The Kabbalist

by Katz, Yoram

  “This is very simple,” replied Pascal and his face grew solemn. “This package is very important to my father, and I must make sure it reaches him. So, my good friend, I have three requests to ask of you, in case I fall in battle. First, write to my father and inform him of the circumstances of my death. Second, just tell him what I have told you. It is important to me that he knows his request has been met and that the package is on its way to him. And third, if something should happen to Bernard, please make every effort to trace the package and see that it gets to my father.”

  Monsieur de Charney, I must tell you how much I was always touched by the way Pascal’s eyes shone whenever he mentioned you. He loved and adored you. You must have been a wonderful father to him.

  “And if the worst happens to me?” I asked. “As an officer of grenadiers, my chances of being hit are greater than yours and Bernard’s.”

  “I cannot control every circumstance,” answered Pascal. “Remember what we have learned in the Academy, Gaston. I cannot guarantee success but I must stick to a well-thought-out operation plan, attack and protect my flanks. All I am asking you, Gaston, is to protect my flank.” It was so much like Pascal to talk this way.

  Of course, I gave him my word, and we embraced. It was an emotional moment, and we both had tears in our eyes. After that, silence fell and a solemn mood was threatening to overpower us. Pascal was first to recover. He slapped my shoulder vigorously and laughed. “My good Gaston, do not look so gloomy. We will win tomorrow and live, and then, when we celebrate victory, all these words, that are presently hanging between us and worry you so much, will have faded away as though they have never existed. Now, let us talk about happier things. Tell me about the last letter you have received from your Marie.”

  On the next day things turned out the way they did.

  During the past three weeks, my medical condition was critical and the doctors struggled to save my life. Immediately when I came to, I asked about Pascal. In the first few days, nobody would tell me anything, but eventually I was told the bitter truth. The first thing I did after that, was to look for Pascal’s subordinates and superior officers, who could tell me about the chain of events that had taken place during that battle. I sent them word to visit me in the hospital. From these conversations, I learned how your brave son had died.

  My dear Monsieur de Charney,

  Your heart would have been filled with great pride, had you heard the reverence with which all these fine men spoke of your son, and had you seen the tears in their eyes when they mentioned him. I know this does little to diminish the enormity of your loss, but it may give you some solace to know how loved and admired he was.

  I then, true to my promise to Pascal, tried to locate Captain Bernard Moreau. This turned out to be a most difficult task. Since Bernard never came to visit me, I knew almost for certain that something bad had happened to him, and having made some inquiries, I found out what indeed happened. Captain Bernard Moreau was hit by a random bullet on the same day Pascal died and I was wounded. His wound was severe, almost fatal, and he was evacuated from the battlefield. Nobody could tell me where he ended up, where he was treated and whether he survived the hazardous journey back to Egypt. After further inquiries, I found out more. It seems Bernard has been evacuated from Egypt on a navy ship and will be arriving at the shores of the Republic soon. In this case, it is probable that by the time you read this letter, he has already arrived. In case you need to locate him, I hereby write down his address as I know it:

  Château de la Gardanne,

  Autrac,

  Haute-Loire.

  This is the little I can do in my current situation to keep the promise I gave your son during our last conversation. I am sorry that at this stage, my physical condition prevents me from doing more. I hope that I have been of some help to you.

  My honored Sir,

  My heart cries with you, mourning the enormous loss of Pascal, your son and my beloved friend. I will cherish his memory forever. May time ease your pain, if only by a little. If I am fortunate enough to recover and return to our beloved homeland, I promise to visit you and tell you more about your gallant son.

  Respectfully yours,

  Gaston de Chateau-Renault

  Cairo Field Hospital,

  Cairo,

  Egypt.

  19. Roland de Charney – France, August 1799

  The man in the armchair carefully placed the stack of handwritten pages on the table at his side and leaned back. The grief he had been experiencing in the past few weeks clearly showed on Roland de Charney. Having received the General’s letter carrying the terrible tidings, Roland locked himself in his room with bottles of wine and brandy. When he stepped out of the room, he was a different person. He aged all at once; his gray hair turned white and new wrinkles lined his face. The gray-blue eyes turned dull and even little Arlette could not make him smile. He was a devastated old man.

  It was not only the sheer magnitude of his personal loss and the damage to the mission he trusted Pascal to facilitate. Now that Pascal was gone, he was seized with a terrible sense of guilt and regret. It suddenly dawned on him that he had spent so much time preaching faith and duty to his beloved son, that he may have forgotten to let him know how much he loved and adored him. He doubted whether he had been a good father to his lost child, and this doubt was gnawing at his heart.

  And now this letter from Gaston, the friend of his dead son.

  For the first time in weeks, Roland was feeling a little better. He found solace in the warm words Gaston had written about his son. They meant a lot to him, even more than those written by the great Bonaparte. Here was someone who really knew his son and could describe what he was like in his final hours… and what words… his boy died a hero at the head of his men, a true leader. This was an honorable death he would have wished for himself. True, the General had said the same in his formal letter, but Gaston’s words touched him more intimately.

  But even more important were some other words written by Gaston.

  “…I must tell you how much I was always touched by the way Pascal’s eyes shone whenever he mentioned you. He loved and adored you. You must have been a wonderful father to him.”

  These words were like balm on his wounds.

  He also recalled a paragraph from one of Pascal‘s last letters: “I am a different person now, much changed from the boy who sat opposite you that day. After what I have been through this year, I am starting to understand your words about the significance of family and the importance of faith… we will probably talk a lot about this when, God willing, I am back home safe and sound.

  For some reason, God did not will his son to return home safe and sound. Roland did not presume to understand God’s ways, yet found consolation in the knowledge that at the end of his short life, his son not just proved to be a brave leader of men, but also started his way back to faith.

  And, of course, there was the other matter. Pascal never forgot his mission even when he was facing death. The task ahead was not only the fulfillment of the unwritten will of Geoffroi de Charney, the Templar martyr. It has now become also the completion of his dead son’s last mission.

  And now it was his mission.

  He shot up to his feet and left the room.

  “Papa, Papa…” Little Arlette was running towards him. He bent down, took her in his arms, and hugged her closely. It was something he had not done for too long. The little girl was surprised, but was herself again in no time.

  “Papa,” she said. “I dreamed about Pascal last night. He came to see me. He was dressed in his cavalry officer uniform, and he was beautiful, exactly as he was the last time he visited us.”

  Tears came to the old man’s eyes. The girl noticed it and kissed his eyes, trying to dry the tears off. “Don’t cry, Papa,” she said. “He told me that everything is fine with him where he is now. He promised to watch over us. He wanted me to tell you that, and also that he loves us all.”

  Roland
de Charney wrapped his arms around the little body of his daughter and held her tightly. Tears were at last running freely down his wrinkled cheeks. He was crying for the first time since the tragedy hit him, and found it an enormous relief. “I love you, Pascal,” he whispered in a low, broken voice.

  Arlette heard that and hugged him with her little arms. “I, too, love you, Pascal,” she whispered and then started weeping softly, her tears mingling with her father’s.

  Roland was a man of faith. Now he knew that his brave son was resting in peace. Pascal did his part to the best of his ability, and it was left to him, Roland, to complete the task.

  And he will do it! He will do it even if it was the last thing he did in his life! He has a destiny now! He has purpose!

  And he still had two wonderful children to take care of, especially this little, marvelous girl. For a moment, he felt ashamed. What happened to him? What kind of father has he become? He was the one who should have given courage and strength to his little girl, but somehow she was the one giving him power and hope. What a wonderful child! The vacuum in his heart vanished. The despair which had taken hold of him, making him a bitter old man, was fading away now, to be replaced by hope.

  Roland de Charney smiled through his tears. “I love you Arlette,” he said chokingly and covered her cheeks with kisses.

  “I love you too, Papa.”

  * * *

  Roland climbed down from the coach and looked around him. Château de la Gardanne must have once been a splendid estate, but only a faded memory remained from its supposed glory. The garden was in desperate need of care, and the general impression was of a family with a past of wealth and affluence, which had stumbled upon hard times.

  The man who came to welcome him had a worn and faded look about him as well. His face was thin, and his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. He struggled to project an elegant appearance, but the fine clothes, too large for his size, hung loosely and sloppily on his skinny frame, creating a pathetic spectacle.

  “Monsieur de Charney, this is truly a pleasure,” the emaciated man extended his hand. “I am Henry Moreau.”

  Roland outstretched his hand and the man shook it limply. “Let me offer my condolences, Monsieur de Charney. Your son was special. Our Bernard loved him like a brother. You know, Pascal once stayed here as our guest. Bernard brought him on one of their short leaves, and I was very impressed. What a loss!”

  De Charney nodded.

  “It is very kind of you to come and visit our Bernard. I am sure he will be very happy to see you. We have not had too many visitors around here lately…”

  “I am happy to be here,” declared Roland de Charney ceremoniously. “Every friend of my son is like a son to me. Pascal used to mention Bernard in his letters, and I know that he would have wanted me to visit his good friend. Is Bernard well today?”

  An anguished look appeared on Henry Moreau‘s face. “He is still recovering from his wounds… but come along, sir. We brought Bernard down from his bed for you today. I am very curious to see his reaction when he meets you. I told him you were coming, and he was positively excited. I know it would give him great joy, and God knows he needs something to cheer him up… my poor Bernard.”

  The two men climbed the stairs and entered a big, shabby living room. A young man was sitting there all alone in an armchair in the middle of the room, with his back to the entrance.

  “Bernard dear, your guest has arrived,” called Henry Moreau cheerfully.

  Nothing; the man in the armchair did not respond. Perhaps he did not hear.

  The two went around and stood in front of the young man. He just sat there limply, with his head lowered. “Bernard dear, your guest is here,” said Henry in an endearing tone, like he was talking to a child. “This is Roland de Charney, the father of your good friend Pascal. Say hello to Monsieur de Charney.”

  The young man raised his head and stared at them, bewildered. “Hello, Monsieur,” he mumbled in a barely audible voice.

  Roland de Charney could now see the face of Bernard Moreau. He knew he should say something but could not find words. He stumbled backward dizzily, bumping into a sofa that was located behind him and dropped into it in total shock. The despair, that he thought he had beaten, was now creeping back. Everything around him became foggy.

  “Lord,” he muttered, “why have you chosen me for your toy to play with?”

  He now realized that the short awakening he had experienced was just an illusion, and that he was, after all, a tired old man with no hope. Somewhere, through the fog, he saw Henry Moreau rushing towards him in alarm.

  “Monsieur de Charney… Monsieur de Charney…”

  “I am sorry,” said Roland de Charney eventually in a feeble voice. “I did not know…”

  20. Yuval Eldad – University of Haifa, January 31st, 2010 (Sunday)

  Luria and Jeanne climbed the stairs and entered a long corridor. On one of the doors, a small plaque with a handwritten inscription said ‘Yuval Eldad’. Luria knocked.

  “Come in,” called someone inside and Luria opened the door.

  Professor Yuval Eldad’s office at the University of Haifa was the same unimpressive small chamber that Luria remembered from his previous encounter with the professor. Now, as before, it looked as if it had recently sustained a mid-range earthquake. Every available surface in the room, including the professor’s desk, carried stacks of books, dossiers and sheets of paper.

  The small room looked unoccupied but, presently, Professor Eldad rose from behind one of the book piles and hurried to greet them. He was about forty, a bespectacled man of average height with disheveled, sparse hair. “Yuval Eldad,” he introduced himself to Jeanne.

  “Jeanne de Charney,” Jeanne shook his hand and smiled warmly.

  Eldad looked around him in bewilderment, wondering where he could seat his guests. “Just a minute,” he said, “I used to have a couple of chairs around here somewhere… I wonder…”

  Jeanne was doing her best not to laugh.

  “Aha!” exclaimed the professor triumphantly. “Here they are.” He started moving books and dossiers that were hiding two shabby chairs opposite his desk. For a moment he froze, wondering where to place the stuff, and then managed somehow to arrange the piles clumsily against the wall. “Sorry about the mess,” he apologized. “I was immersed in something and totally forgot I was expecting visitors.” He then acknowledged Luria’s presence for the first time. “Yossi Luria,” he said and shook Luria’s hand with surprising violence, switching to Hebrew. “We have not met since… since that incident… How long has it been?”

  “Four years,” replied Luria, somewhat dryly.

  “I understand that you have left the police force since, and that you are now a private investigator.”

  “Yes.” Luria replied tersely, clearly uninterested in expanding on the subject.

  “By the way, I never really understood what happened that night when father Diaz died. If someone should know, I guess it is you.”

  Luria felt the fury that had never really left him starting to rise again. The four year old scars have not yet healed. He felt a lump in his throat. “By the time the investigation ended, I was no longer involved,” he said, “but the findings were made public. It was a breaking and entering incident which evolved into homicide. The burglar ran away and was later liquidated in an internal underworld strife. That’s all there was to it.”

  “Is that all? Ella did not think so. She told me you never believed that story.”

  Luria shrugged, displaying indifference, but the mere mention of Ella’s name sent a pulse of physical pain through his body.

  Ella, Where are you?

  “You know, I was so sorry to hear that you two separated. I always thought you made a great couple,” said Eldad, inadvertently driving another stab.

  Luria felt another throb of pain. “It was my fault. I was going through bad times and was totally intolerable.” He tried to sound cool about it. “What is sh
e doing these days?” he asked in a strange, strained voice.

  “She is working on her doctorate at Cambridge,” replied Eldad. “It took her some time to recover after you had broken her heart, but she is fine now.”

  Jeanne was looking at both of them bewildered, obviously annoyed, and Luria switched to English. “Well, Professor, let’s move on to the business we have come here for. I am trying to help Jeanne in a case which is more a historical research than a regular investigation, and I thought that your knowledge of the local history could help us.”

  For some reason, Eldad found this amusing. “So, you are a history detective now,”’ he grinned. “Perhaps you are in the wrong profession. I could use a good research assistant.”

  “Well,” said Luria, “Jeanne is a student of history. Perhaps you’ll be able to convince her to come and work for you.”

  “Is that a fact?” Eldad was surprised. He turned to Jeanne. “Where do you study?”

  “Caen University,” replied Jeanne. “Unités de formation et de recherche d'histoire.”

  “History at Caen?” cried Eldad enthusiastically. “Professor Henry Piquét?”

  “Professor Piquét is heading the unit.”

  “Well, what do you know!” exclaimed Eldad. “Professor Piquét and I studied together for our master’s degree at the Sorbonne. You must give him my regards! What a small world this is!” he beamed. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “I am working on a research based on a few documents I found, concerning a family member who died in Acre in 1799.”

  “1799. Napoleon’s doomed visit to the Holy Land,” said Eldad. “Indeed an interesting topic, which could use some more attention. And what are these documents, may I ask?”

  Jeanne fumbled through her purse, produced a copy of the condolence letter that had been sent to Roland de Charney more than 200 years before, and handed it to Eldad. The professor started searching his desk, and then went on to slap his pants and shirt, eventually retrieving from his shirt pocket a pair of reading glasses, which he ceremoniously put on. Next, he proceeded to gaze at the document inquisitively. “What is this?” he wondered. “This is not an original… and in English?”