone crazy,’ I told her, ‘and hopped on a plane to an Israeli kibbutz. I don’t how they let him on, dressed in all his night clobber, but they did. What do you think I should do?’
‘Good Lord, Frank,’ said my old editor friend. ‘What is it with you and difficulties? Did that Buddhist meeting inspire you to seek them out?’
I sighed. ‘No, but they keep finding me anyway. And this one is a doozy. If this guy pegs out on me 4000 miles from home, I’ll never forgive myself.’
‘Well, you’re doing the right thing, Frank,’ said Brenda in a comforting tone. ‘You’re taking responsibility. Buddhism is all about taking responsibility. Have you thought about phoning the kibbutz?’
‘They haven’t got a phone,’ I responded. ‘Well, they didn’t when I was last there. All I’ve got is the fax number of their representative in Jerusalem.’
‘Well, drop him a line,’ suggested Brenda. ‘If that doesn’t work, how about writing a letter back?’
‘You don’t know this guy,’ I said. ‘He’s a persistent wanderer. By the time any letter reached him in Israel, he’d probably be in Egypt.’
‘Well, there’s only one answer, isn’t there?’ said Brenda at last. ‘If you don’t want the police involved, and a potential international incident, you’re going to have to go over there and bring him back yourself.’
I began ringing round travel agents.
*
Twenty-four hours later, and having put John Gray in charge of the home while I was away on a “family emergency”, I touched down at Ben Gurion airport. The dull, acrid reek of tarmac mixed with the sweet, more flavoursome, aromas of the Promised Land to set off a trail of memories as I stepped off the plane. Had it really been five years since I was last here? It seemed like only yesterday. The warm January breeze fanned my face as I recalled the ‘Project 67’ organisation which had brought me here and the last-minute letter I’d had from them informing me that our group would not be going to Ein Harod at all, but to some other kibbutz to the far north of the country. How lucky I had been to stubbornly ignore this letter and proceed on to Ein Harod anyway. It let me and two others in, and I enjoyed three of the happiest months of my life on one of the best kibbutzim in the country, complete with a swimming pool, a brand-new cinema, and a concrete bunker disco. All the rest of my group had gone to the Golan Heights and lived in fear of being bombed by Arab terrorists.
Past airport security, I was welcomed into the country by fat, smiley Nelson Ben-Ami, the Project’s Jerusalem representative.
‘Ah, you come back to us!’ he said, giving me a big bear hug. ‘Did you bring Johnnie Walker Red Label?’
I handed over the promised bottle of the universally popular whisky, and – forgoing the usual formalities – showed him the picture of Bertie.
‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ I said urgently. ‘But I must find this man. Have you seen him?’
‘Have I seen him?’ bellowed Nelson, his lips parting to reveal a cavern of nicotine-stained teeth. ‘This man is famous. He is best friend of our Moshe Dayan! He help him defeat Egypt and Syria in Six Day War!’
My eyes rolled in my head. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘It is true! It is so! And now he is special undercover operative for our Prime Minister, Menachem Begin!’
This really was too much. Even for Bertie.
‘Undercover operative?’ I said. ‘How can you be so sure?’
‘I find Mr Bertram in Arab quarter of Jerusalem,’ said Nelson patiently. ‘Everyone is talking about him because he is drinking whole bottle of our Arak brandy without blinking. And his clothing is most cunning. What other Englishman would dress in such a fashion? Yes, he is like your James Bond – shaken but not stirred!’
‘So where is he now?’ I asked, trying to keep the scorn out of my voice. ‘Is he still in Ein Harod?’
‘Oh yes,’ beamed Nelson, pointing me to his car. ‘I will take you to him immediately!’
It was gone noon when we arrived at my old stamping ground in the Yizreel Valley. The rains had just come and the place looked pretty deserted. Still, I could see the olive groves and grapefruit orchards where I had been forced – no, encouraged – to climb up 20 foot ladders every morning. Ah yes, many a happy time I’d had up those ladders – fending off three-inch tree frogs, trying to avoid half foot butterfly cocoons – with manic work boss Svigi chivvying me on to ever more dangerous branches.
Svigi was in fact the first person I met inside the kibbutz compound. Wearing the same dusty, grey work outfit and the same sour expression as before, he did not look thrilled to see me. ‘I’m back!’ I said cheerily. And he said, ‘Ah yes, the volunteer who does not like to work much.’ He had evidently not forgiven me for screwing up his precious Israeli work ethic which determined that all volunteers had to work 6 hours a day, from 6am till noon, with no incentive at all to fill their quotas. It had been the height of the grapefruit season, and his usual ‘encouragements’ for the volunteers to pick extra hard had fallen on deaf ears. ‘Why don’t you try a bit of capitalism,’ I suggested, ‘and let us go home early once we’ve filled our baskets?’ And he had, and everyone had picked with gusto and filled their baskets in only 3 or 4 hours. But then the kibbutz managers had found out what was going on and (I felt really bad about this) had relegated Svigi to the Plodot steel factory.
Svigi was not the only person not enamoured to see me. Over in the corner, as I sat waiting in the bright, spacious dining hall for Nelson to go get Bertie, I spotted Nathan, my original work boss. Small and quietly furious, he was glaring at me as though I just had murdered his children. Which was a trifle unfair, since it was he who had made my very first day as a kibbutnik so unpleasant. He had driven me and a Swedish girl called Chris to some heat-blasted mountain on the Lebanese border, packed us into thick cotton suits (with helmets) and told us we were going to be dealing with...bees. Yes, thousands of angry bees. Which got really angry when we smoked them out of their hives to get at their honey. Nathan couldn’t understand it when I picked up the first hive to put in his truck and then suddenly put it down again. ‘Work!’ he screamed hysterically. ‘Why you no work?’ The reason was simple: three bees had found a hole in my trousers and were now buzzing around my loins. ‘Problem!’ I shouted back. ‘Big problem!’ But Nathan didn’t care about my problem, just started jumping up and down and cursing me with ill-disguised venom. It was then that the first bee stung, and I lurched forward and vomited into my helmet. ‘Oh dear,’ I thought, ‘I really shouldn’t have had semolina for breakfast.’ Then the second sting whapped into me – rather too close to my left testicle – and I went into anaphylactic shock. Poor Nathan. He’d had to forget all about his precious hives and drive me two hours to the nearest hospital.
Yes, I was not the most popular bunny on the kibbutz. But I was not here to be popular. I was here to find the biggest King Liar in the Middle East and restore him to his rightful throne in Clapham.
This proved to be much more difficult that I thought, however.
‘Bertie gone,’ pronounced Nelson, returning from his tour of the living quarters.
‘Gone where?’ said I, feeling my prey slipping from my fingers.
‘He go Mount Sinai,’ shrugged Nelson. ‘Some volunteers just put him on bus.’
Sinai? This was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I knew, from Bertie’s letter, that he wanted to see the mountain where Charlton Heston had give
n the Ten Commandments to millions of movie goers, but why now? Why couldn’t he have waited just one more day and saved me a long, arduous exodus into present-day Egypt?
‘I have a very big favour to ask,’ I told Nelson, looking at my watch. ‘I don’t know when the next bus to Sinai will be, but it will probably be hours. Can you run me down there? I have to find Mr Bertie tonight!’
And it was true. I had already spent half of Saturday on foreign soil. If I didn’t get Bertie back home on the Sunday night flight, and report for work the next morning, I’d have a very suspicious Mr Parker on my hands. I was also desperately worried for Bertie’s health. He had been off his medication for almost a week now: I shuddered to think what would happen if he tried to climb a 7000 foot mountain.
Nelson mulled over my question a long time, rubbing his hands over fat, jowly cheeks as he lost himself in thought.
‘I like to help Mr Bertie, of course,’ he said at last. ‘But maybe he is on “secret mission”, maybe he does not want to be found!’
I sighed. This was getting ridiculous. A very special incentive was required.
‘Will this help you to want to find him?’ I said, reaching into my rucksack and withdrawing another bottle of Johnnie Walker. ‘This is my own personal stash – Blue Label. Much better than Red.’
Nelson’s eyes bugged out of his head. ‘Blue Label?’ he gurgled in disbelief. ‘I have heard of this thing, but can only dream! You give to me? Thank you! Wait here, I start the car!’
*
We drove in a straight line south – passing Jericho, Bethlehem and Beer-Sheba – until we came, around dusk, to the emerging coastal resort of Sharm el-Sheikh. Then, after a short pause for gas, food and supplies, we pressed on – in pretty much pitch darkness – for another three hours until we came to a series of mountains, one of which enclosed an ancient monastery.
Fortunately, the moon was coming up, so we began to have some visibility. Even more fortunately, not ten minutes from leaving the car, I found a series of steps leading up a mountain.
‘Wow, this is a stroke of luck!’ I told Nelson. ‘This must be those “Steps of Repentance” I read about. There’s about 3000 of them and they go all the way up to the top of Sinai. Follow me!’
I could not suppress a feeling of excitement when I started climbing that stone staircase. It was a dream I had had five years earlier – a dream which had been smashed when I ran out of money at Sharm el-Sheikh and had to turn back to the kibbutz. Indeed, I had been so strapped for funds that I’d had to sell three pints of blood in Jerusalem to afford the final bus fare.
About half an hour later, my excitement turned to puzzlement. The steps just stopped.
‘There’s no more steps!’ I wailed down to Nelson. ‘What’s going on?’
Just then, as the moon came out from behind a thin veil of cloud and bathed us in the full force of its ghostly glow, an even more ghostly voice shouted across to us from the adjoining mountain.
‘Helloooo, Mister Englishman!’ it said. ‘You are on ze wrong mountain!’
I looked over and there, not half a mile away, were a group of German hikers. And bobbing up and down on a camel between them was a familiar-looking fez.
‘It is Mr Bertie!’ said Nelson, clapping his fat hands together in joy. ‘And he is riding, how you say, “in style!”’
‘But there are steps on this mountain!’ I shouted back at the Germans.
‘Ho, ho, ho!’ boomed their annoying spokesman. ‘But not enough steps, ja? Now you must grow wings and fly up ze mountain!’
How was I supposed to know that the 6th century monk who’d chipped his steps to the top of Sinai had a disciple? Or that this disciple had decided to chip his way up to the top of a different mountain? Or that said disciple had died before he had completed not a third of his task? All these things I learned when, having clambered down the faux Mount Sinai, I engaged two camels – with knowledgeable Bedouin guides – to take us up the real one.
I was not in a good mood.
*
‘Oh hello, Mr Kusy,’ said Bertie sleepily. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’
My red-nosed quarry was sitting on a wide, flat rock with what promised to be a perfect view of the coming sunrise. He was swathed in warm blankets against the freezing cold and was nursing a small pot of tea, along with a plate of biscuits.
‘How did you manage those last 700 steps?’ I puffed at him. ‘Did you tell someone you’re a direct descendant of the prophet Isaiah and get a piggy back?’
‘That’s what I like about you, Mr Kusy,’ said my fez-headed fugitive. ‘You always see the funny side of things. Do you want a biscuit?’
I shook my head and flopped down beside him. ‘I’m not feeling very funny, Bertie. Do you know how much trouble you’ve caused? I’ve been worried sick!’
‘And you came all this way to see me. And Nelson too. How nice.’
‘It is nice to see you too, Mister Bertie,’ said Nelson, bending low and looking conspiratorial. ‘I hope we have not interrupted any “secret agent” activities?’
‘Blow the secret agent activities,’ I muttered, rooting around in my bag and fishing out a pot of pills. ‘Here, take a couple of these, Bertie. You’re not looking well.’
Bertie’s hands were trembling as he took the proffered medicine. ‘Yes, I did have a bit of a turn earlier. Thank Gawd those German lads turned up and plonked me on that camel. I was in a right state. But I got to tell you this – I don’t feel disjointed no more. I’m sorry I caused you trouble, Mr Kusy, I know I did wrong, but I wouldn’t have missed this for worlds. Look...the sun is coming up!’
And indeed it was. As the first rays of a new day dawned, we were treated to a majestic sight – the mountain took on an almost ethereal glow and one by one all the lower crags and hills below were illuminated and then thrown into sharp relief against the desert floor. It was an unforgettable and moving experience, and looking over to Bertie, I could see that he had tears in his eyes.
‘So this is where God spoke to Moses,’ he murmured. ‘I can truly believe it.’
Nelson and I nodded, and for a few fleeting moments all three of us were joined in a silent, holy communion.
*
One slow camel descent and a frantic, seven-hour car dash later, we were back at Ben Gurion airport and praying that we could get two tickets on the night flight to London. Luckily, it being low tourist season, we did. Even luckier, nobody questioned Bertie’s appearance. With his dressing gown, pyjamas and slippers in my bag – cleaned and neatly pressed back at the kibbutz – he was now wearing a Bedouin scarf, a much too tight pair of my spare jeans and a T-shirt saying ‘I love Ibiza’. That, coupled with the fez and the mad, beaming expression on his face, made him stand out a mile!
‘Goodbye, my friend,’ said a tearful Nelson, clasping Bertie to his bosom. ‘It has been an honour knowing you. And please, here is my address. So you can send me that signed photograph of you and our Golda Meir, remember?’
‘That one happens to be true,’ Bertie said with a tired wink. ‘She came to my bakery in 1969, on her way to meet Harold Wilson in London.’
It was 2am on Monday when we touched down in Heathrow, just enough time to sneak Bertie back into the home and into his night clothes before the day staff arrived.
‘Phew, job done,’ I thought as I snuck back to my own home for a few hours sleep. ‘I’ve returned the lost sheep to its flock without Mr Parker, its bushy-browed shepherd, being any the wiser.’
How wrong I was.
Chapter 10
Phoney Pheasants and Plasticine Pigs
‘Ah, there you are, Mr Kusy,’ purred a familiar gruff voice when I entered my office later that morning. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’
There, sitting at my desk, was Mr Parker and he was waving Bertie’s blue aerogramme from Israel in the air. He was also wearing an expression that I had never seen before...sort of conflicted.
‘I don’t know whether to kick your arse or giv
e you a medal,’ he continued. ‘Which do you think I should do?’
My mind raced. How stupid I had been to leave that aerogramme behind. I should have remembered that Mr Parker had a spare key to my office.
‘Erm...let me explain,’ I began. ‘None of it is Mr Button’s fault. He didn’t...’
‘I don’t want to know,’ said the Chairman tiredly. ‘I’ve just spoken to Mr Button and I don’t want to know any more of it. All that I do want to know is how we proceed from here – do we put you and that drunken old fool in the papers and make you local heroes, or do we put a quiet statement out that he wandered back here after a few days down a pub in Hackney?’
‘I like the pub idea,’ I said. ‘It’s far more believable than the truth.’
Mr Parker lifted his glasses, wiped his little piggy eyes, and blew his cheeks out in resigned surrender. ‘Okay, it’s your call, Mr Kusy,’ he said. ‘But I got to tell you this – if you open your gob and have one more of my residents gallivanting off like Marco Polo, you won’t just be on my shit list. You’ll be on top of it.’
Unsure whether to feel relieved or concerned at this outcome, I popped upstairs to the residents’ rooms to see how Bertie might be doing.
He was doing fine.
‘Ooh, you caught us at it!’ giggled little Betsy. She was sitting on the bed next to Bertie, her hands intertwined with his and her head on his shoulder. ‘Bertie’s just telling me about his adventures. Did he really meet Lord Nelson in Jerusalem?’
I chuckled. ‘No, it was Admiral Lord Nelson, wasn’t it, Bertie? And we sailed down the Nile and took on more of those Zulus. Don’t you remember?’
‘Oh, yes, that’s right,’ muttered Bertie, pulling out his handkerchief and staring at the knot in it. ‘I just forgot the finer details.’
It was so cute, these two lovebirds shifting about on that bed like awkward teenagers. I decided to make a discreet exit.
‘Good to see you doing so well, Bertie,’ I said, reaching for the door handle. ‘Let me know if you need anything. Some food perhaps?’
